Juggernaut

‘The grunt sitting beside me in the sangar recorded it on his phone. Low-res bone and brain. Red pixel blur. He showed the whole platoon. That little phone clip turned me into the garrison rock star. I was high on adrenalin for a week. I got “One Shot, One Kill” tattooed on my shoulder. I got “Death From Afar” tattooed on my ass. Did it jailhouse-style. Lay on my bunk and got ink pricked beneath my skin with a hot needle. A week later, I crashed. Hit the booze. Popped a few pills. Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about the dead guy. His parents, his kids.

‘Second time was a little better. Same emotions. Euphoria then depression. But a little less intense, a little less drawn out. After that, killing a guy was like switching off a light. That’s the sad truth. Once you cross the line, it’s easy.’

Jabril lit a cigarette. He offered the pack to Amanda. She shook her head.

‘How about you?’ she asked. ‘Ever killed a man?’

‘With my own hands? No. I never have.’

‘Your voice says different.’

Lucy:

‘The temple is clear. Meet us at the gate house. Let’s find this fucking gold.’

The Convoy

Fading light. A violet sky dusted with evening stars.

Lucy checked her watch.

‘Looks like we’ll be spending the night.’

Lucy and Huang walked between the vehicles of the burned-out convoy. Blackened hulks cast long shadows in the gathering gloom. The vehicles ticked and creaked as fierce noonday heat abated and the metal began to cool.

The whirlwind of flame that engulfed the trucks and Jeeps had long since died, but they could still smell the conflagration. The ghost-taint of melted rubber and scorched flesh.

They could see jumbled bone inside the vehicles. A clutter of skulls and ribs in the foot well of incinerated sedans.

They were both familiar with gasoline fires and the flesh-stink of street explosions.

During her time in the regular army Lucy had frequently been ordered to overcome panic and run towards the screaming mayhem of a recent car bomb. She was instructed to clear wounded and check for secondaries. She jostled against a tide of fleeing civilians, and headed towards the smoke and screams. Later, she joined fellow infantrymen on their hands and knees as they grid-searched street wreckage, ignoring dark and glossy pools of blood, severed hands and feet, as she searched for scraps of circuit board or lengths of wire that might betray the provenance of the suicide device.

Lucy checked the back of a troop truck. Jumbled bodies. Crisped flesh.

Charred banana clips scattered among bone.

‘Most of these trucks were loaded with AK ammunition boxes. Shells must have cooked off in the fire. Popped like firecrackers. Spat bullets all over the place.’

‘Fucking shitstorm.’

They looked beneath the truck. A body curled foetal, hands over its head.

‘Could do with a drink,’ muttered Lucy. ‘A real one.’

‘Could do with a fucking joint,’ said Huang.

A couple of armoured personnel carriers, interiors scorched carbon-black.

A row of old impalas. Doors hung open. Seats burned down to springs.

A bunch of five-ton trucks, the ex-Soviet junk that comprised most of Saddam’s hardware.

Lucy examined the hood of one of the trucks. The front of the vehicle had melted. The fender and grill reduced to a puddle of metal in the sand. The front of the engine block hung in drips.

‘Someone threw thermite grenades.’

They walked down an avenue of junkyard wreckage. Their boots crunched on glass.

Lucy looked into the rear of an APC. Bench seats burned to metal frames.

Huang reached inside and lifted the lid of a wooden trunk with his rifle barrel. A melted Samsonite suitcase. Rolled prayer mats, Scorched Reeboks and bedding.

‘Ever done a house clearance?’ asked Huang. ‘People’s shit always looks small and pathetic after they are dead. The stuff they leave behind.’

Lucy pulled the long-range radio from her backpack. An ICOM wide-band hand-set the size of a brick. She extended the antenna.

‘Bad Moon, do you copy over?’

Gaunt:

‘Go ahead.’

‘The objective site is clear. Bring in the choppers.’

‘Roger that.’

They kept walking.

‘Check it out,’ said Huang.

The incinerated frame of a Land Rover Defender. Full off-road custom kit. Winch, snorkel exhaust, ram bars.

Lucy picked a licence plate from the sand.

‘Fresh out of a Kuwait showroom.’

The tailgate hung open. The cargo compartment was bare.

Huang bent down. Broken sunglasses. He shook them free of sand. Oakleys.

‘Want me to put Jabril in a headlock?’ asked Huang. ‘Find out what really happened?’

‘I don’t care what went down. Jabril is welcome to his secrets. I hate this damn country. I don’t give a shit about the Iraqi people. I don’t want to hear about their history, their fucked-up politics and feuds. I’m here to make money. I’m here for the gold. That’s my only concern.’

They continued their search, weaving between burned-out cars.