TICK TOCK (EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) Book 1) Read online

  She nodded her head sullenly, and my irritation level was up to 11 again.

  “Let me hear you say it!”

  “Yes, sir,” snapped Smith and Clay.

  Amira followed a second later.

  “Yes. I understand.”

  I took a deep breath and softened my voice.

  “The hole you drilled was too large so the fuze was loose. It came out when you placed the bomb. You should have checked.”

  “You didn’t tell me to check that!” she snapped back.

  I gave her a hard look.

  “It was in my original instructions—that’s why I showed you how to pack it with tissues. This isn’t nursery school. I’m not here to hold your hand and wipe your arse.” I took a breath. “You can learn more by a failure than you do by following instructions. Use your common sense: if the fuze doesn’t reach the explosive, nothing will happen.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she glared at me.

  Smith nodded.

  “Here endeth the lesson.”

  “Amen,” said Clay.

  Amira

  HE WAS OBNOXIOUS. I wanted to take that pipe bomb and shove it up his … no, that was the old me. I shook my head, clearing myself of impure thoughts.

  We lay on the ground under the trees for the full half hour before James found my pathetic pipe bomb and made it safe. Since it hadn’t exploded, I already thought it was safe, but apparently that wasn’t enough.

  We made our way back toward the cabins, the heat and humidity oppressive. As I glanced away from the group and peered upwards through the canopy of green, I realized that the sun was high in the sky and close to midday—time for me to pray.

  I moved as gracefully as I could, hampered by the folds of material, and headed to my room to unroll my prayer mat for salat-al-zuhr.

  Prayer was the second pillar of Islam, and the devout prayed five times a day. I’d come to look on it as meditation, the only peaceful moments in a crazy life.

  I knelt down.

  “Karam, I made my first pipe bomb today. It wasn’t very good and it didn’t explode. I’ll try and do better but … give me a sign, please! Am I doing the right thing?”

  As usual, there was no answer and after I waited, my knees aching, I sighed, climbed to my feet and rolled up my prayer mat.

  I peered out of the window and found that the men were all sitting in the shade eating, and the one named Larson was back. He scared me: so silent, so angry, the overt aggression a thick miasma around him.

  If I had to guess, I’d say that he’d enjoyed blindfolding me, enjoyed pushing me into his truck and leaving me there; enjoyed telling me what to do on the long journey to this training ground. The man was a bully with a badge and a gun. I hated him.

  But then again, I hated a lot of things these days.

  James.

  He’d deliberately set me up to fail. I found it hard to accept that there was any truth in what he’d said. I’d followed his instructions religiously, but it was more complicated than he made it seem, and the diagrams that he’d scratched in the dirt were hard to understand. There was so much information to take in. Clay had managed though, and that made me feel pathetic and useless.

  I learned best by being able to study textbooks in peace; but here there were no books, nothing was written down, and I had to memorize everything. It was hard. Everything about this was hard.

  My stomach growled, reminding me that I needed to eat, and I decided to venture out of the stuffy cabin to find some food.

  I opened the door to leave my room, only to find James coming toward me carrying a grocery bag.

  “Your lunch,” he muttered, pushing the bag into my hands.

  I was so surprised, I didn’t say a word, and just watched as he strode outside again.

  I retreated to my room and inspected what he’d brought me.

  I was amazed to find two vegetarian MREs and a small pile of fresh fruit. I guessed Smith must have brought the peaches, bananas and apples back with him, but I was touched that James had brought them in here for me because he knew I didn’t eat with the men.

  I would have liked to eat outside, but in the world I was entering, a Muslim woman didn’t eat in public because part of her face would necessarily be exposed.

  I sat on my bed and gorged myself on ripe peaches, the juice dripping down my chin as I luxuriated in their sweetness. Then I ate a couple of bananas for energy and finished off with a piece of pita bread.

  I remembered too late that it was our first P.T. session this afternoon, and I’d eaten more than I should. I hoped I wasn’t going to throw it up later.

  Running in a niqab was definitely a challenge, but I’d bought myself some CoolMax clothes to wear underneath—fabrics that wicked the moisture away from my body.

  And suddenly an image popped into my head—a shopping trip with my mother and sister. My mother didn’t like to break a sweat but Zada used to tell her that exercise was part of Islam since the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) had once run a race with his wife Aisha.

  Mama said that she still had no intention of breaking a sweat on purpose.

  We’d laughed so hard. I remembered…

  By afternoon, the temperature was in the high nineties, the mercury approaching 100oF. Any sane person would be indoors with air conditioning or taking a nap. Instead, I was about to follow Clay and Smith around a five mile-circuit and then do press ups, sit ups and throw some rocks around to build strength. I was dreading it. At least Larson had disappeared again.

  Smith told us to look out for snakes, but not to worry about black bears since they ran away from humans. Then he gave us a quick lesson in identifying poison ivy, poison sumac and poison oak. That was a lot of poison. He also lectured us on all the bugs that could get us: mosquitoes, black flies, and the deer ticks that could spread Lyme disease. I sprayed myself liberally with DEET and set out to join the men.

  Clay was his usual happy self, still wearing his Didashah and sandals. But I was surprised to see that James was joining us, too, still in his camo pants, t-shirt and desert boots. He also had a heavy-looking pack on his back, but seemed unfazed by the sweltering heat.

  Smith also wore camo pants but had an assault rifle slung across his shoulders—a shiver ran through me.

  I hated guns. I’d dealt with enough gunshot injuries in ER to loathe them, but now … something else I had to get used to. The mission was everything.

  Smith set a fast pace through the forest, following some narrow animal track. Branches plucked at my niqab, and roots tried to trip me. Soon, I was sweating hard—so much for CoolMax. It didn’t have a chance to work with the niqab covering so much. I’d thought that I was pretty fit, but that was the sin of Pride, because my breath was coming in heaving gasps and I felt like I was drowning under the confining cotton. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, eyes on Clay’s robes, bright white even in the forest’s shade. Smith insisted that I ran in the middle of the pack with James at the rear. He said you didn’t put the weakest person at the back because you’d always be looking over your shoulder to see if they were still with you.

  He was right: I was weak, but I was trying to be strong.

  Karam…

  Sweat ran into my eyes, making them sting. I blinked hard and tried to follow the sound of Clay’s sandals slapping against the dry earth.

  My breathing grew more laboured and swirls of light danced in front of my eyes. I didn’t know if it was the dappled shade under the trees or…

  “Amira’s down!”

  From far away, I heard the voice say my name. My eyes rolled in my head and my brain felt as though it was being slow-cooked in a hot oven.

  Someone tore the niqab from my body, then water was flowing over my face and into my hair, and I gasped at the precious liquid, my hands flailing.

  “Is she okay?” asked Clay, sounding concerned.

  “Take it slow,” said James, his voice so close to me. “Just a few drops at a time … ah shit!”


  I threw up, the whole of my lunch making a return trip. All over James.

  I was too ill to be embarrassed, my ears ringing and my stomach cramping.

  “Damn it, Smith! She’s got heatstroke! She can’t train in that outfit.”

  “I’ll take her back to the cabin,” offered Clay.

  “I got her,” James muttered.

  My limbs felt floppy and uncooperative, but then I was rising through the air, the scent of vomit sharp and acrid in my nose.

  My eyes fluttered open. James was carrying me—one arm around my shoulders and the other under my legs. This was so wrong! I squirmed feebly but he just tightened his grip.

  “Stop it. You’re not fit to walk.”

  I didn’t have the energy to fight either, flopping against him. I was tired, so tired, and I let my eyes drift shut. I was aware of the movement of his body as he strode through the woods, his chest damp against my side, the rhythm of his steps strong and steady.

  I drifted away, vaguely aware that heatstroke could be serious. Yes, I needed to … what did I need to do? My brain wouldn’t function.

  When I felt the light on my eyelids change, I squinted at the dim interior of the cabin, then gasped as James dumped me on the bathroom floor and turned on the shower, cold water drenching both of us. The blissful cool water poured down, and I closed my eyes as he propped me against the tiled wall, his hands wiping the water from my eyes.

  “Drink this,” he said, forcing a bottle of water into my hands. “Drink slowly.”

  I was so thirsty, so horribly, desperately thirsty. I started to guzzle the water but he ripped the bottle away from me.

  “Slowly!”

  He slid down next to me, letting me take small sips from the bottle, the drink cooling me from the inside and the shower from the outside, until gradually, my body temperature started to return to normal, and awareness came back in fits and starts.

  My brain rebooted slowly and I stared up at James, his pale eyes cool as he watched my face.

  “Better?”

  I nodded automatically, but my head wobbled on my neck as if it was too heavy to be supported. I tried to thank him but my throat seemed bone dry and the words turned to dust.

  He grunted something then picked me up again, making me gasp.

  My sodden niqab twined around his arms as he dumped me on my bed, his hands gentle as he touched my forehead briefly.

  “Get changed,” he said. “I’ll be back to check on you.”

  I waited until the door closed behind him, prepared for the wash of shame that he’d seen me uncovered for a second time, but it didn’t come.

  True, it had been a medical emergency, but, but…

  I was exhausted. It took forever for me to shed my wet clothes and crawl into a clean t-shirt and a pair of shorts. My hair was still damp and a bird’s nest on top of my head, but I couldn’t care less. I certainly wasn’t suffering from vanity lately.

  After a few more minutes of feeling sick and very sorry for myself, I heard a light tap on the door.

  “It’s Clay. How are you?”

  Was I disappointed that it wasn’t James who’d come to check on me like he said he would? I reminded myself that I wasn’t supposed to trust him—I wasn’t supposed to trust any of them.

  I wrapped a simple cotton scarf around my head and called out with a hoarse voice.

  Clay opened the door, peering inside but not crossing the threshold. He gave me a small, compassionate smile.

  “How are you doing?”

  I shrugged.

  “Better now. Embarrassed mostly.”

  He grinned.

  “It was pretty spectacular the way you hurled over James. I’ve never seen projectile vomiting like it.”

  I gave a shaky laugh despite myself.

  “You know,” he said kindly, “The Quran 24:31 obliges men to observe modesty: Say to the believing men that they restrain their eyes and guard their private parts. That is purer for them. Surely, Allah is well aware of what they do.”

  “I know that,” I said acidly. “What’s your point?”

  “That’s it’s up to the men to look away, not for you to cover yourself up and make yourself sick. You have to trust us, Amira. Everyone here wants this mission to succeed. Passing out during training is not helping. Wear a hijab if you feel you must, but don’t knowingly make yourself ill again—that is also haram. We need you.”

  He gave me a long, knowing look, then he closed the door behind him as he left.

  Was he right? Was this one of those occasions where Allah would forgive me? I had no one to ask, no one other than Clay who’d called himself a searcher.

  The rising tide of Islamophobia made wearing the niqab a political as well as a religious statement. Our rights were being eroded across Europe: niqabs and burqas had been banned in Denmark, Austria, France, Belgium, Bulgaria and Latvia. And it wasn’t just Europe: the ban also applied in Tajikstan on the frontier with Asia, as well as several countries in Africa, and also China. My human rights to dress as I chose were being swept away. So much fear. So much hatred.

  I lay back on my narrow cot, but before sleep stole me, my thoughts whirled like leaves in the Fall, as I tried to catch them.

  I thought about what I felt and what had happened. It was impossible for me to spend so many hours with James and not see little clues about him, even clues he was trying to hide about the man inside the soldier. James was kind, I could see that now. He tried so hard to be an asshole around me, but his humanity bled through, he couldn’t help it.

  And Clay, he was a total sweetheart and much more willing to let it show.

  James.

  I couldn’t be attracted to him.

  No, no, no.

  James

  I WOKE UP sweating and choked with fear.

  I’d been dreaming about Afghanistan again. I hadn’t done that in a while—such a mindfuck that it had happened both nights since I’d been here.

  My room was stifling, even with the window as wide as it would go and my bedroom door propped open. The slight breeze had fallen away at sunset and the forest around us seemed to hold its breath—silent, watching and waiting.

  Sweat coated my body and I decided that a low tech solution for heat reduction was needed. If you don’t have air conditioning, wear wet socks in bed or lie on damp towels. It helps.

  I sat up reluctantly, wiping my forehead. The air was thick and muggy, tugging at limbs that felt heavy and awkward. I took a long drink of tepid water from the chipped mug I’d left on the wooden crate that served as a bedside table and swiped my arm across my face again.

  There was no moon tonight and the cabins were sheltered by the broad branches of the oldest trees.

  Moving silently, I made for the bathroom. The water in the taps wasn’t cold, but anything was better than this hellish humidity. I stuck my head under the flow of water and splashed my neck, back and chest. Relief.

  Sleeping outdoors would be only slightly cooler than the oppressive cabin, but I’d take that tiny increment of comfort—although I’d need a mosquito net or I’d be bug food by morning.

  Behind me, the floor creaked. I froze, alert to every sound. If Amira was trying to be silent, she was failing miserably. I heard her bare feet shuffle across the wooden floor, the warm timbers groaning quietly. She sighed heavily, and I heard the brush of material against skin. I decided to give her fair warning.

  “I’m in the bathroom, Amira.”

  She squealed and stumbled backwards.

  “Oh, dear Allah!”

  “Yeah, I guessed you didn’t know I was here. Sorry.”

  There was a pause as she took a breath.

  “No, I’m fine. It’s so freaking dark. How come Smith insists we can’t use the generator at night now?”

  “He wants you to get used to hard routine training.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Making you do without—toughening you up.”

  She made a snorting sound then si
ghed again.

  “It makes a twisted sort of sense. So … are you finished in there? I need some water—it’s so hot!”

  “Yeah. I’m going to sleep outside anyway.”

  I brushed past her as I exited the bathroom, and I was close enough to smell the sweat clinging to her skin. It wasn’t unpleasant—slightly sweet, slightly spicy.

  “James?”

  Her voice was hesitant.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you. For today. You were kind. And you had no reason to be.”

  An uncomfortable sensation woke something inside me—an alert, a warning.

  “I was just helping a member of my team. I’d have done the same for anyone.”

  “Oh, sure. Well, thank you anyway.”

  “No worries. Night.”

  “Goodnight, James.”

  I took my pillow, blanket and mosquito net from my bed and headed outside, but my thoughts stayed with Amira.

  Was I beginning to understand her? She tried so hard to act tough, but that’s all it was—an act. There had been moments today when she’d joined in with us, laughed at one of the dumb jokes that Clay was always cracking, but then she stopped herself and retreated again.

  Something was driving her to do this, and I wanted to know what that was. Smith said she’d passed all the vetting procedures, but Smith had his own motives for bringing Amira here—and he wasn’t sharing those.

  I wasn’t supposed to know any background, but it bothered me. I’d worked with undercover agents when I was out in Afghanistan. They were men motivated by money or manipulated into working for the allied forces. Only one I’d met had done it for idealism, and his eagerness got him killed.

  Ahmad had been a nice kid, eager to learn. I never learned who recruited him—hell, he probably approached us. He had an older sister that he looked up to, and he’d hated the way she was treated, hated that the Taliban had closed her school. During training, we all told him to act tougher, be harder, hide who he was—but ultimately, he couldn’t do it—idealism marked him. And that’s what he became—a marked man. Dead at seventeen.

  I’d known from the first day I met Ahmad why he was so driven.