Jimmy Coates: Survival

“What’s up?” Love asked. “Worried about killing a few Frenchmen?”

Dr Giesel’s mouth fell open in horror. How could this man be so flippant? Didn’t he realise he was effectively starting a war?

“Don’t worry,” chuckled Love. “Much as I would have loved to blow up some Frenchmen, we’ve got a live satellite feed that shows us they started evacuating as soon as they spotted us on the horizon. Our missiles will take about ninety seconds to reach them. That’s more than enough time for whoever’s left in there to clear out. Then the place is ours.” He winked and turned back to wait for the explosions. “It’s almost too easy, isn’t it?”

The intercom crackled into life again. “The last French truck has left the site, sir. The place is deserted.”

Love turned to Dr Giesel and gestured as if to say, ‘I told you.’

“Send the satellite feed up to my monitor,” he ordered, into the intercom.

A second later, one of the screens on Love’s control desk switched from a graphical display to a pin-sharp satellite image of the coast 16 kilometres ahead. The sand was a beautiful reddish-orange, but it was blemished by groups of square white buildings and criss-crossed by tracks. Then there were six much larger rectangular buildings lined up next to the water. They would have been overwhelming on the ground, but here they were reduced to knots of pixels. And racing away towards the edges of the screen were dozens of small black squares.

For a few seconds everybody on the bridge stood in silence, while French jeeps and trucks fled the compound. It was like watching germs squirming under a microscope. Some of them twisted and turned as if they didn’t know where to go. This was no orderly retreat, thought Dr Giesel.

In contrast, the atmosphere on the Enforcer was totally calm.

“Only a few people in the world have ever seen these images,” said Love softly. “You won’t find this place on Google, that’s for sure. And only a handful know what really goes on here.” He looked round at Dr Giesel. “Soon you’ll be the one in charge.”

Suddenly the screen went white. Dr Giesel’s eyes jumped from the monitor on the control desk to the horizon. Two towers of black smoke erupted into the sky. After a split-second they were lit up with orange flames. Then came the sound – two deep booms that shook the floor. Dr Giesel placed a hand on the control desk to steady himself, but noticed that he was the only person affected.

“Better prepare your team,” Love announced, so casually it was as if he had asked what was for dinner. “Mutam-ul-it will be under your control in no time.”

Dr Giesel was terrified to see what damage had been done, but at the same time he couldn’t look away. The smoke finally cleared enough for the ground to be visible again on the satellite feed. In the exact spots where there had been two white squares there were now two black patches, each surrounded by a ring of fire in the footprint of the destroyed buildings. The precision was incredible. But then the doctor noticed something at the edge of the screen.

“What’s that?” He nervously leaned forwards and laid a finger on the monitor. The black dots that had been rushing away from the compound were now rushing in every possible direction. Some had stopped completely, but after a few seconds they turned around and went back the way they came.

Lt Cdr Love peered at the screen. “What’s going on?” he barked into the intercom. “Don’t the French know how to evacuate? What are they doing heading back in?”

There was a pause, then a crackle. “It doesn’t appear to be the French, sir.”

“What?”

“It’s another force.”

“Another force?” There was confusion from everybody on the bridge.

“That’s right,” confirmed the voice on the intercom. “They appear to be taking over the French vehicles and…”

“I can see what they appear to be doing!” raged Love. “Why are they doing it? And how are we going to stop them?” He spun round to each of his officers in turn. Every one wore a blank stare.

“Well?” he bellowed. “Who the hell are these people?”

* * *

One second Mutam-ul-it was there; the next it had vanished in a plume of black smoke. Hot ash rained down around the girl, then hailstones formed out of the sand that had been melted together by the explosion.

The girl buried her face in the sand and covered the back of her head. But she didn’t have time to hesitate. She had waited as long as she could remember for this and she knew that the dozens of people waiting around her were going through exactly the same rush of disbelief, joy and dread. Some were much older than her, a few were even younger, but they were all looking to her for leadership.

For a moment she felt a surge of pride. Her father would never have believed that any woman could be in charge, let alone a sixteen-year-old girl – even his own daughter. Impossible. But no one in her parents’ generation had trained as hard or studied strategy as widely as she had.

Then her pride was overwhelmed by sadness. So few of her parents’ generation had survived. She forced away that thought. It was time to move. It was time to prove why the others were glad to be led by her.

She raised her head and checked that the fighters immediately around her were watching. Then she lifted her arm and signalled, indicating which teams were to head for which vehicles, exactly as she’d been trained. Time to run.

The signal was passed down the line and they acted on her command. As a single unit, they rose from behind the mound and charged towards the chaos. They were a silent force among the panic. Everywhere were French shouts, engines roaring and the din of the fires raging at Mutam-ul-it. But the unit ran in silence.

And none was faster than her. Her black hair flew behind her like a rebel flag. Before she had time to be afraid, she tumbled deliberately into the path of an open-top French jeep.

It swerved to avoid her, but came so close she reached up and caught the bumper. Sand mixed with exhaust fumes seemed to get inside her skin. She strained her arms to keep hold of the jeep. Though she was slim, her biceps bulged. It was as if every fibre of her body was muscle and passion. Just like training, she told herself, trying to ignore the darts of terror in her heart. She clawed her way up the back of the vehicle until she could reach the tread next to the rear wheels.

Inside were two huge soldiers in desert camouflage. But she took them by surprise. She punched the base of her palm into the nose of the passenger. Blood exploded all over the cab. Now she had a firm footing on the running board and she grabbed the blood-spattered man by the shoulders. He was unconscious, which made him all the more useful as a battering ram.

She forced the soldier’s head into the face of the driver. He scrabbled for a sidearm, but the girl stabbed her elbow into his shoulder with perfect aim. She struck the sternoclavicular ligament with such power she heard the bone beneath it shatter. The man cried out in pain and the gun dropped from his hand, while the jeep veered across the sand, out of control.

She was desperate to grab the wheel, but first she had to reach for the door handle and push the soldiers out of the jeep one by one. She couldn’t believe the adrenaline inside her. Her hands were shaking.

At last she took control of the jeep. She could feel tears itching to come out, but she swallowed the fright and steered the vehicle round to point straight back at Mutam-ul-it.

Through the thick smog she could make out everything she needed to know. Her teams had sent a shockwave through the French retreat. Their soldiers were reduced to escaping on foot. Some lay down, defeated; others tried to sprint away, flailing and staggering over the sands. Their jeeps were now hers. And every one of them was hurtling back towards Mutam-ul-it.

With a smile, she slammed her foot down on the accelerator.

HMS Enforcer was suddenly frantic. Crew scurried in and out of the command centre, handing print-outs to each other, poring over charts and conducting muttered conversations. Dr Giesel couldn’t keep track of what was going on. His breath was suddenly short and he had to sit down.

“We think it’s the local rebel force, sir,” came the voice through the intercom, much less assured that it had been only minutes before.

“You think?” Lieutenant-Commander Love’s face had turned red with fury. He strode up and down in front of the window. “Who trained them?” he bellowed. “How can they do this?”

He removed his cap to reveal a head of brown hair shaved aggressively short. He furiously massaged his scalp, then ordered, “Arm two more missiles.”

Dr Giesel sprang up from his seat at the back of the command centre and rushed towards the Lieutenant-Commander.

“Sir,” he panted, “we can’t do that.” Love spun round and glared with the look of the devil. Despite that, Dr Giesel insisted, “We don’t have another safe target.”

“We can’t have these people going in and occupying the place,” Love replied, his voice resounding about the command centre. Giesel’s response was less decisive, but immediate.

“We don’t know which other buildings—”

“So we’ll hit the same places again.”

“But the heat from the explosions…” The two men faced off against each other, but Dr Giesel knew his subject. He wasn’t going to be shouted down. “It’s already risky. Another blast could—”

“What is this – a negotiation?”

Love slammed his cap back on his head and rushed back to his control desk. He jammed his thumb into the keypad with such anger it threatened to split the plastic cover.

“No!” Giesel shouted. Love ignored him. Giesel took a deep breath and threw himself at the control desk. Love swatted him away without even looking up and pressed the final digit.