Resurrection Day Read Free

busy that afternoon, only three arrivals since midday, but the elderly cleaner noticed the armed police everywhere. He tried his best to look busy, sweeping the dust in his path with a heavy broom. He whisked the refuse into a long-handled metal dustpan.
    He counted the number of passengers who had come down the Boeing's steps, remembered the descriptions of the vehicles they had climbed into, the number of policemen who guarded them, the kind of weapons they carried — Kalashnikovs and sidearms and the exact time the convoy left the airport. Then he made his way up the stairs to one of the public telephones at the rear of the departures terminal. He inserted a coin in the slot, dialled the number, and heard it ring over two hundred kilometres away in Shusha.
     
    4.30 p.m.
     
    Fawzi's windscreen was streaked with dust and dead flies. The road ahead wasn't up to much, a ribbon of cracked, potholed asphalt. It cut its way through a harsh, deserted landscape of parched, boulder-strewn fields and shale mountains. When the Russians had occupied Azerbaijan the road had been reasonable. Now the country had its autonomy there was no money for repairs.
    Three hours into his journey, Fawzi was well pleased. Hardly any traffic — a few lorries heading east towards Baku, weighed down with farm produce, and the odd few country peasants on mule carts. With luck, the convoy would make Shusha in less than another two hours. Fawzi rolled down his window and looked back at the bus-load of Americans, sandwiched between the two police trucks. The convoy was approaching a dangerous gully on his left, the ground falling off to loose rock, boulders and rough brush. He saw the driver swerve to avoid a deep pothole before he righted the bus, narrowly missing the gully. Fawzi sighed with relief.
    BOOM!
    The sound of a massive explosion fifty yards behind him made Fawzi jump. Missile, something in his mind told him. He sensed the whispering sounds of fragments in the air, and a split second later there was a second explosion, the crack of a fuel tank erupting. Fawzi jerked round, saw the first police truck completely disintegrate in a blaze of red-and-orange flame. Suddenly debris rained down, twisted clumps of metal hammering on the roof and bonnet of his car. A wheel crashed into the road ten feet in front of him, the rubber tyre in flames as it bounced away.
    'Stop the car!' Fawzi roared at his driver. 'Stop the fucking car!'
    The man slammed on the brakes. With a surge of adrenalin Fawzi yanked open the door and jumped out, pulling out his pistol, his driver following. Fawzi saw that the bus was blocked by the blazing truck. The second truck at the rear had already halted and his men were jumping down, cocking their weapons. Fawzi tried to determine the source of the missile, turned to look up at the mountains. His blood ran cold. Another missile came streaking down from the hills, zooming through the air with white smoke pluming from its tail.
    'Oh my God! No!' Fawzi pleaded, the missile hurtling towards him like a deadly comet. 'Get down!' he roared at his driver, and threw himself to the ground.
    The missile screamed over their heads and exploded. The second truck disintegrated with an almighty detonation, sending a ball of flame and oily black smoke fifty feet into the air. Those of Fawzi's men who were still in the truck, and the others who had clambered off the back, were vaporised or blown out of the vehicle with incredible force, their bodies hurled into the air, then raining down in a shower of smouldering debris and flesh. The few survivors, some on fire or badly wounded by shrapnel, screamed and writhed in agony.
    'Bastards!' Fawzi snarled at his unseen attackers, but he didn't move, waiting for yet another missile to strike the bus or his car. With the two trucks in flames, the bus was trapped and vulnerable. He saw the desperate Americans inside, terror etched on their faces as the driver tried to steer the bus off the road and