Juggernaut

Voss inspected Bad Moon by flashlight. He checked the cab and the cargo compartment. He checked beneath the fuselage. He didn’t want to get jumped. Gaunt was a coward. The man would spend many hours cowering in the dark and cold before he summoned the courage to come out of hiding and attack Lucy and her crew. But Jabril’s undead battalion might drag themselves from the darkness any moment.

He examined smashed avionics. A fragment of Talon rotor had shattered the windshield and split the centre console like a blow from an axe. He brushed broken glass from dials and switches. He wrenched the chunk of broken rotor free and threw it aside. Frayed cable. A couple of snapped circuit boards.

Maybe Lucy was right. The Huey was antique. Perhaps the control systems were sufficiently basic a guy with pliers could fix her up. Splice wires and start her running. Perhaps Gaunt could repair the machine.

They would need to bottle their rage and cut a deal. Lure Gaunt with some bullshit plan. Tell him to fly east across the desert. They would pick a remote location far outside Baghdad city limits. Hover over secluded, rocky terrain at fifty feet and push the gold out the door. Mandy could rappel and guard the loot, ready for retrieval. The chopper would fly onward to the Green Zone. Set down near a crowd. Maybe land next to a hotel poolside, typhoon rotor-wash tipping loungers and parasols into the water. Or touch down at the airport in front of loading crews and sentries. Someplace public. Somewhere Gaunt felt safe to walk away with a duffel bag full of gold.

They would kill him anyway. Bullet in the back before he had time to unbuckle his harness. Leave him slumped in the pilot seat.

Voss climbed inside the cargo compartment of Bad Moon and ransacked it for ammo. A bag of grenades. Boxes of link for the SAW. Wooden cases of 5.56mm for the rifles.

He stacked munitions in the quad bike trailer, glancing at shadows for any sign of Gaunt.

He piled MRE pouches and bottled water.

He found his jacket and fingerless gloves beneath a seat. He put them on. He set down his shotgun for a moment and swung his arms to get warm.

He fetched the SAW from the barricade. He folded the bipod and released the belt. He loaded the weapon into the trailer.

Toon’s body lay nearby, shrouded in a poncho. Voss hauled the limp body across the courtyard, leaving a dark streak of blood. He laid Toon in the trailer alongside food and ammunition. He didn’t want to leave his friend lying in a pile of refuse.

Voss kept the dead man’s head covered. He didn’t want to see his shattered face.

He crossed the courtyard and examined the wrecked airframe of Talon. The helicopter had rolled almost onto its roof. He ducked into the cargo compartment and shone his torch over jumbled equipment. He found rifle mags and a couple of knives. He tucked them in his pocket. He found flashlight batteries, sun cream and crackers. He stacked them in the trailer next to Toon’s corpse.

He checked the pilot cabin. The door was split from its hinges. He threw it aside.

Raphael hung upside down in the pilot seat, pinned by his crushed legs. His arms hung limp. Blood dripped from his fingers. Blood dripped from his split head.

Voss squeezed into the crushed cab.

He found an ICOM radio in a canvas pouch. He slung the strap over his shoulder.

He emptied mag pockets strapped to Raphael’s vest. He took the machete from his belt. He took cigars and a lighter from the guy’s shirt pocket.

Raphael opened his eyes.

‘Help me,’ he coughed. He struggled to move. He reached for Voss. ‘Help me, Ese.’

Voss slapped his hand aside. He leaned close so he could whisper in Raphael’s ear.

‘Fok jou.’

He unsheathed his knife and drew the blade slowly across Raphael’s throat, slitting his windpipe. Raphael’s pig-squeal turned to a bubbling gurgle.

Voss sat back and watched the man choke and spasm. Gouts of pulsing arterial blood washed over Raphael’s face and spattered on the upturned roof. Blood steamed in the cold night air.

Amanda reached between shelves and touched the steel wall of the vault. Condensation trickled down cold metal. Body heat and breath.

Stifling humidity.

She closed her eyes. She breathed slow, tried to lower her heart rate. She sat perfectly still. Perspiration trickled down her temple. She let it run.

‘They must have blocked the roof vents,’ said Jabril. ‘They are trying to drive up the temperature and force me out.’

Jabril spat the butt of his Salem onto the floor and stubbed it with a twist of his boot.

‘Enough cigarettes, all right?’ said Amanda. ‘Hard enough to breathe.’

‘I thought all American soldiers smoked. I heard they give you free cigarettes in Desert Storm.’

‘I was in high school.’

‘They say you are rich. Your friends. I overheard them talk. They say you are from California.’

‘My parents are rich. They threw me out a long time ago. Probably dead.’

Amanda drained the dregs from her canteen. She licked the final drops from the neck of the bottle.

‘Last of our water.’

Jabril shrugged.