Apache

Rocco was an Italian porn star, with perfectly tousled fair hair, giant pecs and a cock that would have been the envy of a king rhinoceros. FOG looked him up on the Internet once. Rocco had starred in more than 340 hardcore porn films over his twenty-year career, directed and produced another 200, and written fifty more. That was an awful lot of shagging. Among his back catalogue were the truly classic Fantastica Moana (1987), A Pussy Called Wanda (1992), Intercourse with the Vampire (1994), and Buttman & Rocco’s Brazilian Butt Fest Carnival (1999).

For us, though, Rocco existed only in photographic form – a page torn out of a long lost magazine, glued onto a piece of cardboard and laminated for his own protection. He stood on a bed, stark bollock naked and posing manfully, with his right eyebrow suggestively raised, 007-style. His flexed left arm met his right where his hand covered his pubic thatch, but did little to conceal the launch pad of his very own disconcertingly potent Hellfire missile. The picture bore the dedication, ‘From Rocco, With Love. x.’

Rocco might not be seen for weeks, then make a dramatic reappearance when he was least expected, like Monty Python’s Spanish Inquisition.

Carl had been talking about a new upgrade to the Defensive Aide Suite. ‘Ewok,’ Geordie piped up, ‘Alice told us yesterday that the Taliban might have a ZU23 anti-aircraft gun in the Garmsir region.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ He should have seen it coming.

‘Well I was just wondering what the ZU23’s effective range is, like? Is it a threat, like?’

‘Yes, it’s a threat. Hang on, I’ve got it here. I’ll look it up.’

Geordie knew it was a statistic Carl couldn’t have known off the top of his head. Darwin had already doubled up, red in the face, desperately trying to suppress his giggles. But, holding the floor now, Carl was feeling too important to spot him. He reached for his Black Brain and turned to face the packed room. He ripped back the Velcro fastener and flicked it open.

There he was. From Rocco, With Love. x.

Carl blushed to the roots of his hair, and the JHF erupted.

‘Very f… funny… VIDAL.’

‘Ahaa! You’ve been Roccoed!’ Geordie was beside himself with glee.

You could get Roccoed at any time, day or night, in the air or on the ground. Then it would be your turn to Rocco someone else. Rocco didn’t discriminate between rich or poor, giant or dwarf. Everyone was fair game. We even got our old CO once in the simulator at Dishforth, as he flicked his Black Brain bang in the middle of a particularly challenging Hellfire sortie.

Now he was out and about, there would be a frenzy of Rocco activity for a couple of days. Then, just as quickly, he’d go undercover again.

The Boss stepped forward as the laughter subsided.

‘Okay guys, very funny. I said all I wanted this morning, so nothing from me tonight. Any other points from the floor before we close? Alice?’

Alice had slipped in late. She’d taken a quick call from the brigade’s int cell in Lashkar Gah. She looked uncomfortable.

‘Sorry, not very good timing, but there’s something that’s probably worth mentioning. I’ve just been briefed on an enemy intercept.’

The room fell silent.

‘The Taliban have a new plan for what they’ll do if they capture a Coalition soldier.’

I realised I’d stopped breathing. The TADS image of the two SBS boys filled my head.

‘They intend to set up a webcam for a live Internet broadcast, and then skin him – or her – alive.’

6. ARNHEM CALLING

The Taliban kept up a permanent bombardment of the new Garmsir DC. The marines had put the boot into their lovingly kept hornets’ nest, and they weren’t going to let them forget it.

But their focus on the four other northern district centres now seemed to ebb and flow. For a week or two, they’d have a concerted crack at Sangin and its defenders would be back at the ramparts. Then, without any apparent reason, they’d tire of Sangin and turn their attention to Now Zad or one of the others.

During the first few weeks of our second tour, they threw all they had against Kajaki, the furthest outpost, ninety-five kilometres north-east of Camp Bastion, right at the top of the Helmand Green Zone. The town itself was not much to shout about – it was barely more than a village. But control of the giant Kajaki Dam was something else again; it stood 100 metres high and 270 metres wide, in front of the biggest lake in Afghanistan.

It had been a Cold War playground, constructed by the Soviets in 1953 as a gesture of comradeship. Then along came the Americans in 1975, wanting to spread their share of love and influence, and built a thirty-three megawatt hydroelectric power station beside it. By the time we arrived, the dam irrigated the entire province, neighbouring Nimruz and a sizeable chunk of Iran, and also provided Helmand with almost all of its electricity.