Ken McClure - Resurrection

‘Stow it. Get these three back in their truck and dowse it with fuel.’

‘What about him?’ asked the soldier who still squatted beside the sick man.

‘Make him as comfortable as you can.’

The leader returned to the Land-Rover to radio back to base. It was something he hadn’t planned on doing; radio contact was discouraged but circumstances dictated differently tonight. As expected, he was told to stand by. He’d thrown the shit at the fan and now it was spreading.

‘Do we light the fire?’ asked one of the soldiers who’d been dowsing the Iraqi truck in petrol.

‘Not yet. Get up top and keep your eyes peeled. They may send more when this lot fails to report back. Any sign of trouble and we’ll light the fire immediately. We want to dissuade any more of them from crossing the border while the brass contemplate their navels.’

Ten minutes passed without anything at all happening. The four soldiers sat huddled against the cold of the desert night while they waited instructions. The sick Iraqi lay by his truck. He had been wrapped in blankets and a makeshift pillow fashioned for him.

‘What if the brass know all about this already?’ asked one of the soldiers. ‘What if they don’t need to get hold of this guy to find out what it is? The more I think about it, the more I think they’re going to waste us, It makes sense.’

‘Shut it!’

There was a crackle from the radio and the group’s call sign of Sierra Mike Zulu carried to them on the night air. The leader went over to the Land-Rover and sat down in the front passenger seat to take instructions.

‘I think he’s moving,’ said one of the others, looking towards the Arab. ‘Maybe we should give him a shot of something.’

‘I doubt you’d find a place to give him a shot of anything. I think his entire body’s like his face.’

‘Poor bastard.’

‘If that’s a virus, it’s gonna be poor us very shortly.’

‘We’ve had our shots.’

‘Let’s just hope they were the right ones.’

‘I’m going to give his some water.’

‘You’re a good man, Charlie Brown. I’m not going near him.’

The leader returned from the Land-Rover. ‘They’re sending a chopper.’

‘For him?’

‘For all of us. Rendezvous is four miles south of here at 03.00 hours. That gives us an hour and a quarter. Rig up something in the back of the Land-Rover for our friend here and let’s get started.’

The leader crossed to where the soldier was dripping water from his own flask into the mouth of the Iraqi. The man seemed only semi conscious but his lips and tongue sought out the moisture. ‘How is he?’

‘Alive but I wouldn’t give odds on that being the case in fifteen minutes.’

‘We’re moving out. A chopper’s on its way. Do what you can for him in the meantime.’

The leader unstrapped a petrol can from the crashed truck and sprinkled the contents over the second Iraqi vehicle before throwing the can itself back in through one of the windows.

‘When the Iraqi had been loaded into the back of the Land-Rover on a makeshift pallet and they were ready to leave he lit two rags and threw one into each of the Iraqi vehicles. Orange flames leapt up into the night sky as the petrol ignited. He shielded his face from the heat for a moment before turning to run over to the Land-Rover and climb into the front passenger seat.

‘Move out.’

They heard the helicopter long before they saw it.

‘It’s a bloody Chinook,’ said one of the men, responding to the engine note as they scanned the heavens. There was no mistaking the surprise in his voice.

‘What the hell are they sending a Chinook for?’ asked another.

‘You did tell them it’s only one bloke and not a bloody Iraqi regiment, didn’t you Skip?

‘ ‘They know. Keep clear, I’m sending the flare up.’

The signal rocket fizzed angrily up into the night sky and burst like a miniature dawn on the scene below. A few minutes later the powerful searchlights on the underside of the huge Chinook helicopter took over a more permanent role in illuminating the scene as its twin rotor blades brought it to a hover over the Land-Rover and deafened the watching party below.

After what seemed an eternity the chopper moved about a hundred metres to the south of them and touched down. Its blades were kept turning. The driver of the Land-Rover started the engine but the group leader put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

‘Let’s wait for instructions.’

He had hardly said the words when a loud speaker crackled into life on the helicopter.

‘Sierra Mike Zulu, this is Chopper Tango Charlie. Remain exactly where you are. Do nothing until our men are with you. Flash your lights if that is understood.’

The leader nodded and the driver flashed the Land-Rover headlights.

‘I don’t like this,’ whispered the soldier who was looking after the Iraqi.

The doors of the Chinook opened slowly and several mean dressed in what appeared to be space suits emerged. They unloaded several boxes then started out towards the Land-Rover, bringing the cases with them.

‘Sorry for the high drama,’ continued the voice on the Tannoy. ‘But you men

will be going into quarantine until further notice. Is anyone ill apart from your prisoner? Flash once for yes, twice for no.’

‘Why don’t they just use the radio for Christ’s sake?’ complained one of the

soldiers.

‘The Iraqis have had time to figure out they’ve got a missing patrol. They’ll be monitoring everything right now,’ replied the leader as the driver gave two flashes of the headlights.

‘Good. Just stay calm.’

The men in space suits reached the Land-Rover and circled the vehicle.

‘Bloody hell,’ whispered one of the soldiers, ‘I know our personal hygiene isn’t all that it might be after a week in the desert but this is ridiculous.’

‘Bio-safety suits,’ said the leader. ‘Completely self-contained. Nobody’s taking any chances.’

The man in charge of the spacemen signalled that they get out the vehicle. They complied and stood there feeling very vulnerable while the boxes that the men in suits had been carrying were opened up.

‘Looks like we’re getting suits too,’ said one of the soldiers as the contents of the box nearest them became apparent.

‘Difference is, they’re wearing them to keep things out, we’ll be wearing them to keep things in.’

‘Doesn’t do much for your self esteem, does it?’

The soldiers donned the orange suits they were given while the Iraqi was removed from the back of the Land-Rover and given a short medical check before being fed into another of the suits with some difficulty as he was unable to help himself. When everyone was suited up and all the seals had been checked by the men from the Chinook all those in orange suits were sprayed thoroughly with a disinfectant solution before being led over to the waiting helicopter. The soldiers turned as they reached it to see an incendiary device turn their Land-Rover into a blazing inferno.

‘I think it just failed its MOT,’ whispered one.

The inside of the Chinook had been partitioned to provide a plastic cocoon for the boarding men. It had its own air supply and filtration system and was hermetically separate from the rest of the aircraft. Food and bottled water had been left inside for them. Their quarantine had already begun.

No one could think of anything much to say on the flight. They fell to silence as each man faced his own thoughts.

An isolation suite had been readied for them at the base hospital in Dhahran, not that much preparation had been needed. It already existed for the purpose; it had been commissioned as a precaution in the war over Kuwait but as yet had not been used in earnest. This was its first real test.