The Protector Page 13

  The two cars passed through the last airport checkpoint and out onto the wide three lane BIAP highway heading east towards the centre of the city.The checkpoint also signified the last point of refuge en route before reaching the hotel. There were no other cars on their side of the carriageway that was separated from the westbound route by a stretch of rugged open ground a hundred metres wide.

  Mallory began to experience that familiar feeling of loneliness on this particular stretch of road as they gathered speed. Farris changed lanes to avoid a large scoop in the tarmac, an old blast hole from a vehicle bomb. On either side of the eastbound and westbound routes were even wider stretches of wasteland, with dilapidated houses in the distance. The ground was dotted with tree stumps, the foliage having been removed by the US military to reduce ambush cover for the enemy as well as to allow military convoys a clearer field of fire. At intervals there were the shattered skeletons of vehicles destroyed by fire or explosions, victims of the post-war rebellion.

  ‘We call this the lonely mile,’ Mallory said.

  Stanza looked out of one side of the car, then the other.There was no sign of life in either of the stretches of waste ground but beyond them he could see vehicles cruising the roads in front of the houses. ‘Is this where most of the hits take place?’ he asked.

  ‘A lot of ’em,’ Mallory said. ‘Any vehicle on this stretch between the airport checkpoint and the next on ramp is either coming from or going to the airport. That tells anyone targeting this stretch that any vehicle on it probably has something to do with the military or the reconstruction - which isn’t true, of course, but the insurgents don’t mind getting it wrong.They usually do. They kill more innocent Iraqis than anyone else.’

  Heavy traffic appeared up ahead with a stream of vehicles joining the motorway from the first on ramp. Farris slowed the car as they closed on it and moved to the inside lane where the traffic was a little faster.

  ‘PSD coming up,’ Kareem’s voice suddenly rasped over the radio.

  Stanza felt the tension move a notch higher as Farris immediately looked into his rear-view mirror and Mallory turned in his seat to get a better look.

  ‘Shit,’ Mallory muttered as he looked to either side of their car, hemmed in by the building traffic. ‘We need to get over to the right.’

  ‘Can’t’ Farris said, his gaze flicking between his mirror and the road ahead.

  Stanza looked in all directions, unable to see what they were concerned about. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘PSD,’ Mallory said.

  Stanza knew what it meant but not why it was such a worry.

  ‘Four,’ Kareem’s voice came over the radio. ‘Fast your side.’

  ‘I have eyes-on,’ Mallory said into his radio as he saw the four matt-black-painted Mad Max-type vehicles that he had seen inside the airport car park. ‘I was hoping to be clear by the time those bastards left,’ Mallory said, more to himself than to Stanza.

  PSDs were civilians but when they drove around in SUVs and in a convoy formation they acted as if they had the right to do whatever they wanted, as if they were genuine military. Since they were mercenaries they were, in fact, often more unruly than regular forces were. Iraq was practically lawless, its police largely ineffectual, and under the rule of the occupying forces there was nothing that anyone could do to stop them. The military did not want to get involved because the PSDs were effectively aiding in the reconstruction by protecting contractors who were travelling to and from locations such as the airport. Indeed, the military often even hired PSDs to carry out protection duties for US government interests due to the shortage of official military personnel who were trained in such techniques. The PSDs tended to be more aggressive than military convoys in their response to attack by insurgents because they were more vulnerable, lacking the heavier firepower that a military unit might possess. They were also high-profile, drove at breakneck speed, and could not call in fire support such as helicopters or other ground patrols if they were hit. Because of their hair-trigger belligerence the Iraqi public hated them and loved to see them killed.

  Dozens of PSD convoys had been hit, especially along the BIAP road. It was a long bottleneck and an ideal location for insurgents to ambush such targets. The local terrorists were pretty adept at mobilising quickly from the nearby housing areas along the BIAP road and could hit the convoys with an array of weaponry that included RPG rockets and armour-piercing machine-gun fire. Another reason why the PSDs didn’t like hanging around in traffic and why they drove so aggressively and at such speed was the threat of vehicle-borne suicide bombers. The only tactic the convoys had developed against this form of attack was to bully their way through traffic to the point of physically bashing other cars out of their way. Many of the PSD vehicles had rear gunners whose job it was to ensure that no civilian vehicle tried to follow them or get too close. Most locals had a story of their own or of someone they knew about being run off the road, having their car damaged or being shot at by a western PSD team. Dozens of Iraqis had been killed and hundreds seriously wounded in these acts of violence.

  But not all PSD teams behaved like this. Many chose to move around using clandestine or low-profile methods such as driving ordinary-looking vehicles that blended in with local traffic. Some did so out of choice, others because they could not afford to finance the larger convoys. The success of the covert method depended on the skill of those involved at staying unnoticed. Tinted windows, for instance, were an unwise choice because the bad guys often used them to disguise themselves when approaching targets. Not the type of person you’d want to be mistaken for. The biggest problem with the clandestine method was how it left its practitioners vulnerable if they did find themselves in a dangerous situation.

  ‘They’re coming up on our side,’ Mallory said to Farris.

  ‘I see them,’ Farris replied anxiously, his stare flicking from his rear-view mirror to the traffic ahead as they merged with it at speed.

  The car was hemmed in on three sides by others, with the waste ground of the wide meridian on their left.

  ‘You have to get over,’ Mallory said. PSD convoys favoured the left-hand fast lane.

  ‘Trying,’ Farris said, attempting to force the car to his right into the car beyond by threatening to hit it. But the driver was stubborn and refused to budge, honking his horn at Farris.

  ‘Bastards are coming right at us!’ Mallory said in a raised voice. ‘Over! Pull over!’

  Farris’s nerves began to show as his efforts to get out of the fast lane stayed unsuccessful. In a panic move he decided to pull over to the far left, his two left wheels leaving the tarmac and running onto the bumpy waste ground.

  ‘No!’ Mallory shouted. ‘The other way!’

  But as Farris moved back onto the road the lead PSD truck, which was now practically touching their rear bumper, swerved to take them on the inside. Farris quickly adjusted again to let him through, but the PSD vehicle turned with him, unable to guess Farris’s intentions: the driver seemed to have the impression that Farris was trying to block him. The PSD driver lost what little patience he had and accelerated into the back of the car. Stanza grabbed the back of Mallory’s’s seat as he realised that things were not exactly under control.

  ‘Let him pass!’ Mallory shouted.

  ‘I’m trying!’ Farris replied, taking his foot off the gas to make the car slow down.

  ‘No, don’t slow down!’ Mallory shouted. ‘Move right, move right!’

  The PSD truck accelerated again, this time swerving to the outside of Mallory’s car, its far-side wheels leaving the road surface and kicking up dirt from the meridian. As the truck came alongside, the aggressive driver slammed into the flank of Mallory’s vehicle and the barrels of two assault rifles poked out of the rear window.

  Mallory showed them his empty hands as he looked up at the white faces snarling at him, hoping they would see that he was a westerner. The truck accelerated hard and pushed past Mallory’s car as the next in line
followed closely, hardly a gap between them. Again, all the guns inside were poking out at Mallory’s car as it passed.The third vehicle sped by, inches behind the other, and then the fourth and final matt-black truck covered in welded steel sheeting thundered past, throwing up clouds of dust. As it moved ahead of Mallory’s car the rear gunner, crouching behind a belt-fed M60 that was fixed to a post bolted to the floor of the vehicle, gestured to Mallory to move away.

  ‘Move over,’ Mallory said loudly to Farris.

  ‘I try,’ Farris said, panic in his voice.

  Mallory showed his empty hands again but the gunner continued to wave him over, this time more vigorously.

  ‘What does he want?’ Farris asked. ‘I can’t move over.’

  ‘Slow down,’ Mallory said, keeping his hands up. As Farris complied, the car behind hooted in protest.

  Farris reacted by moving back towards the verge and behind the tail PSD vehicle.

  ‘No!’ Mallory shouted, but it was too late.

  The PSD gunner either got nervous or was itching for an excuse to use his weapon. He fired a short burst at the car.

  The first round went into the grille, the second smashed into the bonnet and two more punched through the windscreen between Mallory and Farris.

  Stanza let out a piercing scream. Mallory spun to see the man clutching the side of his thigh, blood oozing between his fingers.

  Farris slammed on the brakes as he swerved the car onto the meridian, his eyes wide in horror.

  Stanza moaned loudly as he leaned over onto his side, his face contorted in agony. The engine began to judder and make a rattling sound.

  Mallory’s brain was flooded by a deluge of alarming thoughts, the worst of which were that Stanza was possibly mortally wounded and that they would break down on the BIAP road that was patrolled by bad guys. The prospects were not good.

  Mallory scrambled over the seat and heaved Stanza onto his back as Farris tried to manoeuvre the car back onto the road. It was slowing by the second.

  Stanza groaned loudly as Mallory pulled his shaking, bloody hands away from the wound to take a look at it. Blood was seeping steadily through a gash in his trousers but it did not appear to be spurting. Mallory vigorously ripped open the cloth to expose the wound. Blood was oozing from a hole in the flesh: Mallory’s concern was that the bullet had gone through the leg into the pelvis or had severed an artery. If the pelvis had been shattered any interior bleeding could be fatal if it wasn’t taken care of quickly. Mallory took a few seconds to check and see if Stanza had been hit anywhere else but there were no obvious signs. He knew that he should pull away the rest of Stanza’s clothing to check more thoroughly but the hole in the thigh was, as far as he could tell, the only serious wound that the journalist had sustained.

  The car came to an abrupt stop and Farris clambered out, leaving his door open.

  Mallory ripped open the medic bag, found a trauma dressing, tore open the packet, unravelled the bandage to open up the large square pad and pressed it hard against the wound. Stanza cried out, his head banging against the door as he jerked in agony.

  ‘It looks OK,’ Mallory said, trying to reassure Stanza. One of the rear doors opened and Mallory looked up to see that it was Kareem.

  ‘Your car all right?’ Mallory asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Kareem nodded quickly.

  Farris leaned in through the driver’s door, out of breath and clearly frightened. ‘The car no good,’ he announced, scanning the traffic behind him.

  The build-up of cars was heavy, with all three lanes filled. Mallory’s group was attracting close attention.

  Mallory had to act quickly. ‘Kareem, we’re taking your car,’ he said as he bound Stanza’s wound tightly. ‘Get everything out of this one and into yours. Hurry!’ Mallory shouted as he pressed down on Stanza’s wound again, making him cry out once more.

  Mallory clambered out of the car and hurried around to the other side.As he opened the door Stanza almost fell out. Mallory grabbed him. ‘We’re changing cars,’ he said. ‘You have to help me.’

  But Stanza appeared to be lost in a world of pain and confusion and did not respond. Mallory didn’t wait on ceremony: he grabbed Stanza under the armpits and hauled him out of the car. When Stanza’s feet hit the road he let out another yell and started to struggle with Mallory. Farris hurried across to help, grabbing Stanza’s legs none too gently, and together they lifted him off the ground, an action accompanied by more howling. They half-carried, half-dragged the journalist to the other car where Kareem was waiting by the open rear door, practically threw Stanza onto the back seat and shut the door.

  ‘Inside,’ Mallory shouted as he hurried around to the other rear door. Kareem was already climbing in behind the wheel and as Farris jumped into the front passenger seat Mallory slammed his door. Kareem let out the clutch and the car screeched away.

  Farris looked back at his car. It slumped at an angle on the scruffy verge, steam issuing from its radiator grille. Farris said something to Kareem who shrugged as he gave what appeared to be a philosophical reply. But Kareem had other things on his mind. The team was not yet out of danger. Kareem was a naturally aggressive driver and Mallory had been nagging him from day one not to draw attention to the car by driving recklessly. Kareem’s excuse was that that was the way everyone in Iraq drove, which was not far off the mark. Still, Mallory had kept him on a tight rein. On this occasion Kareem was in his element and with a combination of skill and attack he worked his way down the side of the line of traffic, passing cars by a hair’s breadth. There was a chance that someone had seen them and telephoned their descriptions ahead. Since there was only one direction they could go, an ambush could be waiting for them at the next overpass - a favourite tactic of the local insurgents.

  Kareem, Farris and Mallory stared up at the overpass as they approached. Traffic was moving across it: a vehicle could stop at any time and let the enemy debus into firing positions.As it turned out, they passed safely beneath it and Mallory looked back through the rear window as they sped away.

  ‘Where to?’ Kareem asked as he emerged from a cluster of cars to find the road clear ahead.

  ‘Gate twelve,’ Mallory said.

  Kareem responded by swerving hard over to the outside lane and clocked over a hundred mph as he drove towards a broad Y-junction, taking the left fork up a ramp that led away from the motorway. There were hardly any vehicles on this stretch of road because it led directly to the Green Zone and a major checkpoint, with only one other turn-off - into a residential area - beforehand.

  ‘Slow down,’ Mallory warned as they sped along the broad empty road. ‘Let’s not scare anyone else into shooting at us.’

  The checkpoint appeared up ahead and Kareem reduced speed swiftly so as not to unnerve the soldiers manning it.

  Stanza was no longer moaning and yelling but his expression remained a picture of agony.

  ‘Stanza?’ Mallory said.

  Stanza did not react. Mallory wondered if the man had lost consciousness and took hold of his ear lobe and pinched it hard. ‘Stanza?’ he repeated.

  Stanza winced and opened his eyes, blinking hard as he tried to focus on Mallory.

  ‘Stay with us,’ Mallory urged. ‘Don’t go to sleep. We’re almost at a hospital.’

  Some kind of response that Mallory read as positive flickered in Stanza’s eyes. He thought about giving the man some painkillers but decided against it. There were other priorities at that moment. Mallory was confident that Stanza was going to be OK.The bleeding appeared to have stopped and the journalist would have been in a lot more obvious pain if his pelvis had been shattered. Mallory gripped Stanza’s thumb and pressed the nail before releasing it.

  It remained white for a second before returning to a normal pink colour as the blood flowed back - a good sign that Stanza’s blood pressure was in fair shape.

  Mallory turned his attention to the next obstacle, the Green Zone checkpoint, and pulled his DoD identification pass from his
pocket. It was an illegal ID since he was not working for an Iraq reconstruction contractor. But there was a healthy black market operating among those western security companies who were permitted to issue the highly prized certificates without which no civilian could enter the Green Zone. Mallory had paid seven hundred and fifty dollars for his but it had been worth it. The Green Zone was the only place he could shop in an American PX store or take a break from the bad hotel food and have a burger or pizza, all in relative safety and sometimes in the company of colleagues, former bootnecks who were also working as security advisers.

  Kareem slowed the car to a crawl as they approached the first set of low concrete blast walls arranged in a tight chicane. He halted in front of a ramp where a stop sign in English and Arabic ordered all vehicles to obey or be fired upon. Half a dozen American troops beyond the next concrete chicane eyed the car with caution. It wouldn’t be the first time a suicide bomber driving a car filled with explosives had tried to see how far he could get before detonating his load. An Abrams tank was parked behind the soldiers, its barrel pointed directly at the car. A high-explosive artillery shell would be in the breech: one word from the checkpoint commander and the tank gunner would - literally - blow away Mallory and the others.

  Mallory held his DoD pass out of the car window while a soldier inspected it from a distance, using a pair of binoculars. The other soldiers relaxed a little as he told them that the card was in the hands of a white man: so far there had been no white suicide bombers. One of the soldiers waved Mallory forward, stepping closer to a blast wall and gripping his assault rifle while concentrating on the car and its occupants.