Cold Blood

by Andy McNab

  Biyu Feng lunged in our direction with the brightest of smiles. She really wasn’t giving up without a fight.

  Her eyes darted from one of us to the next, desperate to make earnest contact with the whole group. ‘Your story is amazing and our viewers would be humbled and at the same time energized if we could share it. You must be so proud of yourselves – that you can show the world what people like you are capable of.’

  Rune and his not-really-mates turned their backs and were mumbling away in Norwegian. Then Hal and Jan abruptly stood up and left Rune to give her the good news. ‘No. We will be leaving here very soon, and—’

  ‘Please, sir, let me finish.’ Biyu was almost wetting herself with anxiety. She was in full love-bomb mode – the media always were when they were trying to get people onside. The double whammy for her was having such a wide range of missing bits on offer. She’d already prepared her acceptance speech for the Emmy Awards. ‘Can we film you putting on your new arms and legs while you tell us your story? It’s best for us to show that you are very, very brave disabled people to take on such danger.’

  It was a couple of beats before Jules realized she was serious. ‘One, they don’t call themselves disabled. They’re wounded ex-servicemen. And two, putting on prosthetics is an intimate thing for them, like getting dressed. They won’t want to be filmed.’

  ‘Then how will our viewers know they are – disfigured?’

  As Jules bristled, Gabriel stood up and grinned. ‘I’ll show you anything you want to see, darlin’…’

  His hand was hovering dangerously close to his flies. Jules zeroed in and dragged him back into his chair.

  ‘You can film me putting my leg on, OK? But it would be a private thing. And then I’ll give you an interview.’

  Rio waved what was left of his arm at Biyu. ‘And me. My story is much bigger than his.’

  Rune pushed back his chair and attempted to get the team back into the real world. ‘We are leaving very soon. In maybe three hours. So we had better get everything sorted out.’

  Stedman got up too. ‘Rune, I’m back on the team.’ He didn’t know whether to look me straight in the eye, or avoid it completely. He ended up falling between all the available stools. ‘I’m coming to the Pole.’

  Jules didn’t bother to stand but had the same statement to make. ‘Me too. I’ve come this far with Will so why not the whole way?’

  She held a hand out to clasp her husband’s. I’d never seen a man look so relieved.

  Rune shot me a glance. He was concerned but, fuck it, why not? They were both here, and I wasn’t going to stand in their way if the rest of the team wanted them to stick around.

  49

  All the brand-new kit had to be unloaded from wooden packing containers before being laid out and allocated. There would have been more chiefs than Indians if everybody had got involved in this part, so Gabriel and Rio were left in one of the smaller white admin tents to crack on. It made sense. They could get interviewed while they sorted everything out in front of the camera, and Gabriel strapped his lump of plastic to himself.

  I pushed my way through the internal door with two brews for them after passing the team’s red plastic pulks, stacked up outside on the ice, along with a dozen or so five-litre cans of cooking fuel.

  I got an enthusiastic welcome from Rio but not so from Gabriel. He already had his leg off and was sitting on the floor, preoccupied with testing burners. These were very simple, a red aluminium fuel canister attached to a pressure pump, and a line to a regular-looking gas-ring burner and cooking-pot arms. Gabriel was busy pumping away to make sure there was enough pressure to force the fuel into the burner before it could be lit. They couldn’t assume they worked just because they were shiny – and it would be no good moaning to the manufacturer via sat phone if they were out on the ice and the things didn’t function.

  In neat lines, exactly as I would have expected of ex-military, Rio and Gabriel had arranged individual layouts of kit for each team member. Sleeping bag, airbed, roll mat. On top of each sleeping bag there were two stainless-steel flasks and a one-litre Nalgene bottle. The Nalgenes weren’t to drink out of: the wide-rimmed plastic containers were to piss in at night. Once you’d crawled into a sleeping bag you didn’t want to have to crawl out again.

  There were also rations: brew kits, soups, biscuits and, most importantly, a blue plastic mug and an alloy spoon with an extra-long stem so it could be pushed all the way into the foil sachets of food. The vast majority was dehydrated cereals or porridge for the morning, and meat and rice or rice and meat for the day’s last hot meal. Each kit layout also had a mountain of chocolate bars and bags of nuts for munchie stops during the day.

  The team kit was a separate pile, awaiting distribution. There was a brown shovel that would be used to build a wall to protect them from the wind while they were trying to have a shit. Every tent also had a blue shovel, which would be used to pile snow to keep the thing getting blown away and also for cooking, and there were ice saws, rolls of para cord, matches, toilet paper, cooking pots, hand brushes, knives, screwdrivers, and all the other bits and pieces that would be needed for travelling unsupported.

  I put Rio’s brew on the seat of a plastic chair as he threw a tube of sunscreen onto each pile of kit.

  With both Jules and Stedman now on the trip, there shouldn’t have been enough kit. But there were seven piles in the line.

  ‘Rio, mate, where’s the extra kit come from?’

  ‘Rune – he’s been blagging it off the expedition lads. You know, the ones looking after the Chinese.’

  ‘He’s thought of everything, hasn’t he?’

  Rio was in agreement. ‘Yep, but fuck it. We’re so close I’d still go in shorts and fucking flip-flops!’

  I looked down at Gabriel to see if he was laughing at the joke, too, as he closed down one of the burners, just as Rio threw one of the tubes directly at him.

  ‘Don’t worry about that miserable fucker.’

  Another tube flew Gabriel’s way.

  ‘Oi, shithead, we’ll get there, mate. All right?’

  I placed Gabriel’s brew beside him on the floor.

  ‘No bother. Not coming back if I don’t.’

  He said it so quietly I almost thought I’d imagined it.

  ‘What the fuck does that mean, you mumbling midget?’

  He let out a sigh and pulled open a seam of Gore-Tex to produce a creased photo: two boys and a woman, lined up for the camera, grinning. ‘First you get the wounded hero’s big welcome home. The whole street wants to buy you a pint and that. Then, when you’ve been pissed for a week, what the fuck else do you do? Sit around, watch the footie, get pissed again?’ He shook his head. ‘Had a bit of a disagreement with my old lady and she threw me out. She doesn’t want me around the kids, “unsettling” them.’

  He put the photo back. ‘Anyhow the judge says I’m not allowed back in the house, so she won’t be waiting with the red carpet out.’

  I didn’t say anything. I’d heard it all before and not just from lads who’d been fucked up like him. It wasn’t that long ago I’d read about an ex-para who’d suddenly snapped and stabbed his two toddlers. And he knew he had a problem, had actually tried to get help. I tried to force the image of small, dead children out of my head. I’d had enough of that shit.

  ‘Fuck knows if they’ll ever care their daddy got to the Pole. But you got to try – leave behind something positive. Maybe they’ll get it when they’re older.’

  The comment hung in the air.

  He looked up and frowned. ‘You got kids?’

  He’d let me in a little. I owed him. ‘Yeah, I did. He died. Long story.’

  The permanent hard-man expression thawed a little, as if he was changing channels. ‘Fuck. I’m sorry, man.’

  I realized he was looking past me. Rio was standing there, embarrassed.

  As if by way of changing the subject, he started working off his left glove. I hadn’t noticed the state of h
is hand before. He had just two fingers and they seemed to be fixed in a semi-permanent hook, so just getting the glove off was a challenge in itself. Something so small, which we all took for granted. He held it up and waggled his fingers. ‘Got a bit of movement there, see?’

  Gabriel rolled his eyes. It was party-trick time. ‘Fuck off back to Jamaica.’

  ‘Brixton. I’m more fucking British than you.’ He waggled the fingers again. The arm, however, hung semi-limp. Most of the muscle had been destroyed.

  ‘Wait – get this, yeah? First six months there was nothing happening. No signal. They kept operating, kept going with the physio, twelve hundred and fifty-five hours. I kept track. Nothing. I told them to cut the fucking thing off and give me a new one, but exactly two years to the day after the injury, I felt this twitch.’

  Gabriel rolled his eyes even more now. He’d heard this one way too many times.

  ‘So fucking what?’

  ‘So fucking … I know what you’re up to. A bit of rumpy-stumpy with the exotic east, eh?’ He mimicked getting his flies open and a very bad jock accent. ‘I’ll show you anything you want to see, darling.’

  I wasn’t too sure if Gabriel was more pissed off that his plan had been exposed – not that he’d been that subtle about it – or that he’d had to listen to his country’s identity being annihilated.

  ‘But she doesn’t want some fucking cowboy electrician, does she? She wants a real soldier. That’s me, mate, infantry – not some fucking helicopter fuse-box repair man.’

  Rio had him biting now and wasn’t giving up. ‘I’ve got another twitch somewhere else. And if Miss China plays her cards right, I’ll let her do a lot more than just make it twitch. A bit of horizontal Lapp dancing, eh, get it?’

  The last of the sunscreen got thrown at Gabriel and they both burst out laughing as the TV crew pushed their way into the tent.

  Rio was right on it and started to walk towards her. ‘Biyu! Brilliant, right on time. Come on, let’s talk about why I’m here.’

  Gabriel was too slow, trying to get up with one leg and a stump.

  I left them to it, and headed to get a brew.

  50

  A couple of bodies were washing up at the back of the mess tent. Jules and Will were at the table where we’d left them an hour ago, and it didn’t look good. He had his head in his hands and she had her arms around him, rocking him back and forth. The Russian folk singer was still going strong on the iPad, but it wasn’t his fault.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…’

  ‘Sssh …’ Jules kissed the top of his head and glanced up at me, her face a mixture of anxiety and sadness. ‘It only happens … Usually it’s in his sleep. But this …’

  A new mantra clicked in: ‘I didn’t help them. I could have, and I didn’t, could have and I didn’t …’

  She stroked his hair, trying to comfort him, like a mother soothing her child. ‘I know, babe, I know. I’ll come with you. I’ll be there for you. I’ll help you … We all will …’

  I held up five digits and pointed towards the door.

  She nodded immediately. ‘Will, darling, I’ll just be a few minutes. I need to tell Jack and the team I’m coming too. Nick’s right here.’

  He muttered a stream of apologies as I took her place. He didn’t need to. I got straight into it. ‘Mate, don’t say sorry. You’ve got nothing to say sorry for.’

  He shook his head, like an automaton. ‘Nick, look at the state of me. I’ll hold the team back. I’ll—’

  ‘No, mate. You won’t. No more than the rest of us. Me included. I’ll come with you on the ice.’

  He looked up. His cheeks and the palms of his hands were wet with tears.

  I leaned forward so our faces were only inches apart. I wanted it to be confidential, because it was. ‘A month ago, I lost my son and my wife. I should have been able to save them. But I couldn’t … So I’ve got a better idea of what’s going on in your head than even your wife does. That’s why I know how important it is to get out there – achieving, fighting against something that’s bigger than you, stronger than you, and doesn’t give a fuck about you or your problems, not only fighting it but winning … That’s why I know you need to get out there. Not for Jules. Not for the team. But for you, mate. Just you.’

  He let his hands drop into his lap.

  I gave him a moment to absorb the message. And took a moment myself to wonder where all this wisdom was coming from.

  ‘Listen, Will, you can’t bring your crew back any more than I can bring back my family. You can’t dwell on the what-ifs and if-onlys. Sometimes there really isn’t anything you could have done differently. You didn’t plan for your crew to die. It happened.

  ‘We do the best we can with whatever we know at the time. And when we know better, we do better. We don’t have complete control … and so shit happens.’

  I saw a glimmer of hope surfacing through his pain. ‘You’ve got over it so quickly. That’s what I need, Nick.’

  ‘I haven’t got over it. I’ve just parked it. Believe me, there are no rules for this shit. No SOPs. What you feel is what you feel. Look, the death of your mates changes your life for ever. Not because things will never be good again, but because you will never be the same as you were before. Do something positive with that knowledge, mate. Help the others. Help me. Help yourself. You’ve lost your crew. I’ve lost my family. We’ve all lost bits of ourselves. In our own different ways, we’re both grieving.

  ‘So let’s both get out there and conquer the shit in our heads. We owe it to the people we’ve lost. We owe it to each other. We owe it to ourselves. Jules will help you. But you’ll have to help her too. And I’ll need you to help me.’

  He filled his lungs and let the air out slowly through pursed lips. ‘I don’t think—’

  I gripped his shoulder. ‘Don’t think, mate, for fuck’s sake. Just do.’ I got up and headed for the boiler. I needed to get him back into the real world so he could get his face cleaned up and crack on. I was feeling very pleased with myself for conjuring up such an emotional pitch, but then had to admit that the reason it was so good and heartfelt was because it was true.

  I kicked off our new routine by doing something I should have done hours ago. I reached for the iPad and shut up the folk singer. It was the only therapy I needed. I felt better immediately.

  I waved a blue mug. ‘Will, mate! You take sugar?’

  51

  The whole team had assembled on the far side of the berm that protected the camp. We were finally moving. Sort of: the team were still climbing into their skis and harnesses.

  Jan and Hal stood motionless at the front of the struggling line-up. Like them, I had my hood up and stood with my back to the wind. I’d clipped my harness to the bungee/rope combo that yoked me to my pulk. Skis on and poles in hand, I felt myself grinning like an idiot under my neoprene face mask at the multi-coloured Gore-Tex gang-fuck unfolding in front of me. I started to freeze, but at least it sorted out the pain in my head.

  Jan and Hal’s expressions seemed much the same with their masks and goggles in place as they had without them. They couldn’t see the funny side of this at all. They were going to start moving at the top of the hour, come what may.

  Rune, on the other hand, was making warm, cuddly and encouraging noises to all and sundry. His harness was attached to his pulk, but lying on the ice alongside his skis and poles.

  I waved him over and did my best to make myself heard through my face protector. ‘Mate, just leave ’em to it. They’ll soon sort themselves out. No problem.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll be able to make it?’

  I was beginning to wonder whether he ever expected anything to turn out OK.

  ‘No drama. They just need a little longer, that’s all.’

  I couldn’t tell if he was convinced. All I could see was my own reflection in his goggles, looking back at me. He nodded as Hal shouted the two-minute warning.

  No matter who was or
wasn’t ready, the guides were setting off. It had to be that way, or the group would take even longer to get where they needed to be. It was up to each team member to make sure they were ready to move on time. We had seven days of distance and nine days of food ahead of us, so we had to get on with it.

  ‘Rune!’

  He turned.

  ‘Maybe ask them to give four minutes’ warning during the munchie stops.’

  Rune ran to his pulk because he, too, was under the two-minute rule. I couldn’t be arsed to talk directly with the guides: they clearly wanted fuck-all to do with us.

  At the top of the hour precisely they set off north. I stayed where I was, intending to bring up the rear. The two Norwegians pulled longer fibre-glass pulks. They were carrying not only the safety kit to drag someone out of the sea if they fell through the ice, but also, I presumed, the monitors.

  I could see the Chechen camp now, definitely twice the size of Barneo and bristling with communications masts. Wagons moved about purposefully. Whatever they were up to, we were heading in the opposite direction.

  Rio and Gabriel were closest to me, and finally ready. They’d spent the last hour bickering. From what I could gather, Biyu had got her interview. Gabriel being filmed putting on his leg had gone better than expected, because Rio had joined in, and that had really pissed Gabriel off. If you believed Rio’s version of events, Biyu absorbed everything he said with fascination and wonder, then got her kit off for a bout of rumpy-stumpy.

  ‘Fuck me, it doesn’t get better than this! The North Pole, and a shag! Living the dream, mate. Living the dream.’

  The team started to shake out into a line. Jules and Will were immediately ahead of me. Inside each of our pulks was a large red nylon bag with extra chunky zip so it could be unfastened with gloves on. It contained all our kit, apart from the airbeds. Inflating them at the end of the day was hard, time-consuming work, so we’d half filled them and strapped them on top of the load.