Gerald Seymour - A Deniable Death

With a dry smile, he indicated a photograph on the wall of an American soldier’s helmet: an arrow pointed out of a ventilation hole in its side. He said that such openings provided a conduit that concentrated blast into the hole, like the driving in of a nail. He spoke, too, of the medium-term damage to troops’ psychology, if they had been exposed to situations where bombs were widespread, particularly if there had been casualties in their unit: a large number of enemy combatants in the Iraq war had gone home with post-traumatic stress disorder, as sick as if they had been severely wounded, and would not return. The brigadier grimaced as the Engineer finished and told him that he – almost alone – was responsible for the defeat of the coalition inside Iraq. His weapons had destroyed the will and resolve of the enemy. He had smiled and shrugged. Many this year had come to his office, had sat where the brigadier sat, and congratulated him on his achievement.

What news was there of the war in Afghanistan? Did it affect his work? the brigadier asked.

He said it was a low priority, that the devices used by the resistance were simpler than those employed in Iraq… They had been taught, had been supplied with chemicals and explosives, and he had written papers, but he kept them at arms’ distance. It was Iraq that had mattered, where the true victory had been won.

Then they drank sweet tea – with cardamom, saffron, rose water and liberally spooned sugar – from small glasses, and smoked.

The brigadier raised it. He had heard of the illness of the Engineer’s wife, and was privy to plans for sending her abroad for consultation and, hopefully, treatment. They talked about suitcases, what sort and size would be best for the journey. The brigadier had recently been in Damascus with new baggage and could offer advice.

When the tray had been cleared, the Engineer spoke to the brigadier of the theory of roadside thermobaric bombs, the ability of fuel-air explosions to devastate, and their potential inside trucks and saloon cars that could be driven by a ‘martyr’ into the doorway of a building. There, the blast would be confined and enhanced. He was working on that, on miniaturisation of the circuit boards for the explosive formed projectile, on extending the range of passive infrared beams and… He yawned, then flushed, embarrassed. He apologised.

He was told he had nothing to apologise for.

He said, confiding, that it was difficult to focus on his work.

He was asked if he knew an itinerary.

He hoped to hear that day, or the next, when he would travel with his wife.

It had simmered, but had been below boiling.

The spat stayed with them, but was carried along on whispers, almost soundless, and the voices played like soft winds on the front of their camouflaged headpieces.

Foxy said he needed water. Badger said he had drunk his ration for the morning.

Foxy said the biscuits tasted foul. Badger said he thought they were good.

Foxy said they should move to their right, maybe forty paces, and be deep in the reeds for greater protection. Badger said it was important they had an eyeball on the property and could ping the target.

Foxy had looked at his watch and wondered, barely aloud, what his Ellie was doing at that moment. He had started to relate how they had met and- Badger had cut him off, said he wasn’t interested.

Foxy hissed, ‘Are you contrary for the sake of it? You think I want to be here with you – the fuck I do – the most difficult, awkward oppo ever given me? I make a remark about my wife and you’re not interested.’

‘Correct. I’m not interested in your wife.’

‘Who’s special. Who I miss. Who I-’

‘Not interested.’

And Badger, as usual, spoke the truth. He wasn’t interested in Foxy’s wife and didn’t want to talk about her. He was interested in the one-storey house of concrete blocks, the big front windows, which were open, the door, ajar, the chairs and table outside in the shade. And he was interested in the guard, who sometimes sat on a chair and sometimes walked, sometimes coughed and spat, sometimes smoked, and who had now started to fish with a short rod, worms and a float. He watched the boat that was tied near the little concrete pier. He saw the wife, who was dying and walked with a stick, and the children who were chided by an older woman when they screamed too loudly and too close to their mother… If he and Foxy didn’t talk, they didn’t argue.

He knew that the long, motionless hours played havoc with Foxy’s knee and hip joints, but couldn’t bring himself to sympathise. Hours passed and the sun cooked them. He thought how vulnerable they were, vulnerable enough for him to bloody near wet himself… He would never again volunteer, never again shove his hand up.

The explosion burst in Badger’s ears.

Foxy knew the sound of an artillery shell exploding. There had only been a slight squirm of the young ’un’s body but it was enough to show him Badger was ignorant of weapons’ detonations. It gave him pleasure. He twisted his head slowly, cranked his neck round far enough to see the smoke pall, first stationary, then climbing into the clear blue of the sky.

It was off to the right, near to the raised bund line. It rose, spread and began to lose shape. Silence fell.

He felt, now, a heavy pressure on his shoulder – as if a hand was spread wide and forced down. He could move only his head, not his upper body. Badger had hold of him. His pleasure at Badger’s initial reaction had dissipated. He couldn’t move, was treated like a passenger who wouldn’t know how to react in a crisis and needed to be held still. What did the man think he was going to do – jump up, yell and bloody run? He couldn’t free himself of the hand, but could manoeuvre his head, tilt his neck and look to the front. There was shouting.

The goon, the one he had identified as Mansoor – who had the rank of an officer and was in charge of security, obviously – was on his feet, out of the chair quick enough for it to have toppled behind him, and there were yelled instructions coming into Foxy’s earphones. The guard was to be called out, weapons drawn from the armoury, the sergeant to be found, a patrol prepared. The pressure of the hand on his shoulder eased, a gradual weakening of the force.

He thought that Badger regarded him as old and second class.

The officer had stopped yelling and now stood rooted in front of the fallen chair. His binoculars were at his eyes and he traversed up and down from the bund line to the reed beds and on to the far end of the open ground. The lenses would have covered – with each sweep – the apparently snagged mess of dead reeds in which the microphone was hidden. They would have gone over the water under which the cable was sunk, across the sand where it was buried and travelled on to the heaps of dried leaves that the wind would seem to have whipped together. In the lenses’ view would be the shoulders of the gillie suits, and the tops of the headgear, and perhaps the hands caked with mud, and the optics that had scrim netting round them and were tilted down so that the sun didn’t hit the glass. It was a test.

A good one.

Instinct told Foxy to duck his head further, chin against chest, fill his face with mud and lower the headgear the last half-inch that was possible. Not to look… not to dare to see whether the glasses had moved on from the points that could identify him and Badger.

They did. He watched and the glasses scanned where the microphone was, the cable was buried and where they were… He wriggled. Couldn’t help himself.

It started as a moan, had gained in pitch and was now a scream.

He had to twist his pelvis, lift his hips and backside three inches, get the bottle under his crotch and feel the relief.