by Greg Barron
Lubayd’s face is a picture of concentration. ‘You are right, Ishmael. And this time I will listen.’ His eyebrows knit together as he stares at Simon. ‘We will now make for Socotra, where you will pay us and leave this boat. That is our bargain. What you do from there is not our concern.’
‘If my girls are not on Socotra, then there is no point going there. Help me for just one day, that’s all I ask. Cruise past some of these islands; let us see if there is a boat such as they described moored there.’
Ishmael pushes his face so close that hashish and garlic fumes assault Simon’s senses. ‘You are not so tough without a gun in your hand.’
Simon ignores him, instead fixing his eyes on the older brother. ‘Please, help me. Just for one day.’
Lubayd lifts one hand. ‘No argument. That is the end of it.’
Simon remains at the dinette table, staring into space. The old crone who has said nothing for so long extends one long, bony hand and covers his. Staring into his eyes she speaks in archaic Arabic.
‘You must not weep,’ she says. ‘You cannot hold on to what you love forever.’
Day 4, 21:00
In the port city of Umm Qasr, Southern Iraq, in a base that does not officially exist, twenty-two men burdened with packs and assault rifles file out from a C130 transport plane and towards a Unimog truck that will take them to temporary barracks. This is the port that once protected a bridge linking Saddam Hussein’s regime to Kuwait, famously compared with Southampton by Geoff Hoon, defence secretary during the Second Gulf War, to which a British soldier quipped back: ‘There’s no beer, no prostitutes and people are shooting at us. It’s more like Portsmouth.’
Each man in the line carries rations for three days, five hundred rounds of NATO standard 7.62mm ammunition, and one hundred of 9mm. They also carry three grenades — two phosphorus and one high explosive.
In addition, each individual has the tools peculiar to his trade — sniper rifles, long-distance listening equipment, or communications. Each squad is equipped with a packaged, folding watercraft and diving equipment. Each man was hand-picked for his strength, stamina, and competence. He can run a hundred metres in under twelve seconds and swim ten miles in a cold sea.
First in line walks PJ Johnson. Point men get in the habit of leading, and also in the habit of watchfulness. His eyes never stop moving, flicking ahead as if he is already in a combat zone. He climbs into the open back of the truck and onto the bench, leaning forward, resting his weight on the stock of his Heckler and Koch assault rifle. The men settling into their places opposite him show signs that they share his own nervousness.
PJ turns and looks out the acrylic windows; dust blows in a constant stream from the ground, obscuring the hangars and workshops of the airfield and the high fences beyond. He closes his eyes, thinking back to when all he wanted was to be a soldier; a tough guy like the GI Joe action figures he pitted against one another. Toy tanks shooting it out, dust flying and children crying.
A childhood moving from city to city. Norwich, Ipswich, Colchester. Another school, new faces, yet always the snide remarks on the first day, comments about his ears, or the stained and torn jacket three sizes too small. Sometimes a knowing slur on matters beyond his control.
‘My dad says that his dad is a drunk,’ someone would announce. ‘Can’t hold down a job anywhere. My dad says that his dad has been in Brixton.’
It was true. PJ remembers the long year when the old man was inside, and they visited him every Saturday afternoon. Brought chocolate and cartons of Player cigarettes, watching him sit with his muscled, tattooed arms on the table, listening to the monosyllabic news of a man who had nothing to talk about, nothing to share of interest to an eight-year-old boy.
His mum insisted that they went. ‘Some families won’t visit their dad in jail — too ashamed. I won’t be like that. Not one of us will be. A man needs to see his family, no matter what mistakes he’s made.’
‘See if the little fucker can fight,’ someone said after school one day. They circled him with their bikes and catcalled until one slid off his seat, turned him round, and hit him on the lip. PJ always tried to fight back but they were bigger, and if he managed to overcome one tormentor there was always another ready to step in.
PJ’s growth spurt came late, and by his senior years he had friends of his own. Not many, but they were true friends, ready to stand at his side when the chips were down. The bullies moved on to easier prey, especially since PJ now stood as tall as most, and had thickened around the shoulders and arms.
After school he joined the army, determined to make his mark, yet he remained quiet and retiring. Singled out for Special Forces training, he was taught to fight, yet learned restraint, and he came to understand what his tormentors would never know — that humanity is the most important quality of all.
PJ looks up as the truck rumbles to a halt outside a hangar. Beside it is a Sea King chopper on twenty-four-hour standby. From now they will be on a five-minute state of preparedness, able to deploy anywhere in the Middle East.
The sea journey seems to take an age. More than once Lubayd has to work his way around a coral reef lurking black and murderous just below the surface, unmarked on the charts yet betrayed by a flash of disturbed white water under the moon.
Relieved to rid himself of the bulky wad of money, Simon sits at the saloon table and negotiates an extension on Lubayd’s fee for the dramatic rescue off al-Kahf. After this he packs his few belongings into his flight bag, ignoring the occasional poisonous glance from Ishmael.
The darkness is a blanket over a sea that has calmed somewhat through the previous hours. No time remains to go down to the cabin and sleep, and Simon is anxious not to put himself in Ishmael’s power, sure that the younger brother would love to plunge a knife in his back, especially since he again disappears below to smoke hashish, returning to the saloon in a catatonic state, dozing in the helm chair, head lolling like that of a marionette.
Simon does not notice his own drift into semi-unconsciousness until Lubayd’s sudden shout has him standing, grasping at the chair frame for balance. ‘Wake up. There is a vessel coming up fast on the port beam.’
Simon strains his eyes, looking out into the night, seeing the masthead and running lights of a substantial ship, moving with the speed of a hunting panther across the dark plain of the sea. ‘Who is it? What kind of boat?’
‘I don’t know yet. But you had better hope they are not Somali pirates, because they are very fast.’
‘So what do we do?’ Simon asks.
‘As the Americans would say, we put the hammer down.’
Simon watches Lubayd push down the throttles. The Jameela leaps forward, engines rising in tone to a high-pitched hum. The radar shows how that burst of speed takes them well ahead of the other vehicle’s path. The pleasure at this, however, is short-lived, for the other vessel turns towards them and begins to give chase.
‘There is no doubt,’ Lubayd says, ‘they have us on radar — they are in pursuit.’ Again he ups the throttles, and though the engines now have a note of strain, there is just an incremental increase in the speed — thirty-two knots according to the plotter. The deck vibrates, and the glasses in the galley tinkle against each other with a distracting rattle. ‘We’ll see if they can stay with us now. There are few boats on this ocean who can match us.’
Sweating now, Simon watches the radar. At first it seems that Lubayd is right, and they will easily outdistance the other vessel. Then the other craft begins to gain on them.
‘This is impossible,’ Lubayd says. ‘We can go no faster, yet they are still with us.’
Ishmael, coming out of a drug-induced torpor, stands and points a wavering arm at Simon. ‘It is the Englishman’s fault. I rue the hour he came aboard — there has been nothing but trouble since I heard his name. Now that we have his money we should throw him over the side and let the sharks feast on his flesh.’
‘There is no advantage in that, brother.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’ Simon asks, feeling a new solidarity with Lubayd.
‘Nothing but prayer will help us now. If they are pirates, and they catch us, we are all dead. They will soon find that we are no good for ransom.’ He glances at Simon. ‘Except perhaps for you.’
Simon looks away. Everyone he loves is in the hands of extremists. No one else would care enough to pay an extravagant ransom.
Ishmael cries, ‘Set the autopilot and let us take the life raft!’
Lubayd shakes his head. ‘I cannot leave my beautiful boat. Not even to save our lives.’
Simon looks down at the blip of the other vessel, closing fast.
‘A few minutes,’ Lubayd whispers, ‘and they will be on us.’
Ishmael disappears below, returning with an archaic shoulder-fired rocket launcher, a single missile lodged in the scratched, green-painted tube. The faded script on the side identifies it as Soviet-era Russian.
‘I will give them something to think about,’ Ishmael mutters. ‘I will set fire to their stinking buttocks.’ He charges out into the cockpit. Simon follows, staring into the darkness where the pursuing ship is now close. A floodlight beam turns the intervening sea to daylight, and pains the eyes.
Ishmael now has the launcher at his shoulder, one hand on the rail to steady himself, the other on the launcher’s grip. ‘Come closer, thing of the night,’ he whispers, ‘and may God guide the fire of my rage into your heart.’
The ship grows in stature as she steams closer, and Simon recognises her at last — a British Navy destroyer, D93 painted on the hull in black letters. She has a low profile for a warship, yet with high, flared bows. A rounded gun turret seems to aim directly at them. Further aft rises a network of grey iron, surmounted by more domed turrets and twin masts bristling with communications aerials and surrealistic spheres.
Ishmael mutters, ‘I will destroy you, ship of the darkness, enemy of God. Closer, come closer and you will feel the death I send forth across the night.’
A klaxon blares as the destroyer looms close enough to blot out the night sky, the superstructure towering towards the heavens. Simon cringes back from the light, even as Ishmael leans forwards, ready to absorb the recoil.
‘Die, evil thing,’ he shrieks.
Loudspeakers blare: ‘Heave to, heave to. This is Royal Navy destroyer HMS Durham …’
Simon sees Ishmael’s hand curl on the trigger of the weapon. ‘No,’ he shouts, ‘it’s one of ours. Are you trying to get us killed?’ The words have no effect. He charges across the deck.
Ishmael must be waiting for him, for his hand leaves the weapon and connects with the side of Simon’s chin, sending him staggering across the deck.
‘Go back, go back. This is God’s work.’
Gathering himself, again Simon goes for the half-crazed Yemeni, knowing that he is too late, connecting with the man’s shoulder just as he pulls the trigger. A tongue of flame leaps from the rear of the tube and a long flash of orange and blue fire shoots up to an impossible height in a fraction of a second before fading into darkness.
The turret gun on the destroyer fires a single round over the Jameela, lighting up the sky and sea in a brilliant flash that pains the eyes. The concussion of sound follows an instant later, setting off a ringing in Simon’s ears. The loudspeaker comes to life again: ‘Any further aggressive act and we will fire upon you. Heave to, and stand with hands on heads.’
The Jameela’s engine hum dies away to nothing, and silence descends. It is a strange feeling, Simon thinks to himself as he raises his arms, to want the safety offered by that giant ship, yet aware that it might also mean the end of freedom.
THE FIFTH DAY
And God said, Let the water teem with living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the expanse of the sky. So God created the creatures of the sea and every living and moving thing with which the water teems, according to their kinds, and every winged bird according to its kind. God blessed them and said, Be fruitful and increase in number and fill the water in the seas, and let the birds increase on the earth.
But man cages the birds and fences the animals so he does not need to hunt, and he breeds the birds to be fat, and the animals to grow fat and be docile. He cages them closely, and feeds them by-products from the bodies of their own species. Birds caged to lay eggs are so confined that they cannot learn to walk.
The birds and animals become diseased. The wild creatures disappear before a relentless passion for building and clearing. When the men and women of the earth begin to realise what they have done, it is too late to bring back what is gone.
And there was evening, and there was morning. The fifth day.
Day 5, 02:00
Zhyogal’s eyes reflect the orchestration of a hundred deaths over twenty years, and there is a glimpse of Satan in a cloak of pure faith. Blackness hides behind each footfall, and in the hiss of words that issue from a throat that scrapes the raw tissue of lies and false belief. It is the middle of the night but the lights have not dimmed. No one sleeps.
‘All functionaries of Jewish and imperialist governments who sign a confession of their crimes will be released from this room,’ Zhyogal announces. In his hand he holds a sheaf of paper. ‘It is necessary only to read the words on this page, admitting to the guilt of which you are surely aware.’
The conference room is tense and silent, men and women alike staring back at the Algerian, hands immobile on arm rests, not one making eye contact with another.
‘Yes,’ he shouts, ‘I give my word. Sign the confession and we will arrange for the door to open and all those who sign can leave. Think upon it! In just hours you will be reunited with your loved ones — your husbands, wives, children. All you must do in return is read the confession aloud and sign your name before the cameras. Stand up now all those who will do so. All those who desire freedom. Stand now and soon it will be so.’
The silence deepens, broken only by an uncomfortable cough out there in the darkness. Not one person stands, but there is a feeling that if someone would do so, more would follow.
‘Not one among you wishes to be free?’ Zhyogal shouts. ‘Do you fear the consequences? Do you worry that the world’s media might vilify and mock you?’ His voice becomes a wolf-like howl of menace. ‘What does it matter when you are going to die here?’ He takes a step, pointing at a young man in the third row, dishevelled in his rolled sleeves and half-unbuttoned shirt. ‘You,’ he shouts, ‘do you not want to live?’
At first the delegate does not respond, but then slowly, wilting under the stare, he nods slowly.
‘Of course you do. You have a girlfriend. You want to live to father her children. To grow rich perhaps. To live your life.’ Zhyogal’s voice softens. ‘Step down here now, read the confession and sign. Then you can go free. You have my word.’
‘No.’ The young man’s voice is tremulous, whisper soft, but it can be heard in every corner of that room, with a power stronger than all the histrionics of the Algerian.
That answer sends Zhyogal into a rage. ‘What if I execute ten men and women every hour? If we see a lake of blood beneath your feet. Then you will sign my papers, I can guarantee it.’ His eyes move around the room, finally meeting those of Isabella Thompson. He points with one arm.
‘That one,’ he shrieks. ‘Bring her to me.’
Isabella has not moved for some time, held rigid to her seat as if by a magnet. Now, as Zhyogal’s arm swings to identify her, she sags as if there is no strength left. The nightmare takes the form of a whirlpool, spinning, dragging her deeper.
The mujahedin come from both sides, gripping her arms and dragging, fingers digging in to the bone. They force her to walk with them, half stumbling down the rows past dull, staring faces, hair falling in front of her face so that she cannot see.
On the dais they knock her down, and she does not try to rise, allowing her legs to fold underneath her. Zhyogal grips a fist full of her hair and lifts her. Until that m
oment she would not have believed such a feat possible. The pain is so sharp she can do nothing, scarcely even breathe as he does it. Then she is looking into his eyes, just as she had a week earlier in a moment of passion, when she had believed in him, imagined that he was attracted to her, helping to find and piece together the shattered porcelain of her heart.
Now his eyes are red rimmed and raw from lack of sleep, and there is madness in him. ‘You,’ he cries, ‘you will sign.’
‘No,’ she sobs, ‘I won’t do it.’
He holds the paper in front of her face, still half supporting her with the hand in her hair. ‘You will sign. If you do not I will make a simple phone call and two beautiful girls will die. I promise you.’
‘Oh Jesus, no. I hate you, I hate you!’ She tries to rake down his face with one hand but he moves deftly out of the way, changing his grip on her.
‘Come now, sit and begin reading. Hurry, I am losing patience.’ He pulls the cell phone from his suit pocket and switches it on.
‘Stop. I’ll sign. I’ll do anything.’
There is a table prepared, a pen on the synthetic top. Isabella sits, pulling her hair back so she can see, avoiding the staring eyes of the people in the rows, knowing their contempt for her weakness. The words on the page are a blur as she picks up the pen and seeks the line reserved for a signature. Just two paces away one of the mujahedin has a tiny digital video camera trained on her.
‘No!’ Zhyogal shouts. ‘Read it first. You must read it aloud. The camera is rolling. They must see you do it.’
Crying again, Isabella picks up the sheet, trying to focus on the words. They come haltingly. ‘I now recognise that I represent a corrupt government; that they have initiated a crusade against the …’ Isabella stops, looking up at the people around the room. There is sympathy there, and understanding, yet …
