Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City (2 page)

Chapter 2

Arrivals and Departures

The three-vehicle convoy of Land Rovers ploughed across Iraq’s landscape. In the third vehicle, Eric Mann checked his watch and cursed under his breath, or so he had thought. Inquisitive faces turned his way. He ignored the looks. The time allocated for this mission was one hour, and they were approaching the fifty-minute mark. They were barely halfway to their destination.

‘Is everything alright, Mann?’ The Irish diplomat’s face glowed red. His sweat-stained shirt clinging to his obese body. He played nervously with the lock on his briefcase. Kelly was his name.

Stale air wafted in the confined space. Eric turned his gaze to the barren roads. The sun blazed. The earth shimmered. He was grateful for his sunglasses. ‘The detour is taking longer than I thought.’

Kelly was relatively new to Iraq. The man held a small electric fan to his face. Perspiration ensured his thinning hair remained plastered to his scalp. Eric knew the fan offered little. Only the night brought respite from Iraq’s furious heat. In Eric’s opinion, Iraq was as close to hell as could be possibly conjured, and he had been in some desperate places.

The vehicle slowed. A voice spoke through his earpiece.

‘Stevens here. There’s a roadblock ahead, checkpoint maybe. Looks like NP. Will keep you informed. Out.’

Eric clicked his radio. ‘Copy.’

The convoy slowed to a crawl. Each Land Rover carried two VIPs, a driver and two bodyguards. The lead car held the group’s translator.

Kelly’s head turned and twisted. ‘We’re slowing. Why? Mann, what’s going on?’

Making out the muscles in his legs were stiff, Eric shifted and with a concealed movement, brought his FAMAS assault rifle to hand. ‘National Police checkpoint. We have clearance to get through. Translator will sort it out.’

‘Good, good. The sooner we get to Fallujah the better.’ Kelly dabbed at his face with a handkerchief.

Eric cursed Fallujah, Iraq, and the fat nuisance in the car. The IED that exploded earlier in the day set the tone for the rest of the mission. A new route was decided upon. Their VIPs were on edge and full of questions, and Eric and the rest of the security members of Black Aquila kept their weapon safety mechanisms switched to off. Their new route took them northwest, slightly further into the wild. Eric could not shake the uneasy feeling that the explosive device was intended for them. Paranoid? Perhaps. Even with combat operations declared over, Iraq remained deadly. Caution meant the difference between going home after six weeks, and having your very own decapitation plastered all over the internet. Eric had no desire to become a YouTube celebrity.

Yet, to Eric, the thought of returning home was almost as bad as that of staying in Iraq. He was caught between two worlds. Things with his wife, Jacqui, had not been good for a while, and his two young kids believed him to be no more than a stranger, and a scary stranger at that.

At least here in Iraq, his mind was constantly occupied with the complicated task of staying alive, and the rules were simple. There were no games. A brutal life for a complex mind.

He slapped the door to gain a fellow bodyguard’s attention. ‘Stay in the car, Martin. I’m going to check things out.’

Martin raised a hand in response, but his ever-busy eyes scanned the area around the convoy. In Iraq, if a convoy stopped in the wrong place, it was fifty-fifty whether the occupants made it any further.

Eric rested the FAMAS against his tactical vest. The sand shifted and sucked at his boots. A hundred feet to either side of the road, the terrain rose. Off to Eric’s left, on the cusp of the incline, were the remains of a building. Once reliant on human care, the building had since fallen. A perfect spot for an ambush. A bottleneck with plenty of cover. He pressed the radio’s talk-button. ‘Stevens, what’s the hold up?’

Eric passed the convoy’s middle car. Uniformed men stood scattered about the road. All were armed and alert. Three NPs barred the way of the first car. Stevens and the translator were arguing.

‘Stevens, what’s taking so long?’ Eric asked again.

The reply was instant. Angry, male voices mixed with Stevens’ own.

‘They’re arguing over the pass. They think it’s a forgery.’ There was a pause. ‘Aziz thinks they want money to let us through. I think I can get us past.’ Stevens’ voice changed as he shouted to someone in the distance, someone away from the radio.

Stevens was a marine with twenty years of service in the USMC. Like many, he had progressed into private security. A towering black giant from Brooklyn, he was as good a soldier as one could hope for, but his heavy-handed approach could ignite a potentially volatile situation. Stevens moved nose to nose with one of the Iraqi police officers.

Something didn’t feel right. ‘Negative,’ announced Eric. ‘I’m making the call. We’re pulling back. Get back to the vehicle.’

Stevens’ voice cracked over the radio. ‘You sure?’

‘Martin, get onto HQ and let them know we’re pulling out.’

‘On it,’ came the reply.

Shrieks and cries hit the air. Eric sprinted back to the rear of the convoy, and then a heartbeat later, an explosion.

‘RPG!’

Eric turned as the explosion reached the height of its fury. The lead car was a ball of flames. A black plume billowed upwards. The assault rifle came instinctively into his hands. Figures of fire emerged from the burning car. They fell to the ground, writhing, rolling, and screaming their agony. Stevens lay on the sand, face down, a glowing shard of metal lodged in his back.

Eric threw himself to the ground as rounds whizzed and snapped around him. He couldn’t trace the origin of the gunfire. In his earpiece, Martin’s voice informed him, ‘By the ruined wall, left.’

Eric switched the FAMAS to single shot.

‘Get the hell out of here. Car one is gone. Go! Go! Go!’

Despite the glare from the sun, he located a head bobbing behind a wall. He squeezed off three rounds. Two threw up dust and mortar. The third was on target and the head blew apart. Car two began to turn, as did car three.

Martin was again in his ear. ‘Jump into car two. We’ll drive out.’

If Eric broke from cover, he’d be gunned down. The sum of ambushers was an unknown factor but more than likely, they outnumbered the few Black Aquila operatives still in the fight, and if the enemy possessed any tactical knowledge, they’d have this position surrounded. A timely burst of gunfire confirmed Eric’s theory. He responded in kind with a few rounds of his own aimed at a partially hidden figure by the wall.

‘I’ll keep their heads down and make my own way back.’

More automatic fire peppered the sand around him. Several rounds hit car two.

O’Shea boomed on the radio. ‘There, on the right! RPG!’

Another explosion. A wave of searing heat steamed over Eric. Car two was struck. Flames whooshed from the bonnet. The occupants that survived threw themselves to the sand under heavy gunfire. One operative moved no further after hitting the ground. O’Shea crouched over the VIP from car two, pushing him further into the sand. He returned fire. Shell casings jumped and tumbled.

‘Hold on, Eric, I’m coming!’ Martin’s voice cried in his ear.

More movement about the wall. Eric fired then chanced a look at car three. Martin ran from the vehicle towards him, firing as he went. He knelt by a wind-scarred boulder, changed magazines, and moved again. Incoming rounds scattered around him. He threw himself down, the distance between them enough to ensure a lucky grenade-throw would not take them both out. He fired before shouting, ‘What’s the plan?’

More gunfire. Eric considered their options. It was a battle they would lose if they remained where they were. He squashed the rising panic, calling on what he christened, battle-calm. His breath evened, and he focused on the singular task of surviving the next ten minutes. ‘A few miles back there’s a shack on the roadside. We can hole up there until we are bailed out. Did you get through to HQ?’

‘Thirty minutes ETA for the cavalry.’ Martin fired at the movement by the wall. ‘We have to move.’

An RPG raced over their heads. The propellant trail hung over them for a moment before being washed away by a hot breeze. The explosion came moments later, far behind them.

A robed figure stepped out from the wall, AK-47 levelled, and by chance, moved directly into Eric’s sights. Eric fired three times. Two rounds took the fighter in the chest, the third in the shoulder. The figure fell and did not move again. Eric slotted home a fresh magazine and cocked the weapon.

A round impacted in front of Eric, throwing up a burst of sand. He spat the dry grit from his mouth. ‘We’re moving. I’ll cover you.’ Pointing southeast, he said, ‘That way. Stay off the road. Chances are, they’ll have transport.’

Martin radioed the stranded members of the convoy.

Of the operatives, only Eric, Martin, and O’Shea were now alive. The one remaining VIP cowered amongst the burning hulk of car two, ignoring the heat for the level of protection it offered.

Martin fired again. The insurgents began to move. They’d be outflanked soon. Survival depended on Eric and his men finding a position they could hold, or running into the relief force that was dispatched.

‘Let’s go.’

Eric laid fire at any movement from the insurgents. Martin jumped to his feet and scrambled southeast. A hail of fire was directed down towards them in response. O’Shea moved, his assault rifle in one hand, the VIP held tightly in the other. A lesser man would have left the burden behind, but O’Shea dutifully stayed with him, urging him onward. Providence smiled as the two men disappeared over a rise of sand.

Leaving the bodies of their fellow Black Aquila members to be mutilated and eaten by carrion birds, did not sit well with Eric, but circumstances made him powerless. They were dead. Their problems were over. He would not want anyone to risk their life retrieving his body if it came to it.

Martin’s voice was in his ear once more. ‘On your sign, Eric, move. We’ll cover you.’

Insurgents appeared like distant patches spitting dots of flames. Eric drew increasingly heavy fire. If he was going to escape, he needed to do it now before those patches increased in number. Signalling to his men, he leapt to his feet and ran. An RPG screamed towards him. Eric dropped for cover. Too slow. The RPG struck a rock-laced dune. The explosion cast him backwards, and pain, like a hundred vicious cuts, seared his face, neck, and hands. Landing hard, the air was knocked from his lungs. Faintly, he heard his name. It grew louder, until Martin came into view.

‘Go back. Get away.’ It came no louder than a whisper.

The sun that had so cruelly beaten down disappeared behind an imposing shadow, a shape six-feet high. Eric felt the muzzle of an AK-47 at his face. The owner, dressed in a dirty robe, shouted, ‘Kafi! Kafi!’

Eric’s fingers searched for his weapon, never taking his eyes from the insurgent’s trigger. The muzzle pushed harder at his cheekbone. His search was fruitless in any event. The FAMAS was gone. The explosion had seen to that.

Everyone knew the risks of being captured in Iraq. The contemplation of what was to come ended with the butt of the rifle driven into his head.

***

DSD staff member, Tim Magarth, drove through the frozen streets of Aberdeen. It was a November morning. The sun had yet to rise, not that he expected the sun to bring warmth. Shifting down to second gear, he followed the DSD Special Response Unit along yet another unfamiliar street. Even with the streetlights, Aberdeen felt a dark canvas. It was as if the city turned its back on him, exposing the outsider. In truth, Magarth would much rather have been back in London. Back with his wife, and in a city where he belonged. Money and promotion, he reminded himself.
Money and promotion.

This morning, he was on his way to view a response to a 999 call. The black van ahead came to a stop. Magarth drove his vehicle up onto the pavement a little distance back.

He joined the team, and lit up a cigarette, shivering. The air held ice.

There still remained a level of uncertainty that this incident required such a high presence of DSD. Granted, the reports were almost three weeks old now. Final judgement would be reserved until he witnessed what was going on first hand. All but one of the team suited up. Full hazmat suits and glass helmets. Magarth squashed his cigarette beneath his boot, dug out his ID card and waved it at a solemn-faced man busy pulling equipment from the rear of the van.

‘I want to see the patients.’ Magarth possessed top-level clearance, but his request flew sharper than intended.

‘Full hazmat suits in infected areas, and guess what, buddy … this is an infected area. You’ll have to wait for the team to clear the place.’ The man gave Magarth his back.

Dressed only in a suit jacket and jeans, the notion of spending more time in the cold held little appeal. If he was to be stuck in Aberdeen, he’d make the best of it and gather some answers. Buttoning his jacket up fully, he asked, ‘So it was three weeks ago the first case appeared? Are you still isolating them at the hospital?’

‘The hospital? How long have you been in Aberdeen?’