Devil’s Harvest Read Online Free PDF

to the ministry of defence. He had even addressed cabinet directly when the first assets had been deployed to assist land-force commanders in Afghanistan to provide what was referred to as ‘pilot-commanded kinetic intervention for fleeing targets’, otherwise known as ‘drone strikes’. Cabinet designated it an urgent operational requirement and authorised significant spending; their only request was that the dreadful phraseology be changed.
    Bartholomew was nearing retirement, an ageing soldier in an increasingly sophisticated military arena, where instructions were given not by shouting above the diesel throb of an armed vehicle and the rap of distant gunfire, but by tapping a keyboard or touch screen. His hair was thin and had greyed to an almost colourless white, forcing his ruddy and veined cheeks into stark contrast. Age and weather had left him with the appearance of a drunkard, while in fact he hardly drank at all. He secretly feared that his complexion undermined his authority, with junior officers mistaking him for a tiring inebriant.
    ‘Twelve minutes, sir,’ the flight lieutenant said, keeping his face close to the screen. ‘Should I inform Creech of our position, sir?’ Creech was the United States Air Force base in Nevada that linked with Waddington on the ISTAR programme.
    ‘They know.’ Bartholomew appreciated that the flight lieutenant felt uncomfortable with the change in operating procedure, but he still resented the junior officer’s question. Richards had already made it clear to him that the flight was a limited-access operation; the mere fact that the operations room had been cleared made this quite obvious. He was the tool, not the artisan, and his apparent failure to appreciate this annoyed the older man. It was as if the flight lieutenant felt the need to confirm the unorthodox nature of the undertaking at every turn. The air marshal needed no reminder.
    ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ Bartholomew said, turning away and heading for the door. He placed his thumb on the security pad and heard the lock click back. He pushed the metal door open and paused in the corridor while he waited for it to close and automatically lock again.
    The toilets were close by and mercifully empty. The stalls and urinals were all made of polished sheet metal, and even the toilet bowls and cisterns were crafted from glinting steel. Only the stained-pine seats softened the sterility.
    This must be some designer’s impression of the military, Bartholomew thought as he lowered his trousers. It was reminiscent of the displays at the Tate Modern. What was wrong with regular British cement and enamel? As with so much in the military, functionality had given way to committee-bound decisions and appalling political correctness. It was bad enough that real soldiers had to billet alongside queers and lesbians. In fact, he grumbled to himself as he eased his body down, this excuse for a latrine had probably been designed by some homosexual in the recesses of the ministry of public works.
    The seat was cold, which was a good start. There was nothing more off-putting than a seat still warm from its previous user. He started to strain and the sides of his thighs immediately tensed. Bartholomew suffered from intractable constipation. His general practitioner, Maurice, insisted that it was largely psychological, that he was somehow subconsciously ‘retaining’ because of his fear of exacerbating his haemorrhoids. Ten days earlier, Maurice had found two ‘medium-sized’ haemorrhoids – one partially exposed, he’d announced with what seemed to border on mirth. Bartholomew was in no position to respond, bent double with his underpants crumpled around his ankles. Dignity was something that seldom survived a visit to his general practitioner any more. Maurice had recommended surgery and Bartholomew had assented, although he knew in his heart that he would rather endure the discomfort.
    He imagined his newly formed