Deep Black ns-7

by Andy McNab

  Why didn’t the fucker just shut up and get in the back of the wagon? If they were going to kill us, they would hardly have done this in broad daylight, in front of half the world’s media.

  The sergeant leaned in and produced a length of cloth. I got a kick from one of the boots level with my right shoulder.

  I closed my eyes to protect them as the blindfold went on. The cloth wasn’t fit-for-task. Daylight still got in: I could feel it through my lids.

  The doors slammed, the engine roared and the Hummer started to move. The sergeant got on the net to tell whoever wanted to know that he was on his way with two ‘pax’, while the gunner shouted at whoever was within reach to get the fuck out of his way. The MP next to me adjusted himself in his seat, forcing his belt-kit deeper into my ribs. ‘What you been doing, pal?’ I couldn’t tell where the accent was from.

  ‘Dunno. I was hoping you could tell me.’

  The sergeant’s voice boomed from up front. ‘Shut the fuck up, both of you.’

  I lifted my head a little and opened my eyes as much as I could behind the blindfold. I could see just a sliver of reality. The inside of the Hummer, like any military vehicle during operations, was in shit state. To the right, the other side of the roof gunner, was a blue plastic cooler box, probably full of ice, mineral water and Coke. Candy wrappers and empty bottles littered the floor. The driver gripped the wheel with his left hand and a Beretta with his right. There was a Walkman on the dash. When the guys got bored I guessed they’d treat themselves to a blast of Eminem.

  The matt green paintwork had been chipped, rubbed and worn down to bare steel and aluminium. Danny Connor was right: American troops hadn’t been prepared for the sort of war they were fighting now. Someone had secured sets of body armour to the doors. Before that, there’d have been just a thin sheet of steel between them and the enemy.

  These guys had been prepared and trained for a fast, mobile and aggressive war, not the guerrilla action they were being treated to round here. As Danny Connor had said, it was like Belfast, only worse. I almost felt sorry for them, driving these big vehicles down narrow streets, open to attack every inch of the way. They had no protection at all against RPGs and only sandbags in the footwells as some kind of barrier to the IEDs. There was so much rubbish in the streets they were impossible to spot.

  As we drove I tried to make it look as if my head was bouncing around like everybody else’s, so I could get a decent view of where we were going. I thought it might make me feel better if I could get a rough idea of where I was.

  I wasn’t scared, just pissed off.

  I caught the glint of sun on water, and recognized the silhouette of the bridge over the Tigris. I’d looked at it often enough from my hotel room. Shit, it was hot in here.

  46

  We piled past queues of traffic. The collapsed shopping mall came into view, then, a minute or so later, the large colonial building with shuttered windows and a big fuck-off Union Jack on top. British soldiers in desert camouflage were on stag: a line of Warrior AFVs were parked up amid walls of sandbags and rolls of razor wire.

  My shirt was soaked with sweat and stuck to the PVC seat cover. I could feel the body heat of the MP beside me. My hands were swelling beneath the plasticuffs, and I tried to lean forward to relieve the pain. Each time I did, the MP pulled me back.

  We passed an American checkpoint. Helmets and sunglasses. M16s. Sandbags. Wire. The river was on our right, a wall topped by short railings on our left. Beyond it was a mass of palm trees. Against the brilliant blue sky they looked more Beverly Hills than Baghdad.

  The driver stood on the brakes and took a sharp, ninety-degree left. I lifted my head: we were passing a run of low, rectangular concrete buildings with flat roofs. Some had been destroyed; the walls of others had been covered with tarpaulins. There were US military vehicles everywhere. Green army towels and BDUs hung from makeshift washing lines. Sat dishes pointed skywards. I could hear generators.

  We rounded another corner and passed a row of Iraqi tanks with their turrets hanging off, and a bunch of other scorch-marked vehicles that had been given the good news.

  Iraqis were being herded off a line of trucks that had been backed up against a series of blockhouses with small, barred windows. My heart sank.

  The wagon stopped with a jolt and rusty iron gates creaked shut. The Hummer’s doors were thrown open and the sergeant and MP next to me jumped out.

  I heard a ‘sssh’. I knew what was about to happen. Shutting my eyes and clenching my teeth, I got my head down and tensed myself.

  Hands reached in and grabbed me, dragged me out of the vehicle and immediately let go. I dropped to the ground.

  They didn’t speak. All I could hear was laboured breathing and grunts as I was pulled upright.

  Jerry was somewhere behind me. ‘I’m an American citizen. Check my passport.’

  I heard a dull thump as the punch landed, then the sound of him retching. A mouthful of vomit splashed on to the sand.

  They dragged me away, my feet only just touching the ground. The grip on my arms didn’t relax as we entered a building. It was suddenly cooler. I opened my eyes again and peered below the blindfold. The soles of worn desert boots squeaked either side of me as I got marched across not-so-recently polished black and white tiles.

  The grip on my arms was now almost as painful as the plasticuffs on my wrists. I tried to keep the balls of my feet in contact with the ground, to take some of the pressure. I heard Jerry moan and try to catch his breath.

  Another door opened and we went through. There was still an echo, but no more squeaking soles. We were on green carpet now. We stopped abruptly and I was swung around. My legs hit a chair and I stumbled backwards. The MPs grabbed me and forced me down.

  Time to close my eyes, tense up and grit my teeth.

  My hands were agony. I tried leaning forward, but somebody behind me grabbed my hair and pulled me back.

  Jerry groaned. ‘Why are you doing this? I’m an American. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  The blindfold was ripped off. I’d been transported into a Hollywood fantasy version of eighteenth-century France. The walls were gilded. In front of me was an enormous, ornate gilt desk with a red leather top. Scattered around the room were plush velvet sofas. One had a big slash in it.

  Eight guys in soaking wet T-shirts stood at the ready, poised to climb aboard us if we did something stupid.

  Jerry looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘Nick, what—?’

  I turned away. I hoped he’d switch on soon and shut the fuck up.

  I took in some more of the room. The new owners had done it up a bit, but it had obviously taken a bit of a pasting during the war. The odd bit of plaster still hung off the ceiling, tiles were still missing from the wall, and fluorescent lights dangled from exposed wiring, but that’s what happens when Mr Paveway comes to visit.

  To my right, a small window had been patched up with perspex. I couldn’t help but grin when I looked through it. I could see a tower of some sort out there, with the usual picture of Saddam waving – except that his face had been replaced by a big yellow Smiley. I caught the eye of one of the guys standing guard and he smiled too.

  ‘Why am I here?’ Jerry was getting more and more agitated. ‘I’m an American.’

  Nobody replied because everyone knew it. He’d said it enough times. Besides, they were here to enforce, not answer questions, and they wouldn’t hesitate to make him vomit again if he got boring.

  47

  ‘Jeral, I know you are.’

  The Texan drawl came from behind us, near the door. ‘And if you keep quiet, this won’t take long.’

  I didn’t turn round.

  ‘I’m an American journalist. I have a right to know why we’re here.’ Jerry was doing too much talking and not enough listening.

  Two men in uniform came and leaned their arses against the desk in front of us. Both were in their mid-thirties, and had identical, Brylcreemed short-back-and-sides with the
kind of parting you can usually only get with a fretsaw. Their BDUs were so perfectly pressed they could have stepped straight out of a Chinese laundry. I looked down at their boots. They were broken in, but they weren’t scuffed and fucked like the MPs’.

  These guys were remfs. You can tell one from twenty paces, in any army, in any country in the world. No scabby boots, no sweaty T-shirts. The only things that get worn out are their pencils and the arses of their trousers. Remfs are from command. Rear echelon motherfuckers. They wouldn’t have looked out of place in Costco with baskets in their hands.

  They had a buff-coloured folder that they passed between them as if they were reading our medical notes. I couldn’t tell what unit they were from. Americans wear badges like the Russians wear medals. It’s hard to know where to start.

  The Texan broke the silence. ‘We’re all busy people. Let’s move this along.’ He sounded like a bank manager.

  Jerry still wasn’t quite with the programme. ‘Why have we been brought here?’

  The bank manager was getting a little frustrated. ‘Jeral, please, don’t make this hard on yourself. Just listen to what we’re about to say, because it’s only coming your way once.’

  He pointed to me. ‘You’ve been asking military contractors about Bosnians in Baghdad. Correct?’

  What was the point of lying? ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why are these Bosnians here?’

  I was racking my brain, trying to remember exactly what I’d said to Jacob. I’d leave the ayatollah part out of this conversation. ‘We don’t know. It just sounded like a good story. You know—’

  Jerry couldn’t help himself. ‘We’re journalists and covered the Bosnian war and I heard about a—’

  The bank manager didn’t bother glancing at him. ‘Jeral, was I talking to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Therefore continue, Nick.’

  Thank fuck for that. Jerry would have given them chapter and verse.

  ‘The way we saw it – Bosnians coming here, from one war-torn Muslim country to another. We covered that war, and thought, Why not see if we can get the next chapter in the story? What brings them here, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You know their names?’

  ‘Not a clue. That’s why we’re just sniffing about.’

  As his mate jotted notes in the folder, he thought about what I’d said. ‘You telling me you decided to just turn up and see what they had to say?’ He tapped my passport on the palm of his hand. ‘Don’t mess me, now. Remember, you’re in my world.’

  ‘Well, OK, we thought maybe they might have something to do with the sex trade. The papers love that stuff. We heard there’s a few in town.’

  He smiled at me. He’d got what he was after. ‘That accent of yours doesn’t sound much like home to me.’

  ‘I’m from the UK. Moved to the States a year or so ago. The date’s in my passport.’

  He took a breath and adopted the kind of expression you’d use if you were about to refuse an overdraft. ‘Well, people, I’m going to level with you. My job is to be the clearing-house for you kinda guys. We just don’t like freelancers that maybe turn out to make us look bad. What we like are stories about getting the lights back on in the city. Even better, stories about the water supply being restored to a grateful local population. What we like most of all are stories about Iraqi children being cared for in American-supplied hospitals.

  ‘So . . .’ He paused, looked at Jerry, then back at me ‘. . . both of you are to leave Iraq today. I don’t care how you do it, but go. Be advised: if you fail to do so, the consequences of your actions could be fatal. It’s a real bad world out there. Upon this subject, gentlemen,’ he focused on Jerry for this one, ‘I do not jest.’ He levelled a finger at Jerry. ‘Understand?’

  ‘Oh, I understand. Sex trafficking’s a sensitive issue, especially after the shit hitting the fan in Bosnia last year. You remember, Nick – US executives buying underage girls for playthings. Some of the fat fucks even got involved with selling them on as part of a deal. No one got prosecuted, just big payoffs to keep everyone quiet. The same corporation’s now been awarded contracts here in Iraq?’

  I didn’t know what he was on about, but it must have been true. The two remfs didn’t say a word.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I? Well, fuck you.’

  This wasn’t the best way to the bank manager’s heart.

  ‘We’ll go north.’ I didn’t just say it, I shouted it, so loud a couple of the guys by the door reacted and moved closer. ‘We’ll go north,’ I shouted again. ‘We’ll drive to Turkey today.’

  ‘Thank you, Nick. Jeral, please . . .’ The Texan pointed at Jerry’s wedding ring. ‘It seems you have people back home who care for you. Think about that. I’m trying to get you both out of a dangerous situation that, quite frankly, is of your own making.’

  They both stood up. I kept my eyes down and watched four very clean and unscuffed boots until they disappeared behind me.

  48

  As he cut through my plasticuffs with a pair of scissors, the guy I’d shared a smile with spoke to the back of my head. ‘You got a ride waiting.’

  Rubbing our wrists, Jerry and I were escorted out into a palatial corridor. We walked past carved stone columns, under vaulted ceilings and fluted domes. If the arches hadn’t been sealed off with plywood to make office space, and the walls and marble floors hadn’t been covered by miles of metallic grey duct tape, wires and cables, I’d have expected Louis the Fifteenth to appear at any moment.

  We approached a large pair of double doors next to a ping-pong table. Two soldiers jumped up from the ornate chairs they’d been sitting in and opened them wide.

  We stepped out into the sun. I had to squint to protect my eyes. Heat bounced off the top of my head. With a soldier either side of each of us, we were guided to a Hummer and ushered into the back. This wasn’t one of the MP vehicles. It belonged to Captain D. Frankenmeyer. His name was stencilled on the right-hand side of the windscreen, as if it was a jazzed-up P-reg Ford Escort. Our kit was already inside. I checked my bumbag. My passport was safe. The rest of it didn’t matter, but I was happy to find the three thousand-odd dollars in twenties and smaller.

  The soldier behind the wheel wasn’t wearing body armour and his helmet rested on the steel hump between the front seats. There was another helmet on the spare front seat, with two rank bars. The captain it belonged to jumped in and threw on his Oakleys. As he slammed the door, I saw the very long nametag on his breast pocket. It was the Hummer’s owner.

  The driver threw the engine into gear and we set off past the Smiley face. Frankenmeyer swivelled round to face us. ‘Kinda cool, ain’t it?’ If he’d been a few years younger, Frankenmeyer could have come straight from playing college football. Big shoulders, toned body, white teeth, golden tan: he should have been in films. I smiled back at him – or, rather, at the reflection of myself in his mirrored lenses. There was no point in being surly. These boys were just doing the best they could.

  He pointed up at Smiley. ‘You know what? We got fifteen of them painted around town before we had to pull them down. What you guys do to get people so pissed?’

  Jerry took a breath and I put a hand on his arm to shut him up. ‘I think we were asking the wrong sort of questions. He’s a reporter.’

  Frankenmeyer turned back towards the windscreen. ‘We get a lot of them here. You been told to leave town today?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You’re the third this week. Those guys like to keep things sweet around here. I just wish they’d do the same for us. They said we were going to be here no more than four months, period.’ He punched the driver’s arm. ‘How long ago was that, Davers?’

  Davers didn’t bother to look at the captain: he was busy checking a junction left. ‘Fuck, that was Christmas, sir. And I joined the National Guard for the dental plan, not this shit.’

  Davers wasn’t on his own. A lot of small-town America joined the National Guard for the medical insurance
and education credits. Most saw the weekend training camps as a box to be ticked before they got to the real benefits. No one really expected to get sent away to war, let alone for a year or more.

  That wasn’t the only problem. The National Guard deployed as independent units. The guy who ran the corner store back home might now be your commanding officer on operations. Everybody was a part-timer, and that always spelt trouble for command and control, and the standard of professionalism in contact. That was why most other countries integrated their part-timers into regular units.

  We passed the tank and vehicle graveyard. Off-duty soldiers mooched around in the shade of their half-bombed homes. Davers turned a corner and passed a café furnished with an assortment of tables, sofas and chairs. The original Arabic sign had been crossed out and replaced with ‘Bagdad Café’ in crude white paint. The Whoopee Goldberg painting on the wall wasn’t much better. A couple of Hummers and AFVs were parked outside, alongside men and women drinking water and Coke, relaxing in the shade. Their body armour, helmets and M16s were piled on the ground at their feet.

  ‘Where we going?’ The fact that Frankenmeyer and the driver hadn’t bothered with their body armour and we were both in one vehicle had already given me the answer, but I thought I’d ask anyway.

  He wiped the sweat from his shaved blond head with both hands. ‘Back gate, and that’s it – end of your ride.’

  ‘No chance of a lift back to the hotel?’

  ‘’Fraid not, man – you have to hail yourselves a taxicab!’ He liked the sound of that.

  The driver gulped on a can of Minute Maid with such relish it made me feel thirsty. But there was no icebox in this wagon. There wasn’t even body armour on the doors, just sandbags on the floor.

  We drove through the gate and turned right. The Tigris was to our left and the sandbagged sangar at the checkpoint was about two hundred metres ahead and on the river side of the road. Beyond that was the main drag, crossing the river via a big metal bridge.