Last Light

by Alex Scarrow

  CHAPTER 15

  7.21 a.m. local time Al-Bayji, Iraq

  ‘This is bloody mad,’ Lieutenant Carter whispered breathlessly to himself.

  Sergeant Bolton jogged over and joined him leaning against the wall beside the gate, catching his breath in short gasps, and tightening the straps on his Kevlar helmet.

  ‘All right sir?’ he grunted.

  Carter nodded. ‘I’m fine. It’s those poor bastards outside I’m worried about.’

  They could hear the Minimi continuing to fire in short disciplined, regular bursts. But they were becoming shorter and the pauses between them longer.

  ‘Whatever we do sir, it’s got to be quick.’

  Carter nodded. ‘Sergeant, I don’t know their call-sign, I haven’t learned yet who’s—’

  ‘Those lads are part of Yankee-two-two, sir.’

  The young officer nodded. ‘Okay, okay. Right.’ He looked anxiously around the compound as he bit his bottom lip, thinking.

  ‘Sir, we’ve got to do something now,’ barked Sergeant Bolton impatiently.

  Carter peeked around the wall at the three men. The man on top cover was still firing. The other two were offering sporadic double-taps from the rear of the Rover, whilst the ground around them danced with plumes of dust and sparks that sprayed off the pock-marked, bullet-dented metal of the vehicle.

  He touched the push-to-talk button of his radio and did his best to speak calmly into the throat mic. ‘Yankee-two-two . . . this is Yankee-two-zero. You’ve got to make a run for it lads. We’ll give you covering fire from the gate and the wall.’

  ‘Fucking make it quick, sir!’ the crackling response came back from one of the three men.

  Carter turned to Bolton. ‘Sergeant, get some of our boys up on the wall.’ He looked around and saw there was a stacked pile of wooden pallets in the corner of the compound. ‘Use those to stand on. And rally a section over here by the gate. We’ll assemble some firepower here, all right?’

  Sergeant Bolton nodded and began issuing voice commands on a separate channel.

  ‘And Sergeant, I want a man watching those three Iraqi gents we have with us.’

  Bolton acknowledged that, and then jogged across the compound with a confidence and an aura of invincibility that Carter would have given anything to possess.

  A few moments later, eight men of his platoon, including a burly-looking Fijian, were shifting the pallets across the ground to the base of the seven-foot cinder-block and plaster wall and stacking them high enough to allow them to see over.

  The chatty Geordie lance corporal - Westley - scrambled over and slumped against the wall beside Carter, followed by a section of twelve men, who all followed his lead and fell in against the rough cinder blocks. Carter turned to see a line of anxious young faces studying him intently and waiting anxiously for their CO to formulate a way out of this mess for them.

  ‘All right lads, first thing we’re doing is getting Yankee-two-two out of that fix and in here with us. Then . . . then we’ll deal with the next thing on the list. Okay?’

  Shit Robin . . . never bloody well ask them if an order’s ‘okay’.

  ‘So, that’s what we’re doing,’ he hastily added. ‘On my command take half this section out through the gate and break right. There’s a truck you and your men can use for cover. I’ll take the other half, and we’ll cover your move from the gateway. When you’re settled in we’ll come out break left, and we’ll all give those lads out there covering fire. Hopefully that’ll give them enough time to scarper over here. You got it?’

  ‘Aye sir,’ nodded Westley.

  ‘All right, take up your position on the other side of this gateway. Let’s get ready.’

  Outside Carter could hear that the Minimi’s chattering bursts were diminishing in length and frequency. The bloke firing it - damn, he wished he’d had a little more time to learn their names - was clearly doing his best to conserve the last of his ammo, yet keep firing often enough to hold the crowd back.

  Westley slapped six of his comrades on the shoulder and led them in a loping dash across the open gateway to the wall on the other side of the compound’s entrance, where they squatted in a row, ready to go.

  No time to waste. Do it.

  ‘Yankee-two-two,’ said Carter over the radio, ‘we’re coming out to give you covering fire. On my command just get the fuck out of there and get over here.’

  He looked over his shoulder to see that Sergeant Bolton had some men hunkered down on top of the pallets and ready to give covering fire over the top of the wall. He nodded to Bolton and then turned back to face Lance Corporal Westley on the far side of the gate.

  He raised his hand so that both Bolton and Westley could see it and then counted down.

  Three . . . two . . . one.

  He pulled his hand into a fist as he jumped to his feet, leading his men round the iron gate and into the opening of the gateway. All seven of them dropped down to their knees and let loose a barrage of fire on the crowd that now was almost upon the stranded Rover. Meanwhile, Westley led his men out through the gate, breaking right across half-a-dozen yards of uneven paving towards a rusting truck parked with two tyres up on the kerb. There, they quickly found covered positions, and placed a withering barrage of suppressing fire down the boulevard. The advancing crowd, as one, dropped to the ground to avoid the opening salvo of gunfire.

  ‘Yankee-two-two . . . Go!’ Carter shouted into his throat mic.

  The squaddie who had been doing an excellent job of top cover with the Minimi, instantly ducked down through the roll cage and began to scramble towards the back of the Rover. The other two men, meanwhile, leapt out from the meagre cover provided by the rear of the vehicle and started across the thirty feet of open ground towards the pink-walled compound, weaving to and fro in the hope of throwing off anyone attempting to draw a bead on them.

  The third man still in the Rover suddenly stopped, and was hesitating, like some piss-head wondering whether he’d left his wallet back in the pub. Then Carter saw him reach up through the roll cage bars to retrieve the machine-gun.

  He was tempted to shout out an order to the man to forget about it. But the Minimi was such an effective support weapon, to have it would make a real difference to the platoon’s chances of holding this position. They had plenty more belts of ammo for it in the other Rovers.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ he found himself muttering as he and his men continued to offer staccato bursts of covering fire, which for now was keeping most of the heads down out in the street.

  The soldier in the vehicle managed to pull the awkwardly shaped weapon, with its extended bipod, down through the bars of the roll cage, and then out of the back of the Rover, tumbling out on to the ground with it in the process.

  ‘Smeggin’ hell move it, Shirley, you lazy bastard!’ Carter heard the Geordie lance corporal shout over the platoon channel, completely dispensing with formal call-sign protocol.

  Over the shared channel, he heard the laboured breathing of the man, as he struggled with the gun and made ready to cross the open ground towards the entrance.

  ‘Fuck off Westley, you girl’s blouse,’ he heard the man reply.

  ‘Yankee-two-two . . . Dammit! . . . Shirley!’ barked Carter, making a mental note to ask him how he got that nickname. ‘Get over here now!’

  The man shouldered the weapon, took a moment to steady his nerves, and then lurched out into the open, adopting the same weaving pattern as his two comrades had, but dangerously slowed down by the bulk and weight of the machine-gun.

  The suppressing fire coming from Carter’s men, Sergeant Bolton’s position over the top of the compound wall and Lance Corporal Westley’s men was breaking down as magazines began to empty. At least half the men in all three sections were now somewhere in the process of ejecting a spent magazine, pulling a new one out of their pouches and slamming it home.

  The armed militia amongst the crowd were beginning to be encouraged by the faltering volley
of gunfire and several of them emerged from places of cover across the boulevard. They tapped short bursts in the direction of the lone soldier, desperately scrambling across the road.

  Inevitably, a shot landed home.

  A puff of crimson exploded from the man’s leg and he clattered to the ground still some yards from the kerb.

  ‘Get off your fuckin’ arse, you twat!’ bellowed Bolton from the top of the wall, his booming voice carrying over the din of gunfire.

  The intensity of the fire suddenly increased as the militia-led mob were further encouraged. The cinder-block wall beside Carter and his men began to explode with bullet impacts, showering them all with a cascade of plaster dust and stinging splinters of cement.

  Carter heard a hard wet smack and glanced to his left to see that the squaddie who had been kneeling next to him had been thrown backwards by a shot dead centre to his face. There was nothing he could recognise above the chin and below his ginger eyebrows - just a crater of mangled tissue.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  The lad was gone, dead already, despite the drumming of his boots on the kerb.

  And there was the soldier in the road with the leg wound; he was screaming in agony, rolling around on the ground clasping his thigh.

  Carter knew he had to pull his men back inside before he lost any more.

  ‘Everyone inside, now!’ he screamed over the radio.

  Lance Corporal Westley’s men moved swiftly back towards the gate in well-practised fire-and-manoeuvre pairs. But Westley hovered by the truck he’d been using for cover.

  Carter caught his eye as he gestured for his section to fall back inside. ‘Get inside! NOW!’ he bellowed to him. The Geordie hesitated a moment longer before reluctantly sprinting full tilt for the gateway.

  Carter grimaced. We’re leaving that poor sod out there, still alive.

  He brought up the rear, emptying his clip in one long wildly sprayed burst before turning round and diving for the open gateway.

  With all of them inside, the iron rail gates were closed, clattering noisily as they slammed together. Sergeant Bolton had some men ready with more wooden pallets and other detritus found in the compound and swiftly piled it against the gates.

  Carter clambered up the pallets stacked against the wall and then, waiting for a slack moment in the firing, chanced a quick glance over the top.

  The soldier, Shirley, with the Minimi, had taken another couple of hits, by the look of his shredded combat fatigues, darkened from the blood of several wounds, the poor young lad was on his way out. Then, mercifully, perhaps, a shot knocked his head back and dislodged his helmet.

  He was dead.

  Shirley . . . he’d wanted to know where the fuck that daft name had come from . . . but of course, he was never going to find out now.

  CHAPTER 16

  8 a.m. GMT Manchester

  ‘Oh come on!’ cried Jenny impatiently.

  The digital tune playing over and over as she sat on hold was very quickly driving her insane. The bleeping melody was broken periodically with a recorded announcement that she was on hold to On Track Rail Customer Services, and would be answered by an operator shortly.

  Jenny was still in bed, in the Piccadilly Marriot Hotel. The plan had been to take a detour up to Leeds to see some old friends and then home again to begin sorting her life out.

  But, with all these worrying things going on thousands of miles away, it didn’t seem like such a good idea any more. All of a sudden, a piss-up with some old, old school friends - ones she had only recently got back in contact with courtesy of Friends Reunited - had lost its appeal. She’d probably go through the motions, buy drinks, get pissed, reminisce, but her mind would be on other things; including Andy, stuck out there, and from what she was picking up on the news, possibly in a dangerous situation.

  Jenny wasn’t really that news-savvy generally. She probably put more time into watching soaps and reality shows than she did keeping an eye on current affairs. But, yesterday, in that café bar, she had heard one or two phrases - no more than soundbites - that had sent a shiver down her spine.

  At his most obsessive, perhaps a year ago, Andy had warned her that only those who were listening for it, the Big Collapse, listening for the tell-tale signs, would get the crucial head start. The advance warning would come through on the news in phrases that were like a code, encrypted for the few that knew what to listen out for. They would be the ones who would have a chance to prepare before widespread panic kicked in.

  Yesterday, watching the news, she felt she had heard something very much like that coded warning.

  Peak Oil.

  She felt stupid at first, of course. Walking out after her coffee, shopping in the Arndale Centre, having some dinner and coming back to the hotel, she had almost managed to dismiss the nagging notion that maybe she had better get a move on back to London and do an extra-large grocery shop.

  Then this morning, having slept on it, and rehashed all those doom and gloom predictions of Andy’s that had so worn her down over the last few years, she realised she’d heard the warning.

  And she’d climbed out of bed.

  Her friends could wait for another time.

  If she was panicking, over-reacting, so what? Better to be back home sitting on more cans of food than they’d normally keep in the kitchen, than be caught out. It would eventually get eaten anyway.

  What about Leona and Jacob?

  At least if she was back in London and things did look like they were going to get worse, she could nip across and pick Jacob up easily enough. Heading up to Leeds for a pissed-up reunion? . . . Well, she just wasn’t going to enjoy herself if she was distracted with niggling concerns.

  The digital tune was interrupted by the voice of a real person.

  ‘On Track Rail Customer Services,’ answered a man.

  ‘Ahh, about time! I had a ticket booked to London at the end of the week. And I wondered if I can change it for one going back down from Manchester today?’

  ‘I’m sorry, inter-city rail services have been suspended this morning.’

  ‘What? For how long?’

  ‘I’ve not been given a time. All we know is that they are currently suspended.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m sorry, that’s all we know . . . services are suspended until we hear otherwise.’

  ‘Well, how am I supposed to get back home?’ she asked angrily.

  ‘I . . . uhh . . . I’m sorry madam,’ the man replied awkwardly, and then disconnected the call.

  ‘Great,’ she hissed, ‘flipping great.’

  She picked up the remote from her bedside table and turned on the small TV which was perched on a bracket in a corner of the room. Flipping across the meagre selection of five channels, all of them had a news programme of one sort or another, and every single one of them was talking over some new development of the troubles. She turned up the volume.

  ‘. . . the incident in Georgia. Early reports are that the explosions at the Baku refineries near the Tengiz oilfield may be the result of an accident caused by a sudden increase in demand and production, coupled with the ageing Soviet-era oil infrastructure and machinery. However, there are conflicting reports that the explosions may have been caused by a deliberate act of sabotage . . .’

  Jenny flipped over to another channel.

  ‘. . . sources from the Pentagon say that additional troops may be re-deployed from the Gulf to guard the other refineries and pipelines in the Caspian region. However, it’s clear that US forces already out there are being stretched dangerously thin, to the point that command control and supply routes to the men could possibly begin to become a problem. Commentators in Washington are suggesting that the President may be forced to announce some kind of draft to cover the additional manpower needed in the immediate future. But even then, things are happening very swiftly and troops are required now to . . .’

  And another.

  ‘. . . unclear what happened to the Amoco Dahli
a this morning. The explosion ripped the super-tanker’s hull open just as the vessel entered the main shipping lane through the Straits of Hormuz. The Amoco Dahlia has shed many millions of gallons of oil, and is still burning. It’s unknown whether the super-tanker hit a mine, or perhaps more likely, was targeted by a fast-moving terrorist boat rigged with explosives . . .’

  And another.

  ‘. . . this morning. The Prime Minister’s press secretary said that an announcement would be made later today. Traders in the City of London will, of course, be trying to anticipate what he’s going to announce. The obvious thing to be looking out for would be a temporary relaxing of duty on petrol and diesel. With prices per barrel this morning rocketing past the $100 barrier and still rising, it’s clear that short-term measures to counter immediate damage to the already fragile economy will be at the forefront of his mind . . .’

  Jenny looked down at the mobile phone, still in her hand and realised that, for the first time in a long while, she wished Andy was right there, and telling her what she needed to do.

  CHAPTER 17

  11 a.m. local time Al-Bayji, Iraq

  Andy ducked back inside the pink building as Sergeant Bolton bellowed a warning. A moment later the mortar shell they had heard launched from nearby dropped into the compound with a dull thump, but no explosion - another dud.

  He heaved a sigh of relief. The armed insurgents amongst the gathering crowd outside had launched half-a-dozen mortars at the compound, only two had landed on target, and neither had exploded.

  The sporadic gunfire was beginning to die down again.

  Throughout the morning, the pattern had been consistent; sustained and intense periods of gunfire coming from nearly every rooftop along the boulevard and outside along the street itself, punctuated by interludes of peace and quiet.

  The crowd outside had grown in size, presumably as word had spread across the town that a small patrol of coalition forces had been run to ground.