Ultimate Weapon

by Chris Ryan

  ‘So just what are you doing here exactly?’

  ‘Looking for Sarah,’ said Nick flatly.

  Jed stopped in his tracks. ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Is there a bloody echo around here?’ said Nick. Jed remained rooted to the spot. The Black Hawk had long since disappeared above the clouds, and the scrubland had fallen completely silent. ‘Sarah’s in Iraq?’

  Nick nodded. ‘So I’m told,’ he replied gruffly. He turned round, and started marching towards the ridge again. ‘Like I said, if we don’t get our arses out of here, the Iraqis are going to be serving our balls up for Saddam Hussein’s breakfast. Now, how the fuck do we get out of here? And how the hell do we get into Baghdad?’

  Jed shook his head. ‘Christ,’ he muttered. ‘What the hell did I do to deserve this?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Nick. ‘Now, which way to Baghdad? Or do I have to hail a bloody taxi?’

  Jed jerked his hand to the east. ‘Big dirty-looking place in that direction,’ he said. ‘Keep walking, and if you get lost, just follow a missile. You’ll find it OK.’

  Nick turned round to look at him. ‘So, are you coming?’ he said.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Jed crouched down by the side of the concrete pylon. About fifty feet above him, he could hear the heavy rumble of a tank moving across the tarmac surface of the road. He glanced at Nick. ‘You reckon we rest?’ he asked.

  Nick shook his head. ‘While it’s night, we keep walking.’

  Jed checked his watch. It was just after two. They had been walking for more than an hour already, going first through open wasteland, then snaking alongside Highway 8 which ran up towards the Tigris and then into the centre of the city. When the road dipped down so it was level with the ground, they moved out five hundred yards to make sure they were out of range of the headlamps of any vehicles moving along it. Where the highway was raised above the road on pylons, they moved underneath it, keeping within the shadows of the concrete. Occasionally they heard the roar of a passing vehicle above them. At other times, the rattle of anti-aircraft fire. They counted six missile strikes on the city as they walked, each one marked by a brilliant electric flash as it exploded. But it was quiet compared with last night.

  ‘I don’t suppose you brought any grub with you,’ said Jed.

  ‘Some biscuits,’ said Nick. ‘A few chocolate bars and some of the Yank MREs.’

  ‘No chance of a bacon sarnie, then,’ said Jed.

  ‘In your dreams, mate,’ said Nick.

  Jed shrugged. He already had some biscuits and some water in his kitbag. He stopped to take a swig from his bottle, then started moving again. This part of the journey was easy enough. Getting into the centre would be a lot more difficult. And finding Sarah and getting her out again might be virtually impossible.

  I’ve watched three men die there already. I wouldn’t be surprised to watch a couple more.

  Along the way, Nick had explained what had happened, at least so far as he knew. Sarah had been lifted into Iraq, and was being held captive here. Jed was furious when he learnt that the missile strike he’d directed into the plant had really been designed to kill the woman he loved. Even by the standards of the Firm, that seemed a shocking decision. The only consolation he could find was that she had escaped: if he hadn’t spotted the van moving out of the plant, the Firm would have assumed she was dead, and Sarah would be rotting inside some Iraqi jail, with no hope of escape. At least this way, they’d sent somebody to get her out again.

  ‘Why the hell did they send you, then?’ said Jed.

  ‘I’m her dad, and I know this country,’ said Nick. ‘God knows when the ground troops might make their way up to Baghdad. They might be cruel bastards over in Vauxhall, but they aren’t stupid. They want Sarah back, and you and I are the best two men to find her.’ He paused, looking across at Jed. ‘Well, one of us is anyway.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jed gruffly.

  They were approaching the inner circle of the city now. Jed checked his watch. Three fifteen. He reckoned they had another couple of hours before the sun started to rise, and the city started to come to life. There was a strict curfew, and if an army patrol saw them, they would certainly be shot on sight, but if they stuck to the side streets, moved through the shadows, and kept well away from any moving vehicles, they had a chance. Much of the army looked to have been moved to the outskirts of the city already, working on its defences, and some of the troops would have already headed south to meet the expected invasion, so there were fewer men left to patrol Baghdad. That would work to their advantage. They just had to make sure they were cautious every step of the way.

  Keeping at least five yards apart, they carried on walking. A couple of times as they made their way through the industrial suburbs they heard military vehicles approaching, but by ducking into alleyways they managed to avoid being noticed. Two fires were raging where missiles had struck near the centre of the city, and the orange glow of the flames fanned out across the town, but apart from that, there seemed to be a strict blackout in force. All the windows were shuttered and the lights switched off. It was harder to find your way, particularly on the narrow side streets, but it also gave them more cover. In the darkness, two men in black clothes who didn’t want to be seen could get hidden easily enough.

  By four in the morning, they had hit the banks of the Tigris. Jed knelt down by the water and dipped his fingers into the fast-flowing water. It felt colder than he remembered it, and dirtier as well; at least one bridge had been taken out in the missile strikes the previous night, filling the water with swirling debris that was still floating past more than twenty-four hours later. They were about a mile downstream from where they had attempted the crossing last time: Jed could still vividly remember the look of agony on Rob’s face as they left him.

  ‘It’s a decade since I was last here and it still looks like crap,’ said Nick.

  ‘One of our boys died here,’ said Jed.

  ‘How?’ asked Nick gruffly.

  ‘We were trying to get across in a boat,’ said Jed. ‘We were spotted from the bridge and came under heavy fire. Rob was wounded and there was nothing we could do for the poor sod.’

  ‘A boat,’ spluttered Nick. ‘Christ, what’s the matter with you boys? Afraid of getting your hair wet, are you?’

  ‘What the hell are we meant to do?’ said Jed. ‘Swim across?’

  Nick was already stripping off his shirt, and taking off his heavy boots. He knelt down, packing both items into his kitbag, then slung it over his back and started walking across the pebbles that led down into the water. Fuck, thought Jed. He’s serious about swimming this thing. ‘Listen,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve been in this bastard of a river once already. The currents are stronger than you can imagine.’

  Nick turned to look at him. The water was already up to his waist, and already swirling around him. ‘My daughter’s on the other side of that river somewhere, and I’m the only bugger who’s likely to help her,’ he said, the grim resolve evident in the tone of his voice. ‘There isn’t a boat, and even if there was, it would be a lot easier to spot than a man swimming alone. The bridges are going to be guarded. That means the only way across is to swim, and if I sink to the bottom, well, at least I’ll have tried.’ He paused, turning round and wading deeper into the river. ‘But if you’re afraid, then you just stay right there.’

  Sod it, thought Jed. The old bugger is even crazier than I thought. ‘Let’s do it properly,’ he muttered. He stripped off his shirt, and tucked his boots into his kitbag. The bags needed as much buoyancy as possible to help keep them afloat. They strapped the rifles on to the top of the bags then slung a rope between them to keep them together. That way, they wouldn’t lose each other in the river.

  Jed scanned the surface of the river, but it looked quiet enough. They were at least a mile from any of the bridges, and although there were some boats moored about three hundred yards upstream, they looked as if they were empty. It was, he judged, about five hu
ndred yards across the river at this point, but from what he knew of it, the swell and currents would be dangerous, taking them a long way downstream before they managed to hit the safety of the opposite shore.

  Nick had already plunged into the water, kicking forward with a series of powerful strokes. Jed followed in his wake. The water felt freezing cold against his skin, and his feet were sinking deep into the mud and slime of the riverbed. He was determined to stay on his feet for as long as possible: he was a strong swimmer, but it was a good distance across and he needed to conserve his strength. As the water swirled up around his neck, Jed kicked up with his feet and started to swim, using all the muscles in his shoulders and legs to propel himself swiftly along. Nick was close by, holding on to his kitbag and making solid progress. The swimming was easy enough, Jed found. The swells were helping to keep him afloat, while the current was no major obstacle. Not yet, anyway.

  Within minutes he had covered the first hundred yards, then two hundred. He was close to the centre of the river now. A burst of anti-aircraft fire exploded from one of the gun emplacements staggered along the bank of the Tigris, briefly filling the sky with showers of green and yellow light, but when that died down the river was shrouded in darkness. A sudden wave was kicked up by a distant explosion, hitting Jed in the side with the force of a hammer. His grip loosened on the rope, and he could feel himself being carried away from it.

  ‘Nick,’ he shouted.

  Nothing.

  As he recovered, Jed started swimming again. He suddenly realised he could no longer see the shoreline he had swum from, nor the one he was swimming towards. He could see Nick, just, still ploughing ahead of him, maybe twenty-five yards away, but otherwise nothing. He was completely surrounded by water. There was no way of knowing how far he had come, or how far he still had to swim. The current was picking up strength. All rivers have their own streams and flow, Jed reminded himself. On the Tigris, the strong currents were all on the north side of the river. The water was pushing harder into him now, and the strokes were becoming more difficult. He was pulling his arms through the water, but like a boxer whose blood was up, the river was now fighting back. For every five yards he moved forward, he was being dragged another yard downstream. The debris from the missile strikes had been caught up in the stronger currents and was swirling past him. A chunk of wood caught Jed in the ribs, pushing him off balance. A sheet of plastic snagged on to his legs, and had to be kicked away. His hands were catching on rubbish as he tried to push himself further forwards, and on the surface of the Tigris there was a thickening layer of foam and dirt.

  Jed could feel himself tiring. His muscles were aching, and his breath was starting to shorten. Looking ahead, he’d lost sight of Nick. The old man had been some yards ahead, but he must have been dragged downstream. Or under. It was impossible to tell. He took a deep breath, and put his head down, trying to swim underwater for a few yards, avoiding the debris. As he burst back up to the surface, he could feel the thick foam sticking to his hair, as if he had been dipped in slime. Taking a lungful of air, he looked around. The water was pitch black. Nothing. Not even a glimpse of the shore. ‘Nick,’ he hissed. ‘Where the fuck are you, man?’

  Jed paused, waiting for the reply, and sensing this was way beyond him. He could feel the water closing around him, and for a moment he felt cold with fear. ‘Where the fuck are you?’ he repeated, risking raising his voice.

  Silence.

  He kicked his legs hard into the water to propel himself forward. A twitch. Jed could feel it in the back of his thigh. ‘Bugger,’ he muttered. He’d had cramp before, and knew how to recognise its first signs. He could make another hundred yards, but not much more. He looked ahead, peering into the darkness. He’d lost track of how far he’d come, and how far he still had to go. There were no lights visible from either shore, no matter how hard he looked. Maybe the debris has knocked me off course, Jed told himself grimly. Fuck it, I might even be swimming the wrong direction by now.

  Reaching out, Jed grabbed at a large object floating by. He needed something to keep himself afloat, so he could use all his strength to kick back with his legs and propel himself forward. He gripped it with both hands, steadied himself, then pushed out. The cramp in his leg was starting to ache, the pain creeping up into his back, but he still had movement. Ignore it, he told himself. Succumb to the pain, and you’re a dead man.

  Jed looked at the object he was clinging on to. A glassy eye was staring back at him, cold and sad and dead. Shit, he thought. I’m holding on to one of the corpses the Iraqis have tossed into the river. The body was bloated, the stomach and lungs waterlogged and swollen, allowing it to float easily on the surface of the river. His hands were gripping the man’s stomach. The skin was peeling away, and the body smelt of a vile mixture of decomposing eggs and rotten meat. It was slimy to the touch, and the single eye looking back at him was already starting to loosen from its socket. The smell was making Jed’s stomach heave, but he had to hold on tight to the body, his nose just a few inches away from the decomposing intestines.

  He kicked furiously with his legs to push himself forward. In the next instant, a burst of anti-aircraft fire lit up the sky. Through the hazy blue light thrown up by the guns Jed could see a shape. It was like a thin, wavy line looming up out of the darkness. A shoreline.

  Land.

  It was eighty yards away, he judged. One more heave, and I can make it.

  ‘Jed,’ shouted Nick.

  Jed’s head spun round. The older man was thirty yards downstream, clutching on to what looked like a piece of a sentry hut that must have been blown off the destroyed bridge.

  ‘Meet me by the riverbank,’ he yelled.

  A furious light suddenly illuminated the city, as if a bulb had been turned on in a dark room. Jed realised a missile had just struck. Maybe two miles downstream. You saw the light first, then waited a few seconds for the sound of rolling thunder to reach you. Jed kicked. Sixty yards to go. The noise of the missile strike suddenly hit the river, followed by a wave that rolled along its surface. The water rolled up over the corpse, and over Jed’s head, briefly submerging him. As he came to the surface again, he took a deep breath. He’d swallowed some of the water that was seeping out of the corpse, and his stomach was heaving. He kicked once again. Thirty more yards now, he told himself. That’s all.

  A fire was burning a couple of miles downstream. It was impossible to say from here what the missile had struck, but whatever it was, it had set off some impressive fireworks. An oil depot maybe, thought Jed. Or a munitions dump. Sparks and flames were leaping up into the sky, spreading a dull orange glow across the city, and Jed could already hear the sound of sirens as fire trucks rushed towards it.

  Ten more yards. Jed pushed the corpse away, and dug his arms into the water to move himself forward. Seven yards … Six.

  He thrust his legs down, looking for the ground. It felt sticky and muddy, but he was grateful to have anything he could stand up in. Wading, Jed completed the last few yards of the journey, throwing himself down on the pebbled shoreline. For a moment, he just lay on the ground, exhausted and frozen, breathing deeply as he tried to recover his breath.

  ‘What the hell are we hanging around for?’ said Nick, standing over him. ‘A bus?’

  Jed slowly picked himself up: every muscle in his body was aching and frozen. Reaching into his kitbag, he took out some water, swilling it around his mouth and spitting it out to clean the river from his mouth.

  ‘Christ, man, don’t waste water,’ said Nick. ‘Maybe we’ll see if they’ve got a nice hotel you can check into.’

  Jed looked up. Nick looked in as bad shape as he did. His hair was covered with a thick layer of greasy foam, and his veins were blue and bulging out of his skin. There were some cuts and splinters to his hands, where he had been hanging on to the wood, and which could well turn septic if he didn’t clean them up properly. He had no top, and no shoes, and water was still dripping from his trousers: even the
clothes in the kitbag would be wet through.

  ‘We’ve got an hour of darkness left,’ Nick persisted. ‘Let’s move while we still can.’

  Jed pulled his top back on, and slipped his boots on to his feet. Nick was already scrambling along the riverbank. There was a six-foot embankment that led directly on to the road running alongside the south bank of the Tigris. So far as Jed could see, there was no traffic, but two miles away he could see the flames rising up from the missile strike. Nick was already moving his hands along the slippery, wet walls of the embankment, looking for grips he could use to climb over it. ‘Where the hell are you going now?’ snapped Jed.

  ‘To find Sarah,’ said Nick grimly, not even looking round.

  ‘Then get a fucking grip, man,’ hissed Jed. ‘You’re running around like a bloody madman.’

  ‘Maximum speed, maximum aggression, that’s the Regiment way of doing things,’ said Nick.

  He turned away from the wall. Removing his kitbag from his back, he took out his boots and started to pull them on to his wet feet. He looked up at Jed. ‘But maybe the Regiment’s gone soft,’ he said quietly. ‘Maybe that’s not the way things work any more.’

  ‘There’s plenty of bloody aggression,’ said Jed. ‘Just maybe a bit more brains as well. We need to think about what we’re doing.’

  ‘I’m in charge of this mission,’ said Nick.

  ‘Nobody’s in sodding charge.’

  ‘I’m twice your age, and I’ve got twice your balls as well.’

  ‘You nearly got us both bloody killed trying to swim across that river,’ growled Jed. ‘Now you’re about to charge into the centre of Baghdad half naked, just asking to get yourself shot. That’s not bloody helping anyone, is it?’

  Nick pulled his T-shirt over his head. Water from the river was still dripping from his chest. ‘I’m in charge, and I say we get in there and start searching for Sarah.’ He put his kitbag over his shoulder, and started hauling himself up the side of the embankment. ‘Or we die trying.’