Juggernaut

‘There is an army beneath our feet. The second Al-Masina Armoured Division. They were massed in the desert during the first Gulf War, ready to defend Baghdad if the Americans decided to invade. The formation was picked up by a surveillance satellite. A series of B52 sorties pounded vehicles to scrap iron. “Whispering Death”, they called it. Five-hundred-pound bombs dropped from high altitude. The concussions were so intense Turkish seismologists recorded the impacts as a massive earthquake. The bones, the wreckage, have been smothered by dunes.’

‘Jesus.’

‘This desert has been a battleground since the dawn of humanity. A fault line between east and west. Countless kings have led men into the wilderness, chasing imperial dreams. Legions swallowed without trace.’

‘Sound like you love the place.’

‘Once you have experienced absolute desolation, it never leaves your soul.’

Gaunt and Voss stood beneath the dappled shade of the camouflage nets.

Voss took off his baseball cap and wiped his brow.

‘Soon be fifty in the shade.’

Gaunt looked out across the dunes.

‘All those armies. One empire after another, fighting over dust.’

‘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.