by Adam Baker
Gaunt turned up the collar of his leather jacket. A cold night breeze sighed through the monumental ruins.
‘We should spill some gas,’ said Raphael. ‘Burn the bodies. Hard to imagine a forensic team out here, dusting for prints, but you never know.’
‘Their sorry asses will not be missed.’
‘Amen.’
Lucy beckoned Voss.
‘Give me a hand with the drill.’
They each gripped a rope handle and hefted it from Talon, then dumped it in the quad trailer.
Lucy rode the bike back to the temple at a walking pace. Voss strode beside her, shotgun at the ready. He turned and walked backward every few paces, squinting into the moonlit warren of forecourts and collapsed buildings that lined the processional way.
Lucy drove into the temple and killed the engine.
The truck door. A ragged, circular cut next to each combination lock.
‘I’ve burned through the first layer,’ explained Lucy. ‘Now we drill steel to access each lock drum.’
She prised open the wooden crate with a screwdriver. A DeWalt magnetic drill press wrapped in a blanket. She hooked it to the four-stroke generator. Green power light.
Lucy and Voss held the unit at head height and positioned it beside the upper combination lock. She engaged the magnets. Deep hum. Heavy clank as the drill clamped to the vault door.
Lucy locked the diamond drill bit in place with a hex key. She filled the coolant reservoir from a plastic gallon bottle.
‘I’ll stay with you,’ said Voss. ‘Too much weird shit going down. Someone ought to watch your back.’
‘Thanks.’
Lucy pulled on gloves and goggles. She twisted foam plugs into her ears and wrapped her shemagh scarf over her mouth and nose.
She pressed Start. Slow rotation. She turned the head wheel. The drill bit advanced and scoured steel. Metallic shriek. Coiled shavings. Mineral oil lubricant trickled down the vault door and pooled at her feet.
Huang collapsed. He was talking to Amanda. He swigged water and said:
‘Maybe we should string a couple of grenades—’
Then he dropped his canteen. His eyes rolled upward and his mouth fell open. He toppled backwards onto the flagstones and began to shake. He arched his spine. His boots danced. He pissed his pants. He whined and drooled. Amanda held him down and tried to check his airway.
‘Breathe. Come on. Breathe.’
He stopped trembling and lay still.
‘Let’s get you to the chopper.’
Toon helped lift Huang onto the stretcher. They laid him in Talon.
Amanda shone a Maglite in Huang’s eyes. He blinked. Slow dilation. He turned his head.
‘Just chill, all right?’ said Amanda. ‘Lie still. We’ll get you home in no time.’
She jabbed him in the thigh with a morphine auto-injector pen, and watched him pass out.
‘Go check the perimeter,’ she told Toon. ‘I don’t trust Gaunt to watch our backs.’
She pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and peeled back the wad of dressing taped to Huang’s neck. The wound had turned black. It stank of rotting flesh. Fine metal spines protruded from the putrid skin, like silver hairs. She took tweezers from the medical kit, pinched one of the spines and pulled.
‘You can’t help him.’
Jabril had quietly climbed in the chopper and sat on a bench seat.
‘What is this shit?’ asked Amanda.
‘A disease. It’s like rabies, in some respects. This sickness will progress. He will become demented and attack.’
Amanda redressed the wound. She loaded a fresh shot of tetracycline into the injector gun and fired it into Huang’s thigh.
‘How long has he got?’
‘Not long.’
‘We’ll get him back to Baghdad,’ said Amanda. ‘Get him to the combat ICU. That’s his best chance.’
‘You should restrain him.’
‘He’s my friend.’
‘It won’t make any difference. A few hours from now he won’t recognise your face. He will think of you as prey.’
‘Watch him,’ said Amanda. ‘I’m going to check on Toon.’
She peeled off latex gloves and left.
Huang moaned. His eyelids fluttered.
Jabril reached beneath the bench. He pulled out a holdall. He opened a wholesale carton of Salems. A cloth package hidden behind packs of cigarettes. A Soviet frag grenade. The case was chipped and rusted.
He pulled the prosthetic hook from the stump of his forearm and pushed the grenade into the hollow cup. He twisted the prosthetic back on to his stump and buttoned his sleeve.
Huang coughed and arched his back.
‘Don’t fight,’ murmured Jabril. ‘It will be over soon.’
He sat back and contemplated the white light shafting from the distant temple entrance.
Gaunt and Raphael stripped Bad Moon. They tossed seat cushions, fire extinguishers, life vests and a raft.
‘Unbolt the seat frames,’ said Gaunt. ‘Three tons of gold. We need space and lift.’
‘These fucks won’t be flying back with us. That’s a shitload of weight we won’t need to haul.’
Amanda’s voice over the com channel:
‘Huang is pretty fucked up, boss. Not much I can do for him. We have to get him to a hospital. He needs specialist help.’
Lucy’s voice:
‘We’re minutes away from the gold. We’ll be airborne within the hour. Can he hold on?’
‘Maybe. If his condition deteriorates any further, we’ll need to haul ass no matter what.’
Gaunt released the Velcro straps of his flak jacket and removed the silenced Sig tucked behind his chest plate. He rechecked the chamber, rechecked the mag.
‘Follow my lead, all right?’ he told Raphael. ‘Be ready for my signal.’
Toon ripped the lid from MRE teriyaki and speared chicken with a plastic fork. He gagged. The food tasted of mildew.
He walked to the edge of the courtyard, spat the food and tossed the bowl into shadows. He uncapped his canteen and rinsed his mouth.
He saw a tall silhouette.
‘Voss, baby. How’s it going?’ Toon rinsed his mouth again. ‘Fucking rancid. Must be the heat. Got any of that Red Man? I need to clear the taste.’
The figure stepped forward and was lit by moonlight. Toon glimpsed wild hair and ripped clothes. He backed away and fumbled for the Maglite in his pocket. The beam lit a decayed, skeletal thing, reaching for him with clawed fingers.
Toon dropped the flashlight and drew his Glock. Six shots, centre-of-mass. The thing staggered backward, strobed by muzzle-flash. Chunks blown out of its belly and chest. It fell and lay still.
Amanda came running.
Toon picked up his torch. They stood over the body. A withered skull face. A necrotic abomination, mouth open in a gaping yawn.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ muttered Amanda.
Strange metallic tendrils coiled through muscle and bone
The creature tried to sit. Broken spine. It rolled and tried to crawl, fingernails raking stone. Amanda and Toon backed away.
‘Ever see anything like that?’ asked Amanda.
‘No. Never.’
The creature looked up and hissed.
Amanda stared into jet-black eyes. She felt herself appraised by a strange, implacably hostile intelligence.
‘What the fuck are you?’ she murmured.
Toon shot the malignant creature in the face. He fired until the mag was dry. He pulverised its head.
They fetched a jerry can of fuel from the chopper and slopped gasoline.
Amanda took a blue fifty-dinar note from her pocket. She lit the note and tossed it. The creature burst into flame. Flesh crisped and crackled. The skeletal corpse slowly curled foetal as it burned.
‘It didn’t come from the convoy,’ said Toon. ‘It came from behind us, from the citadel. It was hiding in the ruins. Could be plenty more.’
‘We nee
d a ring of light.’
Raphael and Gaunt grabbed boxes and benches thrown from the choppers and propped them in circle round both Hueys.
Toon and Amanda tore open a pack of cyalume sticks. They cracked the sticks and scattered them on flagstones. The chemical lights glowed blue, surrounding the helicopters in a ring of ethereal light.
Toon kept them covered.
They crouched by the choppers, weapons trained on deep shadows.
Raphael looked scared. Gaunt chewed gum.
Toon reached for the transmit button of his radio.
‘Boss? Boss, do you copy? We got to get moving. We’re starting to draw serious heat.’
Lucy leant against the drill as it cut steel with a shrill whine. The bit lurched forward as it broke through an air pocket within the vault door.
She shut off the drill and pulled foam beads from her ears.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We’ve reached the locks.’
‘Yeah?’ said Voss.
‘Smile. We’re nearly done.’
She disengaged the magnets. She and Voss took the weight of the drill as it fell away from the truck door. They threw it aside.
‘We pile the equipment and set it alight before we leave all right? Water bottles, food wrappers, everything we touched. You can bet other senior Ba’ath officials knew about this stash. Probably behind wire in some internment camp right now, but soon as they bust free they’ll come looking for the gold. And then they’ll come looking for us. Chase us down, if they can. They won’t give up easy.’
Lucy opened a plastic case. A fibre-optic borescope in a foam bed.
She plugged the borescope into a Toughbook. She threaded the scope into the hole next to the upper combination lock. The probe slid down the narrow steel channel.
Camera view: the micro-lamp lit spiral drill-grooves, like the rifled barrel of a gun.
The wheel pack. The combination lock mechanism. Six titanium disks on a spindle.
Voss held the Toughbook. Lucy watched the screen and turned the dial. One by one the lock wheels aligned. Faint click as a bolt released.
Same procedure for the lower lock. She manipulated the combination drum. Clack of a retracting bolt.
She turned the crank handle and hauled the door wide.
She picked her TASC radio from the floor. She spoke into the throat-piece.
‘Okay, folks. We’re in.’
Double-Cross
The vault. Metal shelves braced against each wall. Black, high-impact boxes floor to roof.
Lucy climbed inside. She dragged a black box from a shelf. She dumped it on the steel plate floor. She flipped latches and threw open the lid. Gold jewellery. Watches, bracelets, pendants.
She dragged another box from a shelf. More jewellery.
She picked out a wedding band. Arab inscription. She threw it aside.
She pressed the transmit button on her webbing.
‘Jabril, get the fuck up here.’
Jabril and Amanda came running. They entered the temple. Lucy jumped from the truck. She held up a fistful of jewellery.
‘What the fuck is this shit?’
‘Gold.’
‘You said there would be bullion.’
‘No. I didn’t mention coins or ingots. I didn’t say there would be a big stack of bars. I promised you gold. Three tons. And there it is.’
‘Look.’ Lucy held up a gleaming nugget. ‘A tooth. An actual gold tooth.’
‘Saddam killed thousands of men,’ said Jabril. ‘Tens of thousands. No point pushing a man wearing a Rolex into a mass grave.’
‘We’re not grave robbers.’
‘You are mercenaries. You fight for money. Besides, if you don’t take this gold, sooner or later someone else will find it. If Peshmergas overcome their fear of this place they will discover this truck and use the gold to buy weapons. Blackmarket ordinance from Pakistan. Rifles, rockets, bombs. More of your countrymen will die.’
‘Teeth. You sick fuck.’
Huang lay on a stretcher in the Talon cargo compartment.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Toon.
‘Fucking migraine. Eyes are messed up. Little squiggly lights, like fireflies.’
‘Let’s take a look at your neck.’
Toon wriggled on blue Nitrile gloves. He peeled surgical tape and gently removed the pus-stained dressing from Huang’s neck.
Black, suppurating flesh. Strange metallic spines. He tried to hide his disgust.
Toon pinched one of the spines. He tried to pull it free. He pricked his forefinger.
‘Shit.’
He examined his finger. He watched a bead of blood spread beneath the latex membrane.
He dabbed Betadine on to the neck wound. Huang hissed in pain. Toon taped a wad of gauze over rotting flesh.
‘How’s it looking?’
‘Your neck looks pretty chewed up. Might need a graft. You’ll have a bad-ass scar, but that’s okay. Something to talk about in bars. Seriously. This baby could get you laid.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Or you could wear some kind of black silk scarf round your neck. Make it your trademark. You got to turn it around, kid. Put it to work.’
Huang looked down at his arm.
‘Turning yellow. Frigging jaundice.’
‘You’re Korean, you dumb fuck. You were born yellow.’
Toon took a hypo pen from the map pocket of his ballistic vest and bit the cap. He jabbed Huang’s thigh and pressed the plunger. Huang smiled, blissed out.
Toon stepped away from the chopper, made sure he was out of earshot. He pressed transmit.
‘Boss. Do we have the gold?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We better load and get out of here. Huang is pretty fucked up. Smells like gangrene. We have to get him back to The Zone.’
‘We’re stacking the quad. Tell Gaunt to get ready to fly.’
Toon fired a fresh tetracycline shot into Huang’s bicep. Huang winced and stirred.
‘Rest. Don’t fight the morphine. Roll with it.’
He peeled off latex gloves and patched his bleeding finger.
He gazed at the ruins. Moonlight cast chilly phosphorescence over the blocks and pillars, the oppressive towers and ramparts. Deep chiselled hieroglyphs bled shadow.
‘You ain’t dying in this God-awful place, kid. I promise you that.’
Toon called Raphael.
‘Hey. Smiler. Help me strap him down.’
They strapped the stretcher to tether-rings in the aluminium floor of the Huey.
‘There you go. Be flying for real soon enough.’
Raphael glanced at Gaunt. Gaunt gave a discreet nod of the head.
Raphael climbed out of the chopper and backed away, trying to act casual.
Outside, Gaunt adjusted his grip on the Sig and fought to control his heart rate. He was sweating, despite the cold night air.
Safety to Off.
Toon finished tightening belts. He balled a combat jacket and put it behind Huang’s head as a pillow.
‘You okay, kid?’
Huang gave a dreamy smiled and nodded.
‘Get you home soon as we can. I’ll give you another shot once we get in the air. You’ll wake up in clean sheets.’
Toon jumped from the chopper.
‘What’s your top speed?’ he asked. ‘How soon can you get us back to Baghdad?’
‘Afraid you won’t be making the trip,’ said Gaunt.
He brought the pistol from behind his back and aimed at Toon’s face.
Toon looked down the silenced barrel of an automatic pistol. Astonishment quickly turned to dread. A shuddering exhalation. A strength-sapping wave of fear. He was a dead man.
‘Do it, Ese,’ urged Raphael.
Gaunt’s hand trembled. He swallowed hard.
Toon locked eyes with Gaunt.
‘Fuck you,’ he whispered.
Gaunt shot him through the right eye. Compressed thud. A soft-nose NyTrilium hollow point. The low-pene
tration round mushroomed inside Toon’s head and blew out the back of his skull like a shotgun blast.
Huang was spattered with blood, brain tissue and fragments of cranium.
‘What the fuck?’ he murmured, barely conscious. He tried to sit. He was held down by straps.
Toon toppled into the chopper cargo compartment. He lay across Huang’s legs. He trembled. Last impulses from a shattered nervous system. His left hand twitched a couple of times like he was shaking out cramp, then he was still.
Gaunt looked round the nose of the chopper. He checked they were unobserved. He looked up the processional avenue to the temple entrance. Light shafted from within. No sign of Lucy or Voss.
‘Help me shift the body,’ said Gaunt.
They grabbed Toon’s arms. They dragged him from the Huey doorway.
They hauled Toon to the pile of garbage thrown from the chopper. They threw him down. They covered him in a canvas sheet and a couple of discarded bench seats.
‘We’ll take them together. We’ll wait until they return to the choppers. They’ll start loading gold. I’ll take Lucy. You take the Boer. Empty a full clip into the fucker. Make sure he is down for good.’
‘Be a pleasure.’
‘After that, we find Mandy and shut her down for good. Jabril hasn’t got much fight in him. He won’t be a problem.’
Raphael unslung his rifle and chambered a round. He walked back to the chopper.
Huang struggled to release the straps that held him lashed to the stretcher. He curled his wrist and thumbed open a flip-latch. The chest restraint slackened. He released the straps holding his waist and legs.
He drew his Glock as Raphael stepped into view. He struggled to focus. He struggled to aim.
He fired. The pistol kicked in his hand.
Raphael staggered backward. He dropped his rifle and sat down in the dirt. A big chunk of scalp missing. He reached up and touched brain.
Huang fired at Gaunt, blowing chips out of flagstones.
Gaunt ran for cover. He hid behind Bad Moon. He looked round the nose of the chopper, pistol held cocked and steady.
Raphael was on his knees collecting chunks of head. He fumbled like a drunk picking coins from a sidewalk. He blew sand from each fragment of scalp and stuffed them in his trouser pocket. He kept his left hand pressed to his shattered forehead to stop brain spilling out.
