Scott Andrews - Operation Motherland

"Yeah," I muttered.

"Did you?"

I looked at him, incredulous. This is what he wanted to talk about?

"She's dead, Dad."

He looked down at his feet. "Yeah, of course she is."

Another silence.

"So you're going to take watch, yeah?"

"Um, yeah," he said, lifting his eyes and regarding me curiously, as if he had no idea who I was. "You get some sleep."

"Wake me when it's my turn."

"Will do."

I lay down and turned away from him, resting my head on my folded arms and closing my eyes.

"And Lee, thank you," he said softly.

I said nothing. A moment later I heard him moving away.

Of course he didn't wake me. A distant secondary explosion jolted me awake; the fires must have reached an old fuel tank or gas cylinder in one of the other buildings. It was still dark, but I checked my watch and saw I'd been asleep for four hours. I lay there for a moment looking up at the stars, so clear and bright now, without electric light bleeding into the sky to hide them. I pulled my jacket tighter around me as protection from the cold, even though I knew it was still hot by English standards.

I looked around and saw that Tariq was on watch now; my dad was asleep over to my left, and David was sitting balled up in the middle of the roof, head rested on his knees, staring blankly into space. I didn't think he'd welcome it if I approached him.

I could tell I wasn't going to get any more rest, so I got up and went to sit next to Tariq.

"Anything happening?" I asked.

"Not really. They've fixed the generator and gone away, but they are still searching all the buildings. It's the third sweep they've done, but Blythe must think we're still here so he's getting them to do it over and over. Just pray he gives up soon. I don't want to starve to death up here." He gave a quiet, sardonic laugh.

"Back when I first met you, you told me you were a celebrity blogger," I said.

Tariq nodded. "I used to blog about life in Basra under the occupation. I had two hundred thousand readers. Some of it was printed in a British paper and a publishing company wanted to do a book. A few other bloggers did it, made big bucks. I'd just signed the bloody deal when everyone started dying. Just my luck."

"So how…"

"Did I become a soldier? My knowledge of covert stuff made me a natural, I suppose."

I was confused. "But how does a blogger become an expert in covert stuff? I mean, why would you need it?"

"You really know nothing about what life here was like, do you," he said, shaking his head in wonder. He wasn't annoyed at my ignorance, merely resigned, as if he expected the rest of the world to be blind, stupid and uninterested.

"Enlighten me."

"Bloggers were targets. If I dared to criticize one of the militias, there was a very good chance they would find me and kill me. And that's just for writing about how hard it was to buy bread in their district."

"People would try and kill you just for blogging?"

"And I did more than that. I investigated. I chased stories, played the journalist, tried to find the truth about certain things."

"Like?"

"Kidnappings, massacres, bombings. It wasn't hard. Basra was not a huge city, the grapevine was very good. And all the time I had to keep my identity secret. If anyone ever connected me with my blog, I was dead."

"And did anybody ever realize it was you?"

"No, but they laid a trap for me. I thought I was so careful, but they threatened the family of one of my contacts and lured me into an ambush. I was looking into the looting of the stores outside town. My contact told me he knew a British soldier who was helping the looters. But the militia was waiting for me at the rendezvous. Luckily a routine patrol came past, and I was able to just walk away. One in a million chance.

"But after that they knew who I was, so I could never go home again. I had to go into hiding, which is why I ended up working with your dad. I was lucky. Some of my friends, fellow bloggers here and in Baghdad, they were not so lucky."

"And now you lead the resistance."

"What's left of it. Anyway, I've got nothing better to do; my laptop's run out of batteries. If only I had an XO, with wireless mesh networking and some good cantennas we could have a local network up and running in no time."

"Stop," I laughed. "I have no idea what you're saying. I can use computers but I have no idea how they work"

"So what were you going to be, huh?" asked Tariq. "Before The Cull turned you into soldier boy. You were going to university to study?"

"I have no idea. I wasn't a failure at school, but I didn't exactly get the greatest grades either. I'd probably have ended up doing English at some crappy university, assuming I got in. After that, God knows.

"All my life I've had my dad telling me what he didn't want me to be – a soldier. I never had a clue what I wanted to be. Rich, I suppose. Irresistibly attractive to women. I dunno. I was fourteen when The Cull hit. I hadn't even chosen my GCSEs yet, although I had one meeting with a careers advisor to help me choose."

"Careers advisor? Someone who tells you what jobs you'd be good at, yeah?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"What did they recommend for you?"

"Promise not to laugh?"

"I swear on the grave of Warren Ellis."

"They said I should go into banking."

"Ha!"

"Yeah, that was my reaction too."

He fell silent, and I could see he was trying to frame a question.

"What you did," he said eventually, "was insane. You know that, right?"

"Which bit? Flying here, giving myself up to Blythe, trying to escape, letting him strap me into an electric chair?"

"All of it. Fucking insane. I mean, I know a lot of it was my idea, but honestly, if someone had tried to persuade me to do what you did I'd have told them to go fuck themselves."

"He's my dad."

"Is that all, though? I wonder if maybe you do not have a death wish."

"Don't be daft," I said, but he didn't seem convinced.

He pressed on. "You would not be the first. Many of the people who survived The Cull took their own lives. Those who could not do that looked for people to do it for them."

I felt a sudden surge of anger. "Well that's not me, right?"

He just looked at me, head cocked slightly to one side, his face asking silently "are you sure?"

"Fuck you, Tariq," I hissed and made to rise. He grabbed my arm and I shook it off angrily before walking back to my clear patch of roof and lying back down.

I lay there seething. How fucking dare he!

"Why so angry, Nine Lives?" said the voice in my head. "Touch a nerve, did he?"

I lay there a long time watching the night turn to grey twilight before the soft glow of morning bled across the skyline. David didn't move a muscle in all that time. Tariq, on the other hand, was restless and unsettled. He moved from one side of the roof to another, checking the area, keeping his head low to avoid being spotted. He must have been worried sick about his friends.

Dad slept like a log, proving that he was the only real soldier amongst us; he once told me that the ability to fall asleep anywhere, at any time, is one of the best tricks a combat soldier can learn.

He woke with the sun and we gathered in the centre of the roof. No-one would make eye contact with me.

"Sitrep?" asked Dad.

"They've stopped searching, and the generator's fixed," said Tariq. "I think we can go now."

No sooner had he said that than there was a hum of power, a screech of feedback, and Blythe's voice echoed across the compound.

"Good morning," he said.

"Oh crap," said David.

None of us moved, waiting to hear what the general had to say.

"I hope you slept well," said the echoey tannoy voice. "I know you're still inside the walls. Your chances of getting out of here alive are not that great."