My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (43 page)

"Looks like he's coming with us," muttered one of the team.

"And you'd be right. It's been assured Mr Thompson won't jeopardise the mission. He wants to be there when we ID his son," continued the Detachment Commander.

Edward, standing by the helicopter, turned and looked at the Special Forces team in the hanger. He knew they didn't want him there just as much he would rather be back home in England, but what mattered to him more than anything else in the world was that his son, Michael, was safe and happy in his heart and mind. He could not rest until he knew this for himself.

"I know a lot of favors had to be pulled in order for you to be with us on this operation, Mr Thompson. I know your background and respect you for what you've done for your own country and in working with ours. I just ask that you respect us and do what any of us say, do you understand that Mr Thompson?" the Captain stated, buckling himself up.

"Yep. Understood," replied Edward, dressed head to toe in black combat gear and sitting inside the Black Hawk.

The rotor blades whirred round and around and the beast itself began to rise off the ground. It left the base with the Special Forces team housed inside.

Siamak entered a larger area of the underground industrial base in Iran when Hamid confronted him. Hamid stepped away from a video camera, managed by two other Iranian men.

Before Siamak could weigh up what was going on around him, Hamid had acknowledged several of his men who quickly pulled their weapons and aimed them at him.

"What are you doing, Hamid?" cried Siamak in Farsi when the butt of an AK47 rifle was suddenly cracked round his head. It knocked him to the ground and it was then that he received a kick to the face from Hamid.

"You are not to speak with our lying infidel again, Siamak. You will remain here until I am one hundred percent certain that you are one of us, and at this moment, I feel you are not," said Hamid in Farsi. He was flustered and stressed. He towered above Siamak, who clutched his bloody nose and lip.

"I am with you, Hamid! I am with you!" Siamak yelled.

"You spend too much time with that spy!" Hamid shouted back.

"Because I want to know more about him! How can I learn if I do not speak to him?"

"You treat him like a baby, Siamak!" Hamid cried out.

"He is a human being! Allah is kind, loving and merciful. How can we not be the same!" Siamak shouted back and received another kick, this time to his ribs. He even heard a crack. He winced with pain as Hamid ordered two of his men to go to the cell and collect the hostage infidel.

Michael looked up as shadows loomed towards him. He backed away in his cell as it was quickly opened and he was suddenly dragged out. His toes scraped the hard concrete, cutting the skin of his feet as they slid across the jagged ground, scattered with shards of metal, glass, pieces of gravel and coarse sand.

"Where are you taking me? Please! I'm not a spy! I don't know any spies! Please listen to me! Please!" Michael screamed as he was dragged along the corridor and into the darkness. He widened his eyes as the Iranian men pulled him round into another dimly-lit section.

The men shouted in Farsi at Michael as they passed the grille that had prevented his ill-conceived escape plan not so long ago.

Michael had feasted his eyes on what he saw when he'd fled his cell that time: several large plastic barrels and a wooden pallet stacked with rocket shells. "What are they? Where are you taking me? Please!" Michael screamed again as he was pulled through a metal doorway and along a grilled bridge of some sort. He saw a stairwell and another metal door. His shins and knees scraped the ground as he was dragged, painfully, up a set of metal steps that then led him into a large room. He was suddenly placed upon the chair that he had most certainly been seated upon before. He breathed, frantically, and scanned his new environment, casting his eyes upon a beaten and bloody Siamak, sprawled on the ground in a heap opposite him, near cables and wiring.

Siamak moaned with pain. One eye was swollen shut. He looked past the video camera and fixed on Michael on the chair in front of it.

"You're making a mistake!" Michael screamed.

An Iranian stepped over to Siamak and reached into the cables and wiring. He retrieved something and straightened. He turned and made his way back to Michael.

"No. No, please," Michael shivered with fear as he saw the Iranian man grip an electric drill.

The Iranian squeezed the drill trigger and the lengthy bit rotated fast. In no time at all, he had shoved the metal point down hard into Michael's right thigh and drilled through his skin. Pieces of combined cloth and flesh spiraled out into the darkness.

Michael opened his mouth to scream, but there wasn't a sound. He either had no energy to do so or the scream was simply drowned out by the noise of the drill. His throat was gripped to keep him still, but he managed to lower his eyes to the drill retract. It was like drilling for oil as the metal drill bit was removed and out spurted a fountain of blood. The drill whirled again and was suddenly inserted into Michael's left thigh. It was messier as it churned into his flesh half an inch down.

The Iranian man stepped back, threw the drill across the room and spat at Michael, who edged himself off the chair and fell forward.

Michael clawed the ground, pulling himself just two feet across the floor, leaving a bloody trail behind him. He was quickly dragged up and shoved back onto the chair. A sheet dangled behind him, with Arabic characters painted across it. The paint was still wet and dripped down the sheet. The Iranian flag was also present. A spotlight illuminated Michael, who squinted and shielded his eyes, but his hand was suddenly grabbed and forced back behind him. It was tied to the other at the back of the chair.

"Wait! Please! You're making a mistake! I'm not a spy!" he called out.

"I don't care if you are a spy or not, Jacob Ramsay," shouted Hamid, stepping in front of him, slinging Michael's beige canvas bag to the ground beside his chair.

"Please. My name is not Jacob Ramsay. My name is Michael Thompson. I work in a school in London. I was taken by two pupils at the school and from then I don't know what happened. Please believe me! Please!" Michael cried.

"Tonight we will film your first message to your loved ones. You will tell them to help. You will tell your country to help. Then we do another message where you will tell America to help you. You will tell America not to invade our country. You tell them how bad the West is and if any NATO or Allied Coalition Force enter Iran then you will be killed. Then we do another video message where your death is filmed for the world to see. You see how this works? This is how it always works, bro. Message, message, message then death. Always death. You will be killed today, bro," stated Hamid. He cocked his pistol and turned away.

The Black Hawk helicopter raced across the desert sands of Iran. It was like a gigantic, mechanical beast in a mystical fantasyland.

Edward sat inside. He flexed his black-gloved hand as he watched the Special Forces team blacken their faces, readying for an impending assault.

Two balaclava-wearing Iranian men stood either side of Michael.

One gripped an AK47 assault rifle tight. The other held a nasty-looking sabre. Its blade caught the light of the spot-lamp as well as the shine of a laptop computer that was positioned on a table nearby. It was connected to the video camera that was filming Michael.

"Please. My name is Michael Thompson. I am a British citizen. I ask my family to help me in this tense, political time. I ask the Western world to remove their armed forces from the shores and lands of the Islamic world."

Siamak rolled his one open eye around the room as he curled himself in a darkened corner. He could clearly see Michael on the chair and the two men either side of him. He could see another man behind the video camera and one more tending to the laptop. Each one was armed with a pistol and an AK47. He could see a bulk of shadows cast in front of him from behind. He felt that there were definitely more than three men. He turned his eye back to the man filming Michael, who held his hand up as he halted the filming and ejected the tape, fumbling for a new tape within a carrier bag. The only sound was Michael's panicked breathing and the unwrapping of a new DV cassette.

It was then that a new sound was heard, but it was not coming from within the room. It was coming from elsewhere.

Michael tilted his head.

Siamak sneered.

The two Iranian men stood either side of Michael and exchanged a look.

The one with the sword lowered it, but tightened his grip.

The video and laptop men also exchanged a look. They frowned as the sound became more distinct.

The distinctive sound of an electric rhythm guitar delivered a familiar chord sequence. The churning, progressive beat was quickly accompanied by a lead electric guitar, a Rickenbacker Combo 600 single. It provided the melody, which was soon joined by a Hammond organ.

The corners of Michael's mouth began to curl as the combined sounds of those instruments together became more and more familiar to him.

The Black Hawk helicopter swooped across the sands of Kavir-e Lut, blasting out, incredibly loudly, the heavy metal classic 'Born to be Wild' by famed 1960s' band Steppenwolf.

The Iranians were confused and masked their sudden fear by a frantic rage, not knowing what to do as they stepped away from their positions.

Tears welled up in Michael's eyes as the lyrics from the song kicked in and his quivering lips mouthed the words. He started to sing along quietly.

Hamid strode into the room. He was fuming. He gripped his pistol tight and eyed his men.

"Where is this music coming from? Is it the computer? Where is it?" Hamid bellowed. He looked around the room and up at the ceiling.

Hamid locked eyes with Michael and stared down hard at him, trying to figure out if he had anything to do with the music that was becoming louder and louder, closer and closer.

The Black Hawk lowered onto the sands outside the submerged, dune-hidden industrial base. Its team of Special Forces exited, advanced on the structure and positioned themselves, strategically. The light of the moon occasionally picked them out.

An Iranian captor emerged from a door and rapidly fired his AK47 into the darkness. A member of the Special Forces spotted the Iranian clearly with his infrared goggles and took him out with his own semi-automatic weapon. His chest, arms and legs were punctured by the Special Forces hail of bullets, which were suddenly let loose into the night air, forcing him to shake violently and drop to the sands.

Hamid marched toward Michael and pointed his pistol down at him. He pressed the barrel hard against his forehead.

"Did you bring the sound of the devil to this place?"

Michael continued to sing quietly. He was filled with a surge of hope, singing the rock classic, softly, under his breath, as if it was the Lord's prayer.

Hamid signaled his men to leave the room, speaking in Farsi and issuing instructions.

"Hamid! What are you doing Hamid?" cried Siamak.

Hamid turned to Siamak, curled upon the floor several feet away. He pointed his gun at him.

"I saw barrels. Drums and rockets," Michael blurted.

Hamid quickly turned and aimed his gun back on Michael again.

"Barrels? Shit. What kind? Dammit," Siamak called out in his American accent, causing Hamid to frown and scowl.

Hamid was confused. He turned his gun back and forth.

"You! You lying, American pig!" he yelled as machinegun fire sounded out, echoing along one of the corridors below.

The bullets were accompanied by screams that erupted from more than one man.

Hamid gripped his pistol tight and stood to one side in a darkened section of the room as more gunshots rang out, joined by cries of Arabic and a sudden explosion.

Michael jolted, but continued to mutter his lyrics.

The sound of gunfire was like a pneumatic drill pounding a concrete pavement.

He heard the cries of men dying and being shot, accompanied by flash-bombs brightening up the darkened corridors beyond the generator room which housed Michael and Siamak.

A Special Forces member paced along the corridor. His night vision goggles depicted a clear path and every detail ahead, including doorways, stairways, cells and the occasional Iranian rebel, who leapt out suddenly, yet, equally as quick, was shot down.

Two more men hurried along the corridor and branched off into different sections. They reeled off their bullets.

One of the team screamed out in the darkness that he had been hit.

The Master Sergeant advanced on a stairwell. His boots thumped loudly upon each metal step when BANG! BANG! He was shot twice by one of the Iranian captors: once in his thigh and once in his left arm. It brought him to his knees.

The Iranian with the sabre sword stepped out of the doorway at the top of the stairs. He held the blade aloft, ready to strike it down onto the Master Sergeant's neck.

The Sergeant winced with pain and struggled to retrieve his sidearm, as he looked up at the shiny sword with absolute fear as it made its way down from the ceiling towards him. A white light cast by the blade shone down upon him like it was his time to leave the world.