Solomon's Keepers (2 page)

Two

A windowless conference room with the overhead lights down low. Three figures are seated around one end of a long table piled with equipment. A flotilla of polystyrene cups and paper plates has been launched along the table top and the air hangs heavy with time spent in confinement. A young man in a blue uniform shirt worn undone at the neck and with sleeves rolled up is seated at the end of the table, typing into his laptop and occasionally talking into a headset mic. On either side, his companions, a large man and a slim woman in similar uniform shirts are both wearing bulky silver helmets that obscure their faces and which are connected to a large metal device on the table in front of them by braids of brightly coloured wires. A larger umbilical braid falls off the far edge of the table and snakes across to a port in the wall. The young man pauses to look at his companions, runs his fingers through his short blonde hair and blows a long sigh. The big man he looks at first is slouched backwards with one arm hanging loose by his side. The dangling hand turns and makes small prodding movements with thumb and fingertips pressed together as though trying to pick something up with a needle. The young man checks his watch and then reaches across and flicks something on a band around the exposed forearm. The big man jolts and raises his arms to his head.

The woman is leaning forward on her elbows with her head bowed. She has the same band around her forearm. The young man leaves her be. The big man has his helmet off. Short black hair shines in a column of overhead light. He looks around quickly, shakes his head and checks his watch. He takes a deep breath.

‘Not good’ he says. ‘Two fractures to the ankle, possible fractured pelvis, torn ligaments in the ankle and hip and a bad tear in his thigh; he’s in a lot of pain and going nowhere, could be some internal damage too. I don’t like the feel of him. We need to extract them – now.’

The blonde man waits for a moment and then types something as he speaks.

‘Netta wanted to call time when she saw the weather. You want to call it off because one man’s down. Not Harper’s style – nor mine for that matter. There’s a job to do, remember?’

The big man looks dismayed. ‘Lead man down, worst weather for months and no one has even confirmed the target is there yet. If you ask me you’re mad to let this go ahead. It’s not as though there aren’t enough control issues already with all this.’ He spreads his hands and looks at the hunched form of the woman opposite and the smooth crown of the helmet as though appealing for support. None comes. She shuffles in her seat and sways rhythmically as though walking.

‘Thank you for your medical opinion, Lieutenant. Duly noted.’ The blonde man says.

The big man isn’t done. ‘Without Schultz you have to question the chances of any positive outcome here. We stand a good chance of this becoming a publicity coup for…’

The blonde man stops typing and looks up now. ‘He needs to be verified, doesn’t he? Isn’t that why you’re here? So let’s stop playing around and see this thing through. We were sold this as no compromise, net positive, all that bullshit, remember? If he’s going into the medical corps then I don’t have a problem, if he’s going to pull his weight in this team we need to see something else.’

‘Don’t patronise me. I have a job to do here too. How smart is this gonna look when instead of picking up Solomon transmissions we’re watching him beg for release on raghead TV?’

‘Damn it, Randall, just remember while you guys are scoring points and drumming up your next Powerpoints for the Joint Chiefs the rest of us are trying to win a war. And if that Stonebreaker goes off the only thing you’ll see on the news is a whole lot of red wallpaper. I don’t need you to approve. I need you to put that fucking tin head back on and help patch Shultz up well enough to leave alone while we get the job done.’

The big man stares at him for a long moment and then breathes out hard and dons the helmet again. There is no sound. The system channels sensations from hundreds of miles away and Randall’s hands work the empty air in ghostly sympathy.

The blonde man watches his laptop screen intently and after several minutes leans across to the woman and flicks the band on her wrist. She slides the helmet off and shakes her head as though to loosen hair she does not possess. Her head is shaven and her features gathered in concentration. She looks around the room and checks her watch by reflex, then opens her eyes wide.

‘You’d better take a quick break while you can’ he says. She stands up and he waits for her to gather herself and thumbs towards Randall. ‘How are we doing?’

She holds out her arms and shakes her hands and face, jiggling her cheeks and exhaling. Then she looks across at the big man and speaks in a low voice.

‘Schultz is a mess. But he’ll live. Fortunately, Wonderboy landed well. Sorting Shultz is a big ask but looks like he’s come through. Impressive work, all things considered. Have to give Randall that.’

‘Randall needs a break. He’s getting to be hard work. Shame there’s only him.’

She shakes her head and manages a rueful smile. ‘Takes too long’ she says. ‘And then there are the working conditions, the army pay and the weird colleagues.’

The blonde man snorts a little laugh.

‘And you’re the one that gives them the positive outlook that gets him through, right? You’d better take five and let Harper know – he’s gonna want to be here. And see if there’s any more diet coke upstairs, will you?’ You go inside. Weeks of enforced separation punctuated only by illicit texts as IOUs for intimacy, all to be cashed now.

A solitary moonbeam feels its way along an indefinite landscape. The light blinks in drifting cloud, picks up the sheen of water amongst reeds, a wide crescent of cracked mud and then, beyond the shoreline, a fence of wire and concrete posts that stretches across the desert beyond. You switch on the night vision scope and peer into a coin of spectral green light. The horizon is a clear line except for the occasional jitter of rocks or a fizzle of reflective dust kicked up by the breeze. At the limit of the sweep, where a dirt road reaches a scruffy sprawl of buildings, you find it. Between two buildings, a section of a low sixteen-wheeler, tool-pregnant like the handle of a giant pocket-knife, the missile in silhouette down its back like a blade opening to the sky. You recognise the shape and realise Solomon is kicking in – urging information like an eager know-all friend. You feel it matching its rhythm with the flow of natural thought, like streams of traffic merging at speed. There’s a tiny check and then the geeky surge to your assisted conclusion: Chinese-made Stonebreaker – locally upgraded additional tanks doubling its range to fifteen hundred – position of the rear stabilising struts under stress indicate it is unlikely to be a decoy and is part way through launch – typically early hours in cloud cover to avoid detection. A moment later and you find a meteo balloon radar truck and command vehicle in sight – nearest settlement Al Hamra Wasri – no G-Two – terrain is marsh and category one desert – assets unknown – previous records none.

Your physical movement overrides any further contribution as you scramble back down the bank to where Tyler is waiting. Schultz is hunched over under a tarp with his leg sticking out at a strange angle.

‘See anything?’

‘Yup, it’s in an old works complex. It’s a live one. I couldn’t see anyone on it but the jacks are down and it’s part way up. We’re late.’

Tyler checks his watch and takes a disapproving look around. The storm is sliding shoreward from behind you and tall clouds already lean over, abruptly dark. ‘Tracker out? Need their balloons in this.’

‘Uh huh. I could see the dish.’

‘We can forget about lasers. I guess I’ve lugged this in here for nothing. How much of that shit do you need?’

You show him the transmission boost – a single pack of maybe twenty pounds.

He doesn’t look convinced. ‘Best stuff in little packages, huh? We’d better move out.’

The mud has dried and cracked into track tread. There’s a lip of dry grass at the edge of the marsh and then it’s sliding steps in sand to the fence. Tyler takes a long look at the compound through his scope and then goes at the wire with the cutters. You hold back the flap as he squeezes his bulk through. The small physical manoeuvre as you follow seems a big step in commitment. Nothing but desert and darkness separate you from your target. You wonder what eyes, with what equipment, might be looking back at you. If they have heat sense you’re fucked. You’re betting they don’t. Tyler takes the same deep breath you do. Your thoughts are separate, inarticulate, but there’s a sense they are shared. You live the same life. You obey the same rules. You work the same odds, the same constants of preparation, fear and exhilaration tuned by the variables of circumstance. Except you alone have Solomon. There is an unspoken recognition you will never be more alive than at these moments of extreme danger when Fate’s red pen hesitates over your résumé.

To one side of the buildings there is an aura of approaching lights. You can hear engines mumbling, axles whinnying, and tyres muddling through sand.

Tyler gestures to stay down and whispers – as though to himself, ‘who the fuck are they?’

You can feel it unravelling; first Schultz, now this. The job is to paint them for air support and get out. But there isn’t time. Part of you wants to engage, a tension looking for release. Part of you deep down is pleased when you have to improvise, likes the odds against. The part Netta warns you about.

The convoy comes as a bow wave of dust. They park their trucks in a line along the road. You can make out a group of figures forming. There’s a conversation, cigarettes lit, and some arm-waving. They look as though they’re trying to decide something. One of them points to the sky. There’s a final dialogue and then they disperse into cover. The wind scatters their excited shouts.

‘We’re gonna lose them,’ Tyler says. You both take in the sky, blacker than ever now, and the first stipple of rain.

‘Those buildings don’t help – but if I get in close I can deliver a pinpoint.’

Tyler doesn’t like your idea.

‘The priority is to get you out in one piece, my friend. And I kid you not – however good you are, Murphy will fuck you too if you give him an opportunity as good as this. This is close enough.’ He’s already pulling the radio handset from his pack.

You watch Tyler’s eyes.

‘It’s confirmed. No, they’d moved it. About five clicks east. We can see the weather dish and they’ve already dropped the rear jacks. Can’t hear any pumps but they could get it off any time. We’ve got the mother of a storm coming here that’ll close us for sparkle but Rees can…’ He looks at you. ‘Yes sir. I got that. Yes, he is…No sir.’ Tyler leans back as though pushed. ‘Yes, I do. Roger abso-fucking-lutely. Loud and clear. Uh huh. Yes. I’d say level four or five. Cans? Yes. Light and smoke. Yes.’

You draw a finger across your throat.

‘No way in this.’ Tyler says. There’s another silence.

Tyler mouths at you. ‘Wait for it.’

His face freezes. His eyes are locked on yours. ‘I read you. That’s correct. You already…’ Tyler’s hand is freelancing as a propeller. Sometimes it all comes down to a few words, a silence. Then he says it.

‘Roger, twenty minutes, at zero, three thirty. I will hold them until then. Extraction at zero five hundred. Out’

He flips off the radio. ‘Looks like you’re off the hook, kid. Get your ass back into cover and wait for me. Did you hear it? They’ll extract at five hundred hours.’

You are shaking your head. ‘Come on, Tyler. Smoke and flares – are you kidding?’

‘Not an idea I’m crazy about myself. But believe me I will be out of there by the time they have their heads out their asses – so you’d better be ready.’

‘I can tag them in one minute and they won’t know I’ve been there. I can give Harper’s flyboys a full approach viewpoint straight into the heads up – otherwise you’re wasting time fat-fingering at both ends. Probably drop on us.’

He puts a forefinger against your chest. ‘Keep the fuck out of it, Rees – is the message. That’s it. Watch my back.’

Now he’s reaching into one of his packs and pulling out the flash canisters to stuff one at a time into pockets where they won’t clink together. He takes a look at you, pulls the night visor over a last gurn and is gone.

You watch him moving, not quite at a jog and stepping catlike despite his bulges and bulk. He’s in shadow and his desert camo is working for him. Now he’s just a wavering detail under a vast black sky. Had you been taking his steps they could have had all the details first hand – the divided hill as a control point on the horizon, the shape of the complex, all the approach run calculations encoded in an instant. They’d also have had your viewpoint, breath by measured breath – a billion dollar replay of these precious seconds, the rain in your neck, dirt turning to mud under your feet, your quickening heartbeat at close foreign voices – everything up to the split-second, split-everything carnage – even the smoke sculpture that hangs in the silence when it’s over. Instead of this.