Spiral

by Andy Remic

  Natasha rummaged. Found food - or a close approximation thereof. She ate, and fed small tit-bits to Carter who guzzled greedily with hands clamped on the Cessna’s controls.

  ‘Why don’t you have a break? Eat? Drink?’

  ‘Are you going to fly?’

  ‘Hmmm ...’

  ‘Well, perhaps not, then. We’ll be landing at Cairo to refuel—’

  ‘I thought you were a wanted man in Egypt? Wanted by men with machine guns who want you very, very dead?’

  ‘I am. When I say Cairo, I don’t exactly mean Cairo -I kind of mean a secret rendezvous seventy miles out of the city.’

  ‘So there’ll be no time for sunbathing or seeing the pyramids at Giza?’

  ‘Not this time, love. I’m sorry. Anyway, the bombing during the Battle of Cairo7 put an end to that Wonder of the World. The pyramids are just rubble now.’

  ‘I’d still like to see what’s left. It’s historical rubble, after all.’

  They were over the sea now, and the sun glittered across waves and tiny crests of foam. Natasha watched Carter carefully; she could see his fear but he hid it well. He hated flying. She had read it on his file, and seen his nervous sweat first-hand. As he always said, it wasn’t the height that bothered him, it was the heavy impact with the unforgiving ground ...

  Hours had passed.

  The ‘rendezvous’, much to Natasha’s horror, was a narrow desert strip marked in the sand between two huge rocky outcroppings. Carter brought the Cessna down in a swirl of dust and had a heated conversation with four men in Arab dress who had honking muzzled camels with many tufts tethered to a nearby twisted palm. Natasha watched the tense discussion from the Cessna’s cockpit, decidedly on edge and alert for signs of trouble—

  She needn’t have worried. Carter, all smiles, winked in her direction and she watched the men lead him away to throw back tarpaulins concealing drums of what Natasha assumed was aviation fuel. She did not understand how Carter had made his contacts, nor how he had arranged this little meeting; she decided it was probably best not to ask.

  Two hours later, when Carter climbed sweating and sand-flecked into the cockpit, Natasha had been sleeping again. She smiled wearily at the man. ‘We full up?’

  ‘It will see us to Mombassa at least. I curse having to deal with dodgy Egyptians. And I curse even more the fact that a Cessna will only fly twelve hundred pissing miles without completely emptying her bladder ... the cheap whore ...’

  They flew into the sun.

  Natasha decided it was quite romantic—

  Or it would have been if she hadn’t recently been shot and hadn’t been running for her very life. What happened? she thought. What happened to my world? It had been going so smoothly—

  So smoothly.

  Gol sat in the sand, gazing down at the grains that swept scattering across one another, fighting for precedence, fighting for height, fighting to be king. He lifted his head slowly, beard whipping gently in the breeze, and gazed out across the vast landscape before him - a medley of browns and burned orange. The amber light flowed majestically across the landscape like molten honey, breaking across the rocky formations, moulding itself around the trees. Huge protrusions of rock smashed up from the earth and Gol felt the violence of the land within his soul.

  The rugged red rock squatted hard beneath the large man, comforting, solid, real, without any give. Gol sat on the mountain and the mountain was his, was a part of him, belonged to him - and he belonged to it; a symbiotic relationship that made Gol smile through his beard. His hand reached down, touched the jagged rock and the sand and the dirt. He sighed.

  The sun was sinking, glinting a deep burned red in his dark eyes.

  He rose slowly to his feet, pulling himself to his full height and stretching the heavy muscles of his back and shoulders. Moving out from his beautiful vantage point, from his Window of Wonders, he was soon walking through the dust, boots leaving imprints between the scrub bushes. The trail was narrow, winding between large groups of boulders and leading uphill towards the summit of the low mountains that hid the sparkling dance of the sun’s sinking rays. Gol walked on, sweating heavily, his grey hair plastered to his heavy-set thick skull, his large and apparently cumbersome rifle slung tightly across his back.

  As he pushed on, the ECube pressed against his thigh through the pocket of his beige desert DPM combats. He hated the feel of the device. It had been hacked of course, by his programmers - just because they could. A small act of individualism. An act of pride. The ECube had been pulled to bits and reassembled minus certain circuitry and AI core components. Gol kept the small machine close to him at all times; it reminded him of older, better days.

  The ECube dug against his leg and he halted for a moment, turning, hands on hips, regaining his breath.

  The African scrubland spread out before him, the most awesome of panoramic views he had ever witnessed in his years of travelling the miserable ball of rock called Earth.

  Gol loved Africa; that was why he had chosen this place in which to set up and run Spiral_F.

  Gol pushed on, cresting the rise and finding himself momentarily dazzled by the sun. A horseshoe of low mountain hills surrounded him, rocky and wild, trails snaking down onto the flatland and the orange-tree orchards filling the valley beyond. This vision of contrasting violent colour splashes filled his perverse mind with calm, soothed the raging beast that burned his soul, selected his neutral gear and allowed him to coast gently downhill.

  It must be wrong, he realised.

  The hacked ECube must be wrong—

  An icicle sliver wormed into his heart.

  Carter would never dare come to Africa ... Gol laughed out loud then, his laughter echoing out over the valley. And if he was coming to Africa - and by the ECube codecs and encryptions, it seemed that it was a top priority to find and intercept him - if the fucker was coming to Africa, then the chances were that he was coming to find Gol.

  ‘I swore I would kill you.’

  Gol’s voice was deep, incredibly deep and melodic -almost Shakespearean in its delivery, a rich voice, the voice of an actor, not the voice of a ...

  What are you? he thought.

  What have you become?

  Spiral had redeployed him. Had sent him from London to work on a special new project. Spiral_F.

  He hissed between clenched teeth.

  Gol began to walk, boots now stomping rock, leaping from ridge to ridge and then thudding onto a new track. This one led across the summit of the hill, winding like a red dried snake under the sun towards the string of concealed proximity detectors and anti-personnel mines—

  Spiral...

  They had a lot to answer for. A fucking lot to answer for...

  He reached the lower end of the track. Gol glanced back, then set off, entering the cool protection of the trees. The sinking sun still burned hot as it sank quickly towards oblivion.

  Gol relaxed the closer he got to his home: the HQ of Spiral_F - a simple white-walled house hiding a billion dollars’ worth of technology under the ground in the form of extremely high-tech vaults, weapons systems, hangars for vehicle modification and...

  Gol’s eyes glinted.

  And something else.

  A breeze rustled the branches of the orange trees.

  How the world has changed, he thought. How it has descended into a quagmire of guns and wars and violence.

  He shivered.

  How I have changed ...

  He caught a flash of white between the trees, and soon the crumbling dilapidated house came into view. Gol moved cautiously, attempting to catch out King George, a huge black man who stood on guard with his SMG safety catch switched off. The big man spotted him at a good distance and Gol grinned, waving as he approached.

  ‘You OK, boss?’ growled King George, his broad face split into a smile.

  ‘Just sneaking up on you,’ said Gol.

  King George shook his head. ‘That never happen, Big Boss. This king too smart; he hav
e too good an eye; that why you buy my services, eh, boy?’

  Gol grinned wider. How could somebody call him a boy? They shook hands, and Gol stepped past the huge sentry, past the man’s natural aroma of oil and fruit and into the cool shade of the red-tiled white-walled villa beyond.

  Such a nondescript mask, he thought.

  A true disguise, hiding technology the world could not even begin to comprehend.

  His boots clacked against the polished wooden floor -cracked and warped in places after the dry passing of years. He jogged up a few battered steps and turned right, moving down a wide corridor with its peeling paintwork and past personal artefacts that were there more for show than for any real personal value or nostalgia; Gol was the sort of man who did not harvest history. He carried love and pain in his mind and in his heart.

  He stopped by a section of battered wood panelling, peeling and warped. He flipped free a small door and punched digits into an alloy panel that contrasted severely with the dilapidated surroundings. The panelling slid away and Gol descended - down through the rough-hewn narrow rock, circling down and down the tightly curved iron stairwell towards a low-roofed dusty passageway and on towards—

  The Vault.

  Welcome back to Heaven, Gol thought.

  It was evening when Carter flew the Cessna across the shimmering ocean east of Kenya. Sunlight glittered, accelerating over the horizon. Natasha was sitting with her head on Carter’s shoulder when a tiny rumble vibrated through the plane’s cockpit.

  Natasha stirred. She turned, her gaze meeting Carter’s.

  ‘What was that?’

  The rumble came again, followed by a stutter from the engines as Carter leaned forward, eyes scanning the digital read-outs.

  ‘Tell me we don’t have a problem.’

  ‘We have a problem,’ said Carter through gritted teeth. ‘Fuel pumps. Shit.’

  The engine stuttered once more, and Natasha’s grip tightened on Carter as fear flashed bright in her eyes. Breathing deeply, he turned the Cessna south. ‘We’ll have to land.’

  Carter knew Africa - especially Kenya - extremely well; he had carried out a variety of overt and covert missions across its rugged dusty ravaged landscape. He hugged the coast ten miles south of Mombassa, and chose a spot where he had previous agreements with a certain landowner of disreputable disposition.

  Carter brought the Cessna in low over the sea. Turquoise waves sparkled. White foam danced in huge curving crests. They cleared a long line of beach-hugging palms and a wide sweep of unspoilt white sand. The Cessna approached a wide long lawn within an arena of high walls and touched down smoothly, then bumped along the short grass towards high fences and a dazzling white-walled house. Natasha gazed up at the structure as they rolled to a halt, bushes and trees whipping to either side, the drone of the engines an irritant chirping in this sudden paradise. The house was large, built from wood and stone, the lofty roof supported by huge beams lashed together with thick ropes skilfully woven from huge leaves and dried grass.

  Several men ran towards the plane. They carried guns.

  ‘A welcoming party?’ asked Natasha.

  Carter smiled. ‘They know me here. Don’t worry.’ He killed the engines, which died swiftly, the propellers humming and clattering unevenly to a halt. Carter helped Natasha from the cockpit, down the short steps, and onto the grass—

  Where they were hit by the heat.

  ‘Warm,’ breathed Natasha huskily. ‘Just what an injured woman needs to recuperate while you fix the plane.’

  ‘We’re near the equator. What do you expect?’

  ‘Just a shock after sunny Scotland,’ she said and smiled sardonically.

  Carter greeted the men and explained his position in a garbled mishmash of English and Swahili. He and Natasha were escorted back up to the house at gunpoint by an obviously suspicious group.

  As they reached the porch a man appeared, wearing a loose-fitting white shirt, which flapped in the strong east-coast breeze, shorts and Adidas trainers. The man had a look of hatred and insanity and unfathomable anger in his dark eyes, and a silenced sub-machine gun in his huge hands.

  ‘Justus, I have a fucking problem.’

  The huge man grinned then, a broad grin, breaking the spell of fear, and shouted, ‘Papa Carter, you old dog! How the hell are you, Big Man? You a horny old goat who still has the bastard look of eagles about you? Come up here and give old Justus a hug.’

  Their stay was short, sweet and very much to the point. One of the twin fuel pumps had worn free of its housing, the matrix-mesh innards clipping the metal base and smashing it up, reducing fuel-pumping capacity. A new pump was needed. Justus said he would do what he could.

  With limited medical facilities Carter restitched a couple of Natasha’s wounds, applied fresh sterile dressings and gave himself an injection of antibiotics. He strapped up his broken finger and they showered quickly to remove the stench of travel and battle, sweat and blood.

  When ready, they waited on the porch of Justus’s huge white-walled house as night fell. An engine broke the silence; a huge Toyota Land Cruiser rumbled into view, a little battered and sand-scarred, the bright headlights carving a huge slice from the night pie. The vehicle squeaked to a halt on heavy springs, and Justus leaped out. The large black man, bald and grinning widely, slapped Carter on the back, making him groan in agony.

  ‘For you, and Mama Natasha,’ he boomed.

  ‘Mama Natasha?’ Nats’s hands went to her hips, her stance on the porch changing subtly from submissive to aggressive with barely a change of muscle tone.

  ‘It is a mark of respect,’ rumbled Justus, a frown creasing his huge black brow.

  ‘That,’ said Carter dryly, ‘doesn’t look like a Cessna fuel pump to me.’

  Justus shrugged. ‘I do what I can. This is all I can do; your part take maybe three days to arrive. This is Africa, Carter, not London or New York.’

  Carter sighed. ‘All I fucking need. A cross-country fucking trek.’

  ‘You look after my baby, Carter. You bring her back to her Papa; she cost me many shillings, understand?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ grinned Carter bitterly. ‘And anyway, you’ve got a Cessna out of the deal. More than a fair trade, I’d say.’

  Justus shouted to another man, his words fast and smooth in the local Swahili dialect. The man disappeared into the white-walled house, then returned with two rucksacks.

  ‘Supplies. For Mama Natasha.’ The huge black man smiled. He ran a hand across his shaved head, where a sheen of sweat could be seen in the light from the Toyota’s headlamps. ‘Now you be careful out there, Carter. This is not a place for a weak-kneed English white man!’

  Carter laughed, patting the man in return, his affection genuine. ‘You take care, Justus. And remember: we were never here. And we didn’t steal that Cessna on your lawn.’

  ‘Justus always remember for the right price.’

  They circled the Toyota - or what had once been a Toyota. The paint was peeling, and rust showed through. Parts of the coach-lines were dented and, worryingly, bullet holes rimed with rust peppered one flank. At the rear, a flat-back section had been devised - the rear seats had been ripped out and a huge upside-down U-bar welded into place. Mounted on this was a 106mm recoil-less rifle with a small box of ammunition.

  ‘This has seen the wars,’ said Natasha softly.

  ‘It’s a Technical,’ said Carter, helping Natasha into the cab of the customised Toyota. ‘What do you expect?’ He slung the rucksacks in the back, then climbed up himself and slammed the door, which shut with a dull clunk on the fourth attempt.

  ‘A what?’

  Carter turned the key. The vehicle rumbled into life, belching smoke from an impromptu welded exhaust. ‘A Technical. When a man needs - shall we say - off-the-record protection from the local guardians, he pays for a vehicle and a few armed men. He reclaims this cost on his balance sheet as “technical assistance” - hence Technicals.’ Carter wound down the window,
which groaned as if in pain. ‘Hey, you pack me a compass, Justus? Sometimes this low technology just gives me a hard-on.’

  ‘On the dash, white boy. You see? By all the gods, I hope you look after yourself. This not a tourist safari now! You not have comfy beds to fly back to!’

  Carter laughed again, pushed the grinding gears, then hit the accelerator. Wheels spun on loose gravel; the huge engine roared and they shot towards the gates where two men hurriedly pulled the iron barricades open. Carter accelerated down the narrow single-track dirt road, tyres bumping and thudding, and suddenly—

  Suddenly the light from the house had gone—

  And a terrible, complete darkness closed in.

  Natasha shivered. ‘Jesus, it’s dark out here.’

  ‘No ambient light,’ explained Carter. ‘No street lights, no house lights ... just landscape and wild animals. Including lots of monkeys.’

  Ahead stretched a perfectly straight dusty trail, lined with huge trees, swaying palms, and screeches from the darkness. The Toyota’s lights cut a slice of life from the black, but all around was the promise - the inherent threat - of oblivion ...

  ‘Relax,’ said Carter. ‘Get some sleep. I think you’re going to need all your energy when we meet Gol.’

  The dark trees flashed past, and the two fugitives were swallowed swiftly by the African night.

  It was over an hour past dawn. The sun had risen, a bright flash slicing over the horizon. The land changed from a gentle, purple-hazed hue - surrealistic, as if witnessed through frosted glass - to a bright hot furnace of sand and tangled trees. They travelled down a perfectly straight road - single-track, rough-dirt. It stretched ahead, an arrow, a slice of trail carved from the chaos of trees and jungle and scrubland that crowded the road, attempting to usurp its threadlike hold on some semblance of civilisation ...

  The tyres thudded over and into the ruts of the track.

  Monkeys screeched and fought in the trees beside the trail, sometimes on the track, scattering with squeals and chatters as the Toyota roared in its aggressive approach.

  Natasha moaned tenderly, fingers coming up to touch the sensitive area of her throat that had so very recently been punctured; Carter had claimed it was healing nicely, but to Natasha it still felt on fire ... a razor sitting in her windpipe and gnawing her flesh.