The Network - Jason Elliot [51]
We devote a session to mine recognition, which is my territory, so for a few hours I hold forth on the perverse technology of anti-personnel mines, and the lethal design refinements of the PFM ‘butterfly’ mine designed by the Soviets for Afghanistan, the PMN and its successors, and the almost undetectable Chinese-made Type 72.
Much of the next day is devoted to explosives in general, the improvised versions manufactured by people who can’t afford jets or tanks, and the devious and unlikely ways in which they can be set off. H mentions the high explosive that comes in the form of an adhesive roll that can be swiftly stuck to a door frame like a deadly strip of Sellotape before being detonated. The technique belongs to the Regiment’s curriculum on methods of entry, though we agree that blowing a door from its housing with plastic explosive is usually a last resort.
On our final day we drive to the Black Mountains, then walk for most of the day, paying close attention to one of H’s maps. In the afternoon we stop at a remote and beautiful spot by a small waterfall, sheltered by a steep crag. I wonder how we’ll get back before nightfall, because it’ll be dark in a couple of hours and we’re miles from anywhere. Over a tin of sardines, H is telling me about a Regimental reunion in Oman years after the war, where he was invited by the sultan to a huge bash with the other members of A Squadron. The sultan chartered a giant C-130 Hercules to fly them all in to Muscat. Then the subject changes unexpectedly.
‘Do you really want this op in Afghanistan?’ asks H. The wind is ruffling his hair as he looks at me, and the chatty tone has gone out of his voice.
‘Of course I do,’ I say, but as I speak the words I realise this is not the whole truth.
‘I need you to think about it,’ he says. ‘I need you to be 100 per cent convinced that you want it. If you have the slightest doubt, you need to face up to it and find the answer.’
I’m about to reply, but he cuts short my attempt by putting the map between us and pointing to a location several miles away.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘I want you to spend the night here. There’s an old shelter on this bluff that’ll keep the wind off you. I need you to meditate on all this. Find out your doubt and work through it – before you go to sleep, if you wake up in the night, and when you get up in the morning. Take the Bergen. There’s a sleeping bag in it. You can meet me back at the starting point at 0900 hours. Then you get cleaned up, we have lunch in the pub, and you can drive home.’
This is a surprise. The SAS is telling me to meditate on a mountaintop. I accept the suggestion, and we plot my return route, which is a direct bearing back to the spot where we’ve parked, so that if anything goes wrong he knows I’ll be somewhere along the line. He folds the map and pats it against my chest, then stands up. It’ll be dark before he’s back at the car.
‘Are you alright to get back?’ I ask, regretting the question as soon as I speak.
‘I was in the SAS, you know.’ He sets off at a jog without looking back.
A couple of hours later the moon is just rising in the east and I’m at the shelter, a ruined shepherd’s bothy half open to the sky. There’s a waterproof groundsheet in the Bergen, H’s own sleeping bag and a small emergency strobe. I settle in behind the stones and