Spiral

by Andy Remic

  The sun rose; so did the temperature. Carter wound down the windows, and fresh breeze heavy with tree scents and dust flowed into the cabin. The Toyota’s air-con was totally shot and the fuel gauge reported its precious load erratically.

  They passed through a village. Most of the houses were huts, built from mud bricks and a random selection of breeze-block, stone, wood and corrugated iron, which had rusted in the rains and now displayed deep orange streaks. Fires burned by the edge of the road, with groups of villagers standing around. Some worked, one old grey-haired man sharpening knives. He paused as they rumbled past, lifted his arm and waved. Natasha, smiling, waved back. A swathe of children ran after the Toyota, hands outstretched.

  They left the village, heading inland over rough roads that the Toyota ate with ease.

  They drove for an hour, tyres churning the red dust which flew up to coat the entire vehicle in a fine matt veil. When they stopped, to empty their bladders and to stretch their legs, they stood under the baking sun for a moment and eased their backs. The tyres of the Toyota were stained red and, glancing down, Carter saw the fine dust covering his boots - and he felt intimate with the African land, almost welcomed back ... it covered him, possessed him, called him its own ... he was a child again ... The sun was high, a singular piercing eye. It was incredibly hot, almost unbearably so without the coastal breeze to cool their skin. The scrubland seemed to stretch off to infinity.

  They rumbled on, stopping at an insanely ambitious outpost to fill up with diesel and buy a few supplies -mainly of the liquid nature. There was even a fridge, with a few out-of-date cans of chilled lager. Carter bought them and half fulfilled Natasha’s heat-induced fantasy ...

  Another two hours saw them climbing a rise. Carter licked his lips, and slowed the vehicle to a halt on the summit of the track. Rock reared up to either side, and this seemed to be an entrance - a doorway or marker to a mammoth canyon walled by low red-rock mountains and filled with a wide sweeping splash of orange trees.

  ‘Down there,’ he said simply.

  ‘What?’

  ‘One of Spiral’s hidden outposts ... and Gol.’

  Natasha stared. ‘All I see is trees. I knew there was an outpost out here somewhere - after all, I am a Spiral Tactical Officer - but it’s fucking well disguised!’ Natasha’s voice was a little strained, her gaze searching the canyon.

  ‘Someone will come shortly. They’ll have sentries. We haven’t got this far untagged, I assure you. Let’s just hope they don’t shoot us on sight, eh, love? But then, that isn’t Spiral company policy, is it?’ He gave Natasha a sly sideways glance. And she knew; the mistrust was still there. He wasn’t sure if she was real or ... or what? A Spiral spy?

  But then, in all the years she had known him, Carter had never trusted anybody. It would have surprised her if he was to change now.

  Within a minute an old US army jeep, bearing five black men wearing cut-off combats and little else, arrived. They all sported an array of gleaming weapons and Carter watched them warily, the Browning in his hand held concealed between his legs.

  He smiled broadly.

  ‘Hiya, guys. Coupla tourists, out sightseeing, you know how it is.’

  ‘You leave here,’ said a large man in a gruff voice. He lumped down from the jeep, bare feet leaving imprints in the red sand. ‘This not a good place for you to be visiting.’

  ‘But maybe I’d like to catch up on an old buddy while I’m out playing with the elephants. One happy old Mr Gol. R’ng any bells?’

  ‘Nobody here by that name,’ said the big man.

  Natasha leaned across Carter and saw the man grin, gleaming white teeth turning his face from an intense mask of controlled hatred to a thing of beauty, a visage of soft lines and generosity.

  ‘Tell him that his daughter, Natasha, is here.’

  The man stared. He did not blink. Then he nodded to another man, who crossed over from the jeep and climbed into the back of the Toyota. ‘Drive straight through the trees. Head for the white-walled house. Try nothing funny or Benjamin here—’ he patted the other man’s arm — well, his gun sing a song for him.’

  The large man leaped back into the jeep. Carter gunned the Toyota and rolled slowly over the lip of the ridge. Wheels bumped over a rim of jagged rock and then they were in—

  Inside the canyon.

  Inside Gol’s lair.

  The jeep followed, automatic weapons bristling, and Carter eased the Toyota down into the verdant valley, the track soon disappearing to be replaced by soft earth. People were out, mainly women, harvesting and trimming the trees, wicker baskets of fruit on the grass as they worked. Carter guided the Toyota for the full mile through the orange-tree orchards. Sometimes there would be a break in the trees allowing sunlight to stream over the vehicle - but then they were back in the shade and they welcomed the coolness, the protection of these orange trees after their journey through the scrubland. The red walls of the canyon reared to either side; threatening; enclosing; insular. Carter licked his lips nervously, and decided that he did not like this place ...

  Gol was waiting, hands on his hips, eyes staring down at the ground as if deep in thought. Carter halted the Toyota, climbed out and allowed the Browning to be taken from him. Natasha climbed down and stood, gazing up at the sun for a moment before fixing her eyes on her—

  ‘Father?’

  Gol’s head jerked up. He smiled briefly, then his gaze turned to Carter and the kindly expression fell from his face.

  ‘They call you The Butcher,’ he said softly, his deep voice the rumble of the Earth’s shifting plates. ‘They say you killed men - women - children. Anything that stood in your way. Without remorse.’

  Carter said nothing. He made no move. He merely allowed his gaze to remain fixed on Gol, a silent invisible umbilical of connection - a linking that Natasha did not quite understand.

  ‘The report said that on that day you went insane.’

  ‘No,’ said Carter softly.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ whispered Gol, eyes intense.

  ‘It was ... messed up. And when I shot you, Gol, it was to keep you alive, not to take away your life.’

  There came a long, tense pause.

  ‘You are the legendary Dark Knight of Spiral’s history.’

  ‘That title is ... misplaced,’ said Carter gently.

  ‘How so? How can one earn such a name without actions? How can one become so revered and feared in an organisation like Spiral without action, without destruction - without demolition?’ The contempt in Gol’s voice could not be missed.

  ‘I saved your life,’ said Carter slowly. ‘I saved your life, Gol. I know you have always hated me - because of my links with Natasha, and because of my reputation and because of what happened in Egypt and later at Cairo7 ... And I know you will have read all the crap printed about me in those little electronic ECube memos ... but you really, really have it wrong. I know you will find it hard to trust me on this ... but I swear to you that Spiral did a better job on me than they did on you ...’

  Gol was silent. He lifted his Glock 9mm and examined the barrel.

  Carter calmed his fluttering heart; he relaxed his muscles and readied himself - for Gol’s body language was the body language of preparation.

  Carter’s eyes scanned the available weaponry and he realised, realised too late that maybe he had overestimated Gol’s ... humanity - understanding - nature?

  And it came to Carter in a flash of profound understanding. Gol was the same. The same as Carter. The same breed ...

  ‘This is dangerous,’ said Kade.

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘Let me take him. I can fucking take him.’

  ‘No!’ he hissed inwardly.

  Carter closed his eyes as pain lanced through his exhausted mind, through his head, burning bright red and glowing with white edges; he dropped slowly to his knees, panting, and Gol no longer existed and it didn’t matter and nothing mattered and the surge of adrenalin was dying and he
placed his head in his hands. Pain smashed like a stormy sea against the walls of his memory and his mind. A low moan growled through his lips and Natasha was there, holding Carter in her arms. She stroked his brow free of sweat, rocked with him in the dirt and looked up at Gol - at her father—

  ‘Get him inside. In the cool. Now!’

  ‘What is wrong with him?’ came Gol’s deep rumble.

  ‘I don’t know. He’s exhausted ... Help him, father. Please help him.’

  Gol gestured and the large black men approached, lifting Carter easily and helping him to stumble into the house. ‘I will help him now, but I cannot guarantee what will come later.’

  ‘You cannot see it?’

  ‘See what?’ growled the huge man.

  ‘Can’t see the fucking wood for the trees, father - he is you. He is the same as you. You call him an assassin; a destroyer. And what the fuck were you under Spiral? What the hell were you doing in Prague, and Egypt, and later Afghanistan, in the first place? You are like brothers... and you are a fucking hypocrite.’

  Gol stood for a moment, staring hard at Natasha. She lowered her eyes then, in fear, almost as if reverting to childhood. Distant memories taking over; reflex actions from a lost world. Gol stepped forward, took her in his arms and hugged her, kissing the top of her head. ‘I have missed you, girl. Despite everything I said to you back in London... and the world has moved on since then, the world has changed ... savage events have brought us together. The attempted smashing of Spiral has brought you back to me, hasn’t it, my girl?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gol lifted Natasha’s head. Wiped tears from her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive me for the evil words I spoke? That was not me, Natasha. That was not me... and ... I understand what you are trying to say. About Carter. I understand.’

  ‘I forgive you,’ she whispered, and hugged the huge man tight. ‘I missed you, father. I have been so alone without you.’

  Gol held her close as the sunlight played over the two embracing figures among the orange trees.

  Spiral_Memo5

  Transcript of recent news incident

  CodeRed_Z;

  unorthodox incident scan 455827

  Between 05:00 AM and 05.25 AM (GMT), a variety of high-tech jets and attack helicopters from a range of countries including Germany, Italy, Japan, USA, Norway and Israel crashed in or around their respective countries within a few minutes of one another.

  All jets were modern fighters, including MIG24s and newly revealed Comanche NV prototypes. All air vehicles were on practice manoeuvres and all pilots are reported dead.

  Prior to crashes, no pilot reported adverse conditions, technical failures or any suspicious factors.

  A spokesperson for the US military made this comment: ‘The US is working closely with all other countries who have suffered recent similar tragic events. We are comparing logistical data including weather reports and are also combining retrieval efforts in order to examine black-box recordings. We hope to have answers within the next few days. Terrorist activity has not been ruled out.’>>#

  CHAPTER 12

  NEX

  The Boeing 747 flashed through the sunlight, engines whining in deceleration. Mountains reared all around, peaks soaring skywards. The Boeing banked and came smoothly down to land amid and seemingly within the mountains, suspension dipping as the tyres met with the sand-blown runway, an incredible feat of skill by the pilot.

  The plane taxied to a halt and the single emergency vehicle at the rough rocky edges of the runway sat watching lethargically in the heat. A huge black Land Rover rumbled across the hard-packed dust as rusting makeshift steps were laboriously hauled by two heavy-set men and attached to the large plane’s exit hatchway.

  The 747’s singular passenger stepped out, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. He was a large man, his dark hair flecked with grey. His greying beard was neatly trimmed and combed, and he wore an expensive German suit and the finest handcrafted Italian shoes. He carried a small bag in one large hand, and descended the steps with measured care, apparently unaffected by the blast wall of heat that contrasted so dramatically with the coolness of the recently pressurised aeroplane cabin.

  ‘Count Feuchter, welcome.’ The voice was heavily accented, and Feuchter nodded at the man garbed in desert-combat gear. Feuchter seemed unconcerned that his host carried a black sub-machine gun, its matt surface dull in the sunlight.

  The driver of the black Land Rover opened the door and Feuchter climbed into the cool interior. The door clicked solidly shut, shading the occupant from further harassment by the sun. The military-clad man climbed in the opposite side, and within minutes the heavy-duty off-road vehicle was purring and bumping along the primitive runway and out of the tiny desert airport carved from the mountains.

  They drove in silence. At first the roads were narrow, dusty, unused. They drove for several hours, down narrow passes and around sharp bends, along roads little more than tracks and crowded by scrub bushes and wild hardy trees, and through explosive-blasted rock canyons, They reached the flatlands, the Land Rover’s heavy tyres humming and bumping, and eventually came to a city. All the while Feuchter sat, perfectly composed, eyes closed, mindset calm.

  They passed large tenement blocks, some crumbling and run-down, surrounded by fencing and barbed wire. Children dressed in rags scattered from their path; and then the Land Rover moved out from the suburbs, out into a stretch of dusty rural land that was poorly irrigated, populated by obviously poverty-stricken workers who glanced up as this ridiculously luxurious vehicle - so out of place in this area of Saudi - cruised past. Feuchter forced himself to smile at the contrast. The thought pleased him.

  They had to stop once, where a cattle herder had his herd milling in the road. With a wave of apology, the man slowly - painfully slowly - herded the ragged collection of goats and worse-for-wear cows out of the vehicle’s path and Feuchter was on his way without any emotion flickering even for an instant on his neatly barbered face. His dark eyes stared straight ahead.

  The Land Rover passed through the suburbs of a tiny town. The low, sand-blown sun-bleached houses were fashioned of brick and stone and breeze-block, many only half-built; chickens skittered, clucking madly, from the vehicle’s path and people turned to stare, shading their eyes from the harshness of the sun.

  Feuchter watched, his intelligent eyes twinkling as a man failed miserably to control his three camels and had to sprint after them into the sand and scrub, past rickety rusting corrugated fences and ramshackle boarded huts.

  Feuchter finally settled back—

  Closed his eyes—

  And slept.

  They drove for hours.

  They passed no more settlements.

  The Land Rover rumbled and bumped into the desert on an unnamed road, its destination the middle of nowhere, its purpose unguessable.

  Feuchter did not dream. Feuchter never dreamed. To Feuchter, sleep was a pure form of regeneration so close to death that it shared the same stable. And dreams: dreams were something that happened to other people.

  ‘Sir.’

  Feuchter rubbed at his eyes. He felt refreshed. The air-con worked reasonably well. ‘Are we there?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The Land Rover halted at a high electrified fence. Passes were flashed and armed guards peered into the vehicle’s interior. Then they were allowed through. The Land Rover swept down a long winding concrete road, between two hills of sand and scrub and into a circular depression in the landscape, which housed the single visible storey of the stone, glass and steel complex of Spiral Section Q.

  The car was met by a squad of semi-military personnel, heavily armed. Feuchter stepped from the Land Rover and the men saluted him. He smiled in acknowledgement and, with a small entourage, walked through the steel doors that hissed open in response to the group’s proximity.

  The interior was cool; controlled. Marble floors stretched away in a huge reception hall; it was almost like a
hotel, with low couches and tall potted plants at strategic intervals. A huge reception desk stretched along one wall and glass elevators in clear shafts went down to the carefully temperature- and humidity-controlled depths where the bulk of chip and other hardware production and research was carried out.

  Feuchter shook hands with Adams, the Head of Developments.

  ‘How are you, sir?’

  ‘Well, considering I was shot recently.’

  ‘I heard about that, sir. We were all glad to hear of your swift recovery. Was it true that it was an assassination attempt? On you, or your niece?’

  Feuchter stared hard at the man, who suddenly went white.

  ‘I... I... meant...’

  ‘You will never mention my niece again,’ he said softly.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, Count Feuchter.’

  ‘Explain to me what the communications situation is with our companion Sections.’

  ‘Since the explosion in London nobody seems to know what is going on. Communications are suspended between many Sections - we tried to find out if you were in London at the time of the explosion, but this information was withheld from us. And considering that the Hub had been destroyed ...’

  Feuchter merely nodded, then asked, ‘How successful has the Accelerated Group Phase been?’

  ‘We have garnered 95% reaction factors.’

  ‘It needs to be 98%.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Within the next two days.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is there any news on the QIII Proto Schematics?’

  ‘No, sir. This is still a mystery to us. Mr Durell has called several times, and wants to speak with you upon your return.’

  Feuchter left the entourage behind and stepped into the elevator and the welcoming silence. The tube hissed away and carried him down to the lower floor that he occupied alone. He kicked off his shoes, draped his jacket over the back of a low couch and walked past a variety of carvings and statues towards his twenty-foot-long ebony desk. He pulled a fine Cuban cigar - a Vega Robaina Dos Alejandros - from a carved rosewood box, then poured himself a brandy and sat back in his plush leather chair. The comm buzzed.