Энди МакНаб. Последний свет(engl)
страница №14
...re than half submerged with the weight of its load. Ipushed on into gradually deepening water, forearms over the weapon and
harnesses, until eventually my feet began to lose touch with the riverbed. I
let myself go with the flow, kicking off from the mud like a child with a
swimming float. The stream carried me with it, but I kept contact with the
bottom to keep some control, alternately kicking and going with the current
as if I was doing a moonwalk.
The loggers had been here and both sides of the river looked like a
First World War battlefield, a wasteland of mud and tufted grass, just the
odd dead tree left standing.
Because of the river's meandering route I had no idea how long it was
going to take to get to the mouth, not that there was much I could do about
it: I was committed.
After about half an hour, with the sun low but clearly in view, the
jungle began to sprout up on either side of me, and as the foliage got
denser it cut out more and more light. The sun wasn't yet high enough to
penetrate the gap the river created in the canopy, so above me was just
brilliant blue sky. Apart from the noise of the moving water, there was only
the odd screech from more invisible birds up in the canopy.
I kicked along, keeping near the left bank, always having contact with
the bottom as the river got wider. The opposite bank gradually got further
away, looking as if it was another country now. The jungle gave way to
mangrove swamp, making the place look like a dinosaur's backyard.
The river soon widened to well over one and a half Ks. As I rounded a
particularly wide, gentle bend, I could see the Pacific Ocean lying just a K
further downstream. In the far distance I could see two container ships,
their funnels spewing smoke as the sun bounced off the calm, flat surface of
the sea.
A lush green island sat out there five, maybe six Ks away.
I kept on going, keeping my eyes peeled for anything that would help me
locate Sunburn.
The current was slowing and I moved downstream another five hundred
metres.
Then, maybe two hundred metres from the river mouth, approaching me to
my left, was a small, open-decked fishing boat that had been dragged up on
to the bank and left to rot; its rear had collapsed altogether, leaving a
skeleton of grey, rotting wood. As I got closer I could see there was a
clearing beyond the boat in which stood a small wooden hut in a similar
state of decay.
I floated past, my eyes scanning the area. There had been movement,
fresh movement. I could clearly see the dark underside of some large ferns
just up from the bank, and some of the two-foot-tall grass growing around
the boat was interlaced where it had been walked through. Only tiny details,
but enough. This had to be it, it had to be. There was no other reason for
it to be here. But I couldn't see any sign in the mud leading from the bank.
I carried on for another fifty metres, with the ocean in front of me
now, until the canopy took over and the boat disappeared. I touched bottom
and slowly guided the jerry-can ashore.
Dragging the kit into the canopy, I got on my knees and unbuckled the
harnesses and M-16. The weapon wouldn't need any preparation: a brief dip in
a river wasn't going to stop it working.
I donned the first chest harness and adjusted the straps so that it
hung lower than it should have, virtually around my waist. Then I put on the
second, a bit above the first, adjusting it so it was at the bottom of my
ribcage, and the third one higher still. I rechecked that all the mags were
stored facing the correct way, so that as I pulled them out with my left
hand the curve of the magazine would be facing away from me, ready to be
slapped straight into the weapon. Finally, after rechecking chamber on the
M-16,1 sat on the jerry-can for a minute or two longer, mentally adjusting
and tuning myself in to the new environment. The coolness of the water on my
clothes began to lose out to humid heat once more as I checked Baby-G. It
was 7.19, and here I was, Rambo'd up, bitten half to death, my leg held
together by a soggy bandage, and no plan except to use all my mags.
This would be my 'go, no-go' point. Once I moved from here there would
be no turning back unless I fucked up totally and was running for my life. I
looked down and watched the drips from the harnesses hit the mud, making
little moon craters, not wanting to check my docs in my map pocket just in
case the knots hadn't worked. This was wasting time, I was as ready as I was
ever going to be, so just get on with it... Wiping my hair back with my
fingers, I stood up, jumped up and down to check for rattles and that
everything was secure. Then I removed the safety catch, pushing past single
rounds, all the way to Automatic.
I moved towards the hut, pausing every few paces, listening for
warnings from the birds and other jungle life, butt in my shoulder, trigger
finger against the guard, ready to shoot and scoot with a full mag to scare,
confuse and, with luck, kill while I broke contact.
The ground was a lot wetter and muddier here because we were at sea
level. I wanted to get a move on but also had to take my time; I had to
check the area around the hut, because it would be my only escape route. If
the shit hit the fan it would be a case of straight down to the river, pick
up the jerry-can, jump in and go for it, down to the sea. After that, well
whatever.
Like a cautious bird rooting for food amongst the leaf litter, I
squelched forward four paces per bound, my Timberlands heavy with mud,
lifting my feet up high to clear the crap and mangrove vines on the jungle
floor as I concentrated on the sun-bleached wooden hut ahead.
I stopped just short of the clearing, went slowly on to my knees in the
mud and protective foliage, looked and listened. The only man-made sound
around here was the water dripping from my clothes and chest harnesses on to
the leaf litter.
The track leading into the canopy had been used recently, and something
had been pulled along it that cut a groove through the mud and leaves.
Either side of that groove were footprints that disappeared with the track
into the trees. I hadn't seen any sign in the mud as I floated past, because
it had been covered with dead leaves and maybe even had water poured over it
to wash away the sign.
Past the bank, though, the sign was clear to see: stones pressed into
the mud by boots, crushed leaves, broken cobwebs. I got up and started to
parallel the track.
Within twenty paces I came across the Gemini, with a Yamaha 50 on the
back. It had been dragged up the track and pulled off to the right, blocking
my way. The craft was empty apart from a couple of fuel bladders and some
fallen leaves. I was tempted to wreck it, but what was the point? I might be
needing it myself soon, and destroying it would take time as well as alert
them to my presence.
I moved on, and could still see masses of ground sign heading in both
directions as the narrow track meandered around the trees. Still paralleling
the track to my left, I started to move deeper into the canopy, using it as
my guide.
Sweat trickled down my face as the sun rose and lit the gas under the
pressure cooker. A heart-monitor bird was up in the canopy somewhere, and
the crickets just never stopped. Soon the sun was trying to penetrate the
canopy, shafts of bright light cutting down to the jungle floor at a
forty-five-degree angle. My cargos had a life of their own, the weight of
the wet, caked-on mud making them swing against my legs after each pace.
I patrolled on, stopping, listening, trying to keep up speed but at the
same time not compromise myself by making too much noise. I continued
checking left, right and above me, all the time thinking: What if? and
always coming up with the same answer: Shoot and scoot, get into cover and
work out how to box round and keep moving to the target. Only when I knew I
was fucked would I try to head back to the jerry-can.
There was a metallic clang in the trees.
I froze, straining an ear.
For several seconds all I could hear was my own breath through my nose,
then the clang rang out again. It came from straight ahead and just slightly
off to my left.
Applying the safety catch with my right thumb, I went down slowly on to
my knees, then on to my stomach. It was time to move slower than a sloth,
but BabyG reminded me it was 9.06.
I inched forward on my elbows and toes, with the weapon to my right,
exactly as I had done when I attacked the Land Cruiser, except that this
time I was having to lift my body higher than I'd have wanted to stop the
chest harnesses dragging in the mud.
I was panting: the crawl was hard work. I put out my hands, put
pressure on my elbows and pushed myself forward with the tips of my toes,
sinking into the mud.
Moving through the undergrowth six inches at a time, I could feel the
gloop finding its way up my neck and forearms. I stopped, lifted my head
from the jungle floor, looked and listened for more activity but still only
heard my own breath, sounding a hundred times louder than I wanted it to.
Every soft crunch of wet leaves beneath me sounded like the popping of
bubble wrap
I was constantly looking for alarm trips wires, pressure pads, infrared
beams or maybe even string and tin cans. I didn't know what to expect.
A mud-covered Baby-G now told me it was 9.21.1 made myself feel better
about the time by thinking that at least I might finally be on target.
Mosquitoes materialized from nowhere, whirring and whining around my
head. They landed on my face and must have known that I couldn't do anything
about it.
There was noise, and I froze. Another clunk of metal on metal then a
faint, fast murmur above the noise of the crickets. I closed my eyes, leant
my ear towards the source, opened my mouth to cut out internal noises and
concentrated.
The inflection in the voices wasn't Spanish. I strained to listen, but
just couldn't work it out. They seemed to be talking at warp speed,
accompanied now by the rhythmic thud of full jerry-cans.
It was 9.29.
I had to get closer and not worry about the noise, not worry about the
people making it. I needed to see what was happening so I could work out
what I had to do within the next twenty minutes.
FORTY-ONE
I lifted my chest from the mud and slithered forward. Very soon I began
to make out a small clearing beyond the wall of green. Sunlight penetrated
the canopy in thick shafts, dazzling me as it bounced off the wet ground and
perimeter foliage.
Movement.
The black-shirted guy who'd been on the veranda crossed left to right
in the clearing before disappearing as quickly as he'd arrived, carrying two
black bin liners half full and shiny in the sunlight. He wore a US Army
webbing belt with two mag pouches hanging down from it.
I took some slow, deep breaths to re oxygenate myself. The thud of my
pulse kicked in my neck.
I made another two slow advances, not bothering to lift my head to look
forward through the foliage. I'd know soon enough if they'd seen me.
The voices came again from my right, a lot clearer, and faster, but
still in control. I could understand them now, sort of... They were Eastern
European, maybe Bosnians. The doss-house had been full of them.
The small cleared area in the trees was about the size of half a tennis
court. I couldn't see anything, but heard the unmistakable hiss of fuel
under pressure being released in the vicinity of the voices.
One more slow, deliberate bound and now I heard the fuel splash. Not
daring even to rub my lips together to wipe off the mud, I strained my eyes
to the top of their sockets, my mouth open. I felt dribble run down from the
corners.
Black Shirt was to my half right, maybe six, seven metres away,
standing with the little fat guy who'd been with him that night. He was
still wearing the same checked shirt. The jerry-cans were being emptied over
the assembled contents of their camp: camouflage netting, American Army
cots, a generator turned on its side, plastic bin-liners full and tied. All
were piled into a heap. It was nearly time to leave, so they were destroying
any evidence linking them to the site.
I remained perfectly still, my throat dry and sore as I tried to listen
to the two Bosnians above the din of crickets and bird calls. Their voices
still came from my right, but we were separated by foliage.
Holding my breath, straining my muscles to keep total control of them
to cut down on noise, I edged forward another few inches, my eyes glued to
the two at the rubbish dump just a few metres away as the last of the fuel
was poured and the cans thrown on top. I was so close I could smell the
fumes.
As the area to my right opened up a bit I saw the backs of the two
Bosnians, dressed in green fatigue tops and jeans, bathed in a shaft of
sunlight. They were bent over a fold-down table, one twisting the hair on
his beard as they both studied two screens inside a green metal console.
There were two integrated keyboards below each screen. That had to be the
guidance system; I'd wondered what it looked like. To the right of it was an
opened laptop, but the sunlight was too bright for me to make out what was
on any of the screens. Beside them on the ground were five civilian
rucksacks, two M-16s with mags on, and another jerry-can probably to deal
with the electronic equipment after the launch.
I wanted to check the time but Baby-G was covered in mud. I couldn't
risk movement so close on target. I watched the two Bosnians talk and point
at the console screens, then look over at the laptop as one hit the
keyboard. Beyond them I could see cables running down from the rear of the
console and into the jungle. The Sunburn had to be at the river's mouth. As
I'd have expected, the guidance system was separated from the missile
itself. They wouldn't have wanted to be right on top of shed loads of rocket
fuel when it went off. There was no generator noise, so I guessed the power
supply must be part of the missile platform.
The Bosnians were still gob bing off as the fifth member came out of
the canopy from behind the console. He, too, was dressed in a green fatigue
top, but had black baggy trousers, an M-16 over his shoulder and belt kit.
He lit a cigarette with a Zippo and watched the Bosnians hovering over the
screens. Sucking in deeply on his nicotine hit, he used his free hand to
wave the bottom of his shirt to circulate some air around his torso. Even if
I hadn't recognized his face, I would have known that pizza scar anywhere.
The two fuel pourers moved away from the rubbish dump as Black Shirt
lit up as well. They were totally uninterested in what was going on at the
table just behind them and mumbled to each other as they checked the time.
All of a sudden the Bosnians began to jabber and their voices went up
an octave as Pizza Man sucked on his filter and bent in towards the screens.
Stuff was happening. There must be only minutes left. I had to make my
move.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed up on to my knees, my mud-caked thumb
shifting the safety to Auto as the weapon came into the shoulder. I squeezed
with both eyes open, short, sharp bursts into the mud by the dump. There was
a rapid thud, thud, thud, thud as the rounds penetrated the first layer of
mud and slammed into the harder ground.
Unintelligible screams mixed with the sound of rounds on auto as the
Bosnians panicked and the other two went for their weapons. The fifth just
seemed to vanish.
My shoulder rocked back with another short burst as I held the weapon
tight to stop the muzzle rising. I didn't want to hit the Bosnians: if they
could fly the thing, they could stop it. The sounds of automatic gunfire and
panic echoed round the canopy and a cloud of cordite hung in front of me,
held by the foliage.
The mag emptied as I kept on squeezing. The working parts stayed to the
rear.
I got to my feet and moved position before they reacted to where the
fire had come from. I ran to the right, towards the table, using the cover,
the mud heavy on my clothes, pressing the magazine-release catch with my
forefinger, shaking the weapon, trying to remove the mud-clogged magI felt
the mag hit my thigh as I fumbled at the lower harness and pulled out a
fresh one. I smacked it on and hit the release catch. The working parts
screamed forward as long bursts of automatic fire came from my left, from
the clearing.
I dropped instinctively. Mud splattered my face and the air was forced
out of my lungs. Gasping for breath, I crawled like a madman, pushing to the
edge of the clearing. If they saw me they would fire where I'd dropped for
cover.
I was in time to see the Bosnians disappearing down the track, their
terrified voices filling the gaps between bursts of gunfire. I also saw
Pizza Man, the other side of the clearing, in cover, shouting at them to
come back.
"It's just one man, one weapon! Get back!"
It wasn't happening, the other two were following the Bosnians, firing
long bursts into the jungle.
"Fucking assholes!"
Weapon in the shoulder, he took single shots at them. Fuck that, I
wanted them alive.
Flicking safety to single rounds, I gulped in air, closed my left eye
and took aim centre mass of what little I could see of him, stopped
breathing and fired.
He dropped like a stone, disappearing into the foliage without a sound.
The other two were still firing into shadows as they moved down the
track.
A cordite mist hung about the clearing as I let off another magazine at
them.
Steam oozed out of the cooling vents on the mud-covered stock and
around my left hand. Shit, shit, shit... I wanted to create noise, I wanted
to create confusion, I wanted to get everyone sparked up, not lose them in
the jungle. But I wasn't going to chase them. It was pointless, there wasn't
enough time.
I changed mags and crossed the clearing towards Pizza Man,
weapon in the shoulder, moving fast but cautiously. The others might
still come back, and I still couldn't see him.
He was alive, panting for breath and holding his chest, eyes open but
helpless.
Blood flowed gently between his fingers.
I tossed his weapon to one side and kicked him.
"Close it down! Close it down!"
He just lay there, no reaction.
I grabbed his forearm and dragged him into the clearing, and it was
then that I saw the exit wound gaping in his back.
His eyes were shut tight, taking the pain of the round and movement. I
dropped his arm as he mumbled, almost smiling, "We're coming back, asshole
..."
I leant over him, butt in the shoulder, and thrust the muzzle into his
face.
"Stop it! Fucking stop it!"
He just smiled beneath the pressure of the metal stuck in his skin. The
weapon moved as he coughed up blood over the end of the barrel.
"Or what?" He coughed up some more.
He was right. I kicked him out of frustration as I ran to the table,
checking the track for the others, checking Baby-G.
Just three minutes to go.
The left-hand VDU was full of Russian symbols, the other was a radar
screen with a hazy green background peppered with white dots as its sweeping
arm moved clockwise.
The laptop displayed the webcam image of the locks. A cable led from
it, along the ground and up a tree, where a small satellite dish was clamped
to a branch.
I looked back at the laptop. I could see the band playing, girls
dancing and crowds in the seats and more standing against the barriers. The
Ocaso was in pride of place on the screen. Passengers thronged the decks,
clutching cameras and handy-cams.
Scrambling round to the back of the table, I fell to my knees and
started pulling out the mass of wires and thick cables that led from the
back of the console and out towards the sea. Some were just slotted in, some
had a bracket over them, some were screwed into their sockets.
I tried desperately to disconnect them two at a time, almost
hyperventilating in frustration as my wet, muddy hands slid about the
plastic and metal. I flapped like a child in a blind panic, yelling at
myself, "Come on! Come on! Come on!"
I looked over at the dump, wishing I had a gollock. But even if I found
one and started slashing cables, chances were I'd electrocute myself. I
couldn't tell which were transmission and which were power.
Curled up in pain, Pizza Man was watching me, his shirt soaked with
blood and covered with mud and leaf litter.
Fighting another connection, I spun the laptop round just as the image
started to refresh from the top.
A high-pitched whine started within the canopy, winding up like a
Harrier jump jet before take-off.
Within seconds the noise surrounded me.
Four cables to go. The more I tried to pull or unscrew them, the more I
lost it.
I gave one big tug in frustration and despair. The console slid off the
table and landed in the mud. The high-pitched whine became a roar as the
rocket engines kicked in.
In almost the same instant there was a deafening, rumbling boom, and
the ground began to shake under my feet. I stayed on my knees, looking up
into the canopy as its inhabitants took off in a panic.
I didn't see vapour, I didn't see anything, I just felt the sickening
rumble as the missile left its platform and surged out of the jungle. The
treetops shook and debris rained down around me.
I didn't know what to feel as I released my grip on the cables and
looked over at the laptop, mesmerized, catching the last glimpse of the ship
as the image faded.
I could hear Pizza Man, still curled up in the leaf litter like a
child, panting, trying to get oxygen. When I looked at him, he was smiling.
I was sure he was trying to laugh.
The screen was blank and there was nothing I could do but wait,
wondering if I'd be able to hear the explosion, or if the sound would get
swallowed up by the jungle and distance.
My chest heaved up and down as I tried to take deep breaths, swallowing
hard, trying to relieve my dry throat, just waiting for the screen to
refresh or stay blank for ever as the camera would surely be taken out as
well.
I was right: he was laughing, enjoying the moment.
The first strip at the top started to show and I could hardly contain
the terrible feeling of expectation.
Slowly, lazily, the image unfolded and I braced myself for the scene of
carnage, trying to convince myself that the camera being intact was a good
sign, then thinking I didn't know how far the camera was from the locks, so
maybe not.
The picture refreshed itself. The ship was intact, everything was
intact. The dancing girls were throwing their batons in the air and
passengers were waving at the crowd on shore. What the fuck had happened? It
should have made it there by now: it travelled at two and a half times the
speed of sound.
I didn't trust what I was seeing. Maybe it was the image that had been
captured just before the explosion, and I was going to wait for the next
cycle.
I'd never felt so exhausted, and all other thoughts had left my mind. I
didn't even care about a possible threat from the other four, though if
they'd had any sense they'd already be dragging the Gemini into the water.
The smell of sulphur hit me as the exhaust seeped through the jungle,
creating a low, smoky mist around the area and making it look like God lived
here as the vapour was exposed to the brilliant shafts of light.
Pizza Man made gurgling sounds, coughing up more blood.
The top of the image began to unfold and this time I saw smoke. I knew
it. I jumped to my feet and hovered over the laptop. Sweat dropped off my
nose and chin and on to the screen. My sweatshirt pulled down on me with the
weight of mud as I gulped in air to calm my heart rate.
Still the only thing I could see was smoke as the picture rolled on
down.
It hadn't worked.
I sat back in the mud, more exhausted than I'd ever been in my life.
Then, as the image filled the screen, I saw that the ship was still,
there.
The smoke was coming from its funnels. The crowds were still cheering.
The sounds of the jungle returned. Birds screeched above me as they
settled back in their roosts. I sat there, almost bonding with the mud, as
the seconds ticked by. And then, starting as quiet as a whisper but
increasing very rapidly, came the distinctive wap wap wap of much bigger
birds.
The sound got louder and then came the rapid rattle of rotors as a Huey
zoomed straight over me. Its dark blue underbelly flashed across the
treetops, and I could hear others circling as its downwash shook the canopy
and vegetation rained down about me.
Time to switch on.
I jumped to my feet and grabbed a jerry-can, dousing the console with
fuel, making sure it poured into the cooling vents at the back, then I did
the same to the laptop. I picked up two rucksacks and threw them over a
shoulder, hoping that whatever made them weigh so much was stuff I could use
in the jungle.
Finally grabbing the weapon, I moved to Pizza Man, manhandling him over
on to his back. There was no resistance. His legs started to tremble as he
looked at me with a satisfied smile. The small entry wound high in his chest
oozed blood each time he took a breath.
"It didn't work," I shouted.
"It didn't make contact, you fucked up."
He didn't believe me and hung on to the smile, eyes closed, coughing
more blood.
I reached into his pocket and pulled out the Zippo.
The heli had returned and was over by the river, flying low and slow.
Others were now closer. There were long, sustained bursts of automatic fire.
They had found the escaping Gemini.
I knew he could hear me. That's Charlie's people. They'll be here
soon."
His eyes flickered open and he fought to keep the smile through the
pain.
"Believe me, you fucked up, it didn't work. Let's hope they keep you
alive for Charlie. I bet you two have a lot to talk about."
In truth, I didn't have a clue what they'd do. I just wanted to kill
that smile.
"I hear he had his own brother-in-law crucified. Just think what he's
going to do to you ..."
As I heard heli noise almost directly overhead I ran over to the
console and flicked the lighter. The fuel ignited instantly. They mustn't
fall into Charlie's hands; then all he would need was another missile and he
would be back in business.
I turned and ran from the flames. Passing Pizza Man, I couldn't resist
giving him a taste of the kind of kicking I'd got in Kennington.
He did the same as I had, just curled up and took it. I heard shouts
from the track. Charlie's boys were here.
I flicked the Zippo again and tossed it on to the dump.
As the roar of the Hueys became almost deafening, I shouldered the
rucksacks, picked up the weapon, and ran into the jungle as fast as the mud
on my boots would let me.
FORTY-TWO
Friday 15 September Pulling down the visor to shade me from the sun, I
watched through the dirty windscreen as passenger after passenger, laden
with oversized cases, was dropped off outside Departures. I felt a twinge of
pain in my calf and adjusted myself in the seat to stretch my damaged leg as
the roar of jet engines followed an aircraft into the clear blue sky.
There had been enough anti-surveillance drills en route to the airport
to throw off Superman, but still I sank into the seat and watched the
vehicles that came and went, trying to remember if I had seen any of them or
their drivers earlier.
The dash digital said it was nearly three o'clock, so I turned the
ignition key to power up the radio, scanning the AM channels for news even
before the antenna had fully risen. A stern American female voice was soon
informing me that there were unconfirmed reports that PARC were behind the
failed missile attack, which appeared to have been aimed at shipping in the
Panama canal. It was sort of old news now and low down the running order,
but it seemed that after it launched, fishermen saw the missile fly out of
control before falling into the bay less than half a mile from the shore.
The US had already reestablished a presence in the republic as they were now
trying to fish out the missile and set up de fences to stop any such further
terrorist attacks.
The polished voice continued, "With approximately twelve thousand armed
combatants, PARC is Colombia's oldest, largest, most capable and best
equipped insurgency. It was originally the military wing of the Colombian
Communist Party, and is organized along military lines. PARC has been
anti-US since its inception in 1964. President Clinton said today that Plan
Colombia, the one point three billion-' I flicked it back on to the FM
Christian channel and hit the off switch before cutting the ignition again.
The antenna retracted with a quiet electric buzz. It was the first bit of
news I'd heard about the incident. I had done my best to avoid all media
these past six days, but hadn't been able to resist any longer the
temptation to find out what had happened.
The injury still hurt. Pulling up one leg of my cheap and baggy jeans,
I inspected the clean dressing on my calf and had a little scratch at the
skin above and below it as a jet thundered just above the car park on
finals.
It had taken three long, wet and hot days to walk out of the jungle,
clean myself up, and hitch a ride into Panama City. The rucksacks had
contained no food, so it was back to jungle survival skills and digging out
roots on the move. But at least I could lie on the rucksacks and keep out of
the mud, and although they didn't fit very well, the spare clothes helped
keep the mozzies off my head and hands at night.
Once I'd reached the city, I dried out the two hundred odd dollars I'd
lifted from the guys in the house in the sun and the blood flaked off them
like thin scabs. I bought clothes and the dirtiest room in the old quarter
that didn't care as long as I paid cash.
Up until Tuesday, four days ago, my credit card still hadn't been
cancelled, so it looked as if things were still OK with the Yes Man. After
I'd cleaned myself up, I went into a bank and took out the max I could on
it, $12,150, at some ripoff exchange rate, before using my ticket to Miami.
From there I took a train to Baltimore, Maryland. It had taken two days on
four trains, never buying a ticket for more than a hundred dollars so as not
to arouse suspicion. After all, who pays cash for any journey costing
hundreds? Only people who don't want a record of their movements, people
like me. That's why the purchase of airline tickets for cash is always
registered. I hadn't minded the Yes Man knowing I was out of Panama as he
tracked me to Miami, but that was all I'd wanted him to know.
But now, three days later, who knew? Sundance and Trainers might
already be sightseeing in Washington, even phoning that half-sister to tell
her that once they'd finished off some business they'd come to New York for
a visit.
I heard the door handle go and Josh was at the window of his black,
doublecabbed Dodge gas-guzzler. One hand pulled open the driver's door, the
other cradled a Starbucks and a can of Coke.
I took the coffee as he climbed into the driver's seat, and muttered,
Thanks', as I placed the paper cup in the centre console holder. My
fingernails and prints were still ingrained with jungle dirt; they looked
like I'd been washing my hands in grease. It would take a few more days yet
to wash out after my holiday from hygiene.
Josh's eyes stayed on the entrance to the long-term multi-storey car
park, the other side of our short-term one. A line of vehicles was waiting
to take a ticket and for the barrier to raise.
"Still thirty minutes to push until we're due," he said.
"We'll drink them here."
I nodded, and pulled back on the ring pull as he tested the hot brew.
Anything he said was OK by me today. He had picked me up at the station,
driven me about for the last two hours, and had listened to what I was
proposing. And now here we were, at Baltimore International airport, where I
should have arrived from Charles de Gaulle in the first place, and he had
even bought me a Coke.
He still looked the same, shiny brown bald head, still hitting the
weights, gold-rimmed glasses that somehow made him look more menacing than
intellectual.
From my side I couldn't see the torn sponge scar on his face.
The Starbucks was still a bit too hot for him so he nursed it in his
hands.
After a while he turned towards me. I knew he hated me: he couldn't
hide it from his face, or the way he talked to me. I would have felt the
same, in his shoes.
There'll be rules," he said. 'You hear what I'm saying?"
Another jet came down over the wagon and he shouted over the roar as he
pointed every other word at me.
"You are first going to sort out this shit you've got us all in, man. I
don't care what it's about or what you have to do just finish it. Then, and
only then, you call me. Only then we talk. We don't deserve this shit. It's
a grim deal, man."
I nodded. He was right.
Then, only when that's done, this is how it's going to be like a
divorced couple, a couple that do the right thing by their kids. You fuck
that up, you fuck yourself up. It's the only way it's going to work. You
hearing me? It's the last chance you're ever getting."
I nodded, feeling relieved.
We sat there and drank, both of us checking the vehicles that were
trying to find a space.
"How's the Christian thing going?"
"Why?"
'You're swearing a lot nowadays ..."
"What the fuck do you expect? Hey, don't worry about my faith, I'll see
you if you ever get there."
That put paid to that conversation. We sat for another ten minutes,
watching vehicles and listening to the aircraft. Josh gave occasional sighs
as he thought about what he had agreed to. He was certainly not happy, but I
knew he would do it anyway, because it was the right thing. He finished the
Starbucks and put the cup `<49' into the console holder.
That recycled paper?"
He looked at me as if I was mad.
"What? What7s with you?"
"Recycled, the cup. A lot of trees are used making those things."
"How many?"
"I don't know a lot."
He picked up the cup. The sleeve says sixty per cent post-consumer
recycled fibre feel better now, O spirit of the fucking woods?"
The cup went back into the holder.
"Meanwhile, uptown ... they're here."
We drove out of the car park and followed signs for long stay,
eventually turning into the multi-storey. I bent down into the foot
well as if I'd dropped something as we approached the barrier and ticket
machine. The last thing Josh needed was a picture of us together at this
time.
I could see plenty of empty spaces but we drove straight up the ramps
to the second-to-last floor. The top floor was probably uncovered, and open
to observation. This was the next best floor: there wouldn't be many
vehicles coming up this far, and those that did would be easier to check
out. I had to hand it to Josh, the guy was thorough.
We pulled into a space and Josh nodded at a metallic green Voyager with
a mass of cartoon-character baby sun screens pulled down, effectively
blacking out the rear. The plates were "Maine -the Vacation State'.
"Five minutes, got it? This is dangerous, she's my sister, for God's
sake."
I nodded and reached for the handle.
"Just remember, man, she missed you last week. You screwed up
big-time."
I got out and as I approached the Voyager the front window powered down
to reveal a woman in her mid-thirties, black and beautiful, with relaxed
hair pulled back in a bun. She gave an anxious half-smile and indicated for
me to go round to the sliding door as she got out.
"I appreciate this."
There was no answer from her as she went over to Josh's wagon and
climbed in next to him.
I felt some apprehension at seeing Kelly. I hadn't done so for just
over a month now. I slid the door across. She was strapped into the rear
seat, staring at me, a little confused, maybe a little wary, as I got inside
to conceal us both.
It's incredible how much children seem to change if you don't see them
every day. Kelly's hair was cut much shorter than when I'd last seen her,
and it made her look about five years older. Her eyes and nose seemed more
defined somehow, and her mouth a bit larger, like a young Julia Roberts. She
was going to be the spitting image of her mother.
I put on my smiley face, moving baby toys out of the way to sit down in
the row in front of her.
"Hello, how are you?" Nothing exuberant, nothing over the top as I sat
between two strapped-in baby seats and looked back at her. The reality of it
was, I just wanted to throw my arms around her and give her the world's
biggest hug, but didn't dare risk it. She might not want me to; maybe it
felt strange and new to her as well.
Something the size of a Jumbo was taxiing upwind of us. I could hardly
hear myself think and stuck my finger in my ear and made a funny face. At
least I got a smile from her.
Josh's sister had left the engine ticking over, and I could feel the
air conditioning working overtime as I pulled myself over the back rest and
kissed her cheek. There wasn't any coldness in her reaction, but nothing in
the way of exhilaration either. I understood: why get excited, only to be
let down?
"It's great to see you. How are you?"
"Fine ... what are those lumps on your face?"
"I got stung by some wasps. Anyway, what are you up to?"
"I'm on a vacation with Monica are you going to stay with us? You said
you were coming to see me last week."
"I know, I know, it's just that... Kelly, I... Listen, I'm sorry for
not doing all the things I said I would with you. You know, call, come visit
when I said I would. I always wanted to do those things, it was just, well,
stuff, you know."
She nodded as if she knew. I was glad one of us did.
"And now I've mucked it up again and have to go away for a while today
.. . but I really wanted to see you, even if it was only for a few minutes."
There was a roar that almost made the Voyager shake as the jumbo
thundered down the runway and lifted into the sky. I waited, frustrated that
I couldn't say what I wanted to until the noise died.
"Look, maybe I was jealous of Josh when you started to live with him,
but now I know it's the right thing, the best thing. You need to be with his
gang, having fun, going to Monica's for a holiday. So what I've worked out
with Josh is, once I come back from sorting some stuff out, I'll be able to
do things you know, coming to see you, calling, going on holiday. I want to
do all those things with you, because I miss you so much and think about you
all the time. But it has to be like this now, you have to live with Josh.
That make sense?"
She just looked and nodded as I carried on, barely taking breath.
"But just now I've got to make sure I finish stuff so that I can do
those things with you.
That OK?"
"We will go on vacation? You said we would one day."
"Absolutely. It might not be immediately, though. After you get back
from Monica's you'll be going to a teacher for a while, and I have to sort
out... well..."
"Stuff?"
We smiled. That's right. Stuff."
Monica opened her door with a wide smile for Kelly.
"We gotta go, honey."
Kelly looked at me with an expression that I couldn't read, and for one
terrible moment I thought she was going to cry.
"Can I talk with Dr. Hughes?"
Concern must have been written all over my face.
"Why? Why's that?"
Her face conjured up an enormous grin.
"Well, my dad just divorced my other dad.
I got issues."
Even Monica laughed.
"You been watching too much Ricki Lake, honey!"
She closed the door on a smiling Kelly and Monica drove out.
Josh spoke through his window as I walked back, watching his sister
leave.
"You'll get the transportation for the train station outside Arrivals."
I nodded and turned towards the lift with a small wave, but he wanted
to say more.
"Look, man, maybe you ain't quite the dwarf I thought you were. But you
still gotta sort your shit out, then we get to sort our shit. You gotta get
a grip of your life, man, get some religion, anything."
I nodded as he drove out, two vehicles behind the Voyager, and leant
against a concrete support as another aircraft thundered overhead on finals.
She was fucked up enough and the way I acted made it worse. But I was
no longer going to sign her over to Josh and walk away. That was the easy
way out. She not only needed but deserved two parents, even if they were
divorced. I hoped that me being there, if only a little, was better than not
at all. Besides, I wanted to be there.
So that was the plan. Once I had sorted out the 'stuff, I'd come back
here and we'd do it correctly. Sort out visitation rights, and a system that
gave Kelly what she needed, structure to her life and the knowledge that the
people around her were there for her.
However, the 'stuff wasn't going to be easy. Two obstacles had to be
overcome if I wanted to stop me, Kelly, and even Josh and his lot, from
being targets now and for ever.
George and the Yes Man.
The long-term solution to this problem had to be through George. He'd
be able to call off the dogs. And the way to contact him would be through
Carrie. How I was going to do this I hadn't a clue, because George was going
to be severely pissed off. That was a whole new world that I hadn't even
started to work out yet.
First I needed to get to Marblehead, and the two trains I was taking
would get me there by six tomorrow morning. It shouldn't be hard to find
Carrie, or her mother. The place wasn't that big.
As for the short-term problem of the Yes Man, he had to be dealt with
quickly, just in case Sundance and Trainers were already on their way. I
still had the security blanket, which I'd tell George about, and Kelly was
safe. The Left Luggage ticket was valid for three months and hidden behind
one of the pay phones at Waterloo. I would have to go and get it before then
and put it somewhere else.
No way was I going to call him yet, though. The call would be traced.
I'd do that tomorrow, when the train got me into Boston South. Or maybe I'd
call once I got into Union Station in Washington, before getting the
connection north.
Then I thought, Why bother going back to the UK at all? What was there
waiting for me apart from the sports bag?
I started to fantasize and thought that maybe, if I played my cards
right, George could even fix me up with a US passport. After all, I had
stopped the system getting into PARC's hands and maybe sticking out of the
top of an aircraft carrier. I'd say that was pretty Stars and Stripes.
I pushed away from the concrete and reached the lift as the doors
opened and a couple pushed out a luggage trolley carrying far too many
suitcases.
Who knows? Maybe while I was sorting stuff out, Carrie would let me
sleep on her mother's couch.
Andy McNab joined the infantry as a boy soldier. In 1984 he was
'badged' as a member of 22 SAS Regiment and was involved in both covert and
overt special operations worldwide During the Gulf War he commanded Bravo
Two Zero, a patrol that, in the words oi his commanding officer, 'will
remain regimental history for ever'. Awarded both the Distinguished Conduct
Medal (DCM) and the Military Medal (MM), McNab was the British Army's most
highly decorated serving soldier when he finally left the SAS in February
1993 He wrote about his experiences in twc phenomenal bestsellers, Bravo Two
Zero, whicr was filmed in 1998 starring Scan Bean, and Immediate Action.
His novels, Remote Control, Crisis Four and Firewall, were all
bestsellers.
Besides his writing work, he lectures to security and intelligence
agencies in both the USA and the UK.
