by Adam Baker
She scooped shell cases from the floor. Fresh bullets among scorched brass.
‘They ejected a bunch of rounds. Misfires. Weapons overheated and jammed.’
‘But who would try to overrun a couple of guys armed with AKs? What kind of maniac runs into that shitstorm? Even Taliban would hang back.’
‘Maybe they went nuts. Heatstroke. Cabin fever. Started shooting at thin air.’
‘Two guys? A shared madness?’
‘It happens.’
‘Want to ask Jabril? See what he has to say?’
‘He’s full of shit.’
Lucy raked her fingers through spent cartridges. She could almost hear it, smell it. The ghost of battle. Gunsmoke and stuttering muzzle flame. Men crazed with terror, frantically struggling to free the bolts of malfunctioning weapons.
‘The more I see of this place, the less I like it,’ said Lucy. ‘Every instinct tells me to forget the gold and get the hell out of here.’
‘We need this, boss. We got old. All of us. This is our last war. It’s time to cash out.’
Toon unclipped his earpiece and let it hang. He didn’t want to hear any more of Jabril’s ghost stories. He sat with his back to the rampart wall. He wiped sweat from his eyes. Couldn’t get used to the heat.
He looked up. Brilliant azure.
Years ago, back in Tennessee, he and his buddies stole a bottle of Dickel whisky from a liquor store. They told the young cashier someone was messing with his car. They snatched booze as he looked out the back door.
They got drunk in a field. They lay looking at the night sky. Toon was mesmerised by the stars. It was a hot night, but he felt a chill. Gazing up at a trillion miles of black nothing. He thought about it the next day. It was like an anti-heaven. A horrible, celestial absence. Beyond the blue skies of summer lay eternal cold and endless night.
He drank whisky a lot these days. Sat in the Riv until they threw him out and locked the doors. He got fucked up and hoped he wouldn’t dream.
Intolerable heat. He wiped his face with his sweat towel and draped it over his head like a keffiyeh.
He hooked his earpiece back in place.
‘How’s it going, guys? Are we done, or what?’
Lucy and Huang walked up the central avenue: a wide, paved boulevard that swept from the citadel gate to the doorway of the main temple building.
Easy to imagine a solemn torch-lit procession. Chanting priests in robes and brass lamentation masks ready to prostrate themselves before their sinister god.
The temple facade. A titanic structure. Huge pillars. Twin bull colossi.
Lucy and Huang stood in the high temple doorway and peered into darkness. They cast long shadows across the flagstones.
They walked inside. They let their eyes adjust to the gloom.
A vast chamber. A vaulted roof. Eight gargantuan pillars inscribed with cryptic hieroglyphs and the outline of monstrous hybrid man-beasts.
Steps led to a raised sanctuary. A massive, snarling bull above the altar.
Lucy and Huang walked up the aisle of the cavernous, aeons-dead hall. Heavy boot-falls echoed and amplified.
They climbed time-worn steps to the altar. Lucy ran her hands over the stone. Black obsidian. Blood channels cut in the rock.
‘Perhaps they sacrificed cattle,’ said Huang.
‘Could you coax a bull onto this table? No. Something a little more portable was laid on this altar and sliced.’
‘I’d fight until my last breath.’
‘Maybe they were a willing sacrifice. Maybe it was an honour. All dressed up in a fancy robe. Consecrated to the gods. They chewed a little opium and climbed on the slab feeling like a big shot.’
‘Sick motherfuckers.’
Lucy shrugged.
‘I’ve seen worse. I saw a guy walk up to a checkpoint and trigger a suicide vest. One of those volunteers from Saudi. A zealot pumped full of jihad. Big-arse smile on his face, ready for paradise. So eager to press the button he didn’t take anyone with him. Threw his life away, just to scorch a little asphalt. I watched his head bounce fifty yards down the road. Fuck it. We’re standing here with guns in our hands and knives in our belts. Humans haven’t changed. Still driven by our savage gods.’
Lucy took out her radio.
‘Advance team to Bad Moon, over?’
Gaunt’s voice:
‘Go ahead.’
‘We have reached the objective. Get ready to roll. We’ll call you in and pop smoke, over.’
‘Roger that.’
Jabril sat with Amanda on the ledge.
‘I spoke to your black friend,’ said Jabril. ‘He said you had killed many men.’
‘Yeah.’
Amanda didn’t take her eye from the sniper scope.
‘You must see them close up, through your telescopic sight. See their faces, the sweat on their brows.’
‘First time I popped a guy in the head, I didn’t sleep for a week. We were stationed at a Forward Observation Base in As Salman. Yellow Nine. A makeshift fort in the middle of a shitty neighbourhood. We took mortar fire most days. I kept watch from a guard tower.
‘A couple of rounds dropped in the vehicle yard one afternoon. We couldn’t see the mortar crew. They were shielded by buildings. But I could see a young guy in the street holding a cellphone. He was talking to his militia buddies, supervising fire adjustment. He thought he was safe, thought we wouldn’t shoot because he didn’t have a gun in his hand. I centred my crosshairs on his forehead. Should have gone for a chest shot, centre-of-mass, just to be sure. But it was my first kill. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to do it right. And he looked up. Three hundred yards away, but I swear he saw me in the guard tower and looked me right in the eye. I blew his head apart. Neat drill hole through the cranium. Back of his skull flew off.
‘The grunt sitting beside me in the sangar recorded it on his phone. Low-res bone and brain. Red pixel blur. He showed the whole platoon. That little phone clip turned me into the garrison rock star. I was high on adrenalin for a week. I got “One Shot, One Kill” tattooed on my shoulder. I got “Death From Afar” tattooed on my ass. Did it jailhouse-style. Lay on my bunk and got ink pricked beneath my skin with a hot needle. A week later, I crashed. Hit the booze. Popped a few pills. Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about the dead guy. His parents, his kids.
‘Second time was a little better. Same emotions. Euphoria then depression. But a little less intense, a little less drawn out. After that, killing a guy was like switching off a light. That’s the sad truth. Once you cross the line, it’s easy.’
Jabril lit a cigarette. He offered the pack to Amanda. She shook her head.
‘How about you?’ she asked. ‘Ever killed a man?’
‘With my own hands? No. I never have.’
‘Your voice says different.’
Lucy:
‘The temple is clear. Meet us at the gate house. Let’s find this fucking gold.’
The Convoy
Fading light. A violet sky dusted with evening stars.
Lucy checked her watch.
‘Looks like we’ll be spending the night.’
Lucy and Huang walked between the vehicles of the burned-out convoy. Blackened hulks cast long shadows in the gathering gloom. The vehicles ticked and creaked as fierce noonday heat abated and the metal began to cool.
The whirlwind of flame that engulfed the trucks and Jeeps had long since died, but they could still smell the conflagration. The ghost-taint of melted rubber and scorched flesh.
They could see jumbled bone inside the vehicles. A clutter of skulls and ribs in the foot well of incinerated sedans.
They were both familiar with gasoline fires and the flesh-stink of street explosions.
During her time in the regular army Lucy had frequently been ordered to overcome panic and run towards the screaming mayhem of a recent car bomb. She was instructed to clear wounded and check for secondaries. She jostled against a tide of fleeing civilians, and headed towards the sm
oke and screams. Later, she joined fellow infantrymen on their hands and knees as they grid-searched street wreckage, ignoring dark and glossy pools of blood, severed hands and feet, as she searched for scraps of circuit board or lengths of wire that might betray the provenance of the suicide device.
Lucy checked the back of a troop truck. Jumbled bodies. Crisped flesh.
Charred banana clips scattered among bone.
‘Most of these trucks were loaded with AK ammunition boxes. Shells must have cooked off in the fire. Popped like firecrackers. Spat bullets all over the place.’
‘Fucking shitstorm.’
They looked beneath the truck. A body curled foetal, hands over its head.
‘Could do with a drink,’ muttered Lucy. ‘A real one.’
‘Could do with a fucking joint,’ said Huang.
A couple of armoured personnel carriers, interiors scorched carbon-black.
A row of old impalas. Doors hung open. Seats burned down to springs.
A bunch of five-ton trucks, the ex-Soviet junk that comprised most of Saddam’s hardware.
Lucy examined the hood of one of the trucks. The front of the vehicle had melted. The fender and grill reduced to a puddle of metal in the sand. The front of the engine block hung in drips.
‘Someone threw thermite grenades.’
They walked down an avenue of junkyard wreckage. Their boots crunched on glass.
Lucy looked into the rear of an APC. Bench seats burned to metal frames.
Huang reached inside and lifted the lid of a wooden trunk with his rifle barrel. A melted Samsonite suitcase. Rolled prayer mats, Scorched Reeboks and bedding.
‘Ever done a house clearance?’ asked Huang. ‘People’s shit always looks small and pathetic after they are dead. The stuff they leave behind.’
Lucy pulled the long-range radio from her backpack. An ICOM wide-band hand-set the size of a brick. She extended the antenna.
‘Bad Moon, do you copy over?’
Gaunt:
‘Go ahead.’
‘The objective site is clear. Bring in the choppers.’
‘Roger that.’
They kept walking.
‘Check it out,’ said Huang.
The incinerated frame of a Land Rover Defender. Full off-road custom kit. Winch, snorkel exhaust, ram bars.
Lucy picked a licence plate from the sand.
‘Fresh out of a Kuwait showroom.’
The tailgate hung open. The cargo compartment was bare.
Huang bent down. Broken sunglasses. He shook them free of sand. Oakleys.
‘Want me to put Jabril in a headlock?’ asked Huang. ‘Find out what really happened?’
‘I don’t care what went down. Jabril is welcome to his secrets. I hate this damn country. I don’t give a shit about the Iraqi people. I don’t want to hear about their history, their fucked-up politics and feuds. I’m here to make money. I’m here for the gold. That’s my only concern.’
They continued their search, weaving between burned-out cars.
Toon repositioned the SAW to give coverage of the convoy. He could see the distant figures of Lucy and Huang walking between the wrecked cars. Jabril and Amanda climbed the tower steps and stood beside him.
‘You’re damn sure none of your buddies are lying in wait?’
‘How could anyone survive out here?’ said Jabril.
‘You said the ruins were haunted. Some of your men saw ghosts. Phantoms moving along the battlements at night.’
‘Youngsters. Superstitious farm boys. They joined the army because it was a better life than herding goats. This battalion were supposedly elite Republican Guard but plenty of them could barely read and write. Some wore bone amulets to ward off the jinn that haunt the wilderness.’
‘You believe any of that shit?’
Jabril shrugged.
‘Can’t help feeling we’re not alone in this valley,’ said Amanda. ‘Lucy is right. There are eyes on us all the time.’
‘Look around,’ said Jabril. ‘This is the deadest place on earth.’
Lucy knelt next to a Chrysler and examined bodywork. A door panel. She pushed her forefinger into a bullet hole.
‘Big-arse holes. Fifty cal. Uniform direction of fire. Punctures on the left side of the vehicles, ragged exits on the right. Nice spray. Methodical. Each vehicle hosed down. I’m guessing the shooters took out trucks front and back. After that, everyone was trapped, boxed in. Easy meat. Soldiers took cover behind the cars but got cut to shit anyway. Fuel fires. Explosions. I reckon if we explored that valley wall we would find a couple of gun positions. A shitload of brass.’
‘But why throw phosphorus grenades?’ asked Huang. ‘They killed everyone. The convoy was on fire. Why toss thermite? Lot of time and trouble. What did they want to burn?’
‘Perhaps they wanted to cover their tracks. Wipe out forensics.’
‘Maybe.’
Lucy kicked a pile of rags. Shreds of olive green camo clothing. Army boots baked crisp by the desert sun.
Jumbled bone. A skull rolled loose.
‘Check it out.’
An empty can of gasoline. A Zippo held in a skeletal hand.
‘Fucker burned himself alive. Maybe Jabril was telling the truth. Fear. Paranoia. Maybe they drove each other crazy.’
‘It’s getting dark,’ said Amanda. ‘Let’s find the truck.’
They reached the rear of the convoy.
An armoured truck. It was boxed by automobiles.
She pressed the transmit button on her chest rig.
‘Jabril? You there?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I think I’ve found the gold.’
‘You should be looking at a big American armoured car. The kind they use for making cash and coin deliveries to banks. It was exported to Iraq before sanctions began.’
Lucy jumped on the hood. She crouched. She spat on her hand, reached down behind heavy ram bars and rubbed the grille badge clean.
FORD.
It was a bank vault on wheels. A three-seat cab up front and a hardened steel cargo compartment. Two rear axles. The vault door was secured by combination locks.
‘Looks like she got shot up pretty good. How much do you reckon this thing weighs?’
‘About fifteen tons. Twelve tons for the truck, three for the gold. It was hard to ship it across the desert. It continually sank in the sand. We had to attach chains and drag it with a couple of armoured personnel carriers.’
‘Toon. Got your binoculars?’
‘I can see you, boss.’
‘Reckon we can cut this fucker open?’
‘No problem. Chew through that door with our teeth if it comes down to it.’
Toon stood at the guard tower parapet. He surveyed the convoy.
Lucy’s voice:
‘Toon, get down here. Mandy. You too. We got to shift some of these cars.’
‘Two seconds, boss.’
He trained his binoculars on a troop bus.
‘Thought I saw something.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Movement. Thought I saw movement. Corner of my eye. A flicker. Down there, among the cars. Can’t pin it down.’
Toon rubbed his eyes. He scanned burned-out trucks, a couple of wrecked 4x4s.
‘Sorry, boss. Trick of the light.’
‘All right. Ten-four. Stay sharp.’
A furtive shadow. Something shifting in the burned-out bus.
‘Shit. We got mail,’ shouted Toon.
He cranked the charging handle of the SAW and let rip. Muzzle roar. The weapon kicked. Recoil made his flesh shiver. Smoking cartridge cases cascaded onto the flagstones, clink and chime. Bullets slammed into the troop transport at two hundred rounds per minute. The vehicle trembled and sparked as bullets pierced the body panels.
‘What have we got?’ shouted Lucy. ‘Are we taking fire?’
Toon grabbed his binoculars from the parapet ledge and scanned the bus. Dust and smoke slowly dispersed. Ragged
bullet holes glowed dull red.
‘What the fuck is going on? Hostiles? Do we have hostiles? Come on, man. Talk to me.’
He hooked a fresh box mag to the SAW. He clipped a belt into the breach and slapped the receiver closed.
‘Standby. I’m going to take a look.’
Lucy and Huang took shelter behind wrecked vehicles. Machine-gun fire echoed round the valley walls. They could hear the punch and shriek of bullets ripping through steel bodywork.
Flashback: Sergeant Miller, lecturing Lucy and her platoon on Imber Live Firing Range, Salisbury. A dummy village used to simulate urban warfare.
‘If you ever find yourself in a street fight, don’t be stupid enough to hide behind a car door. Sheet metal won’t stop a crossbow bolt, let alone a high-velocity bullet. If you need to crouch behind a vehicle, get low and put the engine block between yourself and the shooter. Safe in your mother’s arms.’
The gunfire ceased. The echo died slow. Sudden silence.
‘What’s he doing?’ shouted Huang.
Lucy looked over the buckled hood of a Lincoln. She saw the distant figure of Toon run from the guard tower. He was carrying the SAW. He ran to the convoy.
Lucy pressed transmit.
‘Toon? What the fuck is going on?’
Breathless:
‘Something out here. Swear to God.’
‘Think he’s lost it?’ asked Huang.
Lucy sighed.
‘Go look after him.’
Toon climbed aboard the incinerated bus. Rows of seats scorched down to springs. He walked down the centre aisle. Weak daylight shafted through empty windows and bullet holes that peppered the side panels and roof.
He wanted to find something. A snake. A dead vulture. Some kind of desert rodent. Proof he hadn’t lost his mind.
A body at the back of the bus. A long-dead Iraqi soldier, charred and shrivelled, spine arched in a paroxysm of pain.
Amanda climbed aboard the bus.
‘You okay?’
Toon shook his head.
‘I saw something. For real.’
‘Maybe the breeze.’
‘There isn’t a breeze.’
