The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  Steve nodded and hopped out, “Idris give me a second.”

  I squinted out of the square Plexiglas window, streams of dust trailing across it. Beyond the armoury several armed men strode towards a boxy, sand-coloured beast of a vehicle. Next to the vehicle a striking, dark-haired woman was strapping on body-armour.

  “Here you go,” said Oz. He passed me a well-used G3 rifle and a fabric bandolier of magazines. I took the weapon and hauled him into the heli. He had his own G3 and a small canvas bag containing a clutch of grenades.

  Steve came puffing behind him, sweat making a spider’s web across his dust-plastered face. He cradled a General Purpose Machine Gun in his beefy arms, belts of ammunition snaking around his neck. “Help me with this,” he gasped.

  Idris took off as we dragged Steve onto the deck. He scrambled to his feet, hooked a karabiner into his safety harness and attached the machinegun to the door-mount. The heli gained altitude, dropped its nose and hurtled on a parallel course to the pick-ups. The little convoy had stopped, a huddle of bandits discussing what to do next. I guessed they expected a lightly defended survey facility, not well-armed mercenaries. On the rear-most vehicle, men wrangled with the Dushka, protected by a metal plate welded to the weapon’s tripod. We were coming out of the sun, the men shielding their eyes.

  “You’re in range, Steve,” said Idris over the intercom. He used that slightly bored, cold-as-ice tone pro-pilots adopt when faced with danger.

  Steve nodded his helmeted head, body shuddering from recoil as he opened fire. The mount stabilised the machinegun, allowing him to hose tracer down onto his target. Bullets raked the line of pick-ups, scattering men as they sought cover. The vehicle with the Dushka pulled forward, into cover behind a cluster of spindly black trees.

  “Put us down,” I shouted.

  Steve nodded as he continued to fire, shouting into his intercom. Hot cartridge cases bounced off the deck, gun smoke swirling about our ankles. Idris circled the pick-ups again, this time drawing fire. I saw a puff of white smoke as the bandits opened up with their RPGs. The rockets flashed beneath us, close enough for me to see the sparkling warheads.

  The Dushka gunner opened fire, their position marked by a shimmer of dust thrown up from the recoil. Beer-can sized blobs of tracer arced into the baby-blue sky. Their aim was off, but the glowing snake of tracer began to slither towards us. Idris lost height, like he was dumping the heli into the ground, before levelling no more than five metres above the desert floor. He aimed for a hillock two hundred yards from the leading vehicle.

  “Get ready,” warned the pilot.

  I snapped back the cocking lever on the G3 and shouted my acknowledgement. The Puma hovered for a moment, the undercarriage almost touching the ground. We bundled out, rolling into cover. The black shadow of the heli washed over us and was gone. More blobs of tracer zipped past us, along with the steady chug-chug-chug noise of the Dushka.

  Oz and I scrambled to the top of the high ground and fell to our bellies. We found ourselves on a baked-mud escarpment overlooking the convoy. The rebels had parked a Dushka-equipped technical in a dried riverbed, flanked by straggly trees. The tracer from the Dushka was chasing Idris, the gunners aiming ahead of the Puma. They would hope that the heli would fly into the stream of 12.5mm shells, but Idris was better than that. Losing speed, he jinked the chopper again, hurling the Puma in a tight circle and flying away in the opposite direction.

  I could see part of the armoured shield protecting the Dushka, obscured by a clot of acacia and thorn trees. The G3 fired a punchy 7.62mm round, and the weapon crew were well in range.

  “I can see it,” Oz hissed. “Where are the other tangoes?”

  I glanced left. The other bandits had taken cover near their vehicles, weapons aimed at the sky. A couple of men were shouting, urging them to head towards the camp. I lined up the top of the shield covering the Dushka in my iron sights and aimed off a fraction into the trees, where the crew should be. The G3 bit into my shoulder as I fired, Oz joining in. We fired ten shots each, peppering the area around the vehicle-mounted weapon.

  The Dushka stopped firing. I saw something crash into the trees, flailing and tangled in the thorns. The other bandits suddenly switched on, realising they’d been flanked. A ragged burp of machinegun fire swept the ground in front of us. We ducked as more gunfire sailed over our heads.

  “A tenner says there’ll be an RPG in five seconds,” Oz grinned.

  It wasn’t a bet I needed to take. We shimmied down the embankment on our arses as the first rocket hit the top of the hillock, earth raining down on us. The rest of the enemy were to our left, another hundred yards towards camp.

  “Oz, I reckon they’ll try and flank us with that Dushka, once they’ve got their shit together.”

  He nodded, sliding a fresh magazine into his G3, “agreed: assault towards them with grenades, go firm and wait for the cavalry.” He handed me a smoke grenade from the canvas bag slung across his shoulder.

  I pulled the pin and nodded.

  “Throw that,” whispered Oz, “then cover me, I’ll head for those trees.” He pointed in the direction of where we’d hosed down the Dushka crew.

  I scurried up the embankment, digging my feet into soft, gravelly sand. I was glad I was wearing my trusty Lowa boots. Peeping back towards the enemy, I saw gunmen rushing back to their vehicles. Now we were closer I noticed black banners with white Arabic lettering fluttering from the aerials. They were lovingly made, the script surrounding a curved sword motif. They’d left a couple of guys with a light machinegun covering them, another dude scanning the sky with an RPG. I could hear, but not see, the Puma.

  “Go!” Oz hissed, rifle ready.

  I nodded. Sweat stung my eyes as I tossed the smoke grenade as far as I could, and opened fire.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The grenade spat red smoke, drawing fire from the rear of the convoy. I thumb-flipped the Happy Switch on the trigger group, opening fire on automatic. The weapon spewed hot brass, my ears ringing at the metallic bark. The lack of return fire meant I was keeping their heads down, allowing Oz to move forward.

  Oz darted through the smoke, across the open killing ground. He rolled into cover as he neared the trees, hurled a grenade in the direction of the Dushka. I heard a dull crump, and Oz was back on his feet, weapon spitting flame as he advanced.

  I slid another magazine into my G3 and emptied it in short bursts. The breeze was dragging the smoke away from me, back towards the camp. A skinny guy darted into the open to my far left in a flanking move. I had no idea where he’d come from, but he had an RPG launcher balanced on his shoulder. Muzzle flashes from a dozen weapons sparkled, incoming fire forcing me back down the slope. I had no comms, no grenades and only three more charged magazines.

  I took a deep breath, blood pounding in my skull. I heard the sound of RPG rockets fizzing, men excitedly shouting instructions. Sliding back down the slope, I darted towards where I’d seen the RPG operator. We almost ran into each other as I broke cover. The RPG guy was a wiry Somali. He dropped the launcher, his fist scrabbling for the canvas holster strapped to his belt. My G3 was already pointed at his belly. I squeezed the trigger and a burst of 7.62 rounds tore into him, lifting him off his feet and shredding his guts in a spray of wet gristle. Bawling, he writhed on the ground. I shot him again, in the temple, and picked up his RPG. I felt bullets cracking through the air around me as I took a knee, aiming at the boxy shape of a pick-up truck through the swirling red smoke. The convoy was still in a neat row, awaiting the signal to advance.

  The launcher was already armed. I fired.

  The RPG grenade spun like an oversized firework as it slammed into an old Toyota. The pick-up was shrouded in fiery smoke as men tumbled from it, groaning and yelling. As they tried to scurry away they were torn to pieces by heavy machinegun fire, the heavy thud of the Dushka ringing in my ears. Through the acacia trees I saw Oz stood on the back of a bullet-riddled pick-up, huddled behind the Dushka. I dropp
ed the RPG and sprinted towards him. The smoke was thinning now, revealing the burning Toyota and shattered corpses. I saw the remaining four pick-ups speed towards the camp.

  “Jesus,” said Oz. “That was close.” There were three bodies scattered around the blood-stained pick-up, the metal shield pock-marked with multiple bullet strikes from our G3s.

  I climbed into the cab, hand searching for the ignition. The engine was dead, the hood pock-marked with our incoming fire and tyres shredded by grenade-shrapnel. “Where’s the heli?”

  “Fuck knows,” shrugged Oz. “They might have taken some incoming. It was like bullet soup when they dropped us off.”

  We advanced towards the Toyota I’d brewed up with the RPG. A body draped across the bonnet wore a crude canvas bag with three RPG rockets stored in it. Tugging it from the dead man’s back, I retrieved the launcher. “Let’s go.”

  Oz nodded, helping himself to an AK and stuffing his pockets with spare magazines. We moved forward, the line of shabby buildings two hundred metres to our front. The pick-ups had formed a ragged line halfway between us and the base. Two out-buildings had been hit with RPGs, dirty black smoke roiling skywards.

  “The fuckers haven’t seen us,” said Oz, a grim smile on his dirt-smeared face.

  The pick-up closing the distance between us at speed, I aimed the RPG at the centre of the convoy and fired. Oz joined in with his G3. My aim was low, the rocket skittering across the ground and exploding against the wheel of a truck. The explosion tossed men out of the vehicle like fiery rag-dolls.

  Fire from the base intensified as the up-armoured vehicle lumbered out of the gate. It was a sludge-coloured Unimog, an ugly pig of a wagon. I saw a flash of red hair from a weapons mount atop the vehicle, Bannerman crouching behind a machinegun. The attack had been blunted. The remaining rebels began jumping back in their vehicles, gunning engines and driving crazily towards the baked-mud track. Sliding another RPG grenade into the launcher, I aimed and took out the leading vehicle in a ball of white and orange flame.

  Oz nodded approvingly.

  Machinegun fire from Bannerman’s MG raked the little convoy, another Toyota skidding off the road. The last vehicle zigzagged across the open ground, rear wheels spewing dust. I went to aim, but couldn’t track the fast-moving target.

  “Welcome to Kenya,” hollered Bannerman from the top of the Unimog. He swept his hand towards the burning pick-ups and bodies, “getting to know the locals, Cal?”

  Sweat streamed down my face, my breathing raw. I tried to think of something nonchalant and witty to say. I failed.

  Dancer approached, along with the older guy who’d handed us weapons earlier. Both carried tricked-out polymer AK rifles. “We need to get this cleared up,” Dancer sniffed. “The last thing we need is the Kenyan authorities poking their noses in here.”

  “You OK?” The older man nodded at me. “I’m Willem Hester, security manager. These men are Vultures, they won’t be missed.” He sniffed the air, looked at the black flags fluttering in the breeze, “but the fact they’re travelling over the border is bad.” His accent was unmistakably Afrikaner.

  “Why?” I asked, offering my hand.

  He took it, giving me a knuckle-crunching squeeze. “They usually operate on Zambutan territory. The fact they’ve been forced into raiding over here means they’re desperate or they were targeting us deliberately.”

  “I doubt they knew we were here,” Dancer shrugged, taking a deep breath. “Willem, can you organise a work party and get rid of the bodies?”

  The Afrikaner nodded. “We’ll burn them west of here, out in the boondocks. Nobody will ever find them, and the jackals will eat what’s left. We’ll tow the vehicles with the ‘mog and dump them.” He pointed at the chunky Mercedes.

  Bannerman jumped down from the Unimog. “There’s lots of kit here,” he said. “Should we strip them for ammo?”

  “Trust me,” Dancer replied, “we’ve no shortage of bullets.”

  Bannerman shrugged and strode over to one of the dead bandits, splayed obscenely in the baking sun. Flies were already feasting on the bloody holes punched in its torso. “They’ve got money on them,” he said, pulling a wad of dollar bills from a bloodied ammunition pouch.

  “How much is there?” I asked.

  Bannerman flicked through the bills. They looked crisp and clean, “five hundred US, not too shabby for out here, I’d say.”

  “Yes, that’s a lot of cash,” said Hester, scratching his leathery forehead. “Have they all got that much?”

  We were searching the corpses when Easter appeared with a tall, dark-haired woman.

  I recognised her from Marcus’ file as Amelia Duclair, the third SIS officer and HUMINT specialist. She was sharp-featured, with full lips and large brown eyes. Dressed in jeans and desert boots, the form-fitting tee-shirt under un-zipped body armour showed off the well-honed physique of a serious gym bunny. She had an icy, harsh beauty about her. “They’ve got new US banknotes?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Dancer replied, checking another body. “This guy has two hundred dollars.”

  I searched another corpse. It stank of body fluids and charred meat. I found a wad of money tucked away inside a pocket. A yellowing slip of paper was stuffed in-between the banknotes. I examined it. The lettering was in Mandarin. I slipped it in my pocket. “My guy’s got a hundred,” I called out.

  “Do you think they’ve been hired to do this?” said Easter. She ran a hand through her hair, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. “We’ve never seen them this far out before.”

  “How?” said Duclair, “who knows we’re here?”

  “I don’t know,” shrugged Willem Hester. “I say we put the money in the end-of-operation beer fund.”

  “I knew I liked him,” laughed Bannerman.

  “I’d better call this in,” said Duclair, shaking her head. She put a hand on Easter’s shoulder, “are you OK, Jools?”

  “Sure, it’s just another shitty day on this shitty operation,” she replied glumly. “It’s cursed.”

  Duclair shot me a look. “Are these the increments?” she asked, like we weren’t there.

  “Cal,” I replied pointedly, offering my hand.

  She looked at my paw like it might bite, decided it wouldn’t and gave it a squeeze.

  “Cal, this is Amelia Duclair,” said Easter.

  “I’d better put a report together for Vauxhall,” said Duclair, surveying the carnage. She seemed more bothered about the admin than the dead. I mentally filed her under the hard bastard category.

  The sun was half-sunk by the time we’d helped the South Africans dig a grave. We dumped the corpses in the shattered pick-ups and towed them behind the Unimog. We blew up the trucks with plastic explosives and doused the bodies in petrol. Dancer’s operational security plan went to rat-shit, as the Saffas were switched-on enough to twig that we were Brit mercenaries and obviously up to no good. To their credit, they kept their mouths shut and didn’t ask too many questions.

  I’d done a lot of bad things on The Firm, but burning those poor bastards in the desert was memorable even by my blood-stained standards. The meaty, almost sweet smell of charred human flesh made me gag as the funeral pyre flared and crackled.

  One of the Saffas stopped and said a prayer. God our Father, your power brings us to birth, your providence guides our lives, and by Your command we return to dust…

  Bannerman nodded and lowered his head respectfully, Bytchakov doing the same.

  The Grey twins chuckled as they counted the dollars they’d looted from the bodies. “Mate, they’re Muslims, ain’t they?” Ruben said to the Saffa.

  “I don’t know any Muslim prayers,” the Saffa shrugged, “but it’s all the same God.”

  “If you say so, geezer,” shrugged the little ex-Marine, rolling his eyes. His twin nodded sagely in agreement.

  Finally we returned to camp, showered the stink of the dead from our bodies and stowed our stuff. Our quarters were in a pre-fabricated hut o
n the far side of the complex, the men chatting among themselves and brewing-up tea.

  Easter finally appeared, calling me to the doorway. Dancer lurked with his satellite phone nearby. I’d seen Steve and Idris examining the Puma, which had been hit by a couple of rounds from the Dushka. Three fist-sized holes dotted the fuselage just behind the cockpit.

  I wanted to tell someone about the money band I’d found, marked with Mandarin script. Given the number of Chinese in Zambute, was it normal? Had the Vultures stolen it, or been hired? I was itching to crack open my satellite phone and call Marcus, but everyone was twitchy and on high alert. The guards wore their rifles slung across their chests, even the SIS officers wearing pistols on their belts.

  Easter nodded, Hugo at her shoulder as usual. “Gentlemen, if you could follow me,” she said. “We’ve got to start work right away.”

  We followed her towards a rusting hangar, to a corner partitioned off with chipboard sheets. A bank of chuntering air-conditioning units fed cold air inside, neatly arranged laptops sitting on a row of desks. It was a briefing area, with a large screen mounted on a steel frame.

  Dancer cleared his throat. “We don’t have much time, but we do have a good idea of the prison layout. These laptops are programmed with a three-dimensional map of the interior of the complex.”

  “What’s the source for these plans?” sniffed Bannerman. Like most of us, he was instinctively suspicious of intelligence product.

  Easter smiled. “The Security Service found a taxi driver in South London, a refugee. He’d served an eighteen month sentence in the same prison as Mel for opposition activities. While he was there he worked as a cleaner, with access to the staff areas, offices and barracks. He was fully debriefed and the computer model put together by Hugo.”

  “Well,” said Oz, “not only does Hugo make a mean bacon roll, he’s also a computer genius.”