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  Daddy Jesus laughed again, and Smith shook his head.

  “Two hundred and fifty? Come off it, Cobra. That was a skinny old gelding—a hundred and twenty, max.”

  Cobra shook his head excitedly. “Not so, Captain! The prices have doubled in the past month! Our own operations were driving them up already because we’ve taken so many healthy donkeys off the market. And then some American lady from People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals showed up in the Easy a few weeks ago and started buying up all the donkeys she could find. She says she’s going to save them from the terrorists, though what she plans to do with them nobody knows. There’s no way she can get them out of here.”

  Smith pulled a face. “Yes, I heard about the PETA lady. I didn’t want to let her into the Easy, but the army press office insisted. They said she’d be PR gold—those poor innocent donkeys, murdered by terrorists . . . . It’s the best we can manage now that you guys aren’t using kids anymore.”

  Cobra leaned his back against the wall. “Those days are over. Morale is gone to hell. Nobody wants to strap a bomb vest on anymore if they’re just going to be killed before they even reach the wall. Maybe if you could let one of our bombers through every once in a while, things would pick up again—a taste of success would do wonders for recruitment.”

  “No can do, Cobra, my old friend. It’s more than my job’s worth.”

  The group lapsed into a commiserating silence for a few moments, and then the captain clapped his hands and said brightly: “So. Anything else I need to know?”

  Cobra rolled his eyes. “No. Same old scene. If any of the other groups comes up with anything new, I’ll be sure and let you know about it. But seriously, Captain, what about some payment? My men are swapping their bullets for food. They’re losing all respect for me.”

  “Fear not,” said Smith, and ushered Cobra toward the front of the building. “The answer to your problems is in the APC.”

  Cobra balked at the front door, but Daddy Jesus planted a hand in the small of his back and propelled him out into the sunlight. The little man stumbled from the building, wincing, eyes shut and shoulders raised, as if expecting a blow to fall. Captain Smith stepped up to the rear of the APC and gestured within.

  “You see it?” he asked. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

  Cobra peered into the innards of the vehicle, where a large square object gleamed white in the gloom.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “That, my friend, is a Maelstrom Circe. It’s state of the art. It practically talks to you.”

  “It’s a washing machine.”

  “And a very good one.”

  “What’s it got to do with me?”

  “It’s worth two thousand euros,” said the captain, looking at it fondly. “Brand new, straight out of the box.”

  Realization came slowly to Cobra, followed closely by dismay. “Please tell me you’re joking,” he pleaded, slumping back against the building.

  The captain and Daddy Jesus assumed sorrowful expressions. “The thing is, Cobra,” Smith wheedled, “we’re having difficulty freeing up funds this month.”

  “You mean you’re keeping my money for yourselves.”

  Daddy Jesus stepped toward Cobra and raised a hand to strike him, but Smith shook his head. Cobra was so deep in his misery that he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Now, now, Cobra, it’s not like that,” said Smith, putting an arm around his shoulders. “It’s just that times are changing. I’ve got a new CO back at the base, and not to put too fine a point on it, he’s a bit of a prick. I was actually his boss for a while, a long time ago, until he ratted me out over a little logistical misunderstanding, and now he’s terrified that I’ll do the same to him. So he’s querying all my accounts, including payments to my own private agents.”

  Cobra’s head snapped back, his eyes widening. “Private agents? Oh, that’s just great! So now you’re telling me that even your bosses don’t know about our relationship? I’m beginning to feel very lonely here.”

  “Now, now,” Smith said soothingly. “I’m planning to tell Colonel White that you’re my number one star agent, but only when the time is right. He’s an air force man, you see. They don’t really do subtlety in the air force; they just do large amounts of explosive, dropped from a very great height. And your relationship with me is very subtle, Cobra. Luckily, we’ve found another way to pay you until we get our new commander housebroken—you can easily sell this beauty for a grand, eh? Am I right?”

  Cobra was on the point of crying. He turned his face away from the two soldiers so they could not see his eyes. “How the hell am I going to sell a washing machine inside the Embargoed Zone?” he demanded, his voice muffled by his collar. “Did you even think about that? You only let us have electricity for a few hours every other week, and hardly anyone has any money.”

  The captain patted him on the back. “Oh, don’t be like that, Cobra. You’ll think of something. You always do.”

  Cobra turned his face. His mouth was still buried in his collar, and he stared at Smith from one red eye.

  “So what about next month, then? Are you going to pay me my cash then? And what about that new car battery you’ve been promising me? My old one is worn out—I can’t even charge my cell phone fully anymore.”

  The captain patted his back again. “I’ll see what we can do.”

  A walkie-talkie crackled, and Daddy Jesus put his hand up to his earpiece and listened.

  “Hold on,” he said, and turned to the captain. “It’s the drone room. They say that one of our escort tanks—I think it’s the one that was clearly palmed off on us as a joke, the one with all those fucking clowns in it—reckons it’s spotted something suspicious. They want to know what to do about it.”

  Smith shrugged. “Whatever they like. I don’t care.”

  Daddy Jesus spoke into his throat mike. The captain turned back to Cobra, beaming again. “Come on,” he said, squeezing Cobra’s elbow. “Let’s get this lovely piece of gear inside for you, eh? I’ll give you a hand.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Joseph rolled to a stop facedown in a pile of rotting cabbage stalks. The chug of a diesel engine somewhere behind him was punctuated by a series of short, high-pitched squeals: the sound, he realized, of his own whimpering. Beyond these was another layer of sound, the thud of explosions and rattle of gunfire. Then the engine died. Joseph held his breath and waited.

  “Hey, Joseph, are you okay?” It was Tony’s voice. Joseph watched a woodlouse brush past his nose. The sounds of battle resumed their proper station a mile away in Mercyville, on the other side of the hill. Tony was staring at him from the front seat of the Land Rover, which was rammed nose-first in a heap of rubbish. Tendrils of smoke curled from the hood and the windshield.

  “Shit!” Joseph screamed, jumping to his feet. His eyes misted with rage. A couple of young heads peeped over a bank of sand and gravel, then vanished again when they saw him lurch toward them. A dark-haired girl, a little older than the boys, stood off to one side, wide-eyed, her hands clapped to her mouth. Her loose raincoat flapped in the wind.

  “You little bastards!” screamed Joseph. “I’m going to throttle you!”

  The girl lowered her hands from her mouth. “Hello, Uncle Joe,” she said. And then he recognized her.

  “Flora . . . ” A tactful howitzer shell filled the awkward pause.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Joseph nodded. “Yeah, sure, fine. I thought we were being attacked.” Tony was inspecting the jeep for damage. There was a scorch mark on the paint and a little white star on the bulletproof windshield.

  “It was just some boys playing a stupid game,” Flora told her uncle. “They really didn’t mean to hit the jeep.”

  “Right.” He felt himself deflating. “How’s your dad?”

  “He’s okay. The same.”

  “Right.” Joseph took her hand and shook it formally. “I’ve been meaning to come around, but you know
how it is. It’s been very busy lately.”

  “Sure,” she said. He had never met another girl who smiled so seldom.

  “And how’s Gabriel?” he tried again.

  “He’s good too. He was here a minute ago.”

  “Really . . . What? You mean he did this?”

  And then she almost did smile. “No. His friend did. But it was completely by accident.”

  Reluctantly, Joseph surrendered the last glow of his rage. If Flora said it was an accident, then an accident it was. Tony joined them with the camera Joseph had left behind when he abandoned the jeep. Tony smiled when he saw Flora. “Hey, where’ve you been? You haven’t been to see us in ages.”

  She shook his hand. “I’ve been busy. Looking after Dad and Gabriel.”

  Joseph inspected the jeep. “So how do you think the kids did this?”

  “It’s a chemical reaction,” said Flora. “Some kind of household cleaning fluid, I think, mixed with flakes of aluminum.”

  “Right,” mused Joseph, rubbing the dirt from his hands. “It certainly fooled me.”

  He took a step toward the mound. “Hey, boys!” he called, and halted. “Hey, boys! I know you didn’t mean it. I just want to talk. I’ll stay right here.”

  Three faces appeared at the top of the bank just as a monstrous detonation rent the sky overhead, followed by the roaring passage of a missile fired by a drone unseen in the haze. The roar trailed off into the east and then erupted into a second explosion, invisible beyond the rooftops, that Joseph felt through his feet. The boys kept their eyes fixed warily on him.

  “Are you all right, mister?” Adam called. “I swear we didn’t see you.”

  Gabriel peered around the side of the mound. “Hello, Uncle Joe,” he squeaked. “Sorry. Didn’t mean it.”

  “Sure. I believe you. But you up there, the tall one. That trick—could you do it again?”

  Tony was instantly at his elbow. “Joseph,” he said urgently. “No—”

  Joseph flapped his arm at him. “I was thinking,” he went on, addressing the boys, “what a really cool trick that is. I’d really like to film it.”

  Tony grabbed his arm. “No, Joseph! This is wrong!”

  Joseph wheeled on him, suddenly livid. “No, Tony, it’s not wrong! What would be wrong would be me and you getting killed today just so Felicity could have something interesting to say at the morning fucking conference! That’s what would be wrong!”

  “Please, Joseph! If we get caught, we’ll be thrown out of this business.”

  “Yeah? Well, getting killed will also put us out of business. Do you think 24/7 is going to look after your mother and sisters if you die on the job? Never forget, Tony, you’re just local hire as far as they’re concerned.”

  Tony turned away. “I’m going to wait in the Land Rover. I don’t want anything to do with this.”

  “Have it your own way,” Joseph shouted after him. “Just move it around the corner. I don’t want it fucking up my shot.”

  Joseph turned back to the kids.

  “Hey,” he called, “I’d like to come up there so I can film that big plume of smoke on that hill over there, where that missile just hit. Could you boys set off a couple of your bomb thingies while I’m doing that? Not too close to me, mind. And try and keep out of the shot.”

  Adam nudged his mates, and they backed away.

  “You have to film us too, mister,” called Adam. “We want to be on the television.”

  Joseph felt his temper rising again. Had it come to this? Was he now so burned out that he couldn’t even manage a setup? “Okay, fuck it. I’ll film you too if that’s what you want.”

  Adam’s gang spread out along the top of the bank, laughing and cheering, punching the air and brandishing their bottles. Several of the boys hurled themselves onto their stomachs and tiger crawled short distances before leaping to their feet again, gazing bravely off toward the battle. Adam picked up the drainpipe and fed another bottle into it: this time it went off almost immediately, spewing gouts of flame and smoke from either end.

  Joseph, cursing himself, shot all of it, even when the boys started fighting over the drainpipe. Then Flora appeared in the edge of his frame and grabbed Gabriel’s arm.

  “Come home now,” she insisted. “You promised you’d help Dad.”

  “Hey, mister, no fair!” Adam appealed to Joseph. “We can’t have girls in our movie. Tell her to go away or the deal is off.”

  “Flora, go away!” Joseph shouted, the camera still raised to his eye.

  “I’m staying right here until Gabriel comes home with me.”

  “Go home, Flora; you’re always spoiling my fun,” howled Gabriel, struggling to rip his arm free. “I want to see more explosions!”

  He began to cry. The other boys nudged each other and grinned, pointing at him, jeering at his tears. Joe felt stirrings of sympathy.

  “Let him stay a little longer,” he said to Flora, lowering the camera. “It can’t do any harm, can it?”

  Another salvo of shells was crashing into Mercyville. Rifles spit and rattled in the distance. Closer—almost, it sounded, amid the broken buildings along the ridgeline above them—a tank engine grumbled. Smoke rose in billows over the hill, where the motors of several drones had blended into a single spiteful whine. Flora considered all this, then turned back to her uncle.

  “No,” she said. “We need him at home right now.”

  “Then go with your sister,” Joseph told Gabriel.

  “Yeah, go home with your sister, Gabriel!” hooted Adam. The other boys laughed and jeered as their young comrade, weeping tears of mortification, was dragged from their midst. Just a kid, thought Joseph. So innocent. Innocence . . . I might be able to use a shot of that.

  “Hey,” he called to the remainder of his cast. “Why don’t you kids all get together, with all that smoke in the background, and give me a big smile and a wave? Then we’ll get on with the explosions, eh?”

  The boys laughed and crowded together at the top of the mound, jostling and giggling, flashing thumbs-ups and victory Vs.

  “That’s good,” called Joseph, aiming his camera. “Just stay like that a moment more.”

  In the sky overhead, unseen, heard but not noticed, another camera lined up on them.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Driscoll felt his breath catch as he squeezed past Colonel White. The colonel had planted himself inside the doorway and was glaring at a tall, somewhat doughy youth who was swaying on his feet in what approximated a position of attention. The other one, who was still seated, seemed to be dribbling. Driscoll decided to ignore this. He gave a low whistle and bounded over to stand behind the two drone jockeys, marveling at their banks of screens and dials.

  “So this is the nerve center, the beating heart of the war.” He shook his head, grinning. “You know, Colonel, I’ve blogged thousands of words about the crucial role of UAVs in modern warfare, so it’s just so incredibly, I don’t know—almost humbling?—for me to finally be in a room like this myself.”

  “Carry on,” the colonel told the two drone jockeys. The one who was standing slumped back into his chair and began playing with some buttons. The other one seemed to scratch his nose, then rubbed his hand under the lip of the console.

  Colonel White came over to stand beside Driscoll, assuming a salesmanlike air of friendly condescension.

  “Indeed yes, Doctor—nerve center is right. Over the past two months this drone room has killed more terrorists than the entire paratroop brigade has managed in the last two years. But there’s more to what we do here than just scoring big body counts, impressive as those are. As well as housing the drone pilots themselves, this room also provides the most high-powered and user-friendly interface environment for senior military and intelligence personnel who want to access our fully integrated tactical computer network; basically, it gives them the God’s-eye real-time window they need to fight and win this war. Now, as I’m sure you know, every vehicle and aircraft and infan
try squad in our forces now has its own IFF transponder chip—”

  “Identification friend or foe,” Driscoll put in sagely.

  “Just so, Doctor. They all have their own IFF chips, video cameras, and field computer equipment, which tell us their exact location and status at all times, along with information about any hostile forces they are in contact with. Back here in the drone ops center we can use this information to build up a clear real-time picture of the action on our 3D map of the battlefield. We then integrate that data with all our other data streams—intelligence reports, drone videos, the terrorist population register, electronic and audio surveillance, blueprints of buildings, and so on—and feed it all back to our commanders on the ground. Thus, for the first time in history we have achieved the Holy Grail of the professional warrior: total real-time tactical awareness, allowing our commanders, going forward, to both define and dominate the digitalized battlefield.” He had finished his spiel and looked pleased with himself.

  “Amazing,” marveled Driscoll. “No more fog of war, no more unknown soldiers! A new breed of digital warrior.”

  The redheaded kid was running his finger under his nose again. The other one was fiddling with what looked like a toy joystick.

  “So,” Driscoll said loudly, addressing the youngsters. “You guys are the famous drone jockeys, eh? I know your work is top secret, but let me tell you, in the circles I move in you guys are heroes. I’ll bet your families are all really proud of you.”

  The nearer of the two airmen, the one with the joystick, swiveled his chair around.

  “Not me, sir. I’m an orphan. The rest of my family all died in a plane crash when—”

  “Enough!” the colonel barked. He glared at the kid for a few moments, then turned back to Driscoll. “Tell you what, Doctor, why don’t we both take a seat at the console and maybe I can show you a few things. You there, Lieutenant, Lieutenant—?”