He laughed. "You're going to love this."
"Try me."
"Well, we thought you could tell us where your father is."
Before I could answer, a young woman ran in. She was also wearing jeans and a t-shirt. What kind of radical Islamists were these? She spoke to Tariq quietly and with urgency, he replied briefly, then she ran from the room. Tariq reached around to the back of his trousers and pulled out an automatic, chambering a round. Another rush of adrenaline and fear; was he just going to shoot me?
"Your arrival attracted attention," he said. "We have to move. I do not have time to explain exactly what is happening here, but we are allies, you and I, and should be friends."
My disbelief must have been plain to see, because he sighed, stood up, ran his fingers through his thick black hair and said: "yes, I wouldn't believe me either. Okay, listen to me, Lee. We have to get away from this building quickly and quietly. If you make a noise or shout for help, then you will be killed. Do you understand? And later, when we are safe, I will explain everything and we will laugh about this."
"Right," I said. "If you say so."
He shook his head wearily and threw me the cloth that had bound his face. "Clean yourself."
I used my good arm to wipe my face clean. I finished with the cloth and dropped it to the floor. Jesus, I ached everywhere.
"We should fix your arm." Tariq reached forward and grabbed my useless limb. "Ready?" I nodded. "Don't scream."
He lifted, twisted and pushed, all at once. I felt the bone rotate and then snap back into its socket. I grunted, and my vision clouded for a moment, but I managed not to scream or pass out. He let go and I lifted my arm up. I could use it again, but it hurt like hell.
"Toseef is going to lead, you will go after him, I will follow you. Please, I beg you, don't do anything stupid. If you do, we will all die."
Then we were moving. We left that awful room and entered a living area with doorless frames and open windows. The girl was standing by the main door, rifle in hand, scanning the street outside. My three captors shared an urgent, whispered conference. It seemed the girl wanted to go out the front door and down the road; Tariq disagreed. Eventually he ended the discussion with a curt word of command, and we climbed out one of the side windows into a narrow, dusty alleyway that ran behind the houses on this street.
The sky was deep blue, not a cloud in sight, and the air was heavy and wet. I had expected Iraq to be dry, but Basra was a coastal town, humid and damp. It smelt different, the sandy tang of desert mixed with a dash of salt air from the sea. And something else, a hint of something thick and cloying; I would later learn that it was the smell of burning oil. As soon as I stepped out into that glaring sun I began sweating from every pore all at once. My t-shirt was patched with sweat before we'd even gone a hundred metres. I needed water. A whole great bathful, preferably, to wallow in for a week.
When we reached the end of the alley the girl motioned for us to flatten ourselves against the wall as she peered cautiously round the corner to see if the street was clear. She leaned back into cover and held up her hands to signal that there were two of whoever it was we were hiding from, to the right. She indicated that they were not looking our way.
Again there was a disagreement. The girl wanted to risk running across the road to the alley opposite; Tariq wanted to go back the way we had come. This time, she won the toss. She counted down from three with her fingers, and we broke cover. It was only a few metres to a burnt-out car, and we made it without the alarm being raised. We huddled behind it. She glanced down the road on my right, Tariq on my left. Stuck between them, with Toseef, I was unable to see who or what we were hiding from. All I could see was a tiny lizard, sunning itself on the rear bumper of the car, an inch from my nose. Lying there, frying itself alive on that scalding metal, it radiated warm contentment.
Toseef grabbed my bad arm to get my attention and I winced. He let go and gave me a look that said sorry. Tariq gave us a silent countdown and we all turned to face the other side of the road as the girl moved to my side, ready to run. There was no-one behind me. They all broke cover, scurrying for the other side of the road. But in the heat of the moment none of them tried to drag me with them; they were so focused on their own predicament they must have just assumed I'd follow suit. But I didn't. I let them run away and I stayed, crouched behind the car with my small, cold-blooded friend. They didn't realise I wasn't with them until they reached the safety of the opposite alleyway. Tariq turned, alarmed. I waved at him and smiled. He slapped Toseef around the head, annoyed, then urgently beckoned for me to follow them. I pretended to consider this for a moment, then shook my head, grinning. I didn't trust him an inch.
Of course, I hadn't exactly escaped, but I'd bought myself an opportunity. I turned away from his frantic gesticulations, and peered around the side of the car. About thirty metres down the road stood a humvee. Result! Through the heat haze I could just make out two soldiers standing either side of the vehicle, backs to me. I looked back at Tariq and I could tell he was about to come running back for me. Now or never.
I stood up and began walking towards the vehicle. I saw Tariq grasp the air in fury and frustration, so I gave him a jaunty wave and sauntered towards the soldiers. I was safe.
"Hey guys," I shouted when I was halfway between the burnt-out car and them. I had stopped walking and had my arms raised high and wide. Didn't want to give them an excuse to shoot.
They spun around, rifles raised to their shoulders, but they didn't fire. They hesitated, obviously surprised and suspicious.
"I'm British," I yelled. "I just arrived here. I'm looking for my dad. He's a squaddie like you."
That sounded as lame as it did unlikely, but it was the truth so it was all I had. I expected them to tell me to lie on the ground, hands behind my head, that sort of thing. But they didn't move. One of them reached for his radio and muttered something to someone, then his colleague shouted: "take off your shirt. Slowly."
It took me a second to work out what he'd said, and then another to work out why.
"Okay," I said. "But my shoulder's pretty torn up, so bear with me." Both rifles were sighted on my chest as I struggled out of my shirt. I let it drop to the ground. "All right? See, no bomb vest."
"Now your pants."
"Seriously?"
"Do it!"
So I unbuckled my belt and let my combats fall around my ankles. I considered making an inappropriate quip, something like "if you want me to take my boxers off, you'll have to buy me lunch first," but I thought better of it.
"On the ground, hands behind your head."
I sank to my knees and lay down on the ground as he'd instructed. The gritty dirt burnt my skin, and a sharp stone jammed itself between my ribs, but I didn't wriggle. I heard them walking towards me slowly, their heavy boots grinding the dust beneath them.
"Lie completely still," said the talkative one. "If you move a muscle my friend here will shoot you dead."
"Understood. Just be careful please, I disclocated my shoulder earlier and it hurts like fuck."
I heard him fumbling with something, and then a thin strip of cold plastic was looped around my wrists and pulled tight. Then he grabbed my bound wrists and hauled me upright, grinding my damaged shoulder horribly. I yelled in pain and anger.
"Sorry," he said sarcastically.
The talkative one pushed me ahead of him, back to the humvee, while his mate scanned the surrounding buildings for danger. I had so many questions I wanted to ask them, but I decided it would be best to keep quiet for now. These were frightened, frightening soldiers; anything could happen. Best wait 'til I was safe in their HQ talking to a senior officer. Shouldn't take long to sort everything out then.
And yet... I didn't tell them about Tariq and his friends, hiding in an alleyway behind us. I was probably concussed, certainly dehydrated, definitely scared, and it was only as they marched me back to the car with brisk military efficiency that it occurred to me, belatedly, that perhaps
my judgement wasn't the finest right now. So I kept quiet about the Islamists who had nearly beheaded me, the ones who could even now be taking up positions in nearby buildings and sighting their rifles on us. I think that maybe, through all my confusion and adrenaline, I'd started to have an inkling that I'd jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.
They shoved me into the humvee roughly. My shin banged painfully against the metal lip of the door, making me curse. The quiet one stayed outside on guard, while the one who'd bound my wrists sat opposite me. He was a young man, about twenty; Hispanic, with a wispy, bumfluff moustache. But despite his youth he seemed confident, in control, self contained. His face was hard and cold, and gave nothing away. I suppose his accent could have told me which part of the States he was from, but apart from New York and the deep south I don't know my American accents well.
"Name, rank, serial number," barked Bumfluff.
"I'm not a soldier."
"You're British, right?"
"Yeah."
"Name, rank and serial number. That's all you Brits ever tell us."
"If we're soldiers. And it's the Second World War. And you're Nazis. But I'm not a soldier and you're not wearing jackboots."
So the Yanks and the Brits weren't working together. Maybe they were even enemies. Suddenly all my preconceptions came tumbling down. I'd assumed that the army would have retained some order and discipline in the face of The Cull, but sitting here, facing an American soldier who thought I was an enemy, that idea seemed wilfully naïve. They could have splintered into all sorts of warring factions. This led straight to the idea that maybe Tariq and his gang had not been all they seemed either, and I cursed my prejudices and my stupidity.
From the second I'd hit dirt I'd been reacting instinctively and without thought. I knew too well that that kind of thing gets you killed.
Engage your brain, Keegan.
"Tourist?" he asked.
"I flew here from England."
"Economy?"
"You must have seen my plane coming down, light aircraft, two seater. I've been unconscious but I think it was yesterday."
"Maybe."
"I was shot down."
"Not by us."
So should I tell him about Dad? I couldn't see why not. I had to ask someone, after all.
"Listen, I'm just looking for my father. He's a sergeant in the British Army. He never came home after The Cull. I flew here to find him."
"On your own?"
"Yes."
"And you're, what, fifteen?"
"Sixteen. Yesterday."
"Happy fucking birthday."
"Thanks. Do I get a cake?"
"I don't have time for your bull, kid. It'll be better for you if you just tell us the truth."
"My name is Lee Keegan, my father's name is John, he's a Sergeant in the British army and I just want to find out if he's okay. If you radio your base I'm sure they can just check their records and it'll all be sorted out in no time."
His eyes went wide with surprise and recognition. Obviously he knew my dad, or knew of him. So I'd been captured by two groups since touching down and both knew my dad. What were the odds? What the hell was going on here? Bumfluff was thinking hard. It looked like it hurt.
"John Keegan? Your father's name is John Keegan?"
"Yes. Know him?"
"Oh yeah. I know him. Our General is going to be very happy to see you."
Something in the way he said that convinced me that I wouldn't be so happy to be seen.
"Great," I said, cheerily. "But look, I'm not whoever you thought I was, right? I'm obviously not a threat, and I want to come with you. So can I please put my clothes on? I mean, I'm getting grit in places you don't want to grit to get, know what I'm saying? And I don't want to see my dad for the first time in two years just dressed in my boxers."
He considered me carefully and I gave him my most innocent, pleading grin.
"Please?"
He nodded slowly. "Reckon it can't hurt. Hey, Shane, go get the kid's clothes. We'll get him dressed then head back. We're going to get so much kudos for this." His friend looked at him quizzically. "This is Keegan's son." Shane gave a small whistle.
"Fuck me," he said, nodding in appreciation. "Score!" Then he walked off to get my clothes, gun raised, scanning the buildings as he went.
"My dad popular then, huh?" I asked, playing dumb.
"Oh yeah, kid. Everyone wants a piece of your dad." He chuckled. I chuckled with him. Good joke. He was now completely convinced that he had outsmarted me in some undefined way. If it came to a battle of wits, I didn't think this guy would be too much trouble. But the body armour, knife and guns did kind of give him the edge. I was going to need help whatever happened. Time to jump out of the fire and back into the frying pan; I just hoped Tariq and his crew were still watching, because despite what they'd put me through I felt they were more likely to be my allies than the musclebrain sitting before me.
Shane got back and threw my trousers and shirt on the ground outside the vehicle. Bumfluff indicated that I should step down, and I did so. I turned, holding out my bound hands for him to untie me.
"Don't try anything stupid," he said.
"Look I just want to see my dad. You're going to take me to him. Why would I cause trouble?"
He grunted and sliced open the plastic tie with his knife. "I'm gonna be standing right here. You so much as twitch and I'll stick you. Understand?"
I nodded. I shook the sand off my clothes and pulled them on. No point trying anything now; they were expecting me to. Once I was dressed I meekly turned around, put my wrists together behind my back, and let Bumfluff put on another wrist tie. Then he relaxed. Silly boy.
I struggled into the humvee and managed to sit back in my seat. Shane and Bumfluff took the opportunity to have a whispered conversation outside, and I undid my wrist tie.
Yes, I know, what kind of person travels around with a tiny scalpel blade gaffer taped to the inside of the back of their trouser waist band? All I can say is, when you've been tied up as often as I have you learn to take precautions, and it's the kind of little detail that a cursory pat down isn't going to uncover. I had one inside my right front pocket as well, just in case they tied my hands in front. And one in each of my shoes. And sewn into the hem of each trouser leg, in case they went for a hog tie approach. Back before The Cull it would have been crazy, now it was just part of life. Of surviving.
My life had brought me to the point where I took routine precautions against being hog tied. Jesus.
Now what to do? I could wait for them to get back in. One of them would sit in front of me and I could probably liberate his knife and improvise from there. But I'd be trapped in an enclosed space with two strong, armed men. Not an attractive proposition. Then an obvious approach occurred to me.
I reached forward, grabbed the door handle, and slammed it shut before they could react. I pressed down the lock and voila, I was safe inside an armoured cage.
I scrambled into the front as the two soldiers rattled the door handles, shouting and threatening me. I ignored them. The keys weren't in the ignition. I couldn't drive, but I figured I'd have been able to at least get the damn thing moving, but no luck. I needed another plan; assuming the glass wasn't bullet proof it wouldn't be long before they just shot me. I scanned the controls for inspiration as I rifled through the glove compartments hoping to find a spare firearm. Nothing. I saw a radio clipped on to the dashboard, but who would I call? Then I noticed a tiny button next to it that said 'loudspeaker'.
I grabbed the radio, flipped the switch and shouted "Okay Tariq, I trust you. Come get me."
The two soldiers immediately shifted their attention from me to the surrounding buildings, raising their rifles to their shoulders, eyes going wide with sudden fear. It didn't help them. There was a single crisp rifle shot and Shane's back slammed against the side of the car. He left a red stain on the window as he slid down to the ground. Bumfluff started running for the street corne
r. I thought he was going to make it, and I was almost rooting for him, but then there was another crack and his head jerked sideways and blossomed with red. He fell to the ground and didn't move again.
Two more deaths on my conscience. And what would happen when I opened the door? What if they decided to just shoot me too? I didn't fancy the odds, but I'd made my choice and I had to live with it. What option did I have?
So I unlocked the door, jumped down, grabbed the rifle from Shane's cooling corpse, and stood there waiting.
Tariq burst out of the side alley on his own and came haring towards me, shouting.
"Keys, get the keys."
I didn't move, keeping my rifle trained on him as he ran.
His face was a mix of frustration and fury as he skidded to a halt beside me.
"Fine, I'll do it." He fell to his knees and rummaged through Shane's pockets until he found the keys then he ran around to the driver's side and leapt in. "Coming?"
I heard the sound of an engine echoing down the street; someone was coming, probably more soldiers. I jumped into the passenger seat and slammed the door. Tariq didn't hesitate. He turned the ignition, revved the humvee, and we took off at full speed in a cloud of sand and dust.
"Where are the others?" I asked.
"Lying low. We've got to draw the soldiers away from them. We'll meet up with them later."
"If we escape."
"If we escape." He wrenched the wheel and we careened around a corner. "What changed your mind?"
"Call it a hunch," I said
"Good call."
"I'm still not so sure about that. Did you really need to kill them? You couldn't have just fired some warning shots or something?"
He cursed in Arabic; obviously my stupidity was annoying him. "You told them your name, yeah?"
"Yeah."
"But they didn't radio it in, did they?"
"No."
"If they had, we'd be in a lot of trouble."
An armoured car appeared in the distance ahead of us. I was flung sideways as Tariq swerved into an alleyway littered with abandoned cars. We smashed our way through the obstacles, sending the hollow metal wrecks spinning and rolling as we slalomed our way between them.
Operation Motherland Page 3