The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (23 page)

He searched his memory,
recalling every second of the time they spent together. Again and again he
tormented himself with the same question. Did she know? He remembered every
word she said . . .
Fate makes us do bad things, and then it makes us suffer
for them. There was nothing we could do about it. It was meant to happen
.
. . The unspeakable now had a voice, and the voice a face, and the face a smile
that mocked and shamed him.

He had tried to live a good
life, and yet he was tainted by the primeval sin of incest. Surely he had not
deserved that. But then, from deep down in his unconscious mind, his own voice
rose up to condemn him.
Have we met before? Do I know you?
Why had he
asked her that? Could he have known that Margot was his sister when he slept
with her? Could Oedipus have known he was bedding his mother? No, that was
impossible. Surely Oedipus was the victim of a malign fate?

The memory could never be
erased, neither the guilt nor the shame of it. For the rest of his life he
would have to confront what he had done. It made no difference that they were
both guilty; shared guilt did not lighten the burden of the crime.

 Twenty-one troop under Major Pendragon
crossed the border in darkness and trudged fifty miles, moving

by night, holing up by day.
The south-eastern corner of the Kingdom of the Euphrates was a barren desert,
one of the hottest and most arid places on earth, known to the army as Kew
Gardens. On the fourth day the fifteen man troop reached their objective.
Jurassic Hill rose precipitously from the sand, the only significant elevation
for miles, curiously alien to its surroundings. With its sloping body and
jutting head, it reared menacingly above the desert like some great prehistoric
creature. Here the troop set up camp and waited.

By day the temperature climbed
to sixty degrees, the burning heat and relentless swarms of flies making it
impossible to sleep. By night the temperature dropped below freezing. It was
then that the men needed to be most alert, but despite the bitter cold they
were sleepy. If there was a less hospitable place in the world, no one in the
troop had been there.

On the afternoon of the eighth
day the enemy arrived in a chaotic caravan of trucks and armoured cars, and
camped a mile west of Jurassic Hill. They took their time, making not the
slightest effort to conceal themselves. Clearly they had no idea they were
being observed.

A few hundred yards to the
east of Twenty-one Troop’s position was Wadi Jahmah, a village of about a
thousand inhabitants, eight hundred or so women and children, the rest elderly
men; the young men of combat age were either hiding up in the hills or dead.

Two weeks ago Twenty-one Troop had located the
rebel force by satellite, since when they had monitored their communications
round the clock. It had not been difficult. So arrogantly confident were the
rebels that they communicated openly by radio, neglecting to use even the most
basic safeguards, frequency-hopping and encryption. By the time the enemy set
up camp, Arthur knew everything he needed to know about them. The rebels planned
to attack Wadi Jahmah the following morning. In the last twelve months several
villages had been “cleansed”. The methods were always the same. Every man and
child was slaughtered, and the women raped before they too were brutally
disposed of. Anyone who attempted to flee, worse still to resist, would be
tortured and mutilated – men castrated, women’s breasts cut off – and left to
die in the desert.

Sergeant Bedivere had great
respect for Arthur; to be a major at the age of twenty-four was good going in
any regiment, remarkable in this one. It took two years to turn a man into a
Special Operations soldier, and once he was trained he could operate anywhere
in the world. He could parachute or hang- glide, climb ice and rock faces,
fight in any conditions with a multitude of weapons. In his service with the
regiment George Bedivere had come across many exceptional men, though none to
compare with Major Pendragon. It was an honour to be part of the regiment, an
even greater honour to serve under the major, a natural born leader.

The great vault of the desert
sky was luminous, crammed with stars, awash with galaxies. Twenty-one-Troop’s
positions, however, were in deepest shadow. At fifteen minutes past eleven
Arthur’s headset beeped, and for a few seconds he listened intently. Then he
nodded to the sergeant. ‘It’s on,’ he confirmed. ‘We move at four a.m. while
it’s still dark.’

Sergeant Bedivere was a
cautious man. ‘Let’s hope they didn’t get a fix on us.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘They didn’t spot us
before. They’re not going to now.’

‘All the same,’ pointed out
Bedivere, ‘they outnumber us six to one.’

‘That means the odds are in
our favour.’ ‘How come?’

Arthur grinned. ‘Man for man,
we’re ten times better than they are.’

Did it ever occur to the major
that things could go wrong? Probably not. Sergeant Bedivere checked his
automatic weapon for the umpteenth time, but his thoughts were far away. ‘Ever
think about death?’

‘Sometimes,’ admitted Arthur.

‘It’s not the dying that
worries me,’ said Bedivere, ‘it’s the bit that comes before.’ He grinned wryly.

‘You’ll live to be a hundred
and fifty, George,’ said Arthur reassuringly, and focused his mind on the party
to come.

There was an important job to
be done. The so-called “coalition” had handed Iraq back to the Iraqi people in
2005. In 2007, at the insistence of the fledgling Iraqi government and the
U.N., American and British troops were withdrawn. Less than a year later the
country was torn apart by civil war – Sunni against Shiite, with the Kurds
caught in the middle. The United States had been badly burned invading Iraq in
2003 and was reluctant to intervene again. Whilst the U.N. dithered, order was
quickly and brutally restored by Sadiq el Shaeb (the People’s Friend), well
disposed to the west, and an enemy of international terrorism. Under his
leadership a group of the most powerful tribes formed the K.O.E – the Kingdom
of the Euphrates. Butin the east of the K.O.E. there were still problems. The
aim of the rebels, said Sadiq, was to destabilise the K.O.E., creating the kind
of chaos in which international terrorists thrived. When Sadiq appealed to
Britain, the government did not hesitate. A small contingent of special forces
was sent out, their task to destroy the rebels and prevent the slaughter of
innocents.

Three am. An hour to go. The sergeant was
sleeping like a baby. Arthur moved silently down from the summit to the
makeshift HQ. where, in a primitive shelter on a barren hill in the desert, all
the paraphernalia of a high-tech war room was installed, computers and
monitors, communications and radar, surveillance equipment, and the remote
control of complex weapons systems.

‘Any sign of movement?’ ‘Dead
to the world, sir.’

Arthur was taking no chances.
‘Lock on sensors.’ ‘Sensors locked.’

‘Identify to scanner.’ ‘Scanning.’

Arthur studied the rebel camp
through night vision glasses, referring all the time to the neat stack of
screens and computers that monitored every movement, every sound, every
variation of temperature. For days they had observed and analysed the advancing
enemy by thermal imaging and sound and seismic sensors, while laser detectors
picked up the minutest reflections from such things as gunsights and
binoculars. The rebels were a small but formidable force: ninety-three
soldiers, six trucks, two armoured cars. Their equipment was not sophisticated,
but it was effective – automatic weapons, rocket launchers, missiles, some with
high explosive, some with chemical, some with biological warheads. They could
take on a battalion or destroy a sizeable city, not to mention a small,
defenceless village. The irony was, as Arthur knew from experience, that they
rarely used their devastating battery of weapons. What was the point of wasting
precious ammunition when knives would do the job just as well? He was
satisfied. It was clear the rebels had no idea that the British army was in the
area. ‘Thanks, John. I’ll be giving you the signal to lock on weapons systems.’

‘I’ll be here. Nowhere else to go.’

Arthur nodded at the photograph by the
computer. ‘How’s

Sally?’

‘She’s great, sir. We’re
starting a family.’ ‘You didn’t tell me you were married.’ ‘We’re not.’

‘Ah,’ said Arthur.

A bit square about things like
that was the major; he got that look on his face sometimes, and you knew he
didn’t quite approve. All the same he was cool, he might not approve but he
understood, and that was more important. He was one of the few officers who
did, and the only one who knew all about the private life of every man in the
squadron, who screwed around, who didn’t, how many kids they had – in or out of
matrimony – who they were sleeping with, who they’d like to sleep with, who was
straight and who was gay. Men talked to him about their personal stuff. They
trusted him, and they knew his interest in them was genuine.

‘Is it going to be alright, sir?’

‘Yes, John. It’s going to be alright.’

Twenty minutes to go. Arthur
made his way back up the hill, where George was snoring like a rhinoceros. The
adrenaline was stirring, the saliva drying up in his mouth. Gently he shook the
sergeant awake. ‘Time to move, George.’ In an instant Bedivere was alert. ‘Here
we go again.’ They clasped hands. No need for words. The radio crackled in
Arthur’s headset. For a few moments he listened. ‘I copy,’ he said, his voice
flat.

‘What is it, sir?’ ‘The
party’s off.’

‘Why, for God’s sake?’

‘Something about satisfactory
assurances received,’ said Arthur. ‘No details.’

‘You mean those bastards down
there are not going to attack the village?’

‘That’s what they say.’

Arthur went down the hill to
tell the men. After so many days of preparation, their reaction was naturally
bad.

‘What the hell do we do now, sir?’

‘Sit tight. Our orders are not
to engage the enemy. So we wait until they’ve gone. Whatever happens, they
mustn’t spot us.’

In the east the early morning
sky was streaked with red. The camp below them stirred to life. Striking camp
was as shambolic and undisciplined as setting up had been. A couple of hours
later the trucks and armoured cars moved off in a westerly direction loaded
with men and equipment.

‘They kept their word,’ said Bedivere.

Arthur nodded. ‘Looks like
it.’ They watched the convoy disappear over the horizon, and they were still
watching when the dust settled.

‘What made them change their mind, sir?’

‘Some kind of political
solution. So in a way this party has been a success,’ said Arthur, trying to
sound convinced.

It was not yet eight a.m. The
sun was low and the air still relatively cool. With the lifting of tension the
men relaxed, allowing sleep to overwhelm their exhausted bodies. Arthur and
Sergeant Bedivere climbed back up to the summit to keep watch. For a few
minutes they fought sleep, but it was a losing battle.

Two hours later Arthur woke
with a start, his heart pounding. Something was wrong. Suddenly the silence was
broken by a scream of pain and terror and the sound of weeping. It came from
the village. The rattle of automatic fire was followed by more screams. Every
man in the troop grabbed his gun and leaped to his feet.

‘Down!’ cried Arthur, but he
was too late. Automatic weapons opened up from every direction. In the first
few seconds three men were killed and several wounded as the rest of the troop
scrambled for cover behind rocks and scrub. For several minutes they were
unable to move, not even to sight their guns, so heavy and accurate was the
enemy fire. Arthur cursed himself for a fool; he had fallen into a classic
trap.

Whilst his troop were asleep the rebels had
sneaked back, some moving on to attack the village, the rest surrounding Jurassic
Hill. Twenty-one Troop was pinned down.

‘Fancy a quiet stroll, George?’ whispered
Arthur.

A wry smile. ‘I think I’ll
wait till the bastards go home.’ ‘They’re not going anywhere,’ said Arthur
grimly, ‘not until their friends have slaughtered everyone in the village.’

George was a brave man, but he
was also a realist. ‘Nothing we can do about it.’

‘Yes there is. We’ll move down the east slope
to the Wadi.

That’ll give us cover.’

George’s eyes popped. ‘In your
dreams. The village is four hundred yards away. The Wadi can’t be more than two
hundred and fifty yards long.’

‘More than enough,’ said
Arthur. ‘When we run out of Wadi we’ll make a break for it. I’ll go first. You
and the troop give me covering fire.’ He was loading up with extra ammo.

Jesus, the man was serious! ‘Forget it, sir,’
urged Bedivere.

Arthur ignored him. ‘Listen
carefully, George. When I reach the Wadi, you, Rod, Harry, Ben and Elvis join
me. Leave the rest of the lads here. They’ll give you covering fire.’

‘The rest of what lads?’ asked George.

‘They can still fire a gun
even if they’re wounded.’ ‘We’ll be sitting ducks,’ said George Bedivere
gloomily.

Arthur grinned. ‘See you down
there.’ He waved an arm in farewell as he moved off.

‘You’ll never make it, sir.’

But he did. And so did the rest of them.

The fire fight in the village
was short and savage. When it was over, forty rebels lay dead. The rest of the
gang fled. Of the six soldiers in the attack, only Arthur and George Bedivere
were left standing. Two men took a direct hit from a mortar shell, one was
blown to pieces when a bullet hit a grenade in the pack strapped to his waist,
and one stepped on a mine, an American one as it happened. Sergeant Bedivere
thought it was all over when a mercenary who was feigning dead jumped up and
swung a long knife. As it flashed down on George’s skull, Arthur fired a burst
from his automatic rifle. The man was hurled back by the impact of the bullets,
and the knife missed George’s head by inches. But it sliced clean through his
wrist, and there was his right hand lying in the sand. Of the thousand or so
villagers, nine hundred survived unscathed, the rest were either shot or had
their throats cut. A number were beheaded, perhaps because they had tried to
resist the rebels.

It was unthinkable that those
brutal murders should go unpunished. The instant the last casualty was
helicoptered out, Arthur turned his attention to an armoured car abandoned by
the rebels. Almost the entire chassis was exposed, most of the body having been
ripped off by grenades and missiles. But the undercarriage and the engine were
more or less intact. Miraculously, it started.

Taking with him two men, a
mortar, a hand-held missile launcher, grenades, and a stack of automatic
weapons and ammunition, he drove across the desert through the night. Just
before sunrise he caught up with the main body of rebel soldiers. They had
heard the armoured car in the distance, and knew it was heading for them.
Recognising its peculiar engine hum, they prepared to greet their comrades; by
the time they realised their mistake it was all over for them. Not a man was
left alive.