Adam Baker - Juggernaut

‘I went out to the missionary station a few months later. It was gone. Burned and bulldozed. No sign of the kids, no sign of the nuns. Caterpillar tracks. No top soil. Someone dug a big pit and filled it in.

Later, I heard locals wouldn’t go near the place. They say the jungle grew strange. They said it glowed at night. Said there were genetic abnormalities. Giant insects. Weird flowers.

‘A shitstorm like Iraq? Wouldn’t surprise me if those fuckers turned up on their own little death trip. Blood, gunsmoke. They’d smell opportunity. I wouldn’t mess with them for a single second.’

Koell flicked open a lock knife. The metallic snap echoed through the vaulted hangar. He cut Gaunt free.

‘Gesture of trust.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Work for us. You need a cause. You’re lost. You’re broke. We need good men.’

Gaunt rubbed his wrists.

‘The people you saw today. They want to head into the Western Desert. Take them where they want to go.’

‘Why would I do that?’ asked Gaunt.

Koell took a roll of bills from his pocket. Fresh notes bound by a rubber band. He threw the bills on the desk.

‘Fuck your money.’

‘You want to be part of the shadow world. You need a way in. Well, this is it. Go ahead. Step through the looking-glass.’

‘Just fly the choppers?’

Koell took a folded photograph from his pocket. He smoothed it on his knee and passed it to Gaunt. A satellite shot. Rocky, lunar terrain.

‘The National Reconnaissance Office designate it Valley 403. A limestone canyon. Locals call it The Valley of Tears. The Western Desert, near the Syrian border. Those security contractors believe there is gold hidden in the hills.’

‘Gold?’

‘You’re welcome to whatever you find. Take your cut. Take it all. I don’t care.’

Koell gave the nod. One of his goons put a MOLLE backpack at Gaunt’s feet.

Gaunt popped the clips.

A chunky Thuraya XT sat phone.

Maps and aerial photographs.

A 9mm Sig Sauer automatic with a screw-thread barrel and a long, black titanium suppressor.

A box of tungsten-nytrilium hollow-points. Each bullet spiked like a molar. Designed to fragment and rip a wound like a shotgun blast.

A tube of caulk explosive and green box of e-cell detonators.

‘There are items hidden in those hills. Items we wish you to find, and return to us.’

‘Don’t you have your own guys for this kind of thing? Agency teams?’

‘I won’t bore you with the politics of covert action. A man in my position must make ingenious use of finite resources. A deniable, back-channel asset is always our preferred means of operation. These mercenaries are entirely expendable. They could vanish from the face of the earth and no one would realise they were gone.’

Gaunt examined the pistol.

‘Nothing more?’

‘You’re an ambitious man. You don’t want to be small-time all your life. Those deadbeat mercs, they want money. But you have bigger ambitions. You want to matter. You want to make things happen. So impress me. Show me what you can do.’

They came for Jabril at dawn. They kicked him awake and pulled him from his bunk. Full strip search. They had him bend, spread his ass cheeks and cough. They ran fingers through his hair. They checked his mouth with a flashlight. Then they threw him a fresh jumpsuit and told him to dress.

They returned his prosthetic hook. He twisted the hollow plastic cup on to the stump of his wrist.

They locked him in a wire holding pen with eight other men. Rough guys. Lean. Scarred faces.

Marines stood guard and told them to crouch on the cold concrete floor.

‘Don’t speak. Don’t move.’

One of the prisoners stared Jabril down. He radiated violence and hatred. A big guy with one eye. He had seen the three tattoo dots on the back of Jabril’s hand. Tikriti. Ex-Ba’ath. Marked for death.

Iraqi police showed up. They cross-checked charge sheets and magistrate numbers.

Rapists. Car-jackers. Mahdi militia.

They signed for the prisoners. Marines knew half the police employed by the Interior Ministry moonlighted as Shi’ite death squads. The convicts would be dead in a ditch by sundown.

The prisoners were shackled at the ankle, waist and wrist. Jabril’s good hand was cuffed to his belt chain.

The men stood single-file, hoods over their heads. They were led to a loading bay. A young cop jabbed their legs and shoulders with the barrel of his AK to keep them moving.

They shuffled aboard a minivan. Jabril sat patiently in hooded darkness. Door slam. Engine start. He heard cops light cigarettes, the scratch of four matchbooks struck simultaneously.

The van left Abu Ghraib. It got waved through traffic control points and Hesco blast barriers. It joined the expressway and headed for Baghdad.

The prisoners sat in rows. Two guards at the front, two at the back.

The driver was called Ali. The guy riding shotgun was Najjar. The two kids on the back seat looked barely old enough to shave.

‘There’s a car,’ said Ali, checking the rear-view. ‘A shot-up Suburban. It’s been tailing us since we left the prison.’

Najjar turned in his seat. He could see the Suburban fifty yards back. Bullet holes, scorched paintwork, heavy ram bars. No plates. The 4x4 accelerated and sped past. Tinted windows.

Backstreets. Ali checked his map. Designated route to the Central Station marked in red.

‘Forget the map.’ said Najjar. ‘Head for the dump.’

‘The dump?’

‘The captain wants us to send a message. Leave these scum with the rest of the city garbage.’

Ali took his hands from the wheel and lit a fresh cigarette.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Najjar, sensing his friend’s discomfort. ‘Those boys will pull the trigger. They volunteered. They want their first blood.’

Ali surveyed street traffic. The old quarter. A placid vibe. Kids playing at the kerb. Feral dogs rooting in the gutter. Old guys sat at a table smoking narghile pipes, sipping tea, playing dominoes, watching the world go by.

‘Check the prisoners,’ said Ali.

Najjar climbed into the passenger compartment. He tugged cuffs, tugged ankle chains. The big guy snarled and tugged back. He got an AK butt to the jaw to chill him out.

Ali glanced at the rear-view. ‘It’s back. The Suburban.’

‘How did it get behind us?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Speed up.’

They didn’t have time to react. The Suburban revved and roared past them.

The tailgate flipped up. A soldier in a gas mask and Stetson crouched in the rear. Small feet, small hands. A woman.

The soldier raised an assault rifle and fired a grenade launcher. A streak of smoke. Catastrophic detonation as the nose of the van blew out.

The front axle sheered. The van gouged asphalt and came to a shuddering halt.

Ali wiped blood and glass from his face. Ear-whining concussion. He tried to clear his head. The engine block was destroyed. The van was full of smoke. The hooded prisoners were screaming and thrashing in their seats.

Soldiers jumped from the Suburban. Irregulars. Mercenaries. They each wore gas masks. They threw smoke grenades and enveloped the vehicle in purple smog.

Ali shook Najjar. His friend was out cold, head on the dash.

Ali reached for his radio. He fumbled and dropped it into the foot well. He kicked at the side door. It was jammed.

He unholstered his pistol. He climbed into the passenger compartment. He fell into the narrow aisle between the prisoners.

He shouted to the guards at the rear of the van.

‘Are you all right?’

Farm boys with rifles. They were uninjured, but sat stupefied with shock.

A baton round punched through a side window and bounced to the floor, jetting CS. Ali snatched up the canister and threw it back out the window.