Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

Into the teeth of the gales and of the rain, the man carried him and the kids bounced along behind and chattered, had no idea of the dangers they faced – or did and ignored them. Lucky to have found them all, blessed, and giving him one chance – a small one, but a chance.

No one had ever accused Gaz of stupidity. Might have been called ‘dull’, could have been accused of ‘lacking imagination’, but had never faced a charge of ‘idiocy’. He had wriggled; stupid. Had come down off the hunter’s shoulder, demanded it; idiotic. Was into the realms of ‘not wanting to be a burden’ and insisted he should not be merely dead weight. It was permitted. Clumsily, Gaz walked, allowed himself to be supported but not carried. It was from pride, but was idiotic.

The physical effort he made, throwing one leg in front of another, increased the risk of haemorrhage, doubled the probability of more internal bleeding, would cause the deep cavities to rupture further. Whether the two men and the girl had the resolve to slap his face, twist his arm, hoist him up again, let him struggle to no purpose, was doubtful. He was dependent on no one – not on Timofey, not on Natacha, not on the hunter. He thought of them, in his scrambling mind, as having less relevance to him than the gulls following the fishing boat on its journey across the North Sea. They went faster and the trail was narrow and the branches were low on the trees, and they buffeted through them. He thought the hunter was best equipped for the branches, and the girl managed them better than Timofey.

They heard the low baying of tracking dogs, held on long leashes and tugging the handlers’ arms. They’d be leading a section of militiamen. A long way off, but the sounds carried on the wind. They had a good start, but the dogs had no ‘passenger’ to slow them. Perhaps because she had heard the dogs, and perhaps she sought escape from growing fear, Natacha tugged at his arm.

“Go there, take the money. Maybe you with us, Gaz, run and hide. Go where we cannot be found. That is a good dream?”

“It is a bad dream.”

“Into the bank. You vouch our identity. We get the money – and are gone.”

“Maybe not simple.”

“The money is there?”

“Perhaps.”

“Why is there doubt?”

“I don’t know, can’t say. They might require more proof of identity, and Timofey’s father. And ‘come back tomorrow’, and perhaps a problem with a visa. They are not generous people. How do I know? I don’t know. I no longer trust them.”

“You have faith with us?”

“Yes, you and Timofey. Yes, and this man. I trust all of you. Those who sent me, they are plausible people, good at persuasion. Always talk of the national interest being served. They promise gratitude and reward, but they walk away. We cannot go faster than dogs.”

“You want what?”

“I want not to be the reason that the dogs get to you.”

Jasha led. The way he took them might have been good cover for a wild cat or for a fox. They crouched. It was a long time since Gaz had been able to see the grey waters of the inlet, and the low cloud settled on the hills on the far side. Among the trees and protected by the canopies the rain was less fierce. He imagined how it would be for the handlers, perhaps a mile behind them, and held back by the dogs tangling interminably among the trees. There would be little discipline in such dogs, big and hungry and aggressive; not the ones that sniffed for explosives and IEDs where he had served before. If the dogs came close he would not be able to increase his speed, nor would they go faster if they had to carry him. If the hunter used his rifle against them, it would be almost impossible to get anything other than a close-range shot among the trees. Would only be able to halt the dogs when they were within a few yards from him. And it was, truth to tell, the first time that he had considered the possibility – probability, certainty? – that it was here the business would be concluded… Remembered a training exercise when he had been in the recruit camp in Herefordshire, with the rookies, and they had done an exercise and had to lie up in a wood for two days and nights and then dogs had been put in to find them. Others had been located, not Gaz. Good fortune, not judgement. Pepper sprays might neutralise their noses… but the handlers, with rifles, would be close behind. Beginning to nag at Gaz: in an Arctic woodland of dwarf birch it would end and with him would be the newfound friends.

“Will you, please, leave me? Get the hell out. Please, as I ask.”

What the English boy said to him, earnest and heartfelt, had been translated by the girl, and the look on her face was droll, and her boy seemed offended that the demand was made. Jasha laughed. Doubted there was humour on his face. Seldom saw reason to laugh. And now?

The idea of him allowing a friend, an opponent of his ‘enemy’, to be dropped on the sodden leaves, was not worth a moment’s thought. Turn his back on him, allow him to linger with a bullet wound incapacitating him? Nor would he have considered leaving the kids to run on their own. He would have backed himself to find a river course, or a natural drain where the rainwater plunged and use it to lose the dogs. Not a problem for him. If he had abandoned them he would go back to his cabin and shoot his dog, and then sit in his chair and kick off a boot, and place his big toe inside the trigger guard of the Dragunov and put the barrel end in his mouth. Could not have lived with himself had he abandoned them.

Jasha said to the girl, “Tell him what he asks for is not possible. Tomorrow we have a smaller chance. The window now is good. Foul weather, but in twenty-four or thirty-six hours it moves away and then it is clear. The whole area of the Kola will be covered by helicopters, and troops swarming. No chance of using the fence because the patrolling will be too heavy. The way you have chosen offers that window, but it is small. Do not rely on luck. A fickle lady. Does not come to the undeserving. You earn luck.”

It was translated. He pointed to the two rifles hooked on his back.

“You want one?”

Translation, then a nod.

“You can use one?”

“You were a soldier? You were in Afghanistan?”

Gaz spoke, and the girl listened, then told him. Had been a soldier, had been in Afghanistan and in Syria, a reconnaissance specialist, the same breed as a sniper, worked beyond the lines of safety. Spoke the words of a poem. And the girl translated, struggled but took trouble. When you are wounded and left on Afghan’s plains, And the women come out to cut up what remains, Then roll on your rifle and blow out your brains, And go to your God like a soldier . Jasha liked it and recognised it as a truth.

His answer was to hum softly, the lilted tune of the anthem, of his Lili Marlene . He could hear the sounds of the dogs, and they went on down the hill, and could not go faster. He thought the man knew the tune of the song and his lips moved with it but no sound came other than the steadily more frantic cough and bubbling spit in his throat.

Natacha said, “Timofey reckons that the major will have told them everything about you. And you will be a great prize to them. Everything, right to the colour of your socks.”

He answered her, “I don’t think so. I don’t think he will tell them anything.”

Which was ridiculous; she did not understand him, nor did Timofey.

Often the leashes snagged as the two dogs tugged in different directions, searched with their noses, snorted, chased after fragments of scent in the wet ground under the trees. The handlers were pulled over, were bruised, cursed. Not a difficult decision. Had they sufficient control over their animals if they were let free? They thought so. The bond between dog and handler would likely be sufficient for the dogs to stay within a reasonable distance of the pursuing group. From the actions of the dogs it seemed clear to their handlers that the quarry was close, would soon be confronted.