Aggressor (4 page)

The RAF had flown a big container in with us to Fort Hood, then had it trucked on-site, and Tony carried the keys. He seemed pretty much a pacifist, so maybe it just contained enough fairy dust to make everybody dance out of the building, but I doubted it. The FBI had been pretty keen to have access to Charlie’s siege surveillance devices, but the inside of Tony’s head was what they really wanted. His business was advanced gases; he seemed to be on first-name terms with every molecule on the planet. What’s more, he knew how to mix them so precisely that they killed, immobilized, or merely incapacitated you to the point where you were still able to crawl.

A flurry of shouted instructions belted out of Alpha Pod’s command tent. Special Agent Jim D. ‘Call Me Buster’ Bastendorf was tuning up for his morning gobbing-off session to the new shift commanders, and as usual making everything sound like a bollocking.

Bastendorf really did like everyone to call him Buster, but it took us no time at all to christen him Deaf Bastard, then, because it was less of a mouthful, Bastard for short.

Bastard was a Texan and that meant everything – his shoulders, arms, hands and, most of all, his stomach – was bigger than it needed to be. It would have done him no harm at all to stay away from the two-pound T-bones after Christmas. He had a severe crew cut and a heavily waxed Kaiser Wilhelm moustache. He kept on curling the ends, as if letting them droop would be a sign of weakness. Yessirree, Jim D. Bastendorf knew exactly what his mission was: to kick ass, bust heads, solve the problem.

Everything was a battle for this man; every minute of every day was a fight he had to win. His jaws worked non-stop on chewing tobacco. Every quarter of an hour he’d gob a mouthful of thick, black, saliva-covered crap into a polystyrene cup, trawl out another wad from a tin in his back pocket, and start the whole process again.

His problem with us began with Tony’s accent. Whenever Tony asked a question or tried to offer some input, he just looked blank, and took to referring to him as ‘that Limey fag in the trailer’ who ‘don’t know shit from Shinola’. I was this other Brit waste of space who kept asking damn-fool questions: ‘What about this? What about that? Do you really think that keeping these guys awake 24/7 is going to get them to come out?’

When it came down to it, he didn’t have a clue what we were doing here. Our brief was short and to the point. So long as we kept out of his way, had the correct little blue passes hanging from our necks at all times, and shared his view that we’d all been floundering helplessly till he rode over the hill like the Fifth Cavalry, we could stay here for ever, for all he cared – which was just fine by me, because I didn’t care much either. If Bastard didn’t want to listen, it wasn’t my problem. The Davidians’ water supply had been fucked up, and sooner or later they’d get hungry or thirsty or bored. They’d come out eventually, so I’d just keep getting the kettle on for Tony and me until the white flags started appearing.

Bastard roared with laughter. People were shouting instructions to get over to the command post. Something was happening.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Bastard boomed. ‘Check this out – showtime!’

I unzipped my bag and got to my feet. There was another sound above the scream of rabbits and screech of tank tracks. Bastard had thrown a switch so that his mates could listen in on the conversation between the negotiators and the Bible-bashers.

Achild of no more than five was on the phone inside the compound. I could hear muffled crying in the background. ‘Are you going to kill me?’ her small voice asked.

6

The negotiator was on a US Air Force base miles away – another bad tactic. He spoke gently, as Bastard’s boys in the command tent shrieked and whistled. ‘No, honey, no-one is coming to kill you.’

‘You sure? The tanks are still outside . . .’

‘The tanks won’t hurt you, honey.’

Another, male voice took over in the compound. ‘Why are you letting your guys drop their pants at our women?’ He was going apeshit. ‘These are decent women in here; you know that’s not the way to go. Why should we trust you?’

Bastard roared, ‘About time them bitches saw some prime ass!’

From the sound of it, this got his boys’ vote. I bet they were mooning at the speaker.

I exchanged a glance with Tony, who’d been staring at his coffee. We both listened as the negotiator tried to come back with a reasonable response. ‘You know what these guys are like; you know the ones who fly the helicopters or drive the tanks, they haven’t got the same mindset as us. I’ll try and do something about it, OK?’

Bastard guffawed. ‘Fuck that, and fuck you too, Mr Mindset! You just keep on talking; leave the ass-kicking to the big boys.’

There was a fresh burst of applause. I could picture the big boys shrugging off their pants again, waving their arses at the speaker.

I took a sip of my brew. Whatever the negotiator said, it didn’t look good for Koresh and his crew. The ATF had ignored his invitation to come in and inspect the place for illegal weapons and whatever else they thought the Davidians had up their sleeves, and instead had mounted a full-scale armed operation.

Maybe it was a coincidence, but it just so happened that the ATF were losing credibility in Washington right now, and it was budget time. They clearly wanted to put on a bit of a display – they’d invited the media along, and given them ringside seats. They’d even got their own cameras rolling, in case the newshounds missed any of the action.

The Branch Davidians must have known something was up when they clocked the film crews setting up shop. Their suspicions would have been confirmed when helicopters started swooping round the rear of the compound, partly to draw their attention away from the cattle trailers full of armed ATF agents headed for the front door, partly so the US public could see their tax dollars on the screen.

The Davidians returned fire, as they were entitled to do under American law. They even called 911 to tell the police they were being attacked, and begged for help.

The gun battle lasted for an hour, the longest in American law enforcement history. At the end of it, four ATF agents lay dead, with another sixteen wounded. When little brother gets his arse kicked, big brother comes to sort it out. The FBI took over. From that moment on, the Branch Davidians were doomed. This was one movie that wasn’t going to have a happy ending.

Tony took a sip of coffee and looked at me sadly as he listened to the conversation that followed.

The Davidians wanted water
 . . .

The negotiators said they wanted to help out, but they just couldn’t oblige. Their hands were tied.

People were starting to die of thirst here . . .

It was possible the FBI might be able to do something if some of the Davidians came out and gave themselves up, as a token of goodwill. How did that sound?

Tony was totally out of his depth here. He didn’t like the sound of the AFVs, and he didn’t like the shouting that came as part of the law enforcement package. He particularly didn’t like being so near things that went bang. He’d have given anything right now to be tucked away in that lab of his, feeding laughing gas to Roland Rat or whatever the fuck it was they did there. He gave me a brave smile. ‘Another day, another dollar, eh?’

‘Easier said than done, mate.’ I tried to sound upbeat for him. ‘Best not to worry about what you can’t change. It’ll give you a headache.’

Tony looked away, staring sightlessly through the side of the trailer as Bastendorf’s audience got right on with enjoying the show.

7

I didn’t particularly care which way this thing panned out. I was just looking forward to getting back to Hereford and the squadron. I was out of the Regiment in a couple of months’ time and needed to sort a few things. Not that I had much to organize. The Firm [Secret Intelligence Service] were going to do everything for me, sort out bank accounts, take control of my life.

Islamic fundamentalists had been on a slaughtering frenzy in Algeria ever since the army seized power in 1992. They’d unleashed a fierce terrorist campaign against a broad spectrum of civilian targets, including secular opposition leaders, journalists, artists, academics, and foreigners – especially oil industry foreigners.

A job looking after oilmen and rigs came up; the wages were three times what I was on, so there wasn’t much thinking involved. Why get out of the Regiment in five years’ time and start doing the same job? Why not start right away? I was out in five years anyway, whether I liked it or not. The army had wiped my arse for me ever since I’d joined at sixteen. They’d only used three sheets at a time – one up, one down, one to shine – but I’d still been wondering what it would be like to have to stand on my own two feet. And now I didn’t have to worry.

I handed in my notice and got approached by the Firm a week later. I still wasn’t sure why, but it didn’t matter. It meant not having to fill in tax forms or pay rent. And I’d find out what they wanted me for soon enough.

I was just about to suggest a stroll to the canteen to see if the queue had gone down when a series of loud crashes came from the compound.

‘
What are you doing? You’re attacking the children, what about the children?
’

The negotiator went straight into monotone. Bastard and his crew quit their banter to listen. ‘Do not open fire. This is not an assault. We will not be entering the building. I repeat, do not open fire. This is not an assault.’

The line went dead. Almost at once, the loudspeakers on the armoured vehicles began to blare, in the same monotone as the negotiator, ‘This stand-off is over, do not fire any weapons. This is not an assault. This is not an assault, do not fire any weapons.’

Tony and I put down our brews and ran to the back of the cattle trailer to get a better view. Three combat engineer vehicles, tracked, armoured monsters with big battering rams out in front, were rumbling around the compound. One pushed straight through the wall like a finger through wet paper.

Searchlights and Nightsuns jerked around the target. Another CEV forced its ram into the far corner of the building and stopped.

‘Oh my God, oh my God . . .’ Tony couldn’t get the words out quickly enough. The searchlights were still dancing like dervishes as the third CEV half disappeared through a wall.

‘This is not an attack,’ the loudspeakers barked. ‘Do not open fire.’

Tony couldn’t believe what he was seeing. ‘If this isn’t an attack, then what the hell is it? Look, Nick, look . . .’

I was looking, along with close on two hundred law enforcers standing on the roof of every vehicle, trying to get a better view. Some of them even had their flash cameras out, getting a few snaps for the folks back home.

Tony scrambled over the trailer gate like an uncoordinated child. He hit the ground and started running towards Alpha Pod.

I followed. The structure was kept upright by air forced through inflatable tubes in the frames. A generator chugged away just outside. This being an American command post, there was also air conditioning. Warm air hit our faces. There was a strong smell of coffee. It was a smoke-free area, and there were signs up to say so. Health and safety initiatives in a war zone were always good to see.

Every table was groaning with TV monitors and computers. Cables trailed across the floor. Radio operators were hunched speechlessly over their sets. Everyone had their eyes glued to the screens.

The monitors showed all elevations of the target, apart from the rear. The two screens that had been covering the back were now just black and flickering. Two screens displayed aerial views from P3 cameras still circling at twenty-five thousand feet. The IR and thermal images looked like black and white negatives. Bright white light showed the heat coming from the exhaust of the CEV at the back of the building, then white flames as the driver changed gear before ramming into it.

Bastard stood in front of the screens, and he liked what he saw. ‘Get some!’ he yelled at the screen. He muttered a few asides to his cronies and gobbed baccy juice into his cup. The crew around him added their cheers.

‘Yo, Momma!’

Thirty seconds later, the vehicle reversed.

‘Hey, Koresh, how you like that new air freshener?’

‘Y’all find that tank’s ass stinks more than ours!’

I looked at Tony. ‘Gas?’

‘They’re injecting like mosquitoes.’

The FBI’s patience had run out. They’d gas them and then round them up as they staggered out, coughing and spluttering, fluids dribbling from every orifice. Next stop would be the back of a wagon or an ambulance, and downtown to the ER before they got arrested.

‘Good news.’ I grinned at Tony. ‘That’s you and me on a plane home.’

But Tony wasn’t smiling. He strode up to Bastard. ‘What gas are you using?’

Bastard just kept on staring at the screens. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dunno, old bean. Just gas, I guess.’

Tony was flapping, looking around at the room for some kind of moral support. He didn’t receive it. A couple of Bastendorf’s men started to smirk, sensing fun. Tony pointed to the monitors as another CEV crashed into the compound. ‘Have they got respirators in there? What about the children? In those confined spaces you’re going to kill them! Why aren’t they already coming out?’

Bastard ignored him. Outside, the symphony of slaughtered animals returned and another CEV embedded itself in the building. It stayed put for about twenty seconds and then pulled out. Another mosquito injecting its poison.

Bastard just stood there, glued to the screens.

Tony grabbed his shoulder and spun him round so their faces were only inches apart. ‘This is going to kill them, do you not understand?’ His voice was choked with emotion. ‘They’re all going to die!’

Bastard sneered. ‘Not your party, son. Get out of my face, I got work to do.’

No-one else spoke.

I was standing in the doorway. First light was just cracking; visibility had improved.

A cheer went up from the onlookers at the edge of the cordon.