Authors: Andy McNab
He was with a guy in his mid-thirties, with thick black hair and very pale skin whose slight build reminded me of the younger Nuhanovic. He hadn’t been hanging around in the Middle East for long, that was for sure. In the aisle seat of the row behind them was the sky marshal, a tall Jordanian with severely lacquered hair and a big bulge under his cream cotton jacket. Next row back were two Iraqi women who hadn’t stopped gobbing off at each other, and their two mates across the aisle, at a hundred miles an hour since checking in. Then there was us: both bored, knackered and gagging for something to drink.
Apart from the bouts of turbulence, it had been a pretty uneventful trip. No flight attendants running up and down with coffee and biscuits. Nothing below us but mile after mile of the Mars expedition training area. Our inflight entertainment came from the row behind. A Canadian woman was going to Baghdad to write a book on women’s rights. Her mother was Iraqi, but she’d never been there herself. She was sitting next to an American who’d been working on her almost since take-off, and deserved an A for effort because at last he was getting some feedback. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Gap store window, in khaki cargoes, polo shirt and a diving watch even bigger than Rob’s. If he didn’t get a shag I was going to suggest he could always go forward a few rows and compare functions.
She was going to change the world, and he was sitting there agreeing with everything she said. He made sure he kept his voice down, which was a shame for the rest of the cabin: when it came to bullshit, this boy was first class. It was very strange, almost fate, them meeting. He was also interested in women’s rights. He worked for the CPA [Coalition Provisional Authority] now as a civilian, but he’d been in special forces. Not that he was really allowed to talk about it.
Jerry leaned across to me. ‘Yeah, right. He can’t tell her because it’s a secret!’
The Canadian woman seemed to be warming to Mr Gap. ‘You know, being in Jordan was so, so – like karmic. I can’t wait to get to Baghdad. I just know it’s going to feel like my spiritual home.’
Jerry winked at me. ‘I’ve had my mom ramming this shit down my neck since I was a kid, but it ain’t no spiritual home for me.’
I smiled, but my mind was on other things. We were in Baghdad airspace, and the desert was giving way to the first signs of habitation. It was a grown-up city, its history stretching back thousands of years. It wasn’t a factory-built, flat-pack affair like Riyadh: let’s have a capital, all right, stick one in the sand here. Below us were buildings centuries old, interspersed with tower blocks and elevated freeways that could have been on the approach to Heathrow. Snaking through the middle of it was the Tigris, glinting in the sun. About six million people lived there. I hoped one of them, this week, would be Nuhanovic.
Jerry had finished stowing his camera and assorted shit back in his bumbag. First and foremost he was a fucking good action photographer. If he needed it, he’d need it quickly.
The pilot announced in Arabic and then English that we would shortly be landing at Baghdad International in the sort of tone you’d expect if you were about to run in to Málaga or Palma. But that was where the similarity ended. We didn’t glide gently into the final approach. We circled directly above it, just once, then went into an alarmingly fast spiral. Anyone on the ground who wanted to take a pop at us with a SAM 7 was going to find it hard to get a lock on today.
As we tumbled out of the sky, the pilot continued to give us all the pre-landing waffle as if nothing unusual was happening, but the businessmen had temporarily mislaid their machismo and the cameras had stopped clicking. Jerry leaned back into his seat. Behind him, Mr Gap was soothing the Canadian. ‘It’s OK, standard procedure. I come in and out of here every couple weeks.’ She didn’t sound fazed at all: if anything she seemed excited, but that wasn’t going to stop him.
I noticed two burnt-out 747s alongside the terminal building, noses and wings scattered across the tarmac. It was really a huge military camp, with a maze of fence lines and enormous concrete barriers. Rows of armoured vehicles, helicopters, and green Portakabins stretched to the horizon. Desert-camouflaged BDUs and olive-green T-shirts hung on washing-lines between the buildings.
As soon as the pilot hit the brakes, we were joined by a two-Humvee escort, their mounted .50 cals trained, by the look of it, against possible attack from the aircraft. The businessmen enjoyed that. The cameras were out again.
‘Fuck me . . .’ Jerry couldn’t stop laughing. ‘They’ll be out of memory by the time we get to Immigration.’
The Iraqi women were still going at it nineteen to the dozen, but my attention was on Mr Gap, willing him to get a result. He deserved to, if only through persistence. He was trying his hardest to meet up again once she was in Baghdad. ‘Where are you staying? Maybe I could help you with your research – after all, I work for the CPA. I could introduce you to the top guys.’
That was obviously what she’d been waiting for. ‘Yeah? You know what? That would be great. I’m staying at the Palestine.’
‘Cool.’ He was one happy hunter. ‘We can arrange to meet some time.’
‘That would be so nice.’ I could just imagine the big smile on her face. She had him by the bollocks.
We taxied past the terminal and finally stopped by a hangar. A few American soldiers dismounted from the Hummers and started to walk towards the aircraft as the propellers slowed and the door opened.
We stayed in our seats for as long as possible before shuffling towards the exit behind the Iraqi women. The moment we got there we were hit by a wall of hot air.
25
I squinted hard as I rummaged for my cheapo market sunglasses. The stench of aviation fuel was overpowering and the noise was deafening. It felt like the entire US military was on the move. Helicopters took off and landed less than a hundred metres away. Heavy trucks hauled containers and water bowsers. American voices yelled orders at each other.
As the businessmen got out their cameras, a voice barked and a young T-shirted soldier sprinted up, M16 in hand and Beretta strapped to his leg. ‘No pictures on base. Cameras away.’ He was enjoying this, and he didn’t care who knew it.
I stood with Jerry in the shade of a wing, watching the macho men slip their Olympuses obediently back into their waistcoats.
A military truck arrived. The American driver and a couple of Iraqis started to pull our bags from the luggage hold and throw them into the back.
Another soldier headed across the tarmac towards an enormous freight hangar, shouting, ‘Follow me, folks,’ and, like a bunch of sheep, we did.
Rob and whoever he was with were out in front, followed closely by the still jabbering Iraqi women. Jerry and I stayed in the shade as long as we could, then fell in behind. A couple more US squaddies brought up the rear.
Inside the grey steel building, a black guy in T-shirt and sunglasses appeared, the obligatory Beretta strapped to his leg. ‘Listen up, people.’ He waved a clipboard. ‘When that transport arrives, I want you to grab all your bags and bring them to the table. They’ll be checked before you move on to Immigration. Did you all get that?’
He got a few mumbles of assent, perhaps in recognition of the fact that he was the first soldier we’d seen who wasn’t still looking forward to his sixteenth birthday.
The truck arrived and our bags were dumped on the concrete floor. People started retrieving them and filing over to the table. I hung back until Rob and his guy had collected theirs, then picked up my daysack. Jerry had scoffed at how small it was, but why carry a whole suitcase of stuff if you can buy everything when you get there? One change of clothes and a toothbrush, that’s all you need. Everything else is excess baggage.
Rob turned and must have seen me, but we still didn’t have eye to eye. In fact nobody was talking much, apart from the four Iraqi women. Everyone looked apprehensive as the soldiers dug about in their bags, made them spark up their laptops and tried to look like they knew what they were doing.
I reckoned they were poking around just for the fun of it. If you were going to bring anything illegal into this country, you’d go the Ali Baba route. There were hundreds of miles of unpatrolled desert that everyone, from drug traffickers to armed militants, was pouring across.
After the checks were complete we had to move round to the other side of the table and collect our bags before being led through the hangar. Logistics people sat at tables, tapping busily on their laptops. This being the US military, the bulk of the hangar was stuffed with racks and racks of shiny new equipment. The kit would be rushed to whoever needed it. In the British Army, there’d have been six quartermasters guarding one ration pack, and even that couldn’t be claimed without a requisition order signed by the chief of the General Staff.
We reached a corridor and things got smarter. US soldiers sat drinking cans of Coke on old, recently liberated, gilded settees. It looked like this area had been the front office for whatever the hangar had once been used for. Right now it was home to the all-new Iraqi immigration service. Several officials in friendly blue shirts sat at desks, each equipped with a PC and digital camera. Behind them sat a group of Americans, some in uniform, giving everyone the once-over as they went through.
Beyond the tables was a blur of people in uniforms and civvies. It was obviously the
ad hoc
arrivals and departures zone, but it looked more like the reception area at the UN building. A bunch of Koreans in American BDUs stood around with a group of Italians. Every nationality had their flag stitched on to a sleeve. The smartest-looking troops were the Germans, in crisply laundered black cargoes, T-shirts and matching body armour. Their flag was almost invisible, but with their brown boots, Mediterranean tans and blond hair, they won the best-dressed-for-war competition hands down.
I filed through, showing my Nick Stone passport. I bullshitted Jerry that Collins was my Irish mother’s maiden name. I’d applied for an Irish passport, but I lost it in a move and hadn’t needed it for years. Not that he believed me, of course, but what did it matter? There’d probably be worse things to worry about once we got into the city. An Iraqi took my picture, stamped my passport and waved me through.
Jerry wasn’t so lucky. Either the Arab face on the American passport threw them a bit, or they were just trying to show off to their new bosses who’d given them such nice shirts.
I waited for him in the general area. It was hot and noisy, and most of the noise was Italian. They put the four women to shame, and their hand gestures were much better as well.
It wasn’t just the soldiers who were armed. The place was heaving with guys wearing body armour over their civvies and carrying AK47s, MP5s, M16s, pistols, you name it. It made me feel good. Even if I was just holding Jerry’s hand, I was working, and I was back with my own kind.
This was where I felt comfortable; this was my world. Maybe I had done the right thing coming here.
26
Dazzling sunshine streamed through a dust-covered window. I peered through and wondered how we’d get into the city. There were no taxis because they couldn’t get on to the base. We were in a fortified confine: all I could see were rows of unmarked 4x4s with darkened windows and a few guys standing around with body armour under the obligatory sand-coloured safari vest, sun-gigs hanging off their noses, shoulder-slung MP5s at the ready. To complete the effect they had boom mikes stuck to their mouths to help them look like they were on top of the job. They hardly needed to be: there were more soldiers on show here than there were in the entire British Army. I reckoned they were the official freelancers in town, probably protecting the American and Brit bureaucrats who ran the country, looking good so the CPA thought they were getting their money’s worth.
In the midst of this chaos one thing was for sure: Rob wouldn’t be queuing up for a bus. He’d have organized everything down to the last detail, and was probably already gliding towards Baghdad in an air-conditioned 4x4.
It looked like the Canadian had got herself sorted too. Gap Man was busy loading her bag into the boot of a white Suburban as she jumped into the back and the BG started the engine.
Jerry was still being questioned. I caught his eye and indicated that I was going outside. He nodded, then turned back to yabber some more to his new friend. Ever since we’d got into Jordan he’d been saying how strange it was speaking Arabic all the time. Apparently this was the first occasion he’d ever used it, apart from talking to his grandmother and his mum or going round to one of the corner shops in Lackawanna.
I put my sunglasses back on and walked outside. The midday sun drilled into me as I looked round for transport. I hadn’t gone more than a dozen paces when a loud cockney voice bellowed behind me, ‘Oi, shit-for-brains, how’s it going?’
I recognized him at once, even with Aviators on. I hadn’t seen him since leaving the squadron, but there was no mistaking Gary Mackie. No discreet stuff for Gaz: it had never been his style to obey the written rules, let alone unwritten ones.
He was still shorter than me, and was still hitting the weights. His arms and chest were huge.
I came out with the regular greeting you give people when you bump into them like this. ‘Fucking hell, I heard you were dead!’
He didn’t answer. He just advanced on me with his arms wide open and banged himself into me for a big bear-hug. Then he stood back, still holding me by the shoulders. His eyes were level with my nose. ‘Fucking hell, mate, you look a bag of shit!’