Empire of Gold

by Andy McDermott

  The two stragglers needed no further prompting, Chase catching up with his commanding officer on the hillside. ‘Mac, those women – they’re all dead!’

  ‘What? How did the Terries even get near them?’

  ‘They didn’t. It was Stikes – that bastard shot them!’

  Mac’s expression was one of shock, but before he could reply a shout from Starkman interrupted them. ‘Mac! Hammer Four-One is inbound, three minutes away. They want to know if we need support.’

  A crackle of AK fire came from behind them. The Taliban were through the smokescreen. ‘I’d say that was a yes,’ Mac told Starkman with a wry grin as the soldiers shot back. He raised his voice. ‘Strobes on, strobes on! Gunship inbound!’

  Chase switched on the infrared beacon attached to his equipment webbing. The strobe light’s pulses were invisible to the naked eye – but would flash brilliantly on the approaching aircraft’s targeting screens, warning its gunners of the location of friendly forces.

  In theory.

  ‘Alexander!’ Mac shouted as Starkman made the call. ‘Get the civvies to the landing zone – take Will and Kev. The rest of us will cover you. Go!’

  Stikes gave him a thumbs-up and took the lead. Chase saw that despite the danger the hostages were slowing, already worn down by maltreatment and hunger. And the landing zone was still over half a mile away.

  Worse, the Taliban were gaining. They were moving cautiously down the slope, keeping in cover behind rocks, but they had the tactical advantages both of moving forward and having the higher ground, while the rescue team had to back up as they fired uphill.

  ‘Should we hold ’em off here?’ Chase shouted to Mac as they crouched behind adjacent boulders.

  Mac expertly assessed the area. ‘Further back, nearer the entrance to the pass. If we can hold them from there, it’ll give the hostages time to reach the choppers.’ He pointed at a large rock. ‘Behind that. We can—’

  ‘RPG!’ screamed Starkman. Chase immediately scrunched down, covering his face and ears as a rocket-propelled grenade streaked down the slope and exploded less than thirty feet away. The rock protected him from the direct effects of the blast, but the detonation was still painfully loud at such close range. Stones and dirt rained over him. The warhead had been high explosive, not a shrapnel-filled anti-personnel charge, but this near it was no less dangerous.

  Bluey, though further away, had been without cover and unable to do more than throw himself flat on Starkman’s warning. Chase saw the Australian clutch at his head. ‘Bluey! You okay?’

  ‘Those dirty little bastards!’ Bluey yelled back. ‘Copped a stone to my fucking noggin!’ Still on his stomach, he slithered round and fired his machine gun up the hill, then scrambled behind a jagged rock.

  Bluey wasn’t the only person affected by the explosion. The hostages were still a hundred yards short of the pass – and panic consumed one of them. He broke from the group and ran for the closed canyon. ‘Green!’ shouted Stikes. ‘Get that idiot back here!’

  Green followed – but the Taliban had already spotted the running figure. AKs barked, gritty dust spitting up from the ground around him. The Welshman rushed to tackle him—

  Too late. The man was hit, spinning before dropping like a discarded doll. Green, only a couple of feet behind, was caught too, a round ripping into the side of his chest. He fell with a choked scream, trying to crawl behind the hostage’s body for what little protection it provided.

  ‘Man down!’ Mac cried. Chase swore. Green was exposed, over twenty yards from any usable cover. The Taliban kept firing. If they had another rocket, it would soon follow their bullets.

  He knew what Mac’s plan would be before he said it. ‘Alexander, get the civvies to the choppers!’ the Scot yelled. ‘Kev, Jason, get Green. Everyone else – give them cover!’

  Chase sprang up from behind his rock and opened fire, his C8 now on full auto. Conserving ammo was no longer a consideration; all that mattered was for himself, Mac, Castille and Bluey to force the Taliban to keep their heads down until Starkman and Baine recovered their wounded comrade.

  He picked one AK flash and sprayed it with bullets until it stopped, then moved on to another. His magazine ran dry; he ducked and thumbed the release to eject the empty mag, pulling a replacement from his webbing and slotting it into place with a precise, intensely practised move before tugging back the rifle’s charging handle to chamber the first new round. The entire process took barely three seconds, and he rose to fire again.

  Mac and Castille were just as efficient, the rattle of their guns getting louder as sustained fire burned out the suppressors. A shriek came from the hillside. Another Taliban down. But he couldn’t tell how many remained. Too many.

  The onslaught had achieved its purpose, though – the AK fire had all but stopped. Chase glanced towards Green, seeing Starkman haul him upright, Baine running to assist. It would take both men to carry the wounded trooper to the landing zone, and while they were doing that the amount of fire they could provide would be extremely limited. The team was effectively down to five fighting men.

  And it would soon be just four. Bluey’s withering storm of lead was now reduced to intermittent bursts as the Minimi’s ammunition supply ran low. The Australian only had one ammo load: two hundred rounds was normally more than enough.

  Baine and Starkman supported Green, moving at a jog towards the pass. ‘Keep firing!’ Mac ordered as the thud of Kalashnikovs resumed. Chase sprayed one of the muzzle flashes with fire. He scored a hit. The AK flailed madly, blazing skywards before falling silent. Another magazine change, and now conservation was an issue – he only had one spare mag remaining.

  Stikes and the hostages were out of sight, Baine, Starkman and Green nearing the pass. In the distance, Chase heard the thud of rotor blades.

  ‘Hugo, Bluey, move out!’ Mac called. ‘Eddie, cover them!’ He was about to say something else when his radio squawked. He crouched, struggling to hear the message over the noise of Bluey’s machine gun as the Australian and Castille retreated for the ravine.

  Chase switched his Diemaco back to single-shot, trying to pick off the shooters up the hill. Bullets cracked off his cover; he flinched, shielding his eyes from flying stone chips, then snapped his sights on to the source of the fire and pulled the trigger. A dark shape beside a boulder flopped to the ground.

  Green and his companions entered the pass, Bluey and Castille not far behind. ‘Eddie!’ Mac yelled. ‘Come on! The gunship’s—’

  A rising high-pitched whine from the sky drowned him out—

  An explosion ripped a crater out of the hillside sixty feet in front of Chase. The blast knocked him off his feet. His senses reeled as if he had taken a fierce punch to the head, a ringing rumble almost blotting out all other sounds. Somehow, he made out another shrill noise and clapped both hands to his ears. A second detonation shook the ground.

  The air support had arrived.

  Orbiting the battle zone was an American AC-130U ‘Spooky II’ gunship, a humble Hercules transport turned angel of death. Instead of cargo, it carried three cannons, ranging from a 25mm Gatling gun to a 105mm howitzer, jutting from its port side so they could be fixed on a target as the aircraft circled. The weapon that had just fired was a 40mm Bofors gun, an artillery piece originally designed to shoot at aircraft rather than from them. With its battery of sensors, a Spooky could locate and destroy ground forces from several miles away.

  And Chase was in its sights. ‘I’m on your side, you fucking idiots!’ he shouted.

  Another explosion, and a fourth, but higher up the hill. Chase hoped that meant the Bofors gunner had finally seen his strobe. He looked round. Mac was now at the pass, signalling frantically for the Englishman to follow.

  He shook off the earth and grit the 40mm rounds had thrown on to him, realising he had lost his radio headset, and stood. His hearing returned, the distant pom-pom-pom of the Bofors accompanied by the shriek of incoming shells. More explosions on the hi
llside. He ran for the pass. Mac gave him one final wave, then sprinted after the rest of his men. The Spooky would keep the Taliban pinned down with its awesome firepower, giving the rescue team all the time they needed to reach the waiting choppers—

  The Bofors stopped. One last explosion, and the battlefield behind him fell silent. Either the Taliban had been completely obliterated, or . . .

  Chase looked to the sky, and realised the battle wasn’t over. The Spooky’s orbit had carried it behind part of the mountain, placing a barrier of rock between its weapons and their target. The gunship would already be gaining altitude to compensate, but the surviving Taliban now had a chance to continue the pursuit.

  Feet pounding, he reached the pass. Mac was over a hundred yards ahead. No gunfire from behind—

  A new noise instead. Engines. Not the AC-130 clearing the mountains, but motorbikes.

  The Taliban were riding after him.

  Two headlights swept down the hill, glare obscuring the bikes and their riders – but if the Taliban had any remaining rockets, one of the men would surely be carrying the RPG-7.

  The entire mission was now in jeopardy. An RPG round could easily bring down a helicopter.

  Ahead, the ravine opened out on to the plain. Mac was already clear, running towards a sputtering red flare marking the pick-up point. The choppers had not yet touched down, the Black Hawk moving in while the Little Bird circled. Stikes had radioed the pilots to tell them they were collecting only fifteen men rather than the expected twenty; it would be a tight squeeze, but they could all cram into the Black Hawk to save the MH-6 from having to land.

  All the eggs in one basket. They didn’t know about the bikes.

  Another glance back as he left the pass told Chase that he would never reach the landing zone before the Taliban caught up. Instead he charged for the giant spearhead of rock poking from the sands.

  The Black Hawk was about fifty feet above the ground, dust swirling out in concentric rings beneath its rotor vortex. The men at the landing zone shielded their faces from the gritty onslaught. Mac still hadn’t reached them, looking for Chase – and seeing the headlights. He tried to shout a warning to the others, but his voice was lost under the helicopter’s thunderous noise.

  The lead bike, two men aboard, burst out of the pass. It turned to follow Chase – until its driver spotted the more tempting targets on the plain. It swung back, the man riding pillion raising his weapon.

  The RPG-7. Loaded and ready.

  The second bike roared after its original prey, the passenger firing his AK-47 at Chase as he dived behind the rock. Bullets splintered the stone beside him, but he couldn’t shoot back – his attention was fixed on another target.

  The Taliban with the rocket launcher took aim, the RPG-7’s sights fixed on the Black Hawk as it hovered the final few feet above the ground. The helicopter was two hundred metres away, large, barely moving – an unmissable target.

  Mac’s shouted warnings finally reached the soldiers. They dropped, pulling the hostages down with them.

  Chase fired his C8 on full auto, emptying his magazine into both the bike’s riders. The old Soviet motorcycle swerved . . .

  But the trigger had already been pulled.

  The rocket-propelled grenade burst from the launcher as the bike tumbled. It streaked past Mac and hissed over the men on the ground, heading for the Black Hawk—

  Thrown off target, the conical warhead only caught the cockpit canopy a glancing blow. The rocket spiralled away, exploding harmlessly fifty yards beyond the helicopter.

  But the danger was far from over. The pilot had jerked in fright at the impact. The Black Hawk rolled sideways. The tips of its rotor blades dropped towards the ground, carving through the air like a giant circular saw . . .

  Straight at Castille.

  The Belgian froze as he saw the helicopter bearing down on him. The blades buzzed at his face—

  The pilot yanked the collective control lever and applied full throttle. The Black Hawk lurched upwards, engines screaming - and the rotor passed six inches over Castille’s head, the force of the displaced air knocking him flat. ‘Merde!’ he screeched, hurriedly patting his hands over the top of his skull to check it was still attached.

  The gunman on the second bike kept shooting. Chase scrabbled backwards as more bullets cracked off the rock, but the Afghan would have a direct line of fire in moments.

  And he was out of ammo.

  Three seconds to reload, but he didn’t have even that long—

  Instead, he flung the empty rifle with all his might. It arced through the air – and hit the bike’s driver hard in the face as he rounded the formation. The bike crashed down on its side, throwing the two Taliban into the sand.

  The gunman groaned, then realised he still had his AK. He saw a figure in the moonlight and brought up the rifle—

  Chase fired first, four shots from the Sig P228 he had snatched from his chest holster slamming into the man’s upper body. The Taliban slumped lifelessly to the ground. The driver struggled to rise – and another two shots to his head dropped him beside his comrade.

  Breathing heavily, hands trembling from a burst of adrenalin, Chase lowered the Sig and looked across the plain. The Black Hawk had finally touched down, the rescue team bundling the hostages into the cabin.

  But now he could hear another sound echoing through the pass. Not the roar of more motorcycle engines.

  The pounding of hooves.

  ‘Oh, fucking pack it in!’ he gasped. The bike’s engine was still sputtering, but the front wheel was buckled. Unrideable.

  Two options. Either sprint for the Black Hawk, and be trampled or shot before he reached it . . . or make sure it took off safely and got the hostages and his comrades home.

  The decision was made before the thought was completed. He recovered his rifle and loaded his final magazine. The last few men boarded the Black Hawk. Even from this distance he could pick out Mac’s grey hair, his commander – his mentor, his friend – waving for him to run to the chopper. Chase instead crouched and took aim.

  The first horseman emerged from the pass, hunched low on his galloping steed with an AK raised in one hand—

  Chase tracked him, firing twice and bowling the Taliban off his horse. But his rifle’s suppressor was now completely burned out, and the shots had given away his position. Another horseman appeared, and a third, charging at him.

  A mechanical roar: the Black Hawk taking off. Three more riders thundered from the ravine, going after the helicopter as it lumbered into the air. AK-47s chattered, tracers streaking after the rising aircraft. Moonlight flashed off another RPG-7 as a Taliban slowed his mount to take aim. A burst from Chase’s C8 cut him down before he could fire. The chopper was safe, but now the nearest riders were almost upon him—

  A sizzling chainsaw rasp from above – and men and horses alike were torn apart by a laser-like stream of orange fire.

  The Little Bird swooped down, its twin six-barrelled Miniguns blazing as each unleashed over sixty rounds per second at the Taliban forces. It pulled up sharply, pivoting to follow the surviving horsemen, then fired again. Hundreds of spent shell casings hailed down around Chase, one plinking off the top of his head and singeing his scalp. ‘Great, now I’ll have a fucking bald spot,’ he muttered as he fired at the last of the horsemen. The shot hit home, but it became academic a moment later when the man literally disintegrated under the force of the MH-6’s firepower.

  The Miniguns stopped, but he could still hear more horses approaching. Holding back a curse, he looked up at the Little Bird as it started a rapid descent towards him.

  No time for it to land. This would have to be a moving pickup, and he would only have one chance . . .

  He glimpsed the pilot in the green light of his instruments, his night vision gear making him look like a cyborg. The Little Bird was coming right at him, slowing, but still travelling at twenty miles an hour.

  Chase jumped—

  The skid
slammed against his chest. He wrapped his arms round the forward support strut and clung for dear life as the MH-6 went to full power. The helicopter surged skywards, Chase flapping beneath it like a banner.

  He turned his face away from the downwash to see the plain wheeling below – and tracer fire rising up after him as more Taliban came out of the pass—

  They disappeared in a tremendous explosion as the AC-130 reacquired its targets and, friendly forces now clear, fired its big gun. The blast from the 105mm shell collapsed part of the ravine, burying the Taliban under tons of rubble. More explosions ripped along the length of the pass as the Bofors gunner dealt with any stragglers.

  The Little Bird levelled out, flying after the Black Hawk. Chase heard a voice; he squinted up to see the pilot shouting at him from the doorless cockpit. ‘Are you all right, man?’