Killsong

by Mark Mannock

  “Play dead,” I said to him as I ran awkwardly to the rear of the machine. Greatrex joined me.

  “Fifteen minutes just became a very long time,” he observed.

  I nodded.

  “If we do nothing, chances are in fifteen minutes most if not all of our group will be dead.” I was just being realistic. “I presume they brought us down with a rocket grenade. If they have any more grenades there will be nothing left at all.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Greatrex asked.

  I told him.

  Less than five minutes later I was laying flat on my stomach, crawling behind a small hillock fifty yards to the rear of our Pave Hawk. In my hand was the M4 rifle that had belonged to Corporal Taylor. My plan had been simple. I would make my way some distance behind our chopper then head east and approach our attackers from the rear. It was a straightforward outflanking maneuver that I had performed many times as a Scout Sniper. The big difference was that normally I would have had two or three hours to get into position; right now I had only a few minutes before Greatrex and I thought his distractions would be exposed as fraud.

  Greatrex’s job was to treat the wounded and make as much noise as possible at the rear of the aircraft to keep attention away from our trapped copilot. It turned out his name was Chief Warrant Officer Juan Santino. Santino was understandably nervous, but he saw the logic in playing dead in the front seat while Greatrex kept our observer’s attentions elsewhere.

  After the slow crawl away from the helicopter, I had to move into a crouched sort of run if I was to make the distance in time. It was nerve-racking, but fortunately the ground was undulating with some scattered trees. The trees and the hillocks allowed me cover. I was spurred on each time I heard one of the spasmodic gunshots being fired at our chopper. With each shot, I prayed the bullet had not found its mark.

  Four minutes later, unobserved, I found myself again crawling over the rocks and sand to a rise that I thought may give me a view of our attackers. The sun was still hot, and I was bathed in sweat by the time I got to the top. I looked down and to the north. The first thing I saw was the Pave Hawk, around three hundred yards away. I scanned the landscape between me and the aircraft. Thirty seconds later I saw movement on a dune around 150 yards ahead of me and slightly to my right. Two figures were crouched low on a hillock, looking down at the chopper. From where I was, they looked like male Iraqis, but I couldn’t be sure. What I was sure about was that one of the men carried a rifle, similar to the one I carried. The first thing that entered my mind was that if I could shoot him from here, then he could shoot me too. However, it was what lay between the two men that alarmed me the most. It was an old, probably Russian made, grenade launcher. Worse was that it appeared to be loaded and ready to fire. This weapon had the capability to finish off our chopper and everyone in or around it. It could also take out any aircraft sent to rescue us.

  Too many lives at risk. I knew what needed to be done, and I knew I had to do it.

  I began the process of getting into position. Lying flat, my forearm resting on the ground with the M4 butt resting snug against my shoulder, I looked down the length of the rifle barrel. The gun was pointing at the two men who were my target. I started to regulate my breathing; it was all about the breathing. Slow down, take control.

  It was then that things suddenly started to go wrong, not around me, but in my head. Under the hot sun my thoughts appeared to seep into a baffling incoherence. I tried to focus, but I couldn’t seem to manage it. I didn’t need this now. This was no time for self-indulgence. Yet … I had sworn I would never return to this world. I had taken an innocent life, and I would not go back. I had said I would never again kill while hiding behind the camouflage of distance. Yet here I was. And what the hell was I doing here anyway, in Iraq, rifle in hand, taking aim at two people I didn’t even know? I couldn’t blame it on following orders. No one had given me any orders. I was now bathed in sweat and breathing too hard, which made it almost impossible to see clearly. Then the other side of my brain started working on me. You know what you have to do … Was that the voice of my father? Really?

  I could feel the adrenaline. One hundred and fifty yards should be straightforward for a professional… but I wasn’t a professional shooter anymore. I was a musician, creating not destroying, no longer making judgments, lethal judgments, on people’s lives.

  Then I thought about Jack Greatrex, the courageous young Warrant Officer Juan Santino, and the others on board that helicopter who were counting on me, trusting me to protect them. To keep them safe and alive.

  I needed to act.

  My hands were shaking. I aimed as carefully as I could, not much wind drift. I breathed out slowly, then pulled the trigger. One hundred and fifty yards ahead of me a puff of dust and rocks spat upwards next to one of the men. I had missed.

  I think it was at that moment of surprise, anger, and frustration that the panic left me. A wave of clarity and calmness replaced it. I took aim again. The man on the left was turning around. I breathed out slowly again and fired, straight into the side of his head. His companion grabbed for a rifle I hadn’t seen and swung around toward me. I pulled my trigger again, he went down clutching his chest. He wouldn’t be getting up.

  I slumped in a heap, exhausted, deflated. I felt overemotional and emotionless at the same time. Was that possible? Nicholas Sharp, more conflicted than you could imagine.

  But I had done the job. I had protected.

  Then I threw up.

  20

  Fifteen minutes later, after a shaky walk back to the Pave Hawk, during which I constantly checked for other insurgents in the hills, I made it back. There were no additional wounded, thank God. Greatrex looked relieved to see me. I was certainly relieved to see him.

  In the distance we heard the search and rescue helicopters coming in from the west. Two minutes later, two Apache gunships circled above us. Juan Santino had radioed that our attackers had been taken out, but the Apache pilots were being careful. After what we had just been through, I didn’t blame them. Two minutes after that, two new Pave Hawks came into view. The Apaches continued to circle overhead while the Pave Hawks landed near us in two huge clouds of dust. Medical personnel jumped out of one chopper while armed Marines vaulted out of the other. Within ninety seconds everyone had taken up positions either attending the wounded or guarding the crash site perimeter.

  Jack Greatrex and I watched with relief when the injured were stretchered into the medevac aircraft. In isolated sadness we then watched the bodies of Corporal Evan Taylor and our courageous pilot loaded aboard.

  A very intense-looking Marine officer came forward and introduced himself as Major Grant Jacobs. He asked us to describe the events of the last hour or so.

  We did.

  The look on Jacobs’ face when we finished was almost total disbelief.

  “And you are a musician, Mr. Sharp? And Mr. Greatrex here is your technical support? Is that correct?”

  We both nodded. I couldn’t help but feel like a naughty schoolboy in the principal’s office.

  Jacobs shook his head. “Well, that’s one to tell the grandkids, although they probably wouldn’t believe me.” He gave us a perplexed look and said, “Somehow I think there may be a bit more to this, and to the two of you.”

  Smart man, that Major Jacobs.

  A lance corporal approached Jacobs. “Time to go, sir.”

  “We’ll talk a little more later, gentleman. For now let’s get you back to Camp Taji.”

  With that, we all climbed aboard the helicopter the Marines had arrived on. Most of the Marines were staying on to begin the retrieval of the aircraft, essential military equipment and our musical gear, if it had survived.

  Five minutes later our chopper was following the medevac aircraft toward Taji. One of the Apaches was escorting us, the other was remaining on guard duty at the crash site.

  Twilight was setting in; it brought a certain transparent beauty to the desert as we looked
down across the landscape. I thought of the men who had died today. Sadly, that count now included the confirmed deaths of the crew of our guardian Apache that had gone down. They had probably saved our lives in the process.

  Then I thought back to what had happened as I lay on that hill overlooking the helicopter and the insurgent attackers. I thought about the rifle that I had held in my hands, and the wrestling match I had endured with the ghosts of a past life.

  Enough. It was time for this day to end. I needed it to.

  When we landed at Taji we were greeted by Elliot Brooks waiting on the floodlit tarmac.

  “We are all so relieved that you two are all right,” he said, looking at Greatrex and me.

  “Tragically, there are several people who are not all right, Elliot,” I responded briskly. “I think we should cancel the rest of the tour and head home now.”

  “Let’s not be too hasty. There are a lot of people counting on your work here. Get a good night’s sleep and we’ll talk tomorrow.” Elliot Brook’s empathy was underwhelming.

  The mood on the base appeared to be somber as we made our way to our barracks. Word had got out. Losing fellow servicemen and women hurt, no matter the circumstances.

  By the time we reached our quarters, Jack Greatrex and I were exhausted; the day had beaten us. All we wanted to do was collapse into our bunks and sleep until we were done. As we opened the door Robbie West and the rest of the band were there to greet us. The relief that spread over their faces was palatable—warm and sincere.

  “My God,” said Robbie. “I never thought I’d be so glad to see a damn piano player.” He then threw his arms around both of us. The rest of the band joined in.

  “We saw you go down as we made a beeline for home,” said Brian. “We didn’t believe anyone could live through that crash.”

  “Sadly, not everyone did,” said Greatrex.

  We told them about Evan Taylor and the pilot.

  Sadness enveloped the room. We all thought of that young man, guitar in hand, joining us on stage. Had it only been a few hours ago?

  “Well, that’s horrible, but you are here and that is fantastic.” Robbie, always upbeat.

  “We heard some stories … stories about how the insurgents that shot you down were killed.” It was Barry Flannigan, too wise for his own good.

  “They said you were involved, Nick.” Robbie eyed me suspiciously.

  “We heard that it was the two of you who saved those lives today.” Brian, sounding foolishly in awe.

  “That couldn’t be right, could it?” asked Barry.

  I looked at Greatrex. He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Sit down, boys,” I said. “It’s time we had a little talk.”

  And we did.

  21

  Things always looked different in the morning light. With a restless but much-needed sleep behind us, Greatrex and I felt back on our game. We hadn’t had a chance to sit down and debrief yet; hopefully, that would come later today.

  At eleven we met in the mess hall with the entire touring party. This included all the performers, the crew, and Elliot Brooks. Major Jacobs was in one corner, watching over us, or watching us; I wasn’t sure which. The consensus was that the tour should continue. This was certainly the line Brooks was pushing. Despite that, people didn’t like the idea of terrorists sending us packing, and I couldn’t help but respect their attitude. Robbie’s group was given the option of leaving. Everyone felt that we had been through enough and had earned the right to go home. Had it been the night before, I would have said “thanks” and hit the first C-130 out of there. It was now the next morning, and after a brief talk we the foolhardy, Robbie’s bandmates, had decided to stay. We only had one more show to do before heading off to England anyway. We were not going to be run out of town. Underlying that sentiment was the need for Greatrex and I to stay. Like it or not, we had a job to do. Although yesterday put a lot of recent problems out of our minds, today we were acutely aware of Leyla and Amira still being held hostage, counting on us to get them out.

  I also had some thinking to do. Those few minutes on the hill overlooking the insurgents and the helicopter had shaken me. It was becoming painfully obvious that I had some baggage to sort.

  The show at Camp Taji was going to be a big one. It was a big set-up with a large stage, scaffolding, and lighting towers. It would be a whole day to rig the stage before anyone put any sound system or instruments up there. The audience should be around two thousand, including the military personnel, the Iraqi troops, and contractors from the coalition countries. Security would be tight. There had been some incidents between Iraqi troops and coalition personnel. This concert was an event of goodwill, so no one wanted to take any chances with an insurgent-driven episode, especially after our attack.

  The plan was for military personnel to start assembling the stage right away. The following day, weather permitting, the musical equipment would go up and the concert would be that night. Weather could be an important component. Brooks had briefed us that the forecasters predicted a worsening of the winds; we could already see signs that something was brewing.

  He had also told us that Lieutenant Lazlov and the crewmen of our helicopter were expected to make a full recovery. That was great news.

  That afternoon Greatrex and I had a chance to talk in private for the first time since the chopper attack. We walked around the base with a couple of our Marine minders trailing a few steps behind. The minders were now under the charge of a very focused Sergeant Bushby. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that he and his men were showing us an increased level of respect. I suppose troops talk.

  “How are you feeling, my friend?” I asked Greatrex.

  “Tired, stiff, sore, and pissed off.” Straight to the point. “How about you?”

  “Pretty much the same,” I responded. “A day like yesterday was not in my plans at all, nor will it be ever again.”

  “What was that John Lennon quote you’re always saying? Life’s what happens while you’re …”

  “Shut up,” I interrupted, but smiling at the same time.

  “Shutting up, sir.” Self-amusing sarcasm.

  We wandered toward the area of the base where the concert would take place. We wanted to check it out.

  “So even after all the tragedy and adventure of yesterday, we are no closer to where we need to be,” I said.

  “We will be soon,” said Greatrex. “Law of averages; we’re running out of time and opportunity.”

  He was right.

  We rounded a corner at the end of a row of barracks to face a large, empty space. It was a gathering area for dust and gravel surrounded by a sea of low-slung military buildings. At one end a large stage was being assembled on some serious scaffolding. When military engineers build something, they really build it.

  We walked toward the stage.

  “First things first,” I said. “I’ve been thinking it through. I don’t figure that yesterday’s attack had anything to do with Giles Winter; there would have been no point.”

  “Agreed,” said Greatrex.

  “So, moving on, if you were Winter’s man, or woman, and you wanted us to find something on this base, but you didn’t want anyone to see us finding it, what would be your timing?” I was trying to get ahead of this thing.

  Greatrex thought for a moment. “The best time not to see something is when you can’t see.”

  “Thanks, Yoda,” I replied with my own sarcasm, but I thought I saw where he was going with this. “The weather?” I suggested.

  “The weather,” he replied. “If this turns out to be as bad a sandstorm as everyone is predicting, it would be like having the place to ourselves out there.”

  “Only if we can find our way around.” After the last twenty-four hours, my already flagging optimism was all but gone.

  “Besides,” I went on, “how could Winter have predicted a sandstorm?”

  “You can accuse Giles Winter of many things,” said my friend, “b
ut you can’t accuse him of failing to be an opportunist.”

  “Yeah.” My voice sounded weary, even to me. “He just keeps making the most of every situation that rolls his way, and they just seem to keep on rolling.”

  There were a couple of moments’ silence between us as we watched the team erecting the big stage in front of us.

  “There’s one thing that still bothers me.” Not a lot of things bother Greatrex, so I was listening. He went on, “The coalition forces knew that Al Taji was a base for Saddam’s production of chemical weapons and nerve agents. They went over the base and the general area with a fine-tooth comb. How are we meant to find something the experts missed?”

  I looked at my friend. He looked as weary as he sounded.

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too, and I reckon there are two key factors at play,” I said. “Number one is that the coalition experts were looking for stockpiles of chemical weapons. You and I now know that Winter’s “network” arranged for them to be destroyed before the coalition forces moved in. They were looking for large amounts of the materials in places you could store large amounts. We are looking for a small package of samples and formulas in a place you could keep a small package. A small package is much easier to hide.”

  “I’m impressed by the great man’s logic, considering his current state of mind.” Greatrex was clearly having a mildly sarcastic day. “Now what about factor number two?” he asked.

  “That one is easy,” I said. “We are going to know exactly where to look; Winter is going to tell us.”

  I felt quite pleased with myself, and Jack Greatrex looked impressed. I was on a roll, so I couldn’t stop now.

  “Besides,” I continued. “I know where they are.”

  Greatrex’s jaw seemed to drop. His mouth was going to let in a hundred desert flies.