Killing for the Company

It hardly mattered that the vehicle was armoured. A burst from the DShK and a barrage of rounds from the assault rifle would be enough to make things difficult: a pitched battle on what was effectively enemy territory was exactly what they needed to avoid. So, as they approached their hostile receiving line, the tension among the men was palpable. They passed a jumble of corrugated-iron storage buildings and concrete watchtowers, many of them little more than piles of rubble, others plastered with graffiti. The Arabic lettering was meaningless to Luke, but he did notice a five-pointed star of David with a crude image of an assault rifle stamped on it. A picture telling a thousand words. On one side of the road was the burned-out shell of an old VW van, and beyond that a cargo lorry from which the wheels had been removed and whose chassis was rusting away.

They drove on in silence. As they passed the Land Rovers, they felt the eyes of the Palestinian gunmen. Once they’d cleared them, Stratton let out a huge breath.

‘Don’t start relaxing,’ Luke said, looking over his shoulder. He saw that the DShK on top of the technical had rotated like an anti-aircraft gunner and still had them in their sights. But Fozzie accelerated, and within two minutes the welcoming committee had faded into the distance.

The Gaza Strip was a tiny territory. It was about twelve klicks from the crossing to the centre of Gaza City, where they were headed. Difficult to say how long it would take, because it depended what they met up ahead. Anything between twenty minutes and an hour, Luke estimated. The road was about ten metres wide and had clearly once been in good condition. Now, though, the tarmac was crumbling and the way ahead was littered with potholes, forcing Fozzie to keep his speed down to about 30mph and to swerve now and then to avoid the dips in the road. The terrain on either side was flat and bland: fields of patchy grass and bare earth, the shell of an occasional building long since deserted. The whole place was like a fucking ghost town.

‘Where is everyone?’ Russ asked after they’d been driving for another minute or so. It was a good question. The road was strangely deserted for a main thoroughfare — the shortest route from the border to Gaza City, the outskirts of which were only a couple of miles away. Luke looked out of his window. On the side of the road, about ten metres from the edge, he saw the rotten carcass of an animal. A horse? Difficult to say. Its ribs were exposed, its skin was dried and shrivelled and its insides had at some point been plundered by a hungry scavenger.

A hundred metres further on they passed a little group of what were once buildings. They’d been destroyed by artillery fire, long enough ago for the rubble to be covered with hardy weeds. And as that ruined scene retreated, the view up ahead began to change as the bleak nothingness of their surroundings morphed into a rising sea of concrete buildings in the distance.

‘Gaza City,’ Russ said.

Nobody replied.

Fozzie had started to slow down. Fifty metres ahead there was a crossroad, and as they drew near it became clear why the road from the Karni crossing had been deserted. There were six military Jeeps here, and twice as many armed soldiers. Luke knew a roadblock when he saw one. Sometimes, in zones like this, they were unofficial, having been erected by enterprising locals attempting to make a buck. That didn’t appear to be the case here. One of the Jeeps had a green flag flying from its bonnet, with white Arabic writing; the vehicles themselves had green lettering on their sides; and two of the soldiers were standing by a radio set up on the bonnet of the other Jeep.

‘Hamas,’ Fozzie murmured when they were thirty metres distant. ‘Looks like they’ve been waiting for us.’

‘Is that good or bad?’ Finn asked.

‘I guess we’re going to find out.’

‘Stop the vehicle,’ said Luke. Fozzie hit the brakes fifteen metres between them and the roadblock. Luke activated his sat phone. ‘Zero, this is Tango 17.’

‘ Tango 17, this is Zero. Send. ’

‘We’ve got ourselves a roadblock. Looks official. Can you sort it?’

‘ Wilco, Tango 17. ’

The comms went dead.

Silence in the Land Cruiser as it sat motionless in the middle of the road. The soldiers up ahead looked at it warily. When a few of them exchanged words, they did so without taking their eyes off the Regiment’s vehicle. And while no one had their weapons pointing directly at them, the soldiers all had both hands on their assault rifles and looked like they knew what they were doing.

A minute passed.

Two minutes.

Suddenly Stratton, seemingly unable to restrain himself, snapped. ‘Just talk to them,’ he instructed. ‘It’s obvious they’ve been waiting for us. Just roll down the bloody window and talk to them.’

‘Nobody’s rolling down the windows,’ Luke said calmly. ‘They’re there for a reason.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Stratton snorted. ‘Nobody’s going to attack me…’