Standing shrugged. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Captain Waters is an arsehole,’ she whispered. ‘He had it coming.’

  Standing winked at her. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘He’ll see you now,’ said Debbie, waving at the door to the colonel’s office.

  ‘Okay if I leave my bag here?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  Standing took a deep breath to steady himself, knocked on the door, and went in. The colonel was standing by his window, looking out towards the camp’s helicopter pad. Standing stood to attention in the centre of the office. The colonel continued to stare out of the window. He was a big man, and although he was in his early fifties, he was as fit as most soldiers half his age. Colonel Davies made it a point to complete the Fan Dance every eight weeks, usually accompanied by a couple of his senior officers. The Fan Dance was a fifteen-mile march with a 45-pound Bergen backpack and a rifle. The route went up and over Pen y Fan, an 886-metre peak in the Brecon Beacons, and the march was used during SAS Selection to weed out unfit applicants. Colonel Davies did it for fun and regularly completed it in less than four hours.

  ‘You know why they call you Lastman Standing?’ said the colonel, as he stared out of the window.

  ‘It’s a pun, sir. On my name.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said the colonel, turning now. ‘It’s because you’re the last man anyone wants to get into an argument with. You’re a hothead, Standing. You fly off the handle. You lack discipline.’ His hair was steel grey and cut close to the scalp, while his nose and cheeks were flecked with broken blood vessels, the result of years spent on active service in inhospitable climates. He was wearing green fatigues and Gore-Tex boots, and had a chunky TAG-Heuer watch on his left wrist.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Standing. The colonel was the only officer in the Regiment who was called ‘sir’, though even he was never saluted. The SAS never saluted because in the battlefield it told any watching snipers whom they should be aiming at.

  The colonel frowned. ‘So you’re agreeing with me?’

  ‘I’m acknowledging that I heard what you said. Sir.’

  ‘So you’re disagreeing with me? Which is it, Standing?’

  ‘Neither, sir. I’m just listening.’

  ‘I don’t understand you. You’re one of the best soldiers ever to have served with the SAS. In combat, you’re second to none. I’ve never seen a soldier with better gut instincts than you in a firefight. Then you go and assault an officer. You have anger-management issues, Standing. Very serious anger-management issues. In combat, your short fuse is an asset, but outside combat it’s a liability. A serious liability.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The colonel walked across the room from the window and stood in front of Standing. ‘That’s all you have to say? “Yes, sir”? You’re not apologising? You’re not promising you won’t do it again?’

  ‘I’m not sorry, sir. And, under the same circumstances I’d probably react the same way again. I couldn’t control what happened. I was protecting myself.’

  ‘Captain Waters pushed you.’

  ‘He shoved me, sir. Hard.’

  ‘And you broke his nose and his jaw.’

  ‘I was under attack and I defended myself. I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing to the captain. I reacted instinctively. It was over in a second. He pushed me and I hit him with my elbow, then my fist. He went down and I stopped. It was a defensive blow, not an attack.’

  ‘Blow? You mean blows.’

  ‘It was one motion, sir. I elbowed him to the jaw, then brought my fist down on his nose. I wasn’t attacking him.’

  ‘You were, Standing. When you hit someone, that’s an attack.’

  ‘With respect, sir, the captain attacked me and I defended myself.’

  ‘You said he pushed you. If that’s true, he was in the wrong. But the correct response to a push is not to break a man’s jaw. An equal, proportionate response would have been to push him back. You would still have been in the wrong, but you wouldn’t have put the man in hospital.’

  Standing said nothing.

  The colonel went to his desk and sat down.

  ‘Why did Captain Waters push you?’

  ‘We were having an argument over an operational matter, sir.’

  ‘What, specifically?’

  Standing gritted his teeth. If he told the colonel everything that had happened in Syria, all hell would break loose. There would be an official investigation and, no matter how that worked out, it wouldn’t be good for Waters or for himself. ‘It was just a disagreement over tactics,’ he said.

  ‘That’s funny because that was exactly the phrase Captain Waters used,’ said the colonel. ‘You two haven’t put your heads together, have you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So you disagree about tactics, the captain pushes you and you break his jaw?’

  ‘That’s pretty much what happened, sir. Yes.’

  ‘And it’s not the first time you’ve assaulted an officer, is it, Sergeant Standing? Last time you lost your stripes as a result. Was that a disagreement over tactics?’

  ‘I forget, sir.’

  The colonel raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? You forget? It’s in your file if that would help refresh your memory.’

  Standing hadn’t forgotten, but he was fairly sure the true details of what had happened in Afghanistan weren’t in the file. The officer had been a lieutenant in the Parachute Regiment, a nasty piece of work, who seemed to think that abusing the local population was part of the job. The British forces were pulling out of Afghanistan, supposedly because the task they had been given to do had been accomplished, but in reality because the British government had realised that they were fighting a war they could never win and that the sooner they pulled out the better. Standing and three SAS troopers had been driving to Kabul when they saw a group of Paras rounding up a group of young Afghan women. They were all wearing niqabs so Standing couldn’t see their faces but they were obviously kids, teenagers at most.

  Standing had been in the front seat of their white Toyota Landcruiser and he’d told the trooper who was driving to pull over. He had watched in the wing mirror as the Paras had circled the women, like sheepdogs rounding up a flock, except sheepdogs didn’t carry automatic weapons and wear Kevlar helmets. Standing could hear the soldiers shouting at the women, who were crying and wailing. He had told the troopers to stay in the Landcruiser. He had left his weapon in the vehicle and walked over to the soldiers. He was in desert gear, his trousers and tunic covered with dust and a black-and-white checked keffiyeh scarf tied loosely around his neck. ‘What’s happening, guys?’ he’d asked. His skin was sunburned and he hadn’t shaved for a week, but he had no military markings on his clothes so he held his hands to his sides to show he wasn’t armed.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ asked a soldier in his late twenties. Standing didn’t know at the time but he was a university-educated lieutenant on his first – and only – tour of Afghanistan.

  ‘Hey, mate, I’m on your side,’ said Standing. ‘What’s the problem here?’

  ‘We’re just interrogating these locals,’ said the lieutenant.

  ‘Yeah? Well, strictly speaking, you’re supposed to have a female soldier asking the questions. These girls aren’t supposed to be speaking to men who aren’t family members.’

  ‘Fuck that. They’ll do as they’re told.’

  ‘Well, yeah, but you’re putting them on the spot. If they’re seen talking to soldiers, they’ll be in all sorts of trouble.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ said the lieutenant again, walking towards Standing.

  ‘Just a guy who’s been here a bit longer than you and is offering you some advice.’

  ‘When I want advice, I’ll ask for it. What are you? A civilian contractor?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Standing. He put his hands into the air. ‘Listen, I’m not looking to spoil anyone’s day, but this is all about hearts and minds. We’re pulling out, they know we’re pulling out, and they’re going to have to deal with the way things are after we’ve gone. So, leaving aside the whole man-woman thing, they’re not going to tell you anything.’

  ‘You need to get back in your vehicle and fuck the fuck off,’ said the lieutenant. He swung up his weapon. It was an SA80, the British military’s standard assault rifle. Standing wasn’t a fan of the SA80, and neither was the SAS. They had tested the weapon and decided they preferred the AR-15 family of assault rifles. Early versions of the SA80 had a tendency to malfunction outside a very narrow temperature range: they jammed, the magazines had a tendency to drop out, and some of the plastic components failed under pressure. But the manufacturers had tweaked it and it was now the weapon of choice of Britain’s armed forces. It took the standard NATO 5.56 x 45mm round with thirty cartridges in the magazine, and from the way the lieutenant’s finger had slipped over the trigger, it looked as if he was quite prepared to give Standing a demonstration of its firepower.

  Standing had a SIG-Sauer P226 strapped to his right leg but his main weapon, of course, was in the Landcruiser, an L119 assault rifle based on the Canadian-made C8 CQB, a variation of the Armalite AR-15. He kept his hands in the air because he could feel the tension pouring off the lieutenant. ‘You need to get your finger off the trigger,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s how accidents happen.’

  The lieutenant’s jaw tightened and he continued to swing his weapon up. His finger was still on the trigger and Standing knew that it wouldn’t take much to send a hail of bullets in his direction.

  The lieutenant’s eyes had narrowed to a squint, and he made no move to take his finger off the trigger. He was only six feet or so from Standing, and as the barrel centred on Standing’s chest, he moved, taking two quick steps to the right and pushing the gun away with his left hand. The fingers of his right hand curled back into a claw and he thrust the palm under the officer’s chin. The man let go of the gun with his left and tried to push Standing away, but Standing pulled his arm back and elbowed him in the sternum. The breath exploded from the officer’s lungs and he bent over, coughing and spluttering. Standing pulled the gun from him and slammed the butt into the side of his face. The officer hit the ground hard and lay still. It had happened so quickly that the officer’s men hadn’t even started to react. Standing kept the barrel of the SA80 pointed at the ground to show that he wasn’t a threat. For a second or two everyone seemed frozen. Then, as one, the Paras were shouting and aiming their guns at Standing. They started to shuffle towards him, kicking up sand.

  He raised his left hand high in the air and kept the gun pointing down, his finger off the trigger. ‘It’s over, guys, no need to get excited,’ he said.

  The Paras fell silent but they all kept their weapons aimed at Standing as they shuffled forward. They were so busy staring at him that they didn’t notice Standing’s three colleagues slip out of the Landcruiser. By the time they did, they were staring down the barrels of the SAS guns. ‘We’re SAS, mate,’ said Pete Simpson, a lanky Geordie with a full beard and impenetrable shades. ‘You need to lower your weapons right now.’

  The paratroopers looked at each other nervously, then slowly did as they were told. Most of them were barely out of their teens and were clearly lost without their officer.

  ‘Good call, lads,’ said Standing. ‘Now we’ll get into our vehicle and be on our way. As our American allies would say, you all have a nice day.’ He placed the SA80 on the ground next to the unconscious officer, threw them a mock salute and turned his back on them.

  ‘Fucking hell, Sarge, you can’t go around hitting officers,’ Simpson said, as they got back into the Landcruiser. He was right, of course, and forty-eight hours later Standing had been busted back to trooper.

  ‘Well?’ said the colonel now.

  ‘I was protecting myself, sir,’ said Standing.

  ‘You assaulted a lieutenant with the Paras.’

  ‘He was pointing a loaded weapon at me and acting aggressively. I reacted accordingly.’

  ‘With proportionate force?’

  ‘If he had pulled the trigger, I would have been dead, sir.’

  ‘You seriously thought he would fire?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking, sir. I was reacting.’

  The colonel nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s your problem. You know that?’

  Standing didn’t say anything. It was clear he wasn’t going to be let off. The question was, how severe his punishment would be. He just hoped he wasn’t going to be RTU’d. He doubted he would be able to go back to his unit. The SAS were the best of the best and he didn’t want to serve with any other unit so that meant he’d be out of the army and his career prospects on the outside would be grim at best.

  ‘When you’re under fire, your instincts save your life. I get that,’ said the colonel. ‘I get that to be as good a soldier as you are you have to react quickly to situations. In a firefight you don’t have time to weigh up your options. Your problem is that you react just as quickly when you’re not under fire. You don’t think, you act. And sometimes your actions are out of all proportion to the situation you’re in.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is that yes, sir, you agree with me, or yes, sir, you hear what I’m saying?’

  ‘Both, sir.’

  The colonel nodded. ‘Okay, Standing, this is what’s going to happen. You’re no longer a sergeant. You’re not going to lose any pay or privileges, but you’re on suspension for a month. I want you to use that time to get professional help with your anger-management issues. I’ve arranged for a list to be drawn up of therapists who can help and I want you to avail yourself of their services. At the end of the month you’ll be examined by the Regiment’s medical staff to see if you’re fit for duty.’ He held up a hand. ‘Mentally fit for duty. No one is doubting your physical fitness. But, believe me, if there are any doubts at all about your mental fitness you’ll be returned to your unit. If they’ll have you. Are we clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The colonel leaned towards Standing and lowered his voice. ‘Look, Standing, I know you didn’t have the easiest of upbringings. I know what happened, obviously, with your father and all. But violence isn’t in your DNA. It’s learned behaviour, and you can unlearn it. Violence in combat is a necessary evil, but it has to stay there. You can’t use violence as a way of solving your everyday issues. Hopefully, a therapist will help you grasp that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Go home, relax, and sort yourself out. Come back here in a month’s time and prove to us that you can be the sort of soldier we know you can be.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good man.’ The colonel smiled thinly. ‘Dismissed.’

  Standing went outside and picked up his bag.

  ‘I’m to give you a rail warrant to wherever you want to go to,’ said Debbie. ‘And I have to put together a list of therapists for you.’

  Standing frowned. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Debbie shook her head sadly. ‘You have to leave the camp, Matt, and hand in your pass before you go.’

  ‘I live here,’ said Standing. ‘All my stuff is here. This is my home.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Matt. The colonel was very specific. You’re no longer allowed to live in the camp.’

  ‘What about my stuff?’

  ‘You can take it with you. Or you can leave it with me and I’ll have it delivered to you.’

  Standing glanced at the door to the colonel’s office. He could feel his heart pounding and part of him wanted to storm in and grab the man by the throat. The colonel had said he should go home, but the SAS was his home. His only home. In fact, he hadn’t had a real home since he was eleven years old. And, with his father beating the shit out of him at every opportunity, he wouldn’t have described that as home, not really. He took a deep breath.

  ‘Matt?’ asked Debbie.

  Standing forced a smile and turned to her.

  ‘Where shall I make the rail warrant out for?’ she asked.

  Standing tilted his head to one side and thought about it for a few seconds. ‘London,’ he said.

  Willoughby-Brown guided the yacht out of the marina, then let Shepherd take the wheel. The wind was coming from the south and the boat made good progress as it headed south-east. Willoughby-Brown pointed up at the sail where two strips of red tape about a foot long were fluttering in the wind. ‘Lesson one,’ he said. ‘See those red things on the sail?’

  Shepherd nodded.

  ‘They’re called telltales. Your old sea salts would say they’re the equivalent of training wheels but they’re invaluable. They tell you how to trim your sails and steer the boat. You can get the same information from studying the shape of the sails but the telltales are a short-cut.’

  Shepherd frowned as he looked up at them. There were three sets, at the top of the sail, halfway down and at the bottom. They were all fluttering happily.

  ‘Now turn away from the wind. Just a bit.’

  Shepherd did as he was told. Almost immediately the strips started to drop.

  ‘There you go,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘Now the sail is less efficient and the telltales are letting you know. Turn back into the wind.’

  Shepherd turned the wheel and straight away the telltales picked up again.

  ‘It’s as easy as that,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘If you need to know how efficient the sail is, the telltales will tell you.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Now, the two basic manoeuvres are tacking and jibing. If you’re sailing into the wind, as we are now, you have to tack. You can’t sail directly into the wind, obviously. You need it to be off to the side to generate the thrust that moves the boat forward. So if you’re sailing into the wind you may have to move the boat left and right to get to where you want to go. That’s called tacking. You turn the boat through the wind so that the wind goes from one side of it to the other. That means the boom will move, often quite quickly, so watch out for it. It’s easy for the boom to knock you overboard, no matter how big your boat is.’ He smiled when he saw Shepherd’s frown. ‘It’ll make more sense when I show you.’

 

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