by Chris Ryan
‘This isn’t a spectator sport, Tiny. They won’t want to stick around when the shooting starts.’
Mallet tapped his pressel switch. ‘Mike, Alex, Major. Heads-up. The locals are scarpering. We’re about to get engaged.’
Webb kept the AWC trained on the ground to the north of the mansion. The others scanned the flanks and rear. Bowman tightened his right hand around the GPMG grip. The pain between his temples had faded. He wasn’t thinking about the pills anymore, or how long until his next hit. Every fibre of his being was concentrated on the imminent battle.
Then Webb said, ‘Enemy movement. On the approach road. There’s a technical with them. Coming this way.’
‘Move!’ Mallet shouted.
The others swiftly converged on the north side of the parapet. Bowman and Loader stood with their GPMGs resting on the top of the stone capping, either side of Mallet. The latter dropped to a prone firing position and poked the .50 cal barrel through an opening in the parapet. Bowman peered through the Gimpy scope and saw the stone archway at the far end of the front drive, four hundred metres to the north of the stronghold. He saw the clearing beyond. The dark mass of woodland either side of the approach road, screening the main road from view. He concentrated on that area, straining his eyes.
Then he saw the technical. Which was basically a battered pickup truck with a machine gun mounted on a tripod on the rear platform. The distance from the rooftop to the vehicle was something like six hundred metres but Bowman could clearly identify it. He saw the gun mounted on the back, the gunner. The technical was crawling along at walking speed towards the stone archway.
Two groups of rebels were moving forward in the shadows either side of the truck, staying close to one another. A safety in numbers thing, Bowman guessed. He couldn’t see their faces at this distance, but he could easily distinguish their shapes through the GPMG sights. The driver had killed the technical’s headlights to reduce their visibility.
Loader said, ‘The Machete Boys?
‘Looks like it,’ said Webb. ‘Three of them are wearing lucky charms.’
‘They won’t be feeling so lucky in a few minutes.’
‘Do you see any weapons, Patrick?’ said Bowman.
‘Most of them are carrying AK-47s. A few have got pistols or knives.’
Mallet hit his pressel switch and spoke into his throat mic. ‘We’ve got incoming rebels. Approaching the archway. Don’t fire unless I give the order.’
‘Roger that,’ Gregory said.
‘Roger,’ said Casey.
Mallet scoped out the enemy with the .50 cal. ‘Tiny, on my signal you take the guys on the left of the technical,’ he said. ‘Josh, drop the fuckers on the right. We’ll deal with the technical.’
Bowman exhaled and kept his cross hairs fixed on the rebels. Dawn burnished the sky, a ribbon of orange rising above the distant hills. The shapes to the left and right of the technical grew more distinct as they neared the clearing. Bowman understood why Mallet wanted to wait. If they fired too early, the Boys would scatter into the woods. Better to hold their fire until they had broken beyond the trees. Once they were in the open ground, there would be nowhere to hide.
‘How many guys have you got eyes on, Patrick?’ Loader asked.
‘Thirty,’ said Webb. ‘Two more in the technical. One driver, one on the back manning the machine gun.’
‘A small unit for an assault.’
Bowman said, ‘They’re not expecting a big fight. They probably think they’ve only got to deal with a few guards.’
‘Patrick, I’ll go for the engine,’ said Mallet. ‘You take out the driver and the guy on the back.’
‘OK.’
Bowman lined up the wire cross hairs with the cluster of figures to the right of the technical. A series of horizontal lines marked the vertical axis of the graticule. To help the shooter compensate for things like bullet drop and gravity. As Bowman looked on, the technical crawled past the treeline and reached the clearing.
The rebels swarmed forward either side of the vehicle. There were no guards at the sentry box to the side of the archway. They had been deliberately withdrawn to one of the gun pits at the rear of the stronghold. Part of the trap the team had set, designed to lure the enemy into a false sense of security. The Machete Boys would see the abandoned guard post and think the building was poorly defended. They wouldn’t spot the soldiers on the rooftop, not at this distance.
Not until it was too late.
‘Wait,’ said Mallet.
The last of the rebels glided past the treeline. The men in both columns were closely grouped together, Bowman noticed. Which was a big mistake. A professionally trained unit would have advanced to the target in a loose formation. Massed ranks of infantry were easier to cut down than individuals spaced far apart from one another.
The Boys cantered on alongside the technical as it came bouncing down the approach road towards the archway. Then they broke across the clearing. They moved five metres beyond the treeline. Then ten metres. Fifteen.
Twenty.
Mallet waited another second.
Then he pulled the trigger.
Twenty-Eight
The gunshot thundered across the breaking dawn.
Bowman looked through his scope as the half-inch-thick round struck the front of the technical, cratering the radiator and the cylinder block, killing the engine. Which was the smart move, from a tactical point of view. Kill the vehicle first, instead of the guys on foot. Disable the main threat. Specifically, the machine gun mounted on the back of the technical. Bowman couldn’t identify the weapon from this distance, but he assumed it was a DShK or similar. Something Russian, in the heavy machine-gun family, with an effective range of about two thousand metres. A much more serious threat than the AK-47 rifles the foot soldiers were packing. The team didn’t want to be on the receiving end of a burst from the technical.
The pickup jerked to a sudden stop in the middle of the clearing. Smoke gushed out of the sides of the bonnet. Bowman heard a sharp ca-rack as Webb took aim and fired the AWC. The smaller calibre sniper rifle. Chambered for the 7.62 × 51 mm NATO round, lethal up to a range of eight hundred metres. The bullet starred the front windshield, killing the driver before he could debus. Webb cocked the bolt in one smooth motion and fired a second time. The rebel on the back of the truck tumbled away from the machine gun. Three quick shots and the technical was out of the fight.
The thirty Machete Boys either side of the truck froze.
The suddenness of the attack had shocked them. Like getting punched in the face by a stranger in the street. They were experiencing sensory overload. Three of their mates had just been wiped out in a few seconds. No one knew what to do. The Boys had no plan B. They had walked straight into an ambush. Everything had gone to shit.
‘Open up with the Gimpys!’ Mallet shouted. ‘Now!’
Smoke was still pouring out of the engine block as Bowman aimed at the close grouping of rebels to the right of the knackered technical. His left hand rested on top of the GPMG’s plastic stock, his right clasped the grip, creating a stable firing platform. A few metres away, Loader was standing in front of the parapet wall, pointing his weapon at the massed group of figures to the left of the stationary pickup. No need for the operators to shelter behind the parapet itself. The Boys were going to get dropped before they could loose off any rounds. No more than two seconds had elapsed since Mallet had fired the first round from the .50 cal.
The rebels were thirty metres from the perimeter fence. Seventy metres from the wooded area to the north. No man’s land.
The kill zone.
Bowman fired.
A gout of flame spewed out of the Gimpy snout. Spent link and cartridges pinged out of the ejector on the right side of the receiver, tinkling against the cement floor as Bowman emptied two bursts at the Boys to the right of the technical, cutting down five of them in a storm of hot lead. At his nine o’clock, Loader was letting rip with the second Gimpy, poleaxin
g the rebels to the left of the approach road.
Both soldiers fired again. Two more five-round bursts apiece. The industrial duh-duh-duh of the machine guns filled the air. The bullets tore through the targets at a downward angle and punched through the guy immediately behind them before they smacked into the soil, flinging clumps of dirt into the air. Every fifth round was a red tracer, to help the shooters see where the bullets were falling. Several of the tracers on both sides of the truck ricocheted off the ground and fired upwards into the lightening sky, like rockets at a firework display.
More than half the targets in both groups were dead on the ground. Sixteen or seventeen bodies.
The surviving Boys instantly scattered across the exposed terrain. Running in different directions in a frantic search for cover. Every man for himself. Bowman heard the clipped report of the AWC, the deeper boom of the .50 cal as Webb and Mallet joined in with the fighting. They were taking down opportune targets while the two GPMGs dealt with the larger groups. One guy in an animal-print jacket and shades leaped onto the rear of the technical in a desperate attempt to take control of the machine gun. The AWC ca-racked. The man toppled backwards from the gun, limbs flailing as he dropped to the ground. To the left of the technical, another rebel wearing a beanie hat started to raise his AK-47 at the stronghold. The .50 cal boomed, the man’s head exploded in a bright-red spray.
The remaining stragglers fled towards the cover of the treeline, running as fast as their legs could carry them in their desperation to escape the killing ground. Mallet shot one guy in the back as he legged it across the road. The remainder disappeared into the woods to lick their wounds before the defenders could rip them to shreds.
Bowman stopped firing. So did the others.
The fight had lasted no more than ten seconds. He counted more than twenty bodies on the ground in the clearing. Which was more than two-thirds of the attacking force. The Boys hadn’t even had the chance to loose off a few rounds at the stronghold. They had been crushed. Annihilated. The definition of a one-sided victory. Like a football team racing into a five-nil lead before half-time.
Bowman focused on the treeline in case any of the surviving Boys came back for another go. But the ground remained quiet. No rebels came charging out of the woods.
‘That should shut the bastards up,’ Loader said after several moments.
Mallet stared at the dead in the clearing and nodded slightly. ‘For a while, aye.’
‘You think they’ll come back?’ asked Webb.
‘They have to,’ Mallet said. ‘They’ll know the president’s family are inside now. The Machete Boys will work that out pretty fast. They’ll be better prepared next time.’
‘They’ll want to avenge their dead mates, too,’ Bowman said.
‘Let ’em try,’ Loader said with a snort. ‘They haven’t got a clue when it comes to tactics. We could slot these jokers in our sleep.’
‘Everyone OK down there?’ Mallet asked over the radio.
Three OKs came back. First Casey, then Gregory, then Mavinda. Mallet briefly updated the major on the situation at the front of the stronghold. The brief skirmish with the Machete Boys. Their ragged retreat into the woods. Everyone seemed confident. No one was panicking. They had just given the enemy a licking without taking casualties of their own. And they had a stack of ammunition left to expend. Bowman rubbed his aching, tired eyes and looked down at his G-Shock: 00.44. More than two hours until D Squadron was due to land at the private airfield.
Mallet was squinting at his damaged phone screen.
‘Anything from Six?’ Loader said.
‘No news,’ Mallet said back. ‘The airfield is still clear. D Squadron’s still due to arrive at eight o’clock.’
‘Any reports of KUF rebels in the area?’ Bowman asked.
‘Not as far as we know.’
Webb looked at him with a serious expression. ‘Do you think they might come here?’
Bowman shrugged. ‘Mike told us the KUF and the Machete Boys are allies. The Boys are bound to alert General Kakuba. For all we know, his men might be on their way already.’
Mallet tore off a piece of bread, popped it into his mouth. ‘If those guys were nearby,’ he said. ‘We’d know about it. Six would have sounded the alarm.’
Webb gazed out across the treeline, eyes narrowed, searching for any sign of movement among the shadows.
‘How long until the Boys come at us again, do you think?’ he said.
‘Half an hour,’ Mallet said. ‘Maybe a little longer. They’ll probably wait for their mates to turn up before they have another crack at us.’
‘Bastards will want to get some booze in their system and all,’ Loader chipped in. ‘We’ve just given them a serious fright. They’ll need some Dutch courage to get over it.’
Bowman looked from the abandoned technical to the stone archway at the front of the estate. A thought slowly taking shape.
‘We should block that archway with that technical. Seal off the estate from the approach road. Stop any vehicles from getting through.’
‘How?’ asked Loader.
‘We can use one of those Land Rovers we saw parked out front.’ Bowman pointed to the entrance. ‘Hook the winch around the technical and drag it over. That would make a decent barrier.’
‘Good idea,’ Mallet said. ‘Go down there and sort it out.’
‘I’ll need some help.’
‘Get a few of the major’s men to lend a hand. We’ll stay on the rooftop and watch for enemy movement. If we see anything, we’ll let you know. And make it quick. Those fuckers will be back soon enough.’
*
Bowman raced across the rooftop to the fire exit. As he hurried down the stairwell, he raised Mavinda on the radio and told him to send over half a dozen guys to meet him at the front of the estate. He ran down the second-floor corridor, past the heroic paintings of Seguma. Down the staircase. Through the front door.
The six Karatandan soldiers were waiting for him on the steps. Toothbrush, Pockmark and Lanky. Plus three others. Bowman led them over to the three mud-caked Land Rover Defenders parked to the left of the entrance. He got into the lead Defender with Toothbrush and Pockmark. The other four climbed into the second wagon. There was no need to mess around looking for the keys. Gregory had confirmed that they had been left inside the vehicles. Bowman gunned the engine and swung away from the mansion. He sheered around the grotesque fountain, the second Defender close behind as he sped towards the front of the estate four hundred metres away.
Bowman pulled up a few metres short of the stone-built archway, with the vehicle facing straight down the throat of the approach road. The second Defender halted two metres to the rear. Bowman left the engine running, engaged the parking brake and got out with Toothbrush and Pockmark. The four Karatandans debussed from the other Defender. They gathered around as Bowman gestured towards the clearing littered with the dead Machete Boys.
‘Spread out across there,’ he said. ‘Get into firing positions. You see anyone coming through that treeline or down the road, you shoot. Don’t hesitate.’
Toothbrush led his muckers across the clearing, dodging the broken bodies. Half of the soldiers fanned out and took up positions facing out to the woods. The others cleared the stretch of blacktop between the technical and the archway, dragging several corpses into the long grass either side of the road. Bowman circled round to the front of the Defender. He grabbed the metal hook from the end of the winch rope and walked the cable over to the technical, unspooling it from the drum. He looped the cable around the roll bar on the front of the truck, tested it, then jogged backed over to the Defender. Then he released the lever on the side of the drum and started winching in the technical.
The cable tensed as it hauled the pickup towards the stone arch. Bowman reeled in the winch wire until the technical was four metres from the arched entrance. He engaged the lever again, cupped his hands as he called out to the soldiers.
‘One of you, over he
re!’ he yelled. ‘Get inside the truck!’
Pockmark broke away from his mates and dashed across to the technical. He pulled open the door on the side of the front cab, dragged out the slotted driver, slid behind the steering wheel.
‘Yank the wheel hard to your right,’ Bowman shouted at him. ‘Keep it turned until we’ve brought the truck side on.’
Bowman released the winch lever again. At the same time Pockmark spun the wheel round, turning the pickup away from the archway so that the winch hauled it in at an angle. Bowman kept winching until the technical was broadside with the arched entrance. He pulled the lever, unhooked the end of the cable from the roll bar and walked over to the truck. Pockmark dived out of the cab as Bowman clambered on top of the rear platform. He climbed over the slotted rebel next to the mounted machine gun and wrenched up the carry handle on the side of the weapon, detaching the barrel. He quickly dismantled the other working parts, the guts of the gun. Then Bowman clipped the winch hook to the bipod welded to the platform floor, hopped down from the truck, hurried back through the entrance and dumped the barrel and the other working parts in the back of the Defender.
‘Get over here!’ Bowman shouted at the soldiers. ‘Now!’
Toothbrush hollered at his men. They scurried back from their defensive positions and linked up with Pockmark beside the truck.
‘Get round to the far side,’ Bowman said, pointing to the truck. ‘As soon as I give the word, start pushing it towards the Land Rover.’
The men slung their weapons over their shoulders as they lined up along the far side of the truck. Hands planted firmly against the bodywork. Waiting for the signal from Bowman.
He hit the lever. The winch started to wind in.
‘Push! Put your backs into it!’
The soldiers shoved their collective weight against the technical. The winch motor groaned under the strain. The truck rocked heavily on its wheels. Bowman thundered at the men, roaring them on. The soldiers pushed once more, and then the pickup came crashing down, landing onto its side between the archway pillars, the exposed chassis facing out towards the clearing. The dead Boy tumbled out of the rear platform and fell to the ground in a bloody heap. Bowman pushed him aside, untied the winch cable from the machine-gun bipod, released the lever, paid in the rest of the wire, then secured the hook on the front of the Defender.
