Wardogs

Chapter 22

Chapter 21

We're alone here, just me and my dog making the walk. There's this suffocating, visceral terror that's clawing at my throat: take another step, Davey-boy, and it's sure to be your last. But it's my fear for my dog that's got my pulse pounding through the roof of my skull, and which keeps pushing me ever onwards.

My every sense is focused on Hunter as he sweeps his head this as if the Taliban have been using this as one gigantic toilet. We're halfway across a sheet of armour that's lying discarded on the floor, when Hunter darts around the corner of an angular steel carcass. He flicks his head to the right, spies something, and an instant later he's leapt forwards and he's out of my sight completely. I lunge after him, heart beating like a machine g*n, and I'm hissing: 'Get back here, now!'

Moments later there's this almighty, deafening metal-on metal explosion: KABOOM!

For an instant I'm convinced that my dog has set off some kind of killer device. A voice is screaming inside my head over and over and over: They've got my dog! They've got my dog! They've got my dog!

The Bravo lads on security have hit the deck, weapons at the ready. They're on their belt buckles and about to open up.

I race around the corner, expecting the very worst, but there I find Hunter, a sheepish grin on his features. I can see instantly what's happened. He's knocked over this rusty oil drum, one that's about half as tall as I am and three times as wide. It's cannoned into the flank of a Soviet hulk, making a noise like a massive steel drum... or an explosion.

I breathe out the longest sigh of relief. I realise that I've been holding my breath. I try my best to get my pulse rate under control again. I give Hunter a look: Careful where you're stepping, big lad, you almost gave me a b****y heart attack!

His eyes meet mine with this unapologetic doggy gaze: So I knocked it over? So what? I am pretty big and chunky for a dog You send me in here covered in shiny green gunk, what d'you expect? By the way, have you smelt that stuff? It's revolting.

I figure it's more than a fair one. My dog would have had every right to plonk down his stubby tail and go on strike, after what I've done to him and asked of him tonight. Yet even after everything and almost getting crushed by that rusty oil drum - he remains eager to finish off the search. That's my boy.

I turn to the blokes somewhere to my rear. "Sorry about that,

lads, I hiss, "Hunter just knocked over an oil drum is all.

I hear a string of muttered curses issuing from the shadows, from a pair of Marines who were primed to unleash merry hell onto whoever it was that had just blown up my dog.

We clear the tank park in one long ghost-ride of dark, suffo cating terror. By the end of the search I'm exhausted from the crushing tension and the fear, but at least we're done and we can declare the place clear. We've found not a single IED, or the materials used to manufacture them. I guess the intel was way off the mark. It wouldn't be the first time that we've been fed dodgy intelligence.

All I really care about is that Hunter and I haven't been blown to smithereens, and neither have any of the lads. Hunter is totally finished, and I'm not far behind him. We're well ready to get out of there.

We push ahead to a patch of empty bush and make camp. Hunter and I curl up together on the bare dirt. There's no room in my rucksack to carry any sleeping gear, so the best we can manage is to hold each other close for warmth. After the pounding heat of the Afghan day, the temperature drops rapidly and the can be bitterly cold.

We'll overnight here, so we can keep watch at first light as I wake sometime in the early hours. For a moment I stare at the brilliant night sky, which is a kaleidoscope of stars, wondering what it is that woke me. And then I can feel it: I'm stiff with the cold. I grab Hunter and lift his sleepy form until he's on top of me, like a dog blanket. I feel the warmth of my boy radiating into me, and I've just found another use for my working dog: he's like one giant living breathing hot water bottle.

At dawn we get the road convoy in safely, and we head back to base. Fortunately, I'm able to scrub the worst of the fluores cent green goo from the cyalume out of Hunter's fur. But there's going to be little let-up for me and my dog.

The Royal Marines are scheduled to rotate out of Sangin in just a few days, and Major Cheeseman is planning one of Bravo Company's last big operations. He wants to get a series of vehicle check points set up on the 611. The Bravo Company lads are going to stop and search any traffic, to try to intercept any bomb making materials or ready-to-blow IEDs the enemy are bringing into town.

To make things a little safer, the major wants a sniper team in overwatch on the highest point in Sangin - up on the roof of the Red Hotel. The Red Hotel is four floors high, making it the tallest building in the area. It's a perfect vantage point from which to dominate the surrounding terrain. It's also a great place from where Major Cheeseman can show Major Shannon the lie of the land, before he takes over.

Unfortunately, the Red Hotel is also a Taliban bomber's para dise. It's a half finished, rubble-strewn shell of a building, one that's been well blasted apart. The British Army has never ventured in there and it's a complete unknown. The major says he wants the dog team - that's me and Hunter - to clear a route up the stairs to the roof, so his men can break in and take the high ground.

'Sir, we'll need to search and clear every floor in the place as we go, so it doesn't get blown to pieces beneath us. Basically, if Hunter and I get you in up the stairs directly, any one of the rooms below could harbour a bomb, or even a Taliban bombing team.

When Hunter and I were operating in Northern Ireland our unit motto was: Search and Secure. If all I do is get the major and his men onto the roof of the Red Hotel, I'll have done neither the one thing nor the other. It won't have been searched properly, or been made secure.

'In that case, you'll have to go in and get the whole of the Red Hotel cleared, says the major. 'We'll only hit the roof once you tell us you're done.

He makes it sound like we're going out for a Sunday after noon stroll in the park. In reality, we'll have to painstakingly clear every room in that cavernous shell of a building. There are hundreds, each one of which is a complete unknown, and in reality this is the nightmare of all search taskings.

The major tells me that we're to go in at last light, and that it's crucial none of the Taliban spot us. He wants the sniper team on the roof and settled by first light, so no one sees them getting into their positions. The upside if there is one is that Hunter and I have got all the hours of darkness in which to get the job done.

We end the briefing as we always do, by synchronising watches. It's vital to know that every member of the patrol is working to the exact same minute and second - crucial for coord inating all elements of the coming mission. Bravo Company's communications specialist steps forward.

'In approximately two minutes it'll be sixteen-fifty-eight Zulu, he announces, gazing intently at his watch.

I move my watch hands to one second away from 1658. We now have two minutes to kill before the synchronisation second. My biggest worry is how we're going to see to do the search. Whatever ambient light there is - even if there's a bright moon and stars - it'll be pitch black in the heart of the Red Hotel. That means it'll be impossible to search using NVG.

'Sixteen-fifty-eight ZULU in fifteen seconds, the comms specialist warns. 'Five, four, three, two, one. Mark!'

On his 'mark' call we each set our watches running, and we're synchronised. The comms guy will have got his time-synch from headquarters back at Camp Bastion. The British war effort encompasses most of Helmand Province, plus other parts of Afghanistan. We need to be 100 per cent certain that we're working to exactly the same local - Zulu - time as are the pilots flying missions above us, and all other units.