A desperate race for survival in a country in the midst war.
Nick Scott fought in the SAS in the first Gulf War. Captured and tortured, he was left a broken man. His daughter Sarah Scott is a beautiful young scientist who has cracked one of the scientific secrets of the age. Now, she has vanished. Her lover Jed Bradley is one of the SAS's toughest young soldiers, dropped behind enemy lines in the build up to the Iraq War to find the truth about Saddam Hussein's weapons of mass destruction. Caught up in a global power play, Nick and Jed must fight their way through a war - ravaged Iraq as the regime of Saddam Hussein collapeses around them. It is a desperate race to find the woman they both love. And to unlock the secret of the ultimate weapon
Prologue
16 November 1994
Nick Scott walked in silence. He could feel the cold air blowing down from the side of the mountain, brushing across his raw skin. A thin sweater was all that was covering his chest, and a light dusting of snow was filling the morning air. It made o difference, thought Nick sullenly. A man who has lost his wife doesn't feel the cold. He doesn't feel heat, pain or pleasure, or any other sensation. Just a frozen emptiness inside.
Particularly when the man knows he has only himself to blame.
He glanced up towards the mountains. The heights of Les Houches, the smaller of the two mountains that dominated the Chamonix valley, Were right ahead of him. A shaft of suddenly broke through the clouds, illuminating its lustrous white surface, while on the other side of the ravine the larger Mont Blance was still shrouded i mist and cloud. It was a week now since Mary had died. Three days since they had buried her, Here among the mountains she loved, and where they had hoped to make their new life together. A life that didn't involve war, fighting, endurance or survival. A life that had nothing to do with the Regiment. Just the two of them, their ski school and their daughter. A small, happy family, just the way it always should have been.
And now it's gone, buried along with Mary, and every other dream I've ever had.
'You OK?' he said, looking towards Sarah.
'I'm scared,' she replied flatly.
She was walking at his side, the buttons of her ski jacket done up tight against her thin neck. Just fifteen, thought Nick. Christ, she was young. Sometimes he had to punch himself to remind himself that although she was starting to look like a woman she was still just a kid. Ever since she was born, she'd constantly surprised him with how fast she'd developed. Sarah was always ahead of the other kids, able to talk at two, count at
three and read before she was four: it was as if she was rushing through life, getting her childhood out of the way, crashing forwards a rendezvous with her own destiny. When your dad's as rubbish as I am, maybe you have to grow up fast, he reflected bitterly. With no one to look after you, you learn to look after yourself.
'I'm scared of what's going to become of us now that Mum's not around any more.'
She stopped in the snow, and turned to face him. Her expression was worried, frightened. Sarah had long brown hair, and blue eyes that shone out of her thin, freckled face like the headlamps on a car. Her features were delicate, finely painted like her mother's, but in her forehead and across her cheekbones there were traces of her father's blute, ox-like strength. 'You can say what you like, but I just know,' she continued. 'We're not going to be OK.'
'Of cause we are,' snapped Nick. 'I'll look after you.'
'What happened to you in Iraq, Dad?'
The words struck Nick harder than any of the bullets he had ever taken. A bullet was just a lump of cold steel. It could tear through your flesh, and fracture your bones, but so long as you were still alive it left your spirit intact. This was worse. This hurt in a way that no bullet ever could.
'I'm all right,' he said quickly.
She walked two paces ahead of him, twisting into one of the pathways that started to lead up the side of the mountain. They had lived here for just over a year now, but she had adjusted to the place much better than he had. Sarah spoke French like a local, and had adapted to the school. As for me, thought Nick, I have hardly got to know a soul. I came here to escape. But you can't escape from yourself.
'I'm fifteen,' she said, not turning to look at him. 'I can handle the truth.'
The truth, thought Nick. Maybe she can handle it, and maybe I can't. The bad outlines of the story were clear enough. He was a Regiment man, had been for a decade. He'd just missed the Falklands War but had been involved in every action the SAS had fought in since then, and fought with distinction as well. He had the medals and the scars to prove he was as good as any man in the Regiment. Then, in the lead-up to the Iraq War, he'd been dropped into enemy country. First into Kurdistan, then travelling south in a small unit of four men until they hit Baghdad. Two of his mates had been killed to Ken, Nick had no idea. The last memory he had of him was the grimace of defiance on his face as the Iraqi soldiers smashed the butts of the rifles into his ribs as they led him away. Probably rotting in a shallow, unmarked grave by now. Nick had been taken into the prison cells below Saddam's Republican Palace, and tortured. What the hell they'd been trying to get out of him, he never knew. Perhaps it was just sadism. Their army was getting whipped, and they needed someone to take it out on. He just happened to be there. It was nothing personal. It just felt like that when they were plugging electrodes into your balls.
It was only after the war had ended, as part of the ceasefire agreement, that Nick had been released. He had had no idea the war had even ended, and when they came to haul him out of the dark, dank cell in which he had been living for the past few weeks, he'd assumed it was a firing squad he was about to meet, not a helicopter to ferry him home. It had taken two months in hospital to patch up his wounds, but the mental damage had been far worse than the physical impact. After he returned to the Regiment, it was impossible to get back to soldiering again. The orders didn't make any sense. The training had no purpose. The missions seemed stupid. After a year, he quit, disgusted with both himself and the army.
'Nothing happened in Iraq, silver girl,' he said, slipping into the nickname he'd had for Sarah since she was a toddler.
He put his arm across her shoulder, but she shook it away.
'Then why you are here?'
The move had been made just a few months after Nick had left the army. Nick and Mary had talked about opening a ski school for years. Both of them loved the mountains, and they had met on the French Alps twenty years earlier when he was doing his army ski training and Mary had been waitressing in one of the tourist bars. They'd taken Sarah from the moment she was born: she could practically ski before she could walk. They'd leased a small office, hired Heinz, a young German skier, to help out, and Nick had done most of the teaching while Mary took the booking and looked after the accounts. But nothing had gone the way Nick had planned it. The first season was tough, and the clients were all idiots. Rich bankers from London who could barely stand up, let alone ski, and who thought it was Nick's fault. They spoke to you like you were dirt. A couple of times he'd lost it, shouting at them. Couldn't help myself, they were spastics, he said later. But word soon got around that he was difficult. Mary was furious with him, and the bookings were starting to dry up. They'd sunk all their saving into this school. They were arguing all the time.
We argued the night she died...
'To do something different with our lives,' said Nick.
'I don't want to,' said Sarah, her voice suddenly icy with controlled anger. 'I don't want to be here.' Tears were starting to stream down her face. 'I just want my mum back.'
'It's going to be OK,' said Nick, reaching out for her.
'No, it's not,' screamed Sarah. 'Nothing's going to be OK, not now, not ever.'
She was running away from him now, her legs skidding across the frozen surface of the track. Her hair had come loose, and was now streaming in the wind behind her. Not ever, heard Nick, the words bouncing off the side of the mountain, and bouncing back towards him. Nothing's going to be OK, not ever.
And the worst of it is, maybe she's right.
Nick caught up with her, reaching out with his arms, hugging her tight to his body. Her breath was short, gasping. 'I just want to hide from the world,' said Sarah, wiping the tears away from her eyes.
Nick glanced up towards the brooding slopes of Les Houches. There was a dip on the left-hand side of the mountain, where the rock seemed to fade into the cloud to create a shape like a crescent. 'You see that mountain,' he said, cradling Sarah in his arms, 'I hid in a mountain just like that when I was dropped into Kurdistan. Hiding isn't as simple as you think it is when you're fifteen. It's hard, lonely work that cuts into a man's soul. Hide for long enough and you forget who you even are.'
Sarah turned to look at him, her eyes fierce with anger. Well, you should know, Dad. You've been hiding ever since you came back from that stupid war.'
.....................
And now it's gone, buried along with Mary, and every other dream I've ever had.
'You OK?' he said, looking towards Sarah.
'I'm scared,' she replied flatly.
She was walking at his side, the buttons of her ski jacket done up tight against her thin neck. Just fifteen, thought Nick. Christ, she was young. Sometimes he had to punch himself to remind himself that although she was starting to look like a woman she was still just a kid. Ever since she was born, she'd constantly surprised him with how fast she'd developed. Sarah was always ahead of the other kids, able to talk at two, count at
three and read before she was four: it was as if she was rushing through life, getting her childhood out of the way, crashing forwards a rendezvous with her own destiny. When your dad's as rubbish as I am, maybe you have to grow up fast, he reflected bitterly. With no one to look after you, you learn to look after yourself.
'I'm scared of what's going to become of us now that Mum's not around any more.'
She stopped in the snow, and turned to face him. Her expression was worried, frightened. Sarah had long brown hair, and blue eyes that shone out of her thin, freckled face like the headlamps on a car. Her features were delicate, finely painted like her mother's, but in her forehead and across her cheekbones there were traces of her father's blute, ox-like strength. 'You can say what you like, but I just know,' she continued. 'We're not going to be OK.'
'Of cause we are,' snapped Nick. 'I'll look after you.'
'What happened to you in Iraq, Dad?'
The words struck Nick harder than any of the bullets he had ever taken. A bullet was just a lump of cold steel. It could tear through your flesh, and fracture your bones, but so long as you were still alive it left your spirit intact. This was worse. This hurt in a way that no bullet ever could.
'I'm all right,' he said quickly.
She walked two paces ahead of him, twisting into one of the pathways that started to lead up the side of the mountain. They had lived here for just over a year now, but she had adjusted to the place much better than he had. Sarah spoke French like a local, and had adapted to the school. As for me, thought Nick, I have hardly got to know a soul. I came here to escape. But you can't escape from yourself.
'I'm fifteen,' she said, not turning to look at him. 'I can handle the truth.'
The truth, thought Nick. Maybe she can handle it, and maybe I can't. The bad outlines of the story were clear enough. He was a Regiment man, had been for a decade. He'd just missed the Falklands War but had been involved in every action the SAS had fought in since then, and fought with distinction as well. He had the medals and the scars to prove he was as good as any man in the Regiment. Then, in the lead-up to the Iraq War, he'd been dropped into enemy country. First into Kurdistan, then travelling south in a small unit of four men until they hit Baghdad. Two of his mates had been killed to Ken, Nick had no idea. The last memory he had of him was the grimace of defiance on his face as the Iraqi soldiers smashed the butts of the rifles into his ribs as they led him away. Probably rotting in a shallow, unmarked grave by now. Nick had been taken into the prison cells below Saddam's Republican Palace, and tortured. What the hell they'd been trying to get out of him, he never knew. Perhaps it was just sadism. Their army was getting whipped, and they needed someone to take it out on. He just happened to be there. It was nothing personal. It just felt like that when they were plugging electrodes into your balls.
It was only after the war had ended, as part of the ceasefire agreement, that Nick had been released. He had had no idea the war had even ended, and when they came to haul him out of the dark, dank cell in which he had been living for the past few weeks, he'd assumed it was a firing squad he was about to meet, not a helicopter to ferry him home. It had taken two months in hospital to patch up his wounds, but the mental damage had been far worse than the physical impact. After he returned to the Regiment, it was impossible to get back to soldiering again. The orders didn't make any sense. The training had no purpose. The missions seemed stupid. After a year, he quit, disgusted with both himself and the army.
'Nothing happened in Iraq, silver girl,' he said, slipping into the nickname he'd had for Sarah since she was a toddler.
He put his arm across her shoulder, but she shook it away.
'Then why you are here?'
The move had been made just a few months after Nick had left the army. Nick and Mary had talked about opening a ski school for years. Both of them loved the mountains, and they had met on the French Alps twenty years earlier when he was doing his army ski training and Mary had been waitressing in one of the tourist bars. They'd taken Sarah from the moment she was born: she could practically ski before she could walk. They'd leased a small office, hired Heinz, a young German skier, to help out, and Nick had done most of the teaching while Mary took the booking and looked after the accounts. But nothing had gone the way Nick had planned it. The first season was tough, and the clients were all idiots. Rich bankers from London who could barely stand up, let alone ski, and who thought it was Nick's fault. They spoke to you like you were dirt. A couple of times he'd lost it, shouting at them. Couldn't help myself, they were spastics, he said later. But word soon got around that he was difficult. Mary was furious with him, and the bookings were starting to dry up. They'd sunk all their saving into this school. They were arguing all the time.
We argued the night she died...
'To do something different with our lives,' said Nick.
'I don't want to,' said Sarah, her voice suddenly icy with controlled anger. 'I don't want to be here.' Tears were starting to stream down her face. 'I just want my mum back.'
'It's going to be OK,' said Nick, reaching out for her.
'No, it's not,' screamed Sarah. 'Nothing's going to be OK, not now, not ever.'
She was running away from him now, her legs skidding across the frozen surface of the track. Her hair had come loose, and was now streaming in the wind behind her. Not ever, heard Nick, the words bouncing off the side of the mountain, and bouncing back towards him. Nothing's going to be OK, not ever.
And the worst of it is, maybe she's right.
Nick caught up with her, reaching out with his arms, hugging her tight to his body. Her breath was short, gasping. 'I just want to hide from the world,' said Sarah, wiping the tears away from her eyes.
Nick glanced up towards the brooding slopes of Les Houches. There was a dip on the left-hand side of the mountain, where the rock seemed to fade into the cloud to create a shape like a crescent. 'You see that mountain,' he said, cradling Sarah in his arms, 'I hid in a mountain just like that when I was dropped into Kurdistan. Hiding isn't as simple as you think it is when you're fifteen. It's hard, lonely work that cuts into a man's soul. Hide for long enough and you forget who you even are.'
Sarah turned to look at him, her eyes fierce with anger. Well, you should know, Dad. You've been hiding ever since you came back from that stupid war.'
.....................
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