Bombshell - Jane Harvey-Berrick Read online

  The human tragedy meant nothing. See? No emotions. What use were emotions to me then? What use now?

  In a war zone, a dull thump in the distance would be followed by an almost imperceptible ground shake. Somewhere another atrocity had occurred.

  I’d already be prepping the team before the call came in. I’d grab my kit and head to the Ops Room. The Battle Orders were always the same: half the team with gloves and plastic bags to pick up the evidence from the scene—and the body parts to identify the DNA of the bomb maker; the other half of the Quick Reaction Force would be watching for a potential second suicide bomber who wanted to take me out. It was personal.

  And I thought about the lies our politicians told us: ‘Go to Afghanistan, fight terrorism, destroy the drug trade, hunt the Taliban. It’s better to fight the enemy overseas to prevent them bringing the fight to our shores…’

  Lies. All lies.

  As we drove on, closer to the hospital now, I began to scan the few vehicles approaching, checking the verges of the road, eyeing every pedestrian we passed.

  “James? Are you doing okay over there, brother?”

  Clay’s words broke through my bubble, and I rubbed my face.

  “Yeah.”

  He gave me a worried look, pulling up as the police cars slowed behind a hastily erected barrier.

  “We need to move the cordon back 50 metres,” I said immediately. “We’re too close.”

  While Clay spoke via an interpreter and the police started retreating, I peered through the pouring rain and spotted an ancient Russian Lada parked at a skewed angle, half on, half off the pavement.

  The bomber wanted the car to be noticed. I wondered if he was watching. Did that mean it was a remote controlled mechanism, or maybe on a timer?

  Clay had insisted on having electronic countermeasures, a signal jammer, as part of our kit. It definitely wasn’t standard issue for Halo Trust teams. But neither of us would work without it. Not after Times Square.

  We’d need it now.

  Once the cordon was moved back, Clay came to help me suit up—one of the jobs for my Number Two—layering the pieces of body armour into place one at a time—three times the weight of armour that de-miners used.

  But the weight was familiar, almost comforting, and the musty smell filled my nostrils as he lowered the helmet over my head.

  We checked comms, and when I could hear him loud and clear and he could hear me, I began the lonely walk. All that was between me and the device was my training and 80lb of body armour.

  Memories of Amira tried to send sparks of adrenaline through me, but I slammed them back. There was no hostage here, no one I loved on the line, just me and the bomb.

  The closer I got to it, the more the anticipation grew. I was consumed in my own little world, my personal battle.

  I saw what the first officers on the scene had reported: cans of petrol and wires sticking out from under an old blanket.

  Some brave or suicidal police officer had already smashed in the window, so all I had to do was reach in and pull the blanket clear.

  Using a hook and line, I attached the hook to the blanket, backed away 20 metres and knelt down, cautiously tugging on the line. The blanket was heavy, sodden from the rain pouring in the broken window. I tugged gently, but it was snagged on something. I tugged harder, almost falling backwards when it came free. I imagined the wet, slapping sound as it fell in a puddle, but all I could hear was the harsh sound of my breathing.

  I walked toward to the car and peered inside.

  I recognized the device immediately—a MON-100. And I was pretty sure that it was the same mine that went missing on my last Task with Yad.

  Jesus. Two kilos of high explosives, plus an incendiary device attached to the car’s petrol tank. Outside a hospital.

  The sick fucker and his cousin were sending one hell of a message.

  I relayed the intel to Clay, then focussed on the job ahead.

  I needed to work to take the detonator out of the device. This bomb maker wasn’t skilled, and there were no booby-traps that I could see, except on the car door. I was glad that crazy police officer had only smashed the window and not tried to open the door.

  There were other problems, as well: I could see two command wires going into the device and 7.5m of wire. It would be a long, slow job as my fingers slowly went numb and my hands slipped in the rain.

  The angle was awkward, too, leaning through the window.

  I heard a faint ‘pop’ beside me, followed by the sound of automatic gunfire from the police.

  I hit the deck and started to crawl away from the car, something that was almost impossible in the bomb suit, and I grunted with the effort.

  Clay’s voice came over the comms.

  “Lone shooter. Police have him pinned down. Wait for my command.”

  I lay face down on the freezing wet road, listening to the sound of rain pelting across my helmet, feeling the water soak into my clothes and trickle down the back of my neck.

  It seemed like a lifetime before Clay gave the all-clear.

  “Sniper neutralized.”

  I wondered if they’d caught him alive. Intel was more useful than a dead body.

  As I approached the car again, I could see a bullet hole in the car door next to where my head had been. If the bullet had hit my body armour, it wouldn’t have done much damage, but I suspected that the shooter had been aiming at the booby-trap in the car door.

  It took 45 minutes to neutralize the smaller device attached to the door, and even after it wasn’t a problem, I had to borrow a set of ‘jaws of life’ from the fire team that was standing by because the doors were locked.

  I continued to work.

  “Clay, there’s no RC, but keep the ECM jammer on just in case.”

  “Wilco.”

  Finally, the detonator was exposed.

  I rubbed my hands together to get some feeling back into them before the next stage, the final stage, the most deadly stage.

  The fucking anti-personnel mine was old and had been in the ground for over 15 years when I’d found it. It was badly corroded. My fingers turned orange from the rust as I wrestled with the metal, starting to sweat, despite the icy rain.

  It took another 40 minutes of hacking at it with my screwdriver, knife and pliers before it finally came free.

  I’m not dead.

  A huge feeling of relief filled me, and I signalled the Fire Chief to bring his men to put the devices and explosives somewhere safe.

  It was only then that I felt the exhaustion flow through me.

  I trudged back to the police cordon, my whole body aching, my mind spinning faster and faster.

  “Nice job, brother,” said Clay, lifting my helmet and helping me take off the body armour.

  “Oh my God, James! You’re amazing! Are you alright?” asked Bel, her voice shaking.

  She stood next to Zada, and the two women were hugging each other tightly, their faces wet with rain.

  I stared at her, not yet able to reconnect to my emotions. I knew that I was supposed to feel something when I looked at her. But it was too soon.

  I was still rewinding the events of the past hours. I could have been killed—what the fuck was I thinking? That device was a gnat’s balls away from detonating. What if? What if? What if?

  I nodded at her, seeing her face fall as she continued to stare at me, then I turned away.

  Somehow, when you’ve been a soldier, when you’ve faced death, that’s not where it ends, because I don’t think the living ever get to go home. Not really.

  Arabella

  JAMES TURNED AWAY from me without replying and I felt the first crack in my fragile heart.

  “Give him time,” said Zada, tugging on my arm. “He gets in a weird place after a Task, you know that—I can’t imagine how much more intense this was. Dear Allah, when the sniper started shooting…” she shook her head. “I’m still shaking.”

  I could feel sporadic tremors running throug
h her, feel her fear. Now, I just felt numb.

  “I want to be there for him,” I said hesitantly, but it sounded like I was begging.

  “You can’t be,” she said firmly. “I saw the same thing with Amira after a bad incident in the ER. I’m the same when I’ve been working in NICU and we lose one of the babies. It’s just the worst, and if you’re not part of it and haven’t been there…” She blew out a long breath. “He needs time to process it all in his own way.”

  Her words slashed at me: I was part of it; I had been there. Not in the way she meant, but I’d gone through it just the same.

  She shrugged sadly.

  “That’s why so many doctors and nurses end up with alcohol problems or other addictions. It’s the pressure.” She sighed. “At least he’s not drinking…”

  She wasn’t being particularly reassuring, although I knew she meant to be. Maybe her certainty came from the knowledge that Clay loved her. I had no such certainties to comfort me.

  While Clay and James were answering questions from the police and clearing up their equipment, Zada and I went to sit in the back of the police car that had brought us. The officer had left it unattended, so the engine wasn’t running and there was no warmth.

  For two hours, we huddled together, dozing fitfully, until Clay tapped on the window, making us both jump.

  “We’re done here, ladies,” he said, yawning widely, his eyes red with tiredness and concern. “We’re all getting a police escort back to the hotel.” He paused. “We’ll also have armed police guards outside our rooms.”

  “What?”

  My lungs froze with fear.

  “I know,” he said. “But we think this car bomb was set up to lure James out.”

  “Oh my God! How do you know? Are you sure?”

  He shook his head.

  “I can’t say too much now, but it seems as though the Army EOD team were lured out of town deliberately, and there was the sniper on the roof at exactly the right moment, too.” His face was tight with anger. “He’ll be helping police with their enquiries when he regains consciousness. Took a bullet to his chest. Could be a while. Meanwhile, we don’t know who’s targeting us.”

  “It’s Yad or his crazy cousin!” I snapped. “It must be!”

  “There’s a good chance,” Clay agreed, “but until we know for sure, that’s just speculation.” He raised his hands at my furious expression. “I know. Look, let’s just go get some shut-eye and we’ll talk more in the morning.”

  “Fine,” I said softly. “Is James going back to the hotel with you?”

  Clay looked uncomfortable.

  “Yep. We’re all going. We need to stick together.”

  “Then where is he?”

  His voice was solemn.

  “Harry, you need to give him a lot of space, okay? He’s just been through the most intense kind of continuous focus and pressure that’s hard for anyone to understand, even me. He needs to decompress. I’m sorry, hon, but I don’t think you should be around him right now.”

  I swallowed and looked down.

  “I see.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said flatly. “It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault.”

  He squeezed my hand briefly, then kissed Zada.

  “See you back at base soon, babe.”

  He closed the door and waved the driver on. I watched him disappear from view as we sped into the night.

  “He’s right,” said Zada softly. “Just give James time. And for the record, what I said at the party, I meant it: you’re good for him.”

  I sniffed back some tears and gave her a watery smile.

  I felt like a piece of thread that had been stretched and stretched, taut, with my nerves twanging, beginning to fray—I couldn’t take anymore or I’d break.

  Zada fell asleep on the short drive back, but I was wide awake, terrified that I’d lost James already. I couldn’t give up on us yet, but I didn’t dare to hope.

  Clay and Zada both said I had to give him time. But I couldn’t be blind to the fact that I’d fallen in love with him. What a stupid, stupid, careless thing to do.

  And if what he needed was time, I’d give him every second of my life.

  As Clay had promised, at the hotel, armed guards escorted us to our bedrooms, searching them thoroughly before we were allowed in.

  It certainly brought home to me how real the threat was.

  With a police officer outside, I stood in the middle of the room that I’d been sharing with James, tiredness pulling at my body while my brain buzzed in dizzying circles.

  Will he come? Or will he stay away? Will he come? Or will he stay away?

  In the end, I decided to have a shower. Few things were as soothing and comforting as steam and hot water against your skin.

  But when I turned off the water, I realized that I was no longer alone.

  “James?”

  He was standing in the centre of the room, staring into space.

  I took three steps towards him before I came to a halt, almost feeling the force-field around him, the isolation that made an impenetrable perimeter.

  “James, are you … okay?”

  He nodded.

  “I need a shower.”

  “Oh, okay … I … okay.”

  He left the room abruptly, shutting the bathroom door firmly behind him.

  I climbed into bed, not naked as usual, but wearing one of James’s t-shirts. It was old and faded in Army green, but the badge was still clear to read: ‘321 EOD & Search Sqn’.

  I needed more defences than bare flesh to face him again.

  But when he came out of the bathroom, he was naked, magnificent, beautiful, but utterly distant and closed-off.

  He slid into bed without a word and turned off the light, rolling onto his side away from me.

  I was used to silence being used as a weapon—my father did it all the time. And I was used to silence from James being used as a shield, keeping everyone away from him. But this silence was … absence. He was here physically, but his mind was far away, somewhere I couldn’t reach him.

  I lay in the bed where we’d made love so many times feeling as if it had become our own personal minefield: any movement could cause an incendiary explosion; the wrong word, the wrong touch.

  Tears leaked from my eyes as we lay side by side and a million miles apart. It felt like someone was scorching the earth around me. Would I burn with it? Or would I be frozen by the coldness of the man I loved.

  I had so many things that I wanted to say, but bit them all back.

  An hour passed, then two, but I sensed that James wasn’t asleep either. In the end, the need to speak became unbearable.

  “You were amazing out there, incredibly brave. I’m so proud of you.”

  The words were quiet but heartfelt. They hung in the air until they slipped away without a sound.

  He didn’t reply.

  THE NEXT MORNING, the silence continued, growing heavier and more oppressive with each second. He didn’t ignore me, but he wasn’t with me either.

  Clay and Zada cast worried looks over the breakfast table as they tried to keep a light conversation going; not easy when armed guards loomed over us, following our every move.

  The hotel management weren’t thrilled about our new best friends either, and I heard them asking Clay how long they’d be here.

  His reply was short: As long as they’re needed.

  It was at times like this when I saw the former Marine within him. James carried his service like a weight on his shoulders; Clay wore his like a badge of honour that he only showed to a few people when it was needed.

  The morning was spent with the police, being interviewed through an interpreter, which made everything very slow and tedious.

  I couldn’t understand why they seemed more interested in Yad’s assault on me than on what had happened last night. It was horrible going over and over the story, seeing the suspicion in their eyes.
/>   By then, Clay had told me that the device in the car had been a MON-100, identical to the mines that had gone missing back in Nagorno. So why were the police focussing on what happened with Yad? Surely his cousin’s influence couldn’t extend as far as Armenia?

  Apprehension flickered through me, and I could see that mirrored in Clay and Zada’s eyes. James remained aloof and distant.

  But when the police tried to question me for a fourth time about the assault, he finally engaged.

  “She’s answered your questions three times now. Her story hasn’t changed. It’s enough. So how about we ask why a MON-100 that I know I lifted from the ground in Nagorno ended up in Yerevan? Has the sniper talked yet?”

  The police were defensive, then aggressive—almost implying that James and Clay were involved in arms dealing—then passive and respectful when a senior Armenian Army General interrupted, and took the time to thank James and Clay personally.

  After that, the police backed down, but none of us were happy to stay here any longer, and Clay immediately began to make plans for us to leave the next day.

  I’d been so grateful when James had intervened with the police for me and hoped it might mean that he’d start talking to me, at last, but he didn’t.

  We weren’t alone again until late that night, three hours after I’d gone to bed by myself, and by then, I was close to falling apart. I needed something from him—the silence was punishing.

  “Where have you been?” I asked him as once again he slid silently beneath the sheets.

  He threw me a surprised look.

  “You’re awake? I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

  “No. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  The expression on his face didn’t change.

  Where are you, James?

  Gently, I cupped his face with my hands, kissing his lips lightly.

  “Where have you been?” I asked, softly tapping the side of his head. “In here? In your mind?”

  He let out a long breath.