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stretching away to the
horizon. To most soldiers out there, 'COB' was
just another way of saying 'in the rear with the
gear'. Word had it they even had two Indian
guys running round on mopeds delivering
American Hots with extra pepperoni.
    The captain looked at his watch. 'No time, I'm
afraid. Your carriage awaits.'
     
    Even at night, which was the only time it wasn't
too dangerous to fly into the compound, the
pilot had to keep the rear tailgate down so
the gunner had a good arc of fire. It gave us a
spectacular view of the Shatt-Al-Arab waterway,
glinting in the moonlight as it snaked through a
series of mansions. They were flanked by palm
trees and what had probably once been exotic
gardens. Now they were just tank parks for 2
Rifles' armour, and as the Merlin dropped closer
to the ground it looked as if every square metre
had been rotavated by IDF (indirect fire).
    The heli touched down just long enough for
the loadmaster to kick us out and then it was airborne
again. As briefed, we ran towards the
torchlight that flickered on the edge of
the pad, sweating in our Osprey body armour
and helmets. Things were going to be different in
the city. Our baby armour would have been as
much protection here as an extra pullover.
    A total blackout was in force. Fuck knows who
held the torch, but he came from Essex. 'You can
expect at least three or four mortar or rocket
attacks a day while you're here.'
    We followed him past wall upon wall of
HESCOs, massive defences made from circular
bins of galvanized steel mesh and polypropylene,
filled with whatever was to hand.
'Sand's the material of choice around here,' our
guy quipped, loving the chance to showboat a
little. 'But it stops shrapnel all the same.'
    We soon reached a building. Moonlight shone
on huge marble pillars supporting a stone
portico.
    'Fuck me.' Pete craned his neck. 'That's
Tallulah straight off to B&Q when I send her the
pics.'
    We went through a pair of five-metre-tall
doors, and into a marble-floored hall. The guy
with the torch had to be the army's oldest
corporal.
    Pete surveyed the empty room. 'Couldn't he
afford any furniture, then?'
    'Looters had it away before the Royal Marines
arrived during the war.' The corporal nodded at
a door to the left. 'Just a few gold taps left in the
bogs. Fancy a brew?'
    There was a loud thud out in the compound,
then another.
    'Katyushas.' The corporal poured hot water
into white styrofoam cups. 'Hundred-and-seven-millimetre.
All brand-new stock. Everyone
knows it can't be local. No heavy-calibre
munitions have been made in Iraq since 2003.'
    Pete asked the obvious question: 'So where is it
being made, then?'
    He handed Pete a steaming cup. 'Iran, mate.
The border's just ten K away.'

8
    Thursday, 1 March
1829 hrs
Basra Palace
    'I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried about him.'
Pete sipped his brew, trying not to burn his lips
and fingers.
    We were sitting at the back of one of Saddam's
old state rooms as we listened to the CSM's confirmatory
orders. Dom had disappeared to a
different part of the palace complex to have
another go at the FCO. I'd offered to escort him,
but he insisted he was fine.
    'I mean, there's more chance of being struck by
lightning than getting an interview with the
spooks and the Foreign Office lot. Drac knows
that, but he's gone back for more. I don't like
the way they treat him. Particularly since he
comes straight back and takes it out on me.'
    I tried to make light of it. 'Maybe that's what
pisses him off. Somebody actually refusing to be
interviewed by Platinum Bollocks.'
    Pete leant over to talk quietly in my ear. The
CSM didn't take kindly to people chatting in his
Orders, even if they weren't on his payroll. 'He's
been really off, this last three or four weeks.'
    'You want me to have a word? It's my job – I'm
supposed to look after you. Whatever's bugging
him could affect his safety.'
    He thought about it for a second. 'Nah, I've
been trying to work out what goes on in that
head of his for