Sharp Shot

Dex Halford looked down at him from where he was sitting nonchalantly in the driver’s seat. The door was open and he was dangling his legs over the side, swigging from his water bottle.

“What kept you?” Dex asked with a grin.

McCain was in the passenger seat. “If you’re late you ride in the back,” he called. Then he frowned. “Isn’t Darrow with you?”

“He’s cutting it fine,” said Chance, checking his watch. The second hand was sweeping up towards the 12. Just a few seconds. “Five,” he muttered as he counted them off. “Four…three…”

“Here he comes,” said Halford.

A dark shape rolled down the dune, just as Chance himself had done. “Sorry I’m late,” said Darrow as he reached the Jeep.

If he said anything else, it was lost in the sound of the blast. The night sky was turned to sudden daylight. Brilliant yellow washed across the landscape and a ball of smoke and fire mushroomed upwards.

“Time we were going,” said Chance as the noise died away. “You and I get to ride in the back,” he told Darrow, slapping his comrade on the shoulder.

“Chauffeur service, I love it.” Darrow swung his backpack off and dragged it up into the Jeep with him.

Chance watched him, puzzled. The backpack was obviously heavy—very heavy. But it should have been empty.

The Jeep bumped over the rise and tipped down the other side of the dune, gathering speed. In the distance, the installation was burning. Tiny figures—soldiers, civilians and scientists—were milling round it in confusion.

“Job done,” McCain called from the front of the Jeep.

“Nice one, team,” Chance told them. “Just two small loose ends to tie up, then we’re home and dry.”

“And what are those?” Darrow asked.

“First,” Chance told him, “there’s the small matter of the team photograph. And second—I want to know what you’ve got in your rucksack.”

Darrow met Chance’s gaze. For a moment he said nothing. Then he looked away. “Souvenir. I’ll show you when it gets light.”

The plan was to cross the border into East Araby, a small country to the south east of Iraq, also bordering Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. By daybreak, Chance’s team was within a hundred and fifty kilometres of the border. In the Jeep, it would take only a few more hours.

They heard the plane long before they saw it.

“One of ours?” Darrow wondered.

“Doubt it,” said Halford. “We need to find some cover.”

“Camouflage netting?” McCain suggested.

Chance shook his head. “We have to assume they’re looking for us. We’ll need better cover than that.” He had the map open on his knees. “Head slightly to the left, over that rise. There should be the remains of a village.”

A small black shape skimmed the horizon over to their right. The plane turned slowly, heading back towards them.

“Has it seen us?” Darrow wondered.

“Not yet,” Chance shouted above the roar of the Jeep as Halford accelerated. “Might see the sand we’re kicking up, but we’ll have to risk that.”

McCain had his binoculars out. “Iraqi air force markings. It’s a Foxbat.”

Chance swore. The MiG25—codenamed Foxbat by NATO forces—was a powerful aircraft. It was fast enough to outrun an air-to-air missile, but the good news was that it didn’t carry ground-attack weapons. It was used for reconnaissance and interception only. Banking steeply, it disappeared into the distance.

Ahead of them were the remains of the village. It was more like a small town—derelict stone-built structures disappearing into the distance. Most of the roofs had collapsed, some buildings reduced to just a couple of broken walls.

“You could get lost in there for a week,” said McCain.

Halford steered the Jeep rapidly between several low walls, then over a bank of sand and into the enclosed remains of a house. The Jeep jolted to a stop, and immediately Darrow and Chance were unrolling the camouflage netting and dragging it over the vehicle.

All four of them were out of the building in moments, taking shelter in the shadow of a section of wall thirty metres away. If the Foxbat returned, it was more likely to spot the Jeep. If it did, they wanted to be far away from it.

“Can’t hear anything,” said McCain. “Maybe we’re OK?”

“Give it half an hour,” Chance decided. “It may have spotted us and called in support. We don’t want to be caught in the open if it comes back, especially if he’s got company.”

“Time for the team photo then,” Halford decided. He took out a disposable camera. The camera had come from a supermarket, but Halford had removed the cardboard casing that gave away its origins. It was plain, functional, black plastic.

“Right,” said Halford, “the challenge is to work out how we take a picture with us all in. There’s no timer.”

McCain sighed and took the camera. “Why do I always have to be the practical one? I need a small stone about…this big.” He held his thumb and forefinger in a small circle.

There was no shortage of stones about the right size —just big enough to cover the camera’s shutter button. McCain balanced the camera on a low section of wall that protruded from a higher wall. Then he put heavy stones round the camera to hold it in place. He wedged another on the top, jutting out over the lens, but leaving the shutter button with the small stone on it exposed.

“Right, assume your positions.”

“Is that it?” Halford asked, laughing. “Now what?”

“Yeah,” said Darrow, “what’s the big deal. Someone still needs to press the shutter.”

“I think that’s the idea,” said Chance. “Right, Ferdy?”

McCain was grinning. “Exactly right. Get ready. The camera’s lined up with this bit of wall here, so let’s all stand in front of it. Oh, and we’ll need some pebbles. About this big, I should think.” He picked up a stone the size of an egg and weighed it in his hand. “Yes, that should do it. I’ll go first.”

“What are you going to do?” Darrow asked.

“Bung rocks at it. Ready?”

They could see at once what McCain meant when he tossed the egg-sized stone. He lobbed it up on to higher section of wall. The stone rattled down the wall, bouncing on to the stones holding the camera steady.

“Missed,” said McCain. “Who’s going next?”

The third pebble did it. Halford arced it into the air above the wall just as first McCain and then Darrow had done. The pebble rattled down, and this time struck the small stone on the shutter button. The weight of the impact was enough to take the picture.

“Nice one, Ferdy,” said Chance as they all watched him retrieve the camera and wind on the film. “Now then, let’s see what Mark’s got in his backpack, shall we?”

Reluctantly, Darrow opened his rucksack and lifted out his ‘souvenir’. It was a statue made from a dark brown material, like terracotta, about half a metre tall and maybe fifteen centimetres wide. It was in the shape of a lion standing upright on its back legs, and it was obviously old; the features and details had worn away, the material scuffed and scratched and flaking. Chance remembered that one of the scientists had been carrying it—he must have run into Darrow soon after.

“Blimey, it’s heavy,” McCain commented, lifting it up to get a better look. “What d’you want this for?”