the news up on the radio. BBC Five. John Gaunt had Tommy Robinson fulminating about Islam and Islamism, and the EDL’s legitimate right to protest. He was adamant that they would be marching, and soon. Gaunty was giving him a hard time. Tommy was punching back, but he kept saying “Inam” rather than Imam. I switched to Sunrise and tuned out. I looked out across the car park. Not much going on apart from rain until...
A shower of glass was raining on the car and an office computer was sliding leftwards off the bonnet. As I watched, it slid off and hit the tarmac with another crash. I got out of the car on autopilot, picked up the PC and slung it on the rear seat. Instinctively I looked up. There was a gaping hole in the office window above me.
The reception doors banged open and Fuzz came walking out with a bounce in her step. She was grinning as she got in. ‘Let’s go, bhai.’
We drove away, me trying to act smooth.
As we hit the ramp for the motorway I asked her.
‘OK. What happened?’
‘I gave him one minutes’ grace and sweet talk, but he wasn’t having it. So I put my pistol to his nose and got him to print out the flight manifests for the 16th. Just in case he was fudging, I threw his PC out the window so we could check it.’
She waved a sheaf of papers. ‘Now we check.’
I laughed, and then stopped laughing as I realised I was going to have to explain the dents and scratches on the pool car to the beancounters at the office.
Back at mine we dismantled the PC with a screwdriver and pulled the hard drive out. Years ago, Bang-Bang had taught me how to do this. I had a gutted terminal she’d left here years ago with the motherboard exposed for this kind of thing, and networked in. SATA cable in, power on… and fingers crossed.
‘Fifty-fifty it survived the fall’ said Fuzz.
We waited. I necked some painkillers as my side was playing up like a bastard.
The drive whirred, then there were a few quick clicks. Success. It was calibrating. Seconds later, an icon appeared on my right-hand screen. We were in.
Fuzz spoke. ‘These guys are so ubiquitous, us pilots call their charts “Chrome charts”. They supply the full package. Lemme do a search on that drive.’
She got busy. I made some tea.
Within half an hour she had it. ‘Here it is. Here are copies of the EFBs.’
‘EFBs?’
‘Electronic Flight Bags. We use them instead of the old paper systems when we can. It’s what you load into those funky green displays in a cockpit.’
She read from the screen.
‘September 16th. N6161K. One Leasing. Squawk 5331. Filed a flightplan to Frankfurt, from there to Cyprus, and from there to Ashgabat in Turkmenistan… and from there to Bagram airfield, Afghanistan.’
She went to look at the files she’d taken. She riffled through them. ‘These are hard copies of the fuel requisitions. Yep. They fuelled up at Frankfurt, Cyprus, and Ashgabat.’
She went back to the PC. ‘Yep. Bagram and then back to Ashgabat.’
She looked up. ‘Bhai. She’s in Bagram. No doubt.’
11
26th September
Out on the rainswept pan at Brize the props on the RAF Special Duties Flight C130 were turning and blurring, their whine turning into a grumbling roar that eventually drowned out the thumping rap music from Fuzz’s car. I ran up the ramp into the brightly-lit interior of the plane. Fuzz waved a goodbye and Swallow winked at her and then looked at me.
‘Ready?’
‘Born ready.’
‘Got your kit?’
I nodded at the two khaki kit bags I was carrying. ‘Packets are with me and ready to go.’
‘Good. We’ll brief you in in-air.’
Two minutes later we were climbing and I was clinging onto the orange webbing on the fuselage. Swallow was laughing. He put a headset over my ears and slapped the mike down. This was the only way we could communicate in the roaring interior of a C130.
‘Welcome back, Terry.’
For the duration of this mission I was Terry. Terry Taliban. The British
A shower of glass was raining on the car and an office computer was sliding leftwards off the bonnet. As I watched, it slid off and hit the tarmac with another crash. I got out of the car on autopilot, picked up the PC and slung it on the rear seat. Instinctively I looked up. There was a gaping hole in the office window above me.
The reception doors banged open and Fuzz came walking out with a bounce in her step. She was grinning as she got in. ‘Let’s go, bhai.’
We drove away, me trying to act smooth.
As we hit the ramp for the motorway I asked her.
‘OK. What happened?’
‘I gave him one minutes’ grace and sweet talk, but he wasn’t having it. So I put my pistol to his nose and got him to print out the flight manifests for the 16th. Just in case he was fudging, I threw his PC out the window so we could check it.’
She waved a sheaf of papers. ‘Now we check.’
I laughed, and then stopped laughing as I realised I was going to have to explain the dents and scratches on the pool car to the beancounters at the office.
Back at mine we dismantled the PC with a screwdriver and pulled the hard drive out. Years ago, Bang-Bang had taught me how to do this. I had a gutted terminal she’d left here years ago with the motherboard exposed for this kind of thing, and networked in. SATA cable in, power on… and fingers crossed.
‘Fifty-fifty it survived the fall’ said Fuzz.
We waited. I necked some painkillers as my side was playing up like a bastard.
The drive whirred, then there were a few quick clicks. Success. It was calibrating. Seconds later, an icon appeared on my right-hand screen. We were in.
Fuzz spoke. ‘These guys are so ubiquitous, us pilots call their charts “Chrome charts”. They supply the full package. Lemme do a search on that drive.’
She got busy. I made some tea.
Within half an hour she had it. ‘Here it is. Here are copies of the EFBs.’
‘EFBs?’
‘Electronic Flight Bags. We use them instead of the old paper systems when we can. It’s what you load into those funky green displays in a cockpit.’
She read from the screen.
‘September 16th. N6161K. One Leasing. Squawk 5331. Filed a flightplan to Frankfurt, from there to Cyprus, and from there to Ashgabat in Turkmenistan… and from there to Bagram airfield, Afghanistan.’
She went to look at the files she’d taken. She riffled through them. ‘These are hard copies of the fuel requisitions. Yep. They fuelled up at Frankfurt, Cyprus, and Ashgabat.’
She went back to the PC. ‘Yep. Bagram and then back to Ashgabat.’
She looked up. ‘Bhai. She’s in Bagram. No doubt.’
11
26th September
Out on the rainswept pan at Brize the props on the RAF Special Duties Flight C130 were turning and blurring, their whine turning into a grumbling roar that eventually drowned out the thumping rap music from Fuzz’s car. I ran up the ramp into the brightly-lit interior of the plane. Fuzz waved a goodbye and Swallow winked at her and then looked at me.
‘Ready?’
‘Born ready.’
‘Got your kit?’
I nodded at the two khaki kit bags I was carrying. ‘Packets are with me and ready to go.’
‘Good. We’ll brief you in in-air.’
Two minutes later we were climbing and I was clinging onto the orange webbing on the fuselage. Swallow was laughing. He put a headset over my ears and slapped the mike down. This was the only way we could communicate in the roaring interior of a C130.
‘Welcome back, Terry.’
For the duration of this mission I was Terry. Terry Taliban. The British
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