Читать книгу State Of Attack - Gary Haynes - Страница 14

Chapter 5

In Syria, the white sun had mellowed into a tangerine-coloured half crescent, sinking beneath the mountainous horizon, the temperature falling ten degrees already. Dusk wasn’t far off. Basilios was huddled a yard or so beneath the rim of a multiple rocket crater. It was half-filled with fetid water, leaking from fractured sewerage pipes. The smell resembled rotting cabbages, the three corpses strewn around him turning rigid as rigor mortis set in.

He’d replaced the makeshift tourniquet with a wrapped shirt sleeve, and had kept up the pressure by twisting a thin piece of wood that he’d pushed through the knot. After killing another six Sunni fighters, his desire for revenge was beginning to abate.

Glancing up now, he saw that the acrid smoke created by the explosions had drifted away. But the fires that had raged in the town’s decimated stone and timber buildings had created a thick black-grey cloud that was floating towards the east. He decided to wait until darkness had fallen to make his escape. He would have a better chance. The Sunnis didn’t have night vision, he guessed. Certainly not goggles, although they could have the odd infrared scope.

The attackers had checked out the interlinked craters about five minutes after he’d scrambled into the hole. As he’d heard the footsteps approaching, he’d stuck his head and shoulders underneath a corpse’s torso, conscious of the brown-red blood still leaching out from the exit wounds. After a burst of semi-automatic fire had thudded into a couple of the dead bodies, the craters had been deemed safe, he’d assumed. A hot shell casing had landed on his leg and had burned him even through his desert-tan combat pants, but he hadn’t flinched.

Time passed, slowly. But when the light had faded to the point where his passage could only be betrayed by the receding fires and sketchy moonshine, he decided to act. With his back pressed to the hard-packed mud above the water level, he eased up the crater with his heels, refusing to moan as the movement exacerbated the pain from his leg wound.

He turned sideways and glanced over the stony rim. Thirty yards or so away, mess tins rested on oil burners, and backpacks and weapons were stacked in clusters, the stony ground strewn with spent casings. A broad-shouldered man urinated on a dead body. A solitary dog barked. Basilios could just about make out his family house, the ground carpeted with ash around it. The single-storey structure had been rendered a shell, with crisscrossed blackened beams and shattered stonework. He figured his father and brother had been murdered by now, too, as all the other townsmen had been. But there was nothing to be done.

He scrambled over to the other side of the crater, his AK resting across his curled arms. He’d decided to crawl towards the drainage ditch in the opposite direction to the Sunnis and follow the cut as it ran parallel to the ridge about four miles away. He’d find his mother and sisters and comfort them as they pulled at their hair and mourned their dead.

Then he froze.

He’d sensed someone behind him, and strained now to hear a telltale sign, a heavy breath, a step, a round being chambered. A split second later, he heard a voice speaking in Arabic.

“Everyone in your town is dead. You are either a coward or lucky.”

With an adrenalin rush coursing through his veins, Basilios knew he had two choices: surrender or turn and engage his enemy. Knowing that the Salafists had beheaded those who had given up or were injured, it wasn’t much of a decision to make. But as he was about to turn and discharge the rounds that were left in his clip, the man talked again.

“I will let you live so that you can tell others what will happen to them if they resist us. It seems you are lucky then.”

The accent was foreign and he couldn’t pin it down. But there were jihadists from over seventy countries here, almost fifteen thousand men, or so he’d read, and he dismissed the thought. If the man let him live, he could lead the women and children to safety, which had become his purpose now. He felt he had no option but to turn his head around and let the AK fall from his grip.

The man standing atop the craters was around the same height as him, Basilios thought, dressed in black combat fatigues. He had long straggly hair and an equally unkempt beard. Otherwise, his head was covered by a black headdress. He was unarmed save for a handgun slung low under his armpit and a sheathed sword at his waist. His features were angular; his fingers long and elegant-looking like a pianist’s.

“I’m no coward,” Basilios said.

With that he heard the sound of crunching boots and five jihadists appeared at the rim of the crater, encircling him. Two of them shouldered their assault rifles and jumped down on either side of his bunched-up body. They dragged him up and, pulling his arms behind his back and unclipping his AK from his padded belt, half dragged him to level ground, whereupon they forced his head down. Straining so as not to show the pain in his leg, Basilios was frogmarched over to the man he now figured was their leader.

Getting within a few paces of the jihadist, Basilios was pushed down onto his knees, as his arms were splayed and pushed up painfully behind him. The pressure on his head increased, so that all he could see was the man’s dirt-stained sandals.

“You people are a plague upon the earth,” the man said.

Basilios heard a distinct sound and knew exactly what had happened: the leader had unsheathed his sword. He couldn’t stop himself from panting, knowing he had been duped. His mother and sisters would be alone in a dangerous world now, but he hoped God would forgive him for what he’d done. Amid his bitterness, he said a silent prayer.

But the strike didn’t come. Instead he felt the sword rest on his shoulder. He risked a glance at it. The blade was still bloodstained. He felt it move under his chin and push upwards, coaxing him to look up. He didn’t consider he had any option but to comply.

“Allah is most Merciful and Compassionate,” the man said. He motioned over his body with his left hand as if he was not quite of this world. “It is not I, His humble servant Ibrahim, who has saved you this night. Remember that, Christian. Now run like a dog. Run. Run.”

With that, the man withdrew the sword, and Basilios glimpsed briefly the faint triangle of scars above the man’s right wrist as his sleeve had ridden up, as if he’d had moles removed there.

Basilios was temporarily stunned. He didn’t know if it was a cruel attempt to extend his torment. Perhaps I will be cut down as I stand up or shot in the back as I head for the drainage ditch? he thought. But he knew he didn’t have a choice. As the congealed blood-soaked blade was lifted from his shoulder, he raised himself up in as dignified a fashion as possible, given his wounded leg and escalating uncertainty. He turned without looking at the leader and hobbled towards the ditch.

But he didn’t suffer any further humiliation. In fact, the men seemed to show him a grudging respect, nodding slightly and waving their hands in gestures of encouragement. He had survived.