by Andy McNab
Charlie pulled the tape and papers from the computer bag, ready to run. ‘The other heli’s up! Here any second. Get that fucking foot down.’
The caltrops were only metres ahead, coming in left to right.
‘Stand by . . . stand by . . . they got us!’
The caltrops fell and the tyres hit almost immediately.
8
The steering wheel vibrated violently in my hands for several seconds then the wagon simply came to a halt. Tyres deflated, the wheel rims had just ploughed into the mud.
Both helis were on us. BDUs jumped out metres away, weapons up. The guys would be pumped. Some looked nervous, some like they just wanted to chalk up a kill.
I raised my hands very slowly and obviously and placed them on the dash, where they could be seen.
A black guy in spotty-camouflage, two bars on his lapel, shouted from the front of the wagon, over the roar of the helis. ‘Get out of the vehicle! Get out of the vehicle!’
We didn’t fuck around.
Baby Georgians swarmed round and kicked us to the ground. Hands searched us. Pockets were pulled out, jackets ripped open.
One of the Hueys took off again and hovered above the 110 as I got turned over onto my back and searched some more. A winch cable descended from its belly, at the end of which hung a set of wide nylon straps.
The downwash was heavy with the stench of aviation fuel. My face was splattered by earth, grit, and rainwater from the grass.
Thanks to the caltrops, the wagon wasn’t going anywhere without help, even if the BDUs had wanted to risk another international incident with the Russians. The Georgian boys were all over it like a rash, rigging the webbing straps. This beat the shit out of another day in the classroom.
AKs bore down on us and the black guy loomed back into my line of sight. He carried out yet another search, oblivious to the buffeting of the downwash.
‘The driver’s OK! We dropped him a few Ks from camp. He’s fine.’ I took a deep breath so I could make myself heard over the two sets of rotors. ‘We didn’t touch him, he’s OK!’
People can get very dangerous if they think one of their own has been hurt.
My hands were grabbed. The cuffs had solid steel spacers instead of chains. You can’t flex your wrists in them. They were closed far too tight, but I wasn’t complaining. I just looked down, clenched my teeth, kept my muscles taut, ready for another kicking.
The captain grabbed hold of the spacer and gave it a tug. I was totally under his control. He jumped the caltrops, and started running towards the second Huey. It was just too painful to do anything but follow as best I could.
I looked behind me and saw Charlie quick-timing to keep up with his escort.
The captain jumped aboard first. He hauled me up and shoved me into one of the red nylon webbing seats that ran down the centre of the cabin, facing the doors. Charlie’s man did exactly the same from the other side.
The Georgians leaped on board behind us, and the heli lifted. I got a great view of the other Huey, hovering above the 110. It was just about rigged up and ready to go.
The troops it had ferried in would have to stay behind; I guessed they’d come back for them after dropping us off.
As we crossed the main drag, a line of overexcited locals peered up at us from the windows of a rusty old coach loaded with suitcases, shopping bags, chickens in cages, all sorts, on the roof rack. I guessed theirs would be the last happy faces I’d be seeing for a while.
We flew over the bus, giving the Russian camp a wide berth to the left. The captain had pulled on a set of headphones and talked fast into the boom mike. The noise of the engine and the rush of the wind made it impossible to hear what he was saying, but I knew it had to be about us.
The inside of the Huey hadn’t had anything done to it since it left Mr Bell’s factory in the 1980s. The walls were still lined with faded silver padded material, and the floor’s non-slip, gritty paint had worn away before some of these squaddies were even getting the hang of their first water pistols.
We hugged the side of the valley, using it as cover from the Russians who’d be up there, somewhere, radioing a progress report to Moscow.
We flew low and fast, trees, animals and buildings zooming past in a blur.
We tilted left and right, following the contours. Wind blasted the interior as we took a particularly sharp right-hander. I gripped my seat between my legs to stop myself being tipped into the trees.
We levelled out then surged over the ridge and Camp Vasiani spread out ahead of us.
The fieldcraft training was still in full swing, but I now knew it was just for show. The real Partnership for Peace programme was being played out here in the Huey. Guys like the US Marine in the seat beside me would stay in charge, while the Georgian boys would do the housework and smile for the cameras.
We hovered over the concrete pan and came in to land. Exhaust fumes and downwash gusted into my face.
No sooner were the skids on the ground than we were manhandled in the direction of a waiting 110.
In the distance, the other Huey appeared over the ridgeline, the Land Rover dangling from its belly.
Down here, confusion reigned. The Georgians bundled us into the back of the 110. One of their mates was driving, and the others formed an armed escort. Four outriders sat astride dull-green quad bikes. The marine in charge wore body armour, helmet and wraparounds, and had an M16 slung across his back. The bar on his lapels and the top of his helmet marked him out as a lieutenant.
We were bounced around the camp perimeter and eventually arrived at the Portakabin complex. I didn’t bother coming up with any scenarios. I’d have no influence on events, so I was going to take things as they came. I just had to accept I was deeply in the shit: if they didn’t know it already, they wouldn’t take long to realize that they had a local TV and newspaper star on their hands. And once they did, well, every minute I wasn’t banged up in a Georgian police cell with a crew cut and thumbscrews was a bonus.
We turned into an open square lined by groups of the cream-coloured, aluminium Portakabin modules. The 110 stopped, and the quad bikes pulled up around us.
The lieutenant dismounted and shouted a series of orders.
Three US Marines stood to on our right, in body armour and Kevlar helmets, weapons in the shoulder. Their message was clear. ‘Hands up! Show me your hands! Hands in the air!’
I spotted the air-conditioning units on the roofs of the modules. I had a feeling we’d be needing them.
PART EIGHT
1
The one-bar ran around barking orders into the open door of one of the Portakabins and the marines moved forward. We did exactly as we were told; we each had a muzzle in our face.
We waited for instructions; the trick is to show no sign of fear, or any other emotion that might spark people off. Be neutral; do what you’re told, when you’re told.
‘You! You with the dark hair,’ the marine closest to me shouted. ‘Get out of the vehicle, and get out real slow. The old one, stay where you are.’
I stifled a grin. Charlie wasn’t going to like that one bit.
More marines tumbled out of the Portakabins into the square, clad in body armour and Kevlar helmets but not carrying weapons. I had the feeling we were about to meet the reception committee.
I got out slowly, making sure they saw my hands at all times, and that I made no jerky movements.
The guy covering me came round to my side of the vehicle and stopped a couple of metres away, his barrel pointing into the centre of my chest. He leaned into the weapon, butt firmly in the shoulder, aiming down rather than up so that if he had to shoot, there’d be less chance of the round hitting someone else on the way out.
It was now Charlie’s turn to be hollered at. I heard rather than saw him step down from the wagon. I wasn’t going to turn round until the man with the semi-automatic said he wanted me to.
Two or three rubberneckers stuck their heads out of the windows on the fa
r side of the square. Awhole lot of others came right outside and gathered in a circle around us.
‘What’s happening, man? They steal the 110? Must be Russians.’
‘Nah, drug dealers.’
‘No way. They’re terrorists, man. Fucking militants.’
These guys obviously spent more time watching reruns of Fantasy Island than checking the local news, but I knew it was only a matter of time before they made the connection with Baz.
My escort gripped the spacer bar on my cuffs and yanked my hands in front of me, and a couple of his mates gave me a brisk search. They didn’t seem at all pleased about us nicking their wagon.
A set of hands grabbed each of my arms and half carried, half dragged me along the hard standing and up two wooden steps. We turned down a wide, windowless corridor. Grey lino covered the floor and extended six inches up each wall instead of skirting board. Fluorescent light bounced off glossy white walls.
The marine ahead of us was clearing a path through the onlookers. ‘OK, guys, the show’s over. Back in your offices, please. We got this situation under control. Come on, people, let’s move here.’
We arrived at a pair of windowless double doors, heavily scuffed at the bottom where they’d been repeatedly opened with the help of a boot.
We barged through three or four sets in all before we finally stopped outside a bare room, furnished only with a single aluminium chair and a table.
Charlie was no longer behind me. I didn’t like that at all.
One of the guys pushed me inside.
The lino-and-white-wall combo was clearly all the rage in this neck of the woods.
They turned me round and sat me down. Then, without saying a word, one of them grabbed the spacer bar and yanked my cuffed hands behind my head. The weight of my arms pulled it into the back of my neck, so I tried to hunch up, to take some of the pressure off my wrists.
I was pulled back up by the hair. ‘Sit straight, you fuck.’
Four guys and a woman stayed in the room with me, all in uniform, with radio earpieces and pistols in black nylon leg holsters. One of them kept hold of my spacer bar, his knuckles digging into the back of my neck.
Their eyes drilled into me.
The woman stood in front of me. ‘Undress.’
If she was here to embarrass me, she was a lifetime too late. I’d had to eat my own shit before now, and I’d do it again if it stopped them climbing aboard me. Anything was better than getting a kicking.
The cuffs were released and blood rushed back into my hands as I started to pull off my kit.
Except for the gentle hum from the air-conditioner vents high on the wall, the room was silent.
She dug into her box of tricks and snapped her hands into a pair of surgical gloves. I noticed a badge with two snakes coiled around some kind of stick on her lapel. Medical corps.
I stood with my clothes in a heap at my feet, awaiting instructions, though I had a good idea where this was leading.
She pointed to the chair. ‘Sit down.’
I did as I was ordered and the four guys formed a semicircle in front of me. One of them had a can of mace at the ready; another held a Taser. It was almost as if they were willing me to start something.
The metal was cold on my bare back and arse but I didn’t have time to think about it. The woman pushed my head back and dug around in my mouth with a spatula.
I could smell smoke on her shirt. I hoped she wasn’t too pissed off about being called away from her cigarette break, because I had the feeling this was about to get very intimate.
I wondered what they were looking for. Drugs? A miniature bomb under my tongue? Or were they just putting me through the wringer?
More important, where was Charlie?
She put the spatula aside, and probed around my gums with a finger.
What next? A free orange suit and daily trips to the interrogation room on a handcart? Who the fuck did they think I was?
She checked my ears, then dipped back into the box for a party-size tube of KY jelly. I was obviously going to get the full Saddam.
She squeezed some onto the first and middle fingers of her right hand. ‘Stand up, bend over and touch your toes.’
I had only one consolation: it was going to be worse for her than me. I’d been saving up all day for a dump.
I felt her finger slide in, have a good dig around, then withdraw.
‘Stand up.’
I avoided looking her in the eye. I didn’t want to give her even the hint of a smile.
The heel of a boot slammed into my back and sent me flying towards the wall. I knew that was just for starters. They’d warm themselves up with a few more of the same before mob rule took over. They really did have hatred in their eyes.
I took the fall, curled up tight, and waited. Boots advanced on me across the floor. I kept my face covered, but one eye open.
One of the radios crackled and the wearer quickly pushed in his earpiece to keep it private. He conveyed whatever had been said to him to the others in hushed tones. They looked at me, clearly disappointed. That was it, then; they must know I was the TV star. It was now Georgian police time. I tried to kid myself it was a better option.
The medic pulled off her glove and deposited it into a plastic bag and bundled all her toys back into the box. She pointed at the chair. ‘Sit.’
I got to my feet, but not quite quickly enough. One of the guys helped me on my way with his toecap.
The aluminium hadn’t got any warmer. I heard the slurp of KY as I shifted position, then the sound of gaffer tape being ripped off a roll.
2
They grabbed my wrists and forced them up against my temples, then got busy with the tape. They wrapped it around my hands and head like a bandage, then down under my chin for good measure.
I clenched my fists as tightly as I could, trying to create some slack in the tape when they’d finished. Even a little bit of play might mean my circulation wasn’t cut off. I knew I wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry, but knowing that I was resisting in some small way made me feel better.
Next they turned their attention to my arms, binding them together just above the elbows, locking them firmly under my chin.
No order was given, but they suddenly stepped back as one and left the room.
I glanced around me. My clothes were gone, and there was no way out.
My hands more or less covered my ears, but I’d heard the door being locked from the outside, and the four ventilation grilles were no larger than letter boxes. Besides, they probably had me under CCTV.
I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees. Sweat stung the skin beneath my chin. I must have stayed like that for an hour, maybe more.
I tried to keep optimistic.
I’d fallen in more than my fair share of dung heaps over the years, and while I might not always have come up smelling of roses, I’d been able to keep a certain percentage of me shit-free and easy on the nose.
I’d taken a bit of punishment along the way, but somehow always managed to get away with it. I guessed that was one of the reasons I’d carried on doing these stupid dickhead things.
Try as hard as I might, I couldn’t avoid the thought that maybe this time would be different.
3
I could hear muffled speech in the corridor. I lifted the gaffer tape as far as I could away from my ears. Heated or just frustrated, I couldn’t tell which, but there were certainly a few ‘Goddams’ and ‘No way, their asses are ours’ being bandied around out there. It sounded like something bad was happening for them, but of course that didn’t necessarily mean something good was happening for us.
That cell in Tbilisi suddenly seemed very close again.
Boots and tyres crunched across the gravel.
I hated times like this, not knowing what the fuck was happening. Maybe the police were already here, working on Charlie first? He might not be in great shape these days, but they wouldn’t get much out of him.
They�
��d probably tell me the old fucker had confessed everything, but I knew the last thing Charlie would do was give them any ammunition. His hands might swing into disco mode and his memory might let him down, but some things are so deeply ingrained they’re second nature.
I spent a moment or two wondering where the silly old fool was. If I got out, did I run around and try and find him? Without a doubt. Even bollock-naked and with my hands taped to my head, I’d still try and break down every door along the corridor until I found him. Then all we’d need were two sets of clothes, our passports and some kind of transport out of here, and Bob’s your uncle.
Back in the real world, I did my best to uncurl myself and stretch my back and legs, trying to relieve the pain in my muscles and the pressure points against the lino.
It started to get cold, so I reversed the process. They’d probably adjusted the air conditioning, to soften me up before they came and read me my horoscope.
Half an hour or so later, I had to stretch out on the floor again, every bone in my body aching. Which god had I pissed off so mightily this time? What wrong turning had led me here, my arse leaking KY jelly, my head mummified with gaffer tape, just when things had started looking up?
Deep down, I’d always known that I’d fuck up big-time one day, but it had never bothered me much.
Until Kelly came along.
Funny how a snot-nosed kid with a moth-eaten teddy bear can make you pay attention.
I was never the knight in shining armour she deserved, and nothing I did would stop me blaming myself for failing to save her life, but even now I was back in my old familiar world I realized normal service hadn’t quite resumed.
I knew I was always destined to be smack at the bottom of the food chain, and I’d almost got to like it. But Kelly made me dare to think for a moment that there might be something better around the corner.
And now Silky was doing it all over again. She’d become my gatekeeper, my interpreter in a world that spoke a language I barely understood.