Juggernaut (outpost)

by Adam Baker

  Huang was pale and sweating. His lips were blue.

  Blood trickled down Raphael’s face. He wiped his eyes. He spat.

  Huang pulled the trigger. Click. Jammed. He threw the pistol. It bounced off Raphael’s shoulder.

  Raphael struggled to aim his automatic. He tried to squeeze the trigger. The pistol slid through bloody fingers like wet soap and fell in the dirt alongside his rifle.

  Raphael staggered to the chopper and fell against the fuselage. He slid along riveted aluminium to the pilot cabin and hauled himself inside. He flicked toggle switches. He wiped blood from his eyes. A gentle whine built to a scream as the rotor began to spin up.

  Lucy and Voss stood among the citadel ruins. They surveyed a vista of moonlit rubble. Cloisters and courtyards. Jagged pillars. Half-fallen archways.

  Amanda’s voice over the radio:

  ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘We’ve got problems. I need you to guard the truck, all right? Look out for Jabril.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘If Gaunt comes calling, shoot him in the fucking face.’

  ‘Ten four.’

  Lucy turned to Voss.

  ‘He won’t go far,’ said Lucy. ‘We’ve got the gold. We’ve got the choppers. He’s got no food or water. There’s nowhere for him to run.’

  ‘He’s still armed. The little shit will pick us off if he gets the chance.’

  ‘Let’s get back to the temple. We can send Mandy out here with the nightscope. Should even the odds. Put her up one of the guard towers. One man among all this stone. He’ll stand out like neon.’

  ‘Tell her to knee-cap the fuck. Shoot him in the gut, or something. I want him to suffer.’

  They heard the escalating whine of Talon preparing for dust-off.

  ‘Damn. Raphael.’

  ‘Motherfucker.’

  They sprinted back towards the main courtyard.

  Lucy ran towards the chopper. She was dazzled by light, blasted by a squalling dust storm. She glimpsed Raphael through cockpit glass. She waved her arms. She made cut-throat, shut-off gestures. She shouted to be heard over rising engine noise.

  Escalating RPMs. Shredded netting wound round the rotor mast.

  ‘Kill the fucking engine. You’re losing the rotor.’

  Raphael glimpsed Lucy. She was caught in the nose-light glare, battling to stay upright in typhoon wind. She was shouting. He couldn’t hear words.

  He pulled back the collective. He fumbled pitch control. The chopper rose and hovered.

  He clawed blood from his eyes. The helicopter drifted backward as he tried to clear his vision. The tail rotor threatened to slice into the side of Bad Moon like the blade of a table saw.

  Huang rolled out of the cargo compartment. He tumbled from the doorway and hooked a skid with his arm. He hung, legs swinging, then dropped onto flagstones.

  The gearbox beneath the snarled rotor mast began to vent smoke. Alarms. Transmission pressure. BIM warning. Loss of hydraulic power.

  Raphael blinked and shook his head. He tried to see straight. He tried to focus. He nudged the cyclic control with his knee and the chopper lurched forward, gathering speed.

  Lucy threw herself to the ground. She covered her head. Dazzling light and cyclone wind as the Huey skimmed overhead. Rotor-wash tugged her clothes.

  Chopper skids raked the flagstones, jetting sparks. Raphael cleared his vision, just as the helicopter slammed into the stump of a massive granite column.

  Metal shriek. Explosion of glass. The chopper’s nose crumpled, crushing Raphael’s legs.

  The Huey rolled on its side. The rotor blades sparked on flagstones then fragmented, strafing the compound with jagged shrapnel. The engine screamed high-revs then died. The broken knuckle of the rotor mast slowed to a stop.

  Lucy could hear the glug of spilled liquid. Voss shone his flashlight. Fuel and hydraulic fluid washed across the paving slabs. Pungent stink of diesel.

  The transmission assembly began to smoke and spark.

  ‘Fuck. We could lose both choppers.’

  Lucy searched through gear discarded from the Hueys. Bench seats and life preservers. She threw debris aside. She snatched up an extinguisher and ran back to Talon. She pulled the pin and directed a jet of foam into the main rotor housing.

  She tossed the spent extinguisher.

  Huang sat on flagstones. He looked down at his vest. A fine splatter of blood, bone chips and tufts of hair.

  ‘Christ.’

  Voss gave him a do-rag. He clumsily wiped Toon’s blood from his arms and face.

  A boot protruded from beneath a bundle of tarpaulin. Lucy hauled canvas from the body. Her torch lit Toon’s pulped head. A glistening mess.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ said Voss. ‘Cover him up. I can’t look at him.’

  She lay Toon’s sweat towel over his shattered face. A dark stain spread across the fabric as blood soaked into the towel.

  ‘We take him back,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Might be tricky,’ said Voss. He gestured to Bad Moon.

  Lucy shone her flashlight over the second Huey. A chunk of rotor had speared the windshield and shattered the centre console. Flight controls reduced to a mess of wire and circuit boards.

  ‘Christ. Looks like we’re walking home.’

  Lucy examined the wrecked avionics.

  ‘Might be fixable.’

  ‘And who would fly it?’

  ‘Gaunt.’

  ‘Forget it, Bokkie. No way am I cutting a deal with that fuck. He dies, no matter what the cost.’

  ‘You want to cross the desert on foot? It’s big as Texas. Bigger. Anyone we meet is likely to be a Wahabi fuck itching to slit our damn throats. We’d never make it back to Baghdad. And what about Huang? He can barely walk twenty paces. You want to carry him on your back? Leave him behind? Put a pistol in his hand as a mercy? We’re all fucked unless we get airborne. We have to find Gaunt and cut a deal. See if he can fix this thing. I don’t like it. It makes me sick. But we don’t have a choice. He’ll be hiding nearby. Skulking in the shadows. We’ll get Mandy out here with the nightscope.’

  Lucy hit the pressel switch on her webbing.

  ‘Hey, babe.’

  No reply.

  ‘Come in, Mandy.’

  No reply.

  ‘Mandy, respond, over.’

  No reply.

  ‘Mandy, what the fuck is going on?’

  Nothing but static hiss in Lucy’s earpiece. She headed for light shafting from the temple entrance. She started to run.

  Hostage

  Amanda crouched at the back of the vault and nursed her broken nose. Blood and snot trickled between her fingers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jabril. He sat with his back to the door.

  The door was wedged shut. A knife blade jammed between internal handles. Jabril’s hook lay discarded on the plate floor. He held a rusted grenade in his left hand. He had pulled the pin with his teeth. If he released his grip the strike lever would flip and trigger the four-second fuse.

  ‘I’m truly sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  Amanda pulled Kleenex from her pocket. She blew. She spat.

  ‘Jumped by a cripple.’

  Amanda and Jabril had been stacking gold. They hefted boxes from the vault shelves and piled them on the flagstone floor of the temple, ready to be driven to the choppers.

  Amanda had found a polymer trunk hidden at the back of the vault. Army green. Four foot long. She dragged it from behind a stack of boxes.

  ‘Give that to me,’ said Jabril

  ‘What is it?’

  She tugged at the padlock.

  ‘Don’t touch it.’

  He pulled her away from the case. They fought. They threw each other against shelves. Boxes fell, split and spilled gold.

  Jabril punched Amanda in the face. She thumped him in the gut and kicked him to the floor. She stood over him, knife in hand.

  Jabril lay doubled up.

  ‘Ge
t up,’ said Amanda. ‘Get up, you fuck.’

  Jabril rolled on his back. He had removed his prosthetic hook and extracted the grenade hidden inside. He gripped the ring between clenched teeth and pulled the pin. He held up the little green cylinder like it was a crucifix warding off a vampire. Stand-off.

  ‘Let’s just chill the fuck out, shall we?’ said Amanda.

  Jabril scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Keep back.’

  Jabril pulled the vault door closed, careful not to lose grip on the grenade.

  ‘Give me your knife.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ said Amanda.

  He held up the grenade.

  ‘Really want to fight?’

  Amanda reluctantly dropped her knife and kicked it towards Jabril.

  The vault door had an internal handle in case a guard got shut inside. Jabril awkwardly tucked the grenade in his left armpit while he jammed the knife through the ring-latch, wedging the handle shut.

  They sat facing each other. Jabril nursed his bruised belly. Amanda dabbed her nose.

  ‘Give me the case,’ said Jabril.

  ‘Kiss my ass.’

  Jabril’s radio lay smashed in the corner of the vault. Amanda’s TASC bundle lay on the plate floor. He snagged it with his foot and drew it close.

  He held the grenade between his knees. He attached the earpiece and pressed transmit.

  ‘Lucy? Lucy can you hear me?’

  Lucy tugged on the vault door. Locked. Wedged shut from inside.

  Faint voice from the earpiece hanging loose at her chest. Jabril.

  ‘Lucy? Lucy can you hear me?’

  Hiss and feedback. The radio signal degraded by the steel hull of the cash truck.

  She hooked the receiver to her earlobe.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘I didn’t want this to happen.’

  ‘Where’s Mandy? Is she in there?’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Open the fucking door, Jabril.’

  ‘You need to listen.’

  Lucy stood on the rear step-plate of the truck and tried to wrench the door open.

  ‘Let me talk to Mandy.’

  Brief pause. Amanda’s voice:

  ‘Hey, babe.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘He’s got a grenade.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘No idea. You better talk to him.’

  Brief rustle as the radio was handed back to Jabril.

  ‘Look,’ said Lucy. ‘I don’t know what you want but I’m sure we can work it through. Just come on out. We can talk.’

  ‘Your friend. The oriental.’

  ‘His name is Huang.’

  ‘You must kill him. Kill him and burn the body.’

  Voss had half-carried the injured man up the processional avenue to the cavernous temple interior and sat him against one of the massive granite columns that supported the roof.

  Lucy crouched next to Huang and checked him out. His eyes were closed. He appeared to be sleeping. She walked out of earshot.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘This valley is home to a pathogen so lethal, so virulent, it could wipe out entire cities. That’s why I came back. To stamp out every last vestige of this virus. Your friend is infected. There is no treatment, no cure. He will slide slowly into dementia, then turn on you. He will attack. He will be driven by a feverish desire to bite, to penetrate, to invade. You’ve seen those soldiers out there. Those men used to be my friends. Now they are monsters. Better for Huang if he dies before the transformation is complete. Let him say his goodbyes then be at peace.’

  ‘I’ll risk it.’

  ‘I understand. You want to get help. You want to fly your friend back to Baghdad and get medical attention. Dose him with antivirals, antibiotics. It won’t do any good. And you must understand the danger. If this pathogen reaches a major city nothing short of a nuclear strike would halt its progress. What is the name of that military hospital in the Green Zone?’

  ‘Twenty-eighth CASH.’

  ‘Picture it. All those people. Doctors, nurses, wounded soldiers lying in the corridor waiting for treatment. Huang thrashing, biting, spraying blood. It’s a military trauma unit. They treat gunshots, blast wounds. They aren’t equipped to quarantine a serious pathogen. The disease would soon be carried to NATO airbases in Europe and out into the world. Paris, London, New York, Tokyo. Millions would die.’

  ‘Well, that’s certainly something to think about,’ said Lucy. She removed her thumb from the transmit button clipped to her webbing and turned to Voss.

  ‘We have to get in there and waste this fuck.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘We could force the door. We’ve got a little C4. We could rig a breaching charge. And there are vents in the roof. I think there was a can of CS in one of the choppers. We could gas him out.’

  ‘He has a grenade. We’d have to bust our way in and extract Mandy in four, five seconds. Can’t be done. We have to talk him out.’

  ‘Go back to the choppers,’ said Lucy. ‘See what you can find. Don’t leave weapons or ammo lying around. I don’t want Gaunt re-armed.’

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘I’m going to cover those roof vents with my coat. Body heat will build up pretty quick. I want this guy to cook.’

  Amanda lit a cigarette and placed it between Jabril’s lips.

  ‘Thanks. Sorry about the smoke.’

  ‘Lucy and Huang go way back,’ said Amanda. ‘She’s known him longer than me. She’s shared a foxhole with the guy plenty of times. He’s family. She’s not going to blow his brains out, just on your say-so.’

  ‘She’ll kill him. She’ll do it as a mercy. You’ve don’t understand this disease. You can’t imagine the horror. Your friend will rot before your eyes. And then he will attack. You saw those creatures out there in the valley. That is what he will become.’

  ‘We can get him to Baghdad. Get him a doctor.’

  Jabril shook his head.

  ‘Too dangerous. If this virus reaches a major population centre the consequences are unimaginable. He must be shot in the head. And his body must be burned. Here, in this valley.’

  ‘So how long are we stuck in this fucking truck?’

  ‘Until Lucy listens to reason. You and your friends can take the gold and fly home. But Huang must stay behind.’

  ‘What’s in the case?’

  Jabril held the grenade between his knees. He plucked the key from around his neck and threw it to Amanda. She released the padlock, flipped the hasps and opened the lid. Bundles of documents. NSA intercepts, eyes-only collations, embassy cables, Agency briefings. She leafed through papers. Photographs. Men chained to examination tables. Graphs and X-rays charted the course of infection.

  ‘US intel,’ she murmured. ‘This shit gets deeper by the minute.’

  Something else in the case. Two lengths of thick pipe lying in a foam bed. Rivets. Fins.

  ‘A Hellfire missile. Stored in two sections. The lower part is the propulsion unit. A solid fuel rocket motor. The top part is the warhead. Laser optics in the nose. Payload compartment in the midsection.’

  A glass cylinder lay alongside the two missile sections. It glowed blue.

  Amanda reached for the cylinder.

  ‘Don’t touch it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The virus. Refined. Weaponised. That’s why I brought you here. You and your friends. I needed your help to open the truck.’

  ‘So what are you going to do with this stuff?’

  ‘Burn it. Incinerate every last trace.’

  Voss rode the quad bike back to the wrecked choppers.

  The temperature continued to drop. Each exhalation produced broiling plumes of vapour.

  He scanned the shadows. No movement. Lucy’s voice:

  ‘You okay out there?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Grab what we need and head back. Don’t han
g around.’

  Voss inspected Bad Moon by flashlight. He checked the cab and the cargo compartment. He checked beneath the fuselage. He didn’t want to get jumped. Gaunt was a coward. The man would spend many hours cowering in the dark and cold before he summoned the courage to come out of hiding and attack Lucy and her crew. But Jabril’s undead battalion might drag themselves from the darkness any moment.

  He examined smashed avionics. A fragment of Talon rotor had shattered the windshield and split the centre console like a blow from an axe. He brushed broken glass from dials and switches. He wrenched the chunk of broken rotor free and threw it aside. Frayed cable. A couple of snapped circuit boards.

  Maybe Lucy was right. The Huey was antique. Perhaps the control systems were sufficiently basic a guy with pliers could fix her up. Splice wires and start her running. Perhaps Gaunt could repair the machine.

  They would need to bottle their rage and cut a deal. Lure Gaunt with some bullshit plan. Tell him to fly east across the desert. They would pick a remote location far outside Baghdad city limits. Hover over secluded, rocky terrain at fifty feet and push the gold out the door. Mandy could rappel and guard the loot, ready for retrieval. The chopper would fly onward to the Green Zone. Set down near a crowd. Maybe land next to a hotel poolside, typhoon rotor-wash tipping loungers and parasols into the water. Or touch down at the airport in front of loading crews and sentries. Someplace public. Somewhere Gaunt felt safe to walk away with a duffel bag full of gold.

  They would kill him anyway. Bullet in the back before he had time to unbuckle his harness. Leave him slumped in the pilot seat.

  Voss climbed inside the cargo compartment of Bad Moon and ransacked it for ammo. A bag of grenades. Boxes of link for the SAW. Wooden cases of 5.56mm for the rifles.

  He stacked munitions in the quad bike trailer, glancing at shadows for any sign of Gaunt.

  He piled MRE pouches and bottled water.

  He found his jacket and fingerless gloves beneath a seat. He put them on. He set down his shotgun for a moment and swung his arms to get warm.

  He fetched the SAW from the barricade. He folded the bipod and released the belt. He loaded the weapon into the trailer.

  Toon’s body lay nearby, shrouded in a poncho. Voss hauled the limp body across the courtyard, leaving a dark streak of blood. He laid Toon in the trailer alongside food and ammunition. He didn’t want to leave his friend lying in a pile of refuse.