Arrivals - six months ago.

Paddy had phoned up early Monday morning just after he'd come back from taking the kids to school, apparently a slot had just opened on a job in Northern Iraq, he didn't ask how but assumed the worse, Penalty clauses in Armbursts's contract meant they were paying through the nose every day the slot went unfilled so Paddy had been told to get it filled as soon as possible no questions asked which meant he'd got the phone call.

The kids had thought it was really exciting, they'd seen the old pictures of him in uniform around the house and now daddy was going off to be a soldier, he didn't bother to correct them when they talked about him seeing them at the weekend. Linda had held out pretty well until they went to bed, then had been all tears, he gave her pretty much the same spiel he'd given her before..."He wouldn't be going out looking for trouble, he wasn't going to take unnecessary risks, he'd be working in a quiet part of the country, he'd be back soon and they'd be able to pay off a load of their debts. He didn't tell he thought he was replacing someone who'd caught a packet, some things he decided were best left unsaid.

Two days later he was standing in Istanbul International Airport's arrival hall, his old DPM burgen at his feet and a new daypack slung over his shoulder, waiting for the Armburst driver to take him to Armbursts's Istanbul office. Paddy hadn't given him much time to get his kit together and despite his best efforts not to outfit himself as a gun for hire, it soon became apparent by the tattoos and haircuts every 'Soldier of Fortune' off to work in Iraq was dressed in desert boots, tan cargo pants and t-shirt just like himself.

It was probably the clothes which gave him away to Pat. Pat Lowe was thirty had served twelve years in the army as a gunner but had left five years ago and had been work for Armburst ever since, it was his second trip to Iraq, he reckoned after his last tour in the south of the country the Kurdish north would be pretty much a breeze.

Paddy had met them at Armburst's Istanbul office a small villa on the coast just outside the city, he'd given them a quick brief them on the job which amounted in his words to "wiping the arse of an overpaid BP executive trying to bribe a pipeline contract out of the Kurds" and then sorting out their paperwork.

He hadn't been able to find out the reason why he suspected cost, but Armburst didn't fly its contractors into BRIAP rather they drove then over the border from Turkey into the Northern part of Iraq. It was cheaper and the ethnic Kurds who made up the the majority in the region were no friends of either the Baathist freedom fighters or Islamist jihaadi, this area of the country was considered fairly safe, at least when it was compared to the rest of Iraq.

Their driver for the first part of their journey was a young Turk called Mustaffa. Mustaffa's driving style was unique in as much as he was as happy using his knees to steer as hands and obviously didn't feel in any way obliged to watch the road while driving as he would happily turn to his passengers in the back seat either to explain how much better off Turkey would be in the Kurds all buggered off and lived elsewhere, or how Manchester United were the best football team in the world if ypou excluded Galatasaray.

Pat a Leeds supporter had felt obliged to tell Mustaffa his own opinions of Galatasaray, so he'd simply settled back in his seat switched on his Ipod and settled down to sleep through as much of the journey as possible. He'd woken four hours later to find a much subdued Mustaffa, it was only later that Pat told him their football conversation had become so heated Mustaffa had felt he needed to stop the car beside the road while he fought Pat for the honour of his home football team. As Pat described it he'd been forced to teach Mustaffa the error of his ways in three simple lessons.

At the town of Diyarbakir they'd swapped drivers, a sullen Mustaffa had thrown their bags into the boot of a tired and battered BMW, driven by middle aged Kurd by the name of Babik. Babik's English was far better than Musraffa's and it cam as no surprise to either of them that Babiks former job was as a school teacher, apparently cronyism meant he'd lost his job to a younger teacher who had connections in the PPK. Not that Babik minded as he was now earning three times his former wage working as a driver and fixer for Armburst.

Babik drove them South East to the border crossing at Zakho in Iraq. They'd arrived in the early hours Babik had told them both to sit tight then jumped out with all their paperwork, from the back seat of the car they'd see him running from one building to another building as he followed the Byzantine process of getting their paperwork approved and all the necessary stamps.
He cam back an hour later all smiles and drove them through the Turkish side of the border only to drive fifty yards before pulling over at the Iraqi immigration and customs section. They had to get out of the car while the Iraqi or rather Kurdish soldiers searched the car and their bags for. The immigration officers made a perfunctory check of their passports before stamping it from there it was only a few short kilometers to the city of Zakho.

They'd had breakfast at the side of the road just outside Zakho, hot sweet tea in small glass cups accompanied by a large plate covered in small pastries which the three of them had eaten with Gusto before heading off to Dohuk to meet the rest of the team and the principle. The first three months on the job were relatively straightforward apart from a couple of scares the biggest hardship was the fact electricity was in such desperately short supply he couldn't always recharge his iPod and hot water was a precious commodity.

It wasn't to last, when Pat and he got back from leave Paddy informed them the principle was heading south to Baghdad and they were going with him.

The Astute among you.

So already I have a problem which many of you will have probably already identified, 'he' doesn't have a name. Anyone got any thoughts?

Oh and as much of this story will be based on what is now very dated personal knowledge - write about what you know they say - the lead character has a reasonable chance of becoming a Mary Sue version of me (thanks David for unwittingly keying me in on that one). Which is worrying as this guys is already starting to sound annoying and whiny; oh sure, you don't see it, but you don't have him living in your head.

Oh and I know the chapters are short but consider them placeholders designed to help shape the story, at a later date I'll come back and write in a whole load of additional scenes.

G

Departures - Nine Months Ago

Holden's current predicament could be traced back at least nine months ago. He'd been thoroughly bored at work and seriously considering packing it all in. In those moments of reflection and when he was being honest with himself he could admit he was suffering some kind of a mid life crisis. Other guys would probably have chucked in their jobs and gone off to Pamplona to run with the Bulls, taken up an extreme sport or shacked up with a girl half their age. But Holden simply wasn't that adventerous.

The only thing stopping him was sense it wouldn't make much difference, he was bored with his job but he had no idea what he'd do if he left its warm reliable nine to five routine. He wanted to do something outside, something physical, something other than sit on his backside infront of a computer screen all day. Unfortunately, the sort of work he thought he might be interrested in invariably involved a massive paycut.

Occassionally, he thought about rejoining the army, but even he wasn't foolish enough to think at thirty-six he'd be able to recapture the life he had at twenty-one. Neither was he able to ignore the fact he'd gone to seed, when he dared weigh himself he clocked in a good two stone overweight and it was hard to ignore the way his knees creaked. A regular fitness routine had gone out the window shortly after he'd married Paula, replaced by regular meals. The vagaries of life with young children made it hard to get back into any kind of fitness routine without a level of commitment which Holden simply didn't have.

The answer had come a few weeks later the kids were in bed and Paula was cooking supper while Holden sprawled out on the settee to watch the news. Typically the lead story was about Iraq, another car bombing somewhere north of Baghdad, he was only half listening. The reporter, some square jawed blue eyed boy straight out of the BBC school of foreign journalism was interviewing a some guy about the bombing, Holden had only really started listening when he realised the guy the reporter was talking to wasn't a soldier but a security contractor, apparently this guy was earning about 500 quid a day, significantly he didn't look much younger or much lighter than Holden.

The conversation over the supper table was stilted to say the least, he explained to Paula that he wasn't happy as work but hadn't known up until that point what he might do instead, then he talked about getting a job in Iraq. She was worried surely it was a young mans game and he wasn't exactly fit. He countered, they wanted mature men not youngsters, he didn't add that no one likes to write a letters home to mum and dad to explain how little Johnny got blown up and they still haven't managed to recover all the bits of the body. He agreed he was carrying a bit around the waist but an exercise regime and propper work would soon burn it off. Then he talked about how he could earn five hundred a day, easy money. Money they could pay off the debts, clear the credit cards, hell if he did it for a couple of years then he could probably give up work completely if they were careful with the money.

She asked him whether he wouldn't miss her and the kids, Holden told her about the twelve week cycles, twelve weeks on three weeks off, he'd be spending more quality time with the kids than he did now. Finally, Paula sighed said she'd support him if this was really wanted to do, but they couldn't afford for him to be out of work long so he'd need to get a move on, he'd smiled told her how lucky he was to be married to her, her how much he loved her. Six months later as he'd lie awake in his rack he'd wonder bitterly why she hadn't put up more of a fight.

Holden handed in his notice a week later. Having done some preliminary research Holden had discovered there was now a Security Industry Authority who required him to hold a licence before he could be employed in the industry. He had drawn three grand from the mortgage account and signed onto a course, with an accredited company.

Two thousand quid meant he got to spent three weeks on an old abandoned airfield in the midlands. Training in the roles and responsibilities of the "high risk close protection operative". Learning among other things about counter surveillance, escort drills, route reconnaissance and planning and tactical driving techniques. The staff were all former SAS or Royal Military Police and they all seemed to know what they were talking about. He passed the course, passed with flying colours actually and he'd enjoyed himself despite the fact all the other guys were younger and noticeably fitter than him and most with a couple of tours of Iraq with the army under their belts.

After the course came the waiting, finding a job proved more difficult than he'd expected. Two months later and he'd only had two weeks work neither of which had paid anywhere near the 500 he'd heard abput. The work mainly involved driving a rich Kuwaiti and his family around London and carrying the shopping bags when asked, his instructors would have had a fit if they'd seen him in such instances, but try telling that to the guy who's paying you when he hands over the Harrods bags.

Needless to say the atmosphere at home was getting distinctly frosty. After a few weeks Paula started dropping hints, perhaps he should go cap in hand and see if he could get his old job back. By the end of the second month she'd stopped dropping hints and simply started yelling at him to sort his life out.

His break had come a few weeks later a friend of a friend pointed out his former platoon sergeant Paddy Green was now working for Armburst, a Private Military Company working in Iraq he'd made phone calls and arranged a meeting. They'd met in a Pub off the Euston Road shared a few pints as they talked about old times, then the conversation had turned to work. Paddy had not pulled any punches.

"Look putting aside the bitchiness and backstabbing and all the fucking waltermitties the fact is the business is bursting at the seams with guys and gals looking for work. So if you're looking to jump on the Iraq Gold Rush the last train left long ago. I'm paying 230 quid a day and that’s more than a lot of companies are paying.

Some well known names are paying as little as 150 per day. I mean you could earn more laying bricks on a building site back home. Profit margins are king not the blokes safety.

I mean if this is some mid life crisis why don't you go run with the bulls or start jumping out of aeroplanes, this work isn't going to make you feel any better about not getting up every morning with a hardon. Do you really want to go back to a world where the ability to not fall asleep while stagging on in a corridor for 12 hrs on 12 hrs off , for weeks on end is the key skill. You'll be treated like gash by clients who haven't the faintest. Or you'll be doing convoy work through shite hole Province in a vehicle with no armour and losing most of your team if you bump into the bag guys.

Can't say anything about the 'Stan 'cos I haven't had to go out there yet, but I bet its no better. Listen, this line of work has always been about knowing the right people, making the right contacts and your face fitting. You've been out for a long time now and you don't know anybody, your carrying a bit extra around the waist an thats being polite and frankly yer probably past it by a good couple of years."

He didn't say anything at first just nodded his head an almost whispered "I suppose so", then he'd stood thanked Paddy for his time, the disappointment writ large across his face.Paddy sighed.

Look, I'll fucking regret this I know I will, but I'll make some phone calls see what I can do"

He'd flown out to Iraq a week later.

In the Emerald City

The team had been on a short break in the Emerald City, while their principle met up with some local business interests over lunch at the Hilton. Holden had taken the time to go and sit out by the pool and catch up on some reading while the rest of the rest of the team tried there best to get into the pants of the two new production assistants with Channel 4 news.

The pool area was surprisingly busy, the majority of the sun loungers occupied by achingly beautiful women. Holden tried not to stare, it wasn't considered healthy to pay to much attention to the women. None of the women were single they were all girlfriends or mistresses to one or other Russian businessmen here in Iraq doing business with the newly formed Government. The businessmen were renowned for jealously watching over their girls and more than one fight had started due to a roaming eye

Holden's interrests lay elsewhere so he walked to the far end of the pool before grabing a free sun lounger. As he sat he nodded to the man sat straddling the sun longer next to papers, note books and photos spread out before him. The man was dressed in what he'd come to view as typical reporter uniform, pale shirt, chino's and walking boots the man hardly looked up from his papers grunted some kind of greeting then went back to work whatever that was. Holden didn't mind he just wanted to catch up on his reading.

The other members of his team were all avid football supporters which meant the satellite TV was permanently tuned to the sports channels. Holden on the other hand, didn't mind kicking the ball around for half an hour but found the idea of watching somebody else doing it boring to the extreme. The when other team members found out he didn't like football they'd accused him of being a typical "Rupert" but as pretty much everything he did resulted in the same accusation, he hadn’t risen to the bait.

Three weeks after he'd arrived in Iraq, he'd read every book in the compound including most of the technical manuals. Three days ago however salvation arrived in the form of a a cardboard box full of books. Along with a pile of penguin classics his dad had sent out a copy of Herodotus’s History, a real door stopper of a book which Holden had thought would keep him occupied for several weeks but which had turned out to be a gripping read and was disappearing at a rapid rate of knots.

Holden leant back in the sunlounger and flipped through the pages until he found his place, then began to read. Somewhere in the distance someone was firing mortars, the crump of the exploding bombs didn't mean anything, it could be Shiite or Sunni punishing one another for some real or imagined slight, or either faction taking the opportunity to give the Yanks a poke punishing them for being in Iraq in the first place. Holden treated the sound of mortars as background noise it wasn't near and he didn't think it was a threat, others around the pool weren't so sure and people started to get up and head for cover inside. He looked up to watch them go and caught the 'reporter' doing the same thing they exchanged grunts and raised eyebrows at those leaving, then he settled back to start reading again.

Perhaps reassured by Holdens lack of concern the reporter sat down again. Holden heard the shuffling of papers and a the sound of throat clearing, he knew the reporter was going to try and start a conversation.

"Heroditus, is good, but he did not know everything, 'Great King' Xerxes, wasn't simply intent on enslaving the Greeks, he had other business to attend to, the greeks were simply in his way, we might all be better off if he had been allowed to go about his business without the interference of the Greeks."

The accent was German, the English almost perfect apart from the fact he rolled his r so Heroditus sounded more like Herr roditus. He was about to make a swift reply in order to try and cut the conversation short, but he needn't have bothered the man was already walking away, watching he saw as the man waved to three others, large tanned men sitting up at the bar, he recognised them, private military contractors like himself, although they worked for Buffalo Security, a South African company.

He watched the four of them leave, the three South Africans surrounding the German like a trio of mother hens protecting their chick, he thought for a moment considering the South Africans reputation, perhaps lions herding their prey, he smiled to himself happy at his little analogy. He turned back to his book only for the crump of mortar bombs to bring a frown to his face, moments later he heard Pat yell from across the pool, the principle was jittery about the mortars and he and his guests wanted to relocate. He grunted, swung his feet off the sun lounger, tucked the book into his day pack, then went off to join the rest of the team.

It would be another two weeks before he saw the German again, but by this time he'd finished Herodotus and had moved on to Thucydides' The History of the Peloponnesian War.