[Story] All's Fair

High tech intrigue and Cold War
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Siege
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[Story] All's Fair

Post by Siege »

All's Fair

Tikrit, September 28, 1991

The ramp hits the blistering tarmac with a resounding clunk, and I commence a clumsy attempt to extricate myself from the improvised crash webbing. That proves harder than it should be. The shadowy belly of the Short Lisburn tactical freighter is stuffed with munition pallets: green containers full of mortar rounds and machine gun belts, boxes of rifles and stacks of shells and guided missiles. The chitinous frame of a Gazelle helicopter lurks in the back of the cargo deck. The loadies crammed it so full in fact that there was barely enough room for me, so I spent the last five hours locked in a dark and very cold cargo hold unable to move an inch.

Hello everybody, and welcome to the glamorous world of international espionage. Fight the good fight! Save the world from the communist onslaught! Spend hours freezing in fetal position folded between racks of anti-tank missiles and boxes of rifle ammo! My muscles scream in protest as I try to stand up. It takes four tries to even get to my feet and when I finally do the blood rushes back into my legs so quickly I nearly black out. The only thing that saves me from that embarrassment is that there isn't actually enough free space to fall down. A dull headache throbs against the back of my skull.

Great. Now my body hates me as much as my section chief does. And it doesn't help that it feels like somebody put a blow torch to my face either. After hours of darkness the yawning hole of the cargo gate is a searchlight so bright and blinding it hurts my eyes. I can't see a ruddy thing beyond the ramp but that doesn't stop me from being very eager to get off this blasted hell-ride.

God damn, I'm never complaining about British Airways again.

I pick the black duffel bag that served as an impromptu cushion and walk, well stagger more like, down the ramp. God the sun's bright here. And hot, too. My first impression of Iraq approximates being broiled by a reactor on meltdown; it's only been seconds and I've already gone from freezing to sweating profusely. The bag makes a dusty thud on the dirt. I jerkily pull off the coat that's been keeping me warm, or a handful of degrees above freezing anyway, and pull a pair of rimless sunglasses from my shirt.

Be prepared, they told me. Just like the scouts. Instead of jamborees you get to go to exotic places teetering on the brink of anarchy. So maybe not unlike jamborees after all. I don't know. I never was a scout.

With the sunglasses on the world slides into dark-tinted focus. The sun stops jackhammering my eyes and in turn they obligingly stop tearing up. I stretch my back. Muscles crackle and pop. Pricks of pain shoot through my body as circulation is restored to bits of my anatomy that haven't seen blood for hours. Slowly but surely I start to feel a little human again.

Tikrit Air Field is a dirt strip lined by rusty hangars and zoned by chain link fences and minefields. Four squat cargo freighters hunker down at the opposite end of the runway, three in drab desert camo, one in the white livery of the UN. A handful of military aircraft stand apart from the freighters, Tomcats and Pit Vipers mostly, and military guards mill around them. A crumbling fort from the colonial era passes for a terminal, and the flag of the Kingdom of Iraq hangs languidly from a pole on its roof.

The ramp raises with a whine of hydraulics. Turboprops spool up in an orgy of noise and dust that instantly redoubles my headache. Propeller thrust blows my hair back as the gray freighter taxies and turns back onto the runway with all the grace of a whale on crack. I watch it lift into the sky and bank into the direction of Baghdad. I'm pretty sure King Faisal will appreciate its cargo more than I did.

Man, I could really use a smoke right now. What the hell am I doing here?

A boggo standard military Land Rover throws up twin trails of dust on its way down from the fort. There's nobody else here but me, so I guess it's coming for me. For a moment I wonder if this is going to be the shortest deployment in SIS history because the Land Rover is coming right at me and shows no sign of stopping. Then it begins to slide and, engine roaring, screeches to a handbrake halt so close I can almost taste its fender.

I quash the instinct to flinch. Be cool. Remember what Chandra used to say. I'm a stone bastard. Can't let them see me blink.

The Land Rover's desert camouflage is caked with dust. Its British Army decals are scratched and faded, and the open back is draped with camo netting. A woman leans out the driver window. She can't be much older than me. Her face is sunburnt. She wears patch- and rankless BDUs and ballistic sunglasses. A strand of bright red hair escapes from under the black and white keffiyeh wrapped loosely around her head. She looks at me with a professionally bored expression. “You the bloke from Whitehall?”

What a stupid thing to ask. Who else was riding black freighters into Tikrit today? “I might be,” I reply. “Or maybe I'm Santa. Who's asking?” There's probably more sarcasm there than I have a right to but that handbrake thing was a stupid stunt on the very best of days, and this sure hasn't been a good day so far.

Her expression narrows and she makes a two-fingered salute that doesn't come anywhere near her forehead. “Leftenant MacTaggert, at your service.” She speaks with a fuming Scottish cant that makes it plenty clear she's anything but.

I can't help raising an eyebrow. “You're MacTaggert?”

She nods stiffly, her expression sour. “Mary MacTaggert of Her Majesty's very own Royal Marines, yes.” Her voice takes on a sardonic edge. “Or maybe I'm Santa, right?”

Well, that's just great. It wasn't enough to saddle me with a psycho killer, she has to be a smartass too. This day is getting better by the minute. I swallow the first couple of remarks that pop into my head and decide to simply offer her a hand. “Jack Ridley. SIS.”

MacTaggert doesn't look impressed. Her handshake is almost painfully firm. “Whatever. Do you want a ride or not?”

Not that long ago I'd have been all over a line like that. But as first impressions go this is one is already going downhill in a hurry, and I'm not the glib rookie idiot I was in Berlin. I've got a headache, I'm in freaking Iraq, and MacTaggert is a Scalphunter. Making this situation worse than it already is will probably not be conducive to my long-term health. So I say nothing about any kind of ride at all. I keep my mouth shut and I get in the car.

Cue applause. Bravo Jack, well done. Chandra would be proud.

The Land Rover is as grubby inside as out. There's a good half inch of sand on the floor, and punctures in the door panels that look suspiciously like bullet holes. An MP5 submachinegun with duct taped magazines is wedged between the front seats, and two hand grenades sit in the cupholders. MacTaggert revs the engine to a dull roar and floors the accelerator pedal. The Land Rover spins around, sending sand and gravel flying in a half-arc, before exploding off in the direction of the gate. Some of the Iraqis try to wave us down but the lieutenant keeps her foot down and hits the horn in warning. The soldiers only barely manage to get out of our way, and are left coughing and cursing in the dust as the heavy Land Rover surges through the open gate and swerves onto the road to Tikrit at speeds most favorably described as completely insane.

The car bucks and shakes so violently I'm almost afraid to get thrown out the window. But I buckle the seatbelt and force a disentranced expression. “You wouldn't happen to have any cigarettes on you, would you?”

MacTaggert spares me a look from the corner of her sunglasses. “In the dash. Next to the magazines.”

I nod and open the glove compartment. There's at least five banana clips in there for the MP5, alongside magazines for the pair of .45 pistols I notice are holstered to her hips and, sure enough, a couple crumpled cigarettes packs. I pick one. It's Russian, a bright red pack with a picture of a Tupolev bomber on it. 'Orbita', it says in golden Cyrillic. I snort. “Bet these will get me high.” I manage to light up despite the shaking and lean back as nicotine, strong and unfiltered, soothes my nerves. “Thanks.”

The lieutenant doesn't even acknowledge I said anything. It's three in the afternoon, and the sun is a heat ray from hell. The road winds through upland scrags. Big billboards featuring outdated advertisements in Arabic text tower over the blacktop and, occasionally, abandoned or burnt-out cars. Date palms and hardy scrub brush covers arid land that slopes down to the banks of the Tigris. I release a cloud of blissful smoke and give my driver a better look.

The wind has blown the keffiyeh back, revealing more bright red hair. Her field uniform is worn and faded from too much sunlight. The sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and irregular white strands of scar tissue stand out against sunburnt skin. I'm not an expert but I still recognize knife scars. I don't know what could have left a sawblade pattern of jagged cuts in her left forearm though. MacTaggert looks tough. Not cute tough – streetfighter tough. Tough like a tightly coiled spring that can take your eye out if you're not careful. Tough beyond her years. I know I'm not one to speak, but there it is.

The lieutenant sees me look and sets her jaw. “What?”

“Nothing.” I shrug. “I didn't know C-Section recruited women.”

Her eyes narrow behind the sunglasses. “That a problem?”

“No. No problem.” I take another drag from the cigarette. Bless the Soviets and their lack of filters. “I just never figured Leeds for much of a feminist.”

“The colonel is a chauvinist pig.” MacTaggert's posture goes rigid with anger, and her hands have a white-knuckled death grip on the steering wheel. “Which is why I've been stuck in this shithole for the last year.” A lightning quick gesture from the lieutenant's right hand snatches the cigarette from between my lips. She turns her hand and places it between her own lips, then glares at me. “That satisfy your curiosity, spyboy?”

Well, shit. I sure can sympathize with what has to be a crap situation, but I don't see why that has to be taken out on me of all people. Do I look like I'm any more in control of my own circumstances than she is? I just spent hours freezing because the powers that be can't be bothered to arrange proper transport, I feel like shit, I've got a headache that won't go away, I don't even know what I'm supposed to be doing here, and now I get saddled with some chagrined professional sociopath? This deployment is seriously getting on my tits. So I glare right back at her. “Could you stop trying to bite my head off?” I draw a new cigarette from its package with more force than strictly necessary. “You act like I'm trying to burn you or something.”

MacTaggert jerks the wheel and the car violently swerves to avoid a spectacular pothole. Incoming cars blare their horns and veer around us when we cross into their lane. None of this helps with my headache. “If you don't like it you can always just shut up.”

“Oh for fuck's sake,” I can't help muttering. “Have it your way then.” I zip open the duffel bag and dig out the Walkman cassette player. I'm busy sliding on a pair of headphones when we cut through a final bluff and then Tikrit sprawls along the river banks below. Traffic increases when we enter the tangle of slums and concrete high-rises constricting the old Islamic center of town. The streets fill up with noise and people and soon enough our pace is reduced to a crawl, which suits me just fine. Car horns blare. Arabic music echoes from bazaars. Banners with slogans I can't read hang from buildings. Some have the face of the King on them. Most of them don't. Occasional palm and date trees line the road. David Lee Roth tells me he ain't talking 'bout love as make our way into the capital of the Sunni Triangle, and the heart of the simmering insurgency trying to throw the King out of the country. Any tranquility found here is fragile and temporary at best.

Welcome to Iraq. I love it already.
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User avatar
Booted Vulture
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Joined: Mon May 19, 2008 9:33 pm

Re: [Story] All's Fair

Post by Booted Vulture »

*cue shirley bassey*

Well of course they wouldn't like each other at first. Otherwise they wouldn't end up having kids together late. Fact of life for movies/fiction.

and poor; Jack smuggled in in a carog hold isn't exactly 007.
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Ford Prefect
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Re: [Story] All's Fair

Post by Ford Prefect »

Something about this makes it feel like it's set earlier than 1991, but Ii can't put my finger on it. Maybe because of all the new 21st century stuff. Fun though.
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