by Greg Barron
Even as she drops the last of the burning fabric she watches the gunships loom closer, like giant predatory insects. Standing in the floodlights, clad in camo trousers and white bra, Marika is conscious of the tears flooding down her face. Watching, relieved, as the nearest craft stops, hovers, and begins to descend. An arm extends from the open side door, helping Sufia inside, with Marika pushing her up. Glancing back she sees Wanami running over the edge of the dune, hunched over like an animal. A killing madness is evident in those glaring, rounded eyes.
Marika places both hands on the door sill of the chopper and tries to boost herself up, but Wanami reaches out one arm and grips at her ankle with a strength no living man should possess.
Marika shrieks, kicking at him with her free foot, feeling it strike something but there is no lessening of the grip. Her eyes plead with the men inside the machine. ‘Help me, for God’s sake,’ she implores, and someone leans down beside her with an automatic pistol in his hand. A blast of sound as it fires once, twice.
Still the hand holds on, and the chopper starts to rise. Again she tries to kick Wanami away, looking down and seeing that bullets have pulped half the dome of his head, but the hand still grips her, dragging her down. Now she screams, unable to escape the foul thing that defies logic and the natural order.
Someone fixes a bayonet to a carbine and leans down beside her, slashing at the tendons in the dead man’s wrist until, finally, the hand opens and the corpse falls back to the desert sand. The chopper crew pull her inwards, safe inside the machine.
Someone passes her a blanket but she ignores it, holding a grab rail against the motion of the rocking, rising craft. ‘There’s one more,’ she cries, resisting the crew’s efforts to make her sit. ‘He’s holding them off on that dune there. We have to help him.’
As she watches, however, the shifta in the floodlights continue to shoot back up at the choppers. A burst of fire from the chain guns does not put them to flight, but sees them loom closer to the top of the hill.
One the men shouts, ‘We can’t risk it. Sorry.’
Madoowbe’s tall figure is visible in the floodlights. She sees him stand, throwing the empty assault rifle away and beginning to run. Despite a fusillade from the chopper’s armaments the shifta are on him in seconds. Marika watches him fall and men swarm over him.
‘Jesus. No,’ she screams. Hands grip her shoulders.
Before she gives herself to grief she turns to Sufia and understanding passes between them. Madoowbe has laid down his life for them, just as they were coming to know him.
Day 6, 21:00
Durham’s infirmary is the size of a household living room decked out with double bunks and a screened operating theatre at one end. There is scarcely enough floor space to stand. Pipes and conduit run in bunches along the ceiling so low that Simon has to constantly duck.
Frances is asleep in a lower bunk, her face white, one side of her neck covered with a pink dressing, and her shoulder bandaged. Simon kisses her on the forehead and rests one hand on the soft blonde hair of her head, before walking across to where Kelly is sitting up in bed, tapping away on a borrowed tablet, catching up on all the electronic smokescreens and mirrors people use to feel that they are still part of a community in this modern world.
‘Good night,’ Simon says, placing one hand on her shoulder.
Kelly stops typing and looks at him, trying to smile, but he can see the pain inside. The pain they all feel. There is a fragility to her face now, her hair in a pony-tail like a little girl, yet her eyes are much older. ‘I can’t help thinking that this is all my fault. If I had shouted at the airport — attracted attention — they wouldn’t have …’
‘They would have killed you, and taken the girls regardless. There was nothing you could do. Trust me. OK?’
Kelly nods. ‘Yeah, sure. I’ll try.’
Returning to Frances’s bed to pull up the blankets he sees that she is almost asleep. With a final kiss on the forehead he leaves the cabin, to find Captain Marshall walking down to meet him. Simon shakes the older man’s hand, and the gesture becomes more than that, a lingering attempt to communicate something for which words will always fail.
Marshall drops his eyes. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Not really.’
‘You have no idea how bad I feel — giving the order to open fire on that launch.’
‘Why? It was rigged to explode anyway, and we don’t even know if she was aboard.’
‘I know, but …’
Simon shakes his head. ‘No guilt, please. None of this is your fault. Put that out of your mind, for God’s sake.’
‘Thank you, I’ll try.’ A pause, then, ‘Look, Simon, the reason I came to find you is that my Ops Officer assures me that there is no further terrorist activity in the area. There’s nothing on the radar and the satellite assessment is clear. I’ve made the decision to relax the ship’s readiness state to allow all non-essential duty personnel to muster on the flight deck at twenty-one-thirty. A lot of the blokes were emotionally involved with this search. I think they need some kind of closure before we steam home. Is that OK with you?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘I’ve also ordered the ship’s engines be brought down to slow ahead for a short time so as we can all enjoy a beer issue. Would you join us?’
‘That sounds like just what I need.’
The flight deck is a wide clear space, painted with the usual white helipad ‘H’, the safety rails extended horizontally so as not to interfere with the landing and takeoff of the Lynx and Sea King choppers. Tonight, with an array of stars brighter than any Simon has ever seen, and in the soft glow of a dozen different lights, the deck seems almost magical — far removed from a ship of war.
The hangar is half full of the SBS troop’s equipment, along with the ship’s Zodiac inflatable. Like everywhere else on Durham, all is ship shape — everything in its place with a place for everything.
A hundred or so enlisted men and women are already there with beers in hand standing in groups, dressed in their number eights. The mood is sombre. Simon notices how the conversation hushes as he arrives. He moves closer to where a group of leading hands are opening and distributing beer cans from cardboard cartons under the watchful eyes of the duty coxswain.
The latter calls out to Simon, ‘Lager or bitter, sir?’
‘Bitter, please.’
The coxswain rips open the ring pull with a practised flick of his wrist. ‘Would you like a glass for that, sir?’
‘Thanks, but the can will do fine.’
Simon carries his drink towards the rail, and most of the crew greet him as he goes; some clap him respectfully on the shoulder and others shake his hand. Many of them have been part of the SAR effort and Simon knows how much they wanted to find Hannah.
Toying with his beer, Simon does the rounds, talking to men and women alike as they pay their respects — genuine, heartfelt commiserations that he accepts in the spirit in which they are given.
The crowd quietens as the XO calls for silence, and hands over to the captain, who begins with ordering a minute’s silence.
‘I won’t say much,’ he says afterwards, ‘cause this isn’t a time for words. Let’s just say that we have a man here who has lost one of the most important people in his life. His own daughter. Let’s give her a send-off in our own way.’
Each person drains their can in a single long swallow. Simon hesitates, then seeing the eyes turn to him, follows suit, feeling the beer slip through his lips and down his throat, cool and slightly bitter. A sudden headache comes from drinking the beer quickly, but that cannot explain the moistness of his eyes. Rather, he is touched very deeply by the warmth of feeling on that deck, overseen by the stars that glow on forever, that have shone down on so many other lives before his, and will do so for many more.
Someone brings Simon another can, and he is happy to drink it, while realising that no amount of beer will take the pain away. He has lost something far more
important than a limb, something that no man can learn to live without. The frail aluminium of the can crushes in his hand until he has to consciously stop squeezing it. He turns to see that Matt has arrived beside him; the look in his eyes mirrors his own feelings.
Yet Matt can get no more than a few words out. A signalman comes aft from the bridge deck at a run, catching the attention of Simon and most of the crowd. The man is pale but excited as he stops and looks in all directions for the captain, locates him, then strides towards the captain.
‘Sir, the yeoman requests that you come to the Comms Centre immediately.’
There is a silence, for this is unusual — normally a message would be brought to the captain on paper, anywhere in the ship.
‘Of course, I’m on my way.’
The messenger turns to Simon. ‘Begging your pardon, Mister Thompson. The yeoman asked that I should tell you to come too. As quick as you can.’
Simon catches Matt’s eye and sees the uncertain shrug before he sets off behind the captain.
The huddle around the radio set parts to let Simon through. He stands next to the captain, who places a hand on his shoulder.
The voices emanating from the short-range UHF speak Arabic, yet with local variations that make it difficult for Simon to understand. Reference to a local seafood known as kawa-kawa makes it clear that they are fishermen, then there is a laugh and the word zaara, meaning white rose; along with the Arabic word for girl: bent.
Simon stiffens.
‘When white rose grows breasts I might marry her myself,’ one says. ‘She will make a good bedfellow.’
‘Unless Sameer takes her for himself. He is the richest man on al-Akhawain.’
‘Ah, but it was I who plucked her from the water …’
Simon turns to Marshall, his voice strident. ‘Where is al-Akhawain?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m about to find out.’
‘White rose,’ Simon muses. He looks up, seeing how the captain’s eyes are shining like stars. ‘It’s her. It’s got to be her.’
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions but there’s a chance … you can count on me to pursue it. Bosun?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Get those lazy bastards on the flight deck back to work. We’re going hunting.’
THE SEVENTH DAY
Thus the heavens and the earth were completed in all their vast array. God finished the work, so on the seventh day He rested. And God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it He rested from all the work of creating that He had done.
After the seventh day men multiplied in number. Those who believed in one god did not always like the devotees of another, and some gods were jealous gods, and some gods were rotten gods.
Strangely, a single god could be good and kind to one man and rotten to another. Sometimes wars were fought between believers who worshipped in different ways. There were catastrophes that men called pogroms, and inquisitions, where men and women were tortured for the manner in which they believed.
In Gaza, a squadron of Israeli battle tanks kills five civilians. In retaliation Hamas sends a wave of suicide bombers to blow up teenagers at a cafe and lovers at a cinema.
In North Sudan, a Christian militiaman, fighting back against decades of oppression, holds a Janjaweed baby by her ankles and throws her into a fire.
In West Papua, an Indonesian military patrol burns a village harbouring suspected members of the Organisasi Papua Merdeka. A mother and her infant daughter are unable to escape the flames. A grief stricken husband is shot and killed.
In Magdalena, Columbia, a gang belonging to the Marxist Revolutionary Armed Forces kidnaps three US backpackers. When ransom demands are ignored the group hangs all three from a sandbox tree branch by their ankles, posting video of their death struggles on the internet.
In Baghdad, a Sunni suicide bomber explodes a van packed with explosives outside a Shia mosque, killing and wounding fifty-three. One is nineteen-year-old Farrah Asara, due to be married the following day to Rahim Zaid, a corporal in the US-trained security services.
In Somali territorial waters off Eyl, Nugaal Region, four skiffs are launched from an eight hundred ton mother ship, surrounding the Esther Marie, an English motor yacht that lost engine power and drifted west from her intended route to the Red Sea and Suez Canal. The crew, along with two security contractors, are armed, but after a short firefight, three of the five are left in bloody pools on the deck, and the master, his wife and one child, are transferred to the mother ship. Ransom demands will be made within an hour.
Also in Somalia, amidst famine and civil war, the terror organisations al-Shabaab, local elements of the Almohad and Hizb al-Islam merge into a united force to fight the kufr. The leader of the latter group, Shaykh Ali Ran, issues the statement, ‘We have unified our might, unsheathed our swords, loaded our bullets and equipped ourselves for war.’
In Balochistan, two agents of Pakistan’s ISI, the secret police, wait for Kachkol Tahir outside the school at which he teaches politics and economics, bundle him up and drag him into a black SUV. Three days later his body is found on a hill outside the city of Quetta. The fingernails of both hands have been torn out, and only two teeth remain in his skull. His crime? Ethnicity and intellectual activity leading him to be branded a potential activist. Ninety-nine per cent of the world’s population have not heard of his people, the Baloch, and their struggle for freedom that has lasted for more than half a century.
All night Raghavendra Adhir of Kadamtala watches the sky, a strong feeling of dread in his belly. The moon is full, with a double ring surrounding the white, pockmarked orb. Two stars lie within the ring, dull in that brilliance. Raghavendra ignores his wife when she calls him to bed, squatting outside until dawn, face turned upwards.
Now the sky is brilliant, deep red, confirming his suspicions. He wakes his wife and three children and says, ‘There will be a typhoon. A bad one. It will blow for three days and it will destroy our home. Carry everything to the hollow and wait for me there. I will trade for as much food as I can carry and join you there soon.’
There they waited, and soon the storm came.
While God rested and admired his work, something deep and dark inside the souls of men was already stirring. Intolerance. Anger. Jealousy. With the day of creation came the seed of Armageddon.
Day 7, 02:30
The squad comes through in twos and threes, internal couriers with trolleys carrying long arms, covered to avoid comment. By 0240 they are ready, and Abdullah is close to his emotional limits, running over the plan in his mind, knowing the risks, yet unable to ignore the possibility that in thirty minutes it will all be over. The political landscape of the world might change forever. Important men and women of two hundred nationalities will not sleep tonight.
With eleven minutes to go he begins chewing his lips, and consoles himself, If this doesn’t work we’ve still got Benardt’s tunnel. No. If this doesn’t work, most of the leaders of the world, good and bad, will be dead. Dear God. It’s not too late to call it off.
He walks into his office and closes the door, running his hands through his hair and across his face.
At five minutes to three, Jafar walks close, eyes staring boldly out from his fleshy face. For almost an hour Isabella has teased the man with her eyes and lips, with her cleavage and legs. She has seen enough cinema to know what a woman consumed with lust and longing should look like — lips parted; eyes misted and unfocused.
This time she unclasps one more button on her blouse. Jafar saunters by again, staring as he passes. Isabella gives him everything, widening her eyes; doe-like admiration. Certain compliance. The expression on his face changes from surprise to certainty.
Oh yes, you arrogant bastard. You really are stupid enough to believe that I’m getting turned on — here in a room full of stinking, sweating people — turned on enough to want to fuck one of the men who arranged the kidnap of my daughters.
For some moments she thinks of
Hannah; can no longer concentrate. But, she tells herself, this is important. Her task is to distract Jafar. This is the beginning of her restitution. Again she widens her eyes and feigns a passionate swoon as he walks past.
You really believe that all Western women are whores, you believe your own pointless rhetoric … dreamed up by ten generations of sexually repressed misfits like you …
Isabella waits until he has passed, then slips the phone out of her underwear and back in her bag. She looks down at her watch. Two minutes to go. She touches her lips with the tip of her tongue, then stands and walks towards the bathrooms, turning once to be sure that he has seen her go.
Heart beating like a drum, she closes the door behind her, glancing at her watch one last time. Thirty seconds to bluster through. Then what will happen? She has no idea. An explosion perhaps — a hole in the wall through which Special Forces soldiers will pour. Gas, maybe. Hadn’t they once tried that in Russia and killed sixty or seventy hostages?
Her feet scarcely touch the tiled floor of the bathroom before he comes through the door behind her. There are no preliminaries. One hand grabs her shoulders, the other brushes her hair away from her neck. His lips press wetly against her skin. The smell of him, the feel of him makes her shudder with revulsion.
Isabella counts the seconds in her head as he continues to nuzzle at her, hands gripping her shoulders, sliding downwards so the base of his palms graze her breasts. Surely, now, please. Happen. Something. From the outside there is only silence.
His face engorges with blood as he continues to work at her. Something has gone wrong. Nothing is going to happen and now she is stuck with this … hand delving up under her skirt. His lips nuzzle her ear.
Isabella feels his hand tear at her underwear and his full weight force her up against the wall. Panic begins deep in the pit of her belly. Rape has been, until that moment, something that happens to other women …