Deep Black - Andy McNab [35]
Jerry had finished stowing his camera and assorted shit back in his bumbag. First and foremost he was a fucking good action photographer. If he needed it, he’d need it quickly.
The pilot announced in Arabic and then English that we would shortly be landing at Baghdad International in the sort of tone you’d expect if you were about to run in to Málaga or Palma. But that was where the similarity ended. We didn’t glide gently into the final approach. We circled directly above it, just once, then went into an alarmingly fast spiral. Anyone on the ground who wanted to take a pop at us with a SAM 7 was going to find it hard to get a lock on today.
As we tumbled out of the sky, the pilot continued to give us all the pre-landing waffle as if nothing unusual was happening, but the businessmen had temporarily mislaid their machismo and the cameras had stopped clicking. Jerry leaned back into his seat. Behind him, Mr Gap was soothing the Canadian. ‘It’s OK, standard procedure. I come in and out of here every couple weeks.’ She didn’t sound fazed at all: if anything she seemed excited, but that wasn’t going to stop him.
I noticed two burnt-out 747s alongside the terminal building, noses and wings scattered across the tarmac. It was really a huge military camp, with a maze of fence lines and enormous concrete barriers. Rows of armoured vehicles, helicopters, and green Portakabins stretched to the horizon. Desert-camouflaged BDUs and olive-green T-shirts hung on washing-lines between the buildings.
As soon as the pilot hit the brakes, we were joined by a two-Humvee escort, their mounted .50 cals trained, by the look of it, against possible attack from the aircraft. The businessmen enjoyed that. The cameras were out again.
‘Fuck me . . .’ Jerry couldn’t stop laughing. ‘They’ll be out of memory by the time we get to Immigration.’
The Iraqi women were still going at it nineteen to the dozen, but my attention was on Mr Gap, willing him to get a result. He deserved to, if only through persistence. He was trying his hardest to meet up again once she was in Baghdad. ‘Where are you staying? Maybe I could help you with your research – after all, I work for the CPA. I could introduce you to the top guys.’
That was obviously what she’d been waiting for. ‘Yeah? You know what? That would be great. I’m staying at the Palestine.’
‘Cool.’ He was one happy hunter. ‘We can arrange to meet some time.’
‘That would be so nice.’ I could just imagine the big smile on her face. She had him by the bollocks.
We taxied past the terminal and finally stopped by a hangar. A few American soldiers dismounted from the Hummers and started to walk towards the aircraft as the propellers slowed and the door opened.
We stayed in our seats for as long as possible before shuffling towards the exit behind the Iraqi women. The moment we got there we were hit by a wall of hot air.
25
I squinted hard as I rummaged for my cheapo market sunglasses. The stench of aviation fuel was overpowering and the noise was deafening. It felt like the entire US military was on the move. Helicopters took off and landed less than a hundred metres away. Heavy trucks hauled containers and water bowsers. American voices yelled orders at each other.
As the businessmen got out their cameras, a voice barked and a young T-shirted soldier sprinted up, M16 in hand and Beretta strapped to his leg. ‘No pictures on base. Cameras away.’ He was enjoying this, and he didn’t care who knew it.
I stood with Jerry in the shade of a wing, watching the macho men slip their Olympuses obediently back into their waistcoats.
A military truck arrived. The American driver and a couple of Iraqis started to pull our bags from the luggage hold and throw them into the back.
Another soldier headed across the tarmac towards an enormous freight hangar, shouting, ‘Follow me, folks,’ and, like a bunch of sheep, we did.
Rob and whoever he was with were out in front, followed closely by the still jabbering