By the Book: Battlefield 3: <i>The Russian</i>

This is an excerpt from Battlefield 3: The Russian by Andy McNab and Peter Grimsdale. Copyright © 2011 by Electronic Arts Inc. Reprinted by permission of Grand Central Publishing. All rights reserved.

The Russian launches alongside Battlefield 3 today, and it can be ordered from Amazon and Barnes & Noble. For more on The Russian, check out our Q&A with author Andy McNab, as well as the first two chapters of the book.

3

Al-Sulaymaniyah, Iraqi Kurdistan/Iran Border

It was a hundred and four degrees Fahrenheit inside the Stryker and the smell wasn't getting any better. The shift had just stretched into its thirty-second hour, which would do nothing to improve the personal hygiene of the inmates in full kit: Kevlar helmets, bullet-resistant glasses, heat-resistant gloves, body armour, knee pads, elbow pads, 240 rounds of ammunition for their M4s in pouches attached to the body armour. It was like being in an armour-plated coffin, but not so spacious. Up until a few weeks ago they'd been leaving the body kits at the base. But things had changed.

It had been years since outright war had devastated this part of Iraq but the damage remained.

Marine Sergeant Henry 'Black' Blackburn reached up and lifted one of the hatches, then another. It didn't produce much of a breeze, however, as they were keeping to a steady 25 miles an hour. In the early days they used to go full pelt, until it became clear that they stood a better chance of avoiding trouble if they saw it before they drove into it. He put his head out and squinted at the sun-bleached landscape around them. It had been years since outright war had devastated this part of Iraq but the damage remained. None of the trillions of dollars spent on reconstruction had made it to Al-Sulaymaniyah, or if it had the myriad layers of middlemen and subcontractors had got there first. The sheer number of them made your head spin. They all creamed off their cut, producing paperwork for men who were never hired, buildings that were never built. True, a few roads had been resurfaced, sewers relaid, but after a few months they all sank back into the same state of decrepitude as before. Any unrest and the first casualty after the local population was the infrastructure. They passed the remains of a freshly-shelled gas depot, whole sections of concrete hanging by the rusting steel reinforcement rods. Two small children in nothing but T-shirts were throwing small rocks at nothing in particular from the top of a mound of rubble. Half a dozen goats looked on, grazing in the carcase of the depot.

Campo was mid-story. '. . . And I'm, like, on station ready for deployment, and she says, "Honey do you have any protection?" so I say, "Baby I left my M16 home, but if you wanna see it I'll go get it . . ." '

No one responded. They'd all heard it at least twice before.

Montes reverted to his favourite refrain.

'I mean, who even wants to be here? TV say soldiers want to be here. Where they get that from? Make folks feel better? Maybe if you wanting to get your star, make some rank. All we want is get the fuck outta here, right Black?'

She just didn't get it. But Blackburn still loved her, still hoped she'd come around.

Black shrugged, not because he didn't have an answer: he just didn't want to have this conversation right now. He was thinking about the email home he would write tonight. Dear Mom and Dad. Today was 115 F. That's the hottest we've had. He spent another ten minutes trying to come up with the next line. Three positives. That was his rule. His mother could find a silver lining in a tornado. The school they built just by the base has opened. He'd leave out the fact that no kids had turned up, that the deputy head had become the head because the original head had been shot in front of his family. He couldn't think of two more positives right now. He abandoned that and considered writing to Charlene. Just to let you know I'm still sane . . . Perhaps she'd take it the wrong way, think he was in doubt. She'd always known he'd enlist from the get-go, all through Senior High, but when it came to it, she said it had to be her or the army--not both. There wasn't going to be any waiting for him. You may come back--she'd struggled for a word--different . She thought his father would sway him. She knew what he thought about the whole army thing. She just didn't get it. But Blackburn still loved her, still hoped she'd come around.

He had been counting the days to September 1st, when they were due to go home, crossing off the days on a grid he had drawn in the back of his log. Since last week he'd stopped. Home didn't seem to be getting any closer.

Black's radio squawked: Lieutenant Cole.

'Misfit 1-3 this is Misfit actual. Listen up. We lost contact with Jackson's squad in grid eight zero, ten klicks west. You're the only element I got to send. Last known position Spinza Meat Market. Bad freaking part of town. Go find 'em, got that? '

'1-3. Copy that. '

Jackson was out of contact. That could only mean something bad.

Black looked at the crew. They'd all heard the order on their headsets. No one spoke for a few seconds, as if they were conserving every last grain of energy.

'So, anyone else don't get what we're doing here?' Montes was off on his high school debating society riff again. Blackburn wished he would shut up and just do his job. He was tired, and this was making him feel tireder.

'Quit being a fucking hippie, Montes.' Chaffin ripped the wrapper off a stick of gum and folded it into his mouth.

Montes loosened his grip on his weapon.

'All I'm saying is we're here to keep a lid on things, not start a fucking war with Iran.'

'The PLR's not Iran.'

'Man, we been over this a hunnert times.'

Chaffin put his hands over his face.

Black continued. 'They're in Iran though, because that's where they're coming from. And Iran is just'—he cocked his head leftwards—'right over there.'

'You got that now, Montes, you fucking tree hugger? We want your opinion, we'll give it to you. All right?'

Blackburn hoped this wasn't going to evolve into something full-blown and personal between Chaffin and Montes. Debating the relative merits of twin cheerleaders or a one-on-one with the new British princess was a pleasantly pointless diversion. Questioning their entire purpose in this hellhole could develop into a discipline problem.

The whole place was sinking back into chaos.

They'd served in the same platoon for eighteen months. They were family. But the terms of engagement had changed. They'd gone in thinking they'd be the last American deployment in the area, and Chaffin wasn't the only one whose patience was running out. The whole place was sinking back into chaos. Montes was becoming the target for his frustration, and Blackburn didn't blame him. Privately, he knew Montes had a point. He wondered what a man like him was even doing there, when he should have been handing out flyers about the decline of capitalism on a leafy campus somewhere. But Blackburn didn't have time to be anyone's camp counsellor. Jackson's Stryker had gone silent and they had no choice but to go look for it. It's what you did. What you didn't do was sit in a 104-degree sardine can discussing it like a bunch of liberals on PBS (Public Broadcasting Service).

He raised his voice a notch.

'Look at me. Montes? This is our job. '

'Yeah, baby.'

'I hear that.'

Black raised a hand.

'And to finish the job, we gotta deal with the PLR. And to do that, sooner or later we gotta go cross the border.'

Chaffin opened his mouth to speak, but Blackburn silenced him with a look.

They dismounted from the Stryker and fanned out. The Spinza Meat Market was an old cloistered building with a gallery on the upper level. A week ago it had been swarming with activity. Today it was deserted: not a good sign. Campo tapped Blackburn on the shoulder. 'Check this out.'

A freshly-painted mural of Al Bashir, the PLR leader. A good likeness, Blackburn thought: someone had taken their time.

'They sainting him here. He their man, now.' Montes was next to them. The artist had given the Iranian former Air Force General a fierce glare of certainty. 'Dude looks like he means business.'

'Jerkoff. It's just a painting. He's gotta be as old as your granny. They just left out the wheelchair.'

'Ever ask yourself how this part of the world got so fucked up all the time?'

'Hey I just work here, Montes. Other people work that shit out.'

Montes persisted. 'How long before we rolling ourselves into Iran?'

Blackburn waved them forward. 'That's way above my pay grade. Let's go find this patrol.'

The old man was squatting in a doorway. Montes was crouched down, talking, his weapon pushed behind his shoulder, out of the way. He held up ten fingers, made fists, then another ten, and then another ten, then mimed using a machine gun. To give him his due, he was trying to be useful.

'He's saying there were thirty, all armed. Came through half an hour ago.' He turned back to the old man. 'Thank you, Sir.'

'Thanks, I'll take it from here.'

Black leaned down, continued in Arabic.

'Were they PLR ?'

The old man shrugged.

'Local boys?'

He shook his head, although it could have been more of a tremor, and pointed at the westward gate of the market.

'Well, let's go the way the man says.'

The gate led into a narrow street of three-storey buildings. Blackburn heard a couple of shutters close and a baby crying. A Toyota pick-up lay sideways across the street, the front fender torn away as if it had been swiped by a much heavier vehicle and in a hurry.

Black signalled to the others to hug the walls. 'Big cross street here, exposed.'

They all heard the rumble at the same time. Tracked vehicle. Blackburn flattened himself against the corner wall and peered round. He saw the vehicle nose out of a gateway, a block up the cross street, and turn left, moving away at patrol speed.

Black got on the radio.

'APC, no markings, headed north, taking its time like it owns the place.'

'That's some serious metal.'

'Flag him down, ask what side he's on.'

'Shut up Montes. Take a right up that street, where he just came from.'

They crossed the road in twos.

'Keep it moving!'

'So quiet it's like they got the whole place on lockdown.'

'Or the Pied Piper's just been through.'

'I no like this shit.'

'OK, that's a Combat Indicator. Take it slowly guys.'

The side street the APC (Armoured Personnel Carrier) came from was narrow, a chasm of tall buildings with overhanging upper storeys, throwing it into dark shadow. At the other end it opened into a small plaza. A group of women were huddled down behind wicker baskets in a deep doorway near the plaza entrance. They were waving them forward, pointing upwards.

'OK, let's not do what the lady says just yet. Get visual on the rooftops.'

They froze, scanning the rooftops and every shuttered window. Blackburn saw the silhouetted figure first, just as the masonry beside him shattered. 'Sniper! Cover, cover!'

Black wheeled round just in time to see Chaffin's shoulder explode. 'Man down. Smoke cover. Now!'

Campo tossed a white phos grenade to block the sniper while Blackburn and Montes grabbed Chaffin and pulled him into a doorway, but he didn't want to go, wrestling them with his dissipating strength. 'Get me back up. I can still shoot. Let me at him, the fucker.'

'Easy soldier.'

Matkovic was screaming down the radio.

'Fucking smoke. I had visuals on three more!'

The wound was bloody but not deep. Blackburn let Chaffin get to his feet. He swayed, then grinned. 'I'm fucked up but I'm up. Let me at 'em.'

Through the smoke, ahead, Matkovic loosed off a mag at the rooftop where Chaffin's sniper had been. Paused, waited.

As the smoke cleared, Blackburn saw the sniper fold up on himself and drop like a bad guy in a Western. The body thumped into the street ten feet from Matkovic, who stood in a doorway. But Matkovic didn't react. He was static, staring ahead into the plaza. Something about his stance, weapon down, told Blackburn that Matkovic had seen something he was going to have trouble forgetting. Without altering his gaze he beckoned to Black.

'Think we've found what we came for.'

As the smoke cleared, Blackburn saw the sniper fold up on himself and drop like a bad guy in a Western.

Two dead marines were sprawled at the gates to the plaza. One, helmet gone, face half off, looked like he'd been closest to an RPG (rocket-propelled grenade). The other, a wide red crater in his chest, had a pensive look in his eyes, which were fixed on the blazing sky. Blackburn leaned down, took the tags off one, then the other, and pushed them into his top pocket. 'Fuck this day.'

'Black, look up!'

Matkovic was first into the plaza. Bodies and body parts had been thrown in all directions. The Stryker was on its side, its ramp down and its tyres on fire, with all eight wheels twisted at different angles. Close by was the chassis of what might have been a small truck or bus, the bodywork vaporised by the IED it had been carrying. A low, rhythmic groaning was coming from inside the Stryker.

Matkovic was already on the radio ordering CASEVAC, trying to keep his rage under control as the voice on the other end pressed him for more detail, eventually exploding. 'Just get the fuck here yesterday, okay? '

He turned to Black. 'Going to check inside the Stryker.'

'Stop.' The word was out of his mouth before Blackburn knew why he'd said it. There were several other damaged vehicles in the plaza, two minibuses, glass all gone, peppered with shrapnel dents. Blackburn motioned them back, tracked right until he could see another vehicle, a Nissan pick-up, on the other side of the Stryker. Like the others it was a mess, its windows and lights gone, every panel dented. But something was wrong.

It was the tyres. Still inflated. They should have been shredded. Matkovic looked at Black, then the pick-up. Some civilians were starting to appear at their windows, looking down on the plaza. Matkovic waved his hands in the air like he was doing the breaststroke, screaming in Arabic: 'Back inside!'

Then she slipped into the shadow of her doorway and was gone. He scanned the pavement again.

Black tracked further right, scanning what he could of the area round the pick-up, looking for detonator wires. Whoever planted this was waiting until as many US as possible were crowded around the Stryker tending the dying and wounded. A woman, only her large brown eyes visible under a dusty grey burka, was watching him from behind a fruit stand: a young woman--his age, maybe younger. He watched her gaze move slowly, deliberately, away from him and up to a first storey window on the south side of the square, then back down to him again. Then she slipped into the shadow of her doorway and was gone. He scanned the pavement again. It was strewn with bits of brick and metal and flesh. Amongst the mess he saw the wire snaking across to the building that had been pointed out by the woman's eyes.

All the crew were stopped, waiting. They knew what he was doing. That was the upside of having been together in this shithole for so long--they could practically read each others' minds. He'd miss that when it was over, when he was home. Where else would he ever have that closeness, that rapport? With a woman maybe? A family? Or would he be too fucked up by then. Maybe he'd become too good at this, and blow his chance of having a life. One thing at a time, he said to himself: focus.

He took his time, backed out of the square, fixing the building in his mind before he checked out an approach to it from its rear. Out of view, he slid swiftly through a passage that would lead to the back of the houses. He had cleared so many properties like these he could guess the layout, even though he had never been in this square before. Side entrances in the alleys were common. The stairs usually went sideways, the first floor front rooms, usually the largest, stretched across the building. There was music coming from this one, from inside the ground floor. He stepped in through a curtained doorway: a kitchen, two clean tea glasses on the draining board and a radio, playing that high pitched music. He reached in and, very slowly, turned up the volume. He thought of taking off his boots, decided against it. There were two bodies on the stairs, a woman and a girl. Both shot through the head, proof he was on the right track. He didn't pause, but the split second's vision was still sickening. He tiptoed up the stairs, listening to the blood hammering through his veins, adrenalin blocking every impulse--but what he needed to get the job done.

The figure was in shadow, a blur of fabric.

At the top of the stairs he paused, about to step into the room. He saw the car battery, the wires, the jaws of the jump leads, one attached, one waiting. But nothing else. He just had enough time to see that it was empty before a blow to the back of his neck flattened him, his head inches from the battery. On his way down he managed to twist to one side and reach for his KBAR knife, his M4 too unwieldy in the narrow space. The figure was in shadow, a blur of fabric. As it lunged for the battery, Blackburn put the knife deep into a thigh--hitting the femoral artery. The scream was piercingly high. Too high for a man. A boy?

As he struggled to a kneeling position his assailant slammed down on to the floor beside him. Not a man or a boy, but a girl, a lake of blood gushing out from under her shalwar kameez, writhing like a beached marlin, seemingly unaware of the blood draining out of her. In between gasps she let out a torrent of Arabic. Blackburn could only make out scum pig and hell. But the message was clear. She went on struggling, sliding in her own blood. If he was going to save her he had about twenty seconds.

'Let me help you . Or you will die .'

How many times had he said that, and how many times had his help been rejected? They had come to help. But it didn't always look that way. As he reached down to her, she lashed out.

'PLR?'

'The PLR will destroy you all. You are finished. Finished.'

She tried to repeat the word again but nothing came and Blackburn watched helplesss as the life emptied from her. 'Finish .'

Battlefield 3: The Russian authro Andy McNab explains his approach to creating a new story set in the world of the DICE-developed first-person shooter

GameSpot: What are some key traits of the Battlefield brand that you built The Russian around?

Andy McNab: That story is about Dmitri 'Dima' Mayakosky's, a Russian ex-Spetsnaz Special Forces soldier and a player in Battlefield 3. He finds himself in a world that no longer has the certainly of the old Communist dictatorship he once served. Dima will certainly never win a humanitarian award for the role he plays in BF3, but the novel gives you the opportunity to see things from his point of view, and maybe understand the decisions and actions he takes when he finds himself in this most impossible of situations.

GS: Did the tie-in to a video game force you to change anything about your process? Did the research change, or were there licensor approval issues you hadn't dealt with before?

AM: It didn't feel different from any other writing process. Of course there were licensor approval of the storyline, but apart from that I was free to get on with the job.

GS: What do you think of the current crop of military shooter games? Are they especially realistic?

"I have been invited to work alongside many different gaming companies in the past, but up until now, I have always turned down their offers."

AM: The technology has, of course, enhanced the visual experience of all shooter games. But that's what they are: games. But BF 3 is the most sophisticated game ever, because it gives the player a far deeper, more physical presence within the world in which they play. The only word I can think of that explains it, is "substance." BF3 wasn't going to be a simple shoot-'em-up. An ex-US Tank Commander who has played the game, said that the whole experience was better than any simulator he had ever been in, and that it gave him flashbacks to the Iraq War in a very positive way.

GS: In your writing, how do you balance the need to entertain your audience with the need to provide authentic-seeming stories about warfare? Do the two goals conflict often?

AM: I don't think there is any conflict at all when writing about warfare or any sort of violence. We all tend to forget that conflict is part of being human and we are all fascinated by it. We want to know what it is like to experience, or [are] so anti-conflict we spend just as much time thinking about it. All I can do is write it as authentic as possible and let readers decide. They do not have to agree with it, but if I have done my job right, they understand it.

GS: In 2002, Rage Software was working with you on Andy Mc Nab: Team SAS for the Xbox. What happened to that project?

AM: It sort of just fizzled away? Since then I have been invited to work alongside many different gaming companies in the past, but up until now, I have always turned down their offers. But the opportunity to work with DICE and help develop Battlefield 3 was an opportunity I didn't want to miss. BF3 wasn't going to be a simple shoot-'em-up--it was going to be packed with emotion, grit and the sheer physicality to take any gaming experience to another level. But the game is just one window into the BF3 experience. This book The Russian is another. It seemed a natural progression to write a novel based on the game as there is still so much more of the story to tell and it will help the players understand Dima more, and that can only help when they come up against him. They are going to need all the help they can get.