Mortal Happiness: Chapter Twelve

Men’s heavy breathing was loud behind and in front of Jones as he trudged uphill, staring down at the near invisible forest floor where he placed one foot after another and willed himself not to stop. Already he felt the tiredness that came from reduced oxygen and wondered how he would cope when they climbed higher still. Somewhere among the trees was a fast moving stream, its roar muffled by wood and stone. In the dusk the sounds of breath and water seemed all around him. If he half-closed his eyes he could imagine himself in a multi-columned basilica – Cordoba maybe – and not among trees at all.

He knew almost nothing about Nature despite eight years in the Welsh countryside before Cambridge and Harvard. As a teenager he’d planned a future without trees or green things; books had been his escape then - from sheep, hill-farm cousins and reality. He’d enjoyed his ignorance, secretly pleased at the frustration his utter lack of interest in livestock and silage caused his adopted family.

They’d been walking without speaking for over an hour when the track ended abruptly. Without breaking pace Krasin continued upwards into the trees. Jones was surprised by the man’s certainty; the military maps Never flashed him back in the camp had shown no paths or minor routes. But here in the middle of nowhere he felt increasingly free of decision-making and oddly light, despite the raw dryness in his lungs and a craving for nicotine.

Twenty minutes later the climbing was real, almost hand over hand except there was no rock to grasp, only pine needles that slipped like sand through the fingers and underfoot. When they reached flatter ground Krasin stopped, fist raised. The short column halted behind him. Most of the men were gasping for air; one or two were muttering under their breath. Gligorov, who Jones assumed to be some kind of scout, moved forward with Never. The two men stood for a few moments in the near darkness listening quietly to Krasin.

Never returned shaking his head. ‘He doesn’t know what country we’re in for Christ’s sake.’

‘Do you?’

Never grinned.

Jones lit a cigarette; at over two thousand metres the taste was unfamiliar but welcome. A moment later Krasin pulled the cigarette from his mouth, taking a piece of skin with it.

‘Stupid bastard … do you want them to smell us coming?’ Krasin ground the butt into the dead pine needles under his heel as though it were Jones himself. ‘We’d all like one but we have to fucking wait and so do you.’

Jones stepped sideways mostly to avoid the other man’s saliva. He licked his lip, tasting copper and iron.

Krasin turned away. ‘You,’ he pointed to Gligorov then gestured forward, ‘get up there. Let me know what’s ahead and I don’t mean trees. The rest of you, stop whining and remember … pain is just weakness leaving the body.’

As they moved off Jones felt the weight of his own legs hanging like un-oiled pistons from his body. Unlike the others he carried nothing and was still exhausted by the thinning air and steep upward climb. It occurred to him that with the exception of Krasin he was the oldest man in the group; probably too old to be playing soldiers; definitely too old to be playing soldiers up a mountain in the dark. But somewhere beyond thinking or even feeling, on some entirely gut level, he knew that this was exactly what he wanted to do and where he wanted to be and now was not the time to analyse that.

Thirty minutes later they were above the trees, walking on bare rock and shrivelled moss. It was very cold and Jones looked enviously at the sheepskin jerkins two of the men wore over their camouflage gear. The air was dry and thin and his breath laboured now. One by one they all stopped walking. Feeling nauseous, Jones lent forward, palms resting on his knees and head bowed. Still gasping for air he straightened and for a moment forgot how his body hurt and just stared. High, jagged mountains rose sheer in front of him and all around, like ice-warriors closing in. He took a deep, frozen breath and saw needle-sharp stars, tiny glittering holes in a deep black that folded and folded over him until he was dizzy with looking. He stumbled and looked down, shaking his head to clear the dizziness that threatened.

When his breath returned Jones noted that the absence of colour created a virtual landscape with stark contrasts of high reflecting white and low, matt darks. Below the highest peaks glaciers gleamed, smoothing their way down into the dead black sweeps of what must be forest. A single line, a river, twisted, snake-like, across the landscape, steely where the moonlight touched it. He touched the camera hidden in his shirt and wondered if he should take a photograph.

‘Almost worth it?’ Never whispered beside him.

‘Where are we?’

‘Rulini Pass. This,’ Never opened both arms wide, gesturing at the ridge they’re standing on, ‘is our border with Georgia.’

Jones noticed that Never wasn’t out of breath; in fact he seemed almost cheerful, as if the view had made him forget why he was here.

Breathing hard Jones said, ‘And the river?’

‘The Inguri. And that …’ Never pointed away from the mountains, his finger following the river to the horizon, ‘is the land of the Golden Fleece. Tomorrow night we’ll be in the apple orchards and vineyards of history my friend.’ He slapped Jones on the back. ‘Admit it, you’re enjoying yourself!’

Walking down, Jones decided, was harder than walking up. His knees and ankles ached from stumbling over uneven ground. He still felt sick, but at least they were on a path again and it was warmer here, back among the trees. He looked at his watch – more than three hours since they’d left the camp. Initial excitement at the prospect of an adventure was fading and he almost wished he’d taken Never’s advice to keep his head down around Krasin.

The ground began to flatten slightly. Gligorov appeared from nowhere and he and Krasin whispered together. Still trying to get his breath Jones drank thirstily from Never’s canteen.

‘Cigarettes,’ Never whispered, as if reading his mind, ‘they shorten your life, just like meat.’

Uneven teeth glinted in the darkness but Jones didn’t smile back.

Krasin waved them up. ‘Gather round. Gligorov has found a building of some kind up ahead. We don’t know if it’s military so we assume it is. You all know what to do. Any questions?’

Never drew a breath and said, ‘What do you think you’ll find here Sergeant? Your target is what, exactly? A shepherd’s hut?’

Krasin looked at Never. In the light of a shaded torch the sergeant’s pale eyes look preternatural against his camouflage-striped skin.

‘All targets are military in enemy territory, comrade Lieutenant, you should know that.’

‘But we are not in enemy territory, Sergeant. I want that clear right now, do you understand me?’

‘Oh yes we all understand you, don’t we, lads?’

Mumbled murmurs of assent and uncertainty.

‘I’m only following orders, comrade Lieutenant.’

‘What orders exactly?’

Jones heard the tension in Never’s voice, the smug pleasure in Krasin’s.

‘Exactly? To ascertain how and where the locals are aiding Chechen terrorists. Our peacekeeping boys are being killed down there in that pretty view we just passed. I’m here to stop that happening to any of us. You,’ Krasin turned suddenly to Jones, ‘I want you right out of the way. I don’t want to see you, hear you, or smell you, or I might just mistake you for one of them. Understand?’

Jones nodded; it was what he expected. He sensed the waves of helpless anger radiating off Never and wished he felt sorry for him, but Never knew Krasin, should have seen this coming.

As safety catches released all around him Jones felt a rising excitement that was like, but not the same, as the familiar rush of his finger on the camera button. As they started forward he touched the name patch over his left breast.

They moved quietly now with soft steps and almost silent breath and watching them Jones thought how they seemed like solid shadows. For the first time he wondered if Krasin, or even Gligorov, had comms to the camp, or to any kind of support. Until now he’d been too concerned with keeping up and thinking about cigarettes to notice the absence of communication. Perhaps Never was right and no-one knew Krasin was out here, which meant he was not under direct orders and really could do pretty much anything. Jones’s pulse rose fractionally on the thought.

A few stars blinked low on the horizon. The outline of a building emerged from the darkness ahead, light streaming from a single window. He caught the acrid smell of cooped birds followed by the rounder, animal smells of goats or sheep. He gestured to Never, who ignored him and moved forward with the others.

Krasin signed them into a run-down and mostly empty farmyard. Jones crept forward and positioned himself behind a large water tank on the edge of the tree line. Once again he put his hand inside his shirt and touched the tiny camera hanging there. Body-warm, it nestled in the palm of his hand as he looked around. He found it hard to imagine what Krasin was planning here. The farmhouse didn’t look much like a military position, but then he’d seen more innocent-seeming places trip-wired, mined and booby-trapped.

A door opened throwing out a beam of yellow light that illuminated the dried mud of the yard. A youngish woman in a headscarf appeared with a heavy bucket in one hand. Light haloed her briefly, like gold on an icon, before she disappeared into an animal shed. When she reappeared the bucket swung empty at her side. She closed the chicken coop with a wooden stave and watching her Jones remembered doing that same thing; shutting his father’s racing pigeons away for the night, protecting them from predators.

His next thought was unexpected and shocking … I am the predator here. All at once he had a near-overwhelming urge to call out to the woman, to warn her she was not alone, that she was in danger. Instead he moved further into the shadow of the water tank, removed the camera from his shirt and waited.