I had one more week before I flew to Damascus.
I was really going.
James
IT HAD BEEN too long since I’d taken the Ducati for a spin around a racetrack, but on my day off, that’s exactly what I did. It felt good. And it was a release from all the pressures weighing down on me. I couldn’t race at those speeds and think about her.
Work had been really busy, which was a relief. Too much time to think was not a good idea for me. Crazy as it sounded, there was an EOD call-out every day of the week somewhere in the UK, and there were few enough of us trained up and ready to answer the call. So far this month, I’d been sent for because a fishing vessel’s flare washed up on a south coast beach—something that was potentially dangerous to the public since the phosphorescence could cause serious burns; then there’d been two 999 calls to the police saying that local schools had explosive devices planted on the premises—both turned out to be hoaxes but it all had to be checked out—the little scroats who’d made the calls had been caught and reprimanded, but that was two days wasted. I’d been to a house in Hounslow where TATP was being produced, and a ring of seven bomb-makers were keeping the police busy with their enquiries. And yesterday, I’d been to a building site in Guildford where a World War 2 German buzz bomb, a V1 flying bomb that had been undisturbed for 78 years, until a digger on a construction site had unearthed it.
A typical week at work.
I’d never believed in anything much before I’d met Amira, other than saluting the Queen and promising to fight for HRM until my balls were nailed to the wall. That was our pledge when we joined the Army, but in reality, we all fought for the boots on the ground, the men and women standing next to us and fighting alongside us.
Now, I wasn’t sure I believed in much at all. I was going through the motions, but I wasn’t living.
I tried so hard not to think about her, but I couldn’t help wondering. Was she in Syria yet? Was she okay? Was she safe?
The Syrian government, backed by the Russians and Iranians, were saying that the war was over and encouraging the 4.6 million Syrian refugees to return. But many were afraid they’d come back to forced conscription for the men, or possibly even be detained in prison. People died in detainment. And the fact that rebel forces were still firing rockets into Aleppo and other cities made them look like lying twats, but it hadn’t slowed the Syrian government’s media propaganda.
Most of the Daesh fighters had been evicted from the cities, but there were still pockets of resistance, still members of ISIS who’d seeped back into society. And that mad bastard Assad was completely capable of launching more chemical weapons’ attacks on his own people now he knew he could get away with it and the UN were toothless.
It made me furious, but there was nothing I could do. Maybe I even understood why Amira was there trying to help—I hated it, but I understood.
Worrying about her was something I had to live with, a constant itch under my skin that I could never reach, a sliver of pain that throbbed with each breath I took.
She’d called me once, three months after I’d arrived back. I’d stared at her name flashing up on my phone, furious and frozen, until it had gone to voicemail. It was pure torture hearing her voice saying my name, but at least I knew she was alive.
I didn’t call her back. I wasn’t a complete masochist.
I’d been ignoring Clay’s calls, too, which was a shitty thing to do, but I couldn’t face him. It was easier if I acted as though those months in America had never happened.
I left the racetrack and headed out onto the motorway. Going seventy felt slow after the speeds I’d hit on the track earlier in the day, but I kept it legal.
I parked the bike and pulled off my helmet, feeling the cooler air whip around my face. Autumn had arrived, and the long hot days of summer were just a memory.
I’d promised some of the team I worked with that I’d join them for a drink tonight. I didn’t feel like going, but I’d copped a load of banter the number of times I’d cancelled over the last few months.
We went to a local pub and had a few pints, ignoring the fact that there was a gang of single women smiling at us in the corner.
When four Guinnesses had taken the edge off, and I’d had enough of hanging out and talking crap with the guys, I’d gone back to my room.
Alone.
Amira
LIFE IN RAQQA was hard in ways that I hadn’t anticipated. Just day to day living was a struggle, and my job was incredibly pressured.
Weekly video-chats with Clay kept me going.
I saw him try to smile as his face appeared on my laptop screen, but I could tell that he was worried. I knew he had every reason to be concerned, but danger had become just another fact of life. I didn’t take stupid risks, but I didn’t want to feel suffocated by his concerns either because there was nothing either of us could do about it. Except for me to leave—and I wasn’t ready to do that yet.
Even so, I was still looking over my shoulder every five minutes, certain that I was being watched, certain that I wouldn’t make it to the end of the day. Panic attacks left me paralyzed, and my doctor wanted me to take anti-anxiety meds to take the edge off. I wasn’t keen on the idea but I was seriously considering it because I needed to be able to function.
I was one of thousands who lived with PTSD and survivors’ guilt—all the patients we saw and most of the staff had experienced some level of trauma. We all understood the price we were paying.
And I missed my family. I missed them so much it was like losing a part of myself.
We talked most weeks, but the long and irregular hours I worked didn’t always make it easy. Talking to Clay helped. He’d been deployed to war zones more than once—he understood, so that made it easier.
I was so happy that he and my sister were trying to make their long-distance relationship work.
“How was work today?” Clay asked, his voice concerned.
“Bad day,” I admitted, rubbing my bloodshot eyes. “Two gunshot wounds and a teenager with blast injuries. One of the GSWs had a collapsed lung, too. I was the only medic available, so I had to puncture his chest with a needle to let the air escape. It should have been done by a doctor following an ultrasound or X-ray, but there wasn’t one available, and I knew that if I didn’t do something, he’d die.”
“Did he make it?”
“Holding on, but it’s doubtful. He’d lost a lot of blood before I saw him.” It was just the way things were. I shrugged. “But now the main fighting has stopped, I’m seeing a lot of children with malnutrition—nine with rickets in two days. Sometimes there’s just so much suffering and so little we can do. We’re seeing 400 people a day in our outpatient department suffering from basic things like diarrhoea, coughs, and non-communicable diseases. It doesn’t sound like much, but because they haven’t been treated for months, sometimes for years, chronic conditions like these become serious, even life-threatening. It’s like trying to plug a hole in a dam, knowing that at any moment the water could come rushing down in a flood. It’s scary, but then you get used to it, too, the adrenaline. You know? But it’s why I came here.”
He nodded. If anyone understood about the way being in a constant state of alert wore on your nerves, it was Clay.
“Anyway, I have to go get ready now. I’m dying for another falafel sandwich.”
Clay frowned.
“You sure it’s a good idea you going out at night, even in a group?”
“I told you things are changing here—we have two new bars and yes, the falafel restaurant. It’s so good, we’re going again. We’ll have security with us, I promise.”
He didn’t look happy about it.
“You’re being careful, right? Not using the same routes or the same cars—you’ve got to keep mixing things up. Don’t get into a routine—you don’t know who’s watching. It’s not a good idea to go back to the same place this soon.”
His nagging tone annoyed me, but it was only because it
came from a place of love and concern that I tolerated it.
“Clay, I promise you. We’re taking all precautions. Look, I have to go now because Janice will be knocking on my door in a minute.”
He tried to smile.
“I’ll talk to you on Saturday—I have an afternoon off. Tell Zada I love her—and you’re not too bad either.”
“Yeah, back at you.”
I raised my eyebrows and blew a kiss at him.
I turned off my laptop and started getting ready. Dressing to go out didn’t mean much more than showering and putting on a little eye makeup before I went out. I always dressed conservatively here, with loose clothes that covered my arms and legs, and I wore a hijab, too. Many women still wore niqabs and a few still wore burqas, but more and more were dressing in western clothes, even though most still kept their hair covered.
Syria was changing. The poor country was battered and bruised, down but not out. I was proud of the work we were doing here and I loved it. The optimism of the people, the desire to get back to normal, the Mediterranean climate—I was falling in love with the country of my birth.
There was a knock on the door and my friend Janice called out.
“Come on, Amira! I’m starving! Let’s go!”
Laughing, I tucked my hair into my hijab, then grabbed my wallet and shoved it my jeans before heading out. Janice was from Dallas and an ER nurse like me. The rest of the group consisted of Neil from Toronto who was a doctor, Michelle from Belfast who was a nurse specializing in paediatrics, Nazar who was from London and a dentist. Plus, of course, Yaman who was our local Mr. Fixit and bodyguard.
Raqqa was a city of ruins. It was always a sobering sight to drive through the bomb-damaged streets and see the burnt-out shells of buildings, abandoned cars riddled with bullet holes, the roads full of craters. Sometimes it felt like a sinister ghost town with rubble-filled streets.
But it was changing. People were trying to find a new normalcy.
So, tonight we were going to King Falafel’s Café to order the renowned falafel sandwiches made by the owner Zain. Sooo good! Really spicy, just how I liked them—they reminded me of Mama’s cooking.
We pulled our plastic chairs around a small table, sipping water as we waited for our order to arrive.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a donkey,” groaned Nazar.
“Don’t look too closely at the meat,” Michelle said with a grimace. “It probably is donkey.”
I shuddered.
“I’m going to stick with my regular…”
“Falafel sandwiches again?” asked Neil, raising his eyebrows.
“You betcha! I’ve been dreaming about these since last week!”
“As much as you’ve been dreaming about your hunky soldier?” asked Michelle slyly.
I shook my head, ignoring the slice of pain inside me as I pointed a finger at her.
“You know that Clay is one of my best friends and my sister’s boyfriend!”
“Aw come on! He’s a hottie! You’ve got to tell us something—we’re your friends. Be kind to us lesser mortals who don’t have video-calls from hot guys.”
She was so animated, she sent her plastic silverware flying to the floor, and she had to crawl under the tiny table to look for it.
At the same time, the food arrived, saving me from having to say too much.
“Well, I will tell you one thing,” I said as I picked up my sandwich, “Clay is totally
James
I’D HAD A busy and boring morning of filling in paperwork. Every call-out came with pages of reports to file. Tedious, but necessary. I was swamped with the damn stuff, and I only had another twenty minutes before a meeting with my C.O. to be briefed about next week’s training exercise in the Brecon Beacons, so I was trying to stay awake as I typed more forms.
When my phone rang a few minutes later on that Tuesday afternoon, I was glad of the distraction. But when I pulled it out of my pocket, I saw that the number had a California area code.
“Hello?”
“James Spears?” came the heavily accented voice.
“Yes, who’s this?”
“James, this is Ammar Soliman, Amira’s father.”
A strange twitch started behind my right eye.
“Yes, sir. It’s good to hear from you. How are…”
“Forgive my impatience, but her mother is very concerned. We haven’t heard from Amira in a while, five days, in fact.”
My chest started to ache and the twitch behind my eye intensified.
I’d been ignoring Clay’s calls, as usual, and I hadn’t listened to his voice messages either. How long had he been trying to contact me?
I walked past Captain Hammond’s office where I was due for the briefing, and stood outside in the cool air.
“Has my daughter been in touch with you?” he asked, a note of desperation leaking into his voice.
“No, sir, I haven’t heard from her. Maybe it’s a comms … communications problem.”
He hesitated.
“Maybe, yes,” but his voice sounded doubtful.
“Mr. Soliman, is there a specific reason that you’re worried?” Apart from the fact that your daughter is working in one of the most dangerous cities in the world.
“It’s probably as you say,” he began, “but my cousin in Damascus says that rebels launched a rocket attack when the government’s troops moved against them—that was on Wednesday. Official Syrian news channels report that the rebels were pushed back, but my cousin says some of the rockets landed near the hospital.” His voice trembled. “Amira’s not answering her cell phone and the phone number at the temporary hospital in Raqqa doesn’t work.” His voice cracked. “And there are more reports on Syrian internet news sites that there have been several car bombings in the city, as well. The government is trying to deny it, but I’m afraid it’s likely to be true.”
I stopped breathing.
“We can’t find out anything about Amira,” he said, his voice growing desperate. “I used the emergency MSF number that Amira gave me but they’ve lost contact with the team in Raqqa. They told me they’re sending help from Damascus, but that could take days and we can’t wait that long. Not again! I can’t … her mother … but Clay said you could help—you have contacts! You can find out! Please, James, for our daughter’s sake, please find out what has happened to her!”
I had zero contacts in Syria other than Amira herself, but Smith would know people.
“I’ll find out what I can, sir.”
That was the only promise I could make him.
“Thank you, James. I … thank you.”
He hung up and I dialled Smith’s number immediately, swearing when it went to voice mail.
“Smith, Amira’s not answering her phone, and I’m hearing reports about a Daesh RPG attack on her hospital and car bombs in the city. If you can find out anything, I need to know … yeah … thanks.”
I went back to my room and listened to Clay’s messages about Amira, begging me to call him and to speak to Smith, each of them more desperate. I shot him a text to say that I’d been in touch with Smith, and then I waited.
I’d forgotten that I was supposed to be talking to my C.O. He could sod off. I’d never liked him anyway.
It was midnight before Smith returned my call.
“Have you found her?” I blurted out.
The long pause told me everything.
“It’s pretty bad out there right now,” said Smith. “Clay called me last night and I’ve been putting out some feelers, trying to get intel. I’ve got some Special Forces contacts who are working with SDF in the city, a final push to force the rebels out. The new temporary hospital was badly damaged during the attack—it’s non-operational, so she won’t be there. The UN is trying to find out where the medical staff have been sent, but they have zero leverage.”
My mouth was dry.
“Casualties?” I asked, the tension in my voice giving me away.
“Multiple,” Smith s
aid quietly. “There’s no way to get names right now.”
“Did the RPGs take out mobile phone towers, too?”
“Some, yeah. My contacts have sat phones.”
Of course they did.
“And the car bombs? Do you know what part of the city they were in?”
“All over, from what I’m hearing. Multiple strikes coordinated with the RPG attacks. Bastards were making a last stand.”
“I thought Daesh were supposed to be long gone?”
His voice was flat.
“That’s what the Syrian Press reports, but those are run by Assad’s people.” He sighed. “It’s bad in Raqqa, buddy. You need to go there … bring our girl home.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right.
“James, I’m serious. Even I don’t have the power to divert a Special Ops unit to go look for her, but if you can reach Cyprus, I can get you into the country and give you a contact name.” His voice became determined. “I’ve emailed you a ticket for a flight to Paphos that leaves from Heathrow in four hours. I’ll have a contact meet you at the harbour resort and get you on a boat to the Syrian coast. Then it’s 280 miles overland to Raqqa. I’ll arrange documentation that says you’re an oilfield worker. They’re trying to reopen the oil wells in central Syria, the nearest one is 50 clicks from Amira—that’s your cover. My contact is doing this for U.S. dollars so don’t tell him more than you have to—stick with the cover story. He’s going to arrange transport, fuel and a weapon. But he’s not willing to go with you, so once you’re on Syrian soil, you’re on your own. Go there, find Amira, and bring her home. We owe her that. And James…”
“What?”
“I’ll deny ever having this conversation with you.”
He hung up, and I was left staring at my phone, blood thundering in my ears.
What I was about to do was career-ending and bordering on suicidal. Not that my career mattered to me anymore, but if I was caught or when I came back to the UK, I’d be arrested and it would probably mean a court-martial, maybe even jail time in the Glasshouse, Colchester’s military prison. That was best case scenario. Worst case, I’d be arrested as a spy in Syria. And shot.
TICK TOCK (EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) Book 1) Page 24