A stream of tracer shot high over our heads. Now and again I saw a weapon flash inside a building.
The .50 cal responded with short bursts, its one-in-four tracer rounds curving just slightly over the river before making splash marks on the concrete and spinning away. The Humvee took another couple of rounds and so did the sangar. Whoever was manning the .50 cal was screaming and shouting, the voice so high-pitched I couldn’t tell if it was male or female. ‘Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!’
The bursts got longer and the tracer started to clear the lower buildings. The tripod was moving backwards and the barrel was getting higher and higher. The gunner didn’t seem to notice. He or she was too far gone.
Jerry kept his finger on the button. There was nothing I could do and, besides, this wasn’t a war I was getting paid to join. I looked around and spotted a white polystyrene cool-box. Small half-litre bottles of water floated in melting ice. I took two and held one out for Jerry. He waved it away. He had bigger things on his mind. He got to his feet and crouched in the sangar entrance, as if he was about to make a run for it. I grabbed hold of him. Tracked vehicles rumbled out of the camp gate. ‘Whoa, whoa. We’re not here for that. We’re off to Turkey tonight, remember?’
Any reply he might have made was drowned by the roar of rotor blades, very low, coming from the bridge.
The .50 fired again, and so did an AFV moving up the road. Its turret gunner had a more stable platform and was getting rounds on target.
I watched the helicopter swoop towards the riverbank, heading straight over the precariously balanced .50.
‘It’s going to get hit! Get the picture!’
The .50 fired and there was a groaning sound, like the rolling of massive chains on a drum. The helicopter must have been at its very limits as the pilot took evasive action.
I looked out of the firing port. It had banked hard right, back over the bridge. Traffic was still crossing. The .50 cal was still firing, at least seventy degrees into the air. The gunner probably didn’t have a clue how close he’d come to fucking up big-time.
Frankenmeyer was running around the team, screaming at the top of his voice. ‘Stop, stop, stop!’
The radio burst back into life. ‘Red Dragon four-one, we’ve got one hundred and fifty in contact. Repeat, that’s one-five-zero
Same as gooks for the Viet Cong, I supposed. It never took an army long to get derogatory about their enemies.
Jerry spun round. ‘Let’s get over there and have a look!’
I threw the water bottle at him. ‘Dickhead, do you really think there’s a hundred and fifty over there?’
He gulped from the bottle, letting the water pour down the side of his mouth. His eyes were glued to the chaos outside.
The attack seemed to have stopped. The loudest noises now came from the traffic and the command radio.
I looked out through the door. The soldiers behind the wall were getting to their feet, cheering with relief that no one had been hit. Now they could concentrate their energies on honing it into a good war story to tell the folks back home.
I took a swig of water. It was boiling in here and the sweat poured down my face. No wonder the guys had taken their belt-kit off.
There was a box of muesli energy bars in the corner and I helped myself to a hot, soggy blueberry one as about a dozen AFVs thundered past at warp speed to get over the bridge and in among the AK guys. They would have melted into the city by now.
I munched as Jerry put away his camera and zipped up the bumbag, then tipped the rest of his water over his head and down the back of his neck.
‘You weren’t serious about heading north, were you?’
The soldiers outside were shouting their versions of the contact to each other now, all claiming they’d made hits. Jerry dropped his empty bottle on to the sandbags. I stared at him as he packed his camera. ‘You soft in the head or something? Those boys back there weren’t fucking about. This isn’t one you can stick your fingers up at. Fuck the pictures. Let’s just bin it, and get to Turkey. All right?’
He didn’t look up at me, just over-concentrated on packing his kit. ‘I’m staying. It’s really important to get to Nuhanovic. I mean, this guy’s so cool, everywhere he walks there’s a draught.’
The zip got closed on his bumbag.
‘Come on, Nick, there must be a million things you want to ask him. I know there are, you’re interested in him. Your face told me back in DC. I knew you were going to come. Seriously. Think about it. Wouldn’t you want to ask him stuff?’
I threw my empty bottle at him. ‘You’re talking bollocks. But I’ll stay with you.’
He grinned.
‘We’ll have to disappear, like Nuhanovic and the boys the other side of the river.’
‘Booking yourself a few rapid tanning treatments?’
‘No need.’ I started to pull myself up off the sandbags. ‘There’s Rob.’
51
It took a while, but Jerry eventually managed to flag down a rusting Passat taxi on the main. The driver was in his fifties and spoke perfect English. He said he used to be a chemist until the sanctions bit and the economy started to collapse.
The al-Hamra was only a ten-minute ride away, and would be easy to spot from the main. Stark white and six or seven storeys high, it had a billboard on the roof that was big enough to read from several blocks away.
We turned off the dual carriageway and down a side road, past neat, concrete middle-class homes set in small green gardens. Security was more lax here than round the Palestine. A steel barrier blocked our route, manned by a solitary Iraqi with an AK in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Kids did wheelies on their bikes or ran in and out of the surrounding houses. A shop opposite sold fruit, bottles of water, buckets and mops.
The guard sauntered across and held the barrier open as we drove through. The pot-holed drive ran in a semicircle to the front of the hotel, which was surrounded by a high concrete wall. White soldiers with Australian flags on their uniforms patrolled in its shade, their Steyr assault weapons looking like something out of a sci-fi movie. I didn’t have a clue what they were doing here, and they probably didn’t either. They watched from behind their Oakleys as we got out of the cab.
A few fixers hung around outside the main entrance, hassling what I guessed was a news crew unloading alloy boxes and rolls of cables from three 4x4s. Inside the wagons I could see mixing consoles, laptops and satellite-phone sets. Two of the crew had been injured. One had fresh bandages around his arm. Another, the German gun stud, had one round his head. A wounded reporter? He was going to score big-time when he got back home.
Jerry gave the driver a five-dollar bill and we walked through the glass doors into reception. The lobby area was a lot smaller than the Palestine’s, the ceilings lower. Wood veneer was still king, however, and a glass cabinet displayed the same kind of goods for sale, everything from packs of cards of the fifty-two most wanted, to Saddam watches and toothbrushes.
Jerry kept out of the way while I went up to the desk, which was manned by an Iraqi who smelt heavily of cologne and seemed more interested in his ledger than asking me if I needed help. A young woman was sorting out room keys behind him. I wondered if they were related. This had the feeling of a family hotel; they certainly had the same nose and eyes combo.
The news crew came in with their gear and headed straight for the lift, talking low and slow German. Just beyond, a pair of glass doors opened out on to a concrete terrace and I caught a glimpse of the end of a swimming-pool. Sunlight danced on the water. Danny Connor would have liked it here.
