Fearless ; The Smoke Child

by Lee Stone

  Whatever the answer, Tyler had phoned his boss from the hotel room as soon as he arrived back, and told him the name. After he finished the call, he had felt trapped inside the hotel room so he had headed over to the bar. As he watched the other guests celebrating the Lakers’ win he sipped on his whisky and tried to relax.

  A dying man has no reason to lie, thought Tyler. He didn’t understand people very well.

  The air felt warmer by the pool than it had done hours ago on top of the Marriot, and there were several girls in the bar who were all legs and lipstick. Once Tyler sat down, people stopped staring at him. They didn’t notice his size, and he was less intimidating slouched back in the sofa.

  The group of Mexican baggage handlers were loud; playing pool and passing round a bottle of tequila. The Lakers had won, and Mexico was doing well at the soccer world cup. Good times.

  A scuffle had broken out between them at one point, and they had knocked a girl to the floor. Her lip bled, but it was superficial. Tyler took a passing interest, weighing up the situation, but he didn’t care for any of them and none of it was his problem. So, he didn’t stand up.

  As the night drew on the music became louder and there was the occasional sound of rolling bottles and smashing glass. It wasn’t the relaxed drink that Tyler had hoped for, but the ambiance was mostly good-natured and besides, he usually drank in much worse bars than this.

  The ice had barely started to melt in his second glass when two reasonably attractive girls slunk over to his sofa. They were dressed for a party, but their clothes were cheap. To compensate, they’d displayed as much of their young bodies as they could, without getting arrested. Young and poor; they were pressed for time. Tyler figured they had about six years between them to find a man who would make them old and rich. After that, their elastic would give and they’d have to work harder on their conversational skills. Not that Tyler was any kind of conversationalist, but he’d reached an age where he appreciated a girl who had something interesting to say.

  Strictly speaking his sofa was a generous two-seater, but Tyler had sat squarely in the middle and spread out. It wasn’t like the place was packed, so he figured nobody would mind. Not that anyone would say anything if they did. People usually left Tyler alone.

  Judging by the lack of finesse with which the girls crashed down either side of him, he guessed they’d been drinking since the start of the Lakers match. Tyler was in good shape, and his face was taut enough that it hadn’t yet succumbed to gravity. All the same, he was old enough to be their father. Probably.

  Both girls leaned in. A pincer movement. Cleavage everywhere. Tyler felt more irritated than flattered. The girl to his left whispered in his ear with a few suggestions about what might happen if he bought them a bottle of vodka. Her friend nodded and winked, eyes wide and pupils dilated. Reactions slow and judgment impaired. It was in Tyler’s nature to notice these things. When he didn’t rush to the bar, they moved on. He went back to his drink and closed his eyes.

  Behind him, the surface of the swimming pool undulated gently, echoes of the pulls and swirls of the mid-afternoon swimmers. History sloshing around in a basin of water.

  Three of the noisy Mexicans came over and sat on the sofa next to Tyler, with some demand about arm wrestling. Usually, that would have been enough to upset him, but he made allowances because they were drunk. He asked them politely to fuck off.

  They were insistent though, and aggressive. This was what happened when he wasn’t standing up. The other Mexicans had finished their game of pool and come over to join their friends on the sofas. Evidently, they had all been drinking hard. Tyler buttoned his black jacket and necked down the last of his bourbon. He had a feeling he’d be leaving soon. The Mexicans explained to Tyler that he would be leaving when they’d had their arm-wrestling match. They dictated their terms. A very bad idea.

  “Don’t worry,” drawled the drunkest. “You can go home if you beat Kasper.”

  He pointed with his bottle of tequila at the fattest of them, who had already rolled up his sleeve. As if to convince Tyler to engage, the fat guy called out a few insults about Tyler’s mother.

  Tyler hadn’t seen his parents in a decade.

  He shrugged, lifted his massive frame from the sofa, and walked over to the fat guy. A few of the Mexicans noticed his height for the first time. And his height didn’t disguise his breadth. He was barreled and brawny.

  Without bothering to say anything, Tyler grasped the fat guy’s outstretched fist and took the strain. The Mexicans whooped and encouraged their man. The giant in the black jacket was slow and controlled as he started to exert pressure on the Mexican’s arm. It shook with the strain but soon enough Tyler had him beaten. There were plaintiff cries from the surrounding group. They’d had their fun, and they’d have to let Tyler go. But it was too late for that now. Tyler was going nowhere.

  Emotionless, he continued to push at the arm in front of him. Anger began to flow into his body, coursing through his veins at the way these wet-back fuckers had ambushed him. His grip tightened around the man’s thumb as he bent it back. The crowd fell silent and only the music masked fat Kasper’s cries. He twisted from his chair and onto his knees to stop his joint from giving way.

  Tyler didn’t stop.

  Pain shot through the Mexican’s arm, and even over the music his friends could hear the first bone crack. The guy with the almost empty bottle of tequila smashed it over the back of Tyler’s head. It shattered, but Tyler didn’t flinch.

  The group of men who had seemed so boisterous a moment ago now looked like frightened kids. They were sobering up fast, and remembering that they were baggage handlers, and not gangsters. They saw no emotion in the tall man’s face, but Tyler was enjoying his work. The fat Mexican’s wrist was next to snap, and then his elbow.

  Tyler considered pulling out the Mexican’s shoulder, but it seemed excessive, so he released him and straightened his jacket. As he turned to walk out, there was a glint of steel as one of the Mexicans pulled a knife. Probably the most stupid of them all.

  Instead of backing off, Tyler stooped a little, so that his eyes were level with his assailant. They shone brightly, and he looked demonic as the refracted light from the pool played across his face.

  God, he loved combat.

  The Mexican was about six foot three and was not used to being the shortest man in a fight. Still, he took a wide stance and kept his blade steady. He hoped the man in the black jacket would stand down, but he was ready to slit his throat if he didn’t. Tyler kept his hands by his side and spoke to the loaded Mexican quietly. He was measured and calm.

  “Over my left shoulder there is a security camera,” he explained. “If it wasn’t there, I would take your blade and push it into your eye, right up to the hilt. Do you understand me?”

  The Mexican nodded and then stole a glance over the tall man’s shoulder. It was true. The camera was there with its red LED blinking down at him.

  The camera captured the Mexican’s face twisting up in pain as his momentary glance upwards allowed Tyler to bring his hands up to the blade and push back on the Mexican’s wrist. The knife fell to the floor with a clatter of metal, and the man with the black jacket brushed past him, ready for a few hours of sleep before he caught his plane.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kandahar Airfield, November 2009

  “Freezin', rests his head on a pillow made of concrete, again”

  – Pearl Jam, Even Flow.

  The gradual realization of danger is an ugly feeling. The moment you notice the tiger’s eyes in the bush; a desperate clawing for hope, a split second of denial, and then the ice-cold comprehension that mortal peril is upon you.

  Lockhart had been idly exploring the military base at Kandahar when the low sound of the alarm started to rumble. Earlier in the day Ajmal had told him it would be another twenty-four hours until their trucks would be ready to head back to Quetta, and as dusk had fallen he had wandered around the base and see wha
t was on offer.

  The cloudless sky had turned pitch black, and thousands of freestanding streetlights cast a moody glow up into the infinite darkness. Most of the air missions flew under cover of night, and the runway was busy. Impossibly heavy Hercules and Chinooks shook the floor as they lumbered off into the night, and the afterburners of fighter jets shot down the runway like fireworks. Lockhart had been poking about near the Dutch PX when the alarm began.

  He had wondered if he was imagining the noise, but the wail of the siren got louder, and its pitch got higher. There was no mistaking it now.

  Kandahar Air Field was surrounded by three-meter blast walls, and ditches beyond them, and razor wire fences further out still. They had designed the perimeter to keep people out, but Lockhart couldn’t help feeling that it was penning him in. Like a prison.

  Earlier he had walked to the heart of the camp which was a huge dusty square surrounded by western shops. The Boardwalk, as it was known, looked like it had been put up in a hurry, with rough splintering wooden walkways which creaked as uniformed packs of young men sauntered past in heavy boots.

  Charlie Lockhart had sat alone outside the Canadian cafe, listening to a group of Brits who were also feeling trapped inside the wire. They were waiting to fly out of Afghanistan, but the ancient Tri-Star which was booked to take them home had broken down on the tarmac at Brize Norton, another world away.

  Around the wooden walkway, freight containers had been lined up and converted into coffee shops and restaurants. TGI Fridays gleamed as small groups of soldiers were shown to leather booths by civilian servers. Pizza Hut was closed, having been hit by a rocket-propelled grenade one Saturday night a few weeks ago. The side of the steel box had been ripped away; its jagged edges were twisted back on themselves revealing the charred black interior.

  Two US soldiers who had been assigned administrative jobs on the base slung their weapons over their shoulders while they queued up for ice cream. Then they sat in the shade and sipped on Tom Horton’s coffee while they talked about how they’d prefer to be outside the wire facing the enemy. They watched the Canadian airmen playing hockey on the polished concrete rink in the square and complained bitterly about their frustration at not being posted in some shitty patrol base in Sangin.

  Lockhart could read people well, and he could tell that although secretly each of the men was pleased to be out of harm’s way, they were racked with guilt as they sat in the middle of Afghanistan with a three-meter blast wall between them and the enemy. Next to the US soldiers’ table was a small square granite monument, dedicated to those who had fallen outside the wire.

  The boardwalk had been calm, but now as Lockhart stood in the dusty street outside the Dutch PX, the siren was becoming deafening. It was shrill, and it was echoing all around the camp. A harsh female voice sliced through the air, much louder than the humming generators or the distant thunder of planes.

  “We are under attack. This is not a drill.”

  The stark warning was repeated every ten seconds as the siren continued to wail. Several soldiers nearby started fumbling with helmet straps and pulling on flak jackets. They lowered themselves quickly to the floor and lay face down in the dust. They pushed their legs together and folded their arms around their faces. Lockhart had no helmet, but he copied the soldiers. He got down on the floor, coughing as he inhaled the dust in the confusion, and closed his eyes.

  The chatter of camp life had muted, and the alarm had stopped. Apart from the generators gurgling in the background, everything was quiet. None of the soldiers called out. Everyone was listening for the sound of approaching doom.

  It was a beautiful moment. Charlie Lockhart felt an absolute calm running through his body, and an absolute clarity in his mind. He had never felt so relaxed. As he lay prone in the dust, the reason for his desire to travel became obvious. He wanted to grow. He wanted to test himself and learn what kind of man he was. He wanted to throw himself to fate and see where chance steered him.

  Ask not for whom the missile screams; it screams for thee.

  Fate had put him here, in this spot at this time. He wasn’t a soldier or a doctor, or a contractor earning six figures of tax-free cash. He didn’t need to be here. Nobody had ordered him to be here. It was his choice to submit to the river’s current. He hadn’t swum against it.

  Kandahar was a dramatic place. Days were dusty paths and bleached dry earth. Nights were jet black skies and pin sharp stars. Beautiful, treacherous mountains surrounded the Airfield.

  As Lockhart lay face down in the dusty street, four men were standing next to a beaten-up Land Cruzer in the mountains overlooking the Airfield. Each had a rocket grenade launcher on his shoulder. The first had launched his weapon, and the others were waiting for the first smoke plumes to orientate their own attacks.

  Lockhart glanced up. Couldn't resist it. The soldiers were still facing the ground, silent and still. Kandahar Airfield was the size of a large town, and the chances of the grenade hitting him were miniscule.

  He imagined what would happen if it landed right next to him. It would be quick, he decided. He wasn’t frightened. As he had wondered across the world he had learned that his life had been rich and privileged, and that he was a small and insignificant part of the teaming mass of life on the planet, and that nothing lasted forever. Ozymandias. He lay there still, in the dust, and waited. Every scuff of movement was amplified. Every sense was heightened. Every emotion was simple, pure and intense. Seconds passed. Nothing happened.

  Lockhart could hear himself breathing.

  And then it came. The screech lasted for less than a second. Much less probably. It passed over his head like he was being run over by an intercity train at full speed. About forty meters in front of him, it hit a concrete blast wall and obliterated. Shards of vicious concrete and hot metal carved through the air above him, and dust flew. A second screech followed, and a Humvee exploded, sending a diesel plume high into the air. Even with his head down, Charlie Lockhart knew he was in trouble.

  Chapter Eighteen

  LAX Departures. December 2010

  “Go on go on and disappear, go on go on away from here.”

  – The Cure, Inbetween Days.

  There was money behind Tyler, and when he arrived at LAX, they had already booked a ticket for him. He picked up some essentials as he headed for the first-class lounge and spent a few minutes in the executive bathroom shaving and making himself look presentable.

  His French passport roused no suspicion on his way through, but even so he preferred not to hang about in airports for too long. Especially when he was fleeing the scene.

  He was looking forward to getting some sleep on the flight. The phone had rung almost as soon as he got back to his hotel suite last night, and they had given him an update. It was exciting news and better than Tyler or his boss could have hoped for. There were things to do, and Tyler hadn’t slept.

  As Tyler pulled the sharp new blade across his jawline in the first-class bathrooms, the housemaid back at the Custom Hotel entered the room he had checked out of that morning. She slid her electronic card through the reader and pushed her trolley in through the door before her. She didn’t call out because the room number was on her printed sheet. Mr. Tyler had checked out two hours earlier, heading for the airport three miles down the road.

  As he finished shaving, Tyler heard the final call for the London flight, threw the razor away, and dabbed his face with a soft towel from the pile in front of him. He checked himself once in the mirror, more cautious than vain, and set off at a pace to board the plane.

  Back in the hotel, the maid was confused. There was nothing to suggest that Tyler’s room had been slept in. She looked down at her crumpled printout and then back at the number of the hotel room door. The bed was immaculately made, with just the slightest indentation where someone had been sitting next to the phone. The stationary was not touched, the blinds were in their proper position, and the bathroom was spotless.

  When she
looked closely, she noticed that one of the three miniature bottles of shower gel had gone, but the shower itself was clean and dry, and there was no evidence of the discarded bottle in the empty bin in the bathroom. The one in the bedroom was empty too.

  As Tyler boarded the plane, a stewardess in a smart red uniform showed him to his comfortable seat, apologizing that he had got mingled in amongst the business passengers. He reassured her it was his own fault for running late, but he didn’t return her warm smile. He didn’t like fuss. Didn’t enjoy standing out.

  Traveling first class was not ideal. He preferred the anonymity of business or coach, and he didn’t give a damn for a la carte menus or free champagne. Or status. It was simply that his huge frame didn’t fit into the smaller seats. For Tyler, first class was closer to necessity than luxury. He settled into his seat and drank the champagne, anyway.

  Over the years, Tyler had been more accustomed to rough-and-ready transport than pampered civilian travel. To him, flying was usually about being flung about in the back of a C-130 with a pair of yellow ear defenders rammed in to block out the racket, clinging on to the rough red nylon netting as the pilot plunged downwards to their landing point at the last moment.

  In the subtly lit cabin, an apologetic steward went through the safety routine, buckling straps and pointing at doorways while everyone ignored him. Everyone except Tyler, who took his safety seriously. It was the only reason he was still alive.

  *

  The maid at the Custom Hotel was having a good day. She was ahead of time thanks to the room that hadn’t been slept in, and was planning to sit out the back on the old patio chairs catching a bit of warm sun for a few extra minutes at lunchtime. She whistled down the corridor and said Buenos Dias to everyone she passed.