Pulse accelerating, Stokes turned over his hand and assessed the raw, inflamed skin on his palm.
Since you’re so obsessed by disease, it’s only fitting that you die from pestilence. That was a highly concentrated strain of anthrax you touched. Even more potent than the Ames Amerithrax we’d field tested in 2001. When absorbed through the skin it’s 100 per cent lethal, non-transmittable to others. Engineered for selective reduction, or covert assassination. If you touch your nose, eyes or mouth, its virulence will be intensified. Death comes swiftly, but not before two to three days of intense suffering as your respiratory system bleeds out and chokes you. Or maybe you’ll choose to hasten your demise by your own hand? Good riddance. See you in Hell.
Stokes’s shoulders slumped. He crumpled in his chair and turned to the window. On the other side of the glass, a black dove stared in at him.
‘That’s them,’ Jason said, lowering his binoculars. From the sky, the rogue pickup truck was easy to spot as it sped along an open ribbon of dusty roadway leading west over the expansive plain.
‘Where do you think they’re taking him? Kirkuk?’ Meat asked.
‘Probably. And we can’t let that happen.’
‘No problem.’
‘Without killing them,’ Jason clarified.
‘Well, who doesn’t like a challenge?’
‘If you get us low alongside them,’ Camel cut in over the intercom, ‘I can shoot out the tyres.’
‘Much appreciated,’ Jason said, scanning the terrain in infrared through his binoculars. ‘But I think I’ve got a better idea. Meat, the road crosses a bridge about three klicks out. Think you might be able to set us down on the west side, block them in?’
‘Hell yeah,’ Meat said. ‘We could just take out the bridge too.’
‘That would be a waste of taxpayer dollars,’ Jason said with a smile. ‘Let’s not be lazy, okay?’
‘I was just joking,’ Meat replied sheepishly.
‘And if the truck turns around?’ Jam asked.
‘If they turn around, they’ve got nowhere to go,’ Jason said. ‘We’ll just keep them moving until they run out of gas. Then we’ll get on the ground and surround them. It’s just the driver and Al-Zahrani. Al-Zahrani’s in no condition to run and the driver certainly won’t be able to carry him far without help.’
‘I still think we should just blow that truck to hell,’ Jam said.
‘That’s your retirement plan down there,’ Camel reminded him. ‘No body, no bounty.’
‘Fuck the money,’ Jam said. ‘That fucker needs to die.’
A pregnant pause indicated a quiet consensus.
The Blackhawk was closing the gap fast. Meat swept in over the roadway. The truck had less than a kilometre lead now.
‘What exactly is wrong with Al-Zahrani anyway, Google?’ Camel asked.
‘Not sure. The medic was running some tests when I left … was trying to figure out the problem. But whoever took Al-Zahrani from the tent killed the medic on the way out the door.’
‘I liked the doc,’ Meat said. ‘Good guy.’
The bridge was less than two kilometres away.
The truck accelerated.
‘He’s going for it,’ Meat said.
‘Pull ahead and drop down on the other side,’ Jason said.
Meat pushed forward on the cyclic and eased down on the collective. The Blackhawk swooped low over the truck on a direct path for the bridge.
Below the bridge, Jason suddenly noticed activity - Arab men scurrying out from under the trusses … with weapons. Jason screamed, ‘Pull up!’
Through his night-vision lenses, Meat saw an RPG tube aimed directly at him. ‘Oh fuck,’ he gasped. He pulled the cyclic hard to the left. At close range, the chopper was hopelessly caught in the gunner’s sight. In anticipation of being hit, he decreased altitude.
The grenade launched in under a second, and the gunner - whether by luck or design - anticipated the chopper’s movement.
The mortar struck high behind the cabin with the mast and rotors taking the brunt of the explosion. Hot metal shot through the cabin.
The Blackhawk listed hard to the left and through the cracked windshield Jason saw the moonlit horizon tilt like a seesaw. Then the chopper’s nose dropped precipitously and the ground came into view - not even ten metres below.
The ensuing freefall happened so fast, Jason had no time to brace for impact. In an instant, there came a deafening crunch of metal and shattering glass. Jason’s head whipped forward. For a good ten seconds, his eyes saw nothing but white.
The chopper had come to a standstill at a thirty-degree forward pitch so that the harness dug into his ribs. Knifing pain radiated across his chest. A warm, wet sensation came over his feet and legs, which he immediately assumed to be his own blood. When his vision finally came into focus, however, Jason was surprised to see that he was actually submerged in water up to his shins.
The chopper’s entire front end had crumpled into a wall of gritty earth.
Over his right shoulder he saw the glowing moon. The landscape he could see was cleaved by a wide irrigation canal - reduced to a stream, thanks to Iraq’s recurring drought - with steep embankments that snaked through the fields covering the plain. The water flowing through the canal churned around the downed Blackhawk.
‘Fuck,’ Meat groaned, rubbing his neck. ‘Are we dead yet?’
‘We will be if we don’t keep moving,’ Jason said. He tried to think how far the chopper had flown from the bridge. ‘They’re going to come for us.’ He unclipped his helmet and tossed it into the shallow pool that covered the floor, worked the harness buckles next.
Meat did the same.
‘Camel?’ Jason called out. ‘Jam? You guys okay?’
No answer.
Jason slid off his seat and peered into the rear to check on them. What he saw was horrifying. Both men were hanging limply from their harnesses. Camel’s helmet had been blown clear off, along with half his skull. A foot-long metal rod speared through the top of Jam’s helmet and out through his face. Behind them, the fuselage had been punched open by the obliterated transmission.
Feeling his knees starting to wobble, Jason fought to remain focused, called upon his training to override the threatening emotional storm. You won’t survive unless you keep it together. He closed his eyes for a moment and cycled a deep breath.
‘Jesus, Google,’ Meat said, distraught. He gestured the sign of the cross. ‘This is fucking awful. How could this happen?’
Overwhelmed, Jason didn’t have an answer for him.
The distant sound of a roaring truck engine echoed through the canal, gaining in intensity.
‘Now what?’ Meat said.
Jason reached around his seat and grabbed the M-16s stowed there. He tossed one to Meat.
‘Now we make them pay for this.’
Jason and Meat climbed the embankment and low-crawled into a dense barley field that bordered the canal. Fifteen seconds later a lone pickup truck made a slow approach through the canal, heading straight for the bright flames shooting up from the fallen Blackhawk.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Meat whispered, craning his head up and peeking out through the wispy stalks. ‘These guys look like kids.’
Scanning the enemy, Jason counted five men - the driver, a passenger, three men with machine guns in the cargo bed. Meat was right: even with scruffy beards, none of these guys looked older than twenty. Certainly not Kurds, thought Jason. He couldn’t help but wonder why an Iraqi Security Force patrol had yet to respond. Complete autonomy in Kurdistan would be slow coming if this was any indication of a US handover.
Jason felt sick to think that there hadn’t been time to pull Camel and Jam from the wreck, because the chopper’s engines were now fully ablaze. It wouldn’t take long for the bodies to be roasted. However, with the entire fuselage roiling in smoke, it was impossible for the Arabs to notice that the cockpit was empty. This gave them a false sense of security, because when the truck came to a stop, all five men let their guard down, certain of victory. They jumped out from the truck, shouldered their weapons and gathered close to the crash site. They raised their hands to the sky and began ululating and chanting ‘
Allahu Akbar
!’
When they started posing for pictures, however, something inside Jason snapped. This disrespect for human life was the very cancer that was eating away at the Middle East. Without thinking, he rose up and clasped his M-16. Caught up in their jubilation, the Arabs didn’t notice him trawling the top of the embankment.
Jason’s impulsive move surprised Meat. Left to devise his own tactical response, he opted to sneak behind the chopper to the opposite embankment in hopes of catching the Arabs unawares, should they spot Jason.
The posse formed a tight circle around the cameraman to view the digital shot he’d taken.
Positioned directly above them, Jason’s presence went undetected. He shook his head in disbelief and lowered the M-16. There’d be no satisfaction unless he could see terror in their eyes, so he whistled to get their attention. That did the trick. They turned in unison and a long moment of pure confusion paralysed the posse as they assessed his tatty Arab attire. Jason could tell that they suspected him to be one of their own.
On the opposite embankment, Meat emerged from behind the chopper’s severed, flaming tail. The Arabs had their backs to him, so he readied his weapon and waited for a cue from Jason.
With dramatic fervour, Jason jabbed his fist skyward and yelled, ‘
Allahu Akbar
!’
Only one Arab echoed his cry, but the man’s gullibility elicited only rebuking stares from the others. Trepidation had taken its hold. Two of the men exchanged calculative glances and prepared to make a play for their shouldered weapons.
‘You want a picture? I’ll give you a picture you won’t forget.’ Jason’s expression turned dark. ‘Everyone smile.’ Finally, he witnessed the terror he’d been waiting for.
Panic seized the Arabs. Before they could scatter or take up their weapons, Jason raised his M-16 with lightning speed and opened fire in smooth sweeps.
Meat followed Jason’s lead, strafing the Arabs from behind with no mercy.
Within five seconds the posse had fallen, riddled beyond recognition.
Neither Jason nor Meat stopped firing until their ammo clips had emptied.
When it was finished, the river ran red.
With no words spoken between them, Jason and Meat collected the weapons from the dead Arabs and loaded them into truck.
Jason snatched the camera from the ringleader’s dead grip. He took a few steps back, snapped some pictures of his own and slipped the camera into his pocket. Then he walked over to the truck and dipped into the driver’s seat. He grimaced when he saw paperwork on the dashboard that bore a familiar Arabic insignia.
Meat climbed into the seat beside him and saw it too. ‘Fucking Al-Qaeda. They’re like cockroaches.’
A disturbing realization settled over Jason: this ambush was no coincidence. These men who’d been lying in wait were no mere splinter group. ‘These guys had been tipped off that Al-Zahrani was driven out from the camp,’ he said. Contrary to his original appraisal, the enemy had cast its net wide.
‘They aren’t so stupid after all,’ Meat said in self-recrimination.
For a few seconds, Jason mourned the engulfed chopper, burned the image into his mind and soul. This would be the last time he’d underestimate the enemy. Then he put the truck in reverse and rode up on to the embankment to execute a K-turn.
Keeping the lights turned off, he backtracked through the canal towards the roadway.
Within two minutes, the dark silhouette of the bridge came into view. As he moved in cautiously, he spotted a dark form tangled on the rocks underneath the span.
‘What is that?’ Meat said. ‘Is that—?’
Seeing nothing moving, Jason flipped on the headlights. Now the form was easy to identify. ‘Yeah. It’s a body.’
Making a slow approach, Jason scanned the immediate area. No vehicles. No men.
‘All clear,’ Meat confirmed with a second set of eyes.
Jason parked the truck close to the bridge. He and Meat got out and slogged over to the dead man.
‘Is it one of them?’ Meat asked, focused on the headwrap and tunic.
‘No,’ Jason said. He pointed to the feet. ‘He’s wearing marine-issue combat boots. And that’s the same turban Al-Zahrani’s driver was wearing.’ He crouched next to the body, clasped the shoulder, and turned it over.
The head slumped back and the throat yawned open like a grisly smile where it had been deeply sliced from ear to ear.
‘Awh, Christ,’ Meat said, putting his hand to his mouth. ‘That’s foul.’
Immediately, they both recognized the face … and it was no Arab.
‘Staff Sergeant Richards,’ Jason said, shaking his head. ‘Figures.’
‘I never liked that guy,’ Meat said. ‘What a prick.’
Jason kicked the body into the water. ‘Damn, Crawford. What were you thinking?’ he seethed.
‘Hate to state the obvious, Google. But there must’ve been more of those guys under this bridge. ‘Cause they killed this fuck,’ he pointed at the dead staff sergeant, ‘and the truck he was driving isn’t here any more. I think that means Al-Zahrani is gone.’