INCARNATION (54 page)

‘Do we really need to do this, David?’

‘Why shouldn’t we?’

‘Well, you said we’re finished anyway. You said we can’t get out of the desert without transport.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes. But you’re wrong, you know. We can walk. We carry what we can on our backs. We find some of these wells you’ve been talking about. If we’re lucky, we come across Karakhoto or the complex. After that ...'

She shrugged and stirred her shovel in the sand.

‘You may be right.'

‘You know I am. Whatever you intend to do, I’m not sitting here to watch the camels rot. We can walk out of this, David. It’s up to you.’

He leaned back on his shovel and smiled at her.

‘Very well, we walk. But in the meantime, we still have to cover these buggers with sand.’

T
he Landrovers had been camouflaged to look like Iraqi army vehicles. To the camouflage, dollops of mud and sand had been added with a liberal hand. How helpful either of those devices might be should they be sighted by nomads or spotted by shepherd boys, no one really knew. The men themselves had been kitted out in Iraqi uniform, though the equipment they carried, from bergens to antitank weapons, was British or American.

They’d chosen the Landrovers quite deliberately. One of the lessons the SAS had learned in the Gulf War was the foolishness of sending men into western Iraq without vehicles. Tabbing with full bergens across open hostile country had taken its toll back then, during a winter war; to attempt it again in the full heat of summer would have been lethal. The greater risk of being spotted had been set against the near certainty of physical collapse and the inability to carry more than light weapons and limited ammunition.

Not that anyone wanted to use the weapons or the ammunition they carried. If the mission went off smoothly, they’d be in and out like fig-seeds. If it did not, they’d be up against half the Iraqi army, armed to the teeth and seriously pissed off.

They were driving in single file, using dipped and masked headlights. Peter Terry drove the first Landrover, with Bill Burroughs as his lookout. Behind came the Dai Lama in the other Landrover, which he’d christened Blodwen, in which most of the troop’s weapons were carried; and after that came Barry Dobson in the Longline LSV, a souped-up beach buggy similar to ones used by US Special Forces units. Back in the Gulf War, they’d tried the LSVs out, only to find that their lack of range and their inability to take heavy weapons on board made them too limited for cross-border expeditions. But with two Landrovers for back-up, Barry’s little number offered speed and manoeuvrability over difficult terrain. He’d called it Jennifer, after his daughter.

A light flashed on the jeep in front, and all three vehicles came to a halt. It was not yet dawn, but they could sense it just out of sight, creeping towards them.

‘Are we all here?’ asked Peter Terry. The others sang out their names in turn.

‘Right, listen up. I calculate we’re about sixteen miles south of al-Falluja, which probably puts us a mile or two away from our objective. Most of the traffic we passed last night was military, as far as I could tell. By dawn this road’s going to be swarming with the bastards. I’d like to suggest we haul ourselves off-road and get our heads under camouflage for the rest of the day. I don’t know about you, but I could do with some shut-eye.’

He strolled back to the rear vehicle, the LSV, where Dobson was already getting out the PG Tips.

‘Leave the tea for now, Barry. I want to be sure we aren’t in the middle of some bloody camping site before we get under cover.’

‘Oh, come on, sir, we’re all parched. We’ve been breathing sand all bloody night.’

‘You can have as much tea as you like once we’re settled. But I’m serious about the danger. We’re not many miles from al-Falluja, and for all I know we could be on top of the bloody weapons base already.’

Terry had been with D Squadron, hunting Scuds during the Gulf War. Caution was second nature to him. He was already worried that they’d come this far without incident. It seemed almost too good to believe.

While they waited for dawn to come to the horizon, Terry took his Magellan GPS from the front vehicle and set about establishing their coordinates. He marked their position as nearly as he could on the map: as far as he could tell, they were not near any inhabited areas, military installations, or known tribal pasturing grounds. But sometimes things on the ground changed like lightning. Especially in Iraq. Especially anywhere in the vicinity of a major Iraqi weapons store.

Dai Matthias came across. He sniffed the air and glanced towards the eastern horizon. That was the nice thing about being out here in the desert, he thought, you had an uninterrupted view in every direction.

‘Where are we, sir?’

‘About where I expected. We’ll have some kip, then make the first reconnaissance in Jennifer.’

‘Looks quiet enough, sir. About as much life in it as Neath on a busy Saturday night, which is fuck all, as my Aunt Nerys used to say. Mind you, the only life in my Aunt Nerys on a Saturday night was my Uncle Andy.’

‘It’s starting to get light. I just want to report in our coordinates to London.’

He lifted the unit’s Mobilfone from the rear seat and keyed in a number. Moments later, a handset was lifted in an office halfway across the world.

‘Babylon Five,’ Peter murmured.

‘Star Trek on line. Go ahead, Babylon.’

‘Is that you, Spock?’

Each of the base team used a code-name based on the TV series. The team in Iraq just used numbers, from one to four. Back in Cheltenham, where the expedition was being controlled by an SAS team, Spock was the alien: an MI6 field officer who knew more about the seamy side of Iraq than anyone at Stirling Lines. He had given them briefings for over a week before their departure, he would debrief them on their return, and in the meantime he was attached to one end of their satellite link on a twenty-four-hour basis. All he lacked was pointed ears.

‘It is indeed. But I warn you, I’m not exactly a match for my namesake. Do you know what time it is here? Anyway, what can I do for you, Number One?’

‘It’s almost light here. I want to get the vehicles under cover as soon as possible. But I have a question. We passed some heavy traffic last night. It was moving south on our road. Several of the vehicles were carrying yellow lights. I’ve got nothing like that on record.’

‘Does it worry you?’

‘Of course it bloody worries me. What if they’re using light codes?’

‘OK, were there any green lights?’

‘On the rear if we looked back, yes. I know about those.’

‘I know you do. Tell me more about these yellow lights.’

‘I’ve told you all I know.’

‘No, you haven’t. Were they high up or low down? Single or double?’

‘Single. But it’s hard to say how high up they were without getting a proper look at the vehicles in day-light.’

“You must have formed some idea.’

‘All right, lowish.’

‘Fine. Babylon, I’d like to know your most recent coordinates. I assume you’re stationary. Have you checked your position yet?’

‘Yes, I’ve got the coordinates here.’

He read out the figures just supplied by the Global Positioning Satellite.

‘Great. OK, that’s fine, we’ve got you. Babylon, will you please stay put where you are? You could be in serious danger if you move.’

‘What the hell’s going on, Spock? If there’s danger ahead, let me pull back. At least let me get off this fucking road.’

‘No, for God’s sake, don’t do that. That could be disastrous. Stay where you are, and don’t move until you hear from me again.’

The connection was broken. Terry dropped his handset back on the unit. He turned to the others.

‘OK, you lot. Spock says we’ve got to hang around here for the moment. Barry, you may as well brew some wet stuff after all.’

‘Aren’t we pulling off the road, sir?’

‘No, I have orders not to do that.’

‘I thought we made the decisions on the ground. Use our initiative, like.’ Dai shook his head. His years of training and his battle instinct told him this was tempting fate.

Barry ambled back to his LSV and broke out the PG Tips again. He glanced up at the horizon. Dawn seemed slow in coming. At the edge of the sky, a few stars had started to pale.

Terry took Bill Burroughs and Dai Matthias off to one side.

‘I don’t like this,’ he said. ‘Get four bergens ready, and as much hardware as you think we can carry. We can tab in from here, but if we have to tab out again …’

They set to work, breaking off halfway to drink scalding cups of tea.

‘I don’t know how you all drink that rubbish,’ said Dai. He had boiled a separate pot for himself, as he always did. ‘Nothing like a nice jasmine tea or an oolong or a gunpowder to freshen you up.’

‘I prefer a Japanese sencha myself,’ said Barry.

‘Well, you would do, you being a Geordie, see - all those Jappo factories up where you are, you’ll be eating rice and seaweed next.’

‘I’ll leave that to you Welsh bastards. What’s that muck you all eat? Laver bread? Looks like fucking seaweed stew, that.’

‘So it is. Makes you tough, though, so my mam used to say.’

Peter Terry hushed them.

‘Did you hear anything?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, something,’ said Bill, who’d been giving only half an ear to the banter between the others.

They listened intently. Somewhere, not too far away, there was a sound of engines. It continued for a few moments, then stopped abruptly. They went on listening, wishing daylight would come. A minute or two passed, then more engines, from a different direction this time.

‘Bill, back in the jeep with me. Barry, dump the LSV for now. Go with Dai, and get your weapons in order.’

‘Are we going to move?’

‘Yes. We’re too bloody exposed here.’

‘Shouldn’t we get in touch with Star Trek, keep them informed?’ Bill asked.

‘What they don’t know won’t hurt them. We’re on the ground. You can’t run an operation like this from fucking Cheltenham. Come on, let’s stop wasting time.’

But even as he spoke, dawn was at last pushing its way through the darkness, clearing it from the sky as though for ever. They hesitated then, knowing they’d missed whatever lingering cover darkness might have granted their departure. There was little point in setting off without assessing their surroundings. So they stayed put and watched the light grow second by second, and the landscape take on shape and colour.

It was Barry who made the first sighting. He was panning across the horizon with his binoculars. Suddenly, he froze, refocusing.

‘Bloody hell,’ he whispered. ‘What is it?’ asked Dai.

‘Here, have a look for yourself.’ Barry passed the binoculars to his companion.

Dai trained the binoculars in the same general direction as Barry. Several moments passed as he scanned the landscape, then a sharp breath escaped his lips.

‘lesi blwdi Crist!’ he swore. He looked briefly at Barry, then turned to the front. ‘Captain …’

'It’s all right, Dai. I can see them. They’re close enough now to see without glasses.’

Wherever Peter Terry looked, he could see them, armed men in black uniforms, moving at a steady walking pace towards them, hemming them in from every side - the Quwwa Khassa, Saddam Hussein’s "Special Force", recruited from the most loyal sections of the population, more highly favoured and better equipped than the Republican Guard.

Terry knew they had a simple choice: give themselves up to be imprisoned, tortured, and, in all likelihood, shot in the head in some Baghdad basement; or try to fight their way back to the Saudi border. He gave nothing for their chances of achieving the latter. Unless London could pull off a diplomatic coup.

He hesitated a few moments longer, then picked up the Mobilfone and keyed in the code for GCHQ Cheltenham. The phone rang at once. And went on ringing. Two minutes passed before he put down the handset. He knew there was no point in trying again.

In Cheltenham, Chris Donaldson listened to the phone ring. He knew why they were calling, and he knew they were wasting their time. Abbas was not a man to waste time. He had the British unit in his bag, and he would see to it none of them left that spot alive. They would be killed and buried, and the desert sand would cover their remains. It was too late now to prepare and send another unit. And in any case, the result would be exactly the same.

'It’s like bloody Zulu,’ said Dai Matthias, more or less to himself. ‘Ivor Emmanuel singing “Men of Harlech” while the darkies come over the hill. What do you reckon, lads? Spot of the Spice Girls should see them off.’

No one laughed. Dying for your country isn’t the easiest of things at any time, not least when it’s all due to some slime-ball back home.

Peter Terry drew back the bolt on the heavy machine-gun. Johnny Arab would pay a very high price for today’s victory. They’d go out, but they’d give Saddam a bloody nose on the way.

‘W
hat was it like in the Army, Calum? Was it awful? You never talk about it.’

‘Talk aboot it? Why the fuck should Ah talk aboot it? Ah didnae like the Army, an’ the Army didnae like me. End o’ story.’

They were inside, at opposite ends of the long sofa in Charlene’s front room. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. Grey clouds slumbered over the mountains, and the lake was as dead as stone. Maddie felt down, as though the greyness and the deadness were intended for her alone. She was desperate to talk, desperate to make a real link with Calum. The thought that he might be no more than a petty criminal chancing his arm terrified her.

Calum had found a couple of CDs to play at last, old Joy Division albums he’d brought with him from Edinburgh one year in a futile attempt to stay sane. They hadn’t gone down too well with his Aunt Charlene. ‘What the Elvis is that, Calum? Is that what ye call music? Ah thought some friend o’ yours had died, Ah thought you wis holdin’ some sort o’ wake.’ They’d laughed a lot at that, and he’d smiled weakly, pretending to share their joke, and all the while he’d been black and violent inside.