Chapter 26: Double Face-Off

I had no idea how quickly Omar and his lapdog would manage to restart the launch. They would probably need one of the Koreans for that. I should have killed those guys, or at least hidden the keys to their cells. But somehow Chriet seemed a bigger problem: I didn’t want him coming up behind me while I was climbing down the ladders, or waiting when I emerged. This time I would not be so stealthy: just find him, riddle him with bullets and move on. Once he was dead, Omar and the Khafama were lame ducks. Omar had one foot in a cast, for a start. The man hasn’t worked a day in his life and has always lived with servants. I wouldn’t even worry about him if he shat bullets. And as for the Khafama ... barely worth mentioning. Killing him would just be a lovely little palate cleanser. Keep me in prison for five days, will ya? That is not free entertainment, buddy.

I expected to find Chriet somewhere between the walkway around the courtyard, where he had operated the switch for the sun sail, and the entrance to the underground base. That’s why I took the long way around, hoping I’d be able to get a sense of where he was before he noticed me. I went down the stairs to the first level (so not ground level, or I’d have said GROUND LEVEL), walking slowly with my Walther drawn. Some grit had ended up in the barrel and I’ve been told that this renders a pistol as dangerous to yourself as to your target, but I figured I’d take the risk. I passed two interior doors, rounded a corner and found myself at the guard station near the cells. They didn’t have tissues or anything else I might use for a quick clean. Perhaps there would be something in the cells? A shirt or something. I was about to open the cell door when I remembered Dieter mentioning something about a weapons room on the ground floor. That might be just the ticket!

I went down to the ground floor and looked around. Left or right? Right was where I expected Chriet to hang out, so left it was. I passed another interior door, now rather more nervous than I had been, and behind it I found what I was looking for: a room of about ten square metres which wasn’t so much an armoury as a general repair shop: there was a workbench with a small vice and a belt sander, some tools on a wall-mounted rack, a wheeled tool trolly with drawers in a lovely shade of fire engine red (wouldn’t mind that for the garage!) and a few shelves with anything from paint thinner to ... gun oil! And there was a white plastic bucket filled with rags, too. Behind me stood four grey metal lockers, and a small wooden bench. This was clearly where the guards would change out of their uniforms and clean their rifles at the end of a shift, because everything got dusty around here. I found a box of pipe cleaners and got to work cleaning out my pistol. Now, I’m not a gun enthusiast and I’ve had very little training, but they did once explain to me how it’s done. I felt a little nervous standing here unarmed, but I figured Chriet would be lying in wait near the entrance hatch. If he was walking around, I’d hear his shoes on the concrete floor and echoes from the bare walls.

And so I removed the magazine clip, checked the chamber and used a pipe cleaner to get out the worst of the grit first. As I reached for the gun oil I heard a creaking noise behind me and when I turned Chriet emerged from one of the lockers, with his big ol’ shotgun. The bastard had waited until he was sure I had disassembled my own weapon!

“HANDS U...” he said, and got a metal can of gun oil in his face. I throw like a little girl, if I’m honest, but adrenalin is a miracle drug. Sadly, he still fired his gun. My ears had already suffered enough from the last gun fight, but this was ten times worse. It’s a good thing I dove to the floor (or fell, let’s not quibble about minor details) or I’d have had a face full of shrapnel. The room was immediately filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder and a haze of smoke, as if someone had briefly tested a fog machine. Several spanners and a hammer fell from the board, onto the workbench. They landed on a switch that set off the belt sander, which started up with a high pitch that got louder and louder.

Chriet regained his footing and swung his shotgun in my direction, but he was hesitant to fire again. It would hurt him almost as much as it would hurt me. Okay, it would hurt me a lot more, but perhaps his consideration was that he’d be out of ammo after his second shot and if he missed me we’d both be unarmed. He could still beat the tar out of me with that shotgun, though, so I figured I had nothing to lose and rolled towards him, grasping his knees. I actually felt the barrel of the gun against my skull for a second, but I squeezed so hard I could have sworn something in his leg snapped. Like I say: I’m not fast and I’m not limber, but I am strong.

He didn’t shoot me in the head. Perhaps it was because he was howling with pain. Maybe he was afraid he’d injure himself at this range. I can’t be sure. Time does slow down during fights like these, I’ve noticed. People who are involved in traffic accidents sometimes report the same phenomenon. I can’t describe exactly how I turned and who fell how and on what, but I do remember seeing the tip of his long, grey beard undulating in front of my eyes. In my recollection it was almost in slow motion, and I grabbed it like a cat paws at the red dot of a laser pointer. However, the beard was real and so I gave it a good yank. He sank to his knees and the shotgun clattered onto the tiled floor. I think we were both relieved it didn’t go off.

“AAAAAH! I will KILL you! You Godless DOG!” he growled, in remarkably coherent English.

“Not if I kill ... AUW!”

He’d thumped me in the chest, which was sore from earlier beatings.

“HA! I’m going to make you suffer,” he promised. He lunged at the desk and picked up a screwdriver. We circled the room, both eying the shotgun. But we both knew bending over to get it would allow the other one to jump us, or deliver a kick.

“RAHMAN! HU HUNA! RAHMAN!” he screamed, making stabbing motions at me. This bearded fuck seemed to be enjoying the fight!

“Are you calling that fat dude with the sword?” I asked, gasping for breath. My left ear was ringing with tinnitus right now. A really nasty whistling sound gave me a terrible head-ache, and the smoke stung my throat. And then there was that howling belt sander, now running at full speed.

“RAHMAN!” he yelled. “HUNA!”

“Only he’s taken the day off. I cut off his head, you see. Uche uche uche ... Which is fun, by the way. I can see why you guys are so fond of it. Very satisfying. UCHE UCHE.”

Uche is how I transcribe coughing. I know English speakers use ‘ack ack’, but that sounds like a distressed goose to me. Deal with it.

“He’s not dead,” scoffed Chriet. “He’s one of our most experienced warriors.”

“Warriors? Is that what you call yourselves? Uche. We say ‘terrorist’.”

“Yes. Warriors of Allah. We fight with him on our side, khawaja.”

That’s a term for ‘dangerous foreigner’, or ‘Westerner’ in general.

He had his back to the workbench now, so he had all sorts of sharp metal stick-type objects within reach. But he couldn’t look behind him to pick something suitable, or I’d jump him. I, on the other hand, was standing near the lockers. That was not ideal, either. But there was this rather sturdy wooden bench, about two feet high as you might find in any changing area. And so I decided I’d use that. I picked it up without breaking eye contact. He smiled, seeming to think it would be unwieldy. But either it was lighter than it looked or I had the Power of Grayskull at that time, because I picked it up and launched it straight at him. He figured he could just sidestep it, but it connected with his head and threw him against the workbench, knocking the screwdriver out of his hand. I was right behind it, grabbed his neck and pushed his head down. I wanted to push his face onto the belt sander, but he saw that coming and screamed his lungs out as he reached for a metal file. He was surprisingly strong for such a gaunt fellow. But while we were tussling I noticed the tip of his beard was on the workbench, quite near the rollers that ran under the belt sander. With my right hand I inserted the tip of his beard into the mechanism. It pulled taut right away. Then all I had to do was back off as he was pulled towards the machine, screaming like a goat. He pulled on his own beard, but the engine didn’t even seem to notice. He got closer and closer and almost pulled the desk away from the wall, but I was still nearby and reached over him to get my Walther, which was now clean. Or clean enough, at any rate.

“Sorry, can I just ... Thank you,” I said, picking up the pistol and the clip. It had been partly disassembled, so I needed a second to rebuild it. Not an easy thing, especially when someone nearby is screaming like a freshly neutered billy goat.

“WHAAAAAAA! WHAAAAAAAAAH!”

“I know, right? Ought to be a law. Well, I’ll let you get on.”

“ALLAHU AKHBAR! ALLAHU AKBAR!”

That didn’t help either. I waited in the doorway until his face connected with the belt and a red streak of blood hit the rear wall as his face was getting scraped off. Sadly (for him), he still had enough facial hair to remain entangled in the rollers. Why do religious nutters always think God has issues with grooming?

“I guess you’ve lost face,” I said, as he now used his hands to try and stop the belt, which only made his fingers bleed as well.

Then I raised my Walther, put a round in the back of his head and closed the door. I’m such a big softy, honestly.

As I walked to the hatch I inventoried my weapons. I had a full magazine in my Ruger and twelve rounds left in the Walther’s extended clip. I guess I’d been a bit more trigger-happy than I thought. I’d have to keep an eye on that, but given how I’d been tossed around in the past half hour I was still happy I had avoided the temptation to stuff my pockets with empty bullets. I’d either have fallen on them and hurt myself or worse, they might have gone off.

A speaker buzzed for a second. Then a familiar voice came on.

“Ten minutes and zero seconds.”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” I screamed. Turns out they weren’t.

What now? Close that sun sail again? Something told me Omar would launch regardless, and honestly I didn’t think it would be much of a hindrance, either. I reached for the radio to tell Gerard about this new development, but then thought better of it. What would it achieve? For all I knew they’d inform the Saudi Air Force and that bomber might come back. No, it was back down the rabbit hole for me, and this time I wouldn’t feel sorry for any Koreans in lab coats.

“Shit.”

The access hatch was now closed from the inside.

“Nine minutes and zero seconds.”

I decided to knock. You never know your luck, do you? And so I tapped on the hatch and said:

“Hello? Free ice cream! Get your free ice cream here, in the courtyard!”

But there was no answer. If it was only Omar and the Khafama down there, they wouldn’t be anywhere near the hatch. Maybe there was a Korean around? Worth a shot!

“Kimchi! Get your kimchi here! Made fresh last month! Smells like a chlorinated fart! Come and get it while it’s still lukewarm! Kiiiimchi!”

Nothing. Well, if that didn’t lure them out, nothing would.

“Shit,” I muttered, and moved my hand towards the radio. Should I tell Gerard about this? What would be the consequences, other then (a) me getting bombed or (b) me getting told to find another way in and THEN getting bombed? Nope. Homey don’t play dat.

I sauntered to the courtyard to weigh my options. Would this be a good time to get on my bike and leave? Nine minutes would be enough to get far away. This was not my war. I came here to avenge Diana by killing Muslims and to chew gum, and right now I was almost out of Muslims. Omar and the Khafama would never make it out of here, if I had to snipe them myself from that cave. (Though I’d probably just ask Amina.)

The silo doors were open. If Omar launched while I stood here I’d be charcoal, but if he could speed up the launch he’d probably have done so. And so I walked over to the nearest one and had a proper look.

The missile was about as large as a milk tank on a dairy truck, or an oil tank if that works better for you. A bit thinner, perhaps. You’d need one hell of a flatbed to shift this thing. Its dome was painted red, but the rest was olive green. The top of it came to one metre below ground level but even if I had wanted to jump on top of it (which I didn’t – who am I, Dr. Strangelove?) I wouldn’t have been able to because it would just be too far to jump. The entire hatch was easily five by five metres.

The silo that held the missile was square, which I suppose is easier to dig. The walls were simply bare concrete, with a few yellow markings from the construction crew still visible. The elements had probably been cast off-site and the markings helped to reassemble them. Halfway, about four metres from the hatch, was a metal walkway. A black umbilical cord was connected to the missile. Would it help if I disconnected it? Perhaps it would disconnect on its own once the missile started lifting off. I had no idea what it was supposed to do and even if I did, no way of disconnecting it other than by shooting at it.

“Eight minutes and zero seconds,” said the robotic voice. I walked over to the other missile silo and saw exactly the same thing. There seemed to be quite a bit of rock separating the two silos, presumably so they wouldn’t blow each other up during launch. Would they even launch together? Why do I know so much about mathematics and Renaissance art and Alexis Crystal’s career but fuck-all-zippedy-zilch about rockets?

I then noticed a fire hose mounted on the wall. It was wound up on a spool, which was kept inside a brown, steel cabinet with a glass panel in the door. Could that be my way in? It sure as hell wouldn’t be my way out, because I didn’t see myself climbing back up a hosepipe. I’d have to be hoisted up. But if I managed to stop the launch, perhaps one of the nice people from the special forces who I was told were on their way would be able to give me a hand.

“I must be crazy,” I sighed to myself, as I opened the cabinet and quietly prayed the hose would be way too short. Sadly, it wasn’t. It was easily twenty-five metres long and good as new.

“Seven minutes and thirty seconds.”

I knew how to rappel down, as that was one of the things I’d been taught at the Armstrong compound. There’s the Dulfersitz and the South African rappel, both suitable if all you have is a rope. The South African method wasn’t going to work, as you need a double rope for that. The Dulfersitz is easy, but it has several disadvantages which mostly boil down to: it’s gonna hurt.

Still, as I had no harness or carabiners it was my only option. I threw the hose down the nearest silo and heard the metal ring on the other side hitting the concrete floor. Then I stood over the rope with my back to the ledge, picked it up with my left hand, slung it across my chest and over my right shoulder and then back under my left armpit. That’s a great way to ruin a suit, as the rope slides through your groin and then all over your torso. It also hurts your neck, which carries almost half of the weight. And God help you if your nuts get caught in there.

Luckily, the thick fire hose was a lot more comfortable than any piece of rope would have been. It was made out of polyester or something like that, which made it rather smooth. I had a metallic taste in my mouth when I stepped backwards, into the void, which is an indicator I’m really quite scared. Why hadn’t I had the good sense to act on my sense of fear of late?

“Seven minutes and zero seconds.”

That question would have to wait. For a second I imagined the metal cabinet ripping off the wall as I shifted my entire weight onto the sling I’d fashioned, but as it turned out it was well up to the task of supporting me. And so I slid down, trying to find purchase with my feet. If I went too fast, I’d burn my hands.

The walkway came into view. That umbilical cable was connected to the other side of the missile, but I saw a fixed metal staircase to my left, which led down to the concrete floor and I figured it would be safer to just lower myself down to the ground than to try and get onto the walkway mid-dangle. Maybe that sounds trivial, but I’m just not limber enough to step onto a handrail and jump off. Besides, I was walking around on dress shoes with leather soles. No, it was safer to just abseil all the way down and take those stairs back up to the walkway. And so I did, taking my time so as not to set fire to my crotch. Besides, this fire hose was doing a great job as a makeshift rope! Not too coarse, not much friction but still very easy to hang on to ... I’d give it four out of five stars. (Not five. Oh no. Even though I was enjoying the hose for free, I’d never give it five stars. You just wait until I get around to writing ... I mean producing my OWN fire hose. THEN you’ll know what is worthy of five stars! In fact, I could probably not be bothered to leave a review at all. Fuck these fire hose manufacturers. They should be glad I’m even using their precious hose.)

“Six minutes and thirty seconds,” said the voice, quite nearby. There was a speaker in this silo! For a second I tried going back up, just to see if that was even possible. It wasn’t: the firehose was too smooth and too wide for that, and I was too tired. Okay, three stars then. And he’s lucky to get even that much. In fact, I might send the manufacturer an email saying I think they overcharge for their firehoses. A good 25 metre hose shouldn’t cost more than, say, two to three dollars, even if ‘similar’ hoses for that kind of money are coated in petroleum wax and only two metres long!

It got cooler and cooler as I descended, which was welcome. Sadly, the moonlight didn’t penetrate very far either. But then I saw a green, illuminated ‘exit’ sign and the vague outline of a heavy metal door below it. If that was unlocked, it would be my way out of here. If not ... I’d be standing under a rocket that would launch in...

“Six minutes and zero seconds,” announced the voice.

I heard the sound of metal slamming into metal. It sounded far away, but I was surrounded by metres of rock on all sides. But then I heard what sounded like footsteps. Not so much the sound of footsteps, but the echo of someone noisily hobbling down a flight of stairs. Just as I reached the ground, the door creaked and swung open.

“YOU! I WILL KILL YOU!” yelled Omar, now sounding practically hysterical. I couldn’t tell if he was armed, but he was sure pissed off. My only weapon right now, while I was still dangling, was confusion.

“Your Royal Highness! I’ve come to help!”

He didn’t fall for it. Instead, he walked towards me, one foot still in a cast. As he was wearing a white thobe, I could see him well enough. Since I was still dangling and would need a moment to get myself out of this knot, I figured I might as well make use of it. And so I pulled up both my legs and kicked at him, which he did not see coming. I hit his left shoulder, which sent him spinning into one of the struts of the missile. I hadn’t yet seen what it looked like at the bottom, but it stood on three struts, which stood out from the main body. The engine outflow was raised about a metre from the floor. Each strut was about the size and height of a door, but tapered towards the missile. Along most of the edge of the silo floor ran a vertical metal grate, which would presumably allow most of the hot exhaust gasses to escape, but the bars were spaces about five centimetres apart. No escaping through that, except as charcoal.

I let go of the fire hose and managed to untangle myself without falling over. I’d hit Omar pretty good and he wasn’t used to fighting. Rather than hanging around to see if I’d knocked him out, I moved towards the foot of the stairway. I was still fixed on that umbilical, as if disconnecting it would magically stop the launch. There was no way for me to know if it would.

Omar got up and ran to the door, surprisingly fast for a guy with a cast. Presumably his recuperation wasn’t a priority right now. As soon as he headed to the door I recognized my mistake: he could just lock me in here and launch, and I’d be turned into a big heap of crackling. But he didn’t go through the door: instead, he lunged at a small, metal box. He pressed a button and yelled:

“Aimun! I found him in silo two! Don’t launch yet.”

“Understood, Your Royal Highness,” answered the Khafama. His voice came through the speaker that was relaying the countdown.

“Five minutes and thirty seconds,” added the robotic voice.

“I SAID STOP!” cried Omar, hammering the button.

“If I stop it, we have to start again!” answered Aimun, clearly stressed about being left in control. “I will wait until last minute to stop!”

Meanwhile, I had ran up the stairs and was looking for the umbilical. It was on the diagonal wall, plugged into a large wall socket of a type I had never seen, but it was surprisingly thin. It seemed like little more than a data cable, really. Just when I was about to disconnect it, Omar came hobbling up the stairs behind me.

“HA! YOU THINK THAT STOPS IT?!”

“I do now,” I said, and moved my hand towards the cable. A shot rang out behind me and a shard of poor quality concrete fell off the wall.

“CARSTAIRS! If you pull that cable, the missile will launch immediately!” said Omar, with a genuine hint of panic in his voice. He was holding a pistol, and seemed to be quite confident about it. Mine was holstered.

“Sure it will,” I said, trying to gauge if he was lying.

“PUT YOUR HANDS UP! I mean it. Once the timer goes below ten minutes, disconnecting the cable launches the missile. I know the schematics well. I helped design them. We will both die here. But I will go to heaven, and you will not.”

I held up my hands.

“Five minutes and zero seconds.”

“Unless the Khafama aborts the launch. Which I’m sure he will unless he hears from you.”

“Carstairs, if you surrender to me I will let you live. As we speak, fifty experienced fighters are on their way here. Any minute now, they will storm the fort. You don’t stand a chance.”

“I’ve done well enough so far,” I said, backing away from the cable. No sense in risking it. He’d have shot me by now if that cable posed no threat.

“Your Royal Highness? Do we launch?” asked the Khafama, who clearly had no idea what was going on. There was a camera aimed at the missile, but probably on the other side. “The Israeli prime minister’s speech has already started and the missiles have to travel for twenty minutes.”

I walked up to Omar, my hands still in the air.

“WHY, man? WHY are you doing this?” I asked, stalling for time.

“Why? The JEWS, Carstairs. The cursed JEWS! They blew up my mosque. They killed my imam! It has to STOP! Someone has to teach them a real lesson, that’s why!”

“Uhh ... the Jews blew up your mosque? You sure?”

“Yes, obviously! And you should ALSO be angry! You were near that explosion too, you could have...”

Only now did he make the connection.

“Oooohhhhhhh ... Was that YOU?!”

“No, of course not! Why would I go anywhere near a bomb? Now, let’s get out of here.”

He snarled and took aim. Clearly he had no intention of letting me live. And so I resorted to the oldest trick in the book: I looked over his shoulder and said:

“Don’t just stand there, GET HIM!”

The poor sap fell for it. Well, not to brag but I did play a fairly large (some would say the most important role) in a Kevin Tarantella movie. I even got an award. It’s in the downstairs loo, just in case people want to have a go at miming an acceptance speech holding a small, oddly shaped block of acrylic inscribed with the words ‘Martin King - Best Actor ‘Fatherland’ – Leeds movie critic association’. Or was it Hull?

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The Protocols of Carstairs

Ron Dudderie

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The Protocols of Carstairs

Ron Dudderie

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