Invisible Enemy in Kazakhstan. Peter Cave

fucking boring that all the men couldn’t wait to get back to barracks.’

      ‘Yeah, only they didn’t work too well,’ Jimmy put in. ‘That’s probably why you were born, Thinker. We’ve often wondered.’

      A loud chorus of cathartic laughter rippled around the briefing room. Major Hailsham let it die away naturally before addressing the men.

      ‘On a more serious note, gentlemen, you will all, of course, have to report for a three-day refresher course in anti-chemical warfare protection. After that, we’ll all be taking a nice week’s holiday in the country.’

      ‘A bit of mountain scenery, perhaps?’ Jimmy asked, sensing what was coming.

      Hailsham smiled. ‘Good guess, Trooper. Yes, we’ll all be tripping off to the Brecon Beacons for some climbing practice. Two or three runs up Pen-y-Fan with a bergen full of bricks on our backs should soon have us all leaping about like a bunch of mountain goats.’

      This news was greeted by a loud chorus of groans, none of them louder than those from the younger troopers like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, for whom the harsh basic training in the Welsh mountains was still a comparatively recent ordeal. Yet they all realized its importance and value. Even the biting gale-force winds and icy blizzards of a Welsh winter would seem benign compared with the conditions they could expect on the mission.

      ‘So, your suggestions, gentlemen,’ Hailsham said, throwing the briefing open. ‘And if anyone says, “Let’s go to Majorca instead”, I’ll personally kick his arse round the Clock Tower.’

      ‘What’s the latest intelligence on guerrilla activity in the region, boss?’ Andrew asked.

      ‘Good question,’ Davies commented, taking over. He consulted the notes which Major Grieves had handed him the previous evening. ‘Basically, our latest information is that things are hotting up fast. The Uzbek Popular Front, the Birlik, appears to be gaining a lot of ground recently, and the principal Muslim brotherhoods are beginning to splinter into different Sunni and Shiite factions. Without putting too fine a point on it, Kazakhstan is rapidly shaping up as another Yugoslavia. What’s more important from our point of view is that any one of these guerrilla groups is likely to regard us as a strictly hostile presence. And you can forget any notions of a bunch of simple peasant farmers armed with pitchforks and the odd shotgun. Many of these groups are exceedingly well armed with Kalashnikovs, mortars and grenade-launchers. And what they might lack in training is compensated for by the fact that this is their home patch. As a result, they know how to use the terrain to their advantage. They know instinctively where to hide, where to launch an ambush and how to disappear after they’ve hit. It’s a formidable technique, gentlemen, and one which the Russians found out to their cost in Afghanistan.’

      ‘And what’s our brief if we get bumped by one of these outfits?’ Cyclops asked. ‘Shoot ’em in the legs and let ’em limp away?’

      Davies looked at them all gravely. ‘I don’t need to remind you that this is not our war,’ he said simply. ‘Obviously you will be expected to avoid direct confrontation if at all possible. If not, your lives, and the integrity of this mission, become your number one priorities. You’ll have to make up your own minds if and when the occasion arises.’ He paused, looking around the room. ‘Now, are there any more questions?’

      There was a long pause, broken by a few odd mutterings but nothing spoken publicly. Hailsham looked round one more time before finally nodding. ‘Then go out and have a good time tonight, lads. As of tomorrow you’ll all be confined to barracks until this mission is completed. We expect to go in two weeks.’

      Davies walked over to Piggy as Hailsham followed his men out of the briefing room. ‘Do you think they have any real idea what could be in store for them?’ he asked.

      Piggy shrugged. ‘I doubt it,’ he said, honestly.

       7

      High in the Sailyukem Mountains, in the southwestern fringes of the Western Sayan range, the building seemed to be nothing more than a low, flat expanse of grey concrete which seemed to melt into the rocky hills surrounding it. Snow-covered and desolate, it was merely a vaguely geometric shape which looked oddly out of keeping with the peaks and contours of the enclosing terrain. Other than the dozen or so frozen human bodies which had not yet been completely covered by the swirling snow, or the burnt-out shell of the Russian MIL Mi-6 ‘Hook’ helicopter 100 yards away, there was nothing to suggest the Phoenix Project was anything but abandoned.