Excerpt.....

"Tango Sierra" she said, "Emergency"
She repeated the Terra Sancta call sign twice more, her French accent thicker than usual. Two voices replied at once. She recognised one of them, an Angolan called Domingos. Domingos worked with the mine people. She'd shared a beer with him only two days ago. She told him briefly what had happened, giving him directions, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. Domingos repeated the directions, said he'd come at once.

"Merci." She swallowed hard, "Depeche-toi."

She signed off and clipped the radio to her belt, then stood by the roadside in the warm darkness, listening. She could hear nothing. No calls for help, no cries of pain, nothing. She glanced over her shoulder, back towards the Land Rover. The child's face was pressed to the window. The drive out from Muengo would take half an hour, she thought, maybe longer. Time enough for James to lose a great deal of blood.

She stepped across to the Land Rover, shouldering her satchel. She reached inside the cab, turning on the headlights, then locked both doors, aware of Maria's eyes following her every movement. At least one child will be safe, she thought grimly. And the lights will bring Domingos.

Back at the roadside, she hesitated a moment, all too aware of what she was about to do. Then she left the tarmac and began to move slowly towards the source of the blast, the brief blossom of flame like a scorch mark on her mind. The knee-high grass parted before her, the soil firm beneath her tread, the soles of her feet mapping the tiniest pebbles, every nerve stretched tight. The smell of the spent explosive was stronger now, an almost physical presence, a harsh, menacing, bitter-sweet tang that caught in the back of her throat. She wanted to be anywhere but here.

She stepped carefully on, trying to concentrate on James, on what she'd have to do once she'd found him. He'd be bleeding, probably heavily, and he'd be in shock. The blood flow she'd staunch with a tourniquet from the satchel and with luck the shock would have numbed him to the worst of the pain. For once he'd probably have little idea of what had really happened. Coping with that would come later. She paused for a moment, glancing back towards the road, fixing the position of the Land Rover, trying to keep a straight path. She was sweating now, the thin cotton shirt clinging damply to her back. Close, she told herself. I must be getting close.

She found him moments later, a dark bundle amongst the flattened grass. She knelt quickly beside him, waving away the cloud of flies, slipping the satchel from her shoulder. He was still alive but his breathing was shallow, the barest sigh, and when she whispered his name there was no response. She tried again, her mouth to his ear.
"James?"
She paused, waiting. She could smell the blood now, the hot, strong, coppery smell of the makeshift operating theatre back in Muengo, and she knew she'd got it wrong. This was worse than a shattered foot or leg. Much worse.

In the darkness, her hands began to explore the rest of his body. Below his chest, his shirt was shredded and where his stomach had once been there was a bottomless soup of blood and ruptured tissue, stirred by the faintest pulse. She rocked back on her heels, swallowing hard, fighting the urge to vomit. She wanted to go no further. Whatever courage had taken her through the minefield had quite gone. No tourniquet, no bandage, could possibly deal with this. What was left of James Jordan belonged on a butcher's slab.

She looked away a moment, forcing the air into her lungs, big, choking gulps, then she turned back, knowing what she must do, knowing the image of James she wanted to take away with her. Not the blood, the spilling intestines, the wreckage of his lower body. But his face. Undamaged.

In the button-down pocket of his shirt, there was a lighter. She'd given it to him just weeks before, a present on his twenty third birthday. He'd carried it everywhere since. Now she patted his shirt, feeling for the shape, taking the lighter out. As gently as she could, she slipped her other hand beneath his head, easing it carefully upwards. He'd stopped breathing altogether now and she knew in her heart that he was dead. The lighter flared first time, the yellow light spilling across his face, and she stared down at him, appalled, trying to make sense of what she saw. Then the flame guttered in the night wind and the darkness returned, stealing everything.

Reviews

Hurley has matured into an outstanding writer. This, his sixth novel, is moving without being sentimental - and a reminder of an ugly little war that is too often forgotten.
Michael Hartland, Daily Telegraph.

A fine example of an increasingly rare species: a compelling story, meticulously researched, carefully organised, beautifully told. It will keep you awake until the small hours. And it will chill your blood.
Frank Delaney, The Book Show (Sky TV)

Hurley, a writer of ever-increasing renown, has employed his unique and gripping style to investigate the moral issues of an industry which leaves 200 people killed or maimed each month.
Alex Gordon, Peterborough Evening Telegraph.

This is the first time I have read a Graham Hurley novel and I am very impressed. From a sad scenario, he has conjured a thriller full of compassion and excitement. It is 500 pages long, and yet the pace never flags. A gem of a story.
Tim Manderson, Publishing News.

A book written from the heart, a book that deserves to be read all the more because of it.
Andrew Howard, Exeter Express and Echo.

This touching tale of a forgotten war confirms the author's presence as one of the great new talents of the 90s.
Alison Ferst, Teeside Evening Gazette

At once a compassionate and powerful condemnation of the continued use of mines - and one hell of a compelling read.
Steve Craggs, Darlington Northern Echo.

The Perfect Soldier is a compelling and thought-provoking thriller which rockets Hurley into the premier story-telling league alongside Wilbur Smith and Jack Higgins.
Simon Ritchie, Yorkshire Evening Press