Project Apex (2 page)

Buto stopped walking and looked Draven in the eye. "Something worse than death awaits anyone who does such a thing, Mr. Richard. Something much, much worse."

"What?" Draven said, seeing the fear in Buto’s eyes.

"Not now, that is a story for another time,” Buto said, shaking his head and turning away towards the trail. “Here, Mr. Richard. Your monkey is found."

The monkey lay on its side, the dart fired by Buto still embedded in its leg. It breathed with the rhythmic peace of sleep. Up close, the yellow streaks in its fur were even more evident. Draven couldn’t help but stare, wondering what secrets it held.

"How long will it stay unconscious?" Draven asked as he shrugged out of his backpack.

"An hour. Two possibly. We should head back to camp before the dark comes. Lots of dangerous animals in this jungle, Mr. Richard."

Draven took a brown cloth bag out of his backpack and gently picked up the monkey and placed it inside, before tying the bag closed and attaching it to his rucksack. Buto helped him to shrug back into it and adjust to the added weight.

"Can I ask you a question, Mr. Richard?"

"Yeah, go ahead," Draven said, noting that the glimmer of fear he had first seen in Buto’s eyes had grown considerably.

"Why do you want this animal?" the guide asked, his eyes bright and curious despite the fear.

"Where I come from, my job is to study if animals can help cure diseases in humans. This could be potentially huge. A breakthrough discovery."

"Is it not dangerous to take this magic into the world?" Buto asked. “Here, the Timika decide who is worthy. Out there, who is to say who can and cannot have this gift?”

Draven paused, unsure what to say. Buto had a point, and a good one, even if it wasn’t a point to be considered in the middle of the Congo basin in the stifling heat of the afternoon. "I’m not thinking that far ahead yet. Right now I just want to do a preliminary study of this animal and find out the truth behind these stories of magic and eternal life."

“And what if you find them, Mr. Richard? What will you do then with such information?”

“What do you mean?” Draven asked, aware that his guide had completely changed demeanour, his tone now serious, the fear he had to that point managed to hide showing through.

“If you have this magic. If you learn to understand it. Does that not make you responsible for it?”

Draven smiled, a nervous gesture designed to put Buto at ease, even if the question was again a valid one. “All I want to do is study it, here in its own environment. I have no desire to take it from here. All I want to do is learn what I can then set it free. You have to trust me on that.”

Buto was still agitated, but he managed one of those good-natured smiles which Draven had started to miss. “That’s very good, Mr. Richard. You’re a good man. When we get back to camp, we can have those beers we saved for after we had made this discovery, yes?”

A cold beer would be heaven, there was no doubt about it. Under the circumstances, he would settle for a slightly warm local brand just fine. "Okay Buto, that sounds good enough to me. Let’s get out of here before these mosquitoes bleed me dry."

"Yes sir,” Buto said, the relief in his grin evident. "Come on, this way."

Draven followed his guide, his mind swimming with questions and possibilities of the way his research could go if even half of the things he had been told were true.

CHAPTER TWO

BAGHDAD

IRAQ

SEPTEMBER 6
th
2013

THE STREETS OF BAGHDAD were filled with chatter and noise. The symphony of cars as drivers honked horns and shouted at each other was complimented by the swarming density of the population as market traders sold their goods and citizens tried to go about their business in the hope it would be a day of peace. Despite the ongoing unrest, the local populous had learned to adapt in the best way they could despite the heavy military presence and the ever-present threat of another terrorist attack. Eleven year old Akhtar Mahmood kicked his tattered football against the whitewashed wall without enthusiasm as his disabled younger brother, Youness, watched from his wheelchair, drooling and whooping from the shade.

"Do you want me to do some kick-ups?" Akhtar said to his brother as he pointed to the white Real Madrid football shirt he wore.

Youness gargled and flexed his hands, laughing as Akhtar kicked the ball into the air, showing deft skill at keeping it up with a series of knees or kicks before it could touch the ground. Across the street from the alleyway where the boys played, the American soldiers watched him, appreciative of both his skills and the distraction from the monotony of the day. Making the most of his audience, Akhtar performed some more complex tricks, ducking and catching the ball between his shoulder blades then flicking it back up into the air. Unlike many of the other citizens of Baghdad, Akhtar didn’t mind the Americans. Their presence made him and his family feel safe in a world filled with hostility and uncertainty. His father had told him that having them to protect the city was good, and could only lead to a better future for everyone.

Distracted, he lost concentration and miss kicked the ball, slicing it towards the alleyway entrance. He glanced at the soldiers as he jogged after it, scooping it up from the floor, but they had lost interest in him now and were staring down the street. Akhtar followed the direction of their gaze, watching as a beaten up red Ford rolled towards the checkpoint they were manning, leaving a plume of dust in its wake. He squinted against the sun as he watched the car come to a stop thirty feet away from the checkpoint. Akhtar could feel the change in atmosphere. The soldiers who had been calm and relaxed were now tense and readying their weapons, falling effortlessly into formation as they watched the car. One of them, an olive-skinned man with a carroty beard took a step towards the checkpoint barricade and waved the car forward. The car remained in situ, engine idling, its occupants impossible to see through the dusty windshield which was reflecting the blazing sun.

"Come forward," another of the soldiers shouted in rough Arabic, flashing a quick glance towards his carrot bearded colleague who flicked off the safety on his weapon.

Still, the vehicle didn’t move. The soldiers had seen enough. They split into two separate groups of two, one approaching the driver’s side, the other towards the passenger side, all four men training their weapons on the vehicle. Akhtar watched, the football and even his brother temporarily forgotten.

"Out of the car," one of the soldiers said, first in Arabic then in English.

The car door opened, and the driver slowly exited, hands raised.

"On the ground," He ordered.

The driver - a stocky Arabic man, smiled and watched the soldiers approach him without showing the slightest hint of fear. Akhtar could feel the tension, and noticed that people all around the checkpoint station had stopped what they were doing and were now watching events unfold, hoping for a peaceful resolution but expecting the worst. Some, who had seen situations like this and the usual outcome, fled, distancing themselves from the scene, abandoning purchases and vehicles alike. It was at this point, as Akhtar was about to go back to his brother and get him to safety when the driver of the car activated his suicide vest, which in turn detonated the explosives packed into the rear of the car.

Akhtar was on the ground before he even heard the explosion, thrown by the devastating concussion wave back into the relative safety of the alleyway.

Debris rained down, glass shimmering like diamonds on the ground where it had been ejected from the windows of surrounding buildings. Behind the intense ringing in his ear, Akhtar could hear the dull sound of gunfire and the crackle of flame. Even above all the carnage, he could hear the screams. He scrambled to his knees, coughing dust and smoke which hung heavy in the air. At the mouth of the alleyway, he could see the remains of the checkpoint. Of the four soldiers who had approached the car, only two now remained, hunkered down and returning fire against unseen assailants from the rooftops, the second part of what was obviously a planned attack. Akhtar saw one of the soldiers who had been watching him play football splayed out on the ground, his body terminating in a pulpy mass of entrails where his legs should have been, dead eyes staring at the ground.  With ears still ringing, Akhtar turned to check on his brother, who was wailing in his wheelchair, his chin slick with drool. Deciding he was safe enough towards the rear of the alley, Akhtar turned back to the gunfight happening just twenty feet away from him, mesmerised and horrified in equal measure.  The violence of the situation surrounded him now, filling his nostrils with the stench of acrid smoke and charred flesh, his ears ringing from the explosion and the roar of the fire from the blackened remains of the car in the middle of the street, which billowed black smoke into the air. Another of the soldiers, the one with the carrot beard, was hit, bullets striking him in the chest and ejecting a thin mist of blood out of the back. Akhtar always thought seeing death would be like in the movies, with an exciting musical score and a hero who seemed impervious to things such as bullets or explosions. The reality, however, was proving to be quite different. The soldier who was shot simply crumpled against the sandbags he was using for cover and then failed to move again. His solitary colleague ducked for cover as another barrage of gunfire slammed into the checkpoint, kicking up great gouts from the sandbags he hid behind. He was directly across from where Akhtar cowered, and the two locked eyes, boy and soldier. Individuals from separate worlds who were experiencing the exact same thing at the same time. The frightened soldier screamed words at Akhtar which he could neither hear nor understand amid the relentless zing of gunfire which rained down on the checkpoint. Akhtar was about to flee when his eye was caught by another soldier approaching the firefight from further down the street. He was noticeable not because of his intimidating appearance, but because he was walking towards the skirmish with absolutely no sign of fear. He was tall and broad with heavily muscled forearms. Unlike the other soldiers who were at the checkpoint, he didn't wear armour or protective clothing, just a pale mustard coloured shirt and army trousers. The shirt bore an insignia on the shoulder, a red skull on a black background with the letters P and A at either side of it in white. The man also wore what looked to be yellow paint on his arms and neck, the stripes standing out in stark contrast against his cocoa coloured skin. Without pausing, he picked up the weapon of his deceased colleague who slumped on the sandbags and walked towards the carnage. Akhtar felt his stomach tighten. He was certain the man was about to die from sheer stupidity. Seconds later, a hail of bullets tore through the soldier’s body, puffing his shirt open and sending a fine cloud of claret out behind him. As impossible as it was, the soldier didn't fall, nor did he slow his pace. With absolute calm he aimed the weapon towards the rooftops and fired a single shot, hitting one of the rooftop shooters in the head, then swung the rifle to the opposite side and repeated the process, again hitting his target in the head, blood and brains spraying out of the back of his skull. The soldier didn’t break stride as he walked further into the street and out of Akhtar line of sight.

The gunfire had almost died out now, and Akhtar couldn't resist scrambling to the edge of the alleyway on his hands and knees to watch what happened next. Akhtar could see him now, standing beside the roaring inferno within the blackened shell of the car. He was scanning the rooftops, seemingly unaware the skin on his arm nearest the flame was starting to blacken and burn. From Akhtar's vantage point, he could see the distended skin on the man's back where the bullets had hit him and pushed insides towards the outside, tearing away his shirt in the process. Despite all the horror and violence around him, Akhtar was infinitely more afraid of this man than the constant threats of violence which had plagued his country for as long as he could remember. Another crackle of gunfire came from one of the rooftops, the soldier staggering back as the projectiles hit their target, once in the leg, and another through the stomach, the bullet going straight through the soldier and sending a great chunk of dusty concrete up from the street just a few feet from Akhtar. In a single fluid motion and showing no physical reaction to the wounds, the soldier swung his weapon towards his assailant and fired once. Akhtar saw a figure tumble from a roof down the street, landing hard in the dust.

Silence.

The soldier tossed aside his weapon and strode towards the man he had shot, somehow able to walk despite a shaft of bone jutting out of the leg where the bullet had entered. He grabbed the prone man by the shirt where he lay moaning and started to drag him back towards the burning car.

The soldier who had been cowering behind the sandbags stood and checked on his friends, even though it was clear to see that none of them had survived the attack.

"You need some help?" the soldier said as he approached the burning car. The wounded soldier with the insignia on his shirt didn't respond.

"What unit are you with?"

Again, the wounded soldier didn't respond. Instead, he dragged his prisoner to his feet, ignoring the pained howl as he was forced to stand on what was clearly a broken leg.

"Hey, I'm talking to you, buddy. What unit are you from?" The checkpoint soldier asked again, frowning at what should have been debilitating wounds on the man walking towards him.