coach loaded with suitcases, shopping bags, chickens in cages, all sorts, on the roof rack. I guessed theirs would be the last happy faces I’d be seeing for a while.
We flew over the bus, giving the Russian camp a wide berth to the left. The captain had pulled on a set of headphones and talked fast into the boom mike. The noise of the engine and the rush of the wind made it impossible to hear what he was saying, but I knew it had to be about us.
The inside of the Huey hadn’t had anything done to it since it left Mr Bell’s factory in the 1980s. The walls were still lined with faded silver padded material, and the floor’s non-slip, gritty paint had worn away before some of these squaddies were even getting the hang of their first water pistols.
We hugged the side of the valley, using it as cover from the Russians who’d be up there, somewhere, radioing a progress report to Moscow.
We flew low and fast, trees, animals and buildings zooming past in a blur.
We tilted left and right, following the contours. Wind blasted the interior as we took a particularly sharp right-hander. I gripped my seat between my legs to stop myself being tipped into the trees.
We levelled out then surged over the ridge and Camp Vasiani spread out ahead of us.
The fieldcraft training was still in full swing, but I now knew it was just for show. The real Partnership for Peace programme was being played out here in the Huey. Guys like the US Marine in the seat beside me would stay in charge, while the Georgian boys would do the housework and smile for the cameras.
We hovered over the concrete pan and came in to land. Exhaust fumes and downwash gusted into my face.
No sooner were the skids on the ground than we were manhandled in the direction of a waiting 110.
In the distance, the other Huey appeared over the ridgeline, the Land Rover dangling from its belly.
Down here, confusion reigned. The Georgians bundled us into the back of the 110. One of their mates was driving, and the others formed an armed escort. Four outriders sat astride dull-green quad bikes. The marine in charge wore body armour, helmet and wraparounds, and had an M16 slung across his back. The bar on his lapels and the top of his helmet marked him out as a lieutenant.
We were bounced around the camp perimeter and eventually arrived at the Portakabin complex. I didn’t bother coming up with any scenarios. I’d have no influence on events, so I was going to take things as they came. I just had to accept I was deeply in the shit: if they didn’t know it already, they wouldn’t take long to realize that they had a local TV and newspaper star on their hands. And once they did, well, every minute I wasn’t banged up in a Georgian police cell with a crew cut and thumbscrews was a bonus.
We turned into an open square lined by groups of the cream-coloured, aluminium Portakabin modules. The 110 stopped, and the quad bikes pulled up around us.
The lieutenant dismounted and shouted a series of orders.
Three US Marines stood to on our right, in body armour and Kevlar helmets, weapons in the shoulder. Their message was clear. ‘Hands up! Show me your hands! Hands in the air!’
I spotted the air-conditioning units on the roofs of the modules. I had a feeling we’d be needing them.
PART EIGHT
1
The one-bar ran around barking orders into the open door of one of the Portakabins and the marines moved forward. We did exactly as we were told; we each had a muzzle in our face.
We waited for instructions; the trick is to show no sign of fear, or any other emotion that might spark people off. Be neutral; do what you’re told, when you’re told.
‘
I stifled a grin. Charlie wasn’t going to like that one bit.
More marines tumbled out of the Portakabins into the square, clad in body armour and Kevlar helmets but not carrying weapons. I had the feeling we were about to meet the reception committee.
I got out slowly, making sure they saw my hands at all times, and that I made no jerky movements.
The guy covering me came round to my side of the vehicle and stopped a couple of metres away, his barrel pointing into the centre of my chest. He leaned into the weapon, butt firmly in the shoulder, aiming down rather than up so that if he had to shoot, there’d be less chance of the round hitting someone else on the way out.
It was now Charlie’s turn to be hollered at. I heard rather than saw him step down from the wagon. I wasn’t going to turn round until the man with the semi-automatic said he wanted me to.
Two or three rubberneckers stuck their heads out of the windows on the far side of the square. Awhole lot of others came right outside and gathered in a circle around us.
‘What’s happening, man? They steal the 110? Must be Russians.’
‘Nah, drug dealers.’
‘No way. They’re terrorists, man. Fucking militants.’
These guys obviously spent more time watching reruns of
My escort gripped the spacer bar on my cuffs and yanked my hands in front of me, and a couple of his mates gave me a brisk search. They didn’t seem at all pleased about us nicking their wagon.
A set of hands grabbed each of my arms and half carried, half dragged me along the hard standing and up two wooden steps. We turned down a wide, windowless corridor. Grey lino covered the floor and extended six inches up each wall instead of skirting board. Fluorescent light bounced off glossy white walls.
The marine ahead of us was clearing a path through the onlookers. ‘OK, guys, the show’s over. Back in your offices, please. We got this situation under control. Come on, people, let’s move here.’
We arrived at a pair of windowless double doors, heavily scuffed at the bottom where they’d been repeatedly opened with the help of a boot.
We barged through three or four sets in all before we finally stopped outside a bare room, furnished only with a single aluminium chair and a table.
Charlie was no longer behind me. I didn’t like that at all.
One of the guys pushed me inside.
The lino-and-white-wall combo was clearly all the rage in this neck of the woods.
They turned me round and sat me down. Then, without saying a word, one of them grabbed the spacer bar and yanked my cuffed hands behind my head. The weight of my arms pulled it into the back of my neck, so I tried to hunch up, to take some of the pressure off my wrists.
I was pulled back up by the hair. ‘Sit straight, you fuck.’
Four guys and a woman stayed in the room with me, all in uniform, with radio earpieces and pistols in black nylon leg holsters. One of them kept hold of my spacer bar, his knuckles digging into the back of my neck.
Their eyes drilled into me.
The woman stood in front of me. ‘Undress.’
If she was here to embarrass me, she was a lifetime too late. I’d had to eat my own shit before now, and I’d do it again if it stopped them climbing aboard me. Anything was better than getting a kicking.
The cuffs were released and blood rushed back into my hands as I started to pull off my kit.
Except for the gentle hum from the air-conditioner vents high on the wall, the room was silent.
She dug into her box of tricks and snapped her hands into a pair of surgical gloves. I noticed a badge with two snakes coiled around some kind of stick on her lapel. Medical corps.
I stood with my clothes in a heap at my feet, awaiting instructions, though I had a good idea where this was leading.
She pointed to the chair. ‘Sit down.’
