Jericho's War

by Gerald Seymour

  Then they’d gone up and down again to a second killing field, where the sand had gone black and the men had the same catastrophic injuries and there was another pit and small pieces of twisted metal were scattered widely. Again, some were alive. One, grievously hurt, had recognised the enemy and responded. Rat saw him before Jericho did. His intestines were exposed and the flies fed well, but some strength lingered within him, coupled with loathing and courage, and the guy groped for a pistol in his belt, and might have been able to lift it and might have been able to aim it, and might have had enough hatred left to squeeze the trigger. Rat had bent over him and had, not unkindly, taken the weapon from the guy’s belt and had thrown it beyond reach, and had used his foot to turn the man over, which would keep the flies from his bowels if nothing else.

  And up they went again, and down again.

  Jericho had, of course, seen Predators. They had always seemed somewhat sinister with their ghost-like capabilities, creeping unseen towards targets. They traumatised civilians and fighting men alike, and they carried an oblique interpretation of warfare by denying combat between forces – they were, instead, proxies for any side too timid to put men on the ground, those men who wore boots. For those countries operating them, they avoided casualties and silent homecomings and weeping widows but they took a fierce toll of enemies’ lives. He stood beside this one, downed. From what he saw – and he was not an engineer, sometimes needing Woman Friday to change a tricky light bulb – it looked as if it had crash-landed. The principal damage had then been caused by the automatic detonation of the explosive device charged to destroy its innards, the electronics and the guidance systems and the camera’s lenses. But much of the fuselage was identifiable. She was NJB-3. That part of the bodywork was still clean, and close to it was a single outline stencil of the distinctive Kalashnikov profile. Some hundred yards away was a single body, beheaded. Between the crash site and the corpse was the bent shape of a landing wheel and its support bars, which made more sense of what he was seeing. Jericho reflected on the pilot’s skill in taking down one man when his two Hellfires had been expended . . . but he did not see what he was searching for: the boots. And he looked for signs of footprints, but the sand was dry and shifted easily.

  Jericho climbed heavily to the top of a dune. He gazed out, forward and behind him, to the right and the left. A cockpit side window was opened, and Jean-Luc gestured to him that they needed to head off. He hardly needed to be told. The dial had said it when they had come down the first time, and would be reinforcing the message now . . . Funny that Miss Wilson, a decent, intelligent girl, had chosen that poorly educated kid from the wastelands of the northeast, not Corrie Rankin. There would not be any more like him, not as capable and as committed. He thought it a good call.

  He shouted, filled his lungs and yelled, ‘You are, Corrie Rankin, the last legend, the final hero, and your like will not be seen again. I stand humbled.’

  He was not answered, heard only the roar of the helicopter’s engine. No one survived alone in that desert wilderness without back-up and support, and the sun stripped them and the wind whipped them and the sand would cover and suffocate them – might already have done so. Jericho walked back. Rat was already inside.

  The helicopter lifted and turned away, and the needle in the dial looked bad, and they left him, wherever he was and in whatever condition, out there. Jericho noted that Rat held tight to the rifle, as if it was a child’s soft toy, as if it were the only item in the man’s life that gave him security, was a comfort. Jericho sat quietly, said nothing. Crannog had been completed. The result was good, but there had been poison in the final sting.

  He no longer went forward. He lay on his stomach, his head propped on his hands. Corrie talked to the bird, soft talk, as if the vulture was a friend.

  ‘Been thinking how it’ll all play out. Those who’ll get the medals, and those who’ll be ignored.’

  The sun burned on him and it hurt to speak with the dried-out throat but it seemed worthwhile. His legs and chest hurt from the kicking and there was a bullet that might have made an exit wound or might still be lodged in his shoulder. The bird’s shadow reached him. It sat before him, seeming to have in the dark eyes, above the pink jowls, an infinite patience, which might have come from confidence. He talked about the people in his life – not his mother, but others.

  ‘I pretty much only know people I’ve worked with, because I don’t have friends, never have. No friends and you’re less likely to be hurt, know what I mean?’

  Another shadow came, circled over him and then put down. The sand spilled up under its talons and the shadow settled and the bird was behind the first one, as though they understood precedence.

  ‘It’ll be George who’ll field the credit. Two big men taken down, and a mission that cost just pence compared with what the major ally is throwing at the problem. He’ll do a lunch tomorrow, and will call in the Agency, and a political counsellor, and it’ll be drip-fed to them over soup and some fish, and maybe with their brandies he’ll chuck in the main business of the bombmaker, that he had all the papers with him – which are now neatly zipped up in my pocket. That tells me that he hadn’t yet shared his plans, would have done that evening. If Belcher gets through, that’ll be the message. Through gritted teeth, they’ll have to congratulate George. He’ll like that. Success will outweigh a minor detail – “we mislaid young Rankin” – and he’s Teflon. He’ll ride that, and he’ll pull a long face when he tells subordinates about me, and they’ll think he feels upset that I was lost.’

  Two more arrived. He could not look up because then he would have gazed at the sun’s force and he did not know if the sky was filled with specks, if a crowd of them were gathering, but the shadows near to him were merged.

  ‘In his office there’s Farouk. Nice guy, never upset anyone, who has the trick of knowing who to agree with. He’ll do the leak to the media, likely the NYT and the London Times, of a success in the field. He’ll talk about “resourcefulness” and “supreme planning” and “clinical execution” and some more stuff about surgical implants, and the Service will get praised. There’s Lizzie there, and she’ll sort out my affairs, discreetly, and she’ll see the flat is sanitised, and might organise an evening service, understated and non-denominational, at St Peter’s on Kennington Lane, not black tie but suitably sombre.’

  More landed. Unseen, but he heard a last wing flap as they came down behind him.

  ‘There will be some spooks in Sana’a. They’re the Eternal Flames – sorry, it’s a cheap one – because they never go out. They were all beyond the loop, knew nothing, and the Brit will get a good kicking from the Germans and the Agency for not sharing. Won’t have had an option. They will all – in unison – rubbish what we achieved, and they’ll chorus that it’s outdated, but at the end of tomorrow the Brit will walk a little taller and the Yank will bob his head in quiet respect, and the German will feel belittled. It’s what it was all about, respect. If we didn’t clock up additional respect then it was just time and effort wasted.’

  More came, and one pecked hard at his boot and the beak might have caught the knot of a lace and it dragged on it, and those he could see had sidled closer, edged forward, and he could clearly make out the cutting edge of the talon.

  ‘That I reached this far, had the chance to see you and your friends, would be down to the men who flew that big bird, and crashed it. They followed me as far as they could, and put her down in the sand. They weren’t to know I was out on my feet. It would have been good to have seen them, thanked them – but it’s not the way things pan out.’

  Three more had flown in, and had different markings, were lighter-coloured but the same size, and there was tension between these birds and those already waiting, but all boasted the same talons and the same curved, flesh-tearing beaks. The nearest were a yard from him, but all were still nervous of what he could do to them, which was not much, if truth be told.

  ‘The army men came and did a
job, and should not have been asked to do it, and had no place here, and it was not their fight. I didn’t like them, they didn’t like me. But the marksmen can take sincere pride in what he achieved, except he’ll never have a chance to bask in the glory of it. He’ll be silenced, and end up twisted, bitter, and thinking the world failed to cough up credit. The other one, he’ll put it all behind him, if he’s lucky; he’ll turn his back on it, try to join the normal world. You have to understand, friends, that the ones who do the last mile, that crap, have no place where “decent” people are. They just need to hide away till the bloody call comes, then don’t have the guts to give the call a finger – they’re addicted to the life.’

  Most were in front of him and beside him, and they formed a horseshoe shape, except for the one, frustration building, that worked at his boot. The shadows were solid and they’d created a wall and denied him a sight of the horizon.

  ‘They’ll be a great couple. I wish them well, I mean it. First they have to make it out, but I think they will. They have each other. A miserable little beggar like me had no place in her life, I accept, and what he – Belcher – endured as our asset is remarkable. I mean it – wouldn’t say it to his face, but mean it sincerely. You know what? I think he’ll take her back to that town in the northeast. There’ll be a place where they do tattoo work. He just might take her in and sit her down, and tell her to wait, and lie himself on the gurney and have them do a capital C on his stomach because the one that was there will have washed off, and that’s how he’ll remember where he was and what he did, and how he was going to be used. Then they should get the hell out. I think there are Neolithic sites in Poland, and prehistoric Indian ones in Brazil – anywhere she can dig, and he can watch over her. They did their bit, and more. I loved them.’

  More eyes watched him, and the shadows thickened, and tiredness overwhelmed Corrie Rankin.

  ‘Can I go to sleep? You getting bored with me? Am I keeping you? I’d have liked to see Jericho again, a creature from a bygone age. Great man, always thinking outside the bloody box. Just brilliant, but destined for the rubbish tip, for landfill. Surprised he lasted that long. I imagine that, one day, not too soon because they won’t hurry to heave him out, he’ll put on that ridiculous blazer from some cricket team for toffs, and climb on a plane, and at the far end will be a committee of VBX back-sliders there to meet him. They’ll entertain him to a slap-up meal and tell him how wonderful he is, was, then kick him without ceremony out of the door. An incredible man, but few of them could bear to admit it. I’m sorry not to see him.’

  Another pair landed clumsily, and sand was thrown in his face. They were all around him, he reckoned. His other boot was also attacked but the attention was on his face, on his eyes. He thought they were waiting for one among them to summon the courage. One would crane forward and then hop so that the talons were free to strike and pinion, and then the beak would come in, and they’d all follow. Their shadows were close, pressing together.

  ‘It would have been nice to have been in the pub, frost outside, fire lit, and the cat there, and time for the arrows, and – friends, it won’t be long . . .’

  The sky closed over, the shadow was complete, and he saw nothing, only darkness.

  The pilot nursed the speed and eyed the dial. Jean-Luc spoke, quietly through his face microphone to Jericho’s headset, ‘You have to say that we gave it our best shot.’

  He had a drawled answer, ‘My guv’nor – and I can hear him – will say, “You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.” They’ll reckon it went well, won a bucket of prestige. But don’t think, young man, you’ll be on the Service pension scheme – guilt by association. Association with me, founder member of the awkward squad, a loose cannon. I’ll be starved of resources, then consigned to a boneyard, but after a few months so it doesn’t seem like a knee-jerk reaction to the mission, Crannog.’

  ‘Hurts, does it not?’

  ‘Hurts worse than I can say.’

  They headed, non-stop, for an Omani airfield, hoping to reach Salalah, which was inside friendly territory, and where Jericho was well known for greasing palms, and they’d offload the passengers on to that afternoon’s Dubai flight. A hug for her and a handshake for the guys. In the evening, back on his own ground, after showering and shaving and doing anything else that seemed necessary, he would go down to the Intercontinental with his stomach-enhancer in place, and wear his I Zingari blazer, and play the buffoon, and no one would imagine where he had been, what he had seen – and whom he had lost.

  ‘It is ignominious, it is humiliating, it is a curtain coming down on all we have tried to achieve.’

  Hector, of the Agency, in the bucket seat of the Chinook, fastened his harness straps. Summer and autumn had come and gone, and Sana’a was now in the grip of winter, and of mayhem. The evacuation was courtesy of the US Marine Corps; they’d brought their big double-rotor helicopters to the American embassy’s compound. Diplomatic staff had gone the previous day; the Agency were the last out, and with them were a screen of heavily armed, foul-tempered marines – and two passengers, non-US passport holders, who were getting a freebie ride out.

  ‘I give it a couple of hours and the place will have been looted, stripped to the walls, and they’ll be serving their bum-boys in the ambassador’s office,’ Hector said. ‘I could weep. Billions we put into this place, thought it was a blueprint for how to run a counter-terrorism operation, and the bad guys have taken over all the good kit – which we had courtesy of the taxpayer – for their army, who ran faster than a fucking snake wriggles. I’m going back home, never want to hear the name of Yemen spoken again, never.’

  They went up. The attack helicopters flew starboard and port, and were enough to make a casual sniper think again. They lifted above the rooftops. Oskar had dressed well for the American hospitality, lightweight linen jacket, last clean shirt, sombre tie. The German team had left three days earlier, but Oskar had stayed the extra hours in a discreet boarding house, attempting to clear the decks, though he could not claim success. He looked down and past the loadmaster and out through the open hatch at the rear. They might fly over the building formerly occupied by local intelligence, and it was likely that if they did he might spit. It was rare for him to display anger.

  ‘I could kill those bastards, do it barehanded. Your list, my list, any list of assets we ever had our hands on – identities and addresses, and we shared a little with them, needed the co-operation – is now in the hands of those murderous northern tribesmen. Every confidential informant that we had, who was known to PSO, had better have good running shoes and a fairy godmother. I will be pensioned off. I didn’t report that the revolution would arrive with such speed and so successfully. And you, my dear?’

  Doris pulled a face. The wind was funnelled through the interior and it snatched at her hair; there would still be smoke in it from when the last of the shredders had smouldered, caught fire, and her hand was blistered from using the lump hammer on computers and hard drives. She shrugged.

  ‘The usual story in my neck of the woods, trying to do a man’s job on a boy’s wages. We were on half-rations; it was inevitable that our predictions would be askew. I’m not taking the blame – anyone trying to dish it out will get a faceful back. You know what the principal rallying cry of my esteemed embassy colleagues was? Want to know? Most days it seemed to be focusing on gender equality in Yemen, advancement of female opportunity, and the creation of a small-business culture – with zero attention given to the coming storm and the failure of all those bloody military popinjays that we larded with cash and kit, and were described as “elite”. God . . . Well, the sisters had better look forward to walking behind the donkey again while their loving man sits astride it. It was supposed to be so good here, what we did. And as for keeping a watch on the AQ crowd, forget it. That fox has free run of this chicken coop, and our heads should hang in shame because it happened on our watch. There’s an Egyptian youngster, barely out of college, who
seems to figure most in the traffic. We have lost, big time. What you’d call a cluster-fuck Hector. I feel I might get pissed tonight, quite legless. And then? I’m going home, then three months leave, then I go to Muscat and take over from old Jericho. He lost his protégé, was never going to survive after that. He’ll be a damn difficult act to follow, but he shouldn’t have let slip one of our own. Sorry, but it’s unforgiveable to play roulette with a staffer’s safety. So, guys, coffee and a snort anytime you’re passing through . . . But, a tough one to replace.’

  Spring time, a pleasant wind off the sea, and an air-conditioner grinding, on its last legs, and the packing cases almost filled, and a knock outside the inner door, and the Gurkha was there, his face betraying no emotion at seeing his employers, master and mistress, in the process of bugging out.

  ‘Yes?’

  Jericho was handed an envelope. It was grubby, and looked to have been on a considerable journey. He took it, irritated at the interruption, asked what it was and who had delivered it, and was told. His name was on the outside, written in fading ink, and the address of the building. Instinct ruled – unfinished business. He pushed the Gurkha aside and ran, at a rare speed, down a corridor, tumbled fast down the staircase and hurried through the travel agency and into the street, looked right, then left, saw him and bawled the name. Not a stentorian demand for attention, more a plea for help.

  Jericho saw Jamil stop dead in his tracks and hesitate, then – as if reluctant – turn.

  Jericho hurried to him.

  It was months since they’d last met, after the return from the Marib Governorate and a trek across country, and by bus, and an illegal crossing of the frontier to the safety of Oman. Jamil had told of an ambush at night, how he’d used the goats, his flight and the crack of two rifle shots, all in a dispassionate way, with little made of the run for home, and less of his reason for not lingering on site and waiting to go with the others. He had been paid off and cursorily thanked, and told that one person was missing, and he would have returned to his job of taking tourists on safari rides into the desert or to the coast. He had brought an envelope? He had. Who had given him the envelope? A shrug. Where had he been given the envelope? A roll of the eyes, and the dumb response that veered from ignorance to insolence.