|
0845hrs Tuesday May 15, 2012 Mirabad Valley, Afghanistan. AKA The Badlands |
Dying by a roadside bomb is a pretty savage way to go. If the blast doesn’t take you, the metal inside the device will maggot your limbs, face and organs leaving you either maimed, disabled or disfigured. It’s a deadly, awful trait left in the wake of a frustrated enemy. Why wouldn’t they set them up and lay them across their homeland? Surprises are good for the enemy. Keeps them up at night. Keeps them guessing and cautious, and hopefully, afraid.
As a corporal in the transport arm of the British military, Mackay usually got priority of music selection on operations. Being Irish, Mackay was biased for a pub ballad. Celtic and folky. Harmonising violins, a quick tempo and a strong beat. He also favoured the Stones and old school rhythm and blues. Mackay can’t recall exactly which song by which artist was playing when the IED went off, and none of his team were left alive to confirm either. It wasn’t the noise of the blast he remembers when his patrol vehicle was hit. Rather, it was the distinct twang of a blues guitar humming through the speakers. A memory often played loudly on a loop. He would much prefer to remember the song than see the repeated images of his lifeless mates inside his head. That’s the problem with traumatic experiences. Some parts of the brain shut down and filter things out, while other parts retain certain elements you would rather forget.
Dealing with an IED while stuck in a combat zone is nobody’s idea of fun. Not knowing whether you’re going to bleed out sends mixed emotions through your system. The adrenal gland regulators shoot rocketing levels of cortisol through the body, flooding it as it tries to maintain optimal blood flow to your major organs. Best thing to do is to not think about it and focus on staying awake. Once the medevac helicopter arrives and hauls you out of the hole you’re in, your life is in the medic’s hands. The more you think about it, the more cortisol gets dumped. Even if the body is maggotted, all it has to do is try and survive. It’s the mind that hurts the most. The regret of losing friends. The guilt. The mind always takes on the greater suffering.
On that particular day, with that particular playlist, the operation was a convoy-escort-task. The packet of five vehicles included two Bushmasters and three Unimogs, spread out to transport two Danish diplomatic personnel. Military officials moving from Kandahar to Uruzgan through the Mirabad Valley. The “Badlands”. Typically, through this route, the “Badlands” got its name because of the extreme temperatures, rugged terrain, lack of water and regularity of insurgent attacks. Not to mention the dozens of IEDs dug into the road. The diplomats were both seated inside the Bushmaster in fourth position. Second last in the packet. The task was simple: deliver the Danish diplomatic assets from Kandahar to Uruzgan. Maintain speed, maintain a staggered line, maintain surveillance points, and don’t stop for locals. Apply warfare training in real-time should enemy contact occur, and report observation checks every ten minutes.
En route back to Uruzgan, communication chatter was quiet. All battle management systems came up clear with nil perceived insurgent threats. There was no motion or movement detected anywhere in the area. Whether the enemy is known to be within a designated area or not didn’t really matter. Because some time prior, they had been there. Planting bombs into the ground just below the surface.
The two IEDs that hit Mackay’s convoy took three lives: one soldier in the front vehicle, and two in Mackay’s. Mackay was barely lucky enough to survive and wouldn’t have had it not been for the tactical vest with its thick ballistics plate stashed under his seat. Plus, the swift actions of Hillan, an operator who jumped straight onto communications as soon as they were hit. Mackay simply reacted out of instinct. A balk effect. Although he was driving with an appropriate distance behind the front vehicle, his reaction to the blast was natural. He flinched and jolted. Any man would have done the same. Watching a blast that close and keeping your cool when everyone around you is tenser than a compact grenade, is tough going. Not knowing whether the enemy has fired a rocket or whether your friends are alive creates a cacophony of blood and adrenalin.
In his reaction to the initial blast, Mackay swerved his Unimog hard left. Careening the vehicle and diverting it onto the roadside, over the verge where his front tyre hit a second IED. Which hit bigger than the first, tearing shreds out of the vehicle and making it almost unrecognisable. Mackay’s operator, Theckston, and his gunner, Freeman, were both taken out with scoring metal immediately. The fragments penetrating them through the glass windows, underneath the subframe and through the roof lining of the cupola. The Danish diplomats in the fourth vehicle were unaffected. At the front of the convoy, the armoured Bushmaster was still functioning, but the blast killed their gunner, Kirwan. The one standing up inside the cupola with an F89 machine gun. Two pieces of shrapnel claimed his life. The first piece took his left ear and the scalp surrounding it. The second piece – a rusted bolt – spat up and pierced the front of his neck through the trachea. Unsuspecting and brutal. The Taliban put all kinds of random metal fragments in their bombs, and if it didn’t kill the poor soldier who copped it, it would maim them for life.
Because of two loose bolts from the driver’s side suspension mounting, the blast from the IED fractured the entire assembly underneath Mackay’s feet. The ferocity of the explosion cracked open the cylinder head inside, splitting the metal structure into two shards. One half of the shard penetrated the coilover, cut through the mounting bracket and shot up into the driver’s firewall. Narrowly missing Mackay’s left foot but piercing directly into his left ribcage. The other half did the same thing, only two feet to the right; cutting through the mounting bracket, up through the firewall, stabbing through his right ribcage. Trapping Mackay evenly into his seat like an insect on a pinboard.
Seven of the twelve paired cartilages on both sides of his ribcage ruptured completely. Front to back, bottom to top. Fourteen organ-protecting sections gone. The bottom three pairs of false-ribs and proceeding four pairs of true-ribs were crushed. Breached and replaced with the metal, separating like a block of Kit Kat. The fibres around his intercostals between each rib were also minced. A blend of bone, cartilage, and muscle. It was a miracle his lungs weren’t pierced from either the shards of ribs themselves, or the metal from the cylinder. Luckily the extra fragments of exploded metal were caught in the tactical vest fitted under Mackay’s seat. The ballistic plate housed inside was spattered with chunks of nuts, bolts and random steel, saving his life, leaving the rest of his body largely unaffected.
|
0930hrs Tuesday May 15, 2012 Mirabad Valley, Afghanistan |
At six-foot-one and eighty-eight kilos dry before being torn apart, the seven litres of blood expelled from Mackay’s torso reduced him to a weak eighty-one. Mostly left pooled inside the Unimog and the medevac chopper. The Sikorsky HH60 Black Hawk took twenty minutes to arrive, then removing Mackay from the Unimog took a further ten minutes before he was on the ground on a stretcher. Fortunately, the two shards of metal spiked through his sides missed his lungs and major organs. Because it pinned him into his seat, the split cylinder basically held him together. The pressure of the compressed metal kept control of the blood that normally would have been lost. Still, he was trapped in the vehicle with the pain. Having to endure it. Unsure if he would bleed out slow and die or bleed out slow and live. Stabilising Mackay with the shard still in place was the hard part. Keeping the metal intact and supported so it didn’t move around was crucial, otherwise blood loss would increase.
Inside the trauma bay, IV fluids were hung, equipment was checked, and body bags were prepped. The bodies of Kirwan, Theckston and Freeman would be sent home to RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire, while Mackay’s body would be stripped back and worked on. The captain, and head surgeon, had called in the trauma and cardiothoracic unit for the mass mutilation that was Mackay’s ribcage. He also called the burns and plastic surgery teams to manage what bits of muscle and skin they could take from one section, then move it to the torso to cover another. The captain’s immediate concern, however, was Mackay’s pain. Using a stimulator delivering a weak electronic pulse, the captain was able to locate the nerves around Mackay’s spinal column and eliminate it at the source. Blocking off the pain signals through his torso. Enough relief so the initial surgical procedures could begin. Fixing Mackay was going to be difficult. The surgeons had all seen their share of heavy trauma; severed limbs and appendages, sliced arteries, shattered skull plates and crushed organs, but this was different. His ribs from top to bottom were basically mush, with all the in-between fibres shredded like coleslaw.
The compound required to patch Mackay, however, was new. A synthetic compound which mimicked human bone and cartilage. A technologically advanced hardened gel capable of expanding with impact. Not unlike what they use in elite endurance running shoes, capable of moulding and setting firm into the bone it attached to. The nature of the substance was made specifically for trauma victims just like Mackay. Ideal for those requiring extensive bone, joint and cartilage replacements for limb mobility. This particular compound, a military-grade thermoplastic, had only ever been, and would only ever be used on defence personnel. For soldiers injured on the battlefield. If you were an unfortunate soul who’d been hit with heavy fire or struck with blast fragments, the surgical teams gave you preferential treatment. Patching you up with the thermoplastic. An organic ‘super-fibre’ incorporating a mixture of ballistic-grade Kevlar and spectra-shield commonly found in bulletproof vests. At its core, it was a pressurised polymer containing a number of different elements and properties: silicone, oxygen, carbon and hydrogen. Constructed inside British military labs, the groundbreaking process preserved and maintained human life. With its synthetic polymer combination, the super-fibre could absorb micro levels of gas through thin internal layers called bubble-walls which also filtered toxins and carbon dioxide. It was softer than human bone, could mould into any shape and had complete flexion in any direction. Harder than silicone, yet softer than most rubbers or polyurethane. In its fused state, it would never burst or weep and was able to bounce back and remould itself following any force or trauma. Its compression capabilities were elastic by design, and potentially, if bonded inside an infant or adolescent, it would stretch as their body grew with it. The body would never reject it, but it did need time to settle in, so immunosuppressants were required. It would never degrade or age, and by all current tests, would outlast its host like most metals. In any case, it offered the patient a comfortable, lifetime insert. Being a human ‘aftermarket upgrade’, it replaced exactly what the body once had and made it better. And Mackay was the first test subject to have it fused inside him.
|
1000hrs Tuesday May 15, 2012 Kandahar Combat Hospital, Trauma Unit |
Because of Mackay’s low body fat percentage, the surgeons didn’t need to cut into large amounts of fat. They didn’t need to peel away excess layers of skin, or labour with adjusting any form of heft. Warfighters weren’t made like that. Grafting the compound successfully to Mackay’s damaged ribs, however, was not a straightforward operation. Normally it took two hours per pair of ribs. Broken end to broken end. Flushing away the shards of debris left inside his body was the hardest part, but it was easier than picking out specks of shrapnel. The med team needed to remove all the crushed bits first, then the thermoplastic compound went in, replacing all anterior and posterior ribs. Next, they sewed and reattached the intercostals and serratus, and lastly, both entrance and exit wounds needed to be closed – a further six hours. Which made it a twenty-hour operation in total.
Fusing the super-fibres onto the broken ends of Mackay’s ribcage was the easiest part. The compound was malleable and sticky, and had been precisely engineered to bind to human bone like superglue. Once the end points of the thermoplastic have initial contact with bone, the process of fusion starts immediately – solidifying around the cartilage. And like osmosis, it merges oxygen, carbon and hydrogen within the existing structure. Post-fusion, it breaks down to a molecular level, into the marrow. Into the nitty gritty. Once it reaches the marrow, the compound’s journey is complete. Becoming part of the host’s genetic make-up. After twenty hours asleep on the table, Mackay had six months of rehab to look forward to.
Mackay was no Commando, Green Beret, or any other variation of the Special Forces. He was a corporal. A two-hook soldier. A senior member of the unit one rung down from sergeant. He’d seen some killing and had done some killing. He loved rugby and was a decent grease monkey under the hood of a car. His dream was always to play rugby for his home country of Ireland, but plan-B seemed to work out as a soldier. The silver lining; being picked for the British Army’s 1st XV Rugby team. A combined-services team taking the best of the best from the Army, Navy and Air Force. As a right-wing, he was the fastest player on the team. An all-round athlete with a genetic edge in his legs. Mackay’s quads were huge, overshadowing his upper body like the hinds of a gazelle. In the real world, he was just another fit grunt with a good work ethic. At least, that was until he was medically discharged. Since then, life became a chore. Everything felt unnatural. Living didn’t excite him anymore and his anxiety from the onset of PTSD was through the roof. Sleep was never peaceful. His body may have stopped moving, but his mind was like a train without brakes. Often in some dark place behind the subconscious. A stormy mess of demons and false truths. Life didn’t make sense anymore. In the shadowy recesses of his mind, Mackay often thought about walking outside and getting run over by a bus. Or praying for a plane overhead to dive into the roof above him. Being stuck inside his brother’s home in Guildford was the pits. It kept him angry. Aside from his fantasies of death, Mackay inherently preferred to have died along with his team inside his truck, or at the very least, wished he was back in the sandbox in Afghanistan, sucking in the dry brown air like a lizard.
|
1630hrs Saturday December 08, 2012 Adelaide Terrace, Perth, Western Australia |
On the other side of the world, Nicus Van Breeman stood in his high-rise apartment overlooking the swan river in Perth, Western Australia. He’d just shaken hands with his first client of the day. Likely his only client of the day. An older man with a briefcase full of cash. The apartment, which doubled as Van Breeman’s office, was on the forty-seventh floor and had a beautiful, part wooden, part tinted-glass door built as its entry. The kind of tint that allowed you to see outside if you’re standing in, but not inside if you’re standing out. A custom job. It was heavy and thick, operated with a six-digit code from the outside and a traditional deadbolt from the inside.
Van Breeman ushered the man over to his executive desk. A magnificent antique item he had shipped over in a sea container from his hometown in Johannesburg. Stained to a dark cinnamon from before the great war. Van Breeman sat down in the big executive chair while the client sat opposite in a basic office swivel made of mesh and plastic. He faced an acetate plaque with Van Breeman’s name engraved into it. Both men were dressed to the teeth. Thousand-dollar suits, thousand-dollar watches and shoes. The client crossed his legs close and tight, thigh over thigh. He was thin, so he could. It made his pants ride up from the ankle, exposing a pair of blue woollen socks in a chequered argyle pattern.
Van Breeman did not cross his legs. He couldn’t do it comfortably. He was taller and broader than his client, but not in an overweight sense. His thicker thighs came from riding horses. All that galloping and straddling meant the extra muscle created too much congestion in the crotch. Built over time on his father’s vineyard. The old wine country of Franschhoek on the outskirts of Johannesburg. Where he would oversee the mostly black staff who picked grapes at their peak for harvesting. Sometimes he rode with a whip, sometimes he rode with a shotgun. Sometimes both.
Van Breeman was a wine maker by trade, and now lived in Perth. He still specialised in wine exporting, and even considered himself a world-class connoisseur, but it was his side business where his self-made empire was built from. As an entrepreneur, he was proud of what he had achieved. Making it big all on his own without the backing or entitlements from his father. His offshoot business, away from the nine-to-five of managing wine exports, was very lucrative. The only downside was that his clients were rare, which made the business a tough venture. But the world was a strange place and even the most niche requirements for a niche clientele needed to be addressed. Needed to be met and resourced. These clients were ‘one of a kind’ types which made them hard to come by. There could be absolutely no evidence that might jeopardise either the client’s, or Van Breeman’s professional means. There were rules. All client names needed to be fake. During every initial phone conversation to set up the cash deal, Van Breeman required the client to state a bogus title. He gave the potential investor on the other end of the line ten seconds to think of one, otherwise the deal was off, and they’d never meet. Each hard-found, wealthy customer was also given assurances their false name would never accidentally slip through the wires. No gossip or chatter would ever be punched into any keypad on any kind of device, reaching any airwaves, cyberspace or digital cloud. These were the guarantees Van Breeman made in exchange for big money via the Dark Web – the underground smorgasbord of filth.
His little gold mine had had its ups and downs. It moved and shook like any first-time business trying to hustle amongst the big boys. Five years in, it was a well-oiled machine. For that to continue, he needed to pay top dollar for optimal anonymity and secrecy. Human resources cost, and to keep things secure, quiet, and intimidating, he paid top dollar for the best crew. All ex-cons, ex-military guys and heavy-hitting standover men. Top dogs under the head of the snake. All paid exceptionally well. And used often if a client decided not to show for an exchange. Which meant they’d backed out of a deal and had invalidated the set rules and parameters. Which also meant due processes needed to be followed up. Because in Van Breeman’s eyes, nobody backed out of a deal. And if they tried, his well-paid top dogs made a visit. Usually with a Glock or a Magnum. Or piano wire, a couple of handsaws and maybe a woodchipper. Sometimes with a few barrels of hydrofluoric acid to remove all traces of flesh. Clothes can be burnt away, but burnt flesh still leaves DNA residue. All without sympathy and empathy, and no room for justification. Van Breeman’s terms, his way.