Jimmy Coates: Survival. Joe Craig

as long as she could remember for this and she knew that the dozens of people waiting around her were going through exactly the same rush of disbelief, joy and dread. Some were much older than her, a few were even younger, but they were all looking to her for leadership.

      For a moment she felt a surge of pride. Her father would never have believed that any woman could be in charge, let alone a sixteen-year-old girl – even his own daughter. Impossible. But no one in her parents’ generation had trained as hard or studied strategy as widely as she had.

      Then her pride was overwhelmed by sadness. So few of her parents’ generation had survived. She forced away that thought. It was time to move. It was time to prove why the others were glad to be led by her.

      She raised her head and checked that the fighters immediately around her were watching. Then she lifted her arm and signalled, indicating which teams were to head for which vehicles, exactly as she’d been trained. Time to run.

      The signal was passed down the line and they acted on her command. As a single unit, they rose from behind the mound and charged towards the chaos. They were a silent force among the panic. Everywhere were French shouts, engines roaring and the din of the fires raging at Mutam-ul-it. But the unit ran in silence.

      And none was faster than her. Her black hair flew behind her like a rebel flag. Before she had time to be afraid, she tumbled deliberately into the path of an open-top French jeep.

      It swerved to avoid her, but came so close she reached up and caught the bumper. Sand mixed with exhaust fumes seemed to get inside her skin. She strained her arms to keep hold of the jeep. Though she was slim, her biceps bulged. It was as if every fibre of her body was muscle and passion. Just like training, she told herself, trying to ignore the darts of terror in her heart. She clawed her way up the back of the vehicle until she could reach the tread next to the rear wheels.

      Inside were two huge soldiers in desert camouflage. But she took them by surprise. She punched the base of her palm into the nose of the passenger. Blood exploded all over the cab. Now she had a firm footing on the running board and she grabbed the blood-spattered man by the shoulders. He was unconscious, which made him all the more useful as a battering ram.

      She forced the soldier’s head into the face of the driver. He scrabbled for a sidearm, but the girl stabbed her elbow into his shoulder with perfect aim. She struck the sternoclavicular ligament with such power she heard the bone beneath it shatter. The man cried out in pain and the gun dropped from his hand, while the jeep veered across the sand, out of control.

      She was desperate to grab the wheel, but first she had to reach for the door handle and push the soldiers out of the jeep one by one. She couldn’t believe the adrenaline inside her. Her hands were shaking.

      At last she took control of the jeep. She could feel tears itching to come out, but she swallowed the fright and steered the vehicle round to point straight back at Mutam-ul-it.

      Through the thick smog she could make out everything she needed to know. Her teams had sent a shockwave through the French retreat. Their soldiers were reduced to escaping on foot. Some lay down, defeated; others tried to sprint away, flailing and staggering over the sands. Their jeeps were now hers. And every one of them was hurtling back towards Mutam-ul-it.

      With a smile, she slammed her foot down on the accelerator.

      HMS Enforcer was suddenly frantic. Crew scurried in and out of the command centre, handing print-outs to each other, poring over charts and conducting muttered conversations. Dr Giesel couldn’t keep track of what was going on. His breath was suddenly short and he had to sit down.

      “We think it’s the local rebel force, sir,” came the voice through the intercom, much less assured that it had been only minutes before.

      “You think?” Lieutenant-Commander Love’s face had turned red with fury. He strode up and down in front of the window. “Who trained them?” he bellowed. “How can they do this?”

      He removed his cap to reveal a head of brown hair shaved aggressively short. He furiously massaged his scalp, then ordered, “Arm two more missiles.”

      Dr Giesel sprang up from his seat at the back of the command centre and rushed towards the Lieutenant-Commander.

      “Sir,” he panted, “we can’t do that.” Love spun round and glared with the look of the devil. Despite that, Dr Giesel insisted, “We don’t have another safe target.”

      “We can’t have these people going in and occupying the place,” Love replied, his voice resounding about the command centre. Giesel’s response was less decisive, but immediate.

      “We don’t know which other buildings—”

      “So we’ll hit the same places again.”

      “But the heat from the explosions…” The two men faced off against each other, but Dr Giesel knew his subject. He wasn’t going to be shouted down. “It’s already risky. Another blast could—”

      “What is this – a negotiation?”

      Love slammed his cap back on his head and rushed back to his control desk. He jammed his thumb into the keypad with such anger it threatened to split the plastic cover.

      “No!” Giesel shouted. Love ignored him. Giesel took a deep breath and threw himself at the control desk. Love swatted him away without even looking up and pressed the final digit.

      Giesel heaved himself to his feet and stared out of the control centre window, aghast. A second later, two missiles soared into the air.

      “Right,” announced Lt Cdr Love, mopping his face with a handkerchief. “Get your team on board the chopper. We’re sending you in.”

      “We can’t.”

      “What?” Love scowled as if he was trying to shoot lasers out of his eyes straight into Dr Giesel’s forehead.

      “I tried to warn you,” Giesel said quietly. “Sir.” He deliberately emphasised the word. “My report recommended that Mutam-ul-it would remain stable if you hit those two specific targets.”

      “We did hit those targets!” roared Love. “And we’ll hit them again!”

      “But my calculations were based on a single strike. The heat from two explosions will throw everything off.”

      Love froze. Giesel waited for his message to sink in, but it didn’t look like the man was listening any more.

      “Do you understand now?” Giesel asked, as gently as he could. “After those missiles hit, the whole place could be unstable. There’s no way we can go in.”

      Lt Cdr Love turned away and rested his hands on the control desk. His head hung between his shoulders, hiding his face. Then he coughed and scratched at his collar.

      “Signal Command,” he whispered to nobody in particular. “Tell them we have a problem.”

      09 FRENCH WELCOME

      Opening his eyes felt like lifting up a building. Every part of Jimmy’s body was either totally numb or in excruciating pain.

      Pain means I’m alive, he told himself again, but it wasn’t reassuring. Then he felt a sudden heat in his chest. Within seconds it washed through his body, melting to a soft warmth. It was like diving into a pool of warm honey. It didn’t soothe his pain completely, but it made it bearable.

      Slowly Jimmy became aware of his surroundings. The first thing he saw was soft beige light all around him and a huge ceiling fan whipping round above his head. His nostrils tingled with a bitter smell. It made him think of school on the first day of term. Then he remembered the same smell when he’d lightened his hair as a disguise. Bleach. Jimmy thought. I’m in a hospital.

      There was something soft behind his head which he assumed was a pillow, but when he tried to feel around to check whether he was in bed, he found that he had no sensation in his hands.

      Then