by Paul A. Rice
On a normal evening the base would have been humming with activity, the sound of generators, vehicles, aircraft and people would have been filling the air like white noise. Nothing stirred tonight. Even the everlasting barks of the almost wild Afghan dogs, which roamed constantly outside the wire, were totally absent.
Nothing, not a single damned thing, stirred in the blackness.
His old buddy, Geordie, would have said something like: ‘It was so quiet that you could’ve heard a mouse fart!’
Ken grinned to himself at the thought of Geordie’s stupid face, but it wasn’t a mirthful action and his own face felt like it was cracking. In truth, Ken was half hoping to see the sturdy gait of his thick-set northern friend, ambling over through the darkness with those huge hands of his giving them all the wanker sign, deep voice berating anyone stupid enough to have screwed up.
Ken smiled at the thought. ‘Yeah, that would be good, old Geordie Mac and me, yeah – we were usually able to sort most things out!’ It was a shame the guy had been dead for nearly ten years now, a real fucking shame.
Ken flicked the memories of Geordie from his mind.
He remained standing on the stairs for about five minutes, listening intently, desperately hoping to hear something, anything at all. It was a while before Ken realised that he was gripping the steel handrail a little too tightly. ‘Relax,’ he told himself, ‘it’s cool, there’s no drama. Just make a plan and then crack on, let’s see what happens.’
Turning away from the black night, he went back into the container. Even in the dark he was able to see that it was ruined. Ken didn’t bother even looking at the med pack, knowing full well that its contents would be mostly useless. With a final shrug, he walked outside and ascended the stairs into the night. He did think about locking the door, but one look at the devastated remains of the storeroom changed his mind. His plan was to get back to the centre of the base, find Mike and then figure out what was going on. He wondered if the Toyota would start.
A ridiculous thought, but still, he’d give it a go.
The stupid idea immediately threw up another slight problem.
‘Where the hell is the Land Cruiser?’ he said, to himself.
It’d been about three or four yards away when he’d seen it last. Ken knew it would be badly burned, but, even though that may have been the case, it should still be there. He felt like one of the Three Stooges as he stood there, scratching his head, peering into the darkness and talking to himself like a nutter. The wagon must have weighed a couple of tonnes, easily. ‘Where is it?’ he murmured, looking around again. There was no sign of the vehicle. Not quite sure what to do next, he stood and thought for a while, before deciding to have a quick walk over to the nearest guard tower, just to see if there was anyone left who might know what was going on.
Ken hurried across, his tall silhouette almost seeming to float across the hundred yards between the bunker and the tower. The building loomed out of the darkness; there was not a sound coming from it. No thrumming generator, no dim glow from the red interior light, and worst of all, no perimeter lights. The Taliban were probably at the fence, standing twenty feet away from him at this very moment. Eyes straining to see through the murky night, he stared at the fence.
‘What fence?’ he whispered.
It was gone, melted like soldering wire. The tower, with its bullet-proof windows and steel-plated sides, was also melted. It leaned over like a three-legged dinosaur. The roof was ripped off and lay twisted and burned next to the tower’s remains. Needing no second invitation, Ken turned on his heels and began to walk quickly away from the fence. The thought of having an unmanned perimeter at his back raised the hairs on his neck.
‘I’m unarmed, there’s no fence, the troops have gone and the bad guys might be on the way right now!’ He glanced over his shoulder. Only the eerie darkness met his probing eyes. Ken hurriedly turned away and kept walking.
As he went trekking past his bunker, he caught a glimpse of something behind the bulging mound of dirt that covered its roof. Something shiny lay beyond. He hadn’t been able to see from that angle when he’d stood upon the stairs earlier, but now, standing some thirty yards away, he was able to see over the top of the bunker. There was something behind the mound of earth. Whatever it may have been, it glinted dully. He decided to check it out and walked over for a better look.
Rounding the mound of earth, he finally found his beloved Land Cruiser.
The sight rocked his thoughts. ‘What the hell has happened out here?’
The Toyota had been tossed some forty yards away from where he’d left it. The vehicle now lay on its roof with every one of its windows smashed, shattered safety glass sitting in the dust like piles of crystals, laminated windscreen sagging mournfully against its dashboard. The whole thing looked as though a giant child had picked it up like a toy and then hurled it away in a tantrum. It was also badly burned, but as the vehicle was upside down, the fire had mostly damaged the underneath of the chassis.
Ken had a quick glance over his shoulder, then without hesitating he ran across and quickly booted out the remains of the passenger window before bending down to have a look. Peering inside, he saw that the interior was not too badly burned, definitely crispy, but still in one piece. He crawled halfway into the upside down vehicle and opened the glove box, letting the contents tumble onto the ceiling. He only wanted one thing.
Straight away he saw the remains of his spare pistol. The Makarov was just as the other weapons had been, only much drier – the dust of its remains now scattered across the headlining of the roof. He swore under his breath, reaching across to rescue his wallet and reading glasses, which rested amongst the dust in their battered old case. Ken was in the process of wriggling back out of the window when he saw his spare pack of smokes; they were lying just out of reach. He pushed back into the vehicle and reached for them. Just as he was stretching out his hand, fingers coaxing the cigarettes nearer, Ken’s situation became decidedly worse…
4
Frying Pans and Fires
The sound of an exploding grenade, followed by a long burst of automatic rifle fire, sent him burrowing into the depths of the wrecked Toyota like a startled rabbit. The sound had come from the bunker, but with the rattle of an AK-47 to hurry him along, Ken didn’t dwell on the thought. He instinctively heaved himself up into the seats to wedge his body between their slightly-charred leather and the driver’s foot well. With arms shaking in exertion, he held himself aloft, gear lever poking into his kidneys.
There was a further burst of fire and some shouting, definitely coming from the bunker. To his well-trained ears, the noise sounded as though the container was currently in the process of being assaulted by at least two gunmen. His ears told no lies. Ken heard the footsteps approaching his perilous position, voices and laughter, the sound of a weapon being reloaded. By the sounds of things, there were three of them, he heard their voices, didn’t understand the words, but there were three of them.
He froze. ‘If they check in here,’ he thought, ‘if they look up – then I’m done for...’ Ken remembered the clasp knife, still tangled in the half-melted lining of his trouser pocket. He moved one hand to try and reach it. The idea was a mistake, and he only just prevented himself from crashing onto the ceiling below. Shoulder screaming at the extra burden, he slid his wandering hand back into position, tightly gripping the top of the steering wheel. He’d just have to give the knife a miss. ‘What were you gonna do with it anyway, idiot? Gouge their eyes out with the tin-opener...’ The thought was so vivid that he only just managed to stifle an insane giggle.
Then there was a loud thump on the side of the Cruiser. Ken held on tight and stayed completely motionless in frozen anticipation. He knew he was in deep trouble, but, as was usual, his inner self calmly made a plan: if he was seen, if they looked inside, looked up, he would simply drop down onto whoever it was, and then just go crazy...maybe he would be able to cause enough of a ruckus to allow him to gr
ab one of their weapons. ‘Maybe I can…’
A head poked into the cab.
Ken tried willing himself to disappear into the foot well. His elbow was creaking with the effort of clinging like a limpet to the steering wheel; to him, the sound was as loud as a barn door swinging in the wind, rusty hinges protesting. He stared down at the back of the man’s head. It glanced around.
Ken’s mind howled: ‘Do not look up, don’t you dare look up – don’t do it...don’t do it!’ He began to loosen his grip in readiness for the plummet.
A hand reached out and grabbed the pack of smokes. Then the man’s head pulled back out of the window, without looking up. Ken heard the sound of rustling outside. He caught a glimpse of combat boots through the window; the man wasn’t coming back inside. Ken nearly shrieked with relief.
The men started talking again, three of them, definitely. Talking in a language he’d never heard. Ken knew a fair bit off the lingo in this neck of the woods, but he didn’t recognise one single word of the dialect this lot were using. He caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. There was another thump against the flank of the Land Cruiser, followed by the sound of weapons clinking, and some soft laughter. The men moved off, he heard their footsteps and more laughter, probably well-pleased with their recently acquired cigarettes.
‘Thieving bastards, and how come they still have their weapons?’ Ken thought, as he started to breathe again.
After waiting for a good ten minutes, he eased himself gently down onto the ceiling and paused, listening for any sounds of their presence. Silence met his ears. He wriggled himself out of the vehicle and crawled away, finding cover behind a low mound of loose soil and gravel chippings. Ken lay on his guts and sucked the air into his lungs, arms and legs shaking with the release of pent up adrenaline. Eventually, after having recovered sufficiently, he rose to his knees and peered into the darkness, there was no sign of the men and once again it appeared as though he was alone.
Rising to his feet, he crouched low and ran across to the bunker. One glance down the stairwell was all it took. Smoke was still drifting from within and Ken easily recognised the sharp smell of cordite. Whoever the men were, they had definitely attacked the bunker. The doors sagged open and he knew that if he went down the stairs and looked, they would be riddled with bullet holes.
‘Why, why have they attacked it, why? Were they just random insurgents, or were they actually looking for me, I mean...why here?’
The idea was an alarming one; he crouched lower and turned to stare in the direction of the men’s departure once more. No sign of them. In the end, he didn’t bother going to see if there were any bullet holes. Ken knew they would be there.
And so, with no other choice left, he turned away and began to make a cautious approach toward the centre of the base. He guessed that dawn would break in around two hours’ time. If you were in a hurry it took about thirty or forty minutes to reach the centre of the base. Ken wasn’t in a hurry and spent a fair portion of time along the way simply getting into cover and observing some of the crazy sights he came across.
There were piles of wrecked equipment and smashed vehicles everywhere. Most of it was stacked up where it had come to rest against the blast-walls. All of it had received a damned good singeing. Right now, as far as he was able to tell, the blackened walls had become like dams for the flotsam and jetsam of a very major storm. Ten yards away to his right, a tank transporter, which must have weighed over ten tonnes, was embedded into the side of a twelve-foot-high blast-wall. The truck looked as though it had been fired into the wall by a catapult.
Now, that was a sight that took some figuring out, and Ken wasn’t presently in the mood for physics, or whatever the hell was needed to make sense of this mess. Nope, he was simply along for the ride, like an extra in a Spielberg blockbuster. Turning away from the incredible sight, he continued to make his way along the perimeter road. Taking his time and cautiously flitting from one piece of cover to the next, kneeling behind shadow-casting walls, squatting behind piles of rubble and in ditches, using all of the skills he’d acquired during a lifetime of experience. He knew he couldn’t rush, being unarmed and following in the tracks of some unknown people, who were armed, was a daunting business. But he had to keep going, keep going and find out what the hell was going on – find Mike.
As dawn began setting fire to the sky, Ken started to see the centre of the base more clearly. Amazingly, he saw there were still some antennas on the roof of one of the main HQ buildings. From a distance the building looked almost intact, probably because it was of an ancient Afghan design with long curved roofs and walls of solid, eight-feet-thick brick and mud. It had been taken over by the US State Department ‘spooks’ and had been strictly off limits to almost everyone. He shook his head at the thought of them.
A lot of those guys were just creeps, tooling around with their high-speed, low-drag, wrap-around mirror sunglasses on – guns and knives hanging off them like Christmas decorations! It had always made Ken laugh when he saw those types driving around in their oversized pickups, thinking they looked all super-cool. Yeah, some of them were pretty-smooth operators with a shit-load of experience, but there were also quite a few who were simply living the dream. It never really bothered Ken too much: Mike and he had made some good money out of those guys with all the gear they had sold or repaired for them. As he crouched against a charred wall, Ken’s thoughts turned to his friend once more.
Mike was a wizard at all that stuff; he was able fix almost anything that had some wires or a motor in it. Reckoned he learned it all from his dad on the big old farm they used to own down in Tasmania. Ken wasn’t so sure the things Mike did were something a person would be able to learn, he thought it was more like a talent, or a gift, perhaps. He never discussed it much and merely let Mike do his thing – they’d made a good team. The funny thing is that Mike was totally useless with money, administration or business acumen. He didn’t even know why he’d become a soldier in the first place, and had even less reason than Ken for doing the security work after he left the army. Mike simply flitted along through life without a care in the world – he’d told Ken that he was waiting for his calling.
‘Waiting for the big day!’ is what he’d actually said. Mike was a really smart cookie, but he couldn’t organise a damned thing! Ken smiled at the thought of his friend’s abysmal admin.
That’s where he, Ken, came in – his father had run a market stall and ever since he had been old enough to walk, Ken had worked the stall with his dad. Over the years they had sold everything from meat to motor parts, and most things in between. By the time Ken was twelve-years-old, his father had made sure that his only son would be more than able to sell sand to the Arabs. They had a great time and Ken loved the life, school during the week, rugby on Friday evenings and then the market all weekend. It was the best time in his bloody life and he and Pops were more like best buddies than father and son. Then the old bastard had up and died on him, just like that. One day he was there and the next he wasn’t. Ken was fifteen years of age. End of story.
Except it wasn’t the end of Ken’s particular story, more like the start. In reality it was what had ultimately led him here. Without Pops, he had lost interest in the stall and his mother soon took things over. He was restless and before long he found himself eyeing up the posters in the Army Recruiting Office.
The rest was history. Twenty-four-years later he left the forces with an exemplary record, a few medals, and plenty of scars.
Ken focused back on the present and his current predicament rolled back over him like a wave, a wave of burned sand. He had to find Mike, had to see if he was still alive. ‘Is he even still here? By the looks of things the whole shooting match has been burned, perhaps everyone is...No! People are still alive, those guys by the truck, they were alive!’ His fluttering thoughts went unanswered. ‘Maybe they’ve evacuated everyone, maybe they...but to where?’
Ken knew that it simply wasn’t possible. Not possible, n
o way. Had they taken all the locals and their bloody dogs as well?’ He doubted it, that wasn’t something to be arranged in a couple of days, was it?
The little voice in his head, Mr Tiny, chimed in with the first of what would be a long line of questions and advice. ‘It had only been a couple of days, hadn’t it?’
Ken replied to himself, out loud: ‘Yeah it had, you idiot...now stay focused!’ He shook his head to dispel those negative thoughts and walked on.
Continuing his route towards the centre of the base, he began to see the end of the runway come into sight – there were wrecked aircraft everywhere. The Antonov 124, a huge Russian transport jet, was upside down on the eastern edge of the runway. Ken knew it didn’t park there and that it usually shut down about five hundred yards away, right across the other side of the apron. That big baby was their business lifeline to the civilized world. Yet, here he was, staring at it. The plane had both its wings ripped off and the huge nose was partially buried into the earth. No coherent thoughts would form in his mind.
‘Crazy, that’s all this is – absolutely, full-on crazy!’ He walked on with the small seeds of alarm starting to grow in his guts.
As he began to make out the remains of the control tower, those seeds had a little growth spurt. It looked as though a bomb had gone off in the building. The roof was missing and twisted remains of reinforced concrete hung grotesquely over the sides. It reminded Ken of the TV station in Sarajevo after it had endured the Serbian-led siege during the Bosnian war – the high-rise building had become the daily target for their artillery, and anything else they were able to fire at it. When he’d arrived, the place had been nothing but a shell, looking like some bizarre flower, its shredded steel and concrete petals twisted and torn by the fury of mankind, hanging from the stem of the central structure. Ironically, the station never did stop broadcasting, no matter what they’d tried...