by Chris Ryan
07.09. Fifty minutes until D Squadron landed.
The sun climbed higher above the hills. Bowman wiped sweat from his brow and scanned the west flank. He saw nothing except the palm grove, the long grass swaying in the faint early-morning breeze. Around him the other guys were watching their individual observation points, glancing at their watches and taking gulps from their water bottles. Mallet smoked a cigarette. Webb took a piss in the far corner of the rooftop. Loader bit into an apple and spat it out, a disgusted look on his face.
‘Shit’s rotten.’ He threw the core away. ‘Tell you what. Them guys in D Squadron had better have some good rations on them. Been ages since I had a decent meal.’
Mallet gave him a disgusted look. ‘You stuffed your face on the jet, you greedy bastard.’
‘A few protein bars, some crisps and sandwiches. That’s hardly what I call a slap-up feast, John. I’m talking about a nice lamb roast with all the trimmings. Like what my Mary cooks. She doesn’t hold back on the portions, either.’ He licked his lips. ‘Best food in Wales, that,’ he added wistfully.
‘She’d better be a good cook. She’s feeding half the fucking country, what with all the kids you’ve got.’
Webb said, ‘What’s the plan once D Squadron gets in?’
Mallet said, ‘No reason for us to hang around. Once we’ve made the handover, our job is done. We’ll wait for clearance from Six to fly out. With a bit of luck, we’ll be back home this evening.’
‘Not a moment too soon,’ said Loader. ‘Give me Swansea over this place any day of the week.’
‘Or anywhere that’s not a war zone,’ Webb added. He shook his head bitterly. ‘I was told I’d be wearing civvies and carrying a PKK when I transferred to the Cell. Fighting drug barons and running surveillance jobs. Now look at us.’
Mallet laughed cynically. ‘Thought you’d be used to it, Patrick. All those years you spent in the SRR and the Rifles regiment.’
Bowman looked curiously at Webb. ‘You were in the Rifles?’
‘Five years. First Battalion. Sniper team.’
So that’s why the guy is so good with a sniper rifle, thought Bowman.
‘Why’d you join them, mate?’ he asked.
Webb stared evenly at him. ‘I had a choice,’ he said softly. ‘The army, or prison.’
‘Fuck me. What did you do?’
He looked away.
‘Long story,’ he said. ‘Another time.’
‘Let’s just focus on getting out of here alive,’ said Mallet. ‘We’re not safe yet. Those Boys might fancy another crack at us before they raise the white flag.’
For the next fifty minutes the team took turns keeping watch over the stronghold. They worked in pairs in half-hour rotations. Two guys on OP duty while the other two guys got some kip. Despite the exhaustion each of them was feeling, they found it impossible to switch off. They were too wired, restless. Like trying to sleep after knocking back a crate of energy drinks. Only Loader managed to get a proper rest.
Then a cry went up from the northern parapet.
‘Vehicles coming this way,’ Webb said.
Mallet and Loader shot up and hurriedly took up their observation points. Bowman looked beyond the treeline at his two o’clock. He saw a large dust cloud stirring close to the horizon.
‘Another load of Machete Boys?’ Loader asked.
Webb paused as he focused his sights on the dust cloud. ‘Doesn’t look like it,’ he said finally.
‘What can you see?’ Bowman said.
‘Buses,’ Webb replied. ‘Three of them. Look like school buses.’
Loader grunted. ‘Bit fucking weird.’
Mallet said, ‘Is there a school round here, Major?’
‘If there is,’ came the reply over the radio, ‘it’s the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘More vehicles inbound.’ Webb was giving a running commentary as he observed the dust cloud through the Schmidt & Bender scope. ‘I see four of them. An SUV. Looks like a Land Cruiser.’ He paused again. ‘A pickup, two personnel trucks. Looks like a substantial force heading our way, guys.’
Bowman felt his guts drop. Mallet rushed over to the north-facing parapet and trained the .50 cal sights on the convoy.
‘Army trucks?’ Loader said. ‘I thought the major said there’s no local garrison in the vicinity.’
‘There isn’t,’ Bowman said. ‘Apart from the platoon at the airfield. And they’re under orders not to abandon their posts at any cost.’
‘Major, are we expecting any friendlies in the area?’ Mallet said into his mic.
‘Let me check,’ Mavinda replied.
Webb watched the dust cloud.
Bowman and Loader scanned the flanks.
Mallet waited thirty seconds.
Then he said, ‘What’s the news, Major?’
There was a long beat before Mavinda replied. ‘Negative,’ he said. ‘There are no friendly forces in the area. Repeat, no friendlies.’
‘So who the fuck are these guys?’ Loader wondered.
Webb said nothing.
Bowman swallowed.
Mallet said, ‘They’re not friendly soldiers. It’s the KUF. They’re here. Them and their Russian advisers.’
Thirty
Bowman looked on as the KUF convoy approached the stronghold from the west. The dust cloud migrated south as the vehicles motored past the village towards the T-junction. The convoy hit the metalled road, and the cloud promptly disappeared behind the broad belt of trees to the north-west of the estate. After a short while, Bowman heard the low distant growl of diesel engines, steadily growing louder as the rebels neared the main road opposite the estate.
‘Mike, Alex. Major. We’ve got a large force of KUF rebels coming our way,’ Mallet said. ‘Get ready. We’re gonna need to hit these bastards hard when they attack.’
Somewhere behind the treeline came the screech of brakes. A thick plume of dust eddied into the sky. Then Bowman heard the pneumatic hiss of bus doors sucking open, the faint din of shouts and cries carrying across the hot morning air.
‘How many guys do you think they’ve got?’ Loader asked.
‘Hard to tell,’ Mallet replied. ‘Twenty men in each truck. Another twenty or so in the buses. We’re looking at maybe a hundred rebels. Could be more.’
‘Jesus.’
‘You think the Russians are with them?’ Webb said.
Mallet said, ‘I’d bet my pension on it.’
‘Let’s hope they don’t decide to join in the fighting.’
‘They won’t. The Russians will be on the ground, directing the rebels. But they won’t get involved in the shooting.’
‘Just as well,’ said Loader. ‘We’ve got our hands full dealing with these fuckers. The last thing we need is a bunch of Spetsnaz guys getting stuck in.’
Mallet and Webb continued watching the treeline. Loader and Bowman observed the east and west flanks.
Nothing happened for several minutes.
Bowman could guess what was happening on the far side of the woods. The Russians would be thrashing out a new plan with the rebels. Taking control of the situation. You’ve had your chance, they would be saying to the Machete Boys. Now it’s our turn. This is what we’re going to do.
They would be organising their forces, briefing them on the attack. The Russians would probably draw a rough map of the stronghold on the ground. A crude model, with a rock to represent the mansion and twigs for the surrounding fence. Branches for the treeline. Leaves for the archway. They would use it to point out features when talking the rebels through the assault. You guys will advance from here. You’ll target this sector. Helping the soldiers to visualise the plan.
Still nothing happened.
‘Guys, have you seen anything?’ Mallet asked twelve minutes later. ‘Any movement around the flanks?’
‘Not a thing,’ Bowman said.
‘Same,’ Loader said.
‘Major, what’s the situation at the rear?’ Mallet asked.
‘All quiet here,’ Mavinda reported.
‘The bastards are up to something,’ Loader said.
‘Any word on D Squadron landing at that airfield?’ Bowman said. ‘They should have landed a few minutes ago.’
‘Checking in now,’ Mallet replied.
He kept one eye on the woods while he dialled the Voice. He spoke in a terse tone as he told Voice about the arrival of the rebels. He described the size of the enemy force, the direction they had travelled from. The information would help D Squadron to plan their route to the stronghold, so they wouldn’t run straight into the enemy. He told the Voice to make sure D Squadron hurried the fuck up.
‘D Squadron has landed,’ he said as he hung up. ‘They’re on the way.’
‘Have we got an ETA?’ asked Loader.
‘Could be anytime. Depends what’s waiting for them lads en route to this place.’
Bowman felt his guts stir. We’re relying on D Squadron to get here fast, he thought. But if they run into a rebel ambush or hit a landmine, if they get held up for whatever reason, we’re done for.
The voices behind the treeline went silent. Bowman heard nothing except the faint whisper of the wind moving through the long grass, the gentle swishing of leaves. He surveyed the palm grove intently, waiting for the first sign of the enemy. Behind him, the other guys were spread out across the rooftop, watching their separate OPs.
‘Rebels approaching,’ said Webb. ‘Three of them.’
‘Where?’
‘Treeline, due east of the approach road.’
Bowman scrambled across the rooftop with Loader. They joined Mallet and Webb along the parapet, aimed their weapons at the dead ground to the south of the wooded area. A moment later, Bowman laid eyes on the rebels.
The three rebels were scuttling across the clearing towards the chain-link fence to the right of the archway. One of them wore a purple basketball shirt. Another sported an orange cap. The third guy was dressed in a gilet and a female blonde wig. He carried a pair of bolt cutters in his left hand.
‘Machete Boys,’ said Webb.
‘Must be the dregs,’ Mallet said. ‘The guys we didn’t wallop first time round.’
Bowman squinted at the treeline. ‘Looks like they’re alone,’ he said.
‘Why haven’t they got any support?’ Webb asked.
‘Them idiots must have a death wish,’ said Loader. ‘Either that, or they’re pissed out of their minds.’
‘Patrick, wait until they get closer,’ said Mallet. ‘As soon as I give the word, I’ll slot the bloke in the wig. You drop the others.’
They watched the rebels as they drew closer to the fence. The guy in the blonde wig was trailing a couple of paces behind his comrades, increasing his stride in a bid to catch up with them. He was almost level with the other rebels, fifteen metres from the fence, when the .50 cal exploded.
The man jerked, as if he’d run into a clothesline. He was still falling away as Webb fired two quick shots at the other targets. The guy in the basketball shirt, the guy in the orange cap. They were both dead before they hit the ground.
‘Keep your eyes on the front,’ Mallet said. ‘There might be more of the fuckers on the way.’
Bowman and Loader scanned the woodland on the left side of the approach road, looking for movement in the narrow gaps between the trees. Webb and Mallet watched the patch of ground to the right. But no one emerged from the woods. The ground outside the estate was eerily quiet and still. Mallet got on the open radio and briefed the team on the ground.
‘What was that about?’ Gregory asked. ‘Why would the Russians send those guys to their deaths?’
‘They’re testing us,’ Mallet said. ‘Probing for weak points. They want to know if we’ve got eyes on the perimeter fence.’
Gregory was silent for a beat.
‘They’re going to hit us soon, then.’
‘Looks that way,’ Mallet said grimly.
‘Reckon we’re in for a proper fight this time, guys,’ Loader said. ‘These Russians ain’t stupid.’
‘No. They’re not.’
‘Do us a favour, John,’ Gregory said over the comms.
‘Aye, what’s that?’
‘Leave some of the enemy for us this time. You bastards have had all the fun up there.’
Mallet laughed drily. ‘Be careful what you wish for.’
The stillness continued. Bowman and the rest of the rooftop team searched the treeline for the enemy. Every few minutes Mallet checked in with the team on the ground to see if they had spotted anything. Time inched past. Like a sports team watching the clock and finding out they were only three-quarters of the way through a gruelling match. Bowman sipped bottled water, squinted at his G-Shock.
08.12.
He looked back at the woods.
In the distance, a single shot rang out.
‘What the fuck was that?’ Loader asked.
Then the fence exploded.
Bowman glimpsed the split-second pulse of orange flame in the north-west corner of the estate. Then came a deafening bang as a pall of smoke spread outwards, engulfing the chain-link fence in a teeming mass of earth and debris. Acrid smoke bubbled upwards, mushrooming into the early morning sky.
Amid the chaos, Bowman saw that four sections of the steel mesh had disappeared. A forty-metre-long stretch. Only a single scorched post remained standing.
‘Fuckers have planted charges!’ Loader yelled.
Bowman stared in shock at the breach, his stomach knotting. The KUF rebels must have crawled right up under our noses, he thought. We were busy watching the forest, waiting for more rebels to appear, while they were rigging up the fence with explosives. It wouldn’t have taken much to bring the fence down. An ounce of PE on each post would have done the trick. The gunshot must have been the signal for the team to detonate.
These guys are good at fieldcraft. They had a plan to distract us from the breach and it worked perfectly.
He glanced quickly round the rooftop, wondering if the rebels had sent any more teams to sneak around the flanks or the rear. His heart was beating so hard it threatened to burst out of his chest.
We’re about to get hit hard.
‘I see them!’ Loader bellowed. ‘They’re coming!’
Bowman swung back round. He gazed out across the northern fringe of the woods. As the smoke cleared, he saw a long line of figures charging out from the treeline. He counted roughly sixty of them. They were spaced widely apart and decked out in olive-green T-shirts, military jackets, dark jeans. Some wore black berets or armbands. Two rebels in each group brandished large machine guns with bipods mounted to the barrels and metal ammunition boxes attached to the underside of the receivers. Bowman had seen such weapons before. PKMs. Manufactured in Russia. Similar to the Gimpys, and just as deadly.
Webb and Mallet scrabbled over from the other end of the parapet wall. They dropped down and went into prone firing positions beside Bowman and Loader in the north-west corner.
‘Alex!’ Mallet roared. ‘Start lobbing mortars on the treeline! Fire for effect!’
The rebels charged across the exposed ground. Then Bowman heard the hollow pop of the mortar firing as Casey and Lanky got to work. The bombs crashed down on the ground in front of the treeline with a series of explosive crumps, vaporising half a dozen rebels towards the rear.
‘Pull back twenty metres,’ Mallet ordered. ‘Fire for effect.’
Smoke veiled the clearing. More bombs fell on the area close to the rebels, churning up the soil. The ground was starting to look like something out of the Western Front. Metal shredded a trio of rebels on the left of the line, taking them out of the fight. The others held their nerve and ran on towards the breach. Determined not to lose the momentum of their advance, in spite of the death raining down on them from above.
These guys are different to the Machete Boys.
They’re motivated. Trained.
Bowman emptied a couple of bursts at the figures
gaining ground towards the stronghold, clipping one rebel as he weaved past an exploding mortar. The defenders kept up their furious rate of fire but the rebels were spread out more thinly than the Machete Boys, reducing the effectiveness of the Gimpy bursts, forcing Bowman and Loader to drop individual targets instead of multiple opponents.
A hideous scream cut through the air as another mortar shell tore into the enemy ranks, ripping four rebels to pieces. Their comrades didn’t stop. They ran on through the explosions and the gunfire, like soldiers charging across no man’s land a hundred years ago. The rebels were now less than forty metres from the destroyed section of the perimeter fence. Mallet got on the team radio again, shouting to make himself heard above the deafening crump of the mortar shells.
‘Pull back, Alex! Twenty metres! Fire for effect!’
As the rebels drew nearer two men in camouflaged ghillie suits promptly stood up from the grass. They quickly moved forward, joining the rest of the attackers. So that’s how the rebels managed to plant the charges, Bowman realised. The men in the ghillie suits would have inched across the clearing to the detonation points while the defenders had been busy watching the trees. With their camouflaged outfits, they would have easily blended in with the surrounding greenery. Once the rebels had placed the charges, they would have retreated to a safe point outside the danger zone, then waited for the signal to detonate.
We’re dealing with pros here.
In the next instant, the rebels poured through the fence line and separated into three loose assault groups spaced twenty metres apart. The groups on the left and right of the line swiftly disappeared from view as they dropped into a shallow depression. Mallet was shouting into his mic, telling Casey to pull the range back to the four-hundred-metre mark. More shells smashed into the area where the fence had once stood, hurling wads of incinerated soil and torn bodies into the air.
Then Bowman saw the middle assault team moving forward. Dozens of muzzle flashes suddenly lit up across the depressions as the two flanking groups opened fire at the rooftop.
