Rotten Gods

by Greg Barron

  The twin Mercury outboards, tilted down on their hydraulic rams, start with just a pulse of the key. Saif throws off the lines while they warm up, water spitting out from the telltales and fizzing into the sea. Heedless of the hull bumping against the jetty, he pushes the throttles down hard, twisting the wheel, feeling the loaded RIB climb sluggishly onto the plane.

  The entrance to the harbour is tricky, with sharp rocks lurking below the surface, and just a narrow channel. Negotiating it requires all his attention before he rounds the final cliffs, into the open sea at last.

  Saif sets the boat on autopilot while he prepares the explosive charges. Not taking any chances he sets three detonators deep into the sacks then plays wire out into the cockpit. He cuts the ends with side cutters then strips insulation from both strands. These he sits next to the battery before moving back to the controls. There is no finesse to the preparations. The timing device he sets to the shortest possible delay. Thirty seconds. It is swift — uncomplicated and foolproof.

  PJ is halfway down the cliff, clinging behind a hummock of earth on the trail when he sees the vessel as a blob of darkness passing through the sheltering arms of the harbour, just as the first burst of automatic fire comes out of the night, illuminating the storehouse below.

  Captain Pennington settles down beside him. ‘We could call in an artillery strike from the ship onto that storehouse.’

  ‘What if the other girl is there? We can’t take that risk.’

  ‘Unlikely — surely she’s on that boat?’

  PJ turns, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. ‘Beg your pardon, sir, but do you know that beyond any doubt? Do you know that I won’t have to look a man in the eye and tell him we called in the four-inch HE round that blew his daughter into little pieces?’

  ‘OK, OK. Take it easy. Let’s have the benefit of your thoughts.’

  PJ peers through the goggles. ‘I can see three of them, no four. I’ll go down and take them out.’ The words come as disconnected grunts. What he is proposing is infinitely dangerous. Four, maybe five men against one at close quarters.

  ‘That’s your call. I’ll stay here and keep firing as if they’ve got us pinned down. As soon as you engage we’ll come down on them fast.’

  PJ uses the officer’s foot as a handhold as he goes over the edge, scrabbling for purchase on anything that comes to hand. Finally he is on his way down an almost sheer face, stones falling ahead of him and splashing into the sea.

  Reaching the bottom, he is conscious of the sound of falling stones and rubble, trying to time his movements with outbreaks of shooting from above. The sea laps all the way to the base of the cliffs and he sloshes along in calf-deep water towards the jetty area, keeping his movements slow. Silence is vital now. Finally he stops altogether, using his eyes like weapons.

  Three gunmen kneel close together, using the ruins of an old stone wall for cover. They shoot intermittently up at the SBS men on the path and it is tempting to take them out in one burst. Instead he moves as close as he dares, unclipping a grenade from his webbing, pulling the pin and lobbing it underhand into the midst of the group.

  As if hearing the grenade land they hit the earth and roll fast, but the timer is set for just three seconds and they have little time to move. In the last of the flash PJ sees a fourth man run inside the door of the storehouse. He fires after him, and is just about to follow when he hears a shout from up on the track.

  ‘PJ. No. Run!’

  PJ does not even consider ignoring the warning — no SBS comrade would give it without dire need. He turns and tries to get away, pumping his arms like tie rods on a steam locomotive. Reaching the shallows near the jetty, salt water sprays up around his legs and to his thighs.

  The blast, when it comes, picks him up and throws him face down into the water. The shockwave is pitiless, robbing him of air and strength. The heat sears and scorches exposed skin — the back of his neck and hands. He feels himself begin to drown.

  Uncaring now, he lies face down. There is no longer any desire to breathe. Hands clutch at his shirt, and he feels himself lifted. Someone drags him to shore. He sits up, empties a stream of bile onto the bare earth. Recovering, he looks at Pennington, and then Don, who has come up beside him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he chokes out. He has lost his night-vision goggles, but not his weapon, still looped around his shoulder. He tries to focus on Captain Pennington.

  ‘You,’ he says, ‘saved my bloody life.’ He forces himself to his feet. It is not over yet. They still have one of the girls. No harm can come to her. Not when he has made a promise.

  Saif hears the explosion and looks back to see the orange fireball ballooning high into the sky. He hugs himself with excitement, wondering how many of the infidel commandos have perished.

  With that thought warm in his heart he turns and looks to where he tied the kufr girl against the bulkhead. He grunts in annoyance. The girl has gone, having somehow slipped out of the ropes. He opens the door into the cabin and switches on the interior light. It is filled with the sacks of explosive, surely leaving insufficient space for even a girl of that size to hide. He closes the door and moves back into the cockpit, then walks around the side decks once. There is no sign of her. Saif relaxes. She must have slipped overboard and, if so, the sharks will have her.

  Soon there will be enough killing, he thinks to himself. A kufr warship, a thousand men perhaps, waiting out there in the night. Clear on the radar now. He thinks of the commandos trying to return to their ship, only to see an explosion lighting the heavens.

  His preference would be to die in the act of destroying the enemy. To die shahid, the natural culmination of a life of piety. Years when he and other men spoke of martyrdom not just as a possible end of this life, but the most desirable one. There were times when it might have happened — conflicts against the security forces in Nigeria; a police raid in Yemen. Now, however, his role is too important. There is much yet to be done to ensure the success of the Rabi al-Salah operation.

  Making twenty knots into the open sea the boat begins to leap off each swell and crash into the next. Saif is no seaman and has to clutch at a rail with one hand to remain standing. The blip on the radar draws closer.

  Holding on to the wheel with one hand, Saif gropes in a side pocket for a waterproof plastic container, manufactured in Ohio for the US military, sealed with a rubber gasket. In here he places the pocket edition of the Qur’an he always carries, the satellite telephone, and the roll of high denomination currency from his pocket. This case he shoves into the waistband of his military trousers.

  Now, he gropes for a lifejacket; not finding one at hand where he had expected but having to leave the helm for a moment, feeling along the pockets until the cool vinyl crinkles under his fingers. He slips the Class 1 PFD over his head, tightening the belly strap and fastening the buckle. Saif al-Din is a man who knows his own limitations. He is not a strong swimmer. He is not afraid to use what he needs to achieve his aims.

  Prepared at last, he sees the warship for the first time. To him the looming dark shape must be the pride of the fleet, a battleship, as huge as any ship can be. He knows that some are nuclear powered. Imagines triggering an explosion that will rock the earth. A shiver of ecstasy racks his body.

  Simon hears Matt’s voice and turns to see him peering over his display. ‘Captain, we have a contact. Bearing two-two-one. Range one thousand. Speed twenty-four knots. I don’t know where the hell it’s come from — just appeared out of the clutter.’

  The ops room appears to close in and darken. General conversation ceases. Marshall’s voice booms out. ‘Sound action stations.’

  The bosun’s mate relays the instruction in what is meant to be a deadpan voice, yet it tremors with excitement. ‘Hands to action stations. Assume NBCD state. One condition Zulu.’

  The click-clack of locking dogs slamming home on a hundred hatches reverberates through the hull. Even the engine takes on a new, strained, urgency. Senior ratin
gs move to their posts. The hair stands erect on Simon’s arms as Matt’s voice drones on. ‘Small and low. Some kind of motor launch, sir.’

  ‘Is it one of the SBS teams coming back?’

  ‘No IFF, sir.’

  ‘Shit!’ Marshall turns to the radio operator. ‘See if you can raise them on the VHF.’

  ‘Will do. This is HMS Durham. Vessel on my port beam, identify.’

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Marshall breathes. ‘Acquire target.’

  The radar operator blurts out, ‘There’s no response, sir.’

  ‘Order them to divert, or we will fire on them.’

  Another voice: ‘Target acquired, Phalanx tracking and ready.’

  The PWO, with his soft voice and serious eyes, says, ‘Sir, under the rules of engagement we are not permitted to commence hostilities unless fired upon.’

  ‘Damn the rules of engagement. Rules let them blow a bloody great gash in the USS Cole all those years ago. They don’t have rules, only we do. I am responsible for the lives of three hundred men — I will use any means at my disposal to protect them.’

  Simon, unable to keep silent any longer, screams out, ‘No, stop … it might be them. My girls might be on board …’

  The gunnery officer’s voice is shrill: ‘Collision in thirty seconds.’

  Simon’s voice is pleading now. ‘What if it is them? What if the girls are there?’

  ‘My ship is in danger. I have no choice.’ Marshall raises his voice. ‘Commence firing. Destroy the target.’

  Watching through the spray-spotted screen, Saif sees the dark, huddled shape move out of the tangle of ropes in the anchor locker. The girl. He had almost forgotten about her. He is so close, soon he will reach the kufr warship.

  Pulling the handgun from its holster, he takes a shot at the poorly defined shape. He can no longer see her, and turns back to the helm unsure if the bullet found its mark, or if she is still on board, just as a wall of 20mm HE projectiles begin to ‘walk’ across the sea towards the boat.

  The first armour-piercing 20mm rounds strike and the hull falters in the water, a fire breaks out, but the momentum of the craft, and the propellers push it on. The inherent buoyancy of the craft, however, helps keep it moving. A series of rounds go astray, churning the sea on the port beam to foam.

  The warship rears ahead, a thing of utter repugnance to Saif al-Din, representative of all that he abhors. A military machine that has provoked his fellow believers into the most bitter fight since the crusades. He steadies the boat, aiming it into the centre of the kufr vessel, locking on the autopilot, then pressing the ‘arm’ button on the timer. Now he leaps onto the gunwale and jumps far out into the sea. Shrapnel tears into his leg, and then a needle like agony in his temple. He cannot prevent a shriek of pain.

  He struggles to swim, his injured legs useless, watching the RIB disintegrating on its way to the warship. A shell finds the outboard engines before the range is too short even for the Phalanx system to bear. Saif feels a surge of triumph and excitement as he watches the RIB pass ‘under the guns’. This is the moment of glory. He has succeeded.

  The charges ignite and a blinding light fills his heart and soul.

  There is only one God, and Mohammed is His Prophet …

  White heat sears through the windows of the bridge, and then the shockwave hits the ship. Simon goes down as if he has been punched. Durham tilts to an angle close to the tipping point.

  Mingled with it all are shouts, shrieks, screams; unsecured items sliding across the deck. The floor is wet. Simon finds himself scrambling for purchase.

  The hull rights itself. Someone is screaming, and there is a terrible, unfamiliar smell in the air.

  Marshall is back on his feet and on the microphone. ‘Damage reports.’

  ‘Sir, flooding in compartments Echo, Foxtrot, and Golf. Fire in the engine room.’

  Simon gropes his way out to the open deck. The sea is lit for a kilometre or more by flames leaping from the side of the hull. A klaxon sounds, and men spill up from below decks.

  Fighting fires is the best-organised and most-practised drill in the Royal Navy. The total crew on Durham numbers almost three hundred, and each man and woman has a station. Pumps clatter to life. Hose reels turn. Automatic fire systems spit water and foam from brass sprinklers.

  Men in dreadnought suits hold long hoses that direct streams of seawater onto the flames. Others produce spray that cloaks the firefighters in billions of protective droplets, shielding them from heat and flame.

  Simon is conscious of being in the way, an errant civilian with no purpose. He climbs to the signal deck. From that vantage point he watches the flames lick higher, feels the heat on his face, drying the tears to grainy salt.

  To Simon, this is the end of the world. There now seems no possibility of Hannah and Frances returning. If the terrorists were in a position to attack the ship, then what have they done to the SBS men? Their power seems inexorable.

  For perhaps thirty minutes, he is convinced that the ship will sink, for she lists heavily. But the flames smother under foam and water, and the list disappears as pumps and damage control teams deal with the flooding. He gains the courage to return to the bridge and ask the officer of the watch, ‘Will she be OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I think we were lucky. They holed us, the bastards, but just above the waterline and we’re getting the fires under control now. Once it cools down they’ll plug it up and we’ll be operational again. This tub may be old, but she’s solid.’

  The smoke shrinks back to a black and stinking smudge that hangs over the ship like a blanket. The last of the fires dwindle to nothing, and the clean up process begins. Simon finds himself praying such as he has not prayed for many years. The darkness of the sky and the vast sea make him feel small — a mere thread on the tapestry the local vicar used to talk about. For most of his life he has rejected the strict Anglican faith of his childhood — did his time as a choirboy and in the youth group, and then turned his back on it all.

  Psalm 23, so beloved of the faithful, comes back to him in all its majesty and beauty. His lips move silently.

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.

  He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.

  Over and over again he repeats those words, until he means them as he has never meant anything, believes in the sincerity of them; until his chest aches and his tears fall to his chest.

  From out in the night he hears the soft hum of almost silent motors. From across the sea, three shapes blacker than the night itself appear, riding ahead of a greater darkness.

  They come more swiftly than he might have imagined. Already he is craning forwards, seeing the shapes of heads in the boats. He hurries down a pair of ladders and onto the deck where crews are mopping up the mess remaining from the fire. First he tries to climb over the rail, then, realising the folly of that, stands, gripping a stanchion with one hand, waving his arms like a madman.

  He runs aft, ignoring busy seamen, seeing a stretcher carried up from the sea, fighting his way to her side, seeing the bloody bandages, and the morphine calm of Frances’s face. But he rejoices that she is alive. He kisses her lips and tears spill down his face.

  They lead Kelly up, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and they embrace; he can feel her sobbing into his neck. Men form a silent circle around them, and Simon searches with his eyes for Hannah.

  The SBS fighter who spoke to Simon earlier touches his shoulder, eyes dull. ‘I’m sorry. We still haven’t located her.’

  Simon feels himself assaulted by an avalanche of feelings he cannot begin to control: despair; relief at having Frances back; worry at her wounds. An unfathomable abyss of hurt and thanksgiving.

  THE SIXTH DAY

  God said, ‘Let us make man in Our image, in Our likeness, and let him rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of
the air, over the livestock, over all the earth, and over the creatures that move along the ground.’

  So God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them. God blessed them and said to them, ‘Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it.’

  So humankind was fruitful, and clever. Subduing nature came easily to him. Very early he learned to fell trees and bridge rivers, and devised sophisticated ways to kill. Man invented science, and with science crafted the world according to his wishes. If his house is cold he can heat it. If there is rain he has a roof to defeat it. If his work is difficult, he invents a machine to take his place.

  And there was evening, and there was morning. The sixth day.

  Day 6, 05:00

  At dawn, Marika wakes to find the world changed. The wind has stopped. Sand lies in drifts against the foot of the hills and any other object that slows the torrent. Outside their hiding place is a land without footsteps, devoid of any living thing other than thorn trees and vultures, already up and scouring the earth for carrion.

  They rise together, and Marika senses a strangeness between them. On impulse she places a hand on Madoowbe’s shoulder and leans up to kiss the wire-brush stubble on his cheeks. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We find our camel.’

  Walking together, they circle the low hills, feet squeaking in the new layer of fine desert sand. Some distance away, they find their transport chewing the dried remnants of a bush. It pauses, still masticating, lifts its head and glares, yet allows Madoowbe to come close and grasp the halter.

  Mounting the ungainly creature now seems as natural, to Marika, as climbing into a car.

  ‘Sufia cannot be far away,’ Madoowbe says.