Going Grey

by Karen Traviss

"None available yet, over."

  "Understood. Estimate, fifteen minutes to the Gibure road. Roger out."

  Technology was never there when he bloody needed it. Never mind; they had a Mk 48 machine gun and a few hundred-round belts in the back, plus an H&K 69 grenade launcher to hand, useful both for smoke and giving someone an emphatic hello. In the end, it was reliable kit and basic soldiering skills that would get him out of trouble. Control could keep their toy planes.

  "Step on it, Sam. Can't afford to misplace a Septic." Rob slapped the dashboard. "Too much diplomatic fallout. One Yank equals twenty Brits equals a hundred of you."

  Sam did one of his terrific belly laughs. "Don't tell them that. They want to be loved."

  "What, aid workers or Septics?"

  "You always make me laugh, Robert. I shall miss you."

  Sam pulled over to the side of the road to let a wide-load convoy pass. It was heading south from Gibure, a mix of tankers and trucks with Morrigan logos on their mud-flecked doors. Rob noted the security escort manned by hairy-arsed, unsmiling, sunglassed white blokes in black T-shirts and body armour, and wondered if contractors ever worked together long enough to feel like family in the same way the Corps did.

  And that's my future. Okay. Can do.

  "I'll miss you too, mate," Rob said.

  He watched the convoy shrink and vanish in the wing mirror. This was how governments liked their overseas wars now — local troops to do the heavy lifting, a lot of Western hired help, and a handful of uniformed blokes like him as "advisers." They called it scalable and flexible. Rob translated that as cheaper and no visible body bags to upset the voters.

  Sam was about to turn off towards Pelayi when HQ came on the radio again.

  "Echo Two Three Bravo, this is Zero — NGO confirms their vehicle's being held on the south side of the Pelayi river crossing by unidentified locals in three technicals, minimum six crew. No injuries. The US mobile asset's employed by Esselby. The locals want payment for using the road, over."

  At least the aid party had been able to call in. "Zero, is this a hostage situation, over?"

  "Negative, treat as a bribe, over."

  Rob ignored that and planned for a rescue anyway. There was looking on the positive side, and then there was being bloody stupid. The crossing on the sat map looked like the kind of spot he'd have picked for an ambush, a choke point overlooked by a hill, with tree cover one side for fire support elements. Sam glanced at it and tutted to himself. He obviously saw it the same way. It was an armed toll bridge by any other name.

  "Roger that, Zero," Rob said. "Difficult location. We could use some support, over."

  "On its way. Two AU patrols about ten minutes behind you. Zero out."

  Rob checked his pouches for the US dollars and local shillings that he took on patrols for those occasions when cigarettes, a watch, or a throwaway mobile phone weren't enough to placate the locals. He kept the cash with his combat trauma kit. That was the measure of its life-saving abilities.

  "I'm going to pull up there," Sam said, tapping the dashboard screen at a point fifty meters from the crossing. "That looks like trouble."

  "Too right, mate."

  The Pelayi road deteriorated gradually from crumbling tarmac to a broad dirt track. Sam kept checking in with the Humvees a few klicks behind, chattering away in French to the Senegalese unit like Jean Paul Sartre on speed.

  He looked happier for the chat. "They've split up to approach the crossing on both flanks to give us cover."

  "Cracking. Better safe than sorry." Rob counted the dollar bills. This was probably just a last-minute rush to squeeze some income out of foreigners before they abandoned Nazani. "I'm good at sweet-talking the local delinquents. Bung them some cash and we'll be home for tea."

  Rob scanned the slopes to the right, looking for signs of activity in the tree line. There'd probably be more blokes behind cover somewhere. He was looking for three "technicals", then, the makeshift gun trucks that every dodgy armed gang seemed to tool around in. According to the sat map, there was no useful cover near the road if things went pear-shaped. The left side of the road was flat for about fifty meters, a handy spot to lay mines to stop anyone skirting the control point. There was so much ordnance washing around the bazaars these days that he always assumed the worst.

  "No cover," Rob said. "Sam, stand by to put some smoke down if we have problems. I don't like the look of the trees."

  Trouble. Check weapons, comms, cam.

  Rob adjusted the microcam clipped to his radio headband in case he needed to prove he'd handed over cash. When the road straightened out of a blind bend, he could see a knot of vehicles blocking the road seventy meters ahead. It resolved into a battered SUV hemmed in by the technicals, three Toyota pickups with Russian RPKs mounted on the back.

  Two of the technicals were parked with their guns aimed down the road. The third faced the opposite direction, giving them a 360 degree arc of fire. These blokes weren't amateurs.

  Rob counted heads while he went through his ritual again, touching rifle, sidearm, and ammo to remind his hands what might be needed. There were eight local lads on and around the Toyotas, all under thirty, five nursing AK-47s and three manning the guns. Next to the SUV, five white civvies – three men, two women – stood in a tidy line that said they'd been ordered not to move.

  Sam brought the ACMAT to a halt at an angle so that Rob was facing the roadblock sideways. At least Sam could get out of the vehicle with the engine block for cover. He was also in position to make a fast exit.

  "That must be the American," Sam said, doing a discreet nod.

  The bloke stood out like the Eddystone lighthouse. He was big and blonde, much taller than the civvies, wearing the unofficial uniform of black T-shirt and desert camo pants that a lot of contractors seemed to wear. No body armour, though, and no weapon: the Nazani lads must have taken them. He looked like the business, but Rob took nothing on trust.

  "When Yanks are good," Rob said, "they're very good. But when they're not, they're a fucking liability."

  Sam fiddled with his headset. "We can rely on your persuasive powers, Robert. And dollars. The Humvees will be in position in a few minutes."

  "Okay, cover the gunner on the left, just in case. Some bastard in the trees has probably got me lined up, but I'll take the other bloke if anything goes wrong. Toss a coin for the third one."

  Rob adjusted his beret and slid out to start the lonely walk to the checkpoint, rifle slung to make it clear he wouldn't take any shit. He glanced at the American, working out whether he was going to help or hinder if things didn't go to plan. Their eyes met for a moment. Rob decided he fell into the Good rather than Liability category. Maybe it was the way he held himself, but Rob just knew the bloke would do what was needed, weapon or no weapon. They stopped short of nodding to each other in silent agreement.

  "Hi. I'm Sergeant Rob Rennie, En-Pro-For," he said. "Call me Rob. Everyone okay? Who's in charge here?"

  A guy loafing in the back of one the technicals jumped down and ambled into the open ground. If he hadn't been carrying an AK-47 and festooned with ammo belts like a terrorist from Central Casting, Rob would have taken him for a distance runner. He didn't have an ounce of fat on him.

  "I'm Tariq." He sized up Rob's weapon. Behind him, one of the technical gunners looked up as if he'd heard something. "You're a Brit. My brother drives a taxi in Manchester. My family, we all learn English."

  Well, that was a good start. Tariq didn't sound like a jihadist, but he didn't have to be to cause problems. Rob treated it like the road toll extortion that it appeared to be.

  "Yeah, I'm English. Good to meet you, Tariq." Rob nudged the conversation closer to the real question. "Okay, what do you want? US dollars? Shillings?"

  "Dollars." Tariq looked past Rob as if he was watching Sam. Rob didn't risk taking his eyes off him. "And we keep the car for our trouble. We like it."

  If the NGO wanted to argue about rusty tin, they could take it up wit
h NPROFOR later. Rob nodded. "Fine. No problem."

  Rob reached into his pouch one-handed and pulled out the dollars. Tariq's gaze strayed past him again for a second, probably watching Sam. If Sam was following the drill, he'd be behind the ACMAT's door with the Mk48 just out of sight.

  The Nazani manning the north-facing gun was still looking up at the sky. Fine – he'd lose a second if he swung around, but Rob was more worried about what was making him jumpy. Jumpy wasn't good when you were negotiating. He hoped it was just the sound of Humvees in the distance. Maybe realising that Rob had backup would make them keener to take the money and go, though. It was hard to tell.

  "Okay, here you go, mate." Rob couldn't count out the dollars without taking both hands off his weapon, so he held out the roll to Tariq, clocking as much in his peripheral vision as he could without looking away from the south-facing gun. Tariq was conveniently lined up with the gunner. That would give Rob another second's edge if he needed it. "All yours when you let the civvies go."

  The guy on the north-facing gun said something to his mate on the ground and pointed down the road. They had their backs to Rob now, murmuring in increasingly urgent tones. Tariq didn't even look around. He just beckoned, confident that someone was waiting to do his bidding. One of his minions herded the two women aid workers out of the group and gestured to them to go. As they made their way towards the ACMAT, they gave Rob a nervous glance.

  Tariq counted the notes, head down. Rob could see him glancing to the side, a bit edgy, so maybe he wasn't as cocky as he'd seemed. Rob concentrated on not spooking him. He just wants cash. If he'd wanted hostages, we wouldn't be here now. Then his radio earpiece clicked and he heard one of the Kenyan Humvee drivers.

  "We're covering the road and the hill — up to twenty contacts in the tree line to your right. We'll deal with them, out."

  It was always much more complicated when civvies were involved. Dead civvies caught in crossfire made bad headlines.

  Hurry up, for Chrissakes, Tariq.

  Tariq finally seemed satisfied and stuck the money in his back pocket. But all his bagman did was separate the two NGO guys from the American to send them across to Sam. So things weren't going to go so smoothly after all, then. Rob bought time fumbling for the wad of shilling notes and caught the American's eye. They both knew the score.

  Rob had come to retrieve five people, and five he'd bloody well have. He knew these bastards. Whatever the country and whatever they called themselves, the Yank would end up sold on to some other bunch of scumbags, handcuffed to a radiator in a shitty basement for the next few years. Nobody sent in a SEAL team to rescue contractors, not even American ones.

  "Okay, Tariq, how about him, then? Is he extra?" Rob looked past him at the American. "What's your name, mate?"

  "Mike," he said. Mike held himself like he'd spent time in uniform. Rob knew instinctively that he'd get on with him just fine. "Mike Brayne."

  "Okay, Mike, let's see what you're worth." Rob held up the wad of shillings to get Tariq's attention. If that wasn't enough, he had about fifty quid in sterling. It all hung on whether Tariq stood to make more from selling Mike on, though, and then things could get awkward. "You've cleaned me out, Tariq."

  Tariq held his hand out to take the banknotes. "And I like your watch."

  Rob felt the tide turn. He breathed again. The watch looked very TAG-Heuerish but it had only cost him a tenner, just a cheapo he took on deployment for times like this. This was probably a pissing contest to make Tariq look more butch in front of his mates anyway.

  Rob played the haggling game, feigning reluctance for a moment. "He's a very expensive Septic."

  "Septic. Ha." Tariq nodded. Honour had been satisfied. "Funny. I understand."

  Rob was unfastening the strap when one of the gunners yelled something and Tariq looked around. They'd heard the Humvees coming, but maybe they'd decided the vehicles were getting too close. One lad got excited and began gesturing. Then all three swung their RPKs around, following the direction of the sound.

  "You set us up?" Tariq wrenched open the door of the nearest truck. His bagman tried to force Mike into the vehicle from the other side. "Bad idea. This American, he's my insurance, you hear? I take him, I go."

  Rob had seconds to calm things down. "Whoa, steady on, mate. They're not after you. We're sorted, yeah?"

  Then someone yelled out, a bloody lookout, probably with a visual on the AU vehicles. Rob didn't need to speak the language to understand the gist of the warning: "Humvees, Humvees!"

  The gunner on one of the other technicals squeezed off a burst of fire. Instantly, rounds punched into his truck from the right-hand slope, and it was too late to talk or think things through. A smoke grenade detonated to Rob's right.

  Thanks, Sam.

  The world was on autopilot now. Tariq raised his rifle and Rob dropped him, then turned on the gunner right in his eyeline. Mike Brayne swung around. For a moment Rob thought he was punching the skinny little Nazani who was struggling to push him into the truck, but then Rob saw the knife.

  Mike must have grabbed it off him. He stabbed the Nazani again, snatched his AK, and put a single round in him before ducking behind one of the trucks to return fire. It couldn't have taken more than seconds.

  Okay. He's the Very Good kind, then.

  Rob was caught in the open with nowhere to run except the nearest technical; smoke grenades were no substitute for solid cover. Mike opened up on the tree line and gave Rob the moments he needed to sprint for the vehicle and skid behind it. Incoming rounds zipped past his head.

  It was hard to tell who dropped the third gunner and his mate, but it looked like they were suddenly hit from all directions. Rounds sprayed from both sides of the road. Rob couldn't see a bloody thing. All he could do was return fire in the general direction it came from and rely on the Humvees to finish the job.

  They seemed to be doing just that. The fire grew more sporadic. Rob reloaded, looking for movement around the trucks.

  Mike called out. "You okay, Marine?"

  "Hoofing. Great."

  Rob knew he should never have tempted fate. As soon as he said it, an RPG shot through the smoke and hit the technical where Mike was crouched. For a deafening second the gun truck was lost in a sheet of yellow flame before dirty grey clouds and a rainstorm of shrapnel swallowed it.

  "Mike? Mike!"

  Rob scrambled to his feet and ran for the truck. Time was completely fucked. He knew he wouldn't even remember the order things happened in. But Mike was down, and that was where Rob had to be right now. It was as automatic as breathing. Rob turned him over. Christ, he was a mess. Shrapnel had ripped him open. It was hard to tell if his face was cut or just spattered, but he was conscious. Rob was set on keeping him that way.

  "Man down." Rob's autopilot did the talking. There was no medic around, just him and Sam. "Zero, Echo Two Three Bravo, one hostage down. Request casevac, out."

  "Green beret," Mike mumbled.

  "Yeah, a proper one," Rob said, breaking out his emergency kit. "It's your lucky day."

  VEHICLE CONTROL POINT, SOUTH OF THE PELAYI RIVER.

  Mike thought he'd pissed himself, but the wet warmth under him wasn't urine.

  It was blood. He could smell it. He put his hand to his chest and his fingers came away sticky. And now he couldn't think straight. He bounced between relief that he hadn't been taken hostage, guilt that he'd leave Livvie to cope alone, and — oddly — curiosity as to which of his senses would be the last to shut down. He'd expected to be alert and focused on his own crisis, buoyed up by adrenaline. Instead, he was watching, detached, as some guy called Mike Brayne was bleeding to death.

  So that's my body numbing everything. Making the end easier.

  Concussion? Head injury?

  Well, shit. I didn't think it'd feel like this.

  Gravel dug into his cheek as a weight pressed down on him. It should have hurt more, but the pain seemed to get lost on the way to his brain.

&nb
sp; "Down. Stay down." It was Rob, the British guy, shielding him. His weight lifted a little. Mike could barely hear him over the noise of the firefight. "Okay, I've got to move you. Sorry, mate."

  Rob rolled him onto his back and dragged him closer to a truck that smelled strongly of gas. Jesus, that felt weird. Mike was sure he was disintegrating and that if he looked back he'd see lumps of himself strewn in his wake.

  Sorry, Livvie. I got myself killed. I won't see you again. That's not fair.

  I'm going down. Isn't nature amazing?

  The gunfire stopped for a moment. Mike stared up at blue sky, yellowish dust, and a black helicopter way above him like a spider on the ceiling. The temperature dropped as he was drowned in shadow. Rob bent his legs and pushed him into a knees-up position, then cut away his T-shirt. Mike tried to cooperate, but it was too much. He gave up and let Rob manoeuvre him like a side of beef.

  "Come on, mate, stay awake." Rob rolled him back to the knees-up position. "Sam, where's that casevac? Yeah, I know. Just fucking get them on task. Fetch me the saline, will you? Steady, Mike. That's it. Talk. Say ouch or something. I'm going to stick a needle in your neck."

  It hurt like hell. Mike felt as if he was being strangled, struggling to breathe, and instantly he was ten years old again, floundering in an icy river and grabbing at rocks as the roaring water dragged him under. His friend Nick – also ten, up for any adventure – reached for him, anchored by a thin branch and a second away from drowning with him. Nick took the risk, unafraid. Grab my hand, Mike. Hang on. And Mike grabbed it. Despite his father's warnings never to trust anyone, he knew there were people willing to spend their own life to buy another's, and that was humanity's one saving grace.

  Mike tried to reach up to test that feeling again, but his hand just flailed above his chest. Rob grabbed it. The crushing grip was the same kind that pulled men from rivers.

  "Yeah, I know it hurts, mate, but I need both hands free for this." Rob tapped his radio headband. "You jobbed the bastard, though. Good effort. I might even have it on video."

  It was almost a foreign language, but Mike understood. He could see some of the detail on Rob's zap patch — Union Flag, SGT, blood group O positive – and just the first two letters of his service number, RE. He could focus clearly on the flash on his shoulder when he turned, though: ROYAL MARINES COMMANDO.