One Tuesday 28 August, 2012. Baghlan Province, Afghanistan.

Just a quick sprint. Twenty meters of tire-packed sand and grit stretched across the road before them - from the front left edge of the building where they knelt, to the facing wall of the two story, dilapidated, mud-brick building opposite. About a three second run in combat fatigues, body armor, ballistic helmet, boots, with assault pack and weapon. As that calculation briefly occupied his mind, Blue turned to check that his paired buddy was ready to sprint with him. Of course he is. He turned back, squinting against the early afternoon sun at the wall ahead. Head just to the left of the open gateway of the lane that goes through the building. He signaled his intention to his buddy. Both together, 45° angle east, diagonally across the road. Both men hugged their Armalite M4 Carbines across their chests, trigger fingers across the guard, safety off, each weapon set on semi-automatic selective fire to deliver a three round burst. They rose to a crouch, tension coiled in their leg muscles. Ready. Blue raised his left hand and gave a three finger countdown. Three, two, one … Go. They sprinted, Blue slightly ahead, his partner just behind his left shoulder. Acting in unison. Day in, day out training. Everything instantaneous, involuntary, efficient. Professional soldiers, about their work. Crack. Crack. Two shots in succession. A round hit the road inches from Blue’s right boot, his peripheral vision picking up the spraying spurt of grit. Simultaneous with a ricochet whine. They were two thirds across the road, two seconds into a three second sprint. Blue brought his weapon around, angled it right and high, to where he sensed the incoming originated - top floor, second window in. He let off a three round spurt. One bullet ricocheted off the sill, two went straight through the open window, smashing through the roof. Whoever was up there had ducked for safety. Covering fire? Where’s our cover? No time to turn and check.

Blue launched himself across the final yards, throwing himself at the wall, turning as he did, his assault pack colliding with the base of the wall. Instantaneously he pushed the M4 up to his left, barrel and muzzle across the front of his face. Difficult to sight anything. An almost impossible angle, but he fired a second burst regardless, in the direction of the open second storey window. Then he heard the covering fire coming thick and fast from the other side of the street. Not before time! It was then that he saw the crumpled heap. His eyes fixed on it - mesmerized. Three meters out in the road from where he was flattened against the wall. His buddy – ‘Bear’ MacDonald. Inert. Legs folded as if he was kneeling on the road. His torso twisted awkwardly forward, bent at the waist and sprawled across the top of his left thigh. His M4 Carbine lying at right angles to his body, on the ground. Upper torso arched forward, rucksack prominent, like a hump of camouflaged shell atop a sleeping tortoise. Head twisted right, left cheek ground into the unforgiving, beige, grit surface. And the dark, black/red hole in the right side of his neck. Oh, Christ …… Christ! ‘Man down!’ Blue bellowed. ‘Medic, medic’. Automatic response. Training. They had a medic with them from Kiwi 2 patrol, but Blue didn’t wait. He was on his feet, racing out to his mate, bullets snapping overhead. With one movement he grabbed Bear’s collar and belt and dragged him back to the relative safety of the wall he had just left. He gently placed Bear’s ruck tight against the wall, turning him on his side as best he could, into the recovery position. Then he felt for a pulse. None. No … no! In the circumstances many men would have despaired, crumbled. Bear was Blue’s best mate. His trusted friend. Not just his military ‘buddy’. They worked and played together. Fought side by side, now in their second tour in Afghanistan. Iraq before that. Instantly Blue felt that deep aching sorrow that tears deep into a man when he witnesses the sudden, tragic death of one of his own. Close ‘family’. Then the rage came. The red, blinding, all-consuming rage that threatened to burst from the pit of his stomach, through his chest, and engulf him. But Blue was a trained professional soldier. With great effort he harnessed the rage, turned it from a blind fury into a focused, determined, unstoppable course of deadly action.

Everyone in this building dies. Consciously settling his breathing through his nose, not too deep, avoiding hyperventilation, he moved swiftly, crouching, sighted and ready through the open gateway and into the entrance lane itself. A doorway on the left, half way down the lane. Solid wooden door. He raised his hand to the door handle, turned, giving a slow, short pull. Locked. He retraced his steps to the lane entrance. Signaled for two reinforcements. One to guard the lane and the door; one to follow him, take his back. Seven seconds later Corporal Ritchie Cropp and Private Bob Purdon joined him. Blue signaled Cropp to guard the locked door and secure the lane. He motioned Bob Purdon to join him for fire and movement. Although Purdon was the junior soldier, he was SAS. Brotherhood. Blue had been with him in close quarters combat. He was fast, proficient. Reliable in hand to hand, if that became necessary. They moved silently to the end corner of the entrance lane and stopped. Ahead of them a beige, dusty, flat, unsealed courtyard stretched out towards the tall, baked mud-brick boundary wall that delineated the compound. A large hole was blasted through the far right hand end of the wall and Blue could see out over the open, unbroken, slate colored, rocky ground beyond. About half a kilometer further, a small collection of mud-brick buildings were clustered together, in a similar compound. From the rear of the main building to his left, stretching out across the courtyard, almost to its furthest boundary, was a low slung, single story, rectangular adobe building with baked mud roof. Part storage, part utility, he theorized. Parked in front was a dirty white, battered, Toyota Hilux Ute, with a .50 caliber machine gun mounted high behind the cabin, barrel pointed skyward, at rest. No one visible. Further left he could see a staircase that rose from the courtyard up over the roof of the utilities room, then bent forty five degrees left onto the small top floor balcony at the head of the stairwell at the far edge of the main building. The enemy was certainly occupying the rooms on that floor. They have the high ground advantage. He paused to think through the options. Both he and Bob had six grenades clipped to their waist-belts. How easy to get to the Toyota and make use of the .50 caliber machine gun? If it was loaded; if it was working. Blue had his M4 Carbine. Bob was equipped with a Minimi C9 light machine gun. Both packed Heckler & Koch USP semi-automatic pistols.

Back across the road, his unit had an assortment of carbines and Minimi C9‘s, an L7A2 7.62mm machine gun and two M72 LAW, (light anti-tank portable rocket launchers). He would deploy some of that armory with the least delay possible. The enemy might have hand grenades, too. They might also have rocket or grenade launchers. High up in a building, as soon as they knew where Blue and Bob were, they would certainly unleash everything they did have. He squatted and took off his boots and socks, stacking them neatly against the inside lane wall. Followed by his assault pack. Bob stared quizzically. Now Blue needed to talk, signing wouldn’t cut it. He motioned Bob to retreat back down the entrance lane to where Corporal Cropp was positioned. They huddled so he could whisper. ‘I’m going to climb the outside wall and get up to where the insurgents are dug in. Shaky,’ he addressed Bob, ‘you’re going back over to Staff,’ he referred to Staff Sergeant Matui Herewini. ‘Get him to launch a rocket barrage into the top front wall of this building. Space them into every room, right to left - occupy these bastards for a bit. But get them to steer clear of the first room above us here, where I’m headed.’ He paused for a nodded response of understanding, got it and proceeded. ‘OK Shaky, back over the road and get the action started, then get back here to the Toyota and see if you can fire up that machine gun. If it doesn’t work, revert to your C9. Lay down suppressive fire at everything you see. But remember, I’ll be up there, top left of your position to start with. I’ll try to be visible to you so you know where I am and where I’m going’. He turned to Cropp, ‘Cropp … keep this lane secure.’ Back to Bob. ‘Go!’ he hissed. Bob signaled across to his unit for covering fire, took a deep breath, then sprinted out from the entrance lane into the road, gone in two seconds from Blue’s field of vision. Blue crossed to the back edge of the main building. Checked the lay of the land. No-one visible in the courtyard, in the storage building, the utility room, the stairway, the top floor balcony, or the roof above. But he could hear intermittent fire from both sides of the street. They’re all in the top storey, at the front. He pulled his K Bar, US Marine knife, from the sheath strapped to the side of his right calf, placing it between his teeth. Might be needed to help gain purchase as he climbed.

Then he slung the M4 across his back and scouted the outside wall for the best transit route to the top. It was an old wall, with many depressions and some crevices between mud brick blocks; also occasional artillery damage, as with most buildings on the outlying villages north east of the border of Bamiyan Province. He quickly assessed a series of finger holds, toe-holds, and the occasional fist hold. Having spent years in the Southern Alps of New Zealand as a boy, weeks of holidays climbing as a sport all through both his teens and his army days, this was an easy task. He instantly plotted the slightly winding course that would take him up the building. He put his right foot up, toes into the first crevice in the brick-work, and climbed. Hauling his taut, six foot frame, steadily upwards. Seconds later, Bob Purdon returned from across the road beneath bursts of exchanged fire, sprinted through the lane, paused, checked, then continued out from the rear exit, racing to the Toyota Ute. With a single rolling leap, he thundered over the side onto the pickup’s metal tray. Crump! The barrage from across the street started half way into Blue’s climb. The building shook so fiercely with the first impact, he almost lost his foothold. He clung to the wall white-knuckled, edging on upwards. Bob crawled across the tray of the Ute, checking the .50 caliber machine gun for ammunition. Empty. He rolled over the far side to crouch alongside the passenger’s door, keeping the vehicle between himself and the main building. Crump! Bits of wall, masonry and clouds of dust were flung from the back of the building as another rocket struck home. Blue had reached the level of the top floor of the building. He shuttled sideways taking toe and finger holds in the available crevices, stopped, crouched beneath the first window facing him. Hanging there, he gingerly raised his head for a quick peek inside. It was a rectangular room with another window opposite him looking out to the roadway, and the building opposite occupied by Blue’s unit. The room was empty, except for an enveloping dust cloud, slowly settling on a mass of scattered masonry and debris on the wooden floor. A ragged hole was punched in the wall between this room and the next one. Through the window and over to the hole in the wall. Survey the next room, identify targets.

With a single fluid motion Blue hauled himself through the window, settling his bare feet silently on the floor of the dust-filled room. He moved panther-like to his right, diagonally towards the hole in the wall. A sandaled left foot and baggy-trousered leg tentatively entering the hole from the other side. Blue stood stock still. The enemy was about to join him in the room. Ignoring the M4 still slung across his back, Blue took the K Bar from between his teeth with his right hand. He slid sideways with two soundless steps, flattened against the wall, semi-crouched, halting just eighteen inches from the gaping hole. A grimy left hand appeared on the broken wall surrounding the hole. A dusty, black cotton, turban-covered head followed the extended left leg, and the left hand helped heave a stocky body through the hole and into the room. The new arrival stood facing the front wall, to the right of the window, his back to Blue. The black turban wound around a cotton cap, the dark Perahan Tunban knee length ‘dress’ over baggy white trousers, and the Paizar shod feet, proclaimed Taliban loud and clear. A Kalashnikov slung on his shoulder, hanging loosely at his side, confirmed Jihadi. With one quick, silent step, Blue was at his back. He grasped the forehead of the Taliban militiaman, pulling his head back sharply. ‘Bismillah rahman Rahim …’ Blue growled the phrase in the Jihadi’s ear. In the name of God, the most compassionate and merciful. His right hand plunged the gleaming ten inch blade into the left side of the stretched naked neck, exposed below a bushy, black, ungroomed beard. It was razor sharp and Blue was a strong man, but even with a clean swift entry, Blue still had to pull hard - and saw. Through the man’s carotid arteries, his neck muscles, cartilage, windpipe, larynx and jugular veins. Determinedly severing everything in two – right through to the bone. It was nothing like the one quick slicing action so common in the movies. That was a fiction. It was a hard, strong, sawing pull, not one action but several, and all the time the man struggled violently in his arms. Trying to grasp for his rifle. Trying to stop the thrusting, sawing knife hand. Trying not to die. Six seconds of panic-stricken thrashing.

Until Blue’s last, heaving, pull back - up across the vertebrae - when the jihadi just went limp and the arterial blood sprayed in pulsing spurts around the ceiling, walls and floor, of the hot dusty room, as his body collapsed in a tumbled heap. Accompanied by an eerie gasping, gurgling sound. Blue bent and quickly wiped the blood off both sides of his knife on the sleeve of the dead man’s kaftan. Placing the K Bar back in its sheath on his right leg, he picked up the AK-47 with his left hand. At the same time he recovered the carbine from his back, levelling it to nestle in the crook of his right elbow, finger on trigger. He turned and moved back to the wall beside the hole. He peered quickly through the hole scouting the room beyond. Smoke, haze and dust. No movement. He returned to the window through which he had entered and looked down to the courtyard below. Bob was behind the Toyota spraying bullets at the top far end of the building with his Minimi light machine gun. Blue ducked his head out. He could see muzzle flashes coming from a window on his level which he assessed was three rooms along from where he stood. Blue glanced down to the courtyard below. About halfway along the back of the building he saw the splayed figure of a dead mujahedeen, with a grenade launcher still attached by its shoulder strap to his body. Both weapon and man were motionless, terminally incapacitated. Bob was getting his part of the job done. Blue lifted the Ak-47. No safety catch on these models. He unloaded the weapon, then heaved it out the window, away from Bob’s position. He turned back to the hole. Pressed against the wall, he quickly raked the room, sighting along the barrel of his carbine. He stepped through the gap looking left and right, not wishing to make the same error as his recently deceased combatant. Against the far wall were the blown up remains of another Taliban Jihadi, a vintage semi-automatic rifle and a vintage grenade launcher on the floor beside him. The grenade launcher was blown apart, but the rifle looked in working order. There was no rear window overlooking the courtyard in this room, so Blue settled the AK-47 in the crook of his left arm, his M4 in his right, both trigger fingers at the ready.

The wall adjoining the next room was intact, a single wooden door set about one third along from the rear. He flattened against the wall to the left of a closed door, let his M4 swing free from his shoulder, stretching his right hand across to the door handle. Quietly he turned it, pushing lightly. The door opened a half inch. Blue re-cradled the M4 in his right arm, moving his finger back to the trigger. He kicked out with his boot and the door swung wide, clattering back against the wall. He sent three rounds from the AK-47 into the empty rear of the room and instantly spun through the open door in a low crouch, turning at the same time, sighting down his raised M4 at the area before him. Amazingly, an injured, but very much alive Jihadi, sat slumped beside a huge hole that had once been an area of the front wall surrounding a road-facing window. The Talib already had his AK-47 swinging round to aim at the space now occupied by Blue. Blue shot him with a triple tap - chest, mouth, and one blowing off the top of his pakul-capped head. Blue had progressed to the room adjoining the one from which Bob had been enduring constant fire from his Taliban assailant. Just a few more seconds, arsehole. He unclipped a grenade from his belt, moving straight to the closed wooden door, halfway along the wall. Sporadic gunfire rattled loudly on the other side. He quickly opened the door, pulled the pin, looped his left arm through the opening, around the outer edge of the door and lobbed in the grenade. Quickly he pulled the door shut, dropping to the base of the wall. A primal scream reverberated around the room behind the door. Boomph! The wall shook and Blue with it. Then there was silence. Blue raised himself to a crouch and reopened the door. The strong smell of smoke, cordite, singeing flesh and the rusty odor of blood filled his nostrils. He struggled to suppress the need to cough as billowing acrid smoke surrounded him, stepped through the doorway, checking left and right for any signs of life. An AK-47 lay blackened and shattered against the far wall beneath the window overlooking the courtyard. In a heap beside it was a disparate bundle. Grenades are a very efficient means of ripping a human body into pieces - shredded cloth, mangled body, bone, scorched flesh, unidentifiable matter and splattered blood.

And the pervasive smell of slaughter. Blue picked up the AK-47, unloaded it and threw it in an arch out through the window to the courtyard below. As he peered down to the utility room, Bob appeared in its doorway. He signaled Bob to stay where he was, then moved quickly across the length of the room, crouching beside the window facing the roadway. He tied his handkerchief to the barrel of his Carbine, pushing it out into the open space, waving it back and forth for a few seconds until he heard the shouted acknowledgement from his patrol across the road. He signaled his Sergeant to get two more of the patrol across the street to set up guard at each corner of the entrance lane. Nothing in, nothing out. He turned, facing the wall separating this room from whatever lay beyond. He had traversed four rooms so far on this level. From what he had seen of the building from the outside, there wasn’t space for a fifth. He flattened his back to the wall, grasped the door handle, pushing it wide. His angle of sight down the barrel of his M4 was into the back half of a balcony. He could see half of the descending stairs in his peripheral vision. As he sprinted across the open doorway, M4 at the ready, he took in the rest of the staircase and balcony. No movement. No sign of life. The balcony and the staircase down to the ground level below were clear. He retrieved a fresh clip of ammunition, disengaged the almost empty magazine, checking the breech. Still a live round in the chamber. He pushed home the full, new clip. Checked that the weapon was still switched to three round bursts. Slowly he descended the stairwell. Both Blue and Bob assembled warily outside the utility room door. ‘All clear on the top level. Check the ground floor, Shaky, while I check the out-buildings and the compound,’ Blue instructed. Bob ran swiftly to the door leading into the ground floor of the main building, C9 at the ready. He stepped over the splayed body of the dead mujahedeen, on through the rear door, into a large kitchen adjoining a room beyond. The room contained a solid, long wooden table. A dozen cane chairs scattered around it. Behind the kitchen was a room with wash basin and an iron bath. All empty.

Bob edged towards the entrance lane side of the building. He opened a corner door to a long rectangular room filled with worn, upholstered sofas. Across the room, about center, there was a short, dark corridor. From his angle, Bob could just see the solid wooden door at the end of the corridor, which he knew emptied out into the entrance lane beyond where Corporal Ritchie Cropp stood guard. Nothing. Bob wheeled, moved back to the rear door, then out into the courtyard. Blue walked purposefully back from the outhouse at the far end of the storage building, rejoining Bob. ‘All clear, boss.’ ‘All clear, Shaky. Out front and assemble with the others. Cropp, too.’ They headed towards the entrance lane. At the left corner, Blue stopped at his neatly arranged assault pack, boots and socks, sat down on the hard, dusty ground, placing his M4 beside him. He pulled the first sock onto his left foot and the next onto his right. Bob continued down the entrance lane, picking up Corporal Cropp as he went, striding in unison to the open gateway. To his right, Blue heard a dull click. He swung his gaze to the far wall of the lane, at the same time reaching for his discarded weapon. The solid wooden door moved slightly, then slowly swung open. Blue raised his M4, resting his left elbow onto his bent knees. Steadily he sighted down the barrel, awaiting whoever was about to step out from the doorway. Suddenly, he realised that the door was stationary, horizontally ajar, concealing the person behind it. He repositioned his M4 so that it aimed directly at the center of the open wooden door, half way down its length. He quietly moved the selector to full automatic fire. Then he felt grim satisfaction as a Taliban militiaman moved out from the door and into the center of the entrance lane, at the same time raising a gleaming, new AK-47 to sight directly at the receding Private Bob Purdon & Corporal Ritchie Cropp. ‘Allahu ….’ The word spilt out as part of a defiant, ecstatic shout, as he adjusted the AK-47 to find its first target. But Blue was already squeezing his trigger. Five shots spat in rapid succession. With the first crack, Bob and Ritchie wheeled, crouching, simultaneously raising their weapons as they turned.

But they would have been too late. Caught in an ambush at their backs, which they would not have survived. Except, as they turned, crouching and trying to sight their weapons on their assailant, they saw him pitch forward in a stuttering stagger - saw his body convulse, writhe and twitch in concert with each of the ballistic cracks that filled the cavity of the enclosed entrance lane with a resonating, reverberating intensity. Then they saw his head explode, as the fifth round entered just right of center in the back of his turban wrapped head, sending black cotton, skull fragments, blood and brain matter, like a grotesque black/red halo, in an explosive spray into the surrounding air, as the lifeless silhouette crumbled into a heap on the sandy grit before them. And there, behind the crumpled form, sitting on the ground in his socks, was Captain Peter ‘Blue’ Corbett, senior officer of their patrol, with his boots and assault pack neatly set beside him, dust, splattered blood and fatigue lining his weary face, his smoking M4 Carbine at rest on his rigid knees. Everyone in the building was dead.

Two. Thursday 30 August, 2012, Hotel Russell, London.

The staccato rap on his door was quiet, but firm. Paddy Galloway opened it, squinting at the well-dressed man and woman standing there in the corridor. ‘My name is Dr Marie Laurens and this is Danie,’ she didn’t offer his surname; her voice was gravelly, her English deliberate, with a distinct French accent. She had been at breakfast in the hotel that morning and Paddy remembered her from some of the Congress sessions. She had asked a question during his own presentation. ‘We have some important information concerning your animal contraception research that you should hear, Dr Galloway.’ The French woman’s voice carried a hint of urgency. Paddy was immediately intrigued. He had not presented any detail on his latest, confidential research – a revolutionary animal contraceptive serum – during the previous four days of the Congress. His curiosity heightened, he invited them into his room. The French woman left her suitcase outside his door. The door hissed closed behind them. Then Paddy gasped with shock as Danie drew a chunky, deadly looking, black pistol from a shoulder holster under his jacket, aiming it directly between Paddy’s eyes. ‘You’re going to finish packing immediately, take your luggage and accompany Dr Laurens to reception and check out. No smart moves. No attempt to bolt. Others will be watching you,’ the flat South African voice was quiet, business like. Yet menacing. Paddy’s ire rose. He blustered ‘What the hell is this all about ……?’ ‘Very straightforward, Doctor. Your darling, auburn-haired wife, Michelle, is right now at home in New Zealand at your two storey, brick and tile house in Kilkenny Close, Lincoln,’ Danie paused allowing the importance of his information to gel in Paddy’s mind. He mentioned her by name. ‘Michelle.’ He knows her hair color. He knows where we live. ‘Her very life now depends on your cooperation. If you don’t do exactly what we say, Michelle will be dead inside the hour.’ He looked at Paddy with hard, dark, unwavering eyes.

Paddy stood in shock, then acquiesced submissively. Danie nodded to the French woman, and left the room. Paddy finished packing, gathering his suitcase and his laptop bag and heading with Dr Laurens to the lift on the third floor. ‘You will walk with me to reception. You will be calm, collected. You will check out … normally. I will be watching and I will not hesitate to stop you if you try anything … shall we say … creative, oui?’ she instructed as they stood side by side, in the descending lift. She poked a small hand gun, held in her left hand, from beneath the overcoat draped on her arm. Paddy’s eyes widened. The lift door opened and from that moment he did exactly as she said. He walked across the lobby to the Concierge. He had previously noticed the security CCTV cameras in their opaque dark brown bubbles at various strategic points around the lobby ceiling. He made sure he kept within their view as much as possible. He checked out. As they moved through the front doorway, a solid burly man in a black leather jacket joined them. Out on the street a London Cab was waiting, the South African, Danie, already seated inside. They took the cab to the Victoria Coach Station. Danie gave Paddy a reminding warning. ‘If you want your wife alive, if you want to ever see her again, you will continue to co-operate. We are not playing games. This is deadly serious.’

Three. Auckland, New Zealand.

Emma waited for Blue in the public lounge at Whenuapai Airbase, north of Auckland. She had received a short email two days earlier, advising her that Blue was coming home to New Zealand for ‘enforced R and R’. Blue’s face creased into a smile at the sight of his younger sister. Six years his junior at twenty three, Emma was an intelligent, vibrant, self-assured woman, who was in her fourth year at Auckland’s Medical School, having come north from the family sheep station in South Canterbury to study orthopedic medicine. Today she had arrived to welcome, temporarily house and fuss over her much adored brother. One of two adored brothers, but the one she saw least, because of his profession. “’Blue!’ Emma launched herself at him, flinging her arms around his neck, hugging him with abandon. He staggered under the force of her exuberance, warmly returned the hugs, bending and kissing his sister’s forehead and chuckling with undisguised pleasure. ‘Good to see you, Em.’ ‘Look at you,’ Emma stood back and appraised Blue like a stock agent assessing cattle. ‘You’ve got a great tan. Have you lost a kilo or two? You look weary.’ ‘Don’t start bloody doctoring me, kid,’ he chided. Emma laughed. ‘Let’s get my kit and get home. By the way, where is home?’ Emma had moved since he had last visited Auckland at Christmas 2010. ‘St Heliers … near the beach,’ Emma glanced at Blue for a sign of approval. ‘Great, I can get a swim when I’ve finished my morning jog.’ Important to keep his fitness at peak. One of his key ‘tools of trade’. Emma shared a four bedroom house in the eastern Auckland suburb of St Heliers, with two young women of similar age. Carolyn 24, who worked for an advertising agency in the city and Jessica 25, who was a junior doctor. Perched squarely on an established residential hillside that skirted the bay below, the two story weatherboard home nestled amongst neat lawns, ringed by flower gardens and manicured shrubbery. Its most compelling feature was that it overlooked both the bay and the expansive Waitemata Harbor beyond.

Directly across to Rangitoto Island, an uninhabited extinct volcano, rising grandly from the surrounding ocean, covered from its top down to the waterline in dense green brush, clinging relentlessly to the volcanic scoria rock base. Auckland’s own iconic ‘Bali Hai’. After unpacking, Blue showered, changing into a short-sleeved V-neck woolen top, shorts and scuffs. It was a sunny day, but still only the first weekend of spring. Blue would need to adjust to Auckland’s noticeably lower temperatures, compared to Bamiyan. Funnily, he found it awkward, intimidating, to join his sister downstairs along with two other young women he had never met, and no other men. On his own. Surrounded. Idiot. He was unused to social interaction with a group of women. His life was spent month after month amongst soldiers. There were women at Kiwi Base, but they were soldiers - workmates. The company of women socially was a rare treat and usually reserved to family or girlfriends, or, occasionally, very short term lovers. He had not had a regular girlfriend for three years now. Short term lovers were a sporadic memory. He was out of step with the demands and nuances of interaction with the opposite sex. He couldn’t believe the sensation he felt standing in the bedroom doorway. A sensation he had just identified - he was scared. Bullshit. He shrugged, determinedly pushing apprehension from his mind. Then he walked downstairs, through the lounge and out onto the deck. ‘Blue,’ Emma commandeered her brother, looping her arm into his, steering him directly to stand in front of her two flat-mates, relaxed on their sun chairs, selecting from a variety of breads and buns, meats, and a range of dips, spreads, cheeses and jams, with which to experiment. A tantalizing coffee aroma wafted on the breeze. ‘I’d like you to meet Carolyn,’ she gestured, ‘and Jessica.’ Emma smiled down at her two friends, presenting her brother proudly, proprietarily. ‘Hi Blue,’ Carolyn gifted him a short but warm smile, shook her loose, blonde curls and settled back to concentrate on choosing between shredded chicken, champagne ham, or sliced garlic sausage, while cutting herself a wedge of brie. Jessica looked passively at Blue for a few seconds, her long dark chestnut hair framing her angelic face. She placed the slice of bread she held at her lips back on the plate in front of her. Slowly a smile moved from her lips across her face and filled her eyes.

She lowered her long brown eyelashes and her liquid chocolate eyes descended from the top of Blue’s head slowly down the length of his body, to his toes. ‘You’re very brown, Blue,’ she purred. ‘The Afghan summer,’ Blue answered self-consciously, hurriedly claiming the spare sun chair beside Emma, eyes fixed on the contents of the lunch table. His palms clammy. That first evening all four of them visited the central city to enjoy dinner at one of the many restaurants in the Viaduct precinct, nestled harbor-side alongside Princes Wharf and the Maritime Museum. Over an unhurried meal with a bottle of 2010 Villa Maria, Private Bin, East Coast Chardonnay an easy familiarity started to gently forge between them. But there was an underlying tension. Partly Blue’s melancholy, partly sexual tension. Jessica. Blue felt the pervasive, electric vibrations, noticed the surreptitious looks, the quick smiles. His sister spotted it all, too. Blue arrived in Emma’s car at Papakura Military Camp, south of Auckland, on Monday at 11:00 sharp. At 13:00 he was assembled in the NZSAS Memorial area, with a select group of military, family and VIP’s for the closed service. The uniformed honor guard lined the entrance to a large marquee, in front of the small, quaint Chapel, and would afterwards re-form to execute a military salute. The rest of the representatives of the military joined with Bear’s family and friends, for the service inside the marquee. The coffin was slow-marched in by the military pallbearers, the New Zealand flag draped along its length, with Lieutenant James Arthur MacDonald’s ecru colored beret and medals placed neatly atop, in front of a simple, red floral and laurel leaf wreath. Bear’s military funeral service was underway. The service was conducted by the Anglican Bishop of Hamilton, at the request of the family. The religious format was formal and traditional. The Bishop themed his readings and his own eulogy around the gift of one man’s service to others. The service of men and women to the enduring freedom and Christian values of their country. The bravery of a soldier at war. Staring at the coffin, Blue recalled the heartrending information he had gleaned from his unit, after they had completed their sortie and returned to Kiwi Base. In the hut where the unit sometimes lounged or played cards, Bob Purdon approached him.

‘Have a word, Boss?’ They moved to a couple of unoccupied chairs by a small table, sitting opposite each other. ‘Boss … I’m sorry. I stuffed up’. Bob looked upset and his tone and delivery was purposely personal. Blue waited. ‘I checked the ground floor area in that building, but I only looked across the room at that small corridor going down to the door that opened into the lane. Didn’t sight anything, but I was at an angle - and I didn’t go and physically check it out’. Blue nodded. ‘After you took out that last towelhead, Cropp and I went back in through that door, and there, on the right, were steps to a basement. Couldn’t see it from where I had stood across the room. We both went down and checked every inch of the basement. Then we re-checked the ground floor, too.’ Bob was embarrassed. ‘Shaky,’ Blue fixed his subordinate unblinkingly, but his voice was conciliatory. ‘Always, always check rooms out physically. Observation alone, doesn’t cut it. Angles and shadows deceive. Sometimes your brain tells you what it thinks is there. Sometimes the eye deceives the brain. Check and double check, OK?’ ‘OK.’ Blue noticed Staff Sergeant Matiu Herewini moving across to join them. ‘Shaky, I’m being sent back home on furlough, tomorrow. I’ll catch you and the guys later, alright. I want a word with Mat now. Alone.’ Bob looked over his shoulder to see the ‘Staff’ headed in their direction. ‘OK Boss,’ he said, rising. His unit always called him ‘Boss’, occasionally ‘Blue’, when they talked with him man to man. Mat joined Blue at the table. ‘I’m really sorry about Bear, Blue,’ he said, large, sad brown eyes seeking to console his Captain. ‘Where was our cover, Mat?’ Blue’s stare was fixed, his left leg jiggling frenetically up and down on the ball of his left foot, his arms laying taught on the top of the table in front of him, fists clenched. ‘Blue, we were still at the back of the building when you two took off across the road. You’re bloody lucky we got up to the front in only a few seconds and set up our covering fire when we did.’

Blue’s left leg stopped abruptly. The shock hit him. Hard. He hadn’t checked. He had assumed the patrol was moving up behind him. His face started to color and involuntarily he glanced across at Bob and the others. He had just told Bob – ‘Check and double check’. Christ. ‘I’m sorry, Blue’. Mat hadn’t wanted this discussion. ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, Mat.’ Blue hung his head. Slowly he rose from his chair and walked back out through the door. Mat watched him go. Blue strode back to his CO’s office and rapped loudly on the door. ‘Come.’ Blue entered the room smartly. ‘Colonel, can I speak frankly?’ ‘Of course, Blue,’ Colonel George Rennie moved around the desk and sat in one of the leather easy chairs, motioning Blue to do the same. ‘Bear died because I was careless, George. I’ve just found out the facts from Staff Sergeant Herewini,’ he added. ‘I read Matiu’s report, Blue. Didn’t see anything about carelessness there … your report either for that matter.’ ‘No, I was unaware till now. But I gave Bear the order to sprint with me across the road to our target without checking that the patrol was coming up behind us, ready to lay down covering fire. I didn’t check, George. They were still at the back of the building. We ran out in the open without cover. Bear died because I blew a basic operational check. I really screwed up … and now Bear’s dead.’ Blue’s eyes brimmed with tears. Compassion for Bear, not sorrow for himself. ‘Listen Blue,’ George Rennie placed a hand on his Captain’s shoulder and bent forward, face to face. ‘We do things in fractions of seconds in action. We have to make choices, instant choices. But we’re human, not machines. Sometimes we don’t get it one hundred percent right. I’d have to say, in your case, very rarely. You’re a top-flight officer, Blue. A leader. The men would follow you to hell and back. You raced out and dragged Bear to safety under fire. You couldn’t know whether he was dead or not. That’s significant bravery in this man’s book. Then you advanced on the enemy, neutralized the opposition and secured your target. And you saved the lives of Corporal Cropp and Private Purdon.

So … maybe your advance wasn’t absolutely perfect - adrenalin - a bit quick off the mark. But the point is, Blue, we are fighting a determined enemy quite prepared to die for their cause, taking plenty of us with them. We are soldiers in a very dangerous job. We take risks. And that means that sometimes those risks pay off ... and sometimes they don’t. But we more often win than lose. ‘Who Dares Wins’, Blue.’ George Rennie paused. ‘Now, I don’t want to minimize the loss of Lieutenant Bear MacDonald to this company, to your unit, or to you as his friend. He was a terrific bloke and a fine, professional soldier. One of the very best. It’s deeply sad … tragic … but it’s also part of this tough, unforgiving job that we do.’ He paused, looking hard at his Captain. ‘We’re going to fly Lieutenant James Macdonald home - and we will give him the hero’s funeral with full military honors that he deserves - and the Government on behalf of the Nation will extend their heartfelt thanks. And sometime afterwards, Captain, you’re going to get a gong from the Governor General. And the Nation will rightly honor you, too.’ Blue stood resolutely, facing his Colonel. ‘I understand what you’re telling me, George. I’ll even try to accept it. But, no medal, George! None of that Army hero bullshit. That would be complete hypocrisy … and I won’t be any part of it.’ ‘OK Captain,’ Colonel Rennie conceded. Blue nodded his silent thanks, turned and quickly left the office. Suddenly the reading from John 15:13 hit home, jolted Blue back to the here and now – ‘Greater love has no man than this - that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ Blue was bereft. There followed eulogies by the Prime Minister, the Defense Force Chief, Bear’s sister and father, barely containing their grief, then Bear’s closest schooldays friend. Soon the service was at an end. The coffin was marched sedately back out to the waiting hearse, the volleys of the salute cracked and echoed through the quietness of a weekday afternoon, disturbing the sparrows in the hedges and surrounding trees. There was an eerie finality to the last reverberating volley. Blue arrived back in St Heliers to an empty house at 18:45. Emma had caught a lift into town with Carolyn and Jessica that morning and the three of them had decided to stay in the city after work for drinks and dinner with some friends. Blue rustled up a quick linguini and settled on the couch.

The girls returned home at 21:00. Carolyn and Jessica retreated to their rooms for an early night, leaving Emma and her brother chatting over a glass of wine. ‘So you’re off down to the farm to see Ma, Barry and family, in the morning?’ ‘07:45 flight.’ ‘I can give you a lift, then go on to work.’ ‘Thanks, Em.’ ‘How long since you last saw Ma?’ ‘2010. Christmas.’ Betty Corbett lived with Blue’s brother Barry, his wife Pat and their five year old son, Thomas, on a 750 hectare high country sheep station, in the Fairlie/Lake Tekapo region of South Canterbury. Named Springdale Station, it had been in the maternal side of the Blue’s family since 1889. Betty’s beloved husband, Jack Corbett – ‘Drover’ to one and all in the region – had died tragically at fifty six. A car versus truck crash, one wet winter’s night. Jack was in the car. Leaving Betty an all-too-young widow at fifty four. That was five years ago and Ma Corbett was still a young fifty nine. Plenty of living to do; totally devoted to the land, the station, the business of farming, the close community in their region of South Canterbury, and above all, her family. ‘That reminds me,’ Emma recollected suddenly. ‘Michelle texted me today. She had heard about Bear’s funeral. Wondered whether you were back from Afghanistan for it. I replied that you were heading down to see Ma tomorrow; she asked that you call in to see her.’ Blue’s heart took an involuntary leap. Michelle was married to Paddy Galloway, Blue’s best mate from school days. ‘Probably she and Paddy looking for a boozy catch up. I’ll call past Lincoln and pop in to surprise them tomorrow, on my way.’ ‘How long ago was it when they got married?’ ‘In 2007, remember, I was on furlough from Iraq. Paddy’s best man.’ ‘You fancied Michelle yourself, once,’ Emma chucked Blue under the chin. He laughed, reddening. And he silently acknowledged that his feelings for Michelle were still strong. In their teenage years, Blue had been the first to date Michelle, who lived at Porter Station, south of their own Springdale Station, at the other side of Ashwick Flat.

His first love. But a year later, when Michelle met Paddy Galloway, she set her sights on him, and before long they became the archetypical childhood sweethearts. And Paddy was Blue’s best mate. His surviving best mate - with Bear gone. ‘Bright sparks, those two.’ Emma’s summary cut through his reflection. Blue nodded, ‘Yeah, both pursued veterinary careers. Now, Paddy’s not only a vet, he also specializes in all sorts of development science - a parallel career as a research scientist. And Michelle completed her studies as a research laboratory technician. Reckon that’s why they moved to Lincoln - to be close to the University and Paddy’s research laboratory.’ Paddy was a resident research scientist at Lincoln University, complete with a PhD in animal reproduction. ‘Their years of study and effort are paying off, then?’ ‘Mmmm. Keep studying, sis.’ They turned in for the night.

Four. Southern France. Who the hell were these people? So cool, so purposeful, so confident during their very public excursions with Paddy, from the Hotel Russell, then by TGV train from Paris to Avignon, and on to Narbonne, Southern France. At the same time, so bloody menacing. Dr Patrick Galloway, Dr Marie Laurens, Danie, the South African and the heavy set Frenchman, who Paddy now knew as Andre, were joined outside the Narbonne Railway Station by another South African, a giant brute of a man named Gert. Paddy blanched. This was a ruthless, well disciplined, tough outfit. Getting tougher. He was escorted quickly to a waiting black Range Rover with darkly tinted windows. Gert thrust Paddy into the back seat, alongside the French woman, then hefted himself into the driver’s seat. Danie took the front passenger’s seat. Andre climbed in next to Paddy. ‘Blindfold him, Andre,’ Danie ordered. Paddy felt panic rising in his chest. An Emirates airline sleep mask was tied tightly over his eyes. Wraparound sunglasses added, to disguise the blindfold. Additionally, the tinted windows prevented inquisitive passersby from inspecting the Range Rover’s occupants. In darkness, Paddy was swamped by the pounding of his heart in his ears. He tried to breathe slowly, deeply. Tried to keep the waves of fear and panic under control. Tried to use his scientific training to remain logical, calm. To wipe aside the vivid images of violence and torture that crept inexorably into his imagination. Tried, but struggled to succeed. They drove. Unable to see, Paddy found it difficult to keep track of time. Once they had departed the city, there were long periods of constant drumming of rubber on tarmac. Mostly at a steady speed. Mostly without much turning, slowing, or any of the stop/start that would suggest traffic lights and busy urban streets. Mostly absent too, were the sounds of industry or city activity. Paddy judged that they were on open roads, stretching between occasional small townships. Much later they turned left and Paddy could detect that they were driving at a right angle to the direction they had previously been following. The road became more winding. They seemed to pass through more villages, with less open road.

Eventually they slowed and the turning car cruised to a halt. The car doors opened and Andre left the seat next to Paddy, leaned in, pulling him across the back seat, out the left side of the car. Beneath his feet, Paddy felt tarmac then concrete, as they walked fifteen or so meters, then came to a short halt. ‘Steps,’ Andre took his arm, guiding him down five wide steps, the sound of thick stone as five pairs of shoes clacked across them. Forward again on wooden boards, then again he was halted and he heard a heavy wooden door creak open. They advanced onto what he assessed was a stone pavement of some kind, turned and walked a further few meters along it. Again they stopped. Andre removed the sunglasses and airline sleep mask. Paddy blinked, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the intensity of the surrounding chateau lights, albeit evening. They stood inside what he now recognized as a large, square, flagstone-paved quadrangle. This formed the central courtyard within a grey and beige stone-walled Chateau, maybe a small Castle, its four interior walls rising three stories imperiously around them. On the west corner, he noted a hexagonal shaped, internal turret, encompassing a stairwell to all floors, capped with a surrounding parapet overlooking the courtyard below. He could also see circular, tiled tops of four towers, one at each of the outside corners of the Chateau walls. Andre guided him into a brightly lit reception area, with a large, rectangular, wood paneled reception counter at the far wall, office behind. Paddy surmised that the Chateau was a lodge or boutique hotel, although there was no sign of any other guests. He was ushered to a large armchair, motioned to sit. Danie and the French woman sat in two of the other assembled armchairs waiting patiently. Andre disappeared across the courtyard, out through the entrance doors. Soon he was back, along with Gert, manhandling a variety of luggage amongst which Paddy spotted his own suitcase and laptop bag. Danie rose slowly, addressing him. ‘Andre here,’ he nodded at the Frenchman, ‘will escort you to your room. Then to the top floor of the northern wing,’ he indicated through the glass paneled windows alongside the reception entrance, to a series of shuttered windows on the top floor, diagonally opposite. ‘We have a laboratory set up for you Dr Galloway. We will bring your laptop. You can go through your contraception science with Dr Laurens. Then, tomorrow you will start making equine contraception serum for us. I need to fulfill an order for four horses. This week.’

He paused for some indication of assent. His reluctant guest sat defiantly. Danie sighed, held out his hand, with a click of his fingers. Gert produced a manila envelope from a satchel and handed it to his superior. Crisply, the South African opened the envelope, withdrawing a flat quarto sheet of photographic paper, face down. He passed it to his silent guest. Accepting the sheet, Paddy turned it to reveal the photo on its facing side. His eyes widened and the color drained from his face. It was a photo of his wife, Michelle. Standing at their local petrol station, pumping ninety one octane into her VW Golf. There was a digital timeline, complete with date, burnished into the bottom right edge of the photo. 11:00hrs. 08.28.2012. Momentarily he struggled with the date, then realized it was 28th August 2012. ‘That’s this week!’ ‘Two days ago,’ Danie affirmed with a quick smile of satisfaction. ‘We told you at the Hotel Russell, that we were close by her. I thought you’d be happy to see for yourself that your good lady wife is alive and well … for now. You will also notice that she looks relaxed. That will be because she is not yet aware that you have disappeared, yeah? That will change. But, let’s keep her both alive and well, shall we?’ he paused. ‘All we need is for you to do exactly as we tell you. Simple. You can see that we have her under constant surveillance. One word from me and she will not be so healthy. Any real trouble from you, she will not be alive. Understand Doctor Galloway?’ Paddy looked up from the photo and held the eyes of his South African ‘host’. Cold, dead fish eyes. He swallowed, nodding. ‘See you in the laboratory shortly.’ With that Danie swept out of the reception area followed by Dr Laurens, both disappearing across the courtyard, leaving Paddy forlornly waiting for Andre to escort him to his room.

Five. Christchurch, New Zealand.

As he departed the Air New Zealand 737 and walked through the air-bridge at the Christchurch airport arrival hall, Blue flicked on his smart phone. It buzzed, announcing a text message. He opened the message file. The text was marked ‘Barry’. He opened it. ‘Can u get 4 loaves of bread on ur way?’ ‘Any fishes? Stopping off at Lincoln to surprise Paddy and Michelle,’ he texted back. Barry would see by the time of the text when he had arrived at Christchurch. Allowing for an hour or two detour while Blue visited their long-time friends Paddy and Michelle, the two brothers would be face to face for the first time in two years, later that afternoon. He set off for his luggage, then the Hertz center. Just prior to Lincoln University he consulted the dashboard GPS. He needed to turn left into Hasendene Drive then first left into Kilkenny Close. There he would find the Galloway household. Two minutes later he edged the rented Corolla to the roadside and parked. It was likely that Paddy wouldn’t be home, mid-morning, but Blue wanted to surprise both Paddy and Michelle and he had all day to catch up, if necessary, so there was no urgency as he sauntered up the concrete drive-way to the paneled front door. He pressed the bell button. The chimes echoed inside the hallway behind the door. After twenty seconds or so he heard light footsteps and saw, through the curtained windows that ranged on either side of the heavy, wooden, white, double width door, the shape of someone advancing towards him. Slowly the door opened. ‘Michelle!’ Blue stood grinning at the apprehensive face before him. A fragile face, framed by shoulder length, lush auburn hair - uncertain, cautious. Also weary he noted. For her part, Michelle did not instantly recognize the man standing before her. Partly due to the backlight. Partly due to the fact that she had not seen Blue now for nearly two years. Blue saw the frowned expression. The question in her face –‘do I know you?’ Then he saw the dawn of recognition, and suddenly Michelle was flinging her arms around him, but, instead of welcoming him with delight, Michelle sank in his arms, burst into tears and then, immediately, into uncontrolled sobs.

What the …? Blue’s mind whirred. Something’s wrong. The now heaving sobs continued, unabated. Very wrong. Blue’s heart was pounding, not just from the instinct that something serious was afoot. From the closeness of Michelle, pressed against him. Blue placed his hands on Michelle’s shoulders and moved her backwards. At arm’s length, he looked at her, trying to judge the depth of her despair, her concern. ‘Michelle. Mitch - sweetheart - what the hell’s wrong?’ Michelle collapsed back into Blue’s arms and her sobs continued, racking her whole body with spasms of helplessness. ‘It’s Paddy,’ she choked between sobs. ‘Paddy? Yes? What about Paddy?’ ‘Blue … oh, Blue … he’s disappeared!’

Six. Lincoln, New Zealand.

‘Disappeared? When, Mitch?’ ‘Thursday, last week,’ Michelle wailed. ‘In London.’ Blue frowned. Fragmented information. He was already confused. The switch in his brain flicked automatically. Concentrated calm. ‘OK,’ he said gently, ‘let’s go into the kitchen. I’ll put a brew on. You need to compose yourself, gather your thoughts. Then I want to hear everything from the very start, to the very finish. Right?’ Michelle nodded, wiped furiously at her eyes with her sleeves and, clasping Blue’s arm as if desperate for him not to leave her side, leaned against his shoulder and steered the two of them through the hallway and the lounge, to the kitchen at the back. She sat forlornly at the kitchen table as Blue splashed hot water into two mugs of coffee. He sat with coffee mug between hands, swinging forward to face Michelle. ‘Take your time, Mitch. From the start.’ Michelle took a long breath. ‘Paddy’s been working on some really revolutionary science, Blue.’ Her face flushed briefly with pride. ‘First up, he patented a system of reproducing adult cells. Now that’s like Copernicus telling people back in the fifteen hundreds that the earth moves round the sun. The conventional scientific wisdom is that you can’t replicate new adult cells from existing adult cells. Hence all the drama about developing stem cells. But Paddy took tendon cells from a horse, reproduced healthy new tendon cells, then developed them for therapy – injecting them back into a torn tendon, where they automatically repaired the injury.’ Michelle paused so that Blue could assimilate the importance of the science she was describing. ‘OK ... so you can take some cells from an injured horse, grow some more, then reintroduce them to the horse and they fix the injury. Is that it?’ ‘That’s the nutshell, yes. In Paddy’s experiments and subsequent treatments, they actually grow and form new tendon tissue.’ ‘Could you do that with humans?’ Despite her sorrow, Michelle allowed a short smile. Blue had got the potential for the science succinctly. ‘Yes, Blue,’ she said. ‘This stuff is groundbreaking.’ Blue expelled a low whistle. ‘Worth some bucks too, I reckon.’

‘Well, you know how thorough Paddy is. So he has been taking this slowly and surely. First up he put together a paper with a complete description of his science and got it peer reviewed by a colleague, Dr Mark Tanner, at the Equine Research Laboratory at the University of California, Davis. Then he assembled a US patent application. He also ascertained that the FDA in the States approved using the horse as a model species for athletic injuries in humans. He had his patent application accepted, and while awaiting patent approval, commenced an international therapy program on injured tendons in horses. His technology has now been used in the treatment of over seventy - racehorses, polo horses, equestrian competitors - all over the world. Then three months ago, the official US patent came through. He had it framed.” She pointed to the manuscript in the rectangular black frame that hung conspicuously on the dining room wall facing them. Blue nodded, impressed. He had often referred to his mate as ‘the Genius’. Now here was the proof. ‘But that’s only part of it. Once he knew he could grow cells, Paddy was impatient to develop a more widespread commercial application. The FDA process for humans, unfortunately, takes years. So in addition to tendon therapy for horses, Paddy started to look for commercial therapeutic opportunities with other animals. You can get animal therapies to market much more speedily.’ Michelle paused for breath. Blue nodded encouragement for her to proceed. ‘Blue, what is the biggest pest in the MacKenzie country?’ ‘Rabbits. No question.’ ‘And what about in our forests throughout New Zealand?’ ‘Opossums?’ ‘Yes. And there are many other pests – stoats, ferrets and weasels, rodents, feral cats, stray packs of dogs. And, every country has some sort of animal pest population.’ ‘I guess so.’ ‘Well,’ Michelle added emphasis to her next sentence. ‘Paddy has been working on a way to stop all sorts of mammal species from reproducing. A contraceptive. It involves growing a certain kind of cell. Which then enables the production of a cheap one off contraceptive dose – with a bait-based delivery. It sterilizes the female of the target species. Forever. He’s cracked the theory. And he’s been in the lab for months now, proving the science practically.’ ‘Bloody hell. That’s huge, Mitch.’

‘Yes it is,’ Michelle agreed simply. Then her face crumbled and tears flowed. ‘And now he’s disappeared,’ she sobbed.

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