Operation Motherland Page 4
"More trouble than this?"
"Fuck yeah."
One car braced itself against another and they dug into the ground as we hit them. The humvee's nose wrenched itself upwards and we rolled over the vehicles, bouncing madly, my head crashing against the roof. Tariq was yelling, but it was hard to tell whether it was in excitement or terror. Then we hit dirt again and the alley cleared ahead of us. Left on to another main road and that was that, we didn't see another car until we pulled up at the dock ten minutes later.
Tariq hit the brakes and the humvee skidded to a halt just inches from the water.
"Out," he barked.
I didn't need telling twice. I clambered down, bruised and shaken, holding the rifle tight.
"Now help me," he said, leaning forward and pushing with all his strength. I didn't bother asking why, I just took up the strain on my side. Together we pushed the humvee into the water and watched it sink. Then Tariq turned and walked away. I stood and watched him for a minute then I shouted after him.
"Should I come with you, or what?"
"I don't really care," he replied, without glancing back or slowing down. "If Toseef or Anna are dead because of your fucking stupidity, I'll kill you myself when we get back to base. But if they're fine, you're better off with me. Your call."
He rounded a corner and was gone.
I thought about it for a moment then I shrugged and ran after him.
At the near-derelict building that Tariq's group used as an HQ, an American deserter called Brett gave me anti-inflammatories for my shoulder, and patched and dressed my various wounds.
When he'd finished, Tariq apologised for being so harsh by referring to yet another online personality I'd never heard of - "sorry, I was a dick. Wil Wheaton would not be impressed" - then spent a couple of hours telling me his story. We sat on a flat, warm roof looking out over the city as the dusk turned to darkness and he laid it all out for me. It was a lot to take in, and it raised almost as many questions as it gave answers, but I mostly let him talk without interruption. When he had finished we sat in silence for a while, and then I told him my story in return. By the time I finished I felt that we had reached an understanding; after all, our experiences weren't that different when you got to the root of it.
Then he told me his plan and my role in it.
Then he gave me food and water and showed me where I could bed down for the night. I slept well, woke with the dawn and went looking for Tariq. I found him on the roof, exactly where I'd left him the night before.
"Well?" he asked.
"Your plan is insane."
He shrugged as if to say 'what can you do?' I laughed and shook my head ruefully.
"Our chances of success are..." I didn't have a word for that amount of small.
Again he shrugged and smiled.
I looked out over Basra. The squat white buildings of the centre, the tower blocks in the distance, the docks full of abandoned boats. And on the horizon the columns of rising smoke as the oil burned out of the wells. I was so very far from home. I'd come here on a very personal mission, tired of having the weight of everybody's expectations hanging on me, weary of making decisions that determined which of my friends would live and die. I'd figured that either I'd find my dad or I'd die trying. Either way, the only person paying for my mistakes would be me.
Now here I was, in Basra only a day, and a guy I barely knew was asking me to take on a huge responsibility. It almost seemed like fate was laughing at me. No matter how far I flew, I seemed to end up at the centre of things. I might as well just get used to it. I shrugged and held out my hand.
"It's a stupid plan, but okay," I said. "I'm in."
So an hour later, unarmed and on my own, I walked up the main gate of Saddam's palace and surrendered myself to the American Army.
Chapter Three
It took my eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness.
The cell, deep underneath the palace complex, smelt of sweat and bad breath, fear and urine. The silence was absolute once the footsteps of the American soldier who'd thrown me in here had faded away; no whirr of air conditioning, no echoes from the long corridor outside, no snatches of distant conversation. Which is how I could hear the soft breath of the cell's other occupant.
I stayed just inside the door until I began to make out shapes.
Thin chinks of light filtered in through the square holes in the metal window shutter, picking out the concrete walls, the bucket in the corner beside me with the cloth over it to mask the stench, the filthy mattress on the floor and the man lying upon it, knees pulled up, arms around his legs, foetal. It was hard to make out details but he seemed wounded; something about the hunch of his shoulders, the way his head was buried in his lap, spoke of pain and endurance.
My stomach felt empty and hollow, my head swam. I think I was more scared at that moment than I had ever been. It wasn't the fear of combat or imminent death; that fear was half adrenaline. This was deeper, stronger; the fear of loss, fear born of love.
My mouth was dry as chalk so my first attempt to speak came out as a strangled croak. I bit my cheeks, squeezed out a drop of saliva to moisten my tongue and tried again.
"Dad?"
I remember the excitement I always felt when I knew Dad was coming home. I'd run to meet him in the driveway where he'd pick me up, swing me around and hug me so tight I couldn't catch my breath. The house smelt different when he was home, of Lynx deodorant and shaving cream, boot polish and Brasso (which, trust me, doesn't really make pigeons explode). We'd go see football matches, take trips to the cinema, he'd teach me to swim or ride my bike and it would be glorious. And then he'd be gone again, for months at a time, just phone calls and letters and Mum putting a brave face on it.
We never lived on station, in barracks or Army housing. Mum's family had money, and Dad insisted that I shouldn't grow up an Army brat. He'd always been so determined to keep me as far away from the trappings of the military as possible, absolutely insisted that I should never pick up a gun.
I wondered how he'd react when I finally found him, when he saw what The Cull had made of me. But it never occurred to me to wonder what The Cull would have made of him. He'd become this fixed point in my mind. My dad. Solid, reliable, capable, wounded inside but getting on with things as if he weren't. He couldn't change.
How naïve of me.
The foetal figure didn't stir. I spoke again.
"Dad, is that you?"
He let out a low mumble. I couldn't make it out.
"Dad, it's me. It's Lee." I took a step forward, tentatively.
Again he mumbled, this time a little louder.
"Go away," he growled.
Once, when Dad was home on leave from his Kosovo posting, I came running into the bedroom to find him fast asleep, taking a crafty afternoon nap. I had something I wanted to show him. I can't remember what it was any more, but I was five and it was super mega important that I show my dad this amazingly cool thing.
Anyway, I ran in, grabbed his arm and shook him awake.
One of the stupidest things I've ever done.
I don't remember the movement clearly, but he was instantly in motion. Before I could utter another syllable I was in a headlock and he was squeezing my windpipe tightly. I remember that his right hand went to my temple and braced. I realise now that he was about to snap my neck.
He came to just in time, got his bearings, woke up properly. Then he sprang back across the bed, pushing me away from him with a cry of terror and alarm. He curled up into a ball then, too, shaking, the horror of what he'd almost done sending him into a near catatonic state of shock. I sat on the floor, mouth open, stunned. I definitely remember thinking that my dad really needed me not to cry, so I tried very hard and managed to stop my lower lip trembling.
After a minute or so I calmed myself down and I climbed on to the bed, where I put my arms around him and gave him a cuddle. We stayed like that for a long time as he muttered, over and over again "I'm so so
rry, so sorry", and I said it was okay, everything was okay.
From that day on, if I ever had to wake Dad for any reason, I always talked to him at a normal volume from beyond arm's reach until he awoke. Nothing like that ever happened again, but I had learned, at five years old, that my dad, my brilliant, wonderful, funny, teach me cycling, football kicking, fish and chip supper Dad was in some fundamental way broken. And he never told me why.
I sat in the corner of the cell, opposite the bucket, at the foot of the mattress, and just started to talk.
"I waited for you. At school. I waited a whole year for you to come and get me. But you didn't show up, so I figured I'd better keep my promise and come get you. I stole a plane, mapped out a route, selected RAF bases for refuelling and here I am.
"Remember how annoyed you were when I joined the cadets? Even though it wasn't the army cadets, you were still furious. 'I don't care if you get to fly, you still have to handle a gun and I won't allow it,' you said. But I argued and argued, and Mum backed me up. Wow, I remember that row. But hey, they taught me to fly, which is all I really wanted. I didn't care about the guns and the uniform and the drill. It was just an excuse for the really crappy teachers to shout at us a bit more and make themselves feel important. Anyway, I hate guns. Always have. Still do. But I can't deny that training came in useful.
"So here I am and it's all the RAF's fault. So I'm glad I stood my ground, 'cause otherwise I might never have found you. And that would have been terrible.
"I got shot down on approach though. I couldn't find the airport and I was circling the city trying to make it out, navigating by the river. I flew God knows how many thousand miles in a straight line, found and landed at three different RAF bases, then I get to my destination without a hitch and can't find an international bloody airport! Pathetic, really.
"Anyway, I crash landed, threw out my shoulder, and got chased halfway across town by a bunch of local nutjobs who kept taking pot shots at me. But eventually I got lucky, found this place. I thought I was safe.
"So much for that."
The man on the mattress slowly began to unfold himself as I wittered. I caught my breath and my monologue petered out. Gradually he levered himself upright and I could see his face.
He was unshaven, his hairline had receded a bit and there was a lot more grey there. His eyes were deep pools of black. But it was Dad.
"Lee?" His voice was little more than a whisper.
"Yes."
"Oh God, Lee?"
He raised his hands to his face and a flash of white bandage caught the scarce light. His right arm ended in a mass of bandages.
Someone had cut off two of his fingers.
I gulped the coke gratefully but soon remembered why it was a drink for sipping; the bubbles burned my parched throat and I let out a mighty belch.
"I'm sorry," said Brett after he'd massaged my damaged shoulder more securely back into its socket. "We've got no painkillers left. It's just going to have to heal at its own pace. You'll have restricted movement for a while."
I laughed. "I broke my other arm about six weeks ago and I still can't quite use it one hundred per cent. I'm going to look like Frankenstein's monster." I tried to lift both my arms straight in front of me, but it hurt too much. "Maybe not."
Brett smiled and went back downstairs. I remained on the roof with Tariq, sprawled on a tatty old sofa that had been dumped up here, enjoying the soft, shapeless, smelly cushions; after a week in the cockpit of a light aircraft it felt like the Ritz.
Tariq looked at me thoughtfully. Nineteen or twenty, the Iraqi was about five seven, with short black hair, dark skin and brown eyes. His geeky T-Shirt ("what, you don't know Jonathan Coulton?" he said, amazed, when I asked about it), Converse sneakers and jeans, not to mention his improbably white teeth, brilliant colloquial English, and the shoulder holster with sidearm nestled snugly beneath his left arm, sent out a confusing mass of signals that I couldn't quite decipher.
"So Brett's a Yank," I said, "but you and your friends are fighting the Yanks?"
He nodded.
"And even though the Yanks and the Brits were allies, my dad has been fighting with you?"
Tariq nodded again.
"And you're not Islamic fundamentalists?"
Tariq shook his head, grinning.
"What are you then?"
Tariq thought about this for a moment then he shrugged and said: "Brett is a hockey fan from Iowa, Toseef has a thing for thrash metal, and I'm a celebrity blogger." My confusion must have been obvious. Tariq laughed. "We're a family," he said simply.
I thought of Norton and Rowles, the dinner lady and Matron, and all my friends back at the school. I nodded. I understood that. "And the guy who attacked me? The one who died?"
He shook his head sadly. "Jamail. Good kid but hotheaded. A shoot first, ask questions later kind of boy. He was hard to control, and he made me crazy. But he would have grown into a fine man. He was the one who shot you down, even though I ordered him not to."
"I didn't kill him, you know. The plane exploded, there was shrapnel." It suddenly occurred to me that word was way too obscure, so I added: "that's metal that goes flying around after a big bang."
He looked at me like I was an idiot. "I know what shrapnel is."
"Sorry. Of course you do."
"I've lived in a fucking war zone the last eight years."
"Of course, I'm sorry. It's just that it's not a word we use every day in England." I suddenly felt very embarrassed. "Your English is really good," I added, lamely.
He beamed, his face transformed into a mask of boyish glee. "I know. I studied very hard. I wanted to go to university in England. Your father was going to help me with my applications."
"You knew him before The Cull, then?"
"Everyone knew your dad. Most people kept their distance. It was not wise to be too friendly with the occupying forces. But it was his job to make friends with local people, and I decided to become his friend. I was a liaison. I got good books and DVDs that way. And these sneakers which you fucking well threw up on."
"Sorry. But you did tie me to a chair and threaten to decapitate me."
"It's a traditional Iraqi greeting." He was so stony faced as he said this that, for a moment, I didn't realise he was joking.
"Very funny," I said. Only the tiniest twinkle in his eye betrayed his amusement. A big, gun-carrying geek with a desert-dry sense of humour.
"My name's Lee," I said, holding out my hand. "I think we're going to be friends."
"I would like that," he replied, taking my hand.
"I don't have any DVDs though."
"Oh. Sod off then."
In the fetid darkness of the cell, I looked at him. And he looked at me. And neither of us knew who we were looking at.
"But..." Dad shook his head and blinked his eyes as if he couldn't believe what was happening.
"Your time was up," I said. "I told you I'd come and get you if you didn't come home within a year. So here I am." I laughed and gestured at the dry concrete walls. "I've come to rescue you."
His shoulders hunched and he gritted his teeth.
"You think this is funny?"
"No, I..."
"You think this is a fucking joke?"
"Dad, listen..."
"You were safe! I told you to go to school and stay there. You were safe! Christ. Everything I've been through, everything I've done here, the one thing, the one thing I held on to as my friends were dying, was that at least you were out of it, at least you were safe. What the hell are you doing here, Lee? Why couldn't you just do as you were told, eh? Just this fucking once, why couldn't you do what I told you?"
My stomach tied itself in knots as he shouted at me, just as it always had. When you hero worship your dad, the last thing you want to do is let him down, make him angry, give him a reason to shout at you.
It had been a long time since I'd felt the shame of a child who's let down a parent, and it took me by surprise.
"Do you have any idea what's going on here?" He shouted. "What you've come running in to the middle of?" Then suddenly the anger just drained out of him. His shoulders slumped as he closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Oh God, Lee," he whispered. "What have you done? What have you done?"
I felt the shame slowly change and build into the kind of self-righteous anger unique to teenage boys having a fight with their dads.
"What have I done?" I hissed. "I'll tell you what I've done. I've shot and killed my history teacher, shoved a knife into the heart of a prefect, shot three others, slit the throat of one of my friends, watched my best friend murdered right in front of me. I've been complicit in torture, executions and gang rape. I've been shot, stabbed, strangled, blown up and hanged. I've seen battles and massacres and all of it's on me. My fault, my doing. All the bloodshed, all the death, all of it on me. And through all of it, all the shit, all the killing, all I kept telling myself, over and over again, was 'Dad'll be here soon, he'll sort this out'. But you never came. You left me on my own in a fucking nightmare and you promised, you swore you'd come and find me. Where were you, Dad? Where the fuck were you?"
Hot, furious tears were streaming down my cheeks as I shouted terrible things at the person I loved most in the world.
"You left me, you bastard" I shouted. "You fucking left me!"
My anger gave way to impotent sobbing. And then he was holding me, like I'd held him on the bed all those years before, and he was saying softly: "It's okay, I'm here, everything's okay now."
And despite everything, it was. It really was.
"Your dad was on the last plane out," Tariq explained. "Part of his job was to liaise with local people, and he stayed as long as he could, trying to see that everyone he knew was taken care of. I lost count of how many people he helped when things got bad; bringing food and medicine, persuading the army doctors to visit the sick, even looking after some people himself when the withdrawal began.