Spiral

by Andy Remic

  ‘Hmm, which part was romantic?’

  Carter smiled, tension easing from him. ‘Come on, we’re running late, thanks to this impromptu diversion. We need to get on the move. You got the digital maps?’

  ‘Everything is in the satchel.’

  Wrapped up, they moved to the BMW and Carter fired up the machine. Natasha settled herself on the back of the huge bike and they both turned, gazes fixing on Langan. ‘You know the procedures,’ said Carter.

  Langan nodded. ‘Be careful, guys.’

  Carter laughed harshly, pulling on his goggles. ‘We’ll be more than careful, mate; we’ll be deadly.’

  The rear wheel spun and gripped and kicked the bike away ...

  Just before setting out, Carter had given Nats a quick lesson on pillion riding, and a warning about riding over sand. ‘Lean with me,’ he had said. ‘Don’t throw yourself around on the bike, don’t get on or off without my permission and be warned: riding over sand is tough - I’ll have to hit it fast. If you don’t, you get bogged down, unless it’s real flat and packed.’

  Now, as the BMW surged forward, Natasha’s heart was in her mouth; the sun was beating down, sand rushed by to either side, and they left the Comanche and the flat rock-step behind as the BMW powered onto and up the first dune, torque-filled engine throbbing beneath them like a giant’s strong and beating heart. The BMW sailed over the sand, cutting out any need for tracks or roads, and as they crested the ridge, Carter still piling on the power, the beast’s front wheel lifted and they wheelied from the top of the sand dune in a shower of desert crimson.

  Another world opened up, a world of rolling sand, a great sea caressed by the wind, wave after wave stretching off to the horizon. Nothing moved, nothing stirred in this desert: no houses, no villages, no trees - just the occasional shrub or a scattering of rocks. A word leaped into Natasha’s mind to describe this place:

  Desolation.

  They powered forward, down the massive dune, and already sweat was trickling down the riders’ backs. Carter wrestled with the huge bike, could feel the sand trying to suck him down, pull him one way or another, swallow them; he fought back, increasing the power, building the speed, rising from the seat a little to stand on the pegs with Natasha clinging on tightly behind as they crested another rise in a shower of sand and sailed down the next drifting slope. Up and up went the speed; past 80 m.p.h., past 100 m.p.h. - shrubs fled past in a blur, sand spat to either side of the charging bike. Occasionally they hit a buried rock, the BMW’s suspension dipping, absorbing, but Carter kept her on course, kept the bike true as they flew like a bullet across the deserted no man’s land of Rub al’Khali in Saudi Arabia.

  They charged along under the sun.

  Carter could taste sweat when he licked at his sand-whipped lips. The sun beat down like a furnace. His eyes flickered, reading the GPS coordinates. He did not dare initiate the BMW’s ECube locking mechanism; it was one thing to signal a blip in a state of emergency, but to give their enemies a bright emergency flare to follow? That would be insanity.

  On and on they rode, merging with the landscape around the camouflaged stealth vehicle; sand dune crested into sand dune, a waving, rolling sea that they navigated with great effort. The bike flew on, until finally the dunes became smaller and the drifts came seemingly to an end.

  They arrived at a vast plain of flat-packed rock and sand, with huge outcroppings of stone cliff rearing in the distance. Rocks lay strewn everywhere, and Carter slowed the bike’s speed to a more moderate 70 m.p.h.

  They cruised almost in silence.

  ‘Thank God for that!’ Natasha spoke over the slight hiss of the wind. She was clinging on tightly and Carter, who had sat down once more, patted at her hands around his waist where they gripped for dear life.

  ‘Mad as fuck, eh?’

  ‘Mad as fuck,’ agreed Natasha.

  They cruised across the plain, the sun still high and burning, Carter’s eyes focused on the GPS. He swung the bike left, then slowed as an old ravine loomed - gritting his teeth, and with a wail from Natasha, he gave the big bike a kick of speed and they leaped from the rocky surface, dropping a good eight feet to land on the baked and cracked ravine bed. Suspension dipped, Natasha’s wail was cut short with a grunt, and the bike sped on as if nothing more than a floating rose petal had disturbed its trajectory.

  ‘You could have warned me!’

  ‘What’s the point? You’d only moan!’

  ‘Moan!’ moaned Natasha. ‘You miserable bastard!’

  ‘That’s the beauty of travelling by bike,’ shouted Carter. ‘Communication is made so much more difficult!’

  They cruised down the ravine, swaying left and right to avoid fallen rock debris. To their right stood a mammoth cliff, an obstacle in the desert, and as the ravine wound away, heading further to the west, Carter realised that they would have to ascend this precipice to reach the next stage of their journey.

  For an hour they followed the valley. Then, slowing his speed, Carter dropped a few gears. Finding a section where the rocky wall had collapsed, leaving an insanely steep slope of rubble, he slowed to a halt for a moment, his eyes focused intently.

  Natasha was panting. ‘This is fucking hard work.’

  ‘You’re not having to steer. Why do you think desert racers are such physically fit sons of bitches?’

  ‘Why have we stopped?’

  Carter lifted his goggles for a moment, rubbed at his eyes, and then cleaned sand from the goggles’ surface with the edge of his shamag. ‘If we carry on following the ravine, we’ll swing around in the wrong direction - we need to climb out.’

  ‘Climb out? We’ll never lift... oh.’

  Natasha had spotted the collapsed wall.

  ‘Hold on.’

  Carter screwed the throttle; the BMW leaped forward, needing little encouragement - they hammered across the flat, tyres chewing past baked desert earth, and mounted the slope like a ramp. Carter twisted the throttle and the engine roared beyond its stealth shielding ... the bike powered up the slope and jettisoned itself from the summit, sailing through the air with both riders clenching their teeth and the tyres spinning helplessly ... they landed, the heavy-duty suspension dipping to absorb the impact. Carter locked the back wheel and they skidded around in a broad arc, showering rock and sand.

  ‘You really are a crazy bastard,’ panted Natasha.

  ‘I try,’ smiled Carter. ‘But if you think that’s bad...’ He turned and pointed to the cliff.

  ‘What about it? It’s a wall of rock?’

  ‘It’s in our way.’

  ‘Carter, this fucking bike will not climb that.’

  ‘It will if you find the right paths.’

  They sped along for another couple of hours. Natasha was exhausted, and she knew that Carter was tiring - and becoming increasingly frustrated because of this natural barrier that would soon send them in the wrong direction - and away from Spiral_Q and Feuchter beyond.

  As the sun began to sink, Carter halted, shading his eyes. The rocky wall faltered - as it had on several occasions before - but this time there were huge steps, cut into the flanks and banked with crumbling stones and fallen rocks. Many of the steps were rounded, weathered by wind and blown sand; they formed a steep and treacherous series of ramps, rising perhaps three storeys into the sky.

  ‘No, Carter.’

  ‘Yes, Natasha. This baby can do it.’

  ‘Oh no, I value my life.’

  ‘I value Feuchter’s death more,’ growled Carter. He blipped the engine. ‘Hold on, babe, we’re going to do some hill climbing.’

  The BMW cruised forward - gently this time and with care as Carter’s gaze raked across the ramps and steps arranged ahead of him like some crazy game or puzzle. He cruised along the foot of the cliff, back and forth several times with his gaze following various paths up the slopes to the top of the ridge. Then, only when he was happy, did he ease in a little more power and turn the BMW’s nose towards the steep climb.


  With precision and control, Carter eased the BMW up a series of gentle slopes, then flicked the bike’s head right, blipping the power to climb the back wheel up a step. Rubber gripped, the huge bike surged a little and Carter reined her in with both brakes. A ramp to the left brought them up onto another level, then a series of small rocks piled atop one another acted like steps as the BMW ate them with ease.

  Now halfway up, Natasha gazed down. If it had looked steep from the bottom, now it looked insane; she felt suddenly vulnerable, gazing down at the ravine through which they travelled and the flat plain beyond, bordered distantly by more rolling sand dunes drifting lazily as far as the eye could see.

  Shadows danced in their path, cast by the low-slung rays of the setting sun. Natasha put her head against Carter’s back, closed her sand-crusted eyes and prayed.

  The bike jolted, bucked, scrambled and fought its way up the slope, bumping and rocking, engine growling, fighting, tyres spinning and gripping as Carter, sweat rolling down his forehead, gaze focused in intense concentration, finally launched them from the top of a trough and onto another plain of sand and loose-strewn rocks.

  Natasha patted his shoulder.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I think we need a break.’

  ‘Sounds good. I am truly, truly shafted.’

  They cruised for a while longer until Natasha’s sharp eyes spotted the distant oasis, outlined in crimson as the sun made its final attempt to stave off night. Carter altered their course, and before long the trees came closer and it was a weary rider who at last silenced the bike’s thumping heart.

  They had camouflaged the BMW R 2150 GS Adventurer beside this small oasis, decorating the powerful customised bike with huge green palm fronds.

  ‘Jesus, it’s so hot,’ gasped Natasha and Carter said nothing. He was bright red, mostly from heat exhaustion, a little from the pain in his stomach. He was finding it hard to breathe because of the heat.

  Carter slumped to the ground and ran his hand along the flat, smooth rock. ‘This place is old,’ he said softly, his voice carrying a tone of awe. ‘Really old.’

  Natasha nodded, kicking free her boots and splashing water from the small circular pool into her face, combing it into her desert-dry hair. She moaned in mock ecstasy, and rolled onto her back to stare at the sun descending rapidly over the horizon. ‘I never believed I could be so hot,’ she complained.

  Carter smiled. ‘In the middle of hostile territory on a mission bound for certain destruction and all you can complain about is the sun. Girl, this is nothing; you should try Thailand. Or the Philippines ... now those places are real hot.’

  Natasha roused herself and rummaged in the small sack that she carried - the contents of which were mainly made up of Carter’s smash-and-grab from Langan’s personal stash. She held up a lump of cheese. She sniffed at it suspiciously. ‘Does this look OK to you?’

  ‘Looks don’t come into it, but my acute hunger does. Give it ... here ...’ He reached towards the cheese. Natasha swayed aside.

  ‘Wait, wait, let me try ...’

  She took a small bite and smiled broadly. ‘Extremely tasty.’ She pulled free a loaf and began to eat. Carter lay back, closed his eyes and wiped sweat from his forehead.

  According to the GPS and digital map link they were closing fast on Spiral_Q. Several more hours without incident and they would arrive and then—

  What?

  Carter knew: he would interrogate Feuchter. And then he would kill the man. There was nothing Feuchter could say that would excuse him of the crime of betrayal.

  Spiral might have let him free. But Carter would not.

  And besides - Spiral had its own problems at the moment...

  Carter took the loaf from Natasha. Chewed mechanically. For his mind had wandered - more than wandered, he was reliving that day, that night at Castle Schwalenberg, reliving that terrible moment when Feuchter and Maria had turned against him, forcing Kade into existence for a terrible bright few minutes of black and white—

  Carter blinked.

  His head tilted to one side.

  That’s right, he thought. Black and white. Kade saw everything in black and white.

  Why?

  Carter rested his head back.

  ‘I have missed you,’ said Kade softly.

  ‘You have been absent since Kenya. Sulking, were you, you little shit?’

  ‘I was thinking. Contemplating,’ said Kade, his voice still soft. There was something about the tone - the change of tone - that unnerved Carter. Yes, he was used to Kade screaming ... but this ... this was strange ...

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Carter finally.

  There came a sigh, like the dry passing of autumn leaves over a grave. Carter felt himself shiver and he looked up - back in the real word - and his gaze met Natasha’s as Kade’s presence became even more menacing at the back of his skull.

  ‘I have been thinking. About our relationship.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Carter could not keep the snarl from his tone.

  ‘And I have been thinking about Natasha.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She works for the Nex,’ said Kade softly.

  ‘You are wrong.’

  ‘No. She works for the Nex and that fucking meat-carver Feuchter. Carter, I have been thinking; it wasn’t you who led the Nex to Gol. It was her. I bet she contacted them - or was somehow bugged. You are just her piggyback ride; her host; and she is the parasite. She betrayed her own father out of hatred; wept her fake tears and you all believed her and now she’s here, in your pocket and trusted by you and that fuckwit Langan.’

  ‘I think you should stop,’ said Carter.

  ‘If you wish, Carter. But just think about it. Seriously. Think about it and think about the QIII schematics - the Nex’s goal. Natasha worked on the inception of the QIII for Spiral... she has always known what it can do, what it is capable of. She used to work with Feuchter - I bet you didn’t know that, dickhead. Therefore, maybe the QIII is Natasha’s goal as well. Maybe she works for - the Big Man.’

  ‘You are wrong.’

  ‘Why am I?’ Kade’s voice was still soft, a heroin needle easing into the vein of Carter’s subconscious. ‘She brought you the Schwalenberg mission - every fucker on the planet can see that one was a set-up. Part of the execution of the DemolSquads. And she came to warn you - ha. Just because she took a bullet doesn’t mean she can be trusted. Notoriously bad shots, these assassins, eh? And then she fucked your brains out, ahh, how sweet. And how convenient: fuck with your brain and then fuck with your dick, soften you up, make you even more compliant and controllable—’

  Carter looked up. Saw Natasha staring at him strangely. She spoke to him, but everything seemed suddenly surreal; the world had descended into black and white, all colours, all shades vanished and Nats moved towards him as Kade’s heady rich voice ran like warm honey through his brain—

  ‘We need to kill her, brother, kill her and leave her body here to rot in this ditch. She is a spy. She will betray us. We have to work together on this. Carter, Natasha is the enemy.’

  Carter felt the world swimming.

  Natasha reached for him, her mouth open, her words unheard—

  ‘No!’

  The scene swung violently back into focus. Colours swam, the scene like a water-splashed painting, hues running in vertical lines and Kade’s cool mocking laughter fading as Carter retook control. He looked up into Natasha’s concerned eyes.

  ‘No - what?’ she said.

  Carter merely licked his dry lips and released a tightly held breath.

  ‘Are you feeling OK? You look grey, weak. I think you need to have a few hours’ rest.’

  ‘I ...’ began Carter, then halted. He realised: Kade had nearly taken him. Nearly taken control without his permission, without his consent - a mind-rape, a brain-fuck.

  Carter shivered. ‘I think I’m weaker than I first realised. From the bullet wound; from the loss of blood. I will sleep
now.’

  ‘Good,’ soothed Natasha. She ran back to the BMW under the fast-failing light and retrieved a thin blanket from a pannier. As she stood, her eyes took in the twilight desert rolling away for infinity and she felt suddenly lonely - and incredibly, frighteningly vulnerable.

  She shivered as sand whipped around her boots.

  What would she do if Carter died out here?

  What would she do if she was left alone?

  She looked hurriedly round, over her shoulder, into the darkness pooling under the boughs of the date palms that crowded the rocky basin, questing for water—

  Natasha shivered again, deep down to her bones.

  When she returned, Carter was asleep. She covered him with the blanket; she did not see the Browning 9mm in his hand as he nestled in the darkness. She did not see that the safety catch was slipped into the opposition. And, of course, she could not see the bullet loaded snugly into the firing chamber.

  They had decided against building a small fire, despite the chill of the desert night; this part of Rub al’Khali was not as desolate as it first appeared, and all they needed was a platoon of the White Guard stumbling across them as they cooked sausages. The subsequent questions would be awkward.

  Natasha, strangely, felt very alive; no need for sleep touched her and she sat huddled in the robes that Carter had acquired for her, only her face visible from within the folds of the shamag, eyes staring up at the twinkling stars.

  Around her, the small bowl depression - and the desert beyond its boundaries - was silent. Occasionally noises would interrupt the silence; the cries of hyena and jackals, the scuffling of lizards and sand grouse. After a while, Natasha gazed down to watch Carter’s face in sleep. She studied the lines, the curve of his twisted nose, the profile of his chin, the tousle of short hair that she knew he would claim was ready for a fresh shaving. His shape was obscured in the gloom and muffled by his clothing, but she imagined the taut muscles beneath the robe... and imagined herself lying beside him, their bodies naked and pressed together, him coming awake, his hands on her hips and her breasts...

  She killed the fantasy.

  Carter had been cold recently. Cold and strange ... Occasionally light banter would break through his shell, but she could sense his pain; not just physical pain but something internal - the demon he carried in his soul? She smiled dryly. Who could believe such a thing? Surely it was a mental state - some form of delusion, some attempt at blocking out the brutal and violent side of his work, especially from his past during his days with Spiral... what better way than to blame the murders he committed on something that dwelled within him, some part of his soul that he could not and would not answer to? That way, all guilt fell from his shoulders and he could sleep at night.