‘The mercenary life,’ said Voss. ‘One pointless shitstorm after another. Better get used to it.’
‘I’m not a merc. I’m a businessman.’
‘Whatever you say,’ said Voss.
‘A man should have a code. Some kind of honour.’
‘I’m older than you, kid,’ said Voss. ‘I’ve seen plenty of friends die for nothing. Patriots, idealists. No one remembers their names.’
‘I don’t know why you’re here,’ said Gaunt. ‘You and your friends. Whatever you find, whatever the big score, you’ll head to the nearest casino and piss it away. Problem with you guys? You got nothing in your lives beyond money. No cause. Deadbeat privateers. This is all you will ever be.’
‘Been more places, been more alive, than most guys dragging their brats round the mall on a weekend.’ Voss pointed at Raphael.‘What’s his story?’
‘You are two of a kind. He’s from some stinking LA slum. War is his home.’
Raphael had unzipped his flight suit and tied the arms round his waist. A big Virgin Mary tattoo etched across his back.
Voss cleaned his nails with a knife.
Gaunt returned to Bad Moon and grabbed his daypack from beneath the pilot’s seat.
‘I’m going to take a shit.’
He headed into the desert.
Voss watched Raphael place a mineral water bottle at the crest of a dune and take shots with his Colt. Puffs of sand each time he missed.
Voss unholstered his Glock. Quick aim/fire. The bottle burst. Water soaked into the sand and dried in moments.
Raphael mouthed, ‘Fuck you.’
Gaunt walked a hundred yards into the desert and knelt on the lee side of a dune.
He looked up. Something circling in the far distance. A dove-grey fleck, wheeling like a vulture. He took binoculars from his pocket. A drone. They were under constant surveillance. The UAV’s Ratheon sensor suite relaying real-time footage to Koell in Baghdad. The guy must have knocked heads and called in a lifetime of favours.
He checked his watch, unzipped the side pocket of his daypack and took out the sat phone. He keyed a four-digit code. Transmission scrambled through a Citadel algorithm.
He dialled.
‘Brimstone to Carnival, over.’
Koell’s voice:
‘Authenticate.’
‘Authentication is Oscar, Sierra, Yankee, Bravo.’
‘Go ahead, Brimstone.’
‘We are at the drop zone, approximately seven kilometres from the target. The advance team are proceeding to the objective site. Nothing hinky. Next sitrep at eighteen hundred, over.’
‘Ten-four. Roger and out.’
A farmstead. Five sun-blasted hovels. Concrete and cinder block. Two-room dwellings. Sand-choked doorways. Nothing inside each house but scattered cooking pots and a few smashed sticks of furniture.
The team crouched and ran. Cover/fire formation. They hooked left and right. They took blocking positions.
‘Clear.’
‘Clear. Go.’
They kicked in doors.
Lucy had worked sweep-and-search operations in villages surrounding Kandahar, Afghanistan. Special Recon patrols. Two roofless Land Rovers with a .50 cal mounted in the rear. A snatch squad taking down intel targets. She led the breaching team. Gave the nod and was first in the door. Iron gates blasted open with shok-lok rounds. Quick room-to-room. Tables kicked over, beds upturned. A zip-cuff and head-bag for villagers scared paralytic by stun grenades.
Jabril and Huang sheltered behind a dirt culvert while the team searched each house.
Lucy’s voice over the short-range TASC comms:
‘Okay. We’re done.’
They met at the patch of dirt that served as a village square. Empty windows, empty doorways. Ghost-town desolation.
‘The place is dead.’
‘Must we waste time playing soldiers?’ asked Jabril.
‘The day we get sloppy is the day we get killed,’ said Lucy. ‘Let’s make use of the shade. Rest stop. Meet back here in fifteen.’
Lucy climbed a ladder and stood on a flat roof. She looked north and surveyed the hills through binos. Boulders and crags. Barren as the moon.
A slight breeze. The tails of her prairie coat billowed around her.
Jabril climbed and stood by her side.
‘Not far,’ said Lucy.
‘No,’ said Jabril. ‘Not long now.’
He took a pack of Salems from the chest pocket of his flak jacket. He struck a match, lit a cigarette and savoured it.
He offered the pack to Lucy. She took a cigarette. She smoked half, stubbed and tucked the unsmoked butt in her pocket.
‘Poor-girl habit,’ she explained. ‘Can’t abide waste.’
She looked around.
‘Why the fuck would anyone try to scratch a living out here?’
‘Because it’s all they have ever known,’ said Jabril.
‘What do locals call this stretch of desert?’
‘Something dramatic. I forget. What do Americans call it?’
‘The Motherfucker.’
Jabril smiled and shook his head.
‘And yet they think we are the barbarian culture.’
‘No point acting all sly and superior,’ said Lucy. ‘Those dumb yanks kicked your arse. That whole contest-of-civilisations thing didn’t exactly work out for you.’
Toon picked up a rock and dropped it down a well. Brief clatter. No splash.
Amanda sipped warm water from the shoulder pipe of her hydration pack.
Scattered shoes and clothing.
‘Must be nice,’ said Amanda. ‘A simple life. No bullshit. Straightforward.’
She fanned herself with her Stetson.
‘Easy for you to say. Little Miss Trust Fund. Little Miss Finishing School. I was born poor. Nothing romantic about poverty. I used to work as a grill man. Flipped eggs for truck drivers and construction workers. Had to ask permission for bathroom breaks. Fuck that shit. And I was living like a king compared to these guys.’
‘Hey. I worked. I had summer jobs. I wore a name badge.’
‘Answer me this. When did Daddy buy your first car?’
‘Just before he broke two of my ribs and kicked me out the house. That was the last parental dollar I ever saw.’
Toon looked around.
‘Imagine playing out your whole life in a place like this. Poor bastards. Sitting in dirt watching their teeth fall out. No wonder they need God and the promise of something better.’
They pushed open a door.
Bare rooms. No plumbing. No electricity. A couple of beds. Some cushions and rugs. Everything dusted in sand fine as flour.
A back room. Scattered shoes. Broken tea glasses. An old, black bloodstain on the carpet. Cushions stuffed in the windows.
‘Looks like a bunch of them died in here,’ said Amanda. ‘They tried to block the windows, keep out the gas. Plug every gap. Didn’t do them much good.’
‘Might have been best if they stepped outside and took a deep breath.’
She picked up a playing card from the sand-dusted floor. She blew it clean. Ace of spades. Saddam’s portrait on the back.
‘Death card,’ said Toon. ‘The clean-up crew. I’m guessing they sent in a bunch of guys in NBC suits to take pictures and police up the bodies. They left a message in case any camel jockeys tried to resettle the place.’
‘How does a guy do that? Saddam. How can he sit at his desk and sign the order? Live his life? Kick off his shoes, eat a meal, laugh at the TV, while all this shit goes down in his name?’
Toon shrugged.
‘I’ve lost count of the men I’ve killed. I can’t say they haunt my dreams.’
‘But mothers? Children?’
‘Never killed a woman.’
‘Guy must be a psychopath. A proper, strap-him-down, throw-the-switch psychopath.’