Zero Six Bravo by Damien Lewis Read Free Book Online Page B

mounting base. M Squadron had deployed here complete with weapons, ammo, vehicles, and all the communications and other equipment they would need for war. This was the last stop before Iraq, and here was this guy straight from central casting drawing a brand-new set of equipment from the stores.
    The man was tall, lanky, and distinctly well-bred in appearance, lacking the weather-beaten, grizzled look of an SF soldier. But what really singled him out was his snowy-white complexion, in contrast to the rest of the Squadron—Moth included—who had managed to get something of a Kenyan tan. Grey watched as Stores handed him a set of ironed and pressed combats, a pair of shiny boots, plus a mess tin with the cellophane packaging still wrapped round it.
    “All right, mate?” Grey greeted the stranger as he loaded up his pile of gleaming gear.
    The man’s face lit up. “Good morning. Yes, I’m absolutely fine, thanks.”
    The voice confirmed it. The guy spoke with the kind of crisp upper-class accent that only long years of the finest private schools and the coldest showers could nurture. He looked to be in hismid-twenties, no older, and he was springing about like an eager puppy. What on earth was this guy doing in a camp set aside for M Squadron—a Special Forces unit in lockdown that was screened and sanitized for war?
    “So, erm—who exactly are you, then, mate?” Grey asked.
    “Oh, sorry.” A hand was extended. “Sebastian. Seb to my friends. Seb March-Phillips. I’m your Iraq terp.”
    “Terp” was military slang for interpreter. Grey took the proffered hand—which was noticeably smooth and uncallused—and shook it. “Glad to have you with us, mate.” What else was there to say?
    Grey watched in fascination as the new guy unpacked the uniform, which was several sizes too big for him. For some reason Stores only had extra-large. The combat jacket would reach to the guy’s knees, while the pants would need six-inch turn-ups. Next, the guy unwrapped his clomping great Army boots. He stared at them in horror for several seconds.
    “You know, I’ve got this pair of civvy boots,” he remarked to Grey. “They’re absolutely fabulous. Do I really have to wear these? I hope I don’t get blisters. Will we be doing much walking, do you think?”
    Grey was lost for words. This guy had just pitched up to join a Special Forces squadron heading to war, yet he appeared to be completely and utterly blasé about whatever might lie ahead. He struck Grey as being one of those classic English eccentrics who love an adventure, and whose innocent enthusiasm seems to trump everything—and a part of Grey just couldn’t help liking him for it.
    In quick time Grey got the guy’s story from him. Until a few days ago he’d been working for an investment banking firm in London. Some months back he’d joined a specialist unit—so he could learn some soldiering in his spare time. It was there that someone had realized he was fluent in Arabic. He’d been brought up on a military base in the Middle East, hence the language skills. And from there it had apparently been a short step to him being recruited as the terp for M Squadron’s coming deployment to Iraq.
    A few minutes chatting to the guy, and Grey could tell that he was phenomenally intelligent. It seemed that he could mentionjust about anything—a geranium, maybe—and Sebastian would start going: “Okay-yah, the geranium—more commonly known as cranesbills, due to the fruit looking like the beak of a crane. Take Geranium magnificum , for example . . .” Compared to most of the men in the Squadron—a dose of doughnuts who’d fallen out of school and into the military—Sebastian was a rocket scientist.
    As Grey and Sebastian left the stores, they bumped into Mick “Gunner” McGrath, the commander of the Squadron’s quad bikes. While each quad formed part of a single-vehicle team, the quad operators also had a man in overall charge of them as a distinct