Killsong

by Mark Mannock

  “You what?”

  “I know where they are. Well, at least I think I do.”

  “Mr. Sharp and Mr. Greatrex, how nice to see you.” It was the voice of the very persistent Major Jacobs. “I was hoping we could catch up.”

  “Hello, major,” I said. Greatrex nodded. Why did I feel we were about to have the “further little talk” that we were promised yesterday at the crash site?

  “I hope you have both recovered from yesterday’s ordeal. It must have been very tough for a couple of civilian musician types.”

  We both nodded.

  “But perhaps not so tough for a couple of former Marines, including a sniper with a more than outstanding track record.”

  As ever, I looked to Greatrex for a cue. As ever, he shrugged.

  “I think you’ve been going through some personnel files, major.” I said.

  “I have.”

  My turn to shrug. “Okay, major, let’s talk.” For the second time in twenty-four hours, Nicholas Sharp, This is Your Life.

  Greatrex and I explained as much as we reasonably could to Major Jacobs, but it wasn’t much. Just background, really. There was, of course, a lot more we couldn’t explain to him, including everything about Giles Winter and the weapon samples. After we finished, he paused.

  “So, it is just coincidence that you two are in Iraq as part of this USO tour. There is nothing more at play here?”

  I can shoot, I can play piano, I can talk, and I can even fight, but the one thing I always have trouble with is a straight-out lie. So I found something interesting to look at on the ground. Greatrex must have found the something interesting too.

  “I thought so,” continued Jacobs. “Nothing more you would care to enlighten me about?”

  The ground was still interesting. I felt bad; for some reason I felt all right about this man. I wanted to trust him, but I didn’t have much trust left in me.

  “I thought not.” Jacobs was winding up. “Based on your actions yesterday, and what I read in your military files, you two are men to be trusted. The problem is I am not very trusting. Not taking people and events at face value is an occupational trait.”

  I could relate to that.

  “Gentlemen, consider yourselves on a very short leash. I do not want unnecessary trouble here under my watch.”

  He turned and began to walk off. I wasn’t sure what was worse, that we couldn’t or wouldn’t confide in him or that he was being so fair with us. As soon as the major was out of earshot I looked to Greatrex for support.

  “We could use some help and local knowledge,” he said quietly. “There is no one else.”

  “Can we trust him?” That was the million-dollar question. “I don’t need to remind you what is at stake here.”

  “Take a Yoda moment. What is your gut telling you about this man?” asked Greatrex.

  I looked up at Major Grant Jacobs, ten yards distant and walking away, his back to us.

  “Ah, major, do you have a couple more minutes?”

  He stopped and turned toward us.

  “There may be a couple of small points we left out,” I continued.

  A small, welcoming smile appeared on the major’s face as he strode back toward us.

  “Of course,” he said. “I’m all ears.”

  I began. Greatrex joined in and filled in details at the appropriate times. For better or worse we told Major Grant Jacobs about Giles Winter, about Leyla and Amira … about everything.

  Twenty minutes later, standing in the middle of that square, I felt a sense of relief. It may have been the exaggerated aftereffects of yesterday’s traumas, but I knew we had been feeling the weight of keeping all this information to ourselves for too long. By talking to Jacobs, we knew we had no answers, but at least we had another head looking at the situation from all angles, maybe fresh angles. Jacobs also knew his way around the very complicated international politics and people that make up Taji Base.

  The major was at first speechless, almost as if trying to decide whether to believe our wild story. Then, as if making his decision, “You two appear to have an impossible task: your friends die or many more people are put at risk.”

  “That had occurred to us,” Greatrex replied.

  “Our only hope, and it is faint, is to try and get ahead of this thing and outplay Winter, but he is a smart man. So far, we have had little success,” I ventured.

  “You mentioned you thought you knew where the samples may be. Can you share this information?”

  “I wouldn’t mind hearing an answer to that question myself,” said Greatrex.

  I shrugged—more of a sag, really. I almost wished I hadn’t shot my mouth off about this. Too late now.

  “Well, it’s more of a theory than a statement of fact,” I began.

  “Please continue.” The Greatrex half-smile again.

  “Okay, well, it seems to me that when the coalition forces invaded Iraq and took control in Operation Iraqi Freedom there were several important factors; these included the obvious military aspect of making ground and getting rid of Saddam, but there was more to it.”

  I could see I had their attention.

  “We had to persuade the Iraqi people that we were the good guys, win their hearts and minds, as they say. Part of this was making sure we minimized any cultural offense that we caused their people.”

  “Yes, correct, of course, but how does this help us locate samples of chemical weapons and nerve agents?” A fair question from Greatrex.

  “Well, the one thing we couldn’t afford to do was disrespect the Iraqi people’s religious beliefs. If we did that, we would never be forgiven, and we may as well have gone home.”

  “So, you think the hiding place for these samples has some religious connotation?” Jacobs was proving to be a very smart man, and I hoped, a good ally.

  “Right.”

  “Saddam Hussein believed in Sunni Islam, at least outwardly, because that was his powerbase,” observed Greatrex.

  “Correct,” I continued. “So it occurred to me that the safest place to store a small package of formulas, nerve agents, and chemical weapons would be under some sort of religious sanctuary.”

  “You mean a religious figure would have them?” asked the major.

  “No, people come and go, especially in times of conflict. What I mean is I believe that the package is on this base, in or under a building that has been used for religious purposes. It would be a building the coalition investigators would be reluctant to demolish or invade out of religious respect.”

  “It would also be small enough not to be investigated as a storage location for larger amounts of chemical weapons,” added Greatrex.

  Now we were on a roll.

  Greatrex and I looked to the major—local knowledge required.

  “Do you have any ideas?” I asked him.

  Considering it was less than an hour ago that Major Jacobs had no knowledge of the situation at all, he seemed to be rising to the occasion, if still a bit reluctantly, as a true professional would.

  “I have a few possibilities. Give me two hours to look into it, and I will get back to you.” Confidence.

  I was satisfied with that. Jacobs turned to go.

  “Oh, by the way,” he continued, “I nearly forgot, I have a message for you. It came through to our comms center while you were at Al-Qa’im.” The major reached into his pocket, produced a folded piece of paper, and passed it to me.

  It read, “Call me as soon as you can. It may be important.” It was signed Kenny M. Kenny Medina.

  I passed it to Greatrex. Although this was a bit surprising, I knew immediately that I needed to contact Kenny ASAP. I also knew civilian communication was very limited in Iraq.

  “Major, one more request before you go.” Again, Major Jacobs stopped mid-stride. “Can I use your communications center to contact someone in LA? It could be important.”

  “In normal circumstances that wouldn’t be a problem,” he responded. “Sadly, we are c
urrently in ‘River City’ due to the deaths of the servicemen on your sojourn yesterday.”

  “River City” was the military code word for “reduced communications.” In the modern days of the internet and social media it meant that communication with home was cut off for all personnel except for essential operational matters. Cases had occurred where families of servicemen killed in the theater of war had found out from wives of their colleagues about the death of their loved ones before qualified military support personnel were able to get to them. In one case a wife had found out about her husband’s death on Facebook. The “River City” blackout gave the military support system time to swing into action.

  “Understood,” said Greatrex. We both knew about the blackout policy.

  “How incredibly convenient for Giles Winter,” I said. “Once again, the opportunist is given a free pass.” Damn!

  22

  It was early afternoon by the time Greatrex and I made it back to our barracks. We were not allowing ourselves a lot of hope of sorting this mess, but at least we had another ally on board. Risky as it was, we hoped Major Grant Jacobs could be helpful. We knew we were facing a very uncertain next twenty-four hours.

  As we walked into our building, we found it in chaos. People were running everywhere, sorting gear and instruments. It seemed to be a state of panic.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Barry Flannigan.

  “Elliot Brooks was just here. It seems winds are going to go crazy from about 1 a.m. and continue through the following day and night. They’ve decided to bring the concert forward twenty-four hours. The show will be tonight.”

  “Tonight. Can we get it set up in time?” I asked no one in particular.

  “They are bringing in extra military riggers to help,” Brain Pitt responded. “They reckon they can have us on stage by seven-thirty.”

  “Shit, I haven’t even checked any of the gear that was in the crash yesterday,” said Greatrex. “That includes your Nord piano.”

  He didn’t need to remind me that was the keyboard with our “special compartment.”

  “I’ll see to it now.” And he was off.

  The rest of the afternoon became a model of frantic organization and disorganization as crew, military, and musicians worked frantically to make the show happen in time. I joined them.

  By four, the stage was built, and the crew were setting up the lights, PA, and stage gear. By six we were ready to go. Unbelievable.

  Brooks addressed our pre-show briefing in the mess hall at six-fifteen. “Well, we’ve done it folks; we’re ready to rock, literally.” A round of applause.

  I thought about the cultural gap between the military and the music industry that I had worried about earlier in the tour. When a job needed to be done, there was no gap.

  “We’ve managed to get word out regarding the change in time; there are some advantages of existing in a relatively small community,” he continued. “People are starting to arrive already. The show starts at 7.30 p.m. and should be over by ten. Our crew and the army riggers will pull everything except the stage down as soon as you finish. We should be clear by midnight, a good hour before the sandstorm hits.”

  “What about the gear that was in the helicopter crash?” It was Brian.

  “We’ve salvaged enough to make the show work tonight.”

  Greatrex looked over at me. He had already told me that my keyboards were all right.

  The buzz began to grow. This was one of the biggest shows of the tour, and everyone was getting excited.

  “One more thing.” It was Brooks again. “After the show, everyone is expected to go straight back to their rooms. The sandstorm will certainly last the rest of the night and possibly most of the next day. These storms can be violent. We don’t want to lose anyone.”

  Brooks seemed to have a short memory. I thought of those we had lost on this tour already. I didn’t want to lose anyone else.

  Several hours later I was standing at the side of the stage with the rest of the band, waiting to go on. I looked out to a sea of expectant faces. Again, the enthusiasm was high. It was well and truly dark, but lights from the scaffold towers lit the space. A few hours ago, this felt like a parade ground; now it felt like an arena.

  Greatrex was making the final adjustments to my keyboards. He and I had arranged to catch up with Major Jacobs straight after the show. The major had let us know he had some information for us, but in all the hectic preparations with the change of show times, we hadn’t been able to meet. We had to prioritize the show over the meeting because we knew we were being watched. We still didn’t know by whom.

  I noticed that the wind was picking up, but nothing to worry about yet.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning around I immediately recognized the smiling face of Chief Warrant Officer Juan Santino, our Pave Hawk copilot. He put his hand out to shake. I took it but hugged him as well. Not very military-like.

  “I just wanted to say thank you, Mr. Sharp. Without you and Mr. Greatrex doing what you did, well, we would have been in deep trouble out there yesterday.”

  “You’re a brave man, Juan,” I responded. “You kept your cool under extreme pressure. I think we had the easy job.”

  “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. If there is anything I can ever do—”

  I didn’t let him finish. “What you can do for me is have a great life. We all got a second chance yesterday, or at least most of us did.” I paused. “Make the most of what’s ahead.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” came the announcement over the speakers, “please welcome the Robbie West Band.”

  “Better go,” I said. We shook hands again before I turned toward the stage. I was feeling quite emotional, and a little inspired. Time to let the magic happen.

  From the first chord of the first song, the crowd went wild. They were screaming, dancing, and singing along. What a way to earn a living. I looked out on the floodlit arena. Now I was on stage, I had a much better view of who made up our audience. There were coalition military personnel, of course, but also many people out of uniform. I presumed these to be civilian contractors, brave people to come here for work. What really stood out to me were the Iraqi troops standing alongside our own. They seemed to be enjoying themselves just as much as our people. It never ceased to amaze me—the powerful hold music has on humanity. Differences seemed to be cast aside. I was proud to be part of a night like this; it was just special. Truth be known, this was just what we all needed right now.

  Robbie was in his usual fine form, making friends and winning hearts. Everyone seemed to know all his songs. They sang along with heartfelt voices to the ballads, danced to the up-tempo rock tunes, and joined Robbie in every chorus through the set. By halfway through the show we were all bathed in sweat, working hard, and loving every second of it. It was, however, a little gut-wrenching when we played one of the songs that young Corporal Evan Taylor had played with us the day before. Forevermore, this would be his song. We talked about not including it because it could be hard emotionally. We had, though, been told we couldn’t dedicate a song to Evan until the communication ban was over, so we played his song with his memory in our hearts. I don’t think there was a musician on stage without a tear in their eye. Music as therapy.

  We started the final song. It was the same one we ended the show with at the US embassy. Was that only a couple of days ago? So much had happened since then. Again, I started with resounding chords on the piano before the rest of the band joined me. Way too soon, Robbie was hitting his final notes, as powerful as ever.

  I didn’t want this to be over. I didn’t want it to be over because the atmosphere was uplifting. I didn’t want it to be over because this is what I do. I also didn’t want this to be over because as the winds picked up, I felt they were not only heralding the arrival of a colossal sand storm; I feared they were also ushering in a dangerous and disturbing night for Jack Greatrex and me.

  It’s an ill wind …

  23

>   It was almost midnight. Jack Greatrex, Major Grant Jacobs, and I were sitting in the major’s office. Greatrex and I were perched on chairs either side of his desk. The show had been packed up in record time, which was just as well because we could hear the winds increasing as they violently whipped sand into the buildings outside. Greatrex and I had gone back to our quarters after the show, as instructed. We hadn’t stayed there very long. By now our fellow musicians were getting a little used to our “extra-curricular” activities and didn’t hesitate to agree to cover for us if anyone came knocking. Not that anyone would in these conditions.

  “I have some ideas as to the location you are looking for, gentlemen. According to your hypothesis, Mr. Sharp, it could be one of four locations …”

  I interrupted the major.

  “I know which one,” I said confidently.

  “But you haven’t even looked at the alternatives yet.” The major was becoming a little irritated with me.

  “I don’t need to,” I said. I then produced a piece of paper from my pocket and put it on the desk. The other two stared at a series of figures on the paper.

  “GPS coordinates,” observed the major.

  “Where and when did you get these?” asked Greatrex, a more than fair question.

  “Well, there’s the thing,” I said. “We were expecting a tap on the shoulder, a word from Winter’s man. What we got was an envelope stuck inside the door of my locker in our room. I found it after the show. I hadn’t had a chance to tell you yet.”

  “Well, there you go. Now we know,” said Greatrex, maybe a little miffed.

  “We will in a minute,” said Major Jacobs. He was calling up a satellite search program on his computer. He input the coordinates from the paper. “Got it,” he said, as he moved his laptop so we could all see the screen.

  We looked on as the major explained.

  “This is one of the possibilities I had on my list.” He seemed a tiny bit pleased with himself.

  “What is it exactly?” I asked. “And where is it within the camp?”