by Dc Alden
A look of horror passed across the rotund accountant’s face. ‘Yes of course,’ he blustered, ‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘It’s fine, I’m just saying, that’s all. I appreciate everything you’ve done.’ He held out his hand and Cooke pumped it gratefully.
Roy folded the statement and slipped it into the pocket of his shorts.
Bradshaw laid a hand on Cooke’s arm. ‘Would you mind giving us a moment, Steven? A couple of personal matters I need to discuss with Roy here.’
‘Of course, of course.’
Cooke retreated towards the bulkhead door, slamming it behind him with a loud clang, and Bradshaw led Roy towards the stern rail. Beneath them the sea slapped gently against the hull of the ship. When Bradshaw spoke it was in low tones, his arms resting on the rail.
‘I’ve been authorised to give you a limited debrief, Roy. It’s off the record, you understand. You can’t repeat it.’
Roy felt his hands gripping the rail a little tighter. He’d existed outside the bubble for weeks, completely in the dark, the little contact he’d had with Vicky minimal and devoid of specifics. Maybe now he’d get some answers.
‘Just tell me one thing—is it over?’
Bradshaw nodded. ‘Most of The Committee perished in Switzerland but there were a handful who were too old or infirm to travel. Some have since committed suicide and three have disappeared. The others are being interrogated at a detention facility in the States. I would imagine their human rights are being violated in some distinctly imaginative ways.’
‘What about Messina?’ The very mention of the word still sent a chill down Roy’s spine.
Bradshaw glanced over his shoulder, checking they were still alone on the open deck.
‘The site has been neutralised by American Special Forces, that’s pretty much all the information anyone is getting right now. A special UN Resolution has been passed and an assembly formed to ensure that the threat is completely eradicated. I’m guessing that that task might take many years before every thread of this ghastly conspiracy is discovered but for now the immediate danger has passed. We mop up as best we can, get things back to normal as quickly as possible. Well, about as normal as they ever get.’
Roy looked out to sea, where the blues and pinks of dusk had finally been erased by the inky blackness of the night sky. The stars were brighter now, reminding him of another night not so long ago, crouched in the mud of a Buckinghamshire field. And the man who’d led him there.
‘What about Frank Marshall? D’you know where he is now?’
Bradshaw shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the name.’
The PA crackled and a voice echoed across the deck in a language Roy didn’t understand. He heard a bulkhead door creak open and several crewmen in oily orange overalls appeared on deck. The Ocean Viking’s powerful diesels rumbled into life. Roy looked down, where the waters beneath the stern were being churned to white foam. The ship began to move. A warm offshore breeze plucked at his loose shirt.
‘So it’s over.’
‘Pretty much,’ said Bradshaw. He checked his watch. ‘We’ll be back in Kuwait in a few hours. With a little luck you should be in London by tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Thanks, Mister Bradshaw.’
The embassy man—Roy thought he was probably SIS—headed across the deck and disappeared inside the ship. Roy stayed at the rail, feeling the quiet vibration of the engines, enjoying the sensation of movement, his eye drawn to the phosphorous wake that trailed behind the vessel. The truth was he was glad to be going home. Two days cooking in the heat of the Gulf wasn’t exactly a holiday and there was much to do when he got back to London.
With Jimmy’s money he’d be able to leave the Fitzroy for good. He’d only been back once, to sift through the wreckage and salvage a few belongings. It had been a creepy experience, alone in the flat, the ghosts of Derek and Sammy still haunting the empty rooms.
He’d closed the front door behind him and loitered on the balcony, listening to the steady thump of music from next door, the shouts echoing across the estate. He knew then that he’d never return. All of his memories, of Mum and Dad, of Jimmy, Vicky and Max, would stay with him forever, no matter where he was.
As the Ocean Viking began its journey toward the distant port at Kuwait City, Roy felt strangely in tune with the vessel. There was something symbolic at work, a tangible sense of leaving the past behind, sailing towards the promise of a better life. He thought of Vicky, her future as bright as the stars overhead, and Max, how he longed to see him again, to hold him in his arms. Soon, he promised himself.
A cool breeze lifted off the dark waters. He took a deep, cleansing breath, exhaling as his eyes roamed the emptiness of the Gulf. He wondered where Frank was then, the man who’d briefly entered his life but had changed it immeasurably. Not just for him, but for everyone. Roy hoped that wherever he was he’d found the peace he’d craved. Maybe someday, when things got back to normal, their paths would cross again. Maybe.
He tilted his head and looked far up into the night sky where distant stars and cloudy galaxies littered the heavens. It was so beautifully infinite, so awe-inspiring, that Roy wondered if Frank was right, that perhaps there really was a God, a heavenly kingdom. If so, then maybe Jimmy was up there right now, looking down on him, smiling. Laughing, probably.
He touched the St Christopher around his neck and closed his eyes, the sound of his brother’s voice echoing inside his head, those familiar gravelly tones, the humour that laced his words.
‘You did it, Roy. I’m proud of you, kid. Who would’ve thought it, eh?’
In the shadows of his mind’s eye he saw Jimmy waving to him, a wide grin splitting his handsome face. Then the image faded, and Jimmy was swallowed by the darkness.
He’d found peace, Roy realised, and that made him smile too.
He didn’t think he’d ever hear his brother’s voice again.
Breathe.
Breeaaathe…
The anger, the rage, began to subside.
The first time he’d felt it was a couple of days ago, a barely controlled fit of temper that caused him to drive his combat knife into his mattress over and over again, until his body was bathed in sweat and his usually boundless energy spent. He couldn’t remember what had triggered it, only that it had been a difficult choice between skewering the mattress or his buddy’s chest. The truth was, his memory was getting decidedly hazy lately.
He remembered the operation though.
He remembered he was a D-Boy from the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta, and the Messina op was his first as a fully-fledged Operator. He remembered being selected for the infiltration team, that the target had been surrounded for a week, their communications compromised, their movements tracked by long lenses, by high-altitude UAVs and real-time satellite reconnaissance. Even the air itself was monitored for contamination.
He remembered the HAHO jump, drifting in a tight stack on the light desert winds for twenty miles before touchdown deep in the Iraqi desert. He remembered advancing toward the abandoned drilling platform, the power outage, the metal stairs that took him underground, gun barrel sweeping left and right, the loud beating of his heart, the quiet commands in his headset. He remembered his first contact, the suppressed weapon rattling in his hands, dropping targets in the tight and bloody corridors of the complex. He remembered being pumped with the adrenalin of invincibility. He remembered the order to hold position, then ignoring that order as he pursued a fleeing shadow beyond the glass wall of the laboratory.
That was his first mistake of the mission.
He remembered the shadow lunging at him from the darkness. He remembered the fight, his assailant bigger, stronger, knocking the rifle from his gloved hands, his flailing limbs smashing equipment and sending flasks and vials crashing to the floor. He remembered the NVGs being twisted off his face, the brutal fight in complete darkness, the soundproofed walls soaking up his breathless grunts as
he thrashed around the floor with his attacker. He remembered his fingers finding the butt of his pistol, firing several desperate rounds, the corpse rolling off his chest. He remembered fighting for breath, removing his Nomex facemask, gulping lungfuls of strange tasting air.
He remembered resuming his original cover position in the corridor outside. He remembered cursing himself. He remembered the blood running down his leg where the shattered glass had cut his butt open, where the unknown chemicals had soaked his combat pants. He remembered the feelings of dread, of his off-mission brawl being discovered, his expulsion from Delta, a promising career in ruins. He remembered the exfil, and lying to the medics who’d screened each operator for injuries.
That was his second mistake.
He remembered keeping his mouth shut, praying the decontamination units would wash away the sins of his misadventure and cleanse the wound on his ass cheek hidden beneath a flesh-coloured dressing.
He remembered sitting inside the Chinook as it came in low above the neon wash of Baghdad. He remembered crossing the Tigris, the floodlit walls of the US embassy, then running barefoot across the embassy grounds, filing through the inflatable porch, passing through the chemical mist of another portable decontamination unit outside the maintenance shed. He remembered drying himself with paper towels and padding naked to the accommodation block. He vaguely remembered the team debrief in the early hours of that morning.
He remembered all of that.
He could still remember his name—Vann Jackson—and he thought he might’ve been from Cheyenne, Wyoming, though he couldn’t remember ever being there.
Alone in his room, he realised everything else was becoming fuzzy. He could no longer remember where he’d been born, or where he’d gone to school, or even the name of the high school team he’d played quarterback for.
He opened his locker door, stared at the picture taped there, a pretty redhead with a fat baby on her lap. A week ago he’d known them. Now they were strangers. He tore it up and threw it in the trash. He sank onto his disembowelled mattress. He was tired, irritable.
And his butt ached.
He stood up again, dropped his fatigues around his ankles, inspecting the wound at length. It had finally stopped weeping that weird fluid, but the skin around it had turned a bluish colour, spreading across his left buttock and the back of his thigh. Looking at it made him angry. He ground his teeth together, tasted blood in his throat. He balled his fists, consumed by an overpowering urge to break something or someone.
Then he felt something else.
He yanked his fatigues up and staggered into the corridor. He made it to the bathroom just in time, retching loudly, violently, into the sink, his final heaves ones of panic—dark red blood painted the shiny aluminium, the faucets, the mirror above.
He ran a shaking hand over his face, the skin as white as snow, grey circles beneath his eyes. His heart pounded and sweat pimpled his temples. Blood dripped from his beard onto the thick matt of his dark chest hair.
The nausea passed.
He fingered the blood in the sink, the strange yellow gobbets of Christ-knew-what mixed in with it. It wasn’t food. He hadn’t eaten in days. He let the cold faucet run, washing it all away.
The bathroom door swung open.
Another operator entered, whistling a tune and wearing a towel around his waist. He stood at the urinal behind him, still whistling as he shook himself, before crossing to the long row of sinks. He washed his hands, flicked the water from his fingers and wiped them on his towel. He glanced at his fellow D-Boy in the mirror and frowned.
‘Dude, are you okay? You look like shit.’
Vann Jackson stared at the intruder in the mirror, trying and failing to remember his name. It didn’t matter. He was done with names.
He swiped a lingering streak of blood from the sink, a fake smile plastered across his pale features, the radically mutated Angola virus still coursing through his veins, dividing, multiplying.
Infecting.
‘Me? I’m good, man. Never better.’
To be continued
For more information about DC Alden please visit the official website at:
www.dcaldenbooks.com
Also by DC Alden
Invasion
The Horse at the Gates
© DC Alden 2015