by Alex Shaw
“Get me a medic!” Gonzalez yelled.
Styles pushed his team leader away. “I’m OK.”
Gonzalez looked at the blooded knife in disbelief; at least three inches had penetrated Styles’ flesh. “No, we gotta get you to the Doc.”
Styles turned away from the crowd so only Gonzalez could see his face, he lifted his shirt. “See, it’s nothing.”
Gonzalez shook his head “What the…” The wound was no more than a scratch.
***
Black had no idea of how far he had travelled but he had a raging thirst. He had tried to quench it by swallowing the water taken from the crazy Ukrainian’s well, but the taste had been repulsive. He had retched as the tepid liquid hit his throat. That was, he could not think properly, perhaps eight or twelve hours earlier? As he continued to navigate the narrow paths over the mountainous terrain, the searing heat of the Afghan afternoon had changed to the chill of evening. Then the bitter night had come and from somewhere inside he had found more strength in the cold, star filled night. He had walked on past dawn and now the sun at its apex threatened to chargrill him once more. His body screamed at him to stop, to take cover to, lie down on the valley floor that he had finally reached but his mind drove him on. It reasoned that every step took him nearer to the firebase, nearer salvation. On the barren plane he could see for miles all the way to the distant mountains. He did not look back, did not turn around. He kept his head down with his collar up in an attempt to shield the sun until he heard an engine. He held his hand above his eyes and squinted. On the horizon at the end of the valley a dust cloud was getting bigger, a vehicle was approaching. Black took cover. This time both mind and body were in agreement and he threw himself flat against the searing dirt. Attempting to make himself as flat as possible and banking on his digital camo fatigues for concealment, he watched as the vehicle continued to close. It was a white Toyota pick-up with what looked like a .50 cal mounted on the flatbed. One figure in a black turban shared the space with the gun. Black cursed. With two in the cab that made it three against one if things went noisy.
The Toyota neared, coming to within twenty feet of him. He was still unsighted by the enemy when he suddenly lost control of his body. A primal urge surged from his stomach to his throat manifesting itself as ‘thirst’. Black sprang to his feet and timing his attack to the millisecond ran at the Toyota as it passed. He leapt up at the flatbed and collided with the turbaned fighter. Black’s momentum carried both he and the fighter over the opposite side of the truck and barrelling into the dirt. Black’s prey had broken his neck on impact with the desert floor and was like a rag doll under him. Realising what he was doing but not knowing why or how to stop, Black sank his teeth into the sand encrusted neck of the Taliban fighter. He bit down and then felt the blood seep into his mouth as he sucked at the artery. His eyes rolled and his vision reddened. At that moment in time the heat, the exhaustion and the danger vanished. He could hear no sound, could feel no heat from the sun and most importantly did not register the first round from an AK47 tearing into him.
Black was aware of the Toyota carrying on for a few feet before it skidded to a halt. He stood and turned. Two men with Kalashnikovs ran at him. Firing on the move, they peppered the dirt around him. A second, third and then a fourth round hit Black causing him to convulse but he did not fall. Teeth bared, he sprinted directly at them. As the men closed Black fell as more rounds entered his flesh. For a moment his vision blurred, the beating of his heart was loud in his head then he rolled over and sprung to his feet as the first man came within striking distance. Black landed a fist on the man’s bearded chin which caused the fighter’s head to snap back. As the insurgent fell, Black grabbed his Kalashnikov and cut down the last remaining man at point blank range. Black steadied his breathing as he went to each man in turn and double tapped their skulls to make sure they were dead. He collected their weapons and climbed into the cab of the Toyota. There he saw several bottled of water. He grabbed one and poured the contents into his mouth. Almost immediately he retched as the water mixed with the blood of his first kill, projected out of his mouth as a crimson cloud. Black poured the rest of the water over his head and hands, washing away some of the blood and sand. It was then that he adjusted the rear-view mirror and saw that his eyes were red and his canine teeth were protruding from his mouth. As he stared in disbelief, images of the thing that had attacked him in the cave flashed before him. He shook his head and slapped his face. Heat exhaustion did strange things to people including causing hallucinations, he told himself. He screwed his eyes shut and then as he opened them saw that both eyes and teeth had returned to normal. He put the Toyota into drive and headed for Firebase Python.
TWO: Fire Base Python, Pasaband District, Ghowr Province, Afghanistan
Gonzalez glared at the Russian whose requests he had been ordered to follow. Rockbridge had told him a sanitized version of the truth, that he and his team may have been exposed to a biological agent. After Gonzalez had pushed, Rockbridge had admitted that it may be Ebola.
“General.”
“Good evening Sargent. This will not take long. All I require is a sample of blood. Once I have that Vaha will analyse it and we shall know within minutes if you are or are not infected.”
Gonzalez looked at the dark haired soldier who accompanied Dratshev. “Vaha? Strange type of name.”
“It is Chechen.” Vaha stated and turned away.
“If I could have your arm?” Dratshev held out his hand.
“So are you a scientist or something?” Gonzalez rolled up his sleeve and thrust his arm out.
“Something.” Dratshev looked at the veins pulsating. He plunged a needle into the American’s arm and drew a sample of blood. “Next.”
Gonzalez moved away holding a piece of cotton wool to his forearm as Miller entered the room and prepared to have his blood taken.
Rockbridge appeared in the doorway. “Did it hurt that much Gonzalez?”
“Funny.” Gonzalez started to walk away then changed his mind. “The Russian is going to the cave. I am formally requesting permission to accompany him in order to retrieve Black’s body, sir.”
“No.”
Gonzalez felt his face flush with resentment. “Maybe it wasn’t a lesson they taught you at West Point sir, but you never leave a man behind.”
Rockbridge let his lips curl in amusement. “If your screening is clear, you will accompany General Dratshev, but because I do not trust him. If you happen to retrieve Black’s body then so be it. Do you understand, Sargent?”
Gonzalez nodded, satisfied. “Yes Sir.”
As planned Styles was the last Delta operative to be tested. Dratshev nodded at Vaha, who immediately shut the door.
***
It had been more than twenty five years since Hakim had sensed their presence, their smell, their cold touch. He had grown older and had assigned their abilities to advanced Soviet training programs, to drugs and technology. He had convinced himself to forget but knew deep inside that it had all been a lie. A quarter of a century ago he had witnessed Hadama attacks and had fought back. He self-consciously touched the scars on his chest caused by the flames he had used against them. At that time he had cared little for his own safety, thought little of his own mortality and had acted. It was revenge for the loss of his family, the loss of his world. He had been the one to lead the raid against the cave; he had been the one who swore that the Soviet soldiers had been buried alive in a burning tomb. But like his memories they were not dead, merely buried. Hakim stared out of the bared window in what at Firebase Python was loosely referred to as ‘the stockade’. The Delta operative was one of them. It was proof that they still existed. In the past the other ANA members had humoured him when he had told them his story. Some of them too had heard rumours about the invincible Soviets, stories thrown around camp fires but unlike him they were from different provinces only he had seen them and knew that there was indeed no smoke without fire. Hakim touched his che
st again. No one would believe him, no one would help him. He had to escape and he had to stop them.
Usually by now he’d be safely tucked up in his cot but Rockbridge’s day had been long and was not over yet. He was scanning the most recent Intel intercept when he sensed movement outside and looked up from his desk. Dratshev stood in the doorway.
“Major, I have finished screening your operatives.”
“And?”
The Russian shook his head. “I am afraid that one has been infected. The rest are in the clear.”
“Styles?” Rockbridge already knew the answer.
“Correct.”
“So what can be done?”
“I have some drugs which may slow the onset of the virus but if he is to stand any chance he must be transferred into my custody and taken to our tropical disease clinic. They have the project’s research notes and have been working on a strategy.”
“You know that I cannot authorise that. Styles is a serving member of the United States Army, he must be treated in a US facility. Your centre must transfer their research to us.”
“My government would never allow that, it would be tantamount to confirming that the project took place, against the Biological Weapons Convention. Leaks happen Major; you and I are both old enough to have experienced this. Your man’s only hope is to be taken with me to Moscow.”
Rockbridge ran his hand through his bristly grey hair. “Let me talk to someone. These drugs you have with you, they will slow the virus?”
“Yes. If I administer them now we may be able to delay the progress of the virus for a day or so. He must however be immediately placed under quarantine conditions.”
“Hell General. Look around, this is a firebase not Camp Leatherneck. We don’t have anywhere to put him.”
“Use the stockade.”
Miller and Eaton carried a sedated Styles on a stretcher to the stockade. Both had been ordered by Rockbridge to wear masks. Captain Osman, the CO of the ANA had Hakim in handcuffs and was leading him away. They crossed on the threshold. Hakim’s eyes went wide at the sight of Styles and he shouted at Osman in Pashtun. Osman shouted back and pushed him away. Styles started to groan; Miller and Eaton hurriedly took him inside and placed the stretcher on the bunk. In a well drilled movement both operatives removed the poles and let the material act as a sheet. Eaton leant over Styles and looked at his face. The eyes were still closed, the sedatives working. Miller tapped Eaton’s shoulder, signalling that they should both leave.
Outside Eaton lifted his mask. “Did you get what he said?”
Both operatives knew some Pashtun but Miller’s was better. “I heard what he said but I didn’t understand it. He said ‘that man is Hadama…Hadama.”
“What’s that, the Pashtun for ‘queer’?” Eaton grinned, his teeth reflecting the moonlight.
“As I said I don’t know. The guy’s crazy, probably smokes too much of Afghanistan’s finest.”
Dave Raymond sat in a corner of the tent on his cot and looked at ‘the rushes’, the unedited tape he had used that day. It had been a routine patrol with the 2nd Battalion, 5th Infantry of the US Army’s 25th Infantry Division (Light) who were normally based in Schofield Barracks in Hawaii. Raymond had asked where their ‘shirts’ were but the Yanks hadn’t seemed to get his humour. The patrol had entered the compound of a local Afghan leader who had been very vocal in decrying the Taliban and Al-Qaeda. The elder had gone on to state how safe he felt now with the new base in his backyard. He nevertheless however still employed AK wielding bodyguards. At first the locals found it insulting and then rather amusing to be interviewed by a woman, and Paige Turner was a rather gorgeous one. At five ten with natural blonde hair and a figure that even baggy combats struggled to hide she should have been a model, in the chauvinistic minds of most men she met, but was an award winning journalist turned documentary film maker. She had learnt Pashtun and taken up the plight of Afghanistan’s forgotten victims, the women who under the Taliban had been treated worse than dogs. She was asleep on the next cot. She was gorgeous but she snored. Raymond smiled, even Venus must have had her faults, probably farted like a trooper. He raised his eyes from the camera’s viewfinder and looked at her bum; the green fatigues cupped her buttocks as though made to measure. He let his gaze linger for too long. He wanted to sleep with her but the problem was that both she and his wife wouldn’t allow it. He smiled to himself, maybe he should ask them? He shook his head, it was late and he was fantasying again. Back to business. The documentary they were making was part of a series on the people of Afghanistan and how they had been affected and continued to be affected by the ‘insurgency’. In Raymond’s opinion ‘the Stan’ had been done to death, the locals had seen so many film crews that now most of them were eligible for their ‘Equity cards’. But, and it was a nice butt, Paige didn’t think so and as such the BBC had commissioned the documentary. Raymond came to the end of the day’s tape and then started to watch the fight at the canteen that had erupted after the arm wrestling. On film the American sat, looked like he was going to get beaten and then all but broke the Afghan’s arm. This satisfied Raymond, Hakim needed to be taken down a peg or two especially after he had made a lurid comment about Paige. Hakim had then stabbed at the American with his knife before being hauled away, but then something didn’t make sense. Raymond rewound and slowed the tape. He saw Hakim reach for his knife and thrust it deep into the chest of the American; it hadn’t been a glancing blow as he had thought. He watched the American stand shakily and then pull the blade out of his chest. Raymond paused the tape and wished he had his full editing suite with him to enlarge and enhance the frame, he hadn’t been as near as he had wished and the canteen lighting had not been the best. But then he also wished that they were more than a two man crew, however with the advances in digital technology he and Paige were all that was needed and the BBC had wanted the footage to have a ‘rougher edge’. Raymond leaned nearer the screen and squinted. He was sure that the blade had been driven at least several inches into the soldier’s chest, yet the man was able to pull it out as if it had been a comb in his pocket. Raymond started the tape again and saw the second American, the team leader, steady the first and then as if nothing had happened saw the first straighten up. “What the hell have we here?”
There was movement from his neighbour’s cot. “I give up! You’ve been tutting and humpfing for the last ten minutes. I was asleep!”
“I know, you were snoring.”
“I do not snore.”
“How would you know if you were asleep?”
“Anyway, I’m awake now. What is it?” Turner sat up.
“I was looking at the footage we took of the stabbing.”
“Dave you know we can’t use that, we can’t show the faces or any details about the Special Forces operatives.”
“That’s why I was having a look before I delete it.”
“So?”
“So?” Raymond paused; he always found it hard to concentrate around her. Especially when she was on a bed and looking into his eyes.
“What did you see?”
“Oh…Look at this.” Raymond rewound the tape; Turner sat on his cot and leant against him. “There, see?”
“Hakim tried to stab the Delta boy but missed.”
“He didn’t miss.”
“What?”
“Look again.” Raymond slowed the footage and paused on the relevant frames. “The blade did go in but the bloke didn’t feel it.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Well it happened and he took it out.”
Turner leaned forward, her blouse opening slightly. “But the suction from penetrating the chest cavity would have been huge. He pulled it out like…” Her voice trailed off as she made no attempt to stifle a yawn.
“Pity we can’t use it eh? Or even talk about it.”
“So what, was he wearing some new type of ultra-thin Kevlar or stab vest?”
“No.”
“Wel
l whatever ‘X File’ you’ve found can wait until the morning.” Turner looked at her wristwatch. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”
“Paige please, I’m not that kind of boy.”
“Yes you are, but I’m not that sort of girl. Now let’s go to bed, you in your bed and me in mine.”
“Fine, but one request.”
“What?” Turner sat back on her own cot.
“Please try not to snore.”
Turner picked up her boot and threw it at him. “I do not snore!”
Raymond rubbed his arm and feigned injury. He was about to speak when he heard the unmistakable sound of a helo engine start and then the thud…thud…thud of rotor blades. “At this hour?”
“Must be an ‘immediate’?”
“Come on.” He slipped on his UK Gear PT-03 desert trainers, grabbed the camera and left the tent. Turner hobbled after him pulling on her Timberlands and was just in time to see Rockbridge leave his quarters and head for the Delta tent. “Film it.”
“I am, but you know we shouldn’t.”
“It could be something big.”
“They’ve already found bin-Laden you know.”
“Well then maybe they’ve found Lord Lucan or Jimmy Hoffa. Now let’s get nearer.”
Staying in the shadows the pair skirted the edge of the camp. As they did so a second helo started up and three Delta operatives ran from their tent towards it at the far end of the firebase. Rockbridge appeared again.
