Less than a day later my next assignment came through and I was relieved to see that this convoy would be led by an elderly former SAS officer with whom I had worked previously. This time I knew that the job would be handled professionally.

      We were both inspecting the vehicles assigned to us when I received a call to report to the office.

      At the dispatch desk I asked, ‘What new problems do you have for me now?’

      The dispatch officer looked up at me. ‘I don’t want you.’ He pointed skyward. ‘They want to see you upstairs.’

      ‘They?’

      ‘Suits. You’ll see.’

      I climbed the short flight of stairs and was met by a former administration corporal who now assisted the company hierarchy as a sort of personal assistant. He led me to an office where he stuck his head inside and announced my presence.

      I was ushered into the office where our CO wearing his company uniform was meeting with two men in lightweight suits. The impeccable cut of their clothes and their polished shoes had the smell of head office all over them. Not one of them looked particularly pleased to see me.

      ‘Sit down, Sergeant Briggs,’ ordered the CO.

      I did as instructed but didn’t even attempt to make myself comfortable. I perched on the edge of the chair and waited for the axe to fall.

      The CO began. ‘The VIPs you escorted to Basra have been most complimentary. They say you saved their lives and are most grateful. I’m glad to say they didn’t baulk at the bill we sent them.’

      The older of the suited men continued. ‘However, the Iraqis have a completely different view of matters. They are purely concerned with their own wellbeing and count our loss of life as nothing. We, on the other hand, place a far higher price on the lives of our staff.’

      I was tempted to ask. And exactly how much, in terms of the company’s bottom line, is a life worth on the current market?’ but I held my tongue.

      The suit continued. ‘The bad publicity caused by this latest attack and the subsequent deaths has cast a pall over our company’s activities. A number of our clients are having second thoughts about continuing to use our services. We can’t allow this ‘setback’ to affect the company. We must show everyone that we are a well-run, stable organisation.’

      ‘Sure thing,’ I agreed, wondering just why he was bothering to relate all this bullshit to a mere employee.

      The CO cleared his throat and took another turn at speaking. ‘We’ve had a number of complaints about you, Sergeant Briggs.’

      ‘About me?’ I asked, trying to sound surprised. ‘Who from?’

      ‘From some of the men. Quite a few of them in fact.’

      ‘What sort of complaints?’ I asked.

      ‘About your conduct in the field, Briggs. About how you chose to leave a soldier behind to be tortured by the enemy.’

      ‘That wasn’t my decision, Sir! That was company policy. Protect the client at all costs. That’s what I had to do and that’s what I did!’

      ‘Quite so,’ agreed the CO. ‘But it has placed us in a difficult position. It seems that a number of the men have resolved not to work with you. They’ve refused to go on this current convoy unless you are replaced.’

      I knew who had instigated this request and could almost sym-pathise with the young RAF man, but he had to realise that there were times, especially under battle conditions, when orders had to be given and obeyed that would be quite unpalatable under normal circumstances. ‘So, we have to replace a number of the men on the convoy?’

      ‘No, Sergeant. Only one.’

      ‘Me.’

      The CO nodded.

      ‘And the next time they refuse to work with me?’

      ‘There won’t be a next time, Sergeant,’ replied the suit.

      ‘You’re getting rid of me? I’m fired? Fired for doing what the company wanted me to do? Ordered me to do?’

      ‘Not fired, Sergeant,’ replied the CO. ‘That would send the wrong message to our clients. We’ve decided to pay out the remainder of your contract. You can return to your family early.’

      ‘And what if I decided to sign on for another term?’

      The second suit spoke. ‘There won’t be another contract offered to you, Sergeant. We can’t afford any further problems.’

      ‘So I’m out, permanently.’

      ‘I’m afraid so,’ apologised the CO.

      ‘And what are my chances of getting a contract with another company?’

      ‘I can’t answer that, Sergeant.’

      I could. Absolutely none.

      Chapter 2

      Maria Briggs

      T

      om’s call had been brief and to the point. He was coming home. Early.

       Thank God! No more sleepless nights. No more praying that he hadn’t done something stupidly brave and dangerous.

      He had given me a flight number, a time and an assurance that he was not hurt. Much to my delight he finished by instructing me to make ‘the usual arrangements’.

      However, the fact that he was coming home early disturbed me. When he said that he was not hurt I interpreted it to mean that he had not been physically injured, but I wondered about the real reason for his early departure from Iraq and couldn’t wait to see him.

      I was at the observation window with Jason fidgeting restlessly in my arms when Tom appeared in the customs hall below. He was carrying little in the way of luggage other than his trusty old duffle bag and strode confidently to the nearest customs officer where he dropped the bag casually onto the desk and presented his passport. I noticed that he had chosen to wear jeans and a t-shirt instead of his company uniform, but even in civvies he had the definite look of a soldier. His shoulders were squared when he walked and even the small limp that had forced him out of active duty did nothing to dispel the force of his personality. He looked the customs officer square in the face and the man quickly stamped his documents after having given his duffle the most cursory of searches.

      I quickly made my way downstairs and threw myself into his arms as he came through the door into the terminal proper.

      Jason