He remained in that position for a short while, taking a moment to recover. Any elation that he felt having managed to survive was overshadowed by a fear he’d gone too far off course. He checked his altimeter. Three minutes before his chute opened. The backpack was still between his legs. The chute square on his back. The stealth suit flapping wildly. He hoped it was doing its job. If so, some Russian radar technician somewhere was seeing a dead bird plummet having struck a passenger plane bound for Beijing.
The blue sky instantly disappeared and everything was bright white. Keeping his arms outstretched he pulled in his knees. The move flipped him over and seconds later the cloud disappeared and there was the planet. He checked the compass beside the altimeter and turned himself to face north. The terrain was sandy brown with clumps of dark foliage and snaking streaks of black and grey. On the western horizon he could make out the rectangular patterns of cultivated fields. To the north was the salt lake of Elton ten miles across. It was supposed to be north east of him. He was way off.
He turned to face west and adopted the tracking position, keeping his body as thin as possible, his arms by his sides and legs straight, forming a saucer curve with his arse higher than his head. The wind tore at him but he didn’t experience any obvious sense of forward movement. He knew that in theory, in that position, his vertical drop would be around 120 mph while his horizontal speed should be 70 mph.
He concentrated on the area directly ahead. It was slowly moving towards him and began to fit the map he’d memorised. He could see the winding road with a distinctive loop in it that he needed to be inside. He adjusted his aim towards it, willing himself forward. 8,300 metres high. He kept the position. He was getting closer.
Gunnymede watched the altimeter spin through the numbers. As it closed on 3,000, his concentration grew more acute. He needed to be another click or so. He would keep tracking until the auto pull released his chute. At 1,500 meters the ground came into sharper focus as it accelerated towards him. The gauge passed 800, 700, 600. Heading for critically low! Had the auto pull failed? He flared out, halting the track, his hand quickly searching for the ripcord. As his fingers found it Gunnymede felt the heavily loaded spring in the release mechanism pop. His body jerked hard as the chute opened, like crashing into a wall, his chin hitting his chest, every bit of air knocked out of him, the harness straps biting into his thighs. Just as suddenly he was upright under a rectangular canvass, the ground almost within reach.
There wasn’t much time. Whoever had configured the barometric pressure reading had cut it fine, no doubt because the lower the opening the less chance there was of being picked up by radar. He grabbed both steering toggles and yanked down on them. As they came level with his chest he felt the chute move back. He released them to prevent it stalling. The ground was rocky. It quickly rose up to meet him. A broken leg would end the operation and probably his life. A couple of metres from impact he shut the cells. The chute stalled as his feet hovered above the ground and he touched down lightly. As the chute collapsed ahead of him he unclipped it and it fell away.
Holy mother of God, I’m alive!
He had no time to waste as he pulled his way out of the stealth suit and harness and unstrapped the assault rifle from his side. After collecting the chute, he folded it into a bundle along with the stealth suit and covered it with rocks. It wasn’t perfectly hidden but then it was unlikely that the location saw any human traffic. The position was miles from civilisation and not exactly attractive hiking or hunting country. There was no indication of the country of origin on any of the gear if it was found anyway. He pulled the pack onto his back, cocked his assault rifle and climbed onto a rock to inspect the direction he needed to head. A check through the scope gave him a finer view. The sun remained behind the cloud he’d passed through and the air was chilly with a slight breeze. It didn’t look like rain. Perfect conditions.
Gunnymede unlocked his phone, pulled up the SIS app, used the fourth fingerprint of his left hand to open it and selected the satellite image he’d been sent. He zoomed out the image until the Spice Road came into view and orientated it to fit his position. The nearest point of the road was five clicks south. Another satellite image opened showing five seconds of footage of three vehicles driving along a dirt road. Taz’s convoy. The footage had been taken minutes before and relayed to him. The lead vehicle looked like a Toyota Hilux. The map showed Gunnymede’s position relative to the convoy. Taz was on his way.
Gunnymede took a slug of water from the bladder, had a pee, adjusted the pack on his back and headed off at a good pace.
The terrain was rough going and an hour later he caught sight of the road which was on lower ground a couple of hundred metres away. He removed the pack and gave the area a 360 through the scope. There wasn’t much in the way of cover between his position and the road so he decided to stay where he was. He didn’t need to be any closer to achieve his aim anyway.
He removed the bags from his pack containing the Rapto technology and within a minute had attached the antenna and battery to the control box. When he switched it on, an amber LED flickered before turning green. The device made a soft noise followed by a READY message on a screen. Gunnymede checked the network indicator on his phone. It had changed from the Russian network it had been using to searching which meant the Rapto was doing its job. Seconds later, it went back to the Russian network. A series of numbers appeared on the screen. It was his phone’s ten digit MIN. All appeared to be working.
A sound drifted to him on the breeze and he looked towards the eastern approach expecting to see the three 4x4s. There was nothing there. He looked west to see a vehicle heading east along the road. A 4x4. Through the scope, he could see it was a black Ford.
Another engine sound and he looked east again to see three vehicles come into view. Taz’s convoy. Gunnymede checked the Rapto to see it was already busy loading numbers onto the screen. Within seconds it had recorded seven different MINs. No doubt they included any phones in the Ford. Not that it mattered. GCHQ could track a hundred thousand numbers and match the right one with Taz using a facial recognition system at the first opportunity.
Gunnymede’s job was done. A boy scout could’ve done it.
He connected his phone to the Rapto which automatically connected to GCHQ and relayed the data while watching the vehicles move along the road. As he dismantled the gear, he glanced at the Ford and Toyotas as they slowed to pass each other on the narrow road. As he watched, the Ford swerved to a halt, blocking the road causing the Toyotas to brake hard kicking up a cloud of dust, four men with assault rifles leapt from the Ford and opened fire, running along the sides of the convoy, concentrating their fire into the cabs. Gunnymede was stunned. It was an ambush.
Saleem had been seated in the front passenger seat of the rear Toyota, staring out over an uninteresting landscape of brittle bushes, rocks and sand. It’d been a similar view all the way from the Kazakhstan border. He was still cold. The driver, Ibrahim, had asked him if he minded not turning on the heater because it made him sleepy. Saleem had no problem with that. The man had fallen asleep once already while driving. They were crossing Turkmenistan at the time. Saleem had to grab the wheel to prevent what could’ve been a disaster. If he had died, the operation would’ve been cancelled, or at least, just as bad for him, given to someone else. Since then, Saleem didn’t sleep while Ibrahim drove. Saleem was the most important item on the convoy as far as he was concerned.
Saleem and Ibrahim had no knowledge of the black Ford heading towards their convoy. With the dust being kicked up by the lead Toyotas they could see little beyond the vehicle in front. Ibrahim kept pretty close to the tail of the other Toyota. That particular habit had irritated Saleem from the start of their journey and after the first few hundred miles he asked Ibrahim why he drove so close. Ibrahim said he had a fear of another vehicle cutting in to try and separate them. Saleem accepted that as a sound strategy on a busy road. But when Ibrahim continued to do it on narrow dir
t roads in the middle of nowhere where the chance of someone cutting in was zero, Saleem asked him again. Ibrahim’s excuse in that case was the concentration helped keep him awake. Saleem philosophised that any help in that department was welcome. He’d more chance of surviving a collision with the back of a vehicle than driving off a cliff.
The Toyota in front stopped suddenly on the packed sand. Ibrahim hit the brakes and skidded into the back of it. They never wore seatbelts and so both men slammed into the dashboard, Saleem hitting his head on the windshield. Neither was badly hurt. Just stunned. But what followed was unexpected and far worse.
Machine-gun fire.
Ibrahim froze as his brain struggled to process what was happening. It was the same for those in the other Toyotas. Saleem, however, was a veteran of vehicle ambushes. The majority of his experiences had been from the air but he’d survived a few ground attacks. Despite being in the drug smuggling business, Ibrahim and the others had never experienced anything like it. Saleem had learned that in a vehicle ambush, if the vehicle you’re in isn’t moving, then get the hell out of it because it’s the vehicle that’s attracting the bullets. And you’d better move really fast!
Saleem barged open the door. Bullets slapped through the Toyota in front as the attackers, on the other side of the vehicle, blasted it on full automatic fire. Saleem saw blood literally spurt out of the metalwork and shattered windows as the driver and passenger were riddled. The attackers would soon be upon the last vehicle. Saleem had seconds. For half of one he remembered his shoulder bag on the floor that contained his personal effects. But even the time spent grabbing for it would likely mean his end. As it was, he probably wouldn’t make it.
Ibrahim was still in his seat as he looked over at Saleem climbing outside. For a slender moment he realised he should be doing the same. Then bullets shredded his head and torso. Those same bullets flew within inches of Saleem who took off with all his might and ran as hard as he could between rocks.
More bullets splattered and ricocheted to his sides as the shooter saw him run. Saleem changed direction as another burst smashed into stones around him. He scrambled up a short incline, rolled over the top and down the other side as bullets flew above him.
Silence fell as the shooting appeared to stop but he continued to run as hard as he possibly could. He would keep running and scrambling until his heart failed him. If there was one thing members of Daesh had learned over the last few years in Iraq and Syria when under attack it was how to run, and run and run.
Gunnymede watched the ambush unfold before his eyes. In less than a minute all three Toyotas were neutralised. One of the attackers looked like he was pursuing someone. He gave chase for a short distance before giving up.
When the firing ceased, the men moved in to open the doors. A shot rang out as a survivor was executed. Silence descended except for the wind gently blowing through the brittle foliage.
Gunnymede processed the situation as he watched the attackers ransack the vehicles, opening up the backs and hauling boxes onto the ground. To do absolutely nothing and stay completely still was his initial choice. Safest. Wisest. Smartest. Stay put until the attackers had gone then get out of there.
He considered the implications of the unfolding incident, the positives and negatives. Lamardi had suggested there was a significant component in the convoy connected to Saleem’s threat against the homeland. Worst case scenario, it could be a bio-chemical substance or dirty bomb material. A nuclear bomb was a distant possibility. There had been rumours for years about a few old Russian miniature suitcase nukes running about from the Cold War. It wasn’t worth thinking about. If there was anything, it was going to be bio-chem. If so, it was now in the hands of a bunch of unknowns. But then, on a positive note, GCHQ would be able to track the MINs and eventually put faces to the men. On the other hand, that might not happen until after they’d handed the device over to other players.
Gunnymede didn’t want to face what was swiftly emerging as a problem for him. He really couldn’t sit back and do nothing as these clowns walked off with what might well be a serious WMD. The main reason he couldn’t do nothing was because he was the only person who could. If the device left this location, it could end up anywhere. It could kill a lot of people.
‘Shit!’ he muttered softly. He had to make an effort at least. It wasn’t worth dying for since there might not be a device. But he couldn’t take the risk there was.
Four to one. If he was going to have any chance at all he needed them all together. It would have to be a surprise. An ambush. Swift and decisive. No chance for them to retaliate.
First thing first, he needed to get to the road and ahead of them. But which direction should he go? Would they head east towards Kazakhstan or west back into Russia? The Toyotas were shot to bits and would have to be moved for the Ford to get past. Very unlikely. And since the attackers came from within Russia the chances were they’d be returning.
West it was.
He scrambled over the rocks, keeping low as he hurried along, confident the men were too busy to watch the countryside. He soon came to the road. The vehicles were out of sight around a slight bend. But a couple of steps onto the sand and he could see the back of the Ford. It hadn’t moved.
He quickly crossed over and stepped into a rocky outcrop. It was a good position, feet from the road with cover from view and fire. He reminded his hands where everything was – pistol in side trouser pocket, spare rifle mags in left jacket pocket, spare pistol mags in right. This was crazy. He was going to do it. He knew himself well enough. Once he was in the right position he would go for it. He knew he would. Shit!
An engine revved! He craned to get a look. The Ford was moving back and forth, turning around in the narrow road. Shit! They were coming his way. This was it. He was going to do it. The adrenaline started to shoot through him.
As the Ford moved off towards him he brought the scope up to his eye. Two men in the front. The back was in darkness. The other two had to be there. Where else would they be?
The vehicle gradually accelerated towards him. Going through the gears. His finger rested on the trigger. There was an optimum moment. Not too far away. Not too close. He had to have time to get everyone.
When the Ford was twenty metres away Gunnymede squeezed the trigger releasing a long, sustained burst. He aimed for the driver first, holding the barrel on him for several bullets then moved it left, right, left, easing it from side to side, keeping all the rounds in the vehicle. The magazine emptied. He moved his fingers as fast as he could. Ejected the empty mag, dug another out of his pocket and shoved it in, hit the breech mechanism and the spring slammed it forward. By the time he’d changed mags the Ford was level with him. He fired into its side, raking back and forth between the front and rear seats. He ran out of bullets again as it rolled on past him, left the road, bumped into a mound of rocks and stalled. Gunnymede replaced the magazine and moved in. The vehicle was motionless apart from steam hissing from the ruptured engine. There was no other movement. Every window was shattered. The doors were heavily punctured. He could see all four men inside, the two in the back clearly dead, their heads ripped open, brains spilled out. The driver was the same. It had been overkill. A blitz. But he’d got the job done without a shot being returned which was the plan.
To his surprise, the front passenger, however, was not dead. He had somehow miraculously survived. The man turned his bloody face to look at Gunnymede through one good eye and stared, unblinking, his breathing laboured, as if waiting for an answer to a question. Gunnymede couldn’t let the man survive. There were too many reasons to kill him and not one to let him live. Gunnymede drew his pistol and aimed. The man didn’t flinch. He’d just executed the survivors of his own ambush and knew what was coming. He understood.
Gunnymede fired a single shot into the man’s head which flew back against the door frame. And that was that.
He went to the back of the vehicle and opened it. Several shoe-sized boxes fell ou
t. The entire back was crammed full with more of the same. He opened one. It was tightly packed with brown paper packages.
There was a sudden roaring scream and two jet fighters shot low overhead. Gunnymede dropped to cover as his eyes shot skyward and his heart leapt into his throat. He watched as they disappeared beyond the horizon. It was time to go. He speeded up and unwrapped one of the packages. The paper was stiff and coated in a thick brown wax. Inside was a firm, lightly tanned, rectangular doughy lump. He knew what it was before he picked at a corner and it crumbled into sugary granules. Afghan heroin. He removed the lids of several of the boxes. They all contained the same packages. There must’ve been a couple hundred kilos of the stuff. He looked back towards the Toyotas. The attackers appeared to only want the heroin. There was nothing else in the back.
The sound of jet fighter engines suggested they were circling far away. He soon found them. Seems like the dead bird didn’t fool the radar operators for too long. Gunnymede was confident he had a little time. This was a remote location to get any response to other than aircraft.
He jogged along the sandy road to the Toyotas as the fighters continued their circle. The driver and passenger of the leading vehicle were hanging out of the open doors washed in blood. Inside the back were various boxes that had been opened to reveal pistols, magazines and ammunition. The ground was littered with more of the same. A wooden crate lay open with packets of plastic explosives. He inspected the other two vehicles to find similar items. Grenades, mortars, pistols, rifles, bullets. But no heroin. It was all in the back of the Ford which seemed to prove it was the target booty for the gang. He looked in the cabs, front and back. Everything was soaked in blood. He checked under seats looking for concealed compartments. He pulled off any panel that looked like it might be capable of hiding a specially sealed, ominous looking container designed to carry hazardous material. Nothing.
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