Vinny’s stomach was churning. A thought flashed into his mind. A US officer had recently been kidnapped. He’d been released after having promised to desert the army; he’d deserted and walked into Syria – which was more than he would have done had he defied his kidnappers.
‘What the hell do we do, Toby? They mean what they say. Major come round?’
‘Negative, Vinny.’
Ashe’s will was pinched in a bottleneck. His mind began to fog over as if his life was suddenly crammed into a few seconds. Anger rose like a dragon in his soul. How dare these bastards use God’s name for rank murder? What low, twisted, cynical, criminal barbarity – what kind of scum were these, to drag the name of the Almighty God into their vile, blood-drenched banalities? A poor young man, with his own life to live – the life God gave him to live – how dare they hold him with a butcher’s knife to his throat, as if his existence were theirs to play with? Every fibre of Ashe’s body shivered and shook with indignation and righteous anger. Where this energy came from, Ashe knew not, nor was he thinking.
Suddenly, Ashe was pulling himself forwards under the twisted chassis of the Merc. He wrenched himself out from beneath it and screamed at the black-masked faces hovering round the searchlights. ‘How dare you? How dare you? How dare you call this God’s work? What do you know of God? What do you know of God’s love? Nothing! What you do is not the will of God! This is NOT—’
To the utter shock of the terrorists, he opened fire at the searchlights. He saw Ibrahim slump forwards. A bullet ricocheted off a lamp into the neck of the terrorist with the butcher’s knife. He recoiled as Ibrahim’s apparently lifeless body slid down the bonnet of the Toyota and fell down the stony slope. Ashe kept firing.
‘Give ’em hell, Toby! Just give the fuckers hell!’ Zappa turned to his driver. ‘Pinsker! Pull out! Give us a look at these bastards!’
Ashe ran back around the wrecked Merc as bullets from the Toyotas flew into the darkness. Ibrahim – incredibly not dead after all – crawled for all he was worth towards the back of the Humvee.
Pinsker reversed the vehicle. As Ibrahim heaved himself up, Zappa and Private Laski opened fire with the M240. In five seconds, fifty rounds of 7.62 mm bullets tore up the windows, roofs and passengers of the Toyotas; Dykins on the 249 sprayed the surrounding area, blasting at the hooded killers with 750 lethal rounds a minute.
Zappa was screaming at the enemy: he was part of the gun, part of the fire. ‘Ashe! Get Richmond into the vehicle! We’ll cover you! Go!’
Ashe slung the M4 over his shoulder, took hold of Richmond’s boots and dragged him across the open ground towards the throbbing Humvee. A grenade came over the brow of the dune right into the wrecked Merc. The explosion shot shrapnel and debris in all directions. Laski was hit in the face by razor-sharp torn bodywork.
‘For Christ’s sake, Ashe! Get up here! Feed me some ammo!’
‘Need help, Vinny! With the major!’
‘Private Dykins! Cover!’
‘Sir!’
Dykins turned the 249 towards the brow and kept up the barrage. Zappa jumped down, pulled Richmond over his shoulder and dumped him in the armament bay of the Humvee. ‘Feed me, Ashe! Get that fuckin’ ammo in this thing! Pinsker!’
‘Sir!’
‘Head back east – full speed!’
Another grenade was launched at the Humvee, exploding by its rear. The back wheels leapt up like a stallion, sending Dykins flying out of the vehicle.
‘Pinsker! Stop! It’s Dykins!’
Dykins got up off the ground, dizzy, and ran, groping, towards the Humvee.
‘Turn the fuckin’ lights off!’
A bevy of terrorists, all in black uniforms, stormed over the hill, screaming and firing their AK-47s into the darkness.
‘Shit! The bastards’ve got night vision!’
‘Here, Ashe! Just pull the trigger! The trigger, Ashe! Squeeze it!’ Zappa reached over the side. Bullets whizzed past and bounced off the armour plating. His hand caught Dykins’. ‘Go, Pinsker! Dykins, hold on! Hold on!’ Dykins ran alongside the escaping Humvee, grabbing desperately onto Zappa’s arm. ‘Jump, man! Jump! Now!’
Zappa had Dykins by the waist, his legs dangling over the side. A line of bullets riddled the side of the Humvee, thudding into Dykins’ body armour, rocking his torso. As Zappa hauled him aboard, one of the bullets thudded through Dykins’ armpit.
‘Dykins!’
Dykins gurgled, blood in his mouth. Zappa pulled the limp Dykins onto the floor, next to Laski’s by now unconscious body. Zappa then pushed Ashe back to the ammo feed.
‘Open another box. Right hand! Yeah, you got it! Good! Now give it to me!’
Ashe struggled with the mechanism.
‘For Christ’s sake, Ashe!’
The 240 jammed. Zappa reached for the 249 and began firing wildly as the Humvee sped away east. Dykins was moaning, his lung punctured.
Ashe reloaded his M4 and sent bursts of bullets into the blackness beyond. ‘Hit ’em! Hit ’em hard!’ screamed Zappa like a madman.
Another Toyota pickup revved up and started in pursuit.
‘Put your fuckin’ foot down, Pinsker!’
Ashe, in a frenzy of fire, hit the Toyota’s lights. The vehicle braked and skidded in a cloud of dirt and dust.
‘That’s fucked him, Vinny!’
Vinny was on his gun. Out of the darkness came an almighty smash. The Toyota had crashed into wrecked Hercules fuselage. The shouting and the bullets stopped.
In the far distance, US choppers were circling the Tel Afar oil outpost, searchlights sending weird, apocalyptic beams about the distant derricks, like the legs of some hideous creature from hell’s U-bend.
Ashe was shaking, vibrating with elation; elated to be alive, to have faced the evil and channelled the evil in himself. No, it wasn’t that. Something had come alive in him as if a stranger was in the driving seat of his mind and mindlessness.
In the starlight, Ashe looked into Vinny’s flaming eyes, and saw himself. And the quietness of the night seemed to take over, as the groans from Dykins grew softer.
‘We gotta get to Mosul!’
Richmond came to; the blood in his neck and shoulder had begun to clot.
‘How ya feelin’, Major?’
‘What’s happening? I thought I was dead. God, I feel sick.’
‘You’re OK.’
‘Where are we?’
Ashe stared at him. ‘We’re here, Simon. We’re here.’
Zappa turned to the interpreter. ‘Ibrahim! Take off your shirt!’
‘Yes, Mr Zappa.’
‘Thank you, Ibrahim. Wrap it round the major’s wound. Know first-aid?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Neither do I. Try and go easy.’
‘It’s OK, Vinny. I think the bleeding’s stopped. I guess it looks pretty awful.’
‘The red badge of courage, Major.’
‘Courage?’ Richmond laughed. ‘I slept through the whole thing.’
Ashe looked to the ailing Private Dykins. Dykins screamed for his mother with every cruel vibration of the Humvee on the desert rocks.
Ashe held him in his arms. ‘You’ll be all right, Private. We’ll be home soon.’
Ashe put his ear to Dykins’ trembling lips. ‘Where are we, sir?’
‘See those stars, Private?’
‘Sir?’
‘Look up, they’re showing us the way. We’re all together, Private. You and us.’
Dykins seized Ashe’s hand. ‘Sir, did I do OK?’
‘You did great, didn’t he, Vinny?’
‘Private Dykins, you’ve served man and God. Try to be peaceful till we’re home.’
Ashe held the dying soldier. Ibrahim gave him mineral water and prayed to Allah.
Dykins pulled once more on Ashe’s arm. ‘Sir, I don’t think I’m going to…’
‘That’s all right. You sleep now. We’re safe.’
‘Sir, is God…?’
The grip became a spasm, left behind as Private Abraham Lincoln Dykins died.
‘You see that, Ibrahim?’
‘Mr Ashe?’
Ashe showed the Iraqi a letter from Dykins’ blood-soaked breast pocket. ‘He’s got the same name as you, Ibrahim. Abraham. Father of nations.’
Ibrahim handed the water to Zappa who gave it to the thirsty Richmond.
Ashe looked to the stars and thought of the ladder that links man to his destiny.
‘Vinny, my friend. I was just thinking. Maybe the headlights?’
Zappa unclipped the rear window behind Pinsker’s driving seat.
‘Pinsker, how d’ya feel about front lamps, dipped? Doctor’s getting jumpy.’
‘Front lights only: dipped, sir.’
Pinsker hit the brakes.
‘Oh Jesus! What in fuck’s name is THAT?’