Blackout

by Chris Ryan

  'Harding?' said a young soldier, standing by the side of the road.

  Josh nodded. The man was maybe nineteen or twenty, a signaller on his first proper tour of duty by the looks of him. I'm only thirty myself, reflected Josh. But already the raw recruits are starting to seem like boys to me.

  'That's me,' he replied.

  He could see the signaller running his gaze over him. Dressed in a long white robe, with sandals on his feet, a black beard, and with his rifle slung across his back, Josh knew that he was starting to look more like an Afghan tribesman than a British soldier. His face was tanned to a dark shade of brown, and the sweat and dirt had seeped into his skin, giving it the appearance of raw leather.

  'Bruton will see you in an hour,' said the soldier. 'Room C He paused. 'You might want to have a bit of a wash before you go in.'

  'Too much of a pong for you?' said Josh.

  'Diabolical!

  Josh grinned. 'There's worse smells than me in the field. You'll find that out soon enough.'

  He smiled as he walked towards the mess. Khost had been an Allied base since soon after the invasion of Afghanistan. Of all the bases established by the, Allied forces, this was the roughest: up closer to Kabul, the invaders had been welcomed, or at least tolerated, but down here the American and British soldiers were hated with an intensity that only religion could inspire. They weren't just the invader. They were the infidel.

  Step outside, and the chances were that you'd find one of the local kids lobbing a petrol bomb at you. It was, Josh told himself, like Ulster. But with snakes and curry.

  10

  'Hey, it's Osama,' shouted a man from across the room.

  Josh smiled again. He recognised Peter Boshell at once. Same age, and one of five Regiment men stationed at Khost. But he could �well be the only other British soldier on the base right now, because Khost was mainly an American setup and the Regiment guys were spending most of the time out on patrol. That was the way it had to be. You weren't going to catch any terrorists sitting around the base playing computer games - whatever the Americans thought.

  'Nab him, boys,' continued Boshell. 'We let the fucker get away at Tora Bora. Don't want to do that again.'

  Josh walked across to the bar. Boshell was sitting with a group of tough-looking American marines, their heads shaved and the tattoos bright on the huge muscles of their biceps. 'What's happening?' asked Josh.

  'World War Three, by the looks of it,' said Boshell.

  Josh grabbed himself a Coke and a packet of crisps and sat down. The television was tuned to Fox News, and the dozen soldiers sitting around the mess were gripped by what they were watching.

  Josh turned his gaze towards the screen. 'The most dramatic day in the War on Terror since 9--11,' said the newsreader.

  Josh took a swig of the Coke, and threw some of the crisps into his mouth: it was three months now since he'd had anything apart from the local curries.

  'In a day of mayhem that has already been dubbed the Three Cities Attack, power supplies were today switched off in three of the world's major cities: London, Paris and New York,' continued the newsreader.

  Christ, thought Josh. What's happened now?

  Up on the screen, Josh could see a familiar backdrop: Trafalgar Square at twilight, the road turned into a mess of snarling traffic, and the square thronging with more people than on New Year's Eve. 'The day's events started in Paris,

  11

  at noon local time precisely. Power systems throughout the city shut down, leaving millions of people stranded in subways and on roads, and shutting schools and offices. One hour later, at noon local time, the power went out in London, closing the city completely. The police reported widespread incidents of panic, looting and total confusion as the transport networks ground to a halt. Troops were deployed around Whitehall and Parliament Square as speculation grew of a major terrorist incident. London Mayor Ken Livingstone and Prime Minister Tony Blair appealed for calm, but to little avail. Then, in the most dramatic development of the day, precisely five hours later, again at noon local time, the power shut down in New York. Mayor Bloomberg was appealing for calm as panic-stricken New Yorkers feared another devastating strike on their city. Police had to try to restore order at several skyscrapers as workers emptied buildings that could become targets.'

  Josh looked at the faces of the other men in the mess. TKey were watching the screen intently, talking among themselves. Their tone was hushed, whispering to one another, as if they were both exhilarated and appalled by the events being played out in front of them. Just as I am, Josh thought.

  'Already people are speculating that the Three Cities Attack must be the work of al-Qaeda terrorists,' continued the newsreader. 'If so, it would be the most audacious coup by the organisation since 9--11.'Josh watched as the screen switched to a reporter standing^outside the Pentagon, his hair disturbed in the strong gusts of wind blowing past the building. 'Military sources are denying that this is necessarily a co-ordinated terrorist attack,' said the reporter. 'They are insisting that it is possible for the power to fail accidentally in all three cities at precisely the same time. But so far, no information is available on what caused the power failures, or how it can be prevented from happening again.' The

  12

  reporter paused to deliver the emphasis on the final sentence. 'Outside the government, some experts are saying this is likely to be the work of alQaeda.'

  'So is it a terrorist attack, or isn't it?' said the newsreader, looking towards the reporter.

  'Right now, we just don't have enough information to say,' answered the reporter. 'The world may now have to get used to the terrifying possibility that somebody, somewhere, can get control of the world's power systems. And can turn off the electricity at will.'

  Josh put down his Coke. Now there was silence in the room. An ad break had interrupted the news, and nobody was saying anything. 'Think it's al-Qaeda?' said Josh finally, looking towards Boshell.

  Boshell shrugged. 'Who else?'

  'Has to be,' said one of the Americans. 'Nobody else could pull a stunt like that.'

  'The Pentagon is saying that it doesn't think so,' said Josh.

  The soldier smiled, revealing a huge set of white teeth. 'Hell, I've been on,missions myself that those sons of bitches were denying before we got back to base.'

  'Al-Qaeda taking control of power systems for cities around the world?' said Boshell.'Of course they're not going to own up to something like that. There'd be panic'

  'Looks like we've got work to do, then,' said Josh.

  He could see himself being summoned across the room by the young signaller. Josh finished his Coke and started walking towards the corridor. The walk was a short one, but he suddenly felt the energy drain out of him. It was months since he'd slept in a proper bed, or eaten a decent meal. Soldiering was like that sometimes. Your nerves held up fine while the battle was still on. But once it was all over, the exhaustion hit you: the adrenalin drained away, and every wound, knock and bruise suddenly started screaming out in pain.

  13

  'Back to your cave, Osama,' shouted Boshell. Josh looked back and grinned. During the last three months he had missed the camaraderie of the Regiment. 'I'll get you a razor,' said Bruton as soon as Josh stepped into the room. 'You look like crap.' 'The whole country looks like crap, sir,' said Josh. 'I blend in.' Bruton was a tall man, with dark hair cropped close to his skull, a thick, round nose, and ears that stuck out from the side of his head like the handles on a jug. In the six months that he'd been under his command, Josh had not warmed to him: there were plenty of Ruperts who made stupid decisions, but few of them could do it as consistently as Bruton. 'Well, good to see you again,' continued Bruton. 'And congratulations.' Josh looked around the room. There was a detailed map of the Afghanistan-Pakistan border on the wall, and next to It a series of thirty pictures: the most wanted alQaeda terrorists believed to be operating in the area. Azim, the man The Firm reckoned was charged with delivering a
major attack on Britain, was among them. There was a water cooler in the corner. Josh helped himself to a plastic beaker, then sat down on the single chair facing the desk. Bruton sat opposite him, a pad of paper spread out in front of him. He was swivelling a biro between his fingers, tapping its end against his mouth. 'We'll do a full debrief in the morning,' he said. 'But the good news is that the strike was a success. Azim is dead. The boys inVauxhall are going to be pleased with that one.' Josh looked at him, scrutinising his face. He could see no trace of hesitation or doubt there. 'Azim's not dead.' He paused, his eyes flicking upwards. 'Sir.' Bruton leant forward. 'The Tomahawk went into the precise location you gave us,' he said firmly. 'A drone flew

  14

  overhead and took some pictures. Everything in that camp was burned to a cinder.'

  'There was a truck,' said Josh. 'A white one. It left the camp a few minutes before the missile came in. Azim was in it. He escaped.'

  Bruton shook his head. 'The mission was a success, Harding. That's what it's going to say in the files.'

  Josh took a deep breath. Anger management, he told himself. 'It took too long,' he said, his voice steely. 'If we'd got the missile in sooner, we'd have got him. But I'm telling you, he escaped.'

  'Listen to me, Harding,' said Bruton. He stood up and walked across the room, standing in front of Azim's picture and tearing it from the wall. 'When I say a man's dead, he's dead. And he stays dead. Got it?'

  Josh stood up.'Then we'll just have to wait until the bugger comes back with a different name. And then kill him again.'

  15

  ONE

  Monday, June 1st. Morning.

  The smell drifted past Josh's nostrils. His senses twitched, coming slowly back to life as he struggled to regain consciousness. A faint musty smell mixing lavender with some kind of spice. I know it, thought Josh. I know that perfume. It's on the tip of my tongue.

  If only I could remember the name.

  For a moment, Josh struggled, annoyed with himself for not being able to dredge up the name from his memory. Sod it, he told himself finally. I never was any good at remembering perfumes.

  Slowly, Josh tried to open his eyes. But the skin on his lids felt heavy and unyielding. He was starting to become aware of a pain, throbbing slowly yet still intense, starting at the side of his neck and running down deep into his spine. Another pain was rippling up from his calf. Then his left eye sprang open first, a flash of light flooding his senses as a fierce sun shone into his face. He closed the eye quickly, succumbed to another wave of gain, then opened it again.

  A woman. A bright lock of red hair.

  Josh closed the eye.

  Where the hell am I? What the fuck has happened to me?

  He tried the right eye this time. The same heavy sensation as the lids were reluctantly prised open, and the same blinding effect as sunlight overwhelmed the retina. He shut

  16

  it hard, let a fresh wave of pain roll down from his neck into his back, then opened both eyes.

  The woman was leaning over him.

  She was in her late twenties, maybe just thirty, but no older. Her skin was tanned and freckly, and still moist and clear. Her eyes were bright blue, shaped like almonds, set above her nose and full red lips. But it was the hair that held Josh's attention. A thick red wave of curls, it tumbled playfully across him, growing away from the woman's face like a lion's mane.

  He started to speak. The words started somewhere in his brain, then travelled down towards his throat. 'I . . . I . . .' he started.

  Suddenly Josh was aware of another terrible pain shooting through his neck. He stopped, choking on the rest of the sentence, unable to deliver it.

  A finger came to rest on his lips, thin and elegant, and without any ring on it. 'Don't speak,' she said. 'You're hurt.'

  'I . . . I . . .'Josh started again.

  'You're hurt,' she repeated, her tone firmer this time. 'I'll put you in the truck.'

  It was too painful for Josh to speak. The jabbing in his neck was growing worse, and his leg was feeling numb: it was a pain that he knew he had felt before, although he couldn't now remember where. He started to turn on his shoulders. He was lying in a ditch of baked, cracked earth. Ahead of him he could see a thin strip of tarmac: a one lane road, nothing more. Behind it, a giant rock loomed, its pitted surface made of red and yellow stone, and beneath the rock flaked and chipped slices of the mountain lay in a jumbled heap. The air was dry and dusty, without even the murmur of a breeze to soften the fierce heat of the sun beating down on them.

  Josh looked out across the bleak landscape. Somewhere in the distance, he could see some dust rising up from a ridge. The place was completely empty.

  17

  Where am I? he wondered. He swivelled quickly, staring at the ditch into which he had fallen. A crimson stain had spread out into the sand. Blood. My blood, Josh thought. He started to run a hand across his body, making a rough reckoning of the extent of his wounds. He had been shot in the neck, he guessed: there was a gaping flesh wound, and the bullet must have missed his windpipe only narrowly. He was lucky to be alive. The calf of his left leg had taken a hit as well. A chuck of flesh the size of his index finger had been blown away: he could still see pulpy, messy fragments of the torn tissue lying in the dirt. At least a pint of blood, maybe two, had been spilled already. What in the name of Christ happened to me here? 'Quick,' said the woman. 'You need treatment.' Her hand was wrapping itself around Josh's wrist,- taking his pulse. He could just see her lips moving as she silently counted out the beating of his heart. 'We need to get some drugs into you,' she said. 'Right away' Josh let her arms slip around his waist. She didn't have the strength to lift a man of his size but she could help him balance himself as he used the strength left in his legs to push himself upwards. He felt dizzy, and his vision was clouding up as he started to move his feet. The left leg, where the bullet had struck, was screaming with pain: every nerve seemed to have been set on fire, sending burning jabs of pain up through his body. His breathing was ragged and the loss of blood had sapped his energy, making it hard for him to hold onto consciousness for more than a few minutes straight. He was already suffering from palpitations and his lips were sweaty, enough to suggest that he'd maybe lost more than a couple of pints. 'Hold me,' he muttered, some blood spitting from his mouth as he pronounced the words. The woman was strong, he could tell that. She was five

  18

  nine, maybe five-ten. She couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds: she was thin, not in an anorexic fashion-model way, but thin as in wiry, muscly, and tough. She was dressed in blue denim shorts, with a pale pink T-shirt: a deeper pink heart was stencilled on the cotton, just below the delicate curve of her small breasts. A country girl, thought Josh suddenly. Good with horses and dogs, and she probably knows how to handle herself in a fight pretty well.

  That perfume, thought Josh, as he leaned into her, using the strength of her shoulders to help keep his balance. What's its name again? I just can't remember.

  He stepped forward. His left leg was in the worst pain, so he was using his right one to carry his weight. About ten yards ahead of him he could see the pick-up truck: a black Ford Ranger, at least five years old, with a thick layer of mud and dust coating its wheels and some thick scratches to its bodywork. Not far to walk, he told himself. Even on a shot-up leg, I should be able to manage ten yards.

  'Careful,' said the woman, steering him to the left.

  Josh looked down. He was fighting to straighten out his vision, taking deep gulps of air to try to calm the spinning in his head that was clouding up his eyes. Suddenly he was able to focus. At his feet there lay a body.

  A corpse.

  Josh stopped. He had moved sideways to avoid stepping on it. It was a boy, no more than fifteen. He had thick black hair, down to the back of his neck, and he was wearing black jeans and a huge pair of Nike trainers. Josh couldn't see his face: he was lying face down in the dirt. But he could see the wounds.
One bullet had torn into the centre of his neck, taking out his throat. Another had ripped into the centre of his skull, entering from the back and blowing his brains out through his forehead. A pool of blood was still seeping from both the wounds.

  19

  'Wh--'Josh started to say.

  'No, quiet,' hissed the woman, her tone turning sterner now. 'You want to end up like him?'

  Josh hobbled forwards. No time to think, he told himself. Don't worry now about who you are, what you are doing here, or why there is a corpse lying in front of you. In a fight you don't look for explanations.You just try to survive.

  Another three yards. The pain in his left leg was terrible, and he could feel the pressure of hobbling forward crunching the nerve endings, the tendons and the muscles. Every step, he knew, was only making the injury worse. He had to find somewhere where he could lie up for a few days, assess the extent of his injuries, and start to recover his strength.

  Not here. Not surrounded by corpses.

  The door of the pick-up was open. Josh threw himself inside, using his forearms to lever himself up onto the battered cloth seats.There the glass had magnified the fierce sunlight, and if it was thirty degrees outside, here in the scrublands, it must have been closer to forty inside the truck. Sweat started to pour from Josh's skin, mixing with the blood already caked to the surface of his body. His breath stabbed against his chest as the hot, humid air filled his lungs.

  The woman handed him a bottle of water. 'Try to drink something.'

  Josh took the plastic container in his hand. It could have been thirty degrees as well. I could use it to brew up a nice cup of tea, he reflected sourly. Wrenching the top free with his teeth, he slung the neck of the bottle into his mouth, pouring the water down his throat, then letting it splash across his face. One tooth was missing, he figured: maybe he'd lost it when the bullets had slammed him onto the ground. There was a dull throbbing pain at the base of his jaw, spreading out from the gums, and the water was making

  20

  it worse, a sure sign of a broken tooth. Sod it, he told himself. I have to drink. And right now a trip to the dentist is the least of my worries. The Ranger roared into life as the woman slotted the key into its ignition. The Ford had a big, powerful engine, and even though it had overheated in the midday sun it still kicked to life with a snarl. The smell of petrol started to flood through the air, making Josh's stomach churn. He lifted his foot into position, relieved to finally be taking the pressure off it, and looked closely at the woman as she gripped the steering wheel and turned the truck onto the road. She's afraid, he noted. A trickle of sweat was running down her back, staining the fabric of her Tshirt. Josh closed his eyes. His brain was still fuzzy, and the blurring in front of his eyes was still severe. Unconsciousness, he knew, was just a breath away. He could feel the truck vibrating as it kicked past the stones on the single-track road and started to pick up speed. Just try and stay alive until you get there, he told himself. Wherever 'there' might be. Then there was a new sound. It was vicious and sharp, the noise of metal digging into metal. Josh opened his eyes with a start, instantly recognising what he had just heard. A bullet. The truck had been hit by a bullet. He looked across at the woman. She was gripping the wheel, swerving the truck as the shot winged its side. Her grip was tight and her^ expression grim. The truck was swaying violently. Another bullet. Amid the deafening noise Josh couldn't be certain where it had come from. Maybe one of the high rocks? A sniper. Maybe another vehicle, already in hot pursuit. He looked across at the woman. 'Evade,' he snapped. 'You have to evade.' His throat had strained to produce the words, the muscles in his neck screaming with pain as he flexed them.