by Chris Ryan
Jed folded the gun behind his back. A surge of anger and aggression was raging through him, and he took a deep, hard breath of the night air to try and calm himself. He looked at Nick. He’d already put away his gun, and was heading for the tank. ‘Let’s go,’ he said tersely. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
With one powerful movement of his forearms, Nick hoisted himself up on to the platform of the T-55. The tank had been painted desert sand, natural camouflage for its most natural arena. There was some evidence of rust around the tracks, but to Nick it looked in pretty good shape. The Russians had built thousands of T-55s during the 1950s and 60s, then passed the designs on to the Chinese. It was the most common tank in the world, the Ford Mondeo of military vehicles: it wasn’t the best in the world, and didn’t pretend to be, but it was cheap and reliable, and it could punch a deadly hole in just about any opponent it came up against.
Nick pulled back the turret, and glanced inside. Empty. He was about to drop down into the cockpit when he could feel Jed tugging at his shoulder. ‘You fucking bottled it,’ he snapped.
Spinning round, Nick looked straight at the younger man. His face was red with anger. ‘I what … ?’
‘You bloody bottled it back there, Nick,’ said Jed. He was staring into Nick’s eyes. ‘You were meant to drop the bastard but you couldn’t do it.’
‘I’d have been fine,’ said Nick. ‘I was just about to shoot him.’
‘You bloody froze, mate. You couldn’t do it.’
‘I didn’t have any bloody ammo left in my gun, you tosser. I didn’t bottle anything, never have done.’ He started to lever himself down into the cockpit, but Jed was still tugging at the shoulder of his military tunic. ‘Let go,’ he snapped.
‘What happened to you in Iraq last time?’
‘None of your bloody business.’
‘It is my business, because I’m stuck with you right now. And if I’m stuck with a bloke who bottles a fight I need to know.’ He leant close into Nick’s face, and his voice dropped to no more than a whisper. ‘Did you bottle it last time round, Nick? Is that what happened? Did you let your mates down?
‘I don’t let anyone down,’ Nick shouted, his face hot with anger. ‘It’s a fucking lie, I tell you. A lie.’
Leave it, thought Jed. I’ve seen enough to draw my own conclusions, and I don’t believe that bollocks about being out of ammo. Nick isn’t a man you can rely on. When you’re in the last ditch, he’s not going to be there for you. When this mission turns rough, I’m going to have to look after myself.
The interior of the tank was cramped, even with only two men inside it, although it was designed for four. There was space for a driver, a navigator and two gunners, one at the front and back. The Iraqis had reinforced the basic design with an extra layer of armour designed to provide some protection against the antitank missiles the machine could now expect to face, and that extra thick metal skin had reduced the interior space even more. Nick was already firing up the massive diesel engine, and as the machine started to roll into life, Jed could feel the metal frame start to vibrate beneath him. ‘You can drive this bugger?’ said Jed.
Nick grimaced. ‘You young bastards don’t know anything,’ he said. ‘I joined the army when we still had a Cold War. Learning how to drive a Soviet tank was one of the first things we did.’ He smiled to himself at the memory. ‘We had proper enemies in those days. Not just the bloody ragheads.’
He kick-started the accelerator, and slowly the machine started to rumble into life. There was the sound of metal scratching against metal as the wheels turned, pulling it across the tarmac. It shook violently as Nick searched around for the right gear, shuddering as it lurched forwards. ‘Christ,’ said Jed. ‘I’ve been in minicabs where the drivers had more idea what they were bloody doing.’
‘Just leave it,’ said Nick.
The tank was rolling towards the entrance to the admin building. They stopped to pick up Wilmington, and although the scientist was clearly terrified, he was more frightened of being left by himself than getting inside the tank. Then they advanced onwards. Jed had done training in tanks, but he’d never liked them. You felt trapped inside them, and even if you looked through the viewfinders, you never really had any idea what was happening around you. He preferred to be in the thick of the battle, where he could see and smell what was happening, and where you still had some chance of reacting fast enough to save your life.
Looking through the thin viewing strip, he could see the building looming up fast. It was only a couple of hundred yards away from them now. The first strip of barbed wire wasn’t going to provide any opposition to a T-55. Nick drove the tank straight up to it, and in the next instant you could feel the weight of the machine crushing it. The enormous bulk of the T-55 rolled across the wire like it was cotton wool, then accelerated towards the secondary layer of ditches, wire and sentry posts that provided the building with its main protection. As soon as they crushed the first layer of wire, Jed could hear soldiers shouting, and then the sound of gunfire. How many men were out there, he couldn’t yet tell. Perhaps two dozen. Whatever number it was, he reflected grimly, they hadn’t expected one of their own tanks to come after them.
Slamming his foot down hard on the accelerator, Nick took the T-55 up a gear. It rolled violently into a ditch, then started to climb its way out. You could hear the metal screeching all around you as it punched its way through the barbed wire. The T-55 was equipped with two machine guns, as well its main artillery piece: a coaxial gun on its main turret, and a smaller anti-aircraft gun on its side. Both could be operated from the driver’s cockpit. Through the viewfinder, Jed could see three Iraqi soldiers rushing towards them, their guns blazing. He turned the machine gun on them and rattled off a quick burst of fire. The tank fired high-calibre bullets that completely shredded people: limbs and heads were strewn over the ground. It’s like mowing the lawn, he thought grimly. From somewhere, he could hear more firing, a machine gun from the racket it was making. The bullets were smashing into the side of the T-55, but bouncing harmlessly away.
It was hot and sweaty within the cramped confines of the T-55. Looking ahead, Jed could see they just had one more set of barriers to break through, then they could punch their way into the main building. ‘I’m going to shell the bastard,’ muttered Nick. ‘Hold tight.’
‘What about Sarah?’ shouted Jed, straining to make his voice heard above the noise of the tank.
‘I’ll take out the entrance, that’s all. If she’s there, they won’t be holding her by the bloody door.’
Slamming his hand down hard on the controls, Nick fired a shell from the tank’s main artillery cannon. There was a brief silence while the hulking piece of metal whizzed through the air, then a terrifying explosion as it smashed into the security barrier and tore into the main entrance to the building. Without pausing for a second, Nick slammed his fist down hard again, firing another shell straight into the same space. Up ahead, a fireball erupted into the sky. He could hear the cries and screams of wounded, dying men, as the shell cut deep into the ground, then exploded upwards, destroying everything around it. Dust and smoke were filling the air, but as it gradually began to clear, Jed could see that the barrier had been completely destroyed. A dozen corpses were lying mutilated across the ground, and half the front wall of the building had been blown away. The T-55 might be an antique, thought Jed, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t destroy a building in a couple of minutes.
‘Any more of the bastards?’ grunted Nick.
Jed looked around. The tank was still rolling forwards so that it was within yards of the main entrance. The smoke from the two shells was gradually clearing, and so far as Jed could see, the guards had all been killed. Touching the brakes, Nick brought the tank to a juddering halt. In the back, Wilmington was squatting immobilised, too terrified even to move. ‘You think it’s safe to get out?’ said Jed.
Nick shrugged. ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ he said roughly. ‘Stick yo
ur head out, and see if it gets shot off.’
Jed paused. ‘I don’t suppose you’re volunteering.’
‘Somebody’s got to drive the tank,’ said Nick. ‘You go.’
Jed readied his AK-47. He flipped open the turret of the T-55, and put the barrel of his gun out first. Were there any snipers out there waiting to have a shot at him? He waited, counting up to five. Nothing. With one swift movement, he hauled himself out of the tank, and jumped down to the ground, keeping his finger poised on the trigger of his AK-47 as he did so. There was blood spilt across the ground: from a quick glance, he reckoned at least a dozen men had been killed by the two shells. He checked the bodies one by one, making sure each man was dead before he moved on: there was nothing more dangerous than a badly wounded soldier who suddenly recovered enough strength to lob a grenade at you. Only two of them were still alive, but neither seemed to be conscious. Jed finished them off with a quick double tap to the head. Sorry, boys, he thought grimly, as he delivered the bullets. No time to call in the Red Cross. You’d do the same if you were in my boots.
‘Clear,’ he shouted towards the tank.
Nick was hauling a clearly terrified Wilmington out of the tank. He jumped down to the ground, shoving the professor out in front of him. Jed glanced quickly down the street, checking there were no reinforcements on the way, then stepped through into what remained of the lobby. Plaster and dust were strewn everywhere from where the shells had taken out the front wall. Shards of metal and severed wires were sticking out of the broken wall, and somewhere Jed could hear the sound of gushing water where a pipe had been burst open.
‘What are we looking for?’ Nick said to Wilmington.
For a moment, he remained silent. Then his lips started to move, but he was trembling too badly for the words to form on his lips.
‘I said, what the hell are we looking for?’ Nick repeated, louder this time, leaning close into the professor’s face.
‘Second floor,’ said Wilmington. ‘Last time I was here, that’s where all the main weapons research was being done.’
The shattered lobby had three lifts, but they were all broken: the power lines had all been severed when the shells struck. Through a back door there was a service staircase that ran up the back of the building. Jed started to run, with Nick bringing Wilmington along behind. His finger was poised on the trigger of his AK-47: anyone who came to see what was happening was going to be shot on sight.
On the second floor, he stopped. The lights were working up here: they must be on a different electrical circuit, Jed figured. He checked his watch. It was just after two in the morning. ‘Why here?’ he said, to Wilmington.
‘This is the most sensitive part of Saddam’s weapons research network. This is where all the most intense work on trying to create nuclear and biological weapons is done.’
‘I thought he already had stockpiles of them,’ said Nick.
‘So Tony Blair keeps telling everyone,’ said Wilmington with a shrug.
Jed steadied himself, held his gun in front of him, then kicked the door open and stepped into the brightly lit corridor. Nothing. So far as he could see, there was nobody around. The main room had two dozen computer terminals arranged on workbenches. Along the back wall there was a set of sensitive measuring equipment, and behind that a sealed room that looked something like an operating theatre. Jed started to march through the room. ‘Sarah,’ he shouted. ‘Sarah.’
Nothing.
Just silence. ‘Where the hell are you?’ shouted Nick behind him. Nothing.
You could hear the quiet electronic hum of the computer terminals that were glowing on the desk, and down below you could hear the gushing of water from the burst pipes. But you couldn’t hear anything that sounded like a person.
‘I thought you said she’d be here,’ Nick shouted, turning towards Wilmington.
‘I thought … I thought …’ he stuttered.
‘Where the bloody hell is she?’ Nick roared.
‘This was the most obvious place to bring her.’ Wilmington’s words were suddenly garbled and rushed.
Nick was jabbing the barrel of his AK-47 into Wilmington’s stomach. ‘I should just finish you off now,’ he shouted.
Jed put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Not yet,’ he said quietly.
‘He’s fucking lied to us from the beginning. He’s the reason Sarah ever came to this hellhole. I haven’t met many men who deserved to die, but this arsehole is right at the top of the list.’
Wilmington was backing away. ‘No … no …’ he mumbled.
‘Quick,’ Jed said suddenly. ‘I can hear something.’
All three stood stock-still. Jed looked towards the far end of the room. A cough, he was certain of it. He started walking. It was silent again now, but that meant nothing: just that the bastard was trying to keep his throat clear. He glanced along the last row of workbenches. Nothing. The next row. Nothing. Then on the third, he saw what he was looking for. A shoe.
‘Gotcha,’ he said.
The man was cowering in a tight ball beneath the desk. He was wearing a white overall, and thick glasses, and even though he didn’t look any more than thirty-five, most of his hair was already gone. ‘Come out, you bastard,’ said Jed, tapping the man’s ankle with the tip of his AK-47.
The man didn’t move.
‘I said, come out, you bastard. Unless you want your foot shot off.’
Slowly, the man emerged. He looked nervously at Jed, then Nick, then across at Wilmington. His eyes were tired and wary. ‘We’re looking for a woman,’ said Jed. ‘A white woman.’ The man looked blank.
Wilmington stepped forward, repeating the question in Arabic. Slowly, the man understood. He nodded, the way an animal does when it has earned itself a reward. ‘Sarah,’ he said. He started speaking quickly to Wilmington in Arabic. ‘Well?’ said Nick, looking towards Wilmington.
‘She was here,’ he replied. ‘Until yesterday –’
‘Where the fuck is she now, then?’ snapped Jed.
‘Gone,’ said the man, the terror written on to his face. ‘She’s gone.’
‘Why the hell should we believe him?’ said Nick roughly. ‘I say we put a bullet into his thigh, then ask him again.’
‘There should be pictures,’ said Wilmington. ‘Everything in this lab is filmed.’
‘Where?’ said Nick.
‘This way,’ said Wilmington.
Jed kept his gun trained on both men as they led the way forward. They walked to the end of the laboratory, through a set of fire doors, then up one flight of stairs. The room they were led into was dominated by a set of television screens, with two swivel chairs in front of them, both empty. The security guards had long since abandoned their positions. The Iraqi was saying something in Arabic, and leaning into the controls. On the screen in front of him, Jed could see the minutes and the hours ticking backwards, as the tapes in the machine were rewound. Suddenly, he could see her quite clearly. The film was black-and-white and grainy, and the back lighting in the laboratory was so intense, it gave anyone in the room a robotic quality. But there could be no question who he was looking at in the centre of the picture.
‘Christ, that’s her,’ he muttered, his voice no more than a whisper.
Sarah was not a conventionally beautiful woman. Her figure was nothing special, and her face was pretty rather than stunning. Her nose was long and thin, her eyes large and her face shaped like an almond, yet she had a kind of beauty that Jed felt was all her own. It shone out of her, even when she looked at her worst, as she did in the pictures in front of him. Her brown hair fell over the side of her face, and looked as if it had been neither washed nor combed for a week. She was dressed in a blue sweatshirt, with some Arabic writing on it, and a pair of jeans that looked too big for her. But she had a look of concentration on her face that Jed recognised instantly. That was what Sarah was all about, he thought: the ability to put all of herself into every moment she lived. Even here …
Nick w
as at his side, staring at the image. In the video, Sarah was standing at one of the workbenches, using the measuring equipment. It was impossible to tell from this angle what she was doing. You could only just see her face. But at least she was alive, Jed told himself. When this was filmed, anyway?
‘This was filmed at four. What time was she taken away again?’ said Nick.
Wilmington spoke to the Iraqi, then looked back at Nick. ‘Around five yesterday afternoon,’ he said. ‘Sarah was here for less than a day. They were going to keep her for longer to try and produce the laboratory evidence that would show the world cold fusion worked. But they decided it was too dangerous here. The Americans know this place, and it’s a prime target for a missile strike.’
Jed kept watching the film. You could see Sarah working patiently, methodically, but it was impossible on the grainy film to read any of the motives for what she was doing. Was she really going to hand over her discovery to the Iraqis? To let Saddam use it for his own ends. If it was a choice between that and her own life, she might.
He could see a man coming into view. He was standing next to Sarah, with his back to the camera. Then the man turned round. ‘That’s the fucker who was in your office,’ said Nick, jabbing his thumb against the screen.
Salek.
Jed and Wilmington stared at the screen as well. They could see Salek leading her away, holding on to her arm. Suddenly Sarah glanced up at the camera. It was unlikely she knew it was there – the camera was discreetly tucked into the corner of the laboratory – but she seemed to be looking straight up at them. You could see the fear in her eyes. Her expression was hollow, like a child separated from its parents. Her shoulders were sagging, and there was a look of defeat about her, as if she no longer knew how much more she could take. Sarah never looked like that, thought Jed bitterly. There was always fight in her.
Sarah and Salek had gone from the screen. You could still see the tape, and you could see the other scientists sitting at their benches. But Sarah had already disappeared from view.