Operation Certain Death

by Kim Hughes

  It could have been you, pal.

  Nick was right. It could have been him. It still could be. It was Riley’s turn to step up. Suit up, go in, make sure there were no more bombs. What a fucking mess. Secondaries were particularly cowardly, but had they followed protocol…

  No. It wasn’t time for anger or recriminations. People had died.

  There was a place inside himself where Spike would dwell. It was where Nick was, when he wasn’t floating about in his skull. It also contained every young squaddie he had seen blown to pieces or gut-shot. The detritus of his marriage. The worst moments of his schooldays. Riley could visualise it: that bleak place was funnel-shaped, like a computer rendition of a black hole, and like that anomaly, no light escaped from it. He allowed himself to visit it, now and then. It was a place of crushing despair.

  Go on then, go and get into the suit.

  Riley did as Nick told him. A bomb or EOD suit consists of layers of Kevlar fabric and flameproof material topped off with a substantial Kevlar armoured plate, backed with soft foam. The Kevlar fabric and plate work together to form an impenetrable barrier that is designed to stop high-velocity fragmentation, or at least that’s what the manufacturers spin when they are selling them. The foam is configured to cushion the effect of the blast – helping prevent ‘blast lung’ in which the organ bleeds even though there is no penetrating damage – and the flameproof material does exactly what its name suggests.

  There is a helmet, fitted with a small fan to stop the visor misting up, and there is usually a battery-operated cooling system. The whole lot weighs in excess of eighty pounds. There are no gloves. ATOs need their hands and fingers free to do their work – dexterity is key. Although non-latex forensic gloves were often worn while handling debris from a bomb, to minimise cross contamination. Riley had never worn a suit in Afghan, because they were too hot and bulky. And you couldn’t run in one if Terry Taliban decided to have a pop at you. Now, though, he was about to climb into Spike’s bomb suit, which was like walking in a dead man’s shoes, only less comfortable.

  Riley located the corporal at the rear of the bomb-disposal truck, looking dazed. He was in his early twenties, his thin face still fighting off acne. His eyes were red, either from the dust in the air or crying or both.

  ‘Get me the bomb suit,’ Riley said.

  ‘Spike…’ the corporal began to say.

  ‘Spike’s gone,’ said Riley. He wasn’t being callous. Just practical. He needed to retreat into the physical and emotional bubble that enabled him to work in conditions that should send him running.

  ‘And the captain.’

  As he suspected. ‘I know. Just get me the suit.’

  ‘But, you’re not—’

  Riley read the corporal’s name tag. He grabbed the man’s shoulders, stared into his face, spoke slowly. ‘Butcher, listen, I’m all we’ve got right now. You can’t do this. But I can. What if there is a third device? Hear that?’

  In truth Riley could mainly hear a buzzing in his traumatised ears, but he knew the air was filled with the cries of the wounded and the dying. ‘You want more of that? Get me the suit and give me a hand getting into it. And I need a day sack.’

  As Corporal Butcher climbed into the truck, Riley felt his phone buzz in his pocket. The personal one. It was a text message from Nick’s widow.

  I just heard the news. Are you involved?

  You could say that. But he sent back: Yes, I’m here.

  Jesus. Is it bad?

  Yes, very.

  Thank God you’re not on duty.

  Yes. Thank God.

  I need to see you. Please. Can you get away?

  I’ll come over as soon as I can.

  When?

  Soon.

  He added a kiss in the form of an ‘x’. Look after Trace, that’s what Nick had shouted from the culvert just before the fatal bullet struck him. Look after TJ, as everyone else called Tracey-Jane, his wife.

  I didn’t mean you should fuck her.

  I haven’t.

  Not yet, pal. Not yet.

  Butcher threw the main body of the suit out and it collapsed on the ground like a deflated, headless corpse.

  Most EOD suits smell. Stink is closer to the mark. Everyone who puts one on, even in training, sweats like the proverbial pig. It’s worse, of course, when an actual bomb is involved. The solution is to spray a whole bottle of Febreze Fabric Refresher in there. He stripped off his jacket and Butcher helped him clamber into the trousers of the suit. It always reminded Riley of being dressed for your funeral.

  Butcher gave a little sob.

  ‘Keep it together. Time for that later. You’re comms, remember. Usual drill. I want you to record everything I say. Clear?’

  Butcher nodded. ’Yes, Staff.’

  ‘Better. And I want the jamming gear set up.’

  A nod.

  ‘Come on, Corporal. Don’t just nod at me. I want the jamming gear set up. Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes, Staff.’

  ‘Okay. And the robot, just in case.’

  ‘Yes, Staff.’

  The robot would normally be deployed first prior to the ATO going forward but Riley had no patience for that. As far as he was concerned, nothing beat the Mk 1 eyeball for investigating a scene. Not yet, anyway.

  ‘And where’s the metal detector and day sack?’

  ‘Coming up, Staff.’

  ‘Get a move on.’

  Again, Riley wasn’t being hard on the lad for the sake of it. You had to cope with these things. It was part of the job. He remembered when they heard that a fellow ATO had gone in Afghanistan. It hit his lads hard. The mood was pensive, bereft. But slowly, the next day or the day after perhaps, the banter would start again. People would dare crack a joke or laugh at one. It wasn’t disrespectful to the lost comrade. They would understand. You have to get back on that horse. There’s always another bomb. And they all appreciated the next one might be a genuine OCD.

  Spike would know all that. And he would appreciate that Riley was determined there would be no more deaths on his watch.

  Strapped into the suit, his ears now full of his own breathing, he checked the throat mike. Working. He switched on the visor fan, which squeaked in his ear. It needed a dose of WD40, but he knew his brain would filter the irritating noise out soon enough. Then he pulled the day sack over the helmet so it lay across his chest. He picked up the metal detector, switched it on, watched the light glow red. He ran it over a discarded can on the ground. It gave a reassuring shriek and he felt the warning vibration travel up his forearm. Then, like a clumsy robot from a 1950s sci-fi movie, he turned and started the loneliest walk in the world.

  TEN

  In the threadbare living room of a detached house in a dreary North London, the bomb-maker laid out the components in front of his son. The boy stared down at the coils of wire and the clips and switches uncomprehendingly. It had been a tense day for the bomb-maker, waiting to see if his ‘associates’ had succeeded in planting the Nottingham device. That they had was a source of great satisfaction.

  The bomb-maker had let his son sleep late. They had said the dhuhr prayer together and then had lunch. He was pleased to see the boy mouthing his du’a as he fed him. But was that just some muscle memory at work? It was hard to tell. Some days were better than others. They talked about the lad’s mother, his wife, and how she would have been disappointed by his version of ashak dumplings. There were many things the bomb-maker missed about Benesh but her wonderful food was near the top of the list.

  Then he had set up the laptop as instructed and found the live feed from the drone that was hovering just outside the exclusion zone. Chinese-made, it was a remarkable machine, able to zoom in on the moment of detonation and transmit pictures of remarkable clarity. His son had yelped with joy as the explosion momentarily overwhelmed the lens, resulting in an electronic whiteout, before the devastation came into view. Then, as expected, the secondary device had added to the death carnage.


  That was when he had spotted him, stumbling through debris, then disappearing from view, masked by a low fog of smoke. Riley was his name. Dominic Riley. ATO. He had texted the drone operator, telling him to find him and follow. The operator had located him, putting on the ridiculous suit that they thought would protect them from Allah’s wrath. He was on the screen at that very moment, a clumsy dot moving around the devastation, searching for another device.

  Although he didn’t know it, Riley was safe. There was no third device. Why hadn’t he been caught by the secondary? Whatever the reason for his tardiness, he would live to fight another day. And perhaps he would die on that one.

  He had to make the next bomb. There was always a next bomb.

  The boy – he still thought of him as a mere boy, although he would be twenty soon – now sat on the sofa, knees drawn up to his chest, while the master bomber got to work. He positioned the coffee table in front of the sofa and ran an extension lead to the nearest wall socket. He plugged in a soldering iron and arranged his wirecutters and crimpers in a neat line. He remembered how he used to enjoy sketching his diagrams, trying to think of new ways to create a trigger mechanism, new disguises that would fool the foreigners. Some little bauble that a curious soldier might bend and pick up, perhaps, or a football, just waiting to be kicked by one of a passing patrol.

  He had no diagram before him now. He didn’t need a schematic. He would go back to basics, which were all stored in his head. Nottingham had been his calling card. It looked as if it had caused the consternation and anguish he and his new friends – who had planted the devices and operated the drone – had hoped for. The downside would be that the authorities would now be on guard, waiting for the next strike. And, he thought as he pulled on the thin forensic gloves that would prevent contamination of the device, this was it. A change of tactic. Something different. Something more personal.

  ‘Look, my son, this is all we need. This little thing.’ He held up the packet containing a glass phial from which two wires protruded. ‘It can be bought mail order. Amazon. It is a switch. Used in cars. Think about when a car trunk opens and the light comes on. This makes it work. Very simple, very clever. Do you understand how it functions?’

  He looked at the lad, staring into his dark eyes for a response. None came. It was like looking at twin pools of the thickest diesel oil. And about as animated.

  ‘Inside the glass sphere are two contacts, which are a few millimetres apart. This will act as the switch. So, power will come from a battery to this wire. But while the two contacts are separated nothing will flow. From the second wire, we run to a detonator. The detonator, as you know, is the charge that will initiate the larger explosion from that special explosive over there.’ He pointed to the carrier bag the woman had delivered that morning.

  ‘All we have to do is find a way of connecting the two terminals in here. Then the circuit is complete. Allah’s work is done. Look, inside the sphere. Look at the silver blob.’ He handed the switch to the boy. Now there was something in his eyes, something alive as he tipped the transparent unit from side to side and watched the silver sphere roll over the glass, leaving no trace, like a liquidised ball bearing. A smile spread over his face. The bomb-maker was not surprised. The motion of the liquid metal was endlessly fascinating. He himself had spent many minutes watching it split apart and reform, as if it were some living organism.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ He gently prised the part from the lad’s fingers. The boy frowned and for a second he thought he might cry. ‘Here, hold these for me.’ He passed a pair of needle-nose pliers across. The lad began to snap the jaws together, as if he was holding a metal crocodile.

  The bomb-maker tested a piece of solder on the iron. It sizzled and released a filament of smoke. He breathed in the familiar fumes of tin and copper and felt a little buzz, as if he were inhaling a drug. The act of creation always excited him. ‘Come, my son,’ he said, ‘It is my fard, my obligation. Let us build a bomb for Allah. And for you.’

  ‘Bomb,’ the lad repeated, then caught the skin of his finger in the jaws of the pliers and began to howl in pain.

  SATURDAY

  ELEVEN

  ‘You see the blue wire? You can? Yes, don’t touch that. Okay? You mess with that, there’ll be hell to pay.’

  Riley took a sip of the coffee he had picked up at a service station on the M42. He was heading south in his less than pristine VW Passat, towards Ruby’s school, Crowley Hall. There was to be a show of some description, a chance to talk informally to tutors and then it was a three-week holiday for Easter. It always baffled him that holidays were longer when you had to pay for the school. Well, he didn’t pay. Izzy’s parents, the ones who thought she had married beneath her station in life, they footed the extortionate bills. He couldn’t really argue: his own grandparents had stumped up for the combined concentration camp and psychiatric hospital known as Royland Hall Middle School that he had once attended.

  ‘What next?’ came the voice over the car’s primitive comms kit.

  ‘Okay, Alf, listen up. I want you to take the red wire and strip the ends with the pliers.’ He waited. ‘Done? Okay. Insert that into the brass strip, at the far right. There should be a little screw to hold it down. Clear?’

  ‘Yes. Done.’

  ‘Right,’ Riley said to Alf, who was the caretaker/warden of Silver Lake, his mum’s care home. ‘You should have a working burglar alarm. Test it and get back to me if you have any problems.’

  ‘Thanks, Dom. I almost fused all of Nottingham this morning.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Tell Mum I’ll be in to see her as soon as I can.’ Not that she would remember.

  ‘Were you here for that bloody bomb yesterday?’ Everyone at the home knew what Riley did for a living. His mother broadcast it far and wide. Strange, she had never been keen to talk about having a son in the army when she had all her marbles. Dementia seemed to have unleashed some latent parental pride.

  ‘Just at the end.’

  ‘Bastards, eh?’

  There wasn’t much else to say. Nobody had a clear idea who the bastards were yet. The scene had been declared clear of further devices then sealed to all but the forensics, who were still picking over it. His work, for the moment, was done, even if the emotional shockwaves were still reverberating through him, catching him whenever his guard was down. ‘Yeah. Give me a bell if you need anything else on the alarm.’

  He killed the call.

  Silver Lake was costing her elderly parents a fortune. He had offered to help, but army pay was a pittance compared to what Grandpa had in the bank. The least he could do was help the care home with an alarm system. Although at the prices they charged, part of him thought they could get a pro company in, rather than get Alf to fit one from Costco.

  Riley finished his coffee, careful not to spill any on his best – and only – Paul Smith suit or the new white shirt. He felt surprisingly well, physically at least. After an unexpectedly good night’s sleep, his hearing was almost back to normal. Just a high-pitched whine, as if he had his own personal mosquito stationed on his shoulder. He could live with that. It would fade over time. He knew that one of the risks of being an ATO was NRHL – noise-related hearing loss. All the blowing things up. But it was the same for rock musicians and DJs and probably every kid plugged into his or her phone. Part of modern life.

  And what sort of damage were days like yesterday going to do to him beyond his hearing? The images of the dead and injured he had moved among were still etched on his retina – they would grow dim over time, but they had a tendency to return at unexpected moments, stronger than ever, like some false ending to a horror movie. Still, he couldn’t worry about the bill for days like that just yet. Nottingham would go into the dark vortex that blemished a corner of his soul, along with Nick Steele and a dozen other traumas. Maybe one day someone like Ms Carver could find it and empty it for him. Like pressing the trash button on a computer. But he wasn’t holding his breath for that one.
>
  Riley thought back to the telephone conversation he had had with the therapist before he left earlier that day. She had sounded terse, unhappy. After reviewing his notes, she had said, and in light of the previous day’s events, she had recommended his reinstatement to active duty. But only if he carried on with more sessions. And she reserved the right to suggest he be stood down once more if she became concerned about his mental state. Great, he said. Thank you.

  Don’t thank me… she had begun.

  Which confirmed what he had suspected. She had been leaned on from above. Maybe along the lines of ‘if you want to keep your valuable psych eval contract with the MoD, it might be an idea to put Staff Sergeant Dom Riley back into play’. In all likelihood it would have been subtler than that, but the end result would have been the same. He felt some quiet pride in the intervention. He was clearly too valuable to leave on the shelf when bombs were going off.

  Not that he had been such a hero at Nottingham. There had been no third device at Sillitoe Circus, which was a mercy. He had worked as quickly as the suit allowed, setting up a cleared path so that the victims could be carried down to ambulances. And later, when backup had finally arrived, he was able to hand over to another team and get out of the torture suit.

  He had been in that outfit for more than an hour by then and was suffering the first signs of heat stress. But before he left the scene, he had found something that looked familiar jammed into the tread of his boots. It was in his jacket pocket now, wrapped in plastic. He should have had it bagged and tagged with all the other stuff and sent to the bomb data people, but there was still time for that. He needed it now as a visual prompt for his memory. He still couldn’t recall where the hell he had seen the yellow- and purple-striped wire before. But it would come to him.