Part Two:
Soldiers
1
Denver, Colorado
Monday morning
Seth Raines went to the kitchen in his apartment on Capitol Hill, poured himself a glass of orange juice and drank it in one go. He switched on the coffee machine and sat at the table rubbing sleep from his eyes. The images from a dream ran through his head: a dream of war and death. The details precise and the sounds and smells resonating like it was only yesterday.
Back in another life, Raines had served in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan as Staff Sergeant for Third Platoon, Charlie Company, First Reconnaissance Division of the US Marines. That was before a simple mission two years ago to monitor the eradication of an opium poppy field. Before his convoy was ambushed on the trip back from the field to the British camp outside the city of Lashkar Gah – brigade headquarters for Four-Two Commando, the Royal Marines.
In his dream, he saw only brief, fractured images of that day: the ragged stump of a severed leg and blood soaking into desert sand. But now that he was awake, the memory of it all rushed back, hitting him like a physical blow.
Raines was sitting next to one of his men – Private First Class Matthew Horn. They were sweating heavily under body armour listening to a briefing by the commanding officer of the British Marine brigade. He was a very British soldier, immaculately uniformed with a neatly clipped moustache and a deeply tanned face.
The door of the room was open and Raines saw a Union flag fluttering outside in the low wind. Two marines were standing at the base of the flagpole taking custody of the now deposed Stars and Stripes from their British counterparts. Raines nudged Horn and nodded for him to look at the exchange taking place outside.
‘Most of you already know the lieutenant,’ the British officer said, pointing at a young-looking woman in the front row of the briefing room. ‘She is our Civil Military Ops Cell representative today and will communicate with the ANP contingent through our interpreter.’
If there was one thing that both armies had in common, Raines thought, it was their love of TLAs: Three Letter Acronyms.
ANP – Afghan National Police.
‘This is a hearts-and-minds job for the local population,’ the officer went on. ‘The ANP will burn a designated opium poppy field in a very public manner and our job is to ensure that nothing untoward happens while this is taking place.’
The Brits were good at that sort of thing, Raines knew – hearts-and-minds jobs. They’d had plenty of practice during the troubles in Northern Ireland.
‘We also have two colleagues from the US Marine force today. Sergeant Raines and PFC Horn.’
There were a total of twelve soldiers in the room for the operation and Raines and Horn were the only Americans. The Brits turned to look at them. Raines nodded his head in greeting.
Raines knew what kind of first impression he made on people. He had identical, Maori-style tattoos on his shoulder blades – all loops and curls with pointed ends – and they extended up on to his neck. The very topmost points curled around on to the sides of his neck and were visible even above his body armour. His hair was shaved down to a fine bristle and his eyes were so dark in colour that even from a modest distance they looked almost black.
Next to him, Horn was like a choirboy with his razored blond hair and fresh face.
‘They will travel in the lead Snatch,’ the British commander continued. ‘With the lieutenant and Corporal Johnson of the Royal Military Police. Everyone clear on what they have to do? Good, let’s get going. It’s going to be bloody hot today so the quicker we get this done the better.’
Raines stood with Horn, both men lifting their helmets and rifles and moving with the other soldiers out of the room and towards the heat that they could feel as they neared the open door.
Outside, Raines saw the three Land Rovers that were going to be used for the op: two ‘Snatches’ – lightly armoured versions of the vehicle – and a WMIK – an armed Land Rover. The latter had a .50 calibre machine gun mounted on top.
‘You boys up for this, today?’
Raines and Horn turned as the female lieutenant approached behind them. She was wearing regulation desert camo fatigues, body armour and helmet. She had a sidearm in a holster on her hip but no rifle. Loose strands of dark hair fell from under her helmet.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Raines said. ‘Happy to help.’
‘Good. How long have you got left?’
‘We’re done end of this month. Twelve months in.’
‘Lucky you, eh? I just got here.’
‘It’ll go quick,’ Raines told her.
‘Let’s hope so.’
She walked ahead of them heading for the lead Snatch. Raines looked at Horn, seeing his young private watching the lieutenant. Horn looked sheepish when he saw that Raines had caught him.
‘She seems nice,’ Raines said.
‘Yes, Sergeant. She does.’
It always ended the same way for Matt Horn: in dream or memory.
Raines forced himself to think of something else, ran his hand over the rough scar of the bullet wound on his shin and watched the coffee start to drip into the pot fixed under the machine.
The apartment was sparsely furnished: a simple table and two chairs in the kitchen, a couch and TV in the living room and a bed with a table beside it in the bedroom. Raines didn’t think of it as home. It was a place to live. That was all. The furniture was second-hand, bought mainly from ads he found in local shops and newspapers. He could leave it all behind and never give it a second thought.
The place was perfect for what he wanted: a one-bed, one-bath apartment in a big, Victorian redstone building. He was the quiet, dangerous-looking guy with the tats who lived alone and didn’t have anything to do with anyone else. He said hello to all his neighbours and smiled but didn’t know any of them by name. It was how he liked it. No one invited him to parties and no one stopped him to talk about work or football or anything else.
Raines didn’t think of himself as having a home anywhere any more. Not the apartment and certainly not the place in the mountains outside of the city.
The phone rang and Raines went to the counter to pick it up.
‘It’s me,’ a man’s voice said.
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you hear?’
‘No.’
‘Stark got on the plane last night.’
Raines said nothing, scraping his nails at the stubble on his face.
‘The plane that went down,’ the man said.
‘You saw him get on? You’re sure of it?’
‘He was on it. But he wasn’t using the name Stark. The ticket was under the name John Reece.’
Raines listened to the hiss and burble of the coffee machine.
‘There’s nothing more to be done about it, then,’ he said.
He hung up and went to the window, opening the blinds. Sunlight slanted in through the narrow slats.
He felt numb. It was all he had ever felt since coming back from the war.