Between Ghosts

by Garrett Leigh

  It was dark when Connor next found himself alone on the roof. He lay down, exhausted. Echo-4’s patrol had taken him into an unfamiliar neighbourhood, and he’d spent most of the day trying to acquaint himself with the landmarks and John’s rather different style of leadership.

  Turned out, John was a shouter, bellowing his instructions whether you were two feet away from him or fifty, and Connor had jumped a bloody mile too many times to count.

  The new neighbourhood had been interesting, though. John lacked Nat’s people skills, but he was loud enough to get the majority of the locals to focus on him, leaving Connor to eavesdrop on those who hadn’t taken much interest. Another mosque had caught his attention. Abandoned, and with the rusted door handles Nat had taught him often signalled the presence of explosives, Connor had found some balls and persuaded Echo-4 it might be worth returning for a closer look. The patrol was scheduled for the following day. Maybe Nat would be back by then.

  Nat. Fuck. Connor missed him. Missed him so much it hurt, even though he knew Nat would have to return at some point. Probably. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t escape the very real possibility that something could happen to Charlie-3 while they were embedded in the underbelly of Basra City, and Connor would never see him alive again.

  Worry and guilt gnawed at Connor’s gut. He’d never worried about James on the rare nights he’d lain awake and wondered what he was doing. But James had been James, his big bear of an older brother, the gentle giant with a razor-sharp tongue. In his darkest hours, Connor had never once imagined his death.

  He pictured Nat dying all the time: an IED, a stray bullet, an ambush, or an RPG. It drove him half-mad, especially now he couldn’t lock eyes with Nat, and reassure himself that all was well.

  Of course the plus side of an overactive imagination meant he pictured Nat doing other things too. Connor lay back on the sun-warmed stone and let his hand drift to his waistband and lower. Away from home, he’d got out of the habit of wanking off, but without Nat for company, or even Charlie-3 to keep him entertained, he found himself dick in hand, jacking himself gently as he recalled the last time he’d had his hands on Nat, the night before he’d fallen ill.

  The pace had been brutal, jarring, and perfect. Connor replayed every moment as he bit down on his fist and screamed a silent scream. Orgasm swept over him before he could blink, and for a long moment he drifted lazily in that hazy place where there was nothing but the lingering pleasure of his climax.

  He came back to the present with a low groan. Wet warmth coated his hand and stomach. Jesus. Since when had wanking become an out-of-body experience?

  Since Nat bloody Thompson, he supposed. After that fast and furious fuck, they’d talked for a long time, and then Nat had detached himself and left, disappearing into the palace with barely a backward glance. His departure had been swift and sudden, but alone on the roof, Connor hadn’t felt lonely or hollow. With Nat’s bruising kiss lingering on his lips, he’d felt something else, something warm and fulfilling. Something real.

  Something, with Nat’s anger still ringing in his ears, he could hardly remember now.

  Fifteen

  Nat adjusted his rifle strap and narrowed his vision to the heavily bearded man approaching the barber’s shop. He raised his hand to warn the others while Yogesh, his personal Iraqi recruit took aim. The man drifted closer, his gaze, it seemed, locked with Nat’s, even through the tiny crack in the boarded-up windows, but just as Nat reckoned they were about to see some action, the man walked on by.

  Fuck’s sake. Nat sighed. He had no real desire to shoot anyone who didn’t want to shoot him first, but stag duty was boring, and the ground floor of the disused barber’s shop smelled like arse.

  Not that it was any better upstairs where Wedge, Chris, and Bobs were watching the renegade mosque, along with their own recruits. Not a soul had passed through the mosque’s doors, front or back, and Nat was getting tired of waiting.

  And tired of the silence he used to crave. Yogesh was a pleasant enough bloke, but he was a man of few words, inscrutable and quiet. It had taken Nat two days of his company to realise how much he missed Connor’s constant questions.

  Yeah, and the rest . . .

  Stop it. Nat killed the thought before it could take hold. His last conversation with Connor haunted him, and, bored as he was, he didn’t have time for any more ghosts.

  “Nat?”

  Nat turned his head enough to see Bobs behind him while still watching the street. “What is it?”

  “Dinnertime.”

  Nat sighed again. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the past few days had consisted of the same sachets of glutinous meat stew, and by the smell of it, this meal was no exception. “Ta.”

  Bobs set the meals down. “Chris is about to radio in. Anything you need to know from HQ?”

  There was plenty Nat wanted to know, but with none of it relevant to anything but his personal obsession with a brown-eyed reporter, he shook his head.

  Bobs went back upstairs. Nat gave his position over to Marc who’d been resting nearby, and inhaled his dinner. That done, he turned his attention to Yogesh and Zahid, Marc’s charge. Both men were from Baghdad, and Nat had taken to engaging them, picking their brains about the insurgency ravaging their home city. He hadn’t broached the subject of tunnels yet, but it was on his list for today.

  He tried Zahid first. Marc’s recruit was younger than Yogesh, and less distrusting. So far, he’d already given away information Nat had passed over to the Americans, and Nat was hoping for more.

  “Nat?”

  Or not. Bobs again. “What now?”

  “Call on the sat phone for you. John. Says it’s important.”

  Marc chuckled. “Knobber’s probably run out of bog roll.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Nat signalled for Bobs to stay put and made his way upstairs to the satellite phone they’d brought with them. “John?”

  “I’m here,” John said. “How’s it going out there?”

  “In there, you mean. Can’t remember the last time I saw daylight.”

  John chuckled. “Bless. Listen, have you had a chance to scope that mosque proper? Have you looked underneath it for this tunnel bullshit?”

  “Not yet. Me and Chris are going tonight. Why?”

  “We’ve found another one, farther out, well short of Mahdi territory. It’s close to the river, and rumour has it the locals stopped using it a few months ago.”

  Nat frowned. “Doesn’t explain why they abandoned this one.”

  “Maybe not, but that hack mate of yours reckons it could be that the jihadis switched sites just before we got here. Maybe your mosque was the hot spot, but they moved on.”

  Hack mate. It took Nat a moment to match the phrase with Connor. Irritation niggled him. What was it with this bloke that made him think he knew it all? But as the seconds ticked by and he thought it over, he had to admit the idea had legs. It was plausible. He’d yet to come across a guerrilla cell that was stupid. The insurgency on the ground was fast and fluid; it made sense that whoever was bringing weapons into the city would change their game from time to time. “Have you checked it out?”

  “Not yet. We’re heading out at first light.”

  “Good.” Nat nodded, to himself as much as anyone. “We’ll have a proper butchers at this one tonight, and touch base with you tomorrow, yeah?”

  “Suits me. Anything else?”

  Is Connor all right? “Nope. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  Nat hung up and approached Wedge, who was watching over the reconnaissance operation on the upper floor.

  “I’m out of fags,” Wedge said, before Nat could speak. “Gonna have to smoke that rancid jundi baccy until we get back. Fucking outrageous.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Nat repeated John’s update. “Looks like we could be wasting our time here.”

  “Fuck’s sake. Really?” Wedge frowned. “Makes sense, though. We knew it was a long shot that whoever was here would come back when we’ve al
ready raided them once.”

  Nat nodded. Long shot it may have been, but after weeks on the ground with no decent intel, the abandoned mosque had been all they had.

  “So where the fuck are these tunnels, then?” Wedge said. “They can’t be everywhere.”

  Nat shrugged. “S’pose we’ll find out soon enough. I’m going to get my head down. Send Chris for a rest, yeah?”

  “Will do.”

  Later that night, Nat and Chris crept stealthily across the street to the abandoned mosque’s back door. The lock had been broken during the first raid, but to keep local bad feeling to a minimum, they’d fixed it before they’d cleared the scene.

  Chris disabled it again while Nat kept watch. The door opened with a low scrape that seemed deafening on the silent streets. Nat held his breath a moment, then motioned for Chris to move in. The door closed quietly behind them as they stood stock-still, gathering their bearings and adjusting to the murky light, then they set off again. They had the ground floor mapped out accurately enough that Nat knew exactly where to find the staircase that led to the basement of the building.

  Below ground was pitch-black. Nat stuck his torch between his teeth and scanned his surroundings. Two doors greeted him: a storeroom and a second, sparse room that was set up a little like a classroom.

  They tackled the storeroom first, stripping it back, searching for something—anything—that could lead further underground. They found nothing in either room. Nat stood in the darkness and shook his head. John had been right: there were no tunnels here. Which meant everything rested on the results of Echo-4’s imminent raid on the other mosque.

  Unease burned in Nat’s veins. The tunnel theory had felt far-fetched from the start, but even though he and Chris had found nothing tonight, Nat sensed something in the air. Whatever happened on Echo-4’s raid, shit was about to hit the fan in a very big way.

  “Any word on Charlie-3’s raid?”

  John spared Connor a glance over his shoulder as he hung up the satellite phone and scribbled notes. “Not yet. I was talking to someone else. Weren’t eavesdropping, were ya?”

  Connor said nothing. He had strained his ears to listen to John’s conversation, but he’d gleaned nothing from what little he’d caught. Which was a good thing—probably, maybe. These days, Connor wasn’t sure. Playing soldier . . . Damn. Connor closed his eyes, but Nat’s haunting barb wouldn’t quit.

  “You coming?”

  “Hmm?” Connor blinked. “Where are we going?”

  “To get squared away for the raid. We’ll catch up with Nat in the morning.”

  Connor swallowed his disappointment. Though he knew calls on the satellite phones were restricted, he’d stayed up all night, counting on news from Charlie-3 before Echo-4 headed out. “Do you think Charlie-3 are okay?”

  John snorted. “I’d imagine so. They’re a hard bunch of bastards. I was surprised Nat volunteered his crew to go, though. We normally get stuck with the stake-out bollocks.”

  Connor knew exactly why Nat had decided to get as far away from the palace as possible—it didn’t take a fucking genius to work it out—but he kept his mouth shut, something he was fast beginning to suspect he should’ve done in the first place.

  He followed John to the briefing room where Echo-4 was poring over maps and marking possible sites for the tunnel network—if there was one—to pass under the river. It was nearly dawn by the time they all filtered out to do last minute-checks before convening at the vehicles. Connor took a leak and then met Tom outside.

  “All right?”

  Connor shrugged. “Think so.”

  “Hmm, you don’t sound so sure, hack. What’s up? Missing Charlie-3?”

  Tom said it with a droll smirk, oblivious to how close to the mark he was. Connor climbed into the passenger seat of Echo-4’s vehicle before he found the words to answer. “The RPG attacks have tailed off these past few days. Why do you think that is?”

  “Common sense says whoever’s firing them has run out.”

  “And they’re waiting for a resupply?”

  “Probably, which means Nat’s location could be about to get lively, or, where we’re headed might get lairy.” Tom lit a cigarette. “Or, it’s all bollocks and we’re chasing another dead end.”

  “Which eventuality are you hoping for?”

  Tom shrugged and closed his eyes. “No one likes wasting time, mate, but chances are it’ll come to nothing and everyone involved will be back here with a brew by teatime.”

  He said no more, leaving Connor to ponder whether his theory on the mosque raids had influenced his state of mind.

  “. . . everyone involved will be back here with a brew by teatime.” Was it pathetic for Connor to believe it could happen?

  Fuck it. Who cared? It wasn’t like anyone knew how much he missed Nat. Jesus, not even Nat knew, or did he, on some level, at least? It was difficult to believe they’d come this far without Nat sensing that Connor was perilously close to falling in love with him.

  Idiot. Do you think anyone’s got time for that shit out here? On cue, John punched Connor’s arm and hollered in his ear. “Come on, hack. Get lively.”

  Connor jumped out of the vehicle and followed John as he called all the commanders to the front and, with input from Rogers, briefed the patrol on what they were looking for—holes in the ground, disturbed earth. Any unusual activity close to the river. “Don’t be shy,” John said. “If you see something, tell someone. I’m getting fucked off with RPGs spoiling my dinner, so I want no stone left unturned.”

  Rogers concurred, and the briefing dispersed. Connor hovered by Echo-4’s vehicle. John hadn’t specifically said he could accompany them, but Connor hoped that meant it was assumed he would be, a dangerous game where Nat was concerned, but John was a little easier to read, and Connor reckoned he rather enjoyed the opportunity Connor’s presence gave him to speak.

  Connor’s accurate character dissection was rewarded a few minutes later.

  “Hack, you’re with me,” John said. “Same as every other time we’ve been out. Stay close, and if you’re not sure of something, ask. Can’t have you stepping on a landmine while Aunty Nat’s away. Fuck it. I’ll step on it for you.”

  Connor rolled his eyes as the others chuckled and climbed into the back of the vehicle, taking his place behind Dick. Two of the Iraqis rode with them, though Connor noted they hadn’t been given their weapons.

  The convoy rumbled along until it reached the district Echo-4 patrolled regularly. Connor jumped out of the Jackal and hunkered down by the back wheel as the team fanned out, assessing the area for safety before they moved in.

  Connor crouched on the ground, prepared for a long wait. He’d been on a dozen patrols and fast learned this phase could last a while, so he was surprised when John called him forward just ten minutes later. “They must be getting used to you, eh?”

  John squinted at the few locals who’d bothered to come out of their houses to stare. “Either that or there’s something on the telly. Right, we’re going to head straight for the mosque. We should get there around prayer time, so even if it’s not being used, there should be less folk in the way.”

  “What if it is being used for prayer?”

  “Then I might consider waiting before I kick the doors down.”

  Connor held his tongue. John was a good guy, but he possessed a bluster Connor wasn’t used to seeing from Charlie-3, and he still hadn’t quite figured out if it was harmless, or if it made John reckless enough to make a terrible mistake.

  The patrol jogged through the streets—a change from their usual, careful pace—until they came to the mosque.

  Half the patrol dashed round the back while Tom tackled the front door. It was down in moments. Dick tossed in a distraction device. The grenade flashed, and the other half of the patrol piled in without waiting for the smoke to clear.

  Shouts rang out, followed by a burst of machine gun fire. Connor clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms,
glad he’d never accompanied Charlie-3 on a raid like this. “There’s people inside.”

  Rogers nodded. “Sounds like it. Don’t get yer knickers in a twist just yet, though. The boys might have lobbed off a couple of warning shots.”

  On cue, the radio crackled, confirming the hypothesis. “We’ve got three for the glasshouse,” Tom said. “Two male. One female. Bringing them out now. Over.”

  “Copy that. Over,” the scaley next to Rogers said.

  And so it went on. Connor had grown used to listening to operations play out through the radio, and the thrill had yet to get old. More warning shots were fired as Echo-4 led the way through the inner workings of the mosque, and in total six Iraqis were brought out in chains.

  Eventually, John appeared too, his grim expression laced with the barest hint of excitement. “Double bubble in there, mate. Caught ’em in the basement up to their arses in IEDs, all in front of a bloody trapdoor. Couldn’t Adam and Eve it.”

  “A trapdoor?” Connor blurted before he remembered John wasn’t talking to him. “To the tunnels?”

  “Looks that way,” John said. “We’re going in now. Play your cards right, and I’ll let you have a butchers.”

  An indescribable buzz filled Connor’s veins. The tunnel network had only occurred to him as a possibility a few days ago, but knowing he stood just metres away from it brought the weapon-smuggling puzzle together. This had to be how the insurgents were moving their RPGs.

  It seemed like an age before Dick came out and called him over “Flamin’ Nora, you gotta see this, hack. This ain’t no Vietcong shit.”

  Connor preceded him into the mosque and took in the barren interior. With no Korans or mihrabs, and bullet casings littering the floor, it looked like it hadn’t been used for far longer than the rumours he’d overheard on the street suggested. “Where’s the basement?”