An Enemy Within

by Roy David

  ‘Sir, it wasn’t really like that.’

  Kowolski began to feel his temper rising. ‘Well, tell me soldier, what was it like for Chrissake?’

  McDermott stared at him for a moment, indignant at Kowolski’s tone. Okay, he was no prude and, in the heat of the moment out there on the street, he was now forgiving his men the odd cuss or two. But there was no pressure on here. The major had said this was going to be just a friendly little chat.

  Kowolski, sensing the atmosphere he had created, picked up a chair, moved it closer to McDermott, his voice more conciliatory. ‘Look, Lieutenant, I know it’s difficult. Battle-hardened soldiers like yourself – well I guess you don’t like talking about certain aspects of war. Hey, my old man was in ’Nam and could I ever get him to open up?’ He snapped his fingers loudly. ‘Schtum – like a clam.’

  He watched McDermott’s face break into one of those half-smiles, a look of understanding. Too distant for Kowolski’s liking; almost melancholy.

  There was a knock on the door. ‘Not now,’ he shouted angrily. Then, turning back to McDermott, ‘Look, son, it’s just that I know what it’s like dealing with the media – they’re hungry for information and we need to give them all they need. They want to know every twist and turn, every single burp and fart. That’s why we’re having this little talk. Best if we can operate on the same wavelength, okay?’

  McDermott let out a long sigh. ‘Affirmative, sir. I’ll do my best. I… I’ll try not to let you down.’

  Kowolski slapped him on the back, got up and paced the room once more. ‘Thataboy, soldier – think of the men in your unit, all the boys here away from home, all the tens of thousands of them. You’re their talisman, Lieutenant, you’ll be speaking on their behalf – they’ll all be looking to you to tell it like it is. You’re in a privileged situation; you mustn’t forget that. You’re going to be the public face of the war in Iraq.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said, gulping.

  ‘There’s something else to take onboard here. We can go over everything again several times when we get to New York but I just wanted to tell you this. When you get to meet the media, the TV people, the newspapers and magazines, I can guarantee there’s always one smart-ass among them trying to make a name for themselves who’ll ask you a shit question, you know, something awkward.’

  McDermott gave him a furtive sideways glance. ‘What sort of question, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know precisely – just be ready for it coming. What you gotta do is turn it round. You ask THEM if they’ve ever been in Iraq. It’ll be a dime to a dollar they haven’t – that puts them in an inferior position straight away and you can just leave it like that, watch them shrink into their seat. Nothing more needs saying. You understand?’

  McDermott looked as if he was about to say something, but merely nodded.

  ‘If, by any remote chance, they say they have been here, well you play the buddy buddy card, and get them onside like you’re sharing something the rest of the bunch don’t know about: ‘‘Well, as you know from your own experience out there, it’s a real tough situation, an ever-changing event – things move at an alarming rate’’… something vague along those lines. And if you can’t answer a question without embarrassing yourself, simply say that you have no knowledge of whatever they’re asking.’

  When McDermott finally got up to leave, Kowolski shook him by the hand, grabbing his shoulder at the same time. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing, Lieutenant, I’ll see you through all this in good style. Believe me, we’ll have them eating out of our hands in no time. Everything’s going to be just rinky-dink.’

  Alone in the room, Kowolski’s final words echoed in his own ears as a feeling of dread enveloped him.

  Finally meeting McDermott had convinced him it was going to be anything but rinky-dink.

  * * *

  Out on patrol later, Bobby-Jo stamped hard on the Bradley’s accelerator, inducing an immediate clanking deep growl from the 600-horsepower diesel engine as the vehicle lurched forward.

  The sudden movement caught some of the men off guard, throwing them out of their leather-padded metal seats.

  One of them shouted, cursing him. ‘Hey, Bobby, you leave your fuckin’ pantyhose off today and take a bite on the ass by a sand flea?’

  This brought a rumble of laughter from the men, painfully aware of the nasty bites from the tiny mosquito-like creatures. Like the heat, they were another torment, here. To combat this particular pest, the men had taken to wearing women’s nylon tights.

  McDermott’s face appeared from the commander’s turret to see what the shouting was about. The soldier caught the lieutenant’s glance, raised his hand in apology at the outburst.

  Bobby-Jo was in an uptight mood. He’d been carrying the gloom since the men were told there would be no special leave for them. Only the lieutenant. So he was continually moaning to the rest of the boys that ‘the whole deal sucks’.

  It was an opinion shared by several others, but who said nothing – and had no intention of doing so. Sergeant Rath had threatened to ‘get personal’ with anyone who bitched, anyone who mouthed off, about the night in question.

  McDermott sensed something was troubling his driver. He shot a downward glance his way, made a mental note to have a word with him back at base. Beyond the raised driving hatch, the lieutenant could see Bobby-Jo’s head, shaking side to side, as he gunned the Bradley abruptly on to a deserted highway. Burned out car wrecks, trash of every description, littered the side of the road, the central reservation scarred with stumps of shattered palm trees.

  He was just about to tell him to cool down when, without warning, the Bradley swerved violently from the inside lane to the outside, Bobby-Jo accelerating hard.

  Flung forward, McDermott grabbed the rim of his turret with both hands, the metal digging into his skin. Below, a chorus of shouts rang out as the men were sent sprawling inside the cramped rear quarters.

  A split second later, the roadside bomb exploded.

  McDermott had often discussed the effects of an IED attack with his unit; the drill, the repercussions, wondered how the Bradley with its flat belly might cope with a central underside assault.

  Now, his senses shook with the brutality of the explosion; a blinding orange flash and a deafening roar that stunned him, lifting the front of the 30-ton vehicle several feet into the air and skewing it sideways.

  ‘What the…’ McDermott screamed as a powerful rush of hot air hit him, its intensity forcing his feet off the floor and shaking his body uncontrollably. The Bradley came to a grating halt with a final jolting thud, spilling him down into the turret. Powerless as he slid, he smacked his head on the bare metal side. It left him dazed for a moment, his ears ringing. Someone helped him up.

  ‘Everybody out – NOW,’ he shrieked, his mind suddenly screaming alert. ‘Watch for snipers.’

  A fog of grey smoke enveloped the Bradley and the acrid smell of bleach hung in the air. Sand, dust and dirt rained down in a dense drizzle forcing McDermott into a violent coughing spasm. Turning to Joe Herman in his turret, he could just make out his gunner was sporting an ugly bruise on the side of his face. Herman’s thumbs up reassured him it was his only injury.

  His heart racing, McDermott made to jump to the ground, but, just as he transferred his weight to his right leg, his foot slipped off the side of the vehicle.

  Double damn. As he landed, his knee twisted under him. Steadying himself on the side of the Bradley, the sudden pain, burning, shooting down his leg, made him grimace. Fighting hard to suppress the agony, he tried to clear his mind of nerve-endings that were yelling knee-injury trauma. His breathing came in short gasps. The sweat began pouring off him. Shit. He desperately needed to assess the situation outside.

  The unit’s procedure was well rehearsed; each of the six infantrymen from the rear of the vehicle took up crouched cover positions in a 360-degree arc. Herman’s finger hovered over the machine gun, his eyes sweeping over the low-lying scrub beyo
nd.

  McDermott dragged himself slowly along the side of the Bradley. He tried half-hopping for a couple of strides, a tight grip on his rifle, but gave up as the pain jarred his thigh. Still blindside of the driver’s port, he kept low against the vehicle, now dragging his injured leg behind him as he inched forward.

  Reaching for a spot near the front end of the Bradley, his hand touched hot metal and he cried out. Glancing forward, he could see what was left of the Bradley’s offside track, a smouldering, twisted, tangle. Smoke rose from the damage in thick, indolent, coils. High above, a black plume of smoke drifted. A feeling of relief swept over him that fire had not taken hold.

  His eyes, narrowed with pain, scoured the surrounding flat landscape. Not a place for harbouring snipers, he decided. ‘See anything?’

  ‘Negative, Lieutenant,’ Herman shouted first.

  Reaching the far side of the Bradley, he resorted to half-crawling, using his rifle to prop himself. It was only when he raised his head that he caught sight of Bobby-Jo’s dark outline against the midday sun. ‘Bobby, man. You okay?’ No reply. McDermott put a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes, at the same time moving a couple of steps nearer.

  Now he could plainly see Bobby-Jo, slumped forward in the driver’s well.

  ‘Oh, Lord, no,’ he moaned as he got within touching distance, suddenly letting out a pitiful wail. Bobby-Jo was obviously dead. McDermott fell back against the vehicle, burying his head in the crook of his arm.

  Although the sides of the Bradley were covered in explosion-reactive armour tiles, it was evident Bobby-Jo had taken a shrapnel hit. His helmet was lying upside down in the middle of the road.

  McDermott struggled against a faintness rising up inside him, his gut churning. He called HQ on his radio for assistance. As he blurted details of the hit, Bobby-Jo’s gaping wound was all he could see, his eyes drawn to it, refusing to look away. Suddenly conscious again of his knee, it throbbed, pounding in unison with his rapid heartbeat.

  ‘Help, we need help here,’ he shouted.

  Two of his men backed up to reach him.

  ‘You been hit, Lieutenant?’

  He shook his head, pointing to the driver’s well.

  ‘Fuck,’ one of them shouted. ‘Jesus, he was only a kid.’

  ‘If he hadn’t swerved like that, we all would’ve bought it,’ McDermott faltered. ‘He… he died saving us, man.’

  Tears appeared in his eyes. His body heaved, shivered, his face ashen. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. He murmured a prayer for Bobby-Jo’s life – all twenty-one years of it. Thank you dear Lord for the life of our beloved brother.

  Then, the sound of sirens. He looked up, thankful to see two medics’ trucks racing towards them. An Abrams tank, travelling in the opposite direction, had stopped and was pulling across the median, its gunner sweeping the vicinity.

  ‘Set up road blocks, both carriageways,’ he ordered.

  A helicopter appeared, hovering above the scene. He radioed HQ again, an assessment of the damage. They told him a recovery truck was also on its way.

  He turned to see Joe Herman being attended to by one of the medics on the rear steps of one of the ambulances. McDermott struggled towards them. One of the medics quickly moved forward, took the lieutenant’s weight on his broad shoulder, helped him to sit next to Herman.

  ‘Bobby-Jo’s dead, Joe. Man…’ he let out a shuddering sigh, ‘he died saving us – just like Our Lord.’

  * * *

  ‘But is McDermott okay?’ Kowolski growled down the telephone, his voice tense.

  He eventually replaced the receiver, exhaling deeply. Thank God the boy was all right, only ligament damage, he thought to himself as he poured a double shot of bourbon, downing most of it in one. When he first heard the news just now, his first reaction was to suspect the worst – and that Northwood’s grand plan had bitten the dust.

  It was too bad for that kid, the driver, who had apparently been driving with his hatch up. They said he must have seen evidence of the roadside bomb or something suspicious and that was why he swerved at the last moment.

  He walked to his desk, topped up his drink and, after a few minutes contemplation suddenly felt brighter. The incident would do the cause more good than harm. After all, it wasn’t every day the media would meet a young lieutenant who had not only proved a hero in one operation – but had cheated death by inches in another.

  Okay, he reasoned, the lieutenant would probably be hobbling for a while. But that was even better. Perhaps he could bring the whole show forward now the lieutenant would be laid up. What better than McDermott to appear on crutches, injured. A war casualty. The embodiment of a hero.

  He almost rubbed his hands in glee at the very thought of the emotive pictures, now guaranteed to accompany the large banner headlines of McDermott, his Silver Star – and the President.

  14

  The mid-summer humidity of New York added to Alex’s discomfort as she lugged the heavy computer bag up two flights of stairs to her apartment. Once inside, she contented herself that no one had been in and touched anything. The red light was flashing again on her answerphone. It would have to wait.

  Quickly, she assembled the computer stack and switched on the power, patiently waiting while the monitor started up. She began loading the programmes that would bring it to life. Sophisticated photographic software needed for her work, she put to one side for now. If the CIA came for her computer, they’d find there wasn’t much treasure in the chest.

  Relieved, she went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. The phone rang. It was Kowolski.

  ‘You get my message?’

  ‘No, I just got in.’

  ‘McDermott’s been injured, the Bradley took an IED hit.’

  Alex took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘He’s okay – just ligament damage, twisted his knee. He’ll be laid up for a few weeks here – they won’t let him travel. But I reckon he’ll still be okay for the dates I arranged. Oh, and that kid, the driver…’

  ‘Bobby-Jo?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s him. He was killed,’ he added blithely before hanging up.

  Shocked, her heart suddenly heavy, she went to the window and opened it. Gulping at the cloying air gave little relief for the tightness in her chest. Outside, only the sound of yellow cabs’ honking horns, their drivers and their fares impatient to move their lives on apace.

  Poor Bobby-Jo. Other than an exchange of smiles, she hadn’t really got to know him on the embed because he was always in his driver’s seat – never seemed to leave it, in fact. All the same, another mother without a son. More lives blighted. Opening her diary, she made a note to dig out some pictures of him, vowing to send them to his folks. She’d enclose a card saying what an ‘angel’ he was. It might give them some small degree of comfort.

  She pressed the button on the answerphone, heard Kowolski’s message. He hadn’t even mentioned Bobby-Jo. The pig.

  The next message held another unmistakable voice, that of Richard Northwood. Fingers twitching, she plucked at the silver bracelet on her wrist as it played. He simply asked her to call him on his cell phone as soon as possible. It was an official matter, he added icily.

  So, minutes later after summoning up the courage, she dialled his number, taking a deep breath as she heard him answer.

  ‘Hi Richard, it’s Alex,’ she said, trying to sound as light and bouncy as she could.

  ‘You received an email from Iraq recently?’

  ‘Lots – Kowolski’s almost been jamming up my computer.’

  ‘Let’s say from one…’ she heard a rustle of papers, ‘Aban al-Tikriti, an Iraqi national? And, like, yesterday?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know because I’ve just got back from Mom and Dad’s and haven’t had time to take my coat off,’ she lied. ‘It’s weird you should mention his name, because I was going to call you about him. He’s a good guy, Richard – his wife just left me a message saying he’s been arrested
or something. She and their boys are worried sick.’

  ‘And how would you know him?’

  ‘We met through a mutual friend when I was over there.’ She thought about adding that Aban had been the main source of her intelligence brief that Northwood requested, but decided against it. No use muddying the waters at this stage. ‘What’s going on here, Richard? His wife tells me the soldiers have taken him.’

  ‘It’s classified business – but what I can tell you is that he’s being held on suspicion of spying. And it could prove very serious for anyone who has, shall we say, collaborated with him to any degree. Do you hear what I’m saying, Alex?’

  ‘Just how official is this conversation – and where do I fit in?’

  ‘Look, for the moment let’s call it semi-official because… well, you know why… but things could quickly ratchet up a notch. Alex, you must report to me if you have received such an email or if you might be tempted to do anything with the information it contains. I don’t want to see you incriminate yourself. Is that understood?’

  ‘I won’t – sure thing,’ she said with as much seriousness as she could muster.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said. Then with a final, chilling, warning, added, ‘Your friend’s fate could lie in your hands if you do anything foolish.’

  * * *

  ‘Damn,’ Richard Northwood said out loud to nobody but himself as he snapped his cell phone shut. There were so many things he’d wanted to say to her – that he knew exactly what she was up to and that she was lying through her teeth on all counts. But he’d been forced to play it softly, softly. His agent had produced a great result at the post office, switching Alex’s memory stick for a blank one then jumping in a cab to the secret CIA office in Midtown Manhattan with the treasure in his pocket. But was that the end of the story or the beginning?

  Northwood returned to his desk and unlocked a drawer. Removing Alex’s memory stick, he sat down with it in his hands, turning it between his fingers. Could he be sure this was the only one? Was the damn file still on her computer?