Ultimate Weapon (33 page)

Well, I hate to admit it, but the buggers are right about one thing.
If anyone can get Sarah out of there, it’s me.

Nick unstrapped the seat belt, throwing his kitbag over his shoulder. The soldier opened the door, and a sudden blast of hot air ripped through the machine.

‘Go! Go!’ shouted the soldier.

Nick pushed himself forward. The air was rushing through the open door. He gripped the metal frame of the Black Hawk, and glanced down. The swirling blades of the machine had kicked up a cloud of dust, blasting it up into the air. It spat into his face. For a moment, Nick’s mind flashed back more than a decade, to the day he was released from an Iraqi jail and put on a chopper to lift him out of the country. He could remember taking one last look, and promising himself that whatever else might happen he would never again set foot in this brutal wreck of a country. Bugger it, he muttered as he pushed himself away from the door into the open air. Promises are there to be broken. Soldiering is the one thing in my life I was actually good at, whatever they say about me.
Here goes.

He hit the ground with a thud. His legs smashed into the sand, and he immediately rolled his body to take
the impact. The dust was flying everywhere. He could hear the roar of the throttle being opened up on the Black Hawk, and the hurricane raging around him intensified as the pilot put maximum power into the machine’s blades. Looking up, Nick could see the Black Hawk accelerating into the air. I’m on my own now, he thought.

Nick reached out for his kitbag, grabbed hold of it and started to pick himself up from the ground. He’d taken a couple of bruises to the ribs, but the landing hadn’t been too bad. The chopper had brought him down in a patch of wasteland, within a hollow surrounded by a series of ridges. In the distance, he could see the highway curving down towards central Baghdad. And in front of him, he could see a man running towards him.

Jed.

‘Where the fuck’s that chopper going?’ Jed was shouting. ‘Where the fuck’s it going?’

Nick shrugged. ‘Home.’

Jed stood with his mouth open, following the arc of the chopper as it soared up in to the sky, and disappeared towards the south. Then he turned towards Nick. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he spat, his tone angry.

‘Giving you your orders, mate,’ said Nick.

‘You’re not a bloody officer. You’re not even in the army.’

‘Don’t need to be, son.’

‘You can fuck off, then.’

Nick put a hand out on Jed’s shoulder, but it was instantly pushed away. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘A Black Hawk has just dropped me down here. The Iraqis may have the stupidest excuse for an army that’s ever been assembled, but even those clowns can spot an enemy helicopter hovering a couple of miles outside their capital city.’ He paused, then started walking towards a ridge that ran through the wasteland and up to the concrete girders of the highway. ‘Now we can stand around here chatting all day and wait for a truckload of sodding ragheads to come along and start shooting us, or we can get our arses into gear and start moving out of here.’

‘They said they were picking me up to take me home,’ said Jed.

Nick laughed. ‘Why, you homesick for your mum?’ he said. ‘So they lied to you. Get used to it.’

Jed hesitated. It took a moment, but it was starting to sink in. Laura hadn’t told him to meet the chopper here because they were planning to pick him up. It was because they wanted him to hook up with Nick. But why the hell did they want the old bastard back in Iraq? He was useless enough in Britain.

‘So just what are you doing here exactly?’

‘Looking for Sarah,’ said Nick flatly.

Jed stopped in his tracks. ‘Sarah?’

‘Is there a bloody echo around here?’ said Nick. Jed remained rooted to the spot. The Black Hawk had long since disappeared above the clouds, and the scrubland had fallen completely silent. ‘Sarah’s in Iraq?’

Nick nodded. ‘So I’m told,’ he replied gruffly. He
turned round, and started marching towards the ridge again. ‘Like I said, if we don’t get our arses out of here, the Iraqis are going to be serving our balls up for Saddam Hussein’s breakfast. Now, how the fuck do we get out of here? And how the hell do we get into Baghdad?’

Jed shook his head. ‘Christ,’ he muttered. ‘What the hell did I do to deserve this?’

‘Search me,’ said Nick. ‘Now, which way to Baghdad? Or do I have to hail a bloody taxi?’

Jed jerked his hand to the east. ‘Big dirty-looking place in that direction,’ he said. ‘Keep walking, and if you get lost, just follow a missile. You’ll find it OK.’

Nick turned round to look at him. ‘So, are you coming?’ he said.

Jed crouched down by the side of the concrete pylon. About fifty feet above him, he could hear the heavy rumble of a tank moving across the tarmac surface of the road. He glanced at Nick. ‘You reckon we rest?’ he asked.

Nick shook his head. ‘While it’s night, we keep walking.’

Jed checked his watch. It was just after two. They had been walking for more than an hour already, going first through open wasteland, then snaking alongside Highway 8 which ran up towards the Tigris and then into the centre of the city. When the road dipped down so it was level with the ground, they moved out five hundred yards to make sure they were out of range of the headlamps of any vehicles moving along it. Where the highway was raised above the road on pylons, they moved underneath it, keeping within the shadows of the concrete. Occasionally they heard the roar of a passing vehicle above them. At other times, the rattle of anti-aircraft fire. They counted six missile strikes on the city as they walked, each one marked by a brilliant electric flash as it exploded. But it was quiet compared with last night.

‘I don’t suppose you brought any grub with you,’ said Jed.

‘Some biscuits,’ said Nick. ‘A few chocolate bars and some of the Yank MREs.’

‘No chance of a bacon sarnie, then,’ said Jed.

‘In your dreams, mate,’ said Nick.

Jed shrugged. He already had some biscuits and some water in his kitbag. He stopped to take a swig from his bottle, then started moving again. This part of the journey was easy enough. Getting into the centre would be a lot more difficult. And finding Sarah and getting her out again might be virtually impossible.

I’ve watched three men die there already. I wouldn’t be surprised to watch a couple more.

Along the way, Nick had explained what had happened, at least so far as he knew. Sarah had been lifted into Iraq, and was being held captive here. Jed was furious when he learnt that the missile strike he’d directed into the plant had really been designed to kill the woman he loved. Even by the standards of the Firm, that seemed a shocking decision. The only consolation he could find was that she had escaped: if he hadn’t spotted the van moving out of the plant, the Firm would have assumed she was dead, and Sarah would be rotting inside some Iraqi jail, with no hope of escape. At least this way, they’d sent somebody to get her out again.

‘Why the hell did they send you, then?’ said Jed.

‘I’m her dad, and I know this country,’ said Nick. ‘God knows when the ground troops might make their way up to Baghdad. They might be cruel bastards over
in Vauxhall, but they aren’t stupid. They want Sarah back, and you and I are the best two men to find her.’ He paused, looking across at Jed. ‘Well, one of us is anyway.’

‘Right,’ said Jed gruffly.

They were approaching the inner circle of the city now. Jed checked his watch. Three fifteen. He reckoned they had another couple of hours before the sun started to rise, and the city started to come to life. There was a strict curfew, and if an army patrol saw them, they would certainly be shot on sight, but if they stuck to the side streets, moved through the shadows, and kept well away from any moving vehicles, they had a chance. Much of the army looked to have been moved to the outskirts of the city already, working on its defences, and some of the troops would have already headed south to meet the expected invasion, so there were fewer men left to patrol Baghdad. That would work to their advantage.
They just had to make sure they were cautious every step of the way.

Keeping at least five yards apart, they carried on walking. A couple of times as they made their way through the industrial suburbs they heard military vehicles approaching, but by ducking into alleyways they managed to avoid being noticed. Two fires were raging where missiles had struck near the centre of the city, and the orange glow of the flames fanned out across the town, but apart from that, there seemed to be a strict blackout in force. All the windows were shuttered and the lights switched off. It was harder to find your way, particularly on the narrow side streets, but it also gave
them more cover. In the darkness, two men in black clothes who didn’t want to be seen could get hidden easily enough.

By four in the morning, they had hit the banks of the Tigris. Jed knelt down by the water and dipped his fingers into the fast-flowing water. It felt colder than he remembered it, and dirtier as well; at least one bridge had been taken out in the missile strikes the previous night, filling the water with swirling debris that was still floating past more than twenty-four hours later. They were about a mile downstream from where they had attempted the crossing last time: Jed could still vividly remember the look of agony on Rob’s face as they left him.

‘It’s a decade since I was last here and it still looks like crap,’ said Nick.

‘One of our boys died here,’ said Jed.

‘How?’ asked Nick gruffly.

‘We were trying to get across in a boat,’ said Jed. ‘We were spotted from the bridge and came under heavy fire. Rob was wounded and there was nothing we could do for the poor sod.’

‘A boat,’ spluttered Nick. ‘Christ, what’s the matter with you boys? Afraid of getting your hair wet, are you?’

‘What the hell are we meant to do?’ said Jed. ‘Swim across?’

Nick was already stripping off his shirt, and taking off his heavy boots. He knelt down, packing both items into his kitbag, then slung it over his back and started walking across the pebbles that led down into the water.
Fuck, thought Jed. He’s serious about swimming this thing. ‘Listen,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve been in this bastard of a river once already. The currents are stronger than you can imagine.’

Nick turned to look at him. The water was already up to his waist, and already swirling around him. ‘My daughter’s on the other side of that river somewhere, and I’m the only bugger who’s likely to help her,’ he said, the grim resolve evident in the tone of his voice. ‘There isn’t a boat, and even if there was, it would be a lot easier to spot than a man swimming alone. The bridges are going to be guarded. That means the only way across is to swim, and if I sink to the bottom, well, at least I’ll have tried.’ He paused, turning round and wading deeper into the river. ‘But if you’re afraid, then you just stay right there.’

Sod it, thought Jed. The old bugger is even crazier than I thought. ‘Let’s do it properly,’ he muttered. He stripped off his shirt, and tucked his boots into his kitbag. The bags needed as much buoyancy as possible to help keep them afloat. They strapped the rifles on to the top of the bags then slung a rope between them to keep them together. That way, they wouldn’t lose each other in the river.

Jed scanned the surface of the river, but it looked quiet enough. They were at least a mile from any of the bridges, and although there were some boats moored about three hundred yards upstream, they looked as if they were empty. It was, he judged, about five hundred yards across the river at this point, but from what he
knew of it, the swell and currents would be dangerous, taking them a long way downstream before they managed to hit the safety of the opposite shore.

Nick had already plunged into the water, kicking forward with a series of powerful strokes. Jed followed in his wake. The water felt freezing cold against his skin, and his feet were sinking deep into the mud and slime of the riverbed. He was determined to stay on his feet for as long as possible: he was a strong swimmer, but it was a good distance across and he needed to conserve his strength. As the water swirled up around his neck, Jed kicked up with his feet and started to swim, using all the muscles in his shoulders and legs to propel himself swiftly along. Nick was close by, holding on to his kitbag and making solid progress. The swimming was easy enough, Jed found. The swells were helping to keep him afloat, while the current was no major obstacle.
Not yet, anyway.

Within minutes he had covered the first hundred yards, then two hundred. He was close to the centre of the river now. A burst of anti-aircraft fire exploded from one of the gun emplacements staggered along the bank of the Tigris, briefly filling the sky with showers of green and yellow light, but when that died down the river was shrouded in darkness. A sudden wave was kicked up by a distant explosion, hitting Jed in the side with the force of a hammer. His grip loosened on the rope, and he could feel himself being carried away from it.

‘Nick,’ he shouted.

Nothing.

As he recovered, Jed started swimming again. He suddenly realised he could no longer see the shoreline he had swum from, nor the one he was swimming towards. He could see Nick, just, still ploughing ahead of him, maybe twenty-five yards away, but otherwise nothing. He was completely surrounded by water. There was no way of knowing how far he had come, or how far he still had to swim. The current was picking up strength. All rivers have their own streams and flow, Jed reminded himself. On the Tigris, the strong currents were all on the north side of the river. The water was pushing harder into him now, and the strokes were becoming more difficult. He was pulling his arms through the water, but like a boxer whose blood was up, the river was now fighting back. For every five yards he moved forward, he was being dragged another yard downstream. The debris from the missile strikes had been caught up in the stronger currents and was swirling past him. A chunk of wood caught Jed in the ribs, pushing him off balance. A sheet of plastic snagged on to his legs, and had to be kicked away. His hands were catching on rubbish as he tried to push himself further forwards, and on the surface of the Tigris there was a thickening layer of foam and dirt.