ballads and said his mother had sung them at lock-ins in Mullingar.
Scullion had persuaded himself, just about, that creating electricity and irrigating the warlords’ poppy fields was a better idea than blasting the population from its caves. In his heart, Scullionfelt the Afghans had been destroyed by corruption, by keeping faith with sociopaths and fascists. He agreed with those who spoke of an international caliphate, an order of terror, and, in his militant dreams, he believed such murderers might eventually be bombed into civilisation. This was the war. Scullion felt that bomb strikes and ground troops were the only way because these people didn’t respect talks. What they liked was to cut people’s heads off live on the Internet. What they liked was to cut out the enemy’s liver and eat it. He often said this, but he said many things and now he was trying irrigation.
It had taken a while to reach Trinity College, a while to reach Edmund Burke, then Gower Street in London, University College and afternoon walks round the British Museum. It took a while for him to learn that kneecappings and beheadings might be beaten by good will and enlightenment, but Charles Scullion was still arguing with himself. In his heart he was old school. Since Christmas in Helmand he had held the coalition line on peace-building while thinking constantly of the trigger. When Luke examined his face he saw the eyes of a little counter-assassin from Westmeath. They were fogged with humanitarianism and strict orders, but they were still the eyes of a man who knew what to do in a dark alleyway.
Smoke, trepidation, farts. The air-conditioning could do its best but the room was unpleasant. Luke nodded at the major as he lifted the pointer. He was probably going to be okay because he’d got whatever it was out of his system and Luke imagined the Xanax must have dipped his headlamps. He appeared to be breathing normally and thinking straight, his silver hair combed into a neat parting and his eyes blue. Scullion placed a volume of Matthew Arnold’s poems on the table.
Rashid was the only ANA soldier in the room. With the eyepatch and the blue uniform he stood out. ‘Okay, fellas,’ Scullion said. ‘You all have your jobs. Many of you will be cheered to learn that some senior officers, including yours truly, will be on the ground for this mission.’ He was leaning on the pointer with his sleeves rolled up. Luke reminded himself of an old truth about briefings: they are never brief. Yet Scullion could bring the weather in on time. ‘I will be travelling with a section of the Royal Western Fusiliers deployed here in a mentoring capacity. But you all have a mentoring role in this operation: be sure to show our local colleagues how to behave.’ Scullion seemed to absorb a cold look from Rashid. ‘And learn from them, too,’ he added. The hall shifted from one foot to the other and Rashid wiped his good eye.
‘Recent events in this theatre notwithstanding,’ Scullion said, ‘I believe our mission is absolutely clear. This will be a major development project for the Afghan people. Five dozen officers have worked for six months preparing the way. We bring clean water, we also bring culture. Now listen. This is Operation Eagle’s Summit. By necessity and by grand design, our job is to facilitate the onset of prosperity among the peasants. Putting aside our previous efforts to bomb them to kingdom come, we now rectify all political errors by giving them light and water. The operation’s code name is T2. Remember that. You are part of a convoy led by 13 Air Assault delivering a third turbine to the great dam at Kajaki. HET trucks will carry the blessed item in seven parts weighing thirty tons each. Assuredly, these vital organs will pump new blood to the valley. We’re talking fifty-one megawatts of new power. Got that? A great sufficiency of electrical power and enough water flowing through to irrigate 650,000 acres of arid land. Tune your
Scullion had persuaded himself, just about, that creating electricity and irrigating the warlords’ poppy fields was a better idea than blasting the population from its caves. In his heart, Scullionfelt the Afghans had been destroyed by corruption, by keeping faith with sociopaths and fascists. He agreed with those who spoke of an international caliphate, an order of terror, and, in his militant dreams, he believed such murderers might eventually be bombed into civilisation. This was the war. Scullion felt that bomb strikes and ground troops were the only way because these people didn’t respect talks. What they liked was to cut people’s heads off live on the Internet. What they liked was to cut out the enemy’s liver and eat it. He often said this, but he said many things and now he was trying irrigation.
It had taken a while to reach Trinity College, a while to reach Edmund Burke, then Gower Street in London, University College and afternoon walks round the British Museum. It took a while for him to learn that kneecappings and beheadings might be beaten by good will and enlightenment, but Charles Scullion was still arguing with himself. In his heart he was old school. Since Christmas in Helmand he had held the coalition line on peace-building while thinking constantly of the trigger. When Luke examined his face he saw the eyes of a little counter-assassin from Westmeath. They were fogged with humanitarianism and strict orders, but they were still the eyes of a man who knew what to do in a dark alleyway.
Smoke, trepidation, farts. The air-conditioning could do its best but the room was unpleasant. Luke nodded at the major as he lifted the pointer. He was probably going to be okay because he’d got whatever it was out of his system and Luke imagined the Xanax must have dipped his headlamps. He appeared to be breathing normally and thinking straight, his silver hair combed into a neat parting and his eyes blue. Scullion placed a volume of Matthew Arnold’s poems on the table.
Rashid was the only ANA soldier in the room. With the eyepatch and the blue uniform he stood out. ‘Okay, fellas,’ Scullion said. ‘You all have your jobs. Many of you will be cheered to learn that some senior officers, including yours truly, will be on the ground for this mission.’ He was leaning on the pointer with his sleeves rolled up. Luke reminded himself of an old truth about briefings: they are never brief. Yet Scullion could bring the weather in on time. ‘I will be travelling with a section of the Royal Western Fusiliers deployed here in a mentoring capacity. But you all have a mentoring role in this operation: be sure to show our local colleagues how to behave.’ Scullion seemed to absorb a cold look from Rashid. ‘And learn from them, too,’ he added. The hall shifted from one foot to the other and Rashid wiped his good eye.
‘Recent events in this theatre notwithstanding,’ Scullion said, ‘I believe our mission is absolutely clear. This will be a major development project for the Afghan people. Five dozen officers have worked for six months preparing the way. We bring clean water, we also bring culture. Now listen. This is Operation Eagle’s Summit. By necessity and by grand design, our job is to facilitate the onset of prosperity among the peasants. Putting aside our previous efforts to bomb them to kingdom come, we now rectify all political errors by giving them light and water. The operation’s code name is T2. Remember that. You are part of a convoy led by 13 Air Assault delivering a third turbine to the great dam at Kajaki. HET trucks will carry the blessed item in seven parts weighing thirty tons each. Assuredly, these vital organs will pump new blood to the valley. We’re talking fifty-one megawatts of new power. Got that? A great sufficiency of electrical power and enough water flowing through to irrigate 650,000 acres of arid land. Tune your
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