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The following work of fiction contains graphic homosexual interaction, violence and non-consensual sex. With this work of fiction the authors do not condone in any way any form of intolerance and injustice, e.g. racism, sexual harassment, incitement of hatred, religious hatred nor persecution, xenophobia and misogyny. Neither do the authors through this work of fiction promote violence nor make light of such grave matters as genocide, any taking of human life, murder, execution, rape, torture, persecution of sexual orientation.

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August 1991, the Persian Gulf

Two days later, at the break of dawn and after a night of pool, beer and good-byes to his mates, Dan was standing in front of the tin-clad shithole that had been his home for the last few months. Heavy bergan strapped to his back, sports bag standing at his side. Shades over his eyes, he was dressed in mostly civilian kit. Khaki t-shirt, desert coloured cross-draw vest on top, its pockets filled with the necessities of his life. Combat trousers, webbed belt keeping them secured, and his customary boots - British Forces desert issue, not any longer the Lowa ones. No armour, no weapon, no nothing. Except for the trusty assault knife he always carried on his body.

Dan felt naked, missed the protective combat attire, but fuck, he was nothing but a civvie right now, being taken to his next place of deployment by a US Air Force medical supply patrol. He should be thankful to the Yanks that they'd agreed to take the Merc.

Letting his eyes run slowly across the tin huts, he stalled at one, then at another, finally glancing at the Mess tent. Too early for breakfast, good thing he'd been friendly with the scran assassin and had a stack of sandwiches in his bag. A bottle of water on his webbing, and a two litre plastic one in the bergan. Nothing worse than getting dehydrated in the heat.

That was it, then, the Gulf was done and over with. He shrugged to himself before picking up his bag and slinging the PLCE webbing across one shoulder. At least webbing and soft kit were his own. Trusty old stuff, from his army days. Outdated and worn-out but still functional, just like himself. Forty-one, not quite on the scrap heap yet.

Turning round, he forced himself to think nothing at all. Empty mind and memories, the only way to exist. His boots threw up small clouds of red dust as he made his way towards the exit of the camp. Dan padded down his trouser pocket, felt for the official papers that allowed him into the US base and onto the patrol ride. They'd drop off a couple of cases of antibiotics first, before delivering him to his temporary destination.

New start in old boots, and the memories forever a part of his luggage.

* * * * * * *

None of the guys in the Huey, that was chugging along the edge of the Iraqi desert, saw the flash of the RPG launcher that had been camouflaged amongst a low outcrop of rocks. Neither aware of the grenade's smoke trail, racing towards the helicopter.

The US crew and their passenger were instantly shaken when a mighty impact hit the chopper, cracking the tail boom of the Huey in the explosion. "Shit!" Dan exclaimed, half-thrown off his makeshift seat of metal drugs boxes. He stared at loadmaster and winchman opposite to him. The jolt had been hard enough to make him bounce on his unforgiving seat. "What the fuck?"

He got no answer, the two crew members busily gesticulating at each other, but Dan didn't need anyone to explain to him what the hell had happened when the rotor stopped spinning with a horrible grinding sound. He knew, with chilling clarity, they'd been hit by an RPG. Craning his neck, Dan could make out the pilot shouting over the noise to his co-pilot, helped by the intercom, but impossible to hear for Dan who was out of the loop. No uniform, no safety, no helmet. The pilots' voices drowned out by ear-splitting noise from the tail boom.

Controlled action broke out as the chopper kept moving forward, then shuddered and started to spin. First slowly, then picking up speed. Dan was holding on to the open door and looked at the winchman, knowing they were in deep shit, and from the Yank's facial expression, he wasn't the only one who realised the extent of trouble. "Fuck!" Dan muttered, gritting his teeth and cursing civvie clothing that left him with no protection. A soft target of the highest calibre. Both of the crew members were strapped into seats that could absorb at least some of the impact, but he as the third man and passenger was utterly fucked. Sitting upright on the boxes with no protection, the crash would most likely break his spine. Well done, Dan, old dog, what a way to die, smashed into pieces and crushed like eggshells - but he wasn't ready yet.

Both pilot and co-pilot were shouting towards the back of the Huey to get down and hold on. Dan immediately scrambled off the boxes and threw himself spread-eagled into the narrow space on the ground, just about fitting his legs between the two crew members' seats, with his head too fucking close to the metal drugs boxes. The chopper was starting to spin so violently, he hardly managed to get hold of his bergan and stuff it into the space between boxes and himself, trying to keep his head from being ripped off. That would be another damn messy way to go and he wasn't ready for that one either. He'd survived the goddamned Afghan mountains, he wanted at least a fighting chance now. Trying to spread the impact across his body, pressed flat onto the steel floor.

He was sweating, heart racing. Life and death, too bloody close to death right now, the risk embodied in the metal of an aging chopper that wasn't even fit for combat anymore. What a fucking pathetic way to die after all the shit he'd been through. The spin accelerated and Dan couldn't quite make out what the loadmaster was shouting at him, impossible to understand over the noise of rushing air and blood pounding in his ears. Managed to grab hold with his left to a metal bar behind the pilot's seat, just as the accelerator spin slammed his legs and hip against the frame of the open door and wrenched his wrist, sending a jolt of pain through his entire body. Dan cursed before locking his jaws, somehow managing to get hold of the bar with his right hand as well, hanging on for dear life with his legs half-dangling out of the side door. That was it. If he had used up a few lives in Afghanistan already, this was the last one of them all. He'd pray if he could remember how and if he believed in anything at all, but had no thoughts left except regret, loss, love and hate and all-over love again and most of all the burning greed to live! Not die in a mangled mess alongside a bunch of Yanks, who were nothing but fucking children.

Dan barely made out the distress signal above the deafening racket. Frantic radio messages, relayed back to the US Military camp, while the pilot did all he could to bring the bird down with the least possible damage. Repeating again and again "UH-1 going down. Going down. UH-1 hit and going down. UH-1 going down."

The Huey was doing an awkward counter rotation as it fell, making two final turns clockwise, nose up, until its front end was suddenly cast down violently in such an unfortunate angle, the nose hit the ground violently. Dan was screaming in pain when his body was torn towards the left, his entire side crashing once more against metal bars, wall, interior and door frame, and his left wrist wrenched ten times harder than before. He could hear the sickening sound of bones breaking amidst the thunderous noise when the chopper hit heat-baked sand almost straight-on. The ground was as hard as concrete and the Huey had enough velocity to start flipping over onto its back in what seemed like agonising slow motion. Accompanied by terrifying screeching sounds of distorting metal. At the moment of impact the main rotors snapped off and went flying, part of the debris crashing through the warped roof, some of it entering through the open door. The body of the helicopter bore itself deeper into the ground, nose first, pilot and co-pilot taking the impact. There were screams and deafening noise, but Dan couldn't make out anymore what was human voices and what was the steel shrieking in agony, when the bird veered towards the left side, destroying part of the cockpit - front and side.

Then there was silence. Sudden. Deadly.

Dan lay still. Breathing in dust and fumes, waiting for an explosion, but nothing happened. For one long second the world seemed to stand still, frozen after the crash, steeped in pain. Agony from his left wrist, pain along his entire leg and hip, his ribs, but he could breathe. Could feel. Felt the goddamned pain and knew he was alive. Tried to move his fingers, toes, hands, knew, then, the left wrist was fractured. Fucking left, again, but he should be thankful.

No more than two seconds passed since the bird had crashed, with Dan still checking out his ribs, arms, legs, when a far worse noise started. Moans, a muffled cry from across the seats, nonsensical stifled screams and more groans, mixed with sounds that didn't seem to make sense.

"Hey!" Dan called out, "everyone OK?" Managed to move, thank fuck, only his wrist useless, left hand hanging at a freaky angle. Grunting against the pain with clenched teeth, he lifted his head and started to scramble to his feet. He wasn't the only one who realised seconds after the crash that they had to get out of the chopper. His shout came almost at the same time as the voice from the cockpit. Seemed to be the pilot, in a lot of pain. "Need a little help here, guys. Scott got it I think."

Dan managed to get to his knees, nursing his hand and looking around. Fuck. Carnage. Saw the loadmaster hanging lifeless on his seat which was half-torn off the chopper wall, and the winchman … shit. Dan's eyes widened. "Holy fuck." Muttered when he stared straight into panicked wide eyes of the young guy, who had been nailed to the Huey by a broken piece of rotor stuck through the chest, near to his shoulder. Dan raised his good hand and nodded to him. "Hang on, don't move." As if. Fuck again.

Turned his head before managing to shuffle around, still on his knees and wanting to scream at the agony all along his side, but forced his old and battered body to comply. Nothing except for the wrist was broken. Stop whinging, Mad Dog, and shut the fuck up.

"Give me a sec." Dan called out to the pilot. "One man unconscious back here, the other injured. I'm alright." Peered over the front seats. "You alright, Jackson?" Remembered the pilot's name tag. He could see the co-pilot's helmet before he managed to get up. The sight of the unnatural angle of the guy's head told Dan all he needed to know. Jackson had been right, his co-pilot was dead.

"Not quite alright." Jackson answered, voice strained. "Got to get the comm link up, the thing's fucked."

"Got it." Dan answered, stood at last, swayed, got himself under control and used his right hand to check as quick as he could over the co-pilot. "Afraid you're right." Glanced at the name tag, "Campbell's dead." Turned his head to check on the two guys in the back. "The kid's not looking good. What about you?" He could see the blood in the pilot's lap, creeping from the thigh up the fabric of the flight overalls.

"My leg." Jackson spoke through gritted teeth, nevertheless working on the comm. "Broken." Messy. Dirty. "Hurts like fuck, but I'm alive." A miracle he wasn't unconscious. "Deal with the others, I'll be alright." The pilot craned his head and caught Dan's eyes, who nodded.

"Whatever arsehole fired the RPG, they'll have seen us going down and they'll be coming for us." Dan felt an adrenaline rush at his own words. They had to get out and away or they'd be more fucked than they already were. "Hurry up with that comm, mate."

Jackson nodded, reached to his side and Dan could see sweat patches forming on the uniform. That guy was tough. Full marks for the Yank.

Dan turned back, no more than a couple of minutes had passed, when he saw movement from the loadmaster. At least that one wasn't dead, even though bleeding from the neck. He'd deal with him later, since it was the young bumfuck who gave the greatest reason to worry. "Hang on in there, kid." Dan moved closer, inspected the entry point of the razor sharp edge of the rotor blade shrapnel. "I have to strap up my wrist first, alright?" Dan kept the kid's attention and the big glassy eyes focussed on him. He could see the pain written all across the pale and sweating face, even though he was probably in too much shock still to be aware of the full extent of pain. Pain, and fear. Shit, this Yank really was nothing but a kid, even Matt was a grown up compared to the guy. Eighteen, he had overheard Johnson chatting with the loadmaster earlier, and his first deployment.

Dan ripped the first aid box from the wall. Aware of the irony that he had been sitting on boxes with medical supplies, which were bloody useless for them. Managed to open the box with right hand and teeth, fished out the sturdiest bandage he could find and cursed under his breath while trying to open the cellophane. He could feel the kid's eyes on him all the time and looked up, nodding to him. "Just a sec, OK? What's your name? Can't see your nametag from here. I'm Dan, but they call me Mad Dog." Kept the kid's focus, who was starting to fade out of consciousness. Shit, that wouldn't do, remembered that much from his Battlefield First Aid training, a lifetime ago.

"Johnson."

Dan had been focussing on the bandage that was finally open, surprised at the voice. Strained but audible Good, perhaps that little bumfuck would turn out to be a fighter. He was digging his teeth into one end of the bandage, when he heard the voice again.

"Chris Johnson. I …" the kid trailed off, and Dan could see how his fist clenched surreptitiously while the face beneath the helmet was drenched in sweat, pale with diluted eyes.

"Hurts like fuck, aye?"

The kid tried to nod, obviously suppressing a whimper, which caused Dan to forget about his wrist for a moment.

"You got morphine?"

Again Johnson silently nodded and Dan kept the bandage between his teeth while reaching for the syrette around the soldier's neck. Yanking it off, he slammed it into Chris' thigh, who barely twitched.

Taking the bandage from his teeth, Dan murmured, "You'll feel better in a sec. Trust me, kid." As he watched Johnson's baby-blue eyes loose focus almost with immediate effect. Good. He wouldn't scream too much.

He suddenly heard another voice, sounding disoriented.

"Need help?"

Dan looked up, saw the loadmaster wiping blood off his neck then testing limb after limb. Dan grinned, relieved. "Aye, need to strap up before I'm useful. Need to hurry up. You alright? Any fractures?"

The loadmaster's eyes were dark in the shadow of his helmet, and so were his features, smeared with blood. Dan could just about make out the name tag. Martinez. That would explain the eyes.

Martinez shook his head, groaned, then stilled the movement and held his head in his hands for a moment. "No, seems I was lucky." He got off the seat, stepped over to Dan and took the bandage and a flexi-tube, strapping both as tightly as possible around the fractured wrist without cutting the blood off. Dan was gritting his teeth at the pain, hitting his thigh with the good fist once or twice, but the Yank was fast and the wrist secured as best as possible in the shortest time.

"Think I got concussion." Martinez finished his task.

Dan nodded, "What the fuck happened here and how did we get into this shit?"

"RPG." Jackson shouted from the front, while working frantically despite his injury. "Martinez, it got Campbell."

The loadmaster frowned. "Fuck." Muttered, started to take full notice of his surroundings and the magnitude of what had happened. Intercepted by Dan who had fished a sterile bandage out of the box, handing it over.

"Get your neck taped up. I deal with Johnson. Will need your help in a minute." Martinez nodded, slowly, began to do as told, and Dan wondered if he'd just found the secret to getting out of the mess they were in. Get them to listen to what he told them to do. Brit or not. Non military or not. The situation was only going to get worse and rapidly so, and he was the most seasoned soldier of the lot. Ex SAS. Twenty years behind enemy lines. It was up to him. How much time before whoever shot them down was going to find them? The faster they got out of there the better their chances.

"Can you move, kid?" Dan asked Chris, but the Yank was barely conscious, just as expected. Knocked out by the morphine. "OK, seems that dammed rotor went right through you and into the chopper. We have to get out of here ASAP, you understand? We have to move you. Afraid you'll have to grit your teeth."

Johnson's tongue darted out, moistening his lips, but he clearly wasn't with it. Leaving Dan to hope that the guy felt nothing at all.

Dan glanced at Martinez, "You into First Aid?" The loadmaster tried to shake his head and Dan cursed when he was told that Campbell had been the best trained medic on that flight. Scott Campbell, still strapped into his seat, dead with a broken neck and legs that had been smashed by the impact.

"OK, Chris." Dan chose the first name, never got that business of addressing a comrade with their surname. Fuck their custom, he didn't care, he was running this show in his own way. British, crazy, unorthodox, and with the ultimate chance of survival. "Listen, kid, we have to leave her little present in your chest for now, until they can get a medevac here and fly you back into camp."

"Any luck with the comm?" Dan didn't receive an affirmative, and waved the loadmaster closer.

"Need your help here." Glancing at Martinez, "what's your first name?" The guy looked surprised but complied. "Gary."

Dan nodded. "Alright, Gary, my wrist's fucked, I need you to take over most of the work. I steady this end of the rotor blade and you pull Chris off." Martinez was getting into position. Clearly, getting told what to do was doing the trick. Jackson was letting out a muffled cry of pain from the front, but Dan couldn't be bothered with another casualty right now. Shit, he wasn't even a medic, he was bumbling along on half remembered facts, years of experience in the field and whatever else he had picked up along the way. "God help us." Murmured, too quiet to be overhead, and he wasn't even a believer.

Glancing at Martinez, Dan got into position, steadying the sharp metal with his right hand, planting himself on the ground, legs braced. Ignoring the pain along his battered left side. "On three." Heard Johnson whimper when Martinez grabbed hold of him, and saw him bite down hard to stop another cry escaping, despite the morphine. "One, two," Dan took a deep breath, "three!"

Martinez pulled hard, Johnson screamed in agony, out of his head, and then he fell silent the moment the rotor was pulled free. The kid's unconscious torso fell forward, just about caught by Dan who stumbled backwards, but kept his balance. "Shit!" Martinez exclaimed, caught hold of Johnson, leaned him back against the wall.

"Holy fuck." Dan wiped his bloodied hand on his trousers, saw the extend of the wound at the back. "We have to get a medevac." Didn't think the kid had a chance if he wasn't treated within a few hours. "Get him bandaged up, we need to carry him. See what you can find to pad the damned bits that are sticking out." Martinez nodded, started without another delay before Johnson regained consciousness. Morphine or not, he'd be in a shitload of pain far too soon.

Jackson was calling from the front. "Got it! Probably only a few minutes. The power is fucked." The comm seemed to come to life with a faint sound. "I'll give them our position."

Dan suddenly woke up, hit by a realisation much worse than the fucking grenade itself. They had crashed about ten minutes ago. Maybe fifteen. Difficult to keep track in a fucked-up situation like that.

"No." He turned, ducked his head and crouched towards the cockpit, avoiding a twisted metal beam. "You can't do that."

Jackson was looking at him as if he had lost his mind, but Dan paid no heed. He knew what they had to do.

"Whoever the fuck blew us out of the sky isn't regular Iraqi Army. Those guys are done and dusted, they are history. Whoever did that is a renegade bastard who hasn't cottoned on that they are supposed to have surrendered. And those bastards are itching to find the chopper and butcher whoever is still alive. Make an example and all that shit."

Jackson didn't seem convinced yet, shook his head. "We need a medevac, like, now. My leg's fucked, Johnson sounded as if we were doing the butchering all on our own, and we have to get out of here."

"Aye," Dan nodded, "we do. But I know a way how, without giving out the exact position over the comm link. It's unsecured, isn't it?" Jackson nodded, his face a sweaty mask of pain. "Thought so." Dan's eyes narrow. "They'll be listening in, I bet my eight inches of Prime Scots Beef on that. We need to get away from the wreck within the next ten minutes and we need to keep moving. We can make it harder for those bastards to find us."

Jackson slowly handed the microphone over when Dan held out his good hand. "Trust me. I'll get us out." He leaned against the shoulder of the co-pilot's corpse to move it out of the way and reached for the mic, fingers of his good hand firmly around it. "I'm not Mad Dog for nothing."

Someone had to take charge, and he was going to do just that.

Afghanistan, a crazy Russian and years of fucked-up love had to be good for something.

* * * * * * *

That morning, back in camp, Vadim had got up and to work like every other day.

But that day, Dan was gone. People looked at him, as if they expected him to go berserk. Jean seemed on the verge of leaving him behind that day on duty, then seemed to decide that work was a good distraction. Vadim didn't give a fuck. Life without Dan continued, like it had every time Dan vanished into the mountains. It wasn't different. Some part of him still waited for the other's return. And some part couldn't bear the thought.

He should be grateful he was still intact, that he was free, that he could repay his debts. He wasn't pondering death that day. He did the job, knowing he could go on like that.

They returned to camp, and Vadim could feel the change in the air. He stood near the jeep, drinking water, when one of the guys came running for Jean, clamouring about a shot down helicopter.

Jean, covered in red dust, gave a curse, then glanced quickly at Vadim, alarm in his eyes, and Vadim knew it was Dan's helicopter. Some knowledge was visceral and needed no confirmation. From the excited noises the man was making, the Americans had lost a transport Huey, and it had crashed somewhere, with its Yank crew and a passenger. They assumed insurgents. Rogue units. The rumour mill was spinning. Presidential Guard, Muslim fanatics. Uncanny, uncanny resemblance. They knew nothing yet.

Vadim watched and listened, the men were talking like he wasn't there, the news sensational enough to keep everybody preoccupied. They were talking about chances for casualties, how big the crew was, and what was the best way to bring a Huey down. How to crash it without killing everybody inside. Dan dead? Impossible. He'd survived a car bombing.

And yet. After all the effort to die by his hand, wouldn't it be ironic if Dan died now? Some kind of "fuck you", but then, Dan didn't want to die. He survived, because he could. Vadim just didn't believe it, even though he had seen men die, too many to disbelieve in death. But if he had, what had his last thought been? His last word? Anything, anything at all. Vadim felt his stomach churn and reached for a bottle of water that one of the guys offered him. Alive. Dying?

He knew one thing: They'd go and try recover the bodies and possibly blow up the wreck. And they had to act swiftly. Fucking Americans. They'd do the job, whatever he did. He wanted to set out by himself, but he didn't even know in which direction to march, and nobody in this camp seemed to know that, either. Jean headed towards the command tent. That was the place where the news would be coming in, if anybody bothered to tell them.

It was unlikely, damned unlikely the Yanks would ask them to do anything in the matter, or even share the information. Vadim couldn't decide to hand his rifle in, didn't feel hungry. Just got the water down for the moment, standing there, staring at the tent. Fuck it. If the call came, he'd be ready.

He was starting to make preparations. Calmed his mind. Dan. Dead. He'd have to see the charred remains to believe it, truly believe it. And unless the Yanks actively kept him from it, he'd get proof. Invited or not. He had nothing to lose, and he didn't give a fuck about the contract.

* * * * * * *

The radio link was up, and Dan knew he only had a few minutes. Crucial moments that would decide about life and death. With one eye watching Martinez work on delivering first aid to the still unconscious kid, the other noticing how Jackson had ripped open a first aid box and was trying to stem the blood of his injury.

"UH-1 calling HQ." Dan listened intently to the faint signal, focussing on his words, repeating them again and again until he finally got a reply. Seemed they'd been waiting for news, probably frantically, no surprise there. His momentary smirk was grim.

It took only seconds before Dan realised that explaining to the stupid Yank operator who he was - without using his name - seemed to be impossible. he was forced to hand the mic back to Jackson, hoping that voice recognition would do the trick.

"Shit!" Dan muttered, when the damned pilot was careless enough to identify himself, mentioning Campbell as KIA. He could only hope whoever had shot them down and was no doubt listening in on the transmission, hadn't been quick enough to catch up on the information. "Get on with it." Dan frowned, gesticulating to Martinez to get the pilot out of his seat and see to his injuries, before taking hold of the comm once more.

"The Brit here." Avoiding names, numbers, dates, times, places, truths, any fucking thing. "You understand? Shot down, as Jackson said. Enemy territory." No secrets, there. "No more information. Unsecured line."

"Give me the Russian cunt."

The reaction on the other end was nothing but sheer confusion. "Did you copy?" Dan's voice grew more tense. "I will not speak to anyone but the Russian madman. British camp. Do you copy?" Voice getting louder. "The Russian. He will understand." Dan was met with ignorance or unwillingness, he didn't know nor cared. "For fuck's sake, we have a few minutes on battery power and a bunch of arseholes out to finish us off," not a secret anywhere, "do what I ask you to."

Silence, they still wouldn't comply, until he shouted at last: "You stupid fucking piece of a fucking thick Yank plank! Do you want to get us all killed? Your whole precious crew? Get the fucking Russian merc on the comm! Now!"

That seemed to do the trick. At last. They were running out of precious time with every second.

* * * * * * *

Back in the British camp somebody hammered both hands against the tin shack. Vadim closed the bergan, stood, crossed the distance, opened the door abruptly.

"Russian? You? Merc?" asked the soldier, and Vadim noticed what was odd about him. He was young and wore British camo, like they actually did. Not a merc, this one. The guy stared up into his face, like confronted with some fairy tale monster then gulped air. "You. They want you over at the other camp. Urgent. Uhm, Sir."

Vadim waved the rank off and ran after the kid, bergan already packed and by his side. Jean was in the damned jeep, too. Seemed they had rounded up everything that fitted the 'Russian' and 'merc' bill. Vadim didn't meet the legionnaire's eyes, but saw that the other was worried. If he hadn't been so worried himself, he'd be fucking jealous.

The kid drove them over into the Brit camp proper - just a few hundred yards, then ran them towards the HQ tent. A bunch of officers and NCOs stood around a comm unit. Vadim was greeted with nods, and they indicated the radio as if he knew what to do with it. Dan? His pulse went from around normal fifty beats to twohundred. He leaned down, took the piece. "Copy. I'm listening."

"Thank fuck, at last." Dan's voice was audible despite the interference in the unstable signal.

Dan. Heart went from twohundred to nil. Then started beating again, steady and strong and fast, like at the beginning of sex. Alive.

Dan switched to Russian within the next heartbeat. "No names. No details." Knew there were possibly two men in the British camp who'd understand, but probably none amongst the Yanks. But he counted only on one. When the shit hit the fan there was only one left. Despite everything. Despite pain, hatred and loss. How bloody ironic. "The fucking arsewipes shot us down. RPG. One KIA." Jackson had already let that slip, but he'd not be making anymore mistakes.

Vadim strained to hear more, breaths, as if he could deduct more from any sensory input. Moans, pain. Dan didn't sound wounded much, but that might just be the adrenaline.

"I need you to transcribe our position."

"Copy." Vadim nodded towards a pad at the end of the table, and Jean pushed it over. Bastard spoke Russian, too. "I'm listening."

Dan stuck to Russian, eyes half-closed, concentrating on every word while delving into memories. All those memories that he had refused to remember, now their only chance to stay alive. "Need medevac, urgently. Status of crew, one, young, probably like India."

India. Dan in the white bed, the white room, yellow and thin. He put the pen to paper, wrote: 'Crew #1: young, fucked. Shrapnel/explosion(?)'

"One, older, functional but bound to deteriorate, suffered what you had in 1983, Autumn, when we couldn't fuck in Kabul, due to your state." Dan didn't give a shit right now who could understand what he was saying.

Kabul. He had been wounded in '83? Couldn't fuck. Ah. His head, the nausea, no way he could bear any strain, any shifting of his axis, anything with his neck. Whiplash and concussion. Vadim wrote: 'Crew #2, older, functional at present, due to concussion and/or whiplash, getting worse.'

He glanced up, saw Jean look at him with a funny expression. Yes, we used to fuck, and yes, I used to get injured, you bastard, thought Vadim, and forced the jealousy down. Tapped the pen against the pad, waiting for more.

"Pilot like 1985, when I almost ...," Dan was frantically trying to think of how to explain something that had been avoided, "before the R&R before …," stalled, barged on with the next breath, "before you fucked me in Kabul and I left the bergan, but pilot's is open." Dan didn't feel Martinez' eyes on him, nor heard Jackson's moans, as the loadmaster helped the pilot out of the cockpit.

Before you fucked me in Kabul. Damned, six years already. He remembered the taste of the dust, the golden light, the way Dan had surrendered long enough. He cleared his throat, unsure what the other meant. "Can you clarify?"

Dan frowned, rubbing his eyes with his arm, "I'd just avoided …," suddenly remembered, "like 1984 and a pile of Mujas. Not the head. Combine those two."

Vadim tried to make sense, '84 and almost in '85. Bullet. Wound, not the head, leg. Leg! That was it. "Copy." Then wrote: 'Pilot: Fucked bones, open wound, probably leg or near the knee.'

Spoke just one word into the mic. "You?"

"I'm OK. Like you before the Olympics, your dislike of horses, but only left." Dan didn't mention the badly bruised left side, ignored the agony. He'd live. If they just got out of there.

Vadim grinned at that one, if Dan said he was okay, he believed him. Made operational sense. Relief. Fucking relief. 'Dan: okay, left wrist broken. Functional.' He tore the sheet off and let one of the officers have it.

"Do you copy?" Dan was praying that Vadim would understand his codes. Years of history, lost in the Afghan mountains. Would memories be enough to save them?

"I copy. Copy, tiger." Vadim couldn't, wouldn't speak the name, reached for the fairy tale, hoped it would communicate what he couldn't. About being wild and free, and fuck it, about being equal, and about courage and commitment. All those things in that story. All the things that paled in the light of the Iraqi desert.

Dan's right hand clutched the mic tightly. Tiger. Fuck, tiger. A trip to Hungary, sadness and pain and emotional blackmail. A woman. A fuck. And a piece of paper. But in the end it had been worth it. For love. Where the fuck had it vanished to?

Jerking visibly, Dan had veered off no more than a heartbeat. Couldn't afford those thoughts. "Copy, Lion." For that was what you were.

Vadim smiled. He'd used worse call signs. Nobody knew, nobody guessed. Part of the culture, vehicles and weapons called evocative names, units, operators.

"Sec," Dan covered the mic, turned his head towards Martinez and Jackson. "Map. I need a map of this shithole." Fuck, how could he have forgotten before making the radio call. Martinez understood, the pilot pointed with his chin towards the cockpit while holding his thigh which looked like a bloodied mess despite the bandages, and the loadmaster went to get the map. Dan noticed the way he was avoiding moving his head. Shit, the guy would have to carry one of the injured men, Dan could only hope he'd stay focussed enough until they could get airlifted.

Vadim heard the orders in the background, Jean already placed a map near the pad, bastard was useful and helpful, and why? Don't think about it. Let's get Dan out of there. He nodded his thanks.

Dan moved back to talk into the mic while waiting for the map, having a fair idea of the area even without it. "Lion, you remember the cave, 1980, where I cut your back. We are in the same position from the camp as we were from Kabul."

"Copy." Vadim traced a line from the camp position to the North East. Saw dried out wadis there, oil fields, whatever. The wadis would give cover and protection, at least that much. If the chopper had gone down anywhere near there.

"Any idea how far, Tiger? They should be able to locate the wreck, what direction are you heading off in?"

"Aye." Dan took the offered map, did a quick estimation. He queried Jackson, who had read the controls on their way down. The line was silent for a moment while Dan made his calculations.

Meanwhile, Vadim heard officers say "medevac", and "RPGs", and "insurgents". One even said "Delta operators." Heard people talk about the homing beacon on the wreck, and the pilots apparently had some as well. They were already putting together a rescue.

Dan's voice was heard again. "Lion, the estimated distance from the camp and Kabul is the first compass direction towards the cave in 1984 where you …" this time he stalled for longer. Two heartbeats, then a clearing of his throat, "where you fist-fucked me." Shit, he had no fucking idea who had understood that one apart from Vadim and Jean.

Jean burst into laughter and turned away, and Vadim felt his ears go red. Yes, that was his biggest problem, his ears and embarrassment with Dan out there in the desert with a fucked wrist. He shot a glance at Jean's back that just barely failed to kill him. Wanker. He noted down 'North'.

"The second direction is from the first direction the same distance as from the cave in winter 1982 close to the Soviet garrison, where we jerked off in the snow." So much fucking history, Dan figured they could navigate whole armies across the world, using their intertwined past. "Aye, from the '82 cave to the one in 1986 where we first kissed and …" another heartbeat of stalling, this was all so bloody personal, "where I fucked you slow-tender for the first time." Dan surprised himself at the strange sensation of discomfort - that even in this life and death situation he didn't want others to know.

East. Very short distance. In the freezing cold, hunger, solitude, and burning need. And then the other place, Dan fucking him. Mind-blowing. Dan not pounding into his body, but taking him apart, slowly, with all the time in the world. So desperate on a different level, emotionally instead of physically. Vadim wrote distance and direction down on the map, circled a likely area. He wasn't able to speak.

Dan paused a moment, saw Martinez wipe his brow beneath the helmet before bending down slowly to work on a makeshift splinter bandage for Jackson's leg. Dan saw Chris across his vision still passed out with morphine and pain. "Got an idea, lion, you remember the mosaic in the tea house in Kabul?"

"I do." I remember so much fucking more. Vadim glanced at the officers, and Jean turned around again, with a huge grin on his face that made him look like a madman. I want you back, Dan. I want you back for the memories. I want you back because every yard of distance right now hurts like fuck. "I remember everything."

"Good." Dan looked down, trying to ignore the other survivors, to picture the teahouse. "The place where you usually sat, with the mosaics behind you. Blue and green and red and yellow. We are heading towards the blue and the green, one panel ten miles. If anything goes wrong, the red ones after that." On the map, that should take them towards the West and towards the wadi. Only a couple of miles before they were able to hide. Only. Two miles. Only. With one man dying and another shot to shit.

Vadim concentrated on the image in his mind. Two sets of mosaic panels, one blue and green, towards the right, red and yellow, the second set after the first, ending in a wall that was to the right of the green leafed entrance. Back in that tea house, when life had been simple. Just about seduction, fucking and getting fucked, danger, unknown territory, in the middle of enemy terrain. Vadim drew an arrow across the map and wrote down: '2 miles (British)'.

"Lion, I expect action ASAP, like you did, from a pile of Muja corpses, but expect goatfuckers and crows."

Vadim remained silent. Medevac, very urgent, helplessness, more towelheads, more grenades. Dan smelling of sour blood in the heat. Dan staring wild-eyed at him. The fear that that leg wound was infected, and Dan would rot away under his hands. The fear. The madness. The fucked-up love. The only way to drag Dan back to the surface.

"The Muezzin will be disabled after this transmission. Do you copy?" Dan wiped sweat off his face with the back of his right hand.

Muezzin. The guy who called Muslims to prayer. Vadim frowned. Calling Muslims. Homing device. Too dangerous; of course. They might have a way to hone in on them. He wrote: 'Will disable beacon'. "Copy, Tiger."

Vadim heard something with one ear, plans, the Yanks were starting to put together a medevac. He wanted to be in there, wanted nothing more than be there and help, but he understood the copter might not have enough space for a fucked crew and doctors and guys to secure the parameter. "Get your ass to the rendezvous point, Tiger." Don't die on me. Good luck. I want you. I love you.

"Will do, Lion." Dan felt the overwhelming urge to continue talking. Just not stopping this transmission To stay and talk, keep the line open, hold onto the voice. The memories, the lost life, this something-anything that was still burning brightly inside him. Despite the hatred, the pain, and the fucking shit the Russian cunt had pulled on his friends.

The love.

"Got to take the cubs across the mosaic." Dan paused, looking from the pale bumfuck with his closed eyes, a the chest bandaged up like a mummy, and a piece of steel protruding out, over to Martinez who wasn't quite steady on his feet, and finally towards the pilot, with his face distorted in pain, holding his leg while valiantly struggling to stand. "Further communication impossible. No personal radios."

Vadim felt his hand clench around the pen, chest tight. Meant the radio was in the copter. The piece of scrap metal.

"If anything goes wrong ..." Dan's Russian was slipping, the accent getting thicker. "Time's running out." He could survive on his own, probably, but none of the others would make it. Possibly Martinez, but the kid and the pilot were doomed without him.

"1989, the hotel, our last night, and the KGB set onto me." Dan saw Jackson talk to the loadmaster and pointing at the co-pilot's corpse. "Lion, I might not be that lucky this time." He had no idea if Vadim even understood. Realisation hit him square in the chest that they'd never talked about what had happened. There had only been one fairy tale and a price for its delivery. Dan swore under his breath.

If I die. What if I die. Vadim closed his eyes, wanted to keep that voice, wanted to keep Dan breathing by willpower alone. "Luck's got nothing to do with it", he said, smiling. Hoped to transfer what he could. Optimism. Soothing. Reassurance.

Back in the chopper, Dan nodded. "The tiger might need the lion to get him out." Will you? Would you? Risk your life for mine? For you. For me. For what we've once been and not the shit thereafter. "Do you copy?"

Vadim looked at the officers, thought, whatever they are planning, whatever they are doing, I'll get him out. "Lion has his claws already sharpened and is ready to go." Truth. He was burning, itching to go. "He doesn't take a no for an answer. No disqualification for cheating this time." Nothing, nobody, will stop me from getting the price, the medal.

"Then let's make the Olympics." Dan looked at the mic in his hand, smiled briefly, nodded to the ghost voice. "Over and out."

He put the radio down, took a deep breath and concentrated on ignoring the pain from his wrist and the bruises. "Right." Dan stood up from his crouch and glanced around. "Time to get going." Awkwardly folding the map one-handed. "Gary, will you be able to carry Ken?" He'd be buggered if he used their last names to their faces. Martinez nodded. Good man, Dan could see he was struggling with the concussion and sweating profusely, but he'd be fighting to the last breath.

Dan bared his teeth in a feral grin. "Disable the beacon so that the arsewipes have a harder time finding the chopper." Jackson would know how to, and Martinez could do the swift task. Brute force usually worked wonders. "Gary, take Campbell's dog tag." One for the dead, another one for the living. Proof of the life that was lost on duty. "I'll check the supplies and will carry Chris. They are sending a Medevac, but we have to get away from the chopper ASAP or we'll be sitting ducks."

Dan knelt down with a groan, rifling through his bergan and bag. Difficult with one hand, but he managed to throw out what wasn't necessary, just left wallet, ID and his trusty knife. He filled the bergan back up with the two litre water bottle, the extra bag of sandwiches from his cook mate, a double pack of biscuits and chocolate in a tin, and every bit of useful medical supplies he could find. That, and enough fags to last him a week. Not that they'd survive that long in the desert while on the run. As an afterthought, he cushioned the contents with his parka, believing in being always prepared.

"Got your supplies?" Dan heard Martinez shouting from the top of the crashed wreck, where he had disabled the beacon. "Yeah, got water." Jackson's voice came from outside, where he sat, gathering his strength and checking his pistol.

"I'll take Campbell's pistol." Dan called to the others, then slung the bergan onto his back. He groaned at the movement, but ignored the pain and secured the straps instead. It was light now, contained water, food, drugs, bandages and a blanket from the supply boxes, that he'd stuffed on top as an afterthought. The backpack would make good cushioning for the kid's injured body. Searching the co-pilot's corpse, Dan took a moment to look at the dead man's face. "Rest well." Murmured, he'd seen many dead and dying, enough of them by his own hand. Life and death, it had rarely been personal. This, now, was somehow different, and perhaps he could make good what he'd once failed in. Years ago, in another country and another life. Another young man, another kid soldier. This time it was a Yank, not a German.

"Martinez, got the tag?" Dan shouted, received no answer. Pocketed the pistol and saw the two pieces of metal around Campbell's neck. Hadn't been taken, then, best he'd do it. Dan took one of the tags, let the other nestle back beneath the uniform before patting the dead man's shoulder. "See you in hell, mate. They say it's a fun place."

Dan turned, looked towards the kid who was stirring, still drugged. "I'll take Chris' rifle. Gary, you geared up?" Martinez called out to him that he was alright and ready to get going. Dan knew it would be hard for the concussed soldier, just as it would be fucking hard for him to carry the weight of another man, but tough shit, they'd have to do it.

"Alright, let's get going." Dan bent down inside the wreck, moved his arms under and around the kid while trying not to aggravate the wrist, and lifted the body with a grunt. Fuck, that hurt, and every year of his forty-two was protesting in agony, but he'd be buggered if that fucked-up body of his wasn't going to comply. He managed to get the kid across his back in a fireman's lift and on top the cushioned bergan, making sure he didn't drive the rotor blade any deeper. Shifting carefully, he rested the other's weight on the injured and useless lung. Dan staggered under the weight but found his balance, slinging the rifle across his shoulder. Stumbling when he made his way out of the wreck, he saw that Martinez had done the same with the injured pilot and his own rifle. Dan bared his teeth, grinning fiercely at the twenty-something guy. "Let's see who's faster, aye? You or I, son." Keeping the spirits up as they started trudging towards the wadi.

* * * * * * *

Vadim put the mic down.

"The Americans are already putting together the medevac", said one of the officers. "They'll be home in a few hours."

Vadim looked at Jean, who met his gaze. Stupid laughter, yes, no, whatever, they both wanted to get Dan out of there. "I request to join the medevac team." Because, if you say no, I'll steal a jeep and go off on my own. "They need supplies, and most of the team are fucked one way or the other. I've found downed pilots before. I can operate in the territory."

The officers talked to the Americans about it, but, yes, they sent their own medevac, and didn't plan to take a merc onboard, thankyouverymuch. Vadim was sent out of the tent, where they kept talking, the regular British army guys and the CO in charge of the mercs.

Vadim growled with frustration, worked on stupid plans, most of them had to do with doing things at gunpoint. Listening to the muttering and planning inside, they just didn't really get stuff done, too many if's and when's. He looked at Jean as the legionnaire lit a cigarette. He hadn't been aware Jean smoked.

"Quite a bit of history, you two, eh?"

Vadim grunted a yes.

"You still love that man", said Jean. "Rescuing him could be a way to get him back."

"You're one smart mother", said Vadim, anger rising in his throat. He wanted to go out and fight off anybody even thinking of firing a shot at Dan.

"I'll have a talk with the CO. He's a little sweet on me. I'll present him the facts. A two-man-team, loaded with supplies, two guys that have experience, and of course it's nothing personal for you. You just happen to have done this kind of thing before."

"You mocking?"

"Not at. All." Jean took another deep pull. "I'd be teamleader. Nothing personal for me, either."

Vadim's jaw tightened.

"I'll go have a chat. You head into my room and pack my kit." Jean seemed to wait for Vadim moving, but Vadim only stared at him. "Move it. We talk later."

Vadim muttered a curse, then headed off to pack Jean's kit, drink more water, have a quick bite, rearing, eager, absolutely stircrazy to move.

* * * * * * *

Out in the desert, two men were struggling with every step. Heavy loads across their backs, one of them wearing US camo and armoured vest, the helmet giving some shelter against the sun, as he staggered along with slight imbalances. The other man had a rag wrapped around his head, walking out of balance, favouring the right side. The heat was merciless, easily a killer to the inexperienced, but they had almost reached the relative shelter of the dried out river bed. It had taken them far too long for those two miles, but each of them was carrying a wounded comrade and they were injured themselves. Even to Dan, the Yank kid was a comrade in arms. They'd got into this shit together, and he'd get them out of there. Brits. Yanks. Forces. Mercs. Whatever.

Dan stopped, planted his feet apart, bracing himself to blink into the sky through his shades. The sound of a chopper, no mistaking, and he started to grin as Jackson let out a "Hooray!" from Martinez' back.

"Should all be a bad dream in a few minutes." The pilot grinned despite the pain, patting his loadmaster's flank.

"Damn right." Martinez answered, glancing at the kid. "Johnson's pretty bad, hasn't properly woken yet, and I feel like shit myself. Gonna upchuck in a mo, no offence, Jackson."

Dan chuckled silently, then turned and walked on. Good, as long as those guys were bantering, their spirits were up. He'd never understood the Yanks, couldn't get into the American military spirit of throwing shitloads of ammo and weapons at the enemy - and coalition alike all too often - with a 'bigger is better' attitude. Yet while he looked at them patronisingly, like most of the British Forces, he figured that in return they regarded the Brits as a Force held together with shoestring and spit. Neither was all too wrong, Dan mused while getting his body back into gear, and the thought made him grin despite the situation, and those chaps, here, seemed alright. "Hey, keep going," he called to Martinez, we've almost reached the wadi. We can rest there until they find us."

He could see from the corner of his eyes that the loadmaster started to trudge on, and only a few minutes later they had reached the relative shelter of the wadi, climbing down into the river bed. The sound of the chopper was getting closer and Dan was surprised at the sense of relief, seemed he'd turned into a wuss in his old age. "Let's wait for them" He bent down, gritting his teeth, to carefully let the kid onto the ground, who was stirring and moaning, eyes half-open, lying on one side.

Martinez did the same with Jackson, watching the chopper, a dark speck on the horizon that kept coming closer. Gary was waving, eager to let the rescue crew know their position, and Dan let him. Seemed whoever the fuck had shot them down was now well out of the game. Probably. Or Possibly. Or perhaps he was simply too much of a cynic after all those years behind the lines, to ever trust peace and quiet.

"Fuck, I can't wait." Martinez took his bottle of water, held some out to Jackson who shook his head, and gulped down a couple of swallows. Dan didn't answer, searched one-handed for the binoculars on his PLCE while his wrist was throbbing, and watched the chopper. Good, they were coming straight towards them. Vadim had understood his cryptic clues, not that he'd ever thought anything else. Dan was turning his head towards the kid, meaning to feed him water when he suddenly saw a smoke trail. "Fuck!" He shouted, caught the others' attention, all of them staring at the disaster before their eyes.

Another RPG, grenade flying right towards the medevac, and then the worst of it all, the impact. "Shit, fuck them. Bastards! Fucking shit!" Martinez was going wild, saw the tail boom of the chopper hit, but not as badly as their own one. The Blackhawk was veering from left to right, almost losing balance, a stream of thick black smoke coming from its rear. Then it caught itself, straightening up, to go on in a straight line for a second, before turning round.

Just like that. Medevac hit. Chopper turning back to camp. Gone.

"Fuck." Dan muttered, putting the binoculars down. "We're on our own now." He turned his head to look at the others. "And now they know where we are." The medevac had shown the bastards the way.

* * * * * * *

Back in the British camp, Jean returned eventually, with a Landrover, and beckoned Vadim closer. "They've located the wreck and are pretty sure they located the crew, but the area is swarming with insurgents, and they don't want to lose another copter. That one got damaged in the process, made it back on half a leg. Apparently, the Yanks are now sitting on their hands waiting for Delta."

"Delta? They have Delta in that camp?"

"No. They are actually in a different camp and will get flown in. They expect them here and ready in several hours."

"Fuck that! I'm moving out."

"Alternatively, I got clearance for you and me and this Landrover and try and locate them on the ground. Let's pick up the rest of the kit from the QM."

Delta. Tomorrow. Fuck that. Vadim was worried, restless, itching, nervous, worse than in the days in Afghanistan. Seemed he couldn't take not knowing anymore, but the worst was he wasn't sure how Dan would react when he saw him. He got into the car, next to Jean.

"It's none of my business, really", said Jean, lighting another cigarette. "But I guess it's better to talk about this now than later or never." He ran his tongue over his molars, opened his lips there, which looked thoughtful.

"Yes, I want him back."

Jean shot him an ironic glance. "You know, seeing you've tried everything else and now try to do the heroic method, not sure you realized one thing."

"Like?"

"He likes being flirted with."

Dan, who rammed him against a wall in Kabul, who hit him in the face, who sometimes mocked him when he was too tired to pretend strength. Flirting. Their flirting had been to get undressed, at least most of the time. Apart from very few, very private, relaxed moments. "He does?" And why, how would the deserter know that? Had they … flirted? Flirted for a blowjob? For a handjob. Hello, handsome stranger. Vadim shook his head.

Jean grinned. "He does. He is great to flirt with."

Vadim's hand tightened. He didn't want to know. Didn't want to see that grin. That grin that said Jean knew more about Dan than he did. Something fucked-up and romantic. He was competition. "Is he."

Jean gave a short laugh. "Try wooing, Vadya. You know. Being nice. Smiling. Compliments. An old friend once said: "You want to fuck, you need to be friendly." Try friendly. It's a change, don't you think?"

"You're right. It's none of your business."

"I am trying to help, you know", huffed Jean.

"And why?"

"Because you were still there, sometimes. When we talked, you were there, in his head. You could see that in his eyes."

"So he fucked around with you because he misses me", said Vadim, and it sounded poisonous even in his own ears. "That what you're trying to say?"

Jean hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. "Enough about me to make him remember you, for sure."

"Yeah, and he was calling my name when he came." Ouch. Fucking ouch. Vadim closed his eyes, bared his teeth. "Fuck you. You needed to take revenge like that, huh?"

Jean cursed. "Fuck you, Krasnorada. No, he didn't call for you. All I did was make him feel good, for a fucking change. You were there in that room, like a fucking ghost. If I had wanted to take revenge, I'd have jumped you at night, in your bunk, with a few of the guys and beaten the shit out of you. Or shot you out there, on patrol, and claimed I wasn't aware there was a bullet in the chamber. That shit has happened before. Very friendly fire. Don't think many of us would have cried at your grave. But I fucking didn't."

It drives me insane, you and him. Drives me insane. "Yeah, whatever."

"You dickhead." Jean cursed again. "Fuck, it's none of your business, stuff just happened, I don't pull this shit to get even with you."

"You just discovered you like cock."

Jean groaned. "Now, leave me out of this."

"Seems you got yourself into it." Vadim shifted his body to face Jean. "We'll get him out, that has priority. I'll fight with you over him when we're back at camp."

Jean laughed dryly. "Being nice means allowing people their own choices."

"You're not pulling out, then?"

"Dan and I are friends. Old-fashioned friends. Whatever else, but that, definitely. Won't leave him to rot just because you're snarling at me. No fucking way, sir. Deal with it. And that's the last word on the matter. You better do some serious thinking about how you fucking treat him, Vadim, because I can sure as hell see your current method isn't up to the task."

* * * * * * *

In the desert, Dan was sitting down to feed the moaning kid some water, sensing the desperation around him. "They're getting us out on the ground." His voice was firm, convincing the others. Wouldn't do to let doubts creep to the surface. "Your lot, the Delta guys, they'll be here soon, I bet, but in the meantime, what do you think I was talking about on the comm? Someone will get us out, the Brits have mercs with more experience then all of the SAS, Delta and Rangers, Marines and Navy Seals put together." He flashed a grin while fumbling for his water bottle. Best ration it, they didn't know how long it would take. They were too many miles on foot away from the Saudi Arabian or Kuwaiti borders and their only chance was to head further to the West. 'The red mosaics', to the left, the West, towards the border. Another country, another hope for safety. Just away from those fuckwits who hadn't realised the Gulf War was over.

"We can't make it." Jackson was lying with his back against the slope of the river bed, holding his leg. "Johnson needs medical care."

Dan shrugged. "Sure he does, so do you. So does Gary and so do I, but I'd be fucked if I let myself worry about that. We have to get going, and we will." Looking pointedly at Martinez. The guy was no older than mid twenties, and no matter how much he was affected by concussion and the painful neck wound, he was tall, strong, and young. One of the buff ones, very much like Matt. He'd be able to get going for a while longer.

"Gary, you OK for a little jog?"

Martinez nodded carefully. Wiping the sweat off his face, encrusted with blood, dirt and sand. "Hoo-rah!" He answered and flashed a brave grin. Weary, worried, but Dan knew the guy would do anything he could.

"Alright, then, we're going West, along the wadi. As shitty as it is to be a sitting duck in this river bed, at least it gives some shelter, if need be. Best keep on the move and hole in if we have to, waiting for sundown." Dan glanced at Johnson, proceeding to get some water down the kid's neck, who was moaning, half-conscious. "We should get going straight away, improves our chances we'll hit the border before they hit us." He grinned without humour, "if they are not completely stupid they'll realise we are heading West."

A combined "Hoo-rah" was his answer and he grinned, drinking a couple of mouthfuls of water. "Right, since that's sorted, let's see who's tougher. Mad Dog Brit or Gary Yank." Martinez laughed, despite the situation, and they both got ready to pick up their loads once more. Two men, carrying two others. Brothers in spirit if not in arms.

They started at a steady pace, slow, laden down with the heavy weights and the relentless heat of the desert, seeking shelter in meagre shadows wherever they could. They made progress, albeit agonisingly slow. Walking on, step after step and boot in front of boot, for what seemed to go on forever, but when Dan glanced up at the sun, following its trek through the sky, he realised it had been no more than an hour or slightly more.

"You OK?" Dan glanced at Martinez whose step had just faltered, stumbling out of his trance-like slog. Gary's face was swimming with sweat. The guy was loosing too much liquid and salt and Dan frowned beneath the rag around his head and face.

"I'm OK, Sir."

Dan grinned, the dust-filled lines around his eyes crinkling as he did. "Forget about the 'Sir' bit, mate. I'm just an old Warhound, stubborn enough to get us out of this shithole." He managed to elicit a miniature smile from the young guy. "How's your neck?"

"Hurts like fuck." Martinez grimaced wryly and Dan nodded, both of them still plodding on.

"It would, seems you got whiplash and concussion, but then you know that. I bet you're nauseous. And kinda dizzy."

"Yeah ..." Martinez tried not to move his head and struggled to walk in a straight line. "You could say that, but I'm OK."

"Sure you are." Dan spotted a pile of stones close to a bend in the river bed and stopped. "You're a damn fine soldier, Gary Martinez, and I wouldn't know how the fuck to get out of here without you."

That got a grin out of the loadmaster when he came slowly to a halt, swaying a moment but holding firmly onto Jackson who had been very quiet the last hour. "Just hope they get us out soon. You think they'll send Delta?"

"Fuck, yes, sure they will, but I know for a fact that there are other specialists already on their way." No, he didn't know, but he'd bet all those years of danger, sex, and fucked-up love and lust, that the Russian was already on his way. "Someone will get us out and we're doing all we can to meet them closer to the border."

Dan turned his head to glance at Martinez. "Give me a hand, will you? Steady Chris on my back. Got to bend down. I'll leave a sign for the ground team that only they will understand." Only one, in fact. One man. No matter how much shit Vadim had pulled, and how utterly fucked up the Russian was, he'd heard the man he'd known in the voice. The old determination and the stubbornness to do something - anything - instead of sitting on his arse. Like India, achieving the impossible.

Bending down slowly, silently cursing the swollen wrist and his buggered knees that were trying to buckle, Dan took hold of three flat, large stones and a couple of smaller ones while Martinez was steadying Johnson. One-handed placing the three in a haphazard pile, with the two on top of it, forming a random pointer to the direction they were taking.

"Done. They'll understand. Let's have some water and get going." Each of them had a mouthful, carefully rationing the precious liquid. Dan gave some to Jackson and Martinez pouring water into Johnson. Then it was time again to keep moving. Side by side, the weight of the two bodies pulling them down in the murderous heat. One more hour, before they stopped once more and Dan formed another covert pointer, trudging further on. Every so often stopping for Dan to build a pile of stones.

* * * * * * *

"We're kicking up lots of dirt", muttered Jean, glancing behind. "Let's hope it's prayer-time, or something."

Vadim checked the watch. "No such luck. Start heading towards two o'clock from here, we're trying to get to that big wadi over there." He stared out over the barren landscape. Empty country, the kind where every piece of kit was necessary for survival, the kind where a broken bone could spell doom. He touched his wrist, rubbed it. Dan's was broken and probably hurting like fuck.

"You want to do the driving on the way back?"

"Can do. I got trained for that. Could also man the gun. Should be quite cosy back there."

Jean grinned. "I know what you got trained to do. Spetsnaz can do just about anything that makes an enemy miserable."

The country was still completely empty, but there were a few scraggly dusty barren trees standing around. Near what had to be the wadi. The terrain turned rougher, too, the ride got bumpy, nevermind the sweat that was running from their bodies. Vadim was wet under the armoured vest.

"Make no mistake", said Vadim in a monotonous voice. "We're not brothers or comrades after this. All we do is get him out."

Jean's face was dark. "Copy."

Vadim nodded. "Good. You will not interfere."

Jean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever. Soft-spoken Casanova." He gave a short laugh. "Hard to imagine, but you must have been fun once. Your thing can't have been all kicking and screaming. I disbelieve."

* * * * * * *

It was getting towards late afternoon and the sun was starting to lose its fierceness, when Jackson suddenly hit his hand against Martinez' leg, trying to alert him. "Over there. Dust!"

Dan stopped, turned slowly to keep his balance, peered at the horizon. He could see the dust cloud, even with bare eyes. "Fuck." He looked around, swiftly assessing the situation. "We got to hole in. They're coming." It could be friend, but he expected foe.

Martinez spotted something. "Over there?" Pointing at a sharper bend and what seemed like darker shadows.

"Well spotted. Come on Gary, let's leg it." Dan fell into a trot, faster than ever before. He didn't manage to run, the body on his back too heavy, and he was just too bloody knackered, overtaken by Martinez who picked up speed. Fuck those twenty-something buff kids, Dan thought, grit his teeth and forced his body into the fastest speed he could manage while Johnson was crying out in pain, jostled with every step. "Sorry mate," Dan shouted backwards, breathless, "Either this, or getting caught." His lungs were already burning and his knees? He'd gladly chop them off right now, together with the whole left side and that goddamned wrist. Perhaps he should have retired years ago. Dan just about made it to the recess in the raised river bed, when the dust cloud was getting closer. Fuck, they had a minute or to.

"Get in! Get the fuck covered!" He went down on his knees, nearly screaming as he did, but he couldn't just slam the kid onto the ground, bad enough to hear the cries of pain. Managed to put Johnson down without hitting the rotor in his chest, and pushed the body into the recess that formed a miniature cave. Johnson was scrambling with his hands, tried to help, same with Jackson, who had enough strength left to pull himself deeper inside, despite the badly broken leg.

Dan threw the rifle down and the bergan off his back, shouted orders at Martinez. "Backpack, get the blanket." Shovelling sand towards the entrance with his bare hand, bo