The Black Hawk helicopter raced across the desert sands of Iran. It was like a gigantic, mechanical beast in a mystical fantasyland.
Edward sat inside. He flexed his black-gloved hand as he watched the Special Forces team blacken their faces, readying for an impending assault.
Two balaclava-wearing Iranian men stood either side of Michael.
One gripped an AK47 assault rifle tight. The other held a nasty-looking sabre. Its blade caught the light of the spot-lamp as well as the shine of a laptop computer that was positioned on a table nearby. It was connected to the video camera that was filming Michael.
"Please. My name is Michael Thompson. I am a British citizen. I ask my family to help me in this tense, political time. I ask the Western world to remove their armed forces from the shores and lands of the Islamic world."
Siamak rolled his one open eye around the room as he curled himself in a darkened corner. He could clearly see Michael on the chair and the two men either side of him. He could see another man behind the video camera and one more tending to the laptop. Each one was armed with a pistol and an AK47. He could see a bulk of shadows cast in front of him from behind. He felt that there were definitely more than three men. He turned his eye back to the man filming Michael, who held his hand up as he halted the filming and ejected the tape, fumbling for a new tape within a carrier bag. The only sound was Michael's panicked breathing and the unwrapping of a new DV cassette.
It was then that a new sound was heard, but it was not coming from within the room. It was coming from elsewhere.
Michael tilted his head.
Siamak sneered.
The two Iranian men stood either side of Michael and exchanged a look.
The one with the sword lowered it, but tightened his grip.
The video and laptop men also exchanged a look. They frowned as the sound became more distinct.
The distinctive sound of an electric rhythm guitar delivered a familiar chord sequence. The churning, progressive beat was quickly accompanied by a lead electric guitar, a Rickenbacker Combo 600 single. It provided the melody, which was soon joined by a Hammond organ.
The corners of Michael's mouth began to curl as the combined sounds of those instruments together became more and more familiar to him.
The Black Hawk helicopter swooped across the sands of Kavir-e Lut, blasting out, incredibly loudly, the heavy metal classic 'Born to be Wild' by famed 1960s' band Steppenwolf.
The Iranians were confused and masked their sudden fear by a frantic rage, not knowing what to do as they stepped away from their positions.
Tears welled up in Michael's eyes as the lyrics from the song kicked in and his quivering lips mouthed the words. He started to sing along quietly.
Hamid strode into the room. He was fuming. He gripped his pistol tight and eyed his men.
"Where is this music coming from? Is it the computer? Where is it?" Hamid bellowed. He looked around the room and up at the ceiling.
Hamid locked eyes with Michael and stared down hard at him, trying to figure out if he had anything to do with the music that was becoming louder and louder, closer and closer.
The Black Hawk lowered onto the sands outside the submerged, dune-hidden industrial base. Its team of Special Forces exited, advanced on the structure and positioned themselves, strategically. The light of the moon occasionally picked them out.
An Iranian captor emerged from a door and rapidly fired his AK47 into the darkness. A member of the Special Forces spotted the Iranian clearly with his infrared goggles and took him out with his own semi-automatic weapon. His chest, arms and legs were punctured by the Special Forces hail of bullets, which were suddenly let loose into the night air, forcing him to shake violently and drop to the sands.
Hamid marched toward Michael and pointed his pistol down at him. He pressed the barrel hard against his forehead.
"Did you bring the sound of the devil to this place?"
Michael continued to sing quietly. He was filled with a surge of hope, singing the rock classic, softly, under his breath, as if it was the Lord's prayer.
Hamid signaled his men to leave the room, speaking in Farsi and issuing instructions.
"Hamid! What are you doing Hamid?" cried Siamak.
Hamid turned to Siamak, curled upon the floor several feet away. He pointed his gun at him.
"I saw barrels. Drums and rockets," Michael blurted.
Hamid quickly turned and aimed his gun back on Michael again.
"Barrels? Shit. What kind? Dammit," Siamak called out in his American accent, causing Hamid to frown and scowl.
Hamid was confused. He turned his gun back and forth.
"You! You lying, American pig!" he yelled as machinegun fire sounded out, echoing along one of the corridors below.
The bullets were accompanied by screams that erupted from more than one man.
Hamid gripped his pistol tight and stood to one side in a darkened section of the room as more gunshots rang out, joined by cries of Arabic and a sudden explosion.
Michael jolted, but continued to mutter his lyrics.
The sound of gunfire was like a pneumatic drill pounding a concrete pavement.
He heard the cries of men dying and being shot, accompanied by flash-bombs brightening up the darkened corridors beyond the generator room which housed Michael and Siamak.
A Special Forces member paced along the corridor. His night vision goggles depicted a clear path and every detail ahead, including doorways, stairways, cells and the occasional Iranian rebel, who leapt out suddenly, yet, equally as quick, was shot down.
Two more men hurried along the corridor and branched off into different sections. They reeled off their bullets.
One of the team screamed out in the darkness that he had been hit.
The Master Sergeant advanced on a stairwell. His boots thumped loudly upon each metal step when BANG! BANG! He was shot twice by one of the Iranian captors: once in his thigh and once in his left arm. It brought him to his knees.
The Iranian with the sabre sword stepped out of the doorway at the top of the stairs. He held the blade aloft, ready to strike it down onto the Master Sergeant's neck.
The Sergeant winced with pain and struggled to retrieve his sidearm, as he looked up at the shiny sword with absolute fear as it made its way down from the ceiling towards him. A white light cast by the blade shone down upon him like it was his time to leave the world.
A slew of silent bullets suddenly riddled the sword-clutching Iranian, blasting him several feet away and into the pitch-black corridor beyond. His body clanged against unseen metal.
The Master Sergeant turned his head to look behind him, frowning, but relaxing simultaneously as a figure hurried ahead of him.
Two members of the Special Forces team entered the room containing the plastic barrels and the wooden crate housing the shells.
"CWs detected! Repeat, CWs detected!" called one, into his radio.
"We've got a stockpile here, sir. Chemical weapons. Nerve and blister agents. Look like shell and bomb delivery systems too. Shit. We gotta get outta here."
A magnificent light illuminated the room, picking out the entire array of chemical weapons kept there. Rows of red plastic barrels, with some kind of lettering written in permanent marker, indicated what was contained inside. They lined one wall. Against another was a row of white plastic barrels with a yellow liquid clearly visible inside each of them. The wooden pallets displayed artillery shells of some sort against the back wall.
The men exchanged a look of concern as they turned to exit, when one suddenly received a shot to the neck. It sent him staggering backwards and spurted blood, forcing him to drop to the ground.
The second man blasted the Iranian who had just downed his fellow soldier, tearing his chest apart and screaming as he did so. He looked down at his team member and his wound and then applied pressure to it with his hand.
Michael wriggled his wrists as the sound of gunfire echoed all around him. Hami
d looked at the video camera and the laptop and then Michael sitting on the chair in front. Hamid's expression was filled with tremendous anger as he turned his attention to Siamak, looking helpless on the cold, concrete ground, but smirking from the shadows at him. That only made him more furious.
Michael rolled his eyes up to meet Hamid's.
Hamid stepped to Michael and with one hand he grasped his hair, yanked his head back so he faced the camera. With the other hand, he pressed the barrel of the gun against the back of his head. Hamid towered above his hostage with the Islamic wording on the sheet backdrop behind. Hamid stared at the camera.
"The sound of Western thunder can be heard around us, invading our land, taking from us, but we will defeat the devils and send them back to hell."
The viewfinder of the video camera fixed on Michael, with his eyes staring straight at the lens. Michael's eyes quickly rolled up and widened with complete surprise. Tears began to stream down his face. His body just couldn't take anymore, yet through his utter exhaustion, he managed a smile. Then he saw his father.
Edward, in combat gear, stood in the doorway. He gripped and aimed a Sig Sauer P226 handgun. His eyes glazed over as he fixed on his son, in the chair, with Hamid looming behind him. Edward formed a half smile.
Michael managed a blood-stained smile through his fear.
Hamid looked past the camera, and as soon as a muscle began to move in his face to form an expression, a shot was fired.
BANG!
Hamid was shot in the forehead.
BANG!
Hamid was then shot in the chest. It forced him backwards, stumbling into the sheet, fixed by pegs, bringing it downwards as he dropped to the floor. Dead.
Edward took three big steps to reach his son and knelt in front of him. He bit the fingertips of his gloves to remove them and gently cupped Michael's face and looked deep into his eyes with nothing but love.
Michael sobbed with relief. Seeing his father confused him, but brought him so much joy.
Edward released a tear.
Siamak squinted his one good eye across the room at Edward clutching his son and untying his wrists, with Michael wrapping his arms around his father, hugging him tightly. Siamak was bemused by the odd sight. He looked up.
The Special Forces Captain stepped into the room and trained his weapon around. He saw blood on Edward's hands, then noticed a gunshot wound.
Edward winced. Pained. He had been shot.
"We've gotta go," ordered the Captain, who looked down to Siamak.
Siamak looked up and gasped.
"Emmett Smith, sir. Codename Siamak. CIA Middle East."
"I know, sir. OK, gentlemen. We're moving out," said the Captain.
Michael eyed his surroundings one last time.
The cold, dark room where he was first questioned. The terrifying chair he had endured many a beating on. The dead captor, Hamid.
Michael was buckled into the rear of the Black Hawk as the helicopter swiftly rose above the sands and into the night sky.
The morning sun had risen, shining down onto the Turkish US airbase of the Izmir Province. The Black Hawk gently touched down upon the tarmac and the two injured members of the Special Forces team were hurried out and tended to by a medical unit on standby.
Watching with concerned, keen eyes in the doorway of the aircraft hangar were Rebecca and Violet.
Edward clambered out of the Black Hawk. He aided his frail son, Michael, who turned to face a third casualty being helped out by another medic.
Michael extended his hand to grip the other man's. It was the hand of Siamak, also known as Emmett Smith. He helped him upright which enabled him to sit on the edge of the helicopter to face him.
"I tried to tell you who I was many times," Siamak said.
"I did tell you who I was time and time again," Michael replied.
"I'm sorry," said Siamak.
"It didn't start with you," said Michael.
Siamak patted Michael on the back as he was helped into a wheelchair and pushed elsewhere. He looked back to Michael and nodded his head to him, before he was escorted away.
Michael squinted ahead as he cast his eyes on his true love. He trod wearily away from Edward to be met halfway by Rebecca.
She was already in tears and as Michael neared her, she wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.
Edward looked up and smiled at his wife.
Violet rubbed her crying eyes and saw that Edward's arm was in fact in a sling. She shook her head, giving him a look as he made his way to her on the tarmac.
"Don't give me that look. What was I going to do, leave our boy out there?" Edward said, casually, smirking and kissing his wife. He placed an arm around her, clutching her tight, pulling her close to him.
Despite Mubarak's resignation, mass demonstrations continued in Egypt's capital Cairo, as they had done in many other Middle East countries, including the Yemen, Syria and Libya, where civil war raged.
The Libyan leader, Muammar Gaddafi, was sixty-nine years old and died on 20th October 2011. It was reported that Gaddafi's convoy was attacked by NATO warplanes, after which he was captured alive. The world was informed Gaddafi was beaten and then killed by forces loyal to the National Transitional Council of Libya.
Iran had its share of violent protests. However, there had also been reports since suggesting mass censorship of media coverage of any form of uprising.
A candle flickered on the coffee table as Michael and Rebecca hugged one another tightly in their flat as they sat on the sofa. They reached for a glass of red wine each and toasted one another before kissing.
"I love you," Rebecca said.
"I love you, too." Michael sipped his drink and reclined. It had been a month since he had been back in the UK. He was healthier, clean-shaven, fresh-faced, clean-clothed, relaxed. A D Notice was still firmly in place and he was officially signed off sick, with 'work-related stress', covering up any form of doubt from his workplace. When he did return, however, Helen had decided to resign, taking early retirement. She felt it was either that or stay under the reign of Queen Josephine of the PRU and suffer a heart attack during the process. Michael moved to the main site of the PRU, working with permanently excluded children and an entirely new staff team. As luck would have it, bitter head Josephine also resigned, paving the way for a younger more enthusiastic male head teacher, who wanted a child-centred environment and valued his experienced staff members. Nobody at the workplace knew of Michael's traumatic ordeal; his kidnapping in Greenwich or him being held hostage in Iran. They also didn't suspect him of working for the police. Staff just believed he was off with work-related stress.
Michael exhaled a sigh of happiness. "You never did ask me how my day at work was," Michael quipped, receiving a look from Rebecca, who released a nervous laugh and a sudden flood of tears.
"Stop it! That's not funny," she giggled again, then smiled as she leaned across and kissed him on his lips, nestling herself into his arms, against his chest, closing her eyes, pressing her head to him tightly.
He kissed the side of her head and closed his eyes for a few seconds. He smiled and sipped his wine again. He placed the glass on the coffee table just as his new iPhone vibrated to announce a call from a withheld number.
Rebecca jolted with shock as the phone rumbled on the table.
Michael reached for the phone and took the call. "Hello?"
A male American voice replied to him.
"This is the CIA. Am I speaking with Jacob Ramsay?"
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ben Trebilcook is a Screenwriter / Producer from London. He has balanced his work in film by working in the Education Service, with over ten years of experience as a qualified Learning Mentor and Seclusion Manager. His main focus within education was the management of behaviour of permanently excluded Young People within the Royal Borough of Greenwich, in south-east London. He has strong family connections with the police and secret intelligence services.
Ben
Trebilcook can be found on various social media platforms, including Twitter under the @BenTrebilcook handle.
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