Thunder

by Anthony Bellaleigh

  The hushed sound of rapidly approaching footsteps drew his attention. Nick was coming back.

  “There’s another car back there,” Nick hissed, clambering into the back with him and starting to help him with the fresh shirt. “Let’s get your shit together and collect what we can from here.”

  Nick buzzed around, stuffing their battledress and bloodstained clothes into the empty clothing bag.

  “How’s another car going to help?” Jack asked. “We’d be better here. At least we have weapons.”

  “Do you have any more of that C4 and another timer?” asked Nick.

  He nodded.

  “Rig the car,” said Nick scooting backwards out of the door.

  ~~~~~

  I drop the bag full of old clothes into the boot, and use the car’s jerry can to liberally douse the contents with petrol. When the car goes up I want to make doubly sure that there’s plenty of fire afterwards. Then I grab my pack, which stands waiting next to me, and pull out the Chadri we bought back in Delaram.

  As I drape the huge linen cloth over my head, I can’t help but think about when, as a child, I used to use an old sheet to pretend to be a ghost. This Chadri would have been brilliant for it. It even covers my backpack.

  I return round to the back door of the car and note Jack’s eyes widening as he sees me. “They’re looking for two men,” I rumble and see a flickering spark of renewed optimism drift across his face.

  “How long on the fuse?” he asks.

  “Depends how long it’ll take us to get the other car started,” I reply.

  He shrugs, “Thirty-seconds?” he offers.

  I grin behind my linen shroud. “You’d better allow half an hour then,” I say, prompting a frosty glare from him, but he complies, and sets the digital timer to thirty minutes. “Let’s go,” I offer him my hand and help him out.

  ~~~~~

  “Do you see anything?” Gulyar bin Imraan growled impatiently into his bulky two-way radio handset. They had been sitting here, in the middle of nowhere for almost an hour.

  Various squawking negative responses bleated from the device’s speaker.

  In his wing mirror, a thin line of dust ran down toward a tired old black sedan trundling slowly away to the north of the clutter of the nearby village.

  “Perhaps they changed their plans?” his bodyguard muttered from alongside him.

  “Perhaps,” agreed Gulyar. “Abdul,” he keyed the radio again. “Check that black sedan.”

  ~~~~~

  I navigate the barely roadworthy old, black, saloon car slowly back toward Herat. Every part of me wants to press down hard on the accelerator, but I fight the urge and, besides, I’m not convinced that the car can go much more quickly. Its owners hadn’t been particularly security conscious about it. It had been unlocked and, as it happened, left with a key in its ignition.

  Jack’s momentary look of relief at not having to unleash his illustrious lock-picking skills was quickly replaced by one of pure terror when I opened the boot and pointed him toward it.

  “I’m not fucking going in there,” he’d muttered from behind his Dupatta scarf.

  “Get in,” I’d insisted with a gentle shove.

  I glance, pointlessly, over my shoulder at the mess of rubbish splayed over the backseats. He’s curled up behind there, in the boot, grumbling to himself.

  “Nick, let me out of here,” his voice whispers through the comms device into my ear. “If they think there’s a woman driving it will attract attention.”

  I shake my head as I stare out through the fine mesh face piece of the Chadri. “Not as much attention as seeing the sight of you, covered in blood? What’s the damn problem?”

  “I don’t like small spaces,” he confesses disconsolately.

  ~~~~~

  In the oppressive darkness, Jack fought hard to control his breathing. The sedan had a substantial trunk space but he’d had to curl up and could barely move around. Every bump in the road jarred his ribs painfully.

  He’d have nightmares about this, he just knew it.

  “Are you still there?” he whispered into the gloom.

  “Sssshh...,” hissed Nick’s voice in his ear. “We’ve got trouble.”

  “What is it?”

  “Roadblock...”

  Jack felt the car slowing to a halt.

  Shit.

  ~~~~~

  I watch as two, turbaned men saunter toward the car with rifles held angled across their bodies. Their rusty pickup straddles the road in front of me. I ease one hand under the Chadri and find the hilt of my Browning, which lies ready on my lap.

  I keep my face forward.

  They look like they’re on their own.

  The two men walk up to the closed front windows, one on either side, and leer inside. I can sense them studying me, trying to see behind my veil, scowling angrily at the rare sight of what appears to be a woman driving, and clearly they’re not being won over by my apparently bulky physique. Then they slowly move to the back windows and repeat their inspection. I watch them carefully in the car’s wing mirrors. It’s not a viable option to attempt shooting both of them, at the same time, from here.

  They move round to the boot.

  Fuck.

  “Two men,” I whisper quietly. “Take them both if you can.”

  ~~~~~

  Jack scowled to himself. If you can...?

  He heard the latch of the boot lid click in front of him.

  ~~~~~

  The two men are standing behind the car. I watch as the boot lid swings up in the rear view mirror, obscuring them from view. There are two swift coughing noises, and then the boot lid swings back down again.

  The men have vanished.

  “If I can...,” says Jack sardonically in my ear. “And this from the person that nearly blew my ear off in Budapest...”

  I drive gently away around the pickup truck. Two bodies lie sprawled across the roadway behind us.

  “Thanks for shutting the boot,” I mutter. “Very good of you.”

  “I’m getting comfy in here,” he remarks. “There’s not enough room for three.”

  “Fair point,” I say. “Especially as you could be there for a while...”

  ~~~~~

  It had been several minutes.

  Too many minutes.

  “ABDUL?” Gulyar yelled into the radio. “COME IN. ABDUL?”

  Nothing but static.

  “Let’s go!” he roared, and his bodyguard gunned the 4x4’s engine, spinning it around and pointing it back toward the distant village.

  All around him, his army of vehicles lurched into motion and began to carve similar circles.

  A brief flash of light and muffled boom rolled across the wasteland.

  “What the...!” yelled his driver.

  A cloud of acrid smoke, sand and dust blossomed at the front edge of the village. In its heart Gulyar could see flames flickering brightly, despite the morning sunlight, and as they raced toward the scene, Bin Imraan knew that somehow the thieves had outsmarted him. Some battles were worth pursuing and some were not. This one, with its well equipped quarry, mysterious messages, and already significant losses of manpower and munitions, belonged in the latter category.

  He was tired of it.

  He preferred it when his enemies couldn’t fight back. His business had too much to lose and too little to gain by continuing this wild goose chase.

  “Take us back to Herat,” he snarled and lifted the radio. “One car go and check out the explosion, another find Abdul. The rest of you return to the city before our beloved security forces arrive. This hunt is over.”

  ~~~~~

  We are well south of Herat when I pull the car off the road onto a strip of conveniently secluded verge.

  “What’s happening?” Jack’s voice mumbles in my ear. He doesn’t sound too good.

  “Hang on,” I say as I scramble round the outside of the car to help him gingerly out of the boot. “Haven’t seen anyone following us
,” I explain. “No-one. I think we’ve lost them.”

  He nods weakly and I guide him round and help him to lie down across the backseats.

  “Where to?” I ask, pulling the Chadri off over my head, and flinging it forwards onto the passenger seat.

  He shakes his head. “Not sure,” he replies.

  I know we’ve both been thinking about the same thing. “Do you think our EMT signal was intercepted and deciphered?”

  He shakes his head. “Unlikely,” he says. “The base encryption is too complex for local gangsters to crack on their own. Someone tipped them off as to where we were headed.”

  I feel sick in the pit of my stomach. The only people who knew where we were going were supposed to be our allies. It doesn’t make sense that they should betray us, but I can’t argue against Jack’s resigned logic. Either Ace or Deuce must have fed our location to the locals.

  “So what now?” I ask.

  He slumps down on the seat and, more than ever, I’m conscious that he’s in need of proper medical assistance. “Not sure,” he mutters, “but we can’t use the EMT.”

  He means we can’t contact our handlers.

  I lean forwards across him, and gently lift back the material of his jackets and shirt. His chest is a mess.

  “Hot stuff...,” he mumbles.

  “Hmmm... Something like that,” I comment. I need to get him some help, and quickly. “Is there anyone else we can contact?”

  He shakes his head. “On our own...,” his voice is barely a whisper.

  I don’t doubt that either Ace or Deuce or both have, for some reason, decided that they’d prefer us not to return from this mission. Casting my mind back, I recall how we were spirited through the military bases on our way here. How we hardly made contact with anyone around us. How we were kept at arms length. How we were as good as ignored. Neither of us formally exist within the military machine and suddenly I wonder if we can expect any assistance from that front either?

  Somehow I doubt it.

  That leaves only one person, besides Jack, on this whole planet who I think I can trust.

  I need to find a pay-phone...

  ~~~~~

  London

  Shaz Manjeethra hauled herself reluctantly out of her cozy position, curled up against Richard’s warm chest, and scrabbled across the sofa to retrieve her phone. He leaned forward behind her, and muted the endless procession of soap operas he’d been generously tolerating for the last couple of hours.

  “We can always watch something else,” she offered.

  He smiled and shook his head.

  Her handset screen said that the number was unknown.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  “Shaz? It’s me...”

  “Nick! Is that you?” she exclaimed in delight. “Where are you?”

  ~~~~~

  Delaram

  Despite the circumstances I feel a rush of warmth run through my veins at the sound of Sharinda’s voice. “I’m sorry,” I hear myself say. “Sorry to call you.”

  “Where are you?” Shaz repeats her question.

  “Delaram,” I reply.

  “Delaram? Is that in Scotland?” she says.

  “Afghanistan.” Saying this one word makes me realise how hopeless our situation is. How pointless this call is. “I’m in some trouble. Myself and a friend. I don’t have anyone else I can trust. Anyone I know who might, just might, be able to find us help.”

  She’s gone very quiet.

  I shouldn’t have called her.

  It was unfair.

  How on Earth could she help us?

  “Tell me more,” says Shaz. “What do you need?”

  ~~~~~

  London

  Major Charles leaned over, as he buttoned his heavy raincoat, and kissed her on the forehead. “You handled that really well, Shaz,” he said kindly. He had sprung alongside her at the mention of Nick’s name and listened quietly to the conversation. Using a pad of notepaper he had scrawled her an instruction to ask Nick to call back in one hour. “When they call again, tell them to make their way to Kandahar Airbase.”

  “What Nick was saying about being stuck there, without support, is that normal?” she asked him incredulously.

  He smiled and shook his head. “No,” he said simply. “But this is not normal business. Tell them to get to Kandahar.”

  “Are you going to get them out of there?”

  ‘I’m certainly going to make sure they’re not at risk of capture and interrogation,’ he thought to himself.

  “Let me see what I can do,” he said carefully.

  Part Six: Bad Faith

  The Truth Will Out

  Skala Kallonis

  I’m still not sure how Shaz was able to help us, but nonetheless here we are. Back in Lesvos. Back home...

  It’s strange how being in Jack’s little cube of a villa should feel that way to me.

  Perhaps it shouldn’t?

  But it does.

  Jack is heavily bandaged, especially his chest and legs. He shouldn’t really be moving around, but he’s not one for keeping still and I’ve given up trying to tell him what to do. At the moment I can hear him clattering around in the wooden outbuildings – swearing occasionally – presumably when he drops one or other of his crutches. He calls it ‘pottering’ but I suspect he’s doing routine maintenance on the arsenal of weaponry he’s got stashed in the back of the barn where he keeps his bike. From the outside you wouldn’t know there was a treasure trove of killing implements secreted inside. The meticulously constructed breeze-block strongroom fills the entire rear quarter of the structure. He’s very proud of it. He should be. It’s a work of art, especially compared to his efforts at dry-stone walling.

  We’ve been back for a while. Whisked into, through, and back out of KAF in a flurry of hushed tones and paramedics. Looking back, I’m still not certain whether it was out of reverence or distaste for us but, in the end, I suspect it was ‘orders from above’. I would imagine these orders were probably something along the lines of ‘get them out of there, but you don’t want to know where they’ve been, or what they’ve been doing’ and, for a little while, I didn’t want to think about it either.

  I’d expected that maybe I might feel some great relief, or victory, or feeling of accomplishment. Somehow, against the odds, I had hunted down and snuffed out a tiny fragment of evil, rotten, twisted, humanity. A warped splinter, responsible for bringing pain and suffering to our own kind. For bringing unimaginable pain and suffering to me.

  But I didn’t feel relief, or victory, or accomplishment.

  I don’t feel any different at all.

  The only change I’ve noticed is that my dreams are no longer haunted by you or Lizzie or anyone else. It would seem that there are no ghosts left to exorcise, except my own, and it remains here, stubbornly attached to this existence, awaiting severance from this human shell.

  We were flown back to Cyprus. Things were less rushed there, and Jack was treated at the on-base military hospital for a few days until he was more fit to travel. No one asked any questions. I either waited at his bedside, or on my own in a small room in the barracks, until it was time to leave. We had been handed an envelope. It contained a small sheet of plain paper and a single typewritten word: ‘Vanish’. So we made our own way out of the gates, took a taxi to the airport, and caught the next scheduled civilian flight to Athens.

  “That’s the last time,” Jack had said, as he’d hobbled out of British Forces Cyprus’ many gated entrance. “I’m not setting foot on another military base. I’m finished with all of this.”

  I half-believe he means it.

  ~~~~~

  London

  “It’s so nice to see you again, Crispin,” said the Prime Minister, using the special tone of voice that politicians reserve for people they genuinely don’t want to talk to. “You can leave us,” he instructed his aides, who obediently removed themselves from his Westminster office, and politely closed the door.r />
  “And you, Mr. Prime Minister,” said Greere, carefully.

  “I understand that certain persons have been dealt with, and no longer constitute a threat to our country, nor to the safety and security of our people.” The PM flicked over the single-sided briefing note, which sat alone on his otherwise empty desk. “It’s such a shame that we don’t have anyone who can be honoured for undertaking such a task. Such a shame that we have no idea how such a thing could have happened.”

  Greere frowned.

  “How I would love to be able to publicly share this news,” the PM continued. “To be able to bring some scant comfort to those whose lives were shattered by the incident... I would love to be able to recognise the bravery of those involved... I would like to be able to shake their hands.” The PM stood up behind his desk. “But it is not possible to do that.” He extended his hand across the wide polished tabletop.

  Greere hurriedly pushed himself to his feet, and reached out to grasp the other man’s firm grip. He felt elated. This was it! This was what he’d been working toward. This was the reward for all his efforts, all his hard work.

  The PM remained standing, firmly clenching Greere’s flaccid fingers, and ignoring the distaste he felt for the repulsive man’s leering grin. “It would be very unfortunate, for anyone remotely involved in whatever took place, if they were to be discovered,” he said calmly and deliberately. “Relationships have become strained. Covert military operations on foreign soil, even if not directed against sovereign assets, stir up all kinds of difficulties. Afghan, Hungarian and US authorities have not been slow to recognise the remarkable coincidence between recent unexpected homicides and the United Kingdom.” He watched as Greere’s smile slowly vaporised in front of him. “There are also mutterings from France and, incredibly, Germany.” The PM smiled patronisingly. “These are our allies, Crispin. Countries that we need to remain close to. Peoples who share our love for democracy, freedom, safety, and security. This had better not turn out to be something of an embarrassment for us, I would hate to see anyone have to become a scapegoat to placate international outrage.”