TICK TOCK (EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) Book 1)

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

His words didn’t surprise me. Everything he’d said was common knowledge and something discussed frequently in the EOD community. Most British people sleepwalked in the belief that 9/11 couldn’t happen there. Until it did. On 7th July 2005, 52 people were killed by a series of bomb attacks across London; 700 were injured. There were others, of course, then most recently, the bombing at the Ariana Grande concert in 2017 reminded us that the threat hadn’t gone away. In the city of Manchester, on a warm May evening, 23 people lost their lives to a suicide bomber, and 139 were wounded. The victims were teenagers. Children.

  As a country, we were vulnerable, and people like me were the ones sent to neutralize devices—but only if they were found in time.

  Smith’s eyes glittered with the fervour of a zealot.

  “No one wants to admit it, but we’re losing ground to extremism,” he said. “We have to fight fire with fire.”

  “Meaning?”

  He grimaced.

  “We’re aware of a terror cell in rural Pennsylvania, deep in the woods at the foot of the Appalachians,” he gave a wry smile. “We’re calling this Operation Hansel and Gretel.”

  “Really?”

  He shrugged.

  “I didn’t choose the name. Anyway, they’ve been recruiting quietly for the last three months, and it was just by sheer luck that we picked up wind of it. They’re more organised than most, training like soldiers. The leaders fought in Syria, Iraq and Afghanistan.”

  “Why don’t you go in and pick them up?”

  He stroked his beard thoughtfully.

  “That would be a short-term solution, but we want to know who or what they’re targeting, and we want to know where they’re getting their intel, because it’s damn good. Who’s supplying the bastards? Who’s arming them?”

  My lip curled in wry amusement.

  “In other words, they’ve outsmarted you and you can’t catch them.”

  Smith didn’t smile back.

  “But I don’t get it—you’ve got EOD teams of your own. I’ve trained with some of them—good blokes.”

  “We think we have a mole.”

  I blinked twice and my smile vanished.

  “Bloody hell!”

  The pieces of the jigsaw started to fall into place—a few were still missing, but I was beginning to see the whole picture.

  “Yep. That’s why we want you,” said Smith, leaning back.

  He continued to stare at me, and finally I understood.

  “You can’t trust your own teams—and because I’m British Army, I have no possible connections to anyone or anything.”

  He gave the ghost of a smile.

  “Got it in one. I was told you were smart.”

  He pulled a thick file out of his bag and placed it on the table in front of him.

  “We’re putting together a team to infiltrate the cell. We need the terrorist leader to want their skills so badly, that he’ll skip some of their own security protocols to get them.”

  Smith watched my face then pushed the file across the table.

  “And we need you to train them to make improvised explosive devices—bombs.”

  Amira

  THE FIRST PERSON I saw when they removed the blindfold was a tall guy with skin the colour of teak and a friendly smile. But he was wearing the uniform of a soldier and that stole any reason for me to return the smile.

  “Hey! You must be Amira. I’m Clay. Welcome to … well, who the heck knows?”

  He laughed but I just stared at him until uncertainty bloomed on his handsome face.

  “Uh, you speak English, right?”

  He couldn’t see the sarcastic curl of my lips as I replied.

  “Like a native.”

  If his skin hadn’t been so dark, he would have blushed. Instead, he seemed slightly flustered, then smiled again and held out his hand.

  I left him hanging there, surprised he didn’t know that a woman wearing a niqab would be unlikely to shake the hand of a man she didn’t know.

  I smiled to myself as I laid my right hand across my heart and bowed.

  He jerked his hand back, apologising quickly.

  “Damn! I knew that one. No shaking hands. Got it. Sorry, I’ve been travelling a lot of hours—my brain isn’t working on full power. But I promise I’ll remember for next time.”

  It was hard to dislike Clay and his ready smile, but I’d spent the last six months being trained not to take anyone at face value. So I simply stared at him until his tongue stilled and he stood awkwardly, the stretched silence making him sweat.

  The man who’d brought me here stepped from the truck and jerked his thumb at one of the cabins: “That’s yours.”

  It looked old, maybe over a hundred years, with a sagging roof and tattered sackcloth for curtains. But the locks on the door were shiny and new, and someone had added a generator at the side, the soft whirr providing electricity. I was hopeful that there was running water, as well.

  I picked up my battered suitcase and tugged it behind me, frustrated as the wheels were checked by small rocks that littered the path. I kicked a pinecone out of the way, cursing inwardly as sandy soil slowed my progress. With a final wrench, I jerked it over the threshold and surveyed the place that would be my home for the next few months.

  Inside, the cabin was hot and stuffy, the air wood-scented and drowsy.

  A table and two wooden chairs stood in the middle of the room under a bare bulb, and twin doors opened into tiny bedrooms with single beds on either side of the cabin. There was a third door that was shut—please let that be an indoor bathroom.

  I picked the bedroom that smelled the least musty and hauled my suitcase onto the bed, sitting down beside it heavily.

  The frame was old, but the bare mattress looked new, and a small pile of sheets and a pillow were folded neatly at the bottom.

  I’d been on the road a long time and I knew that I wasn’t in California anymore. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I was still in the U.S., but if I had to guess, I’d say we’d ended up on the eastern side, somewhere in the mountains. But equally, I could be in Canada. I’d have to wait for someone to end a sentence with ‘eh’ to be sure.

  I lifted my veil to scratch my cheek, still unused to the press of the niqab’s material covering all but my eyes.

  I jerked the thin curtains together with an angry flick and removed my veil, breathing freely for the first time in too long.

  Karam, tell me I’m doing the right thing. Give me a sign!

  But only the gathering silence answered me as a narrow ray of sunlight breeched the curtains, illuminating the swirls of dust in the stale air.

  There was no going back, no footsteps led to yesterday: the only way was forwards.

  Outside, I heard the rumble of a car engine, something large—a truck, perhaps. Two doors slammed followed by a muted conversation. I replaced my niqab, lifting one side and pressing my ear against the door, straining to hear, but the words eluded me.

  Then the cabin door opened and I heard the heavy tread of a man’s footsteps: no, two men.

  “Your students have already arrived,” said a man’s voice. “You’ll meet Clay in a moment, the other is in the room over there.”

  “Just two?”

  There was a pause as I pressed my ear more firmly against the door’s rough wood.

  “Recruitment issues.”

  The second man grunted a reply.

  “Chow time in ten.”

  One set of footsteps left the cabin, and the floor creaked as the second set headed away from me toward the other bedroom.

  I wasn’t happy that I’d be sharing with a man. Didn’t these idiots know how wrong that was?

  But if I was a student, then this new man must be my teacher. I felt a thrill of excitement as well as fear at the thought of what he could teach me, what I’d be able to do after I’d been trained. My breathing quickened as I sat on the edge of the bed.

  Karam, I prayed silently. Am I doing the right thing?

  There wa
s no answer. There was never any answer.

  Pressure on my bladder reminded me that I needed to use the bathroom. Door number three? I tugged the niqab into place and cautiously left the room. I didn’t know why I tiptoed, but I did, moving soundlessly across the old, hand-hewn planks.

  But then the door to the opposite bedroom was thrown open and a man stared at me in surprise, for a second his expression open and astonished. His eyes were the palest blue, wide, and fringed with long, black lashes. They were too pretty for a man, especially a soldier, and his uniform told me that’s exactly what he was.

  He was as tall as Clay but broader in the shoulders, a hint of concealed strength. His cheekbones were high and his lips softly curving as if he was meant to smile. He wasn’t smiling now, instead his expression turned cold and detached, deliberately blank as he studied me, and I wanted to squirm at his slow, intent appraisal. His eyes were tired but alert, and I reminded myself that he couldn’t see anything but a dark, shapeless mass as I stood concealed by my niqab.

  Then his eyes fixed on mine.

  James

  A WOMAN. JESUS.

  Smith had omitted that tiny detail when he’d recruited me to train his undercover agents. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. It bothered the hell out of me that he was going to send a woman to infiltrate a terror cell run by some of the most dangerous and ruthless people on the planet.

  The woman matched my gaze, her fathomless black eyes giving nothing away. She was dressed head to toe in black, with her face, neck, shoulders and chest covered, so it was hard to tell anything about her, but I would have guessed that she was about 5’7”, between 25 and 40, slender.

  She shifted slightly and the robe revealed her shoes—red and white Converse. They seemed a contradiction, but what did I know?

  Fuck all, as it turned out.

  She edged past me, heading for the bathroom and hurriedly locking the door behind her.

  I strode from the cabin, my anger building as I tracked Smith across the compound.

  “Hey! HEY!”

  He was talking to another guy dressed in civvies, a man with over-developed muscles and a fuck you expression. I ignored him, my attention on the tosser who’d brought me on this mission without sharing the full story.

  “Smith, are you kidding me? A woman?”

  He raised one eyebrow and folded his arms calmly.

  “That’s Amira. She’s perfect.” But then he let out a sigh that sounded like weariness and a long-standing argument. “She’s smart, real smart. She’s committed.”

  “You can’t seriously send her against ISIS? Do you know what they’ll do to her if they even suspect that she’s U.S. military or…”

  “She’s not.”

  “What?”

  “She’s not military. She’s a civilian. A nurse, in fact. Works the ER.”

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  “She’s a nurse? Are you insane? She won’t last a day with those bastards! She’s not trained for this!”

  He stared at me calmly as I ranted on.

  “She’ll never make it! I’ve worked with spies and they need to be streetwise, they need to know how to work with the criminals who’ll get them the supplies needed. There’s no way she’s prepared for anything like that!”

  Smith stared me down.

  “Take your ego out of the equation, soldier, and listen good. We need someone with above average intelligence so lessons can be quickly assimilated, and with excellent recollection skills both for training and recalling the conversations of the terror cell. Amira is strong in all these areas. We’ve been working with her for a couple of months now.”

  “A couple of months? That’s it? It’s nowhere near enough,” I objected.

  “And that’s what we’re here for. As well as your special duties, you and your other student, Clay, will teach her the basics: how to clean and fire a weapon, how to use a knife, hand-to-hand combat. Clay has a black belt in jujitsu. He’ll watch her six.”

  I shook my head in disgust.

  “Do you know what they’ll do to her when they realize she’s a plant? Every man in the cell will rape her, then they’ll rape her again until every orifice is bleeding and torn. They’ll flog her, slit her nose and mouth while she’s begging for them to kill her, and then, only then, they’ll behead her. And all the time they’re violating her in every possible way, they’ll be filming it so her family can watch it on YouTube!”

  Smith gazed at me, his face closed.

  “I know,” he said. “She knows, too.”

  “What?”

  “Amira knows the risk she’s taking, and she’s willing to do it.” He stared at me long and hard. “You think we take this lightly? You think we just picked a woman off the street? She has passed every psych evaluation that we could throw at her with flying colours. She wants this—and you’ll train her for it.”

  I started to speak, but Smith and the goon were staring at something or someone behind me. I turned to see the woman standing at the cabin’s entrance, her arms crossed in front of her.

  “Thanks for your concern, soldier,” she said, “but I don’t need it and I don’t want it. Just do your job … and I’ll do mine.”

  Her voice was slightly muffled, but pure American, and I hadn’t expected that either. My mind was whirring, exploding with new thoughts and ideas, stereotypes folding like a deck of cards.

  I wanted to say something, to persuade her to change her mind, or maybe to see her fear and indecision, but she gave me nothing, so there was nothing to say. Those black, black eyes stared out from the shapeless material, remorseless, unchanging.

  “So, you’re the teacher. Do you have any other specialist skills?”

  Her voice was mocking, challenging me.

  “Yeah, I’m really good at making things explode.”

  The tense standoff was interrupted by the arrival of another soldier.

  He walked towards me, smiling broadly and holding out his hand.

  “The name’s Alan Clayton No-name, Master Sergeant, United States Army. I also answer to Clay, dude, bossman, sir—or even bitch if you buy me dinner first.”

  He gripped my hand tightly, the torrent of words and his friendliness surprising, given the circumstances.

  As a Master Sergeant, he outranked me, but that didn’t matter when I was in charge of training him. Besides, I was in the British Army, so his rank meant nothing to me.

  I studied the new guy and scratched my chin.

  “What do your friends call you?”

  “Clay, Clayton, I answer to anything if it’s time for dinner.”

  The woman stood silently during this exchange. I had no idea what she was thinking—not being able to see her face threw me off.

  Smith clapped his hands together.

  “Touching as this is, food’s ready.”

  “Mmm mmm mmm, MREs!” grinned Clay. “Three lies for the price of one: it’s not a Meal, it’s not Ready, and you can’t Eat it!”

  He laughed loudly at his own joke.

  The woman’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t speak. Instead she shrugged and turned away.

  “I have to pray,” she said, over her shoulder.

  I followed the path of those red and white shoes, small puffs of dirt kicking up behind her. It wasn’t right having her here, it just wasn’t right. But as she retreated inside the cabin, some of the tightness in my chest loosened.

  Smith shot me a look.

  “This going to be a problem for you, Spears?”

  Yes, it was a huge problem.

  “She’s Muslim?” I asked.

  “Does it matter? My parents were Episcopalians—your point?”

  I wasn’t sure what bothered me most: this whole situation was weird.

  He gave me a small smile.

  “Let me worry about what happens when she infiltrates the terror cell: your job is to get her and Clay in there.”

  I frowned at his non-answer. And it made me realize
how isolated I was. With no clear chain of command, with no accountability, I was out here on my own. And right now, I didn’t know who I could trust.

  I still had the email address at the MOD that I’d memorized, but that was all. I didn’t even know whose email it was or if they’d arrange extraction if things got hairy. Smith had taken my phone so I was stranded. Maybe that’s why they’d chosen me: ultimately, all EOD operators worked alone.

  The woman reappeared ten minutes later, selected a vegetarian MRE pack and returned to her room to eat it alone.

  “Is she allowed to eat with men?” I asked, my knowledge of Muslim culture limited.

  Clay glanced towards the cabin.

  “Looks like she’s choosing not to eat with us. But I guess it all depends.”

  “On what?”

  He frowned, deep in thought.

  “Family traditions, cultural values. Some Muslims don’t have a problem with it; others are stricter about segregating the sexes.” He rubbed his eyebrow thoughtfully. “I’m talking about just one aspect here. Many Muslim women socialise widely—but there’s huge variety.”

  His answer left me none the wiser, but the woman didn’t return.

  “Seriously, James. Just be respectful, and let her guide us on how to behave. She’ll soon let us know if we’ve over-stepped the line. She’s one of us now, part of the team.”

  “You’ll be the one going undercover with her,” I pointed out. “Are you okay with this?”

  “I’ve worked alongside female soldiers before, but not in combat.” He scratched the thin beard on his chin. “‘Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth’, that’s a saying by Buddha, man.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” I asked, utterly confused.

  Smith laughed out loud.

  “Clay’s a Buddhist…”

  Clay raised a finger.

  “A scholar of Buddha, but close enough.”

  I stared at the two of them.

  “I studied philosophy and religion in school,” Clay said evenly.

  “And you think you can pass yourself off as Muslim?”

  He shrugged, seeming unconcerned.

  “I’m a brother, still learning. They’ll accept that I’ve recently converted.” He stared up at the darkening sky. “There’s a lot to be said for Islam—it’s a religion based on a concept of peace. In fact, the Arabic word ‘salaam’ which is a common greeting, means ‘secured, pacified, submitted’. It’s from the same word stem as ‘Islam’—so individual personal peace is attained by submitting to Allah.”