Serpent Sting. Toni Grant
Five steps. That was all it took to get to the door. Forwards. Backwards.
Tugging at the heavy garments that hugged his body, he breathed out the acceptance. Soldiers never left the building without the heavy vest and he stopped to check necessities before entering the hallway and shutting the cell door behind him.
In less than twenty-four hours, Captain McCrae would share a flight with a small group of journalists to Sydney then home. This time, the senior army medic had drawn the short straw. The extra five-week stay at the end of his tenure was a sacrifice he’d made to co-ordinate the key press personnel for a January Afghanistan special. A tribute to his soldiers and the work they were doing in this country destroyed by politics and religion.
A delay in departure wouldn’t usually bother him. This soldier loved the challenges of duty.
But this tour had ended badly. Sinclair was not the only bear in camp with a sore head. In the week of Christmas, they’d lost a good soldier and a better friend in a senseless moment of betrayal.
The medic grieved in the limited privacy he could scavenge away from the other soldiers. His team needed his strength. They relied on his consistency. In the fluorescent-lit tunnel that was his quarters, Sinclair shook his head. It was no good. Sinclair McCrae needed the comfort of his family.
One day. One night. Using the last of his willpower, the medic would push through the delicacy of this job. Tomorrow, home.
Babysitting a small press contingent required diplomacy and exactness if it was to attract the necessary funding. As he’d done in Timor, McCrae gladly carried the burden of sourcing money and confidence in rebuilding the hospital that supported local communities. Projects like these kept his fire burning when everything was crashing around him.
Captain McCrae knew how to play the politics to make it work. He had no qualms about it. However, this time he had a personal appointment needing his attention and focus.
The delay in his extraction from Afghanistan was a damn nuisance. Francesca was due in a matter of weeks. The newest member of the McCrae family was almost ready to enter the world. Sinclair would be a father again. Having been away for the birth of the first, little Archie, he would not miss this too.
Sinclair thought about the boy he was raising and smiled. Patting the small pocket at his chest, he felt the crumpled piece of paper stashed there. Archie’s hand-made Christmas card to his father, almost worn through from the repeated folds. A precious reminder of the bond they shared.
Sinclair grinned stupidly at it.
He supposed most men would find it difficult raising a child conceived and born in such circumstances. The soldier medic didn’t think about it much. He loved the child as his own. He simply was the child’s father in every way, but blood.
He’d almost lost them both the day Francesca learned of her pregnancy. He’d never forget the surgeon’s remarks at her ‘condition’. Sinclair could have lifted him. With his fists.
In that hospital room, Francesca had given him the opportunity to go. For a breathless moment, Sinclair thought she would ask him to leave regardless. But Sinclair had reconciled long before the significant role that family had played in her upbringing. To love Francesca was to acknowledge that part of her life as well. And now, six years on, there was another baby.
Sinclair hid his smile behind the closing exterior door of his quarters, negotiated the steps quickly and turned towards the small coffee house located on the base.
He strode past the Hesco Wall, with its raised wire turrets bound by hessian and filled with rocks, which he had stopped noticing long ago. During the first tour, he couldn’t help but think of the family fortresses in Scotland and their walls of stone.
Surrounded by these rock and mesh structures, he had some feeling for his ancestors. How they must have felt waiting in the wake of castle Eilean Donan for back-up that came too late, whilst the English Royal Navy Warships bombarded the castle and the Kirk of Kintail in 1719.
He patted the turret and glanced about, longing to leave this war zone behind and bathe in the lushness of his Fijian home.
Rubbing his face briskly, the mask of control and focus set. A protective wall around his emotions clicked into place. It locked together as he pushed the camouflage cap further onto his head. It was time to attend to today’s mission, and he breathed the cool air deeply, filtering the aroma of sewage from the dust and pungent tang of fuel, grease and burning rubbish.
Blaring from the speakers at the recreation area, the evocative opening strands of Icehouse’s Great Southern Land mingled with the sounds of others getting ready. Doubling as a parade point, it was busy with the morning’s briefing. The much-used ping-pong tables were cleared to the side. They’d be centre stage later that day. He glanced at the team sheets hanging on the notice board. Stumps, bats and balls at the ready for the traditional Australia Day cricket match.
Greeting Gunner Mason with a nod, they met at the steps of the small cafe. A likeable character from western Queensland, he had a way of understating the obvious with dry humour. Adding to his likability was his firearm accuracy. The kid was a crack shot.
“Good morning Sir,” he said with enthusiasm. “Nice day for it.”
A swirl of dust and debris twisted skywards on the freezing winds, crossing the dirt floor behind them.
“Happy Australia Day, Mason. We won’t be long.”
The reporter was already there and wrapped the scarf more tightly around her neck and head as the blast of arctic air penetrated the warm room when McCrae opened the door.
“Good morning.” Sinclair met her mannish hand with a firm grasp. “Did you sleep well?” By the looks of her puffy eyes, he guessed not.
“Sure,” she said unconvincingly.
“Excellent news. Now, what would you like to discuss?” Sinclair cast an appreciative look to his friend who placed steaming coffee cups in front of them. Sinclair’s freckled fingers dwarfed the cup, wrapping around its warmth, before overlapping to the knuckles.
“Just some technical bibs and bobs,” the reporter responded offhandedly as though she sought to skirt around the senior medic’s intense focus. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, cleared her throat and in a more professional manner asked, “How many medics service the new hospital? From what regions has the medical team predominantly come?”
Sinclair answered her list of questions quickly and with precision. Checking the dive watch strapped on his wrist, he stood abruptly before she could ask another.
“Time to go,” he said, dwarfing her.
Two PMV Bushmaster vehicles waited. The first troop carrier contained civilians and soldiers. The medic led her to the open door.
He glanced down at the open blank page of the journalist’s notebook. She’d scribbled ‘Outside the Wire’ as a heading. He wondered briefly what story would follow. A mobile phone, set to camera mode, rested between her gloved hand and the notebook.
He paused, looked inside the truck and asked gruffly, “Everybody here?”
“Listen up for orders,” he started. “Today we are travelling to the rebuilt Tarin Kowt community hospital. There you will have a brief tour of the facilities and the opportunity to talk with senior medical staff. We will then return directly to the base. We will travel in convoy formation. The two PMVs will move from this location, travel down route Echo and arrive at hospital entrance B. At this point, I will lead you through the facilities. Then we will return via route Charlie. It is imperative that you stay within the group at all times whilst we are outside the wire. Under every circumstance, you will follow instructions given by Sergeant Fergus or myself.
“Now, I see you all have mobile phones. You may take photographs of the interior of the hospital only. You may record interviews on your phones once approval from the interviewee has been given. Covert recordings will immediately be destroyed. In this case, your managers will be informed as to why you and your