by Adam Baker
Amanda reached for the cylinder.
‘Don’t touch it.’
‘What is it?’
‘The virus. Refined. Weaponised. That’s why I brought you here. You and your friends. I needed your help to open the truck.’
‘So what are you going to do with this stuff?’
‘Burn it. Incinerate every last trace.’
Voss rode the quad bike back to the wrecked choppers.
The temperature continued to drop. Each exhalation produced broiling plumes of vapour.
He scanned the shadows. No movement. Lucy’s voice:
‘You okay out there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Grab what we need and head back. Don’t hang around.’
Voss inspected Bad Moon by flashlight. He checked the cab and the cargo compartment. He checked beneath the fuselage. He didn’t want to get jumped. Gaunt was a coward. The man would spend many hours cowering in the dark and cold before he summoned the courage to come out of hiding and attack Lucy and her crew. But Jabril’s undead battalion might drag themselves from the darkness any moment.
He examined smashed avionics. A fragment of Talon rotor had shattered the windshield and split the centre console like a blow from an axe. He brushed broken glass from dials and switches. He wrenched the chunk of broken rotor free and threw it aside. Frayed cable. A couple of snapped circuit boards.
Maybe Lucy was right. The Huey was antique. Perhaps the control systems were sufficiently basic a guy with pliers could fix her up. Splice wires and start her running. Perhaps Gaunt could repair the machine.
They would need to bottle their rage and cut a deal. Lure Gaunt with some bullshit plan. Tell him to fly east across the desert. They would pick a remote location far outside Baghdad city limits. Hover over secluded, rocky terrain at fifty feet and push the gold out the door. Mandy could rappel and guard the loot, ready for retrieval. The chopper would fly onward to the Green Zone. Set down near a crowd. Maybe land next to a hotel poolside, typhoon rotor-wash tipping loungers and parasols into the water. Or touch down at the airport in front of loading crews and sentries. Someplace public. Somewhere Gaunt felt safe to walk away with a duffel bag full of gold.
They would kill him anyway. Bullet in the back before he had time to unbuckle his harness. Leave him slumped in the pilot seat.
Voss climbed inside the cargo compartment of Bad Moon and ransacked it for ammo. A bag of grenades. Boxes of link for the SAW. Wooden cases of 5.56mm for the rifles.
He stacked munitions in the quad bike trailer, glancing at shadows for any sign of Gaunt.
He piled MRE pouches and bottled water.
He found his jacket and fingerless gloves beneath a seat. He put them on. He set down his shotgun for a moment and swung his arms to get warm.
He fetched the SAW from the barricade. He folded the bipod and released the belt. He loaded the weapon into the trailer.
Toon’s body lay nearby, shrouded in a poncho. Voss hauled the limp body across the courtyard, leaving a dark streak of blood. He laid Toon in the trailer alongside food and ammunition. He didn’t want to leave his friend lying in a pile of refuse.
Voss kept the dead man’s head covered. He didn’t want to see his shattered face.
He crossed the courtyard and examined the wrecked airframe of Talon. The helicopter had rolled almost onto its roof. He ducked into the cargo compartment and shone his torch over jumbled equipment. He found rifle mags and a couple of knives. He tucked them in his pocket. He found flashlight batteries, sun cream and crackers. He stacked them in the trailer next to Toon’s corpse.
He checked the pilot cabin. The door was split from its hinges. He threw it aside.
Raphael hung upside down in the pilot seat, pinned by his crushed legs. His arms hung limp. Blood dripped from his fingers. Blood dripped from his split head.
Voss squeezed into the crushed cab.
He found an ICOM radio in a canvas pouch. He slung the strap over his shoulder.
He emptied mag pockets strapped to Raphael’s vest. He took the machete from his belt. He took cigars and a lighter from the guy’s shirt pocket.
Raphael opened his eyes.
‘Help me,’ he coughed. He struggled to move. He reached for Voss. ‘Help me, Ese.’
Voss slapped his hand aside. He leaned close so he could whisper in Raphael’s ear.
‘Fok jou.’
He unsheathed his knife and drew the blade slowly across Raphael’s throat, slitting his windpipe. Raphael’s pig-squeal turned to a bubbling gurgle.
Voss sat back and watched the man choke and spasm. Gouts of pulsing arterial blood washed over Raphael’s face and spattered on the upturned roof. Blood steamed in the cold night air.
Amanda reached between shelves and touched the steel wall of the vault. Condensation trickled down cold metal. Body heat and breath.
Stifling humidity.
She closed her eyes. She breathed slow, tried to lower her heart rate. She sat perfectly still. Perspiration trickled down her temple. She let it run.
‘They must have blocked the roof vents,’ said Jabril. ‘They are trying to drive up the temperature and force me out.’
Jabril spat the butt of his Salem onto the floor and stubbed it with a twist of his boot.
‘Enough cigarettes, all right?’ said Amanda. ‘Hard enough to breathe.’
‘I thought all American soldiers smoked. I heard they give you free cigarettes in Desert Storm.’
‘I was in high school.’
‘They say you are rich. Your friends. I overheard them talk. They say you are from California.’
‘My parents are rich. They threw me out a long time ago. Probably dead.’
Amanda drained the dregs from her canteen. She licked the final drops from the neck of the bottle.
‘Last of our water.’
Jabril shrugged.
The vault was lit by the beam of Amanda’s Maglite. The torch lay on a shelf. The light flickered and dimmed. The warm, amber glow of a dying battery.
‘So what now?’
‘We wait for your friend to turn. It won’t be long. He has already entered the final phase. He will become increasingly confused. He will experience irreparable brain damage. A series of small haemorrhages and lesions are slowly wiping his mind. Within a few hours the man you have known, the man you call your friend, will be totally erased. He will be a little more than a shell. An automaton. A creature with the intellect of a cockroach. His face will become slack and expressionless as the connective tissue beneath the skin slowly deteriorates. A tell-tale sign. We called it the Death Mask.’
‘And what then?’
‘Lucy will have no choice. He will turn homicidal. She will have to kill him, or be killed.’
‘Then we should be there to help.’
Voss rode the quad bike back to the temple. He parked the quad across the wide doorway to make a barrier.
Lucy helped him lift Toon from the trailer, still wrapped in his poncho. They laid him on the steps of the altar. He looked like a sacrificial offering to the monstrous bull god looming from the shadows above them.
Voss sat next to his dead friend.
‘Go tell the Spartans, passer-by, that here, obedient to their laws, we lie.’
‘No law but his own,’ said Lucy.
‘Fuckin’ A.’
‘Raise a glass in the Riv,’ said Lucy. ‘Remember the good times. That’s what he would want.’
‘What about Jabril?’
‘That vault must be oven-hot by now. He’s got nothing to drink. Time is on our side.’
Voss checked his watch.
‘It’s going to be a long, cold night. I’ll start a fire.’
He smashed wooden ammunition boxes and piled shards next to Huang. He split open a couple of rifle bullets and sprinkled gunpowder. He flicked his Zippo and touched off the powder. Fizzing, spitting flame. Wood started to smoulder and burn.
Huang woke. He huddled close to the fire and warmed
his hands.
Voss unloaded the trailer.
‘Couple of cases for the SAW. Plenty of rifle ammo. Not much for the Glocks.’
‘Water?’
‘Couple of days if we’re careful.’
‘Have to conserve as much as we can. Gaunt might be able to fix the chopper, but it’s a long shot. Odds are, we’ll be walking home.’
Voss gestured to Huang.
‘What about him? Want to carry him across the desert on a stretcher?’
‘If it comes down to it, yeah. Travel by night. I’m sure as shit not going to leave him here.’
‘And what about the gold?’
‘Hide it. Bury it. Maybe we can come back in a couple of months with fresh choppers. Or maybe we should just forget this nightmare ever happened.’
‘That’s our gold,’ said Voss. ‘We came here. We bled for it. It’s ours.’
Lucy crouched next to Huang.
‘How you doing, kid?’
Huang stared into the flames like he hadn’t heard. Lucy clicked fingers in front of his face.
‘Anything you need?’
‘I’m all right,’ he said.
His lips were blue.
‘Got a stupid question for you.’
‘Go for it,’ said Lucy.
‘My sister. What’s her name?’
‘Kim. She’s called Kim.’
Huang nodded. Heavy eyelids. A dreamy smile. He stared into the flames once more and his face relaxed into a blank mask.
‘Get some sleep,’ said Lucy. She stroked his head. Strands of hair came away in her hand. She discreetly blew them from her fingers.
Voss found Amanda’s sniper rifle propped against the rear step-plate of the truck. He crouched by the quad bike at the temple entrance. He checked the breech, then switched on the nightscope.
Acres of rubble glowed with residual day-heat.
Lucy knelt beside him.
‘Stay frosty, all right? Any of those skeletal fucks come knocking, blow their heads off.’
‘You got it,’ said Voss.
‘But we need Gaunt alive, yeah? Shoot to maim. Bring him down, but leave him breathing.’
Voss bit open a Balmoral and lit up.
‘I’m going to douse some of these halogens,’ said Lucy. ‘No point sitting here back-lit like idiots.’
She pulled the plug on a couple of tripod lamps.
‘Maybe you should get some rest,’ said Lucy.
‘Who would want to sleep in a place like this? Who would want to dream?’
Lucy took the ICOM handset from the quad trailer. She checked for a power light. She extended the antenna.
‘You won’t raise a thing,’ said Voss. ‘Too deep in the desert. Hasn’t got range.’
‘Worth a shot,’ said Lucy.
‘And even if you manage to summon a rescue party, the place will be crawling with marines. We’ll fly home broke. You can kiss the gold goodbye.’
‘Dude, listen to yourself. What about Huang? We have to get him to a hospital.’
She tuned to search-and-rescue. 40Mhz VHF. She pressed transmit.
‘Mayday, mayday. This is fire support team Bravo Bravo Lima Two requesting urgent assistance, does anyone copy, over?’
No response.
‘Mayday, mayday. This is Bravo Bravo Lima Two broadcasting on emergency four-zero, over.’
No response.
‘Mayday, mayday. Does anyone copy this transmission?’
No sound but the hiss of a dead channel.
The Crypt
A rising wind blew through the citadel ruins. Dust devils whipped across courtyards and colonnades.
Gaunt crouched beside a toppled column. He zipped his leather jacket and turned up the collar. Too cold to stay in the open. He needed to find shelter.
He took off his right boot and examined the sole. A penetrator round had split the heel.
He looked across moonlit rubble. He could see movement in the far distance. A shadow sliding clumsily against a high wall. One of Jabril’s monstrous legion drawn towards light shafting from the temple entrance.
Gaunt crossed himself. He shouldered his backpack and hurried deeper into the citadel precincts.
He sat on a granite slab. He pulled the sat phone from his backpack and extended the antenna.
Function switch on. 5kHz narrowband. He keyed the encryption code.
‘Brimstone to Carnival, over.’
It took him twenty minutes to get a response.
Koell’s voice:
‘Authenticate.’
‘Authentication is Oscar, Sierra, Yankee, Bravo.’
‘Go ahead, Brimstone.’
‘Requesting immediate exfil, over.’
‘Have you acquired the package?’
‘Negative.’
‘No case, no ride.’
‘Our transport is down. The choppers are out of action.’
‘How? What happened?’
‘An accident. A technical fault.’
‘You want to be a player? Stop bleating for help and do your damn job. Make shit happen. Find the case. Call me at oh-six-hundred.’
The line went dead.
Gaunt tucked the phone into the side-pocket of his backpack. He pulled a steel cross from his shirt collar. Army issue, strung on a dog-tag ball-chain. He mumbled the Lord’s Prayer.
He dug a hand-drawn map from his pocket, took bearings, and began to pick his way through the labyrinth of tumbled stone.
Voss crouched behind the quad bike, sniper rifle resting across the saddle. His eyelids drooped. His head nodded as he fought sleep.
‘Hey.’
Lucy slapped his shoulder.
Voss shook himself awake and alert. He cracked knuckles and flexed to restore circulation. He rubbed his eyes. He took a pair of black-framed spectacles from a chest pouch, wiped the lenses on his sleeve and put them on.
‘How long have you needed those?’ asked Lucy.
‘Got them last month. My eyes get tired. No big deal.’
He scanned the ruins through the SIMRAD nightscope. Half-collapsed buildings. Pillars and courtyards. Turrets and domes.
A flicker of movement. A shadow passing across stonework. One of Jabril’s undead battalion. The stones of the citadel precincts glowed green with residual warmth, but the emaciated creature dragging itself through the avenues and arches had virtually no heat signature. It was an absence, a living shadow, a stumbling silhouette.
‘Contact.’
‘How many have we got?’
‘Just one.’
He pressed his face to the cheek-piece of the rifle and centred the reticules. Cross-hairs zeroed on the creature’s forehead. Slow-squeeze of the trigger. Four pounds of pressure. The whip-crack gunshot echoed through the citadel compound. The revenant’s skull shattered like porcelain.
Voss worked the rifle bolt and chambered a fresh round.
Lucy sat with her back to the quad. She faced the temple interior. Ready to snatch up her assault rifle in there was any movement from the cash truck.
She dug inside a plastic bag.
‘What’s that?’ asked Voss.
‘Shit from Toon’s pockets.’
A wallet with a few dollars and dinar. His passport. His provisional pass. A thumbed copy of Soul on Ice. A tobacco tin with medal ribbons and badges. Purple heart. Beirut. Combat Infantry. Jump wings.
‘He left a bag back at the hotel,’ said Voss. ‘Socks and stuff. He always travelled light.’
Amanda wiped perspiration from her eyes. She took off her Stetson and fanned herself.
‘Do you really want to die?’
Jabril shrugged.
Amanda had an open box of gold at her side. She raked her fingers through rings, bracelets and pendants.
‘There’s a ton of gold in these boxes,’ said Amanda. ‘Enough for everyone. You want to burn that missile, be my guest. Then why not head back to Baghdad with us and spend some money?’
Jabril shook his head.
‘I don’t deserve to live.’
‘Why?’
‘Many reasons, none of which I wish to share. I feel I have reached the end of a long, hard road.’
Jabril held the grenade between his knees and flexed cramp from his hand.
‘How about you? Have you thought what you will do with the gold?’
‘Retire,’ said Amanda. ‘Somewhere green.’
‘With Lucy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And your friends?’
‘We’ve got unusual résumés. Played gun-for-hire on every continent. It’s been fun. Twenty years on the bullet-end of war. But sooner or later you wake up old. We’ll split the cash and head our separate ways. We’ve been family. But I guess it’s over.’
Lucy’s voice:
‘You guys all right?’
Amanda picked up her radio and held the earpiece.
‘We’re okay. How’s it going out there?’
‘Can’t say much over an open channel.’
‘Okay.’
‘Can Jabril hear what I’m saying? Answer yes or no.’
‘No.’
‘Does he have any weapons other than the grenade?’
‘No.’
‘Can you take him? If it comes down to it, are you willing to try?’
Amanda thought it over.
‘Yes.’
‘Pass the radio to Jabril.’
Amanda kicked the radio across the vault floor to Jabril.
‘She wants to speak to you.’
He fumbled with the earpiece, careful not to lose his grip on the grenade.
‘How’s it going, Jabril?’
‘I’m fine. How’s your friend?’
‘Huang? Sinking fast.’
‘You know what needs to be done.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Tell him straight. He’s dying. It will be slow and painful. Put a gun in his hand. Let him make the choice. He’s your friend. Be honest with him.’
‘I’ll give you water. You want water? You want to drink? Open the door a crack and I’ll push through a Camelbak straw.’
‘And a gun barrel, no doubt.’
‘If you get thirsty, let me know.’
Gaunt had received a pre-mission briefing from Koell. A summons to his luxury suite at the Rasheed.
Gaunt sat in a deep leather armchair and basked in a down-wash of cool air from a ceiling grille.
