by Iain King
Myles could see that Roosevelt was sweating. He had repositioned the sight of the RPG launcher to his eye, trying to ensure he had a clear shot. He flexed his fingers on the trigger mechanism.
Juma’s voice shouted out from the back, hidden by a wall of his men. ‘We can talk if you want to.’ His voice sounded as though he was still gloating. ‘Do you have any final words, Senator?’
The Senator’s breathing was strained. He kept the rocket trained on the bulk of Juma’s men as he prepared his reply. ‘Juma, I’ll let your men live if you let me and the Englishman go,’ he bargained.
There was a silent pause. Then Juma replied with a phoney laugh. ‘So you want to negotiate with us “terrorists”, Senator?’
The Senator called back, shouting over the back of the Toyota. ‘Juma, this is your last chance. Let us go or I’ll fire.’
Juma paused slightly before he replied. Eventually he came back with, ‘Will you let us settle in the United States?’
The Senator paused also. ‘We can talk about that,’ was the reply.
‘We’re talking about that now, Mr Senator Roosevelt. Yes or no – will you let us settle, Senator? If you won’t give a clear answer now, when we have you at gunpoint…’
Juma’s words trailed off, overtaken by a bizarre whooshing noise.
It was the sound of a rocket-propelled grenade shooting through the air. The Senator had fired.
The RPG blasted into the ground in front of Juma’s men. Myles and the Senator were knocked back by the fireball. Fragments from the casing of the rocket flew towards them. Instinctively they ducked, allowing the vehicle to take the shrapnel.
Smoke and flames caused chaos. Myles glanced towards the crater where the grenade had exploded. Dead bodies and limbs were mangled with screaming flesh: but some of Juma’s men were still alive. Myles could also hear the clatter of automatic weapons being cocked.
Myles turned back to the car, but the engine had stopped. He turned the ignition again – nothing.
He tumbled out to see the Senator had almost fitted another rocket onto the launcher.
Then, behind the Senator came a voice they all knew. ‘Stop now.’ It was Juma.
Although Myles could not see Juma himself – the car was in the way – he could see the Senator, and could tell the Senator was facing him. Juma’s voice was even and unstrained: he had not been hurt by the explosion, and Myles guessed the pirate leader’s Kalashnikov was pointing straight at Sam Roosevelt’s head. Juma was probably twenty or thirty metres away, but it was close enough to be sure of a kill.
Senator Sam Roosevelt looked down at the rocket-propelled grenade launcher he held in his hand. He hadn’t had time to fit the new missile head on properly. The grenade was only loosely attached.
Slowly, the Senator rotated the launch tube until it was upside down. He was pointing the missile towards the ground.
The Senator turned to look at Myles. He had a resigned look on his face, but also a sense of urgency, as if he was warning Myles. There was something he wanted Myles to do.
Myles tried to understand, but the Senator couldn’t use words to say what he meant – he would have been heard by Juma. The Senator was trying to point somewhere with his eyes. What did he mean?
The Senator made the expression again. Myles tried desperately to make sense of it.
Then the Senator squared back to Juma. ‘You asked me whether I had any last words,’ he said. ‘Well I don’t. Last words are for fools who haven’t said enough during their lifetime.’
Something about the Senator’s tone and manner had changed. The power balance between him and Juma had tipped again. Myles knew what the Senator was about to do.
In those last moments, Myles crouched. He tried to protect himself. He was tense with anticipation, unsure whether he would survive what now seemed inevitable. Was there anywhere he could hide?
He looked around. Finally, he saw where the Senator’s eyes were pointing…
Moments later came the explosion – far larger than the first. The Toyota was tossed sideways. The survivors of the first grenade, and the bodies of those whom it had killed, were blown into the air. Even Juma was knocked off his feet, and the gun flew from his hands.
But the sixty-nine-year-old Senator, war-hero and twice Presidential hopeful, who was far closer than anyone else to the centre of the blast, knew none of this. He had finally escaped his captives. Indeed, he had killed many of them off.
His last act had confirmed his refusal to give in to terrorists.
The Senator had proven his determination with his life.
Fifty-Eight
Western Desert, Iraq
Juma was dazed: he had been thrown down against the desert floor by the blast. His body was still in shock from the pressure of the explosion. Air had been forced from his lungs and it took him time to recover his breath.
But he had been lucky: he had just been far enough away when the grenade detonated. Although fragments from the outer casing had shredded some of the warlord’s clothes, his wounds were only superficial. One side of his body was grazed and bleeding, but that was all. Once he had gathered his senses, Juma was largely unharmed.
The Somali pirate chief got back on his feet and surveyed the aftermath of the rocket-propelled grenade. As with all explosions, the impact of the Senator’s second munition seemed to have been random. Devastation was interspersed with areas which remained untouched. Some of the desert floor was torched and charred. Other parts looked exactly as they had before. Dead bodies from the first explosion had shaded some areas from the second.
Juma looked down at his men. Several bodies were in pieces. Charred limbs and torsos were mixed with broken weaponry and tatters of clothes. It was hard to know exactly how many people had been killed.
Juma noticed one Somali pirate near the middle of the crater who was missing a leg and arm. The man started to howl for help as he recovered consciousness and recognised his leader. Juma stomped towards him, lifted his head and shook it, then put it down again, swiftly concluding that the man had no hope of surviving. When the man called out again, Juma returned to him, then kicked him hard in the face. The man lost consciousness once more, never to regain it.
Two other men appeared to be alive but severely wounded. They were careful to remain quiet. Two more, who had not been with the main group, were on their feet by this time. Like Juma, they were largely unhurt, and explored the wreckage with him.
To check both his captives were dead, Juma was keen to examine the Toyota: it had been blown upside down and landed on its roof, which was crushed. The African gang leader bent down to check no one was alive inside. There was certainly no movement. No one could have survived, he concluded. Although he couldn’t see properly, Juma was content to leave the vehicle containing Myles’ corpse where it was.
Juma missed the satisfaction of killing him, but knowing the Englishman was dead was almost as good. He shrugged, then turned away.
Then he saw the Senator’s body, which had massive wounds to the chest and neck. Sam Roosevelt was definitely dead. Juma called over to his two surviving accomplices. When he had their attention, he put his boot on the old man’s face and stamped it into the dust. The pirates laughed as Sam Roosevelt’s head was pressed down, deformed and bloodied. Juma stepped away satisfied.
Content that he had surveyed the danger, Juma replaced the magazine in his AK-47 and made the gun ready to fire. Then he levelled the barrel at the bodies of the men near the crater. He aimed at the two who were alive but severely wounded. Although they tried to ask for a chance, Juma shot them through with bullets. They died instantly.
Juma stepped back, and fired a short burst into the Senator’s body near his feet. Then he clambered back over to the wreck of the Toyota.
Once more he examined the twisted remnants of the vehicle. Juma couldn’t see the Englishman’s body. He was beginning to doubt his earlier conclusion. Could Myles have survived?
To make sure, he readied his
weapon for a final time, and sprayed the whole front section of the Toyota Corolla with bullets. He exhausted the whole of his magazine, and his gun clicked to let him know he was done. Then he crouched down to examine the bullet holes. A good spread: there was not a single space within the mass of the vehicle which hadn’t been hit. A cat couldn’t have avoided the bullets, let alone someone as tall as Myles.
No movement from inside.
Juma waited. Still no movement.
Finally, he was convinced: wherever Myles Munro’s body was, there was no way he could still be alive. His limbs must be amongst the twisted and charred cadavers near the crater of the explosion. Juma was content. He stood up and chuckled at his work: he had killed both of his Western hostages.
He beckoned over to his two fellow survivors, who came in beside him. The three men walked away from the wreckage, careful to step between the corpses rather than on them.
With their guns slung back on their shoulders, Juma ordered his men into a second car, parked further away from the main scene. They climbed inside, Juma enjoying a last glance at the scene of the Senator’s demise so far from the American soil that he loved.
Soon Juma and his men were away, and the pile of wreckage and dead bodies was left behind in the cooling desert afternoon sun. Within hours the scavenger animals of the desert would pick at what was left. Within days it would be half-covered by desert dust. Perhaps some of the scene – the twisted metal of the overturned vehicle and the Somali guns – would be preserved for as long as the Roman ruins of the abandoned town. But to Juma, it didn’t matter. He was heading off to rejoin his people. Placidia’s people. The last obstacle had been overcome, and he was about to achieve his grand ambition.
Fifty-Nine
Via Veneto, Rome
Safiq had arrived, but what sort of civilisation had he reached?
He was in a fine street, with rich architecture and lovely trees, somewhere in the centre of Rome. It seemed like a wonderful city. He and a mass of hundreds of other Africans, a few of them still armed, crowded outside the American Embassy.
But the embassy was protected by a strong fence. They knew the fence was strong because they had attempted several times to knock it down and failed. Someone had been badly crushed when they tried. Safiq understood: there was no way in.
In every direction, including the route the throng had taken from the ship, roads had been blocked. The Italian police were containing the crowds. Safiq was wondering whether the Italians would advance – for now, they were just waiting. Waiting, he guessed, for the Africans to tire and give up.
Like the Africans, a few of the Italian police had guns; Safiq had worked out the armed ones wore special ‘Caribinieri’ uniforms. He made sure he kept his distance from them.
Safiq had no food and, like the others, he was hungry. The only nearby café had closed and been locked up. They’d all managed to drink from a water hose when they first reached the embassy, but now even that had been turned off.
So here he was, in the middle of civilisation but still desperate. He was standing right next to the US Embassy, which someone had told him was officially American territory, but his American dream was further away than ever.
Life was still harsh, like it had been on the windy dockside in Africa.
And he knew that soon it would get even worse.
Sixty
Western Desert, Iraq
Myles waited for more than an hour before he moved again. When Juma had fired bullets into the overturned Toyota, he had cowered. He had strained to hear the distant sound of the Somali’s vehicle driving away. But he needed to be sure it wasn’t another of Juma’s games. He had to know Juma wasn’t waiting for him.
Blood had trickled into his hair. Myles silently walked his fingers up his scalp to trace the source. There was a sensitive spot near the top of his head. Probably just a small cut, he told himself. Head wounds give out a lot of blood.
Although it was dark, Myles felt sure he wasn’t concussed. He was too alert to be dazed. He would deal with his head wound later.
Myles listened again. Still no noise from above. Had all of Juma’s men gone?
Or had the pirate left a watchman to make sure there were no survivors?
Slowly Myles edged along the mosaic floor, sticking tightly to the walls. He looked at the overturned Toyota suspended over him, blocking the way he had come in – half dived, half fallen, at the moment the Senator had pulled the trigger. Unless Juma and his men deliberately moved the vehicle, they would not find Myles’ new hiding place.
He felt safe from them.
The Toyota pick-up had given Myles the cover he needed to slip down a hole into this buried Roman room. The underground room which the Senator had seen – the last act of the great Sam Roosevelt had been to save his life.
But the day was ending, and the dim light in the space where Myles was hiding was becoming dimmer. Myles knew he could not stay underground forever. He needed to escape. He also needed food and, more urgently, water.
Drops of clear liquid were falling from the front of the vehicle onto the mosaic floor. Myles looked down at the dusty puddle. He held out his palm and caught some drops, then put them to his tongue. Immediately he spat it out: it was soapy windscreen fluid. Nothing he could drink.
He moved back into the Roman room. Was there anything here he could use?
The paved floor of the chamber depicted a well-dressed Roman man – perhaps an emperor – holding a sword at the neck of another man, who had a dark face and was kneeling in submission. The body of a beheaded man lay on the ground beside them both. The emperor seemed to have taken the throne. Given there was blood on his sword, he may have killed for it. Myles marvelled at the image – the beheaded man reminded him of the Senator.
Myles stamped on the floor: it was solid. The room was professionally built – probably by artisans who expected their civilisation to survive for many more centuries.
He walked around the walls of the room, thumping them with the side of his fist, looking for a way out. Nothing presented itself.
The only item in the room was at the end furthest from the entrance, and so furthest from the fading light. Myles’ eyes had to adjust to see what it was. There seemed to be a stone bench with a head-shaped indentation, and space for chains in case someone needed to be tied in position. Above the indentation was an iron spike mounted in a large stone, itself attached to a rod. The rod reached down into an axle through the bench. Myles touched the stone, then pushed it gently. As the stone tipped forward, it began to accelerate with its own weight, forcing the metal spike to crash down onto the head-shape indentation on the bench.
Clang.
Myles looked behind him, worried that the noise could have alerted Juma’s men. He waited, listening in the dark. Several minutes passed, but there was nothing.
Myles was definitely alone.
He returned to the device. The head-shape indentation, around where the spike now rested, was slightly darker than the rest of the bench. Very old bloodstains.
Now Myles recognised what the machine was. He remembered reading about them when he had studied with Placidia. Wounded or defeated gladiators would have been brought down from the arena and their head laid on the bench. Then the spike would have been allowed to fall, piercing their skulls. For mercy killings…
This was how the Romans dealt with their entertainment after it no longer entertained. Far easier to use than a sword, this was a Roman killing machine, the pre-industrial equivalent of a guillotine.
Myles withdrew his hand, leaving the spike where it was, and trying to respect the many people whose lives had ended here. Ancient Rome had become truly brutal before its collapse.
Myles looked around the remainder of the chamber, checking it again for nooks and weak points. He pressed and checked every surface he could reach, especially where the stone crumbled. But there was no way out. The only exit was the entrance, and that was covered by the Toyota.
He stoo
d again below the overturned vehicle, and tried to work out how he could climb up into it. The crushed roof was almost within reach. He jumped and grabbed the engine cover, but it came off in his hands, and Myles fell back down onto the floor.
He looked up again: the engine block was above him now. No way through it. And round the sides the Toyota had wedged itself in solidly.
Again, Myles jumped up and tried to grab hold. He swung his legs up and tried to kick through.
No use. He wasn’t even close: the Toyota was very firmly in place and there was absolutely nothing he could do to move it or get through it.
He felt a chill. The temperature was dropping, and he wandered whether he would catch hypothermia. Dehydrated, he knew he’d succumb more quickly.
He jumped up and grabbed a seat belt, then pulled himself towards the dashboard.
He checked the radio – dead.
He checked the fire extinguisher – empty.
He checked the battery – useless.
Nothing. With each passing thought he also felt himself weaken. His arms were losing strength and he had to allow himself to drop back to the floor.
Daylight was almost gone. He felt the wound on his head again: it was still bleeding. His thirst was beginning to subside as his dehydrated body started to shut down. He felt faint.
He tried to tighten his muscles, forcing his body to keep up his blood pressure. He was trying to think of ways to escape, almost as a distraction, knowing that he needed to keep his mind busy, knowing that to fall asleep might be deadly.
He tried to imagine Helen, the best reason of all to escape. She should be cured of septicaemia by now, he thought. She should be safe – probably back in America. He wanted to be with her. Would he ever see her again?
He still hoped that, together with Helen, he could stop Juma. If only he knew how they were planning to bring Rome’s fate onto America. If only he could get out of here.