Instinct (2010)
| Instinct (2010) | |
| Kay, Ben | |
| (2010) | |
| Tags: | Suspense/Thriller Suspense/Thrillerttt |
Hidden in a remote corner of the South American jungle is a clandestine research facility known simply as MEROS. Here, working in laboratories buried a thousand feet underground, military scientists have developed the most astonishing and deadly weapon known to man . . . Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe, a Chinook helicopter lands a highly trained squad of special forces soldiers deep in hostile territory - their mission: to clean up a black-ops killzone. As they enter the cave, they hear the faint buzz of the weapon - like the beating of a thousand pairs of insect wings . . .
PENGUIN BOOKS
Ben Kay was born in London in 1973. He has worked in advertising as an award-winning copywriter and creative director. Since 2006, his blog,
ifthisisablogthenwhatschristmas
, has provided an ‘acid tongued’ commentary on the industry.
Instinct
is his first novel.
BEN KAY
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London
WC2R 0RL
, England
First published 2010
Copyright © Ben Kay, 2010
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 978-0-141-94125-7
To Gabi.
My ideal reader and my ideal everything else.
Hunger, love, pain, fear are some of those inner forces which rule the individual’s instinct for self-preservation.
Albert Einstein
Prologue: The Swarm
The stripped-down jeep rattled, hopped and bumped its way across the rocky sands of the Koh-e-Sufaid. This far into the desert, the roads were harsh, nothing more than tracks of boulder-strewn dirt, flattened and cleared by the tread and sweep of occasional tyres.
With a spray of gravel, the car skidded to a stop. Looking ahead, the driver reached under the passenger seat and pulled out a pair of binoculars. At twenty-two years old, Houshmand Sahar looked closer to thirty, his weather-worn face obscured by a dark, scrappy beard that had never been cut.
Peering through the grease-smeared lenses, he searched for the gloomy arch that marked the entrance to his cave. To the untrained eye, it appeared to be just another dark shape in the mountain rock, but Houshmand had made this journey often enough to recognize the denser shade that meant home.
He placed his binoculars on the seat beside him, shoved his jeep into gear and sent it fishtailing through the grit until the tyres caught and began roaring up the foothills.
At this stage of the journey secrecy was paramount, so headlights were strictly forbidden. Houshmand had made the mistake of forgetting this once before and
his back was still criss-crossed with raised lacerations from the hour-long whipping he’d received for such stupidity.
As the foothills steepened they became a lattice of thick ridges that worked every spring of the jeep’s suspension. Houshmand looked behind him to check his cargo was still firmly secured. It would not do to come this far and lose such prized items in the last mile.
Reaching the final slope, he slowed to a crawl, the subdued grumble of his engine and tyres the only signs of life for miles around.
His jeep was now poised at the cave entrance. Raising his hands to his mouth, he let out a short, ululating call that echoed into the dim depths of the tunnel ahead. A second later the call received its response: a similar sound, only rounder and lower as it made its way from inside the cave. Houshmand pressed gently on the accelerator and eased the jeep into the darkness.
Then the light burst into his face.
‘Speak!’ barked the voice behind the harsh white flare.
‘The banner of Islam will necessarily be raised when the land is watered with the blood of martyrs!’ yelled Houshmand.
‘Good,’ came the softer reply. ‘You can stop there.’ The man holding the light was Behnam Azizi. He was three years older than Houshmand, but they were physically indistinguishable: both thin and bearded with an apologetic gait developed from years of cave dwelling.
Behnam hooked the cord on to a rusty nail and walked towards Houshmand. They embraced with a smile, kept a few inches apart by the Kalashnikov that hung across Behnam’s chest.
‘Good to see you, brother,’ he said, looking beyond his friend to the roped-down tarpaulin in the back of the car. ‘What have you brought us?’
Houshmand untied the canvas to reveal ribs of dark metal, shaded by the shadow of the tarpaulin. The shapes were not clear, but Behnam could tell immediately what they were. He lifted one of the rifles into the light and a smile spread across his face.
‘You got the XM29s?’
Houshmand nodded. He knew he had done well. With its computer-assisted firing system, laser range finder and telescopic sights, the XM29 OICW made the Kalashnikov look like a popgun. This would take their training to another level, readying the cell for its next assault in a matter of weeks.
Behnam looked through the sight, then back down to the jeep. ‘What else?’
‘Everything,’ said Houshmand. There were four large canvas bags under the cache of guns, each full to bursting. He began pulling at the zips.
‘Heroin, ammo, fuel, passports and, of course …’ Reaching into one of the bags, he pulled out several blue boxes. ‘… Kraft Mac and Cheese.’
Behnam laughed. ‘You know what? I hate the infidels, but they got that shit just right. Come, let’s get it unloaded and take it to the boss-man.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Houshmand, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small brown envelope. ‘And I’ve got a message for him from base.’
Taking as much as they could carry, the two men squeezed past the front of the jeep and headed deeper into the tunnel. The original caves had been shallow, stretching no more than twenty yards into the rock, but a dedicated programme of expansion had more than doubled their length.
Grimy, jagged corridors of rock were sporadically lit to show walls decorated with Islamic teachings. What furniture there was consisted of dust-caked planks of rotting wood supported by breeze blocks. The priority here was not comfort. As long as secrecy was maintained and the weapons and explosives were stored safely, the cave’s function was fulfilled.
Even the quarters of this cell’s leader, Abdullah Faraj Juwei, were basic at best. A thin, filthy mattress and a ball of rags that served as a lumpy pillow were the only indications of his superior status. It was to this part of the cave that Houshmand and Behnam were heading, greeting the other foot soldiers as they went.
Arriving at the thin sheet that separated Abdullah’s room from the rest of the cave, Behnam gave a throaty cough and waited with Houshmand to be called in.
‘Enter,’ shouted Abdullah.
He was a thickset man, both fat and muscular, whose dark eyes were barely visible beyond their flabby, hooded lids. Under his sharp nose, a vast beard spread across his face and neck, covering the top of a khaki
jacket, which was wrapped around a dirty-white
chapan
. Neither of the two men had ever seen him laugh, and they lived in nervous fear of his violent and arbitrary rule.
Beckoning them in with a short wave, he did not speak, instead indicating with an impatient glare that Houshmand should place the offering at his feet.
His eyes widening with impressed surprise, Abdullah picked up the weapons and felt their weight. As he looked through the sights and checked the magazines, Houshmand gave a stuttering catalogue of the contents of the jeep.
Abdullah nodded. ‘You have done well,’ he said without looking up. ‘Is there anything else?’
Houshmand suddenly remembered the envelope in his pocket. Yanking it out and handing it quickly to Abdullah, he hoped he had not made a mistake worthy of serious punishment.
