Dead Centre ns-14

by Andy McNab

  Their tracer really did make it look as if we were in some Second World War dogfight, until we levelled out again, way out of range.

  Joe sparked up: ‘The boy is definitely in the cockpit. He’s with that fucker who took him. They’re in the right-hand seat. You see them, Nick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s definitely there. But that’s fucking close to the fuel tanks, man. It’s going to take some fucking good shooting. You up for that shit?’

  ‘I fucking have to be.’

  He laughed far louder than he needed to. ‘You told me you didn’t know how to use the fucking thing. But I had you drilled down as soon as I saw you, man.’

  ‘Joe, can you come in higher and just slightly to the left, over his left wing? I need a line straight down into the tanks and out the bottom without hitting the boy. Can you do that?’

  ‘As you say, man — I fucking have to.’

  The aircraft started to climb. He held the Cargomaster in a tight bank. I tried to look out of the door. I had no idea where the Skyvan was. The engine screamed. More crap got thrown about. We all held on to whatever we could.

  Sunlight leapt at me before the blue sky surrounded me, and then all of a sudden I saw it. The Skyvan was four hundred metres away and much lower.

  Joe was on the cans: ‘As soon as they see us they’re going to try and manoeuvre, but fuck ’em. You just get the rounds down, man. Right?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when.’

  I moved the mike out of the way and screamed to Mr Lover Man. ‘Come here! I need you!’

  He scrambled towards me. The Skyvan was still below us.

  ‘I need you as a platform. On the door.’

  Mr Lover Man knelt down, arms out, gripping the sides of the frame.

  25

  I knelt down beside his left arm, using it to support the weapon as I leant against the frame.

  I pushed the mike back on. ‘Joe, I’m ready.’

  ‘Here we go.’

  He crabbed neatly across the sky until he was right on top of the Skyvan. I leant forward into Mr Lover Man’s arm, bringing the weapon down, fighting the wind.

  The Skyvan was two hundred metres the other side of the sights.

  The wind was buffeting our faces big-time, but Mr Lover Man’s expression hadn’t changed. Its message was simple: You kill him, I kill you.

  The Skyvan was maybe a hundred metres below us now. The strain showed on Mr Lover Man’s face as he put everything into keeping his body as rigid as he possibly could. He knew how important this platform was.

  Joe’s voice came back through the cans: ‘I’m going to drop down and move a little over his left wing. They’ll see us soon enough. You get drilling as soon as you can.’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  We came so close I could identify faces in the cockpit. Stefan was on the right-hand seat, gripped between BB’s legs. BB was shifting continuously, twisting and turning, checking the airspace around them. He looked up. The M4 dug into the boy’s stomach and his mouth opened in a silent shout.

  I felt Mr Lover Man’s eyes boring into me, but I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Not yet, anyway. Stefan was too valuable to BB now, and the only leverage he had. The only way the kid was going to get shot at the moment was through bad skills and a wayward 7.62.

  The airframe tilted left. I had a clear shot straight down into the tank at about forty degrees.

  I fired.

  I fired again.

  Joe came at me on the cans: ‘Your old friends are right on the ramp.’

  I glanced back. Ant and Dec were manoeuvring themselves into a position from which they could fire without hitting their own wing. The weapons in their shoulders wavered as they fought the wind rush.

  A tumbling 5.56 round ripped a hole many times its size in the aluminium floor, missing Mr Lover Man’s feet by inches before exiting through the roof.

  Mr Lover Man didn’t move a millimetre.

  I fired again.

  I steadied myself for the next shot. Something had changed down there. The fuselage between the Skyvan’s wing roots was staining as fuel escaped across it.

  I fired more rounds into the shed, until I got a big clunk as the working parts moved forward, and then nothing. The mag was empty. Ant and Dec just kept on going.

  Joe screamed. ‘Moving! Moving!’

  He pulled round in a wide turn.

  The Cargomaster threw a sharp left and tilted up. All I could see was sky. Then I caught another glimpse of the cockpit. BB had joined in. He was firing through the side window.

  Mr Lover Man and I tumbled back onto the fuselage as the Cargomaster screamed down out of range.

  There’d been no sign of Stefan.

  Joe was back on the cans: ‘Fuck it, we can’t afford to take rounds, man. We can’t go down before that fucker.’

  I looked at the daylight spilling through the holes around me. I was glad he hadn’t seen them yet.

  Mr Lover Man looked at me, waiting for an answer.

  I shrugged.

  Joe bellowed with excitement, ‘They’re heading for the coast, man. You fucking well did it!’

  I gave Mr Lover Man the thumbs-up.

  He nodded slowly. I moved aside so he could make his way back into the hold.

  Genghis screamed up the fuselage at us before he could move a muscle.

  26

  She looked almost at peace. I thought she even had a smile on her face. I hoped that as she fought to take her last breath she’d known I was going to save her little boy.

  I fell back, trying to take it all in. No Mong. No Tracy. Stefan looking down the barrel of a gun. And Anna too. I used to be able to cut away from this shit, but not any more.

  Oblivious to what had happened, Joe was almost jumping for joy. ‘Definitely, man! That fucking shed is heading for land, man. You shot that fucker to shit.’

  The Cargomaster tilted right, heading low towards the coast. ‘Let’s go see what’s left of them when they dump, eh?’

  Mr Lover Man was checking for a signal on his mobile as Genghis went and closed the shutter door. I climbed into the right-hand seat. There was fuck-all else I could do for the moment. There was fuck-all anybody could do.

  Tracy was dead. That was it. But we still had a job to do. We had to keep focused on that. I did, anyway.

  I didn’t have time to mourn her yet. There was nothing we could have done on the aircraft, and there was nothing that could have saved her in Mog. Stefan was the one I was feeling for right now. He had no mother, and if the cards fell badly, a fucked-up, traumatized life ahead. Or no life at all.

  Joe shook his head slowly as he took on board what had happened. ‘Fucking shame, man. But we’ll get the fuckers. Yes, sir.’ He jiggled the controls and the Cargomaster’s wings responded, waggling like they meant business.

  The Skyvan was just a smudge in the distance, heading west. It crossed the surf line, then followed its shadow across the scrub and red sand that seemed to go on for ever.

  Joe sparked up: ‘He’s looking for a place to put down.’

  We were soon over the wasteland ourselves. Joe tapped his sat-nav monitor. ‘Jilib is a fuck of a shit-hole town, about eighty klicks west. They must be trying to dump there. If they can get to Jilib, they can get a vehicle.’ He slapped me on the arm with the back of his hand. ‘You fuckers better be quick when we land, man.’

  I looked behind me. Mr Lover Man was gobbing off on his mobile. He saw me turn, waffled some more, then got up.

  It looked like he was about to give me the phone. I moved the mike out of the way. ‘Tell him no, not now. Now’s not the time. Cut it. We’ve got work to do.’

  Mr Lover Man’s face clouded. He didn’t like the fact his boss was being blanked.

  I shifted the mike back into position and pointed to the blob ahead of us. ‘Can you get us down at the same time without those fuckers taking us apart?’

  He nodded. ‘When that shed hits the ground it’s going to kick up so
much shit they won’t even see their hands in front of their faces. But we’ll have to come in hard. I might lose my landing gear.’

  I nodded. ‘Then we’ll just have to hope we don’t have too far to walk.’

  Joe’s happy face disappeared. ‘That fucking boss man of yours better fork out for a new airframe, man. I got other jobs after this shit.’

  27

  My eyes were glued to the Skyvan through the cockpit window as we rode the thermals across the miles of desert.

  Joe had asked for a damage report. He muttered even more darkly to himself when he got the news. ‘Fucking shit, man. He really better pay up.’

  I looked in vain for another AK mag, then unfastened the emergency box between the seats. Inside, among all the other stuff, were two yellow rectangular plastic containers of Pains Wessex mini flares. Each held nine cartridges and a pen ejector — penjector — fitted with a stainless-steel spring and striker pin. These ones would be red. They were rescue kit. The military used different-coloured ones all the time as signal flares. They normally rocketed to a minimum height of about forty-five metres, depending on the spec, and burnt for six seconds. The small magnesium payload blazed so intensely it could be seen for nine K in daylight and sixteen at night.

  I grabbed both packs and shoved them in the waistband of my jeans. I checked that the iPhone hadn’t gone AWOL.

  The flares were easy to fire. They had to be, in case your hands were wet and cold and shaking. You got the penjector and twisted it into the thread projected from the flare cylinder as it sat in its case. You pulled back. There was a sucking sound as the cylinder came out of its holder. Then you pulled back the cocking piece, which would compress the spring. When you let go, the firing pin shot into the back of the flare, and off it went with a loud bang. It started burning immediately.

  A massive hand appeared between us and pulled the escape axe out of the emergency box. Mr Lover Man also needed a weapon.

  Mr Lover Man gave me his thousand-yard stare. It told me that if this ended up as a gang-fuck, the axe was for me. I moved the mike aside. ‘Get your mate up here.’

  When Genghis appeared, I moved behind the seats so I was up close to both of them. I pointed to the Skyvan. Its tailgate was still down but we were too far away to see what was happening inside. The point was, we were both much closer to the ground now.

  ‘Listen in. As soon as they land, so will Joe — right on top of them, while the dust is up. We’ve got to be really quick. Get in there fast and take those fuckers on. Hopefully the ramp’s still going to be down. I don’t know if you can land with it like that, and I really don’t care. We’ll find out when we get there.’

  Mr Lover Man translated. Then he turned to me. ‘We will kill them all. Mr Timis wants them all dead. All of them.’

  I got it. If I’d zapped Stefan, that included me.

  ‘I will take care of Stefan. That’s still my job, to get to the boy. OK?’

  Both of them understood what I was saying that time.

  ‘Justin — he’s not going to kill Stefan unless he knows he’s lost. At that point, he won’t give a fuck. So we must let him think he’s got a chance. We let him escape out of the aircraft. If we get in there and corner him, Stefan is dead. Let him run. I know him. I know how he thinks. I’ll get the fucker.’

  Mr Lover Man wasn’t happy at all, but fuck him. ‘You want the responsibility of fucking up and getting the boy killed? Do you?’ I poked his chest. ‘I’ll take that fucking responsibility. Just like I did hitting the fuel tanks. Let Justin get out of that fucking aircraft, think that he’s running. I’ll sort him out. Don’t corner him.’

  Joe rejoined the party. ‘This is it, man. The fucker’s dumping down. He can’t make it to the town. We’re about twenty klicks short. The moment I get you on the ground, I’m going to fuck off while there’s rounds flying about. That’s if you want an airframe to get you home, man.’ He played about with his instruments, his eyes constantly flicking up to lock onto the Skyvan and the terrain below. ‘Assuming I’ve still got fucking landing gear in five minutes’ time.’

  I ripped off the cans and went and started pulling up the shutter. The Cessna descended. Mr Lover Man put his body armour back on and Genghis checked his M4.

  He saw me looking at it and the scowl I got in return told me it was staying where it was.

  28

  The wind rushed in but not with such force now. We were lower and slower. The scrub was no more than two hundred feet below us.

  I stuck my head out into the slipstream. The Skyvan was touching down ahead.

  The Cargomaster’s engine revved higher as Joe corrected. Mr Lover Man and Genghis watched the action from behind the seats.

  Power back. The plane slowed. We hit the final fifty feet.

  Frank’s lads moved back with me and took up position in the doorway. A huge dust-cloud erupted and swallowed the Skyvan. Grains of sand pitted my face.

  I could see the Skyvan’s wheel-prints in the hard red crust directly beneath us. Joe was making sure he landed on proven ground.

  Our wheels touched. Joe braked as the Cargomaster bounced towards the dust-storm.

  Mr Lover Man jumped, curling his body, ready to take the hit on his Kevlar. Genghis followed. The Cargomaster was bouncing along at about thirty miles an hour. We’d only been down for two seconds.

  Fuck it. Why not? I pulled out the mini-flares, gripped one in each hand, and went for it.

  The thump as I hit the ground drove the wind out of me. I rolled into a bush, dropping one of the flare packs. Inch-long needles pierced my skin, but I kept on rolling.

  I finally got up, spitting out sand and grit.

  Genghis sprinted past me. He disappeared into the dust-storm, weapon at the ready. Mr Lover Man was no more than a metre behind him with the axe.

  I retrieved the flare pack and started to leg it after them.

  29

  Joe revved hard, taking off to the left of the Skyvan. The shed was static, but its engines were still running, still stirring up a maelstrom of red dust. There were shouts from inside. I could hear the signature of 5.56 being fired.

  I ran to the right of the cloud, to get ahead of it, and dropped into a dip, panting, trying to get oxygen into me. My feet told me there were needles in them too.

  There were more shots inside the Skyvan. The props began to wind down. One of them coughed to a halt.

  BB stumbled out of the front of the storm, M4 in hand. No Stefan. Fuck.

  I willed my body deeper into the sand.

  BB turned and ran back, then reappeared almost immediately, dragging the boy. He threw him over his left shoulder. Weapon in the right hand, he headed west, his back to the sun, kicking up grit as he went. He knew where he was going. Even in this heat and with the weight of the boy, BB could cover the twenty K to Jilib in short order.

  He didn’t look back. He knew there was no need to. He just had to make distance.

  A couple more rounds went off as the second prop coughed and died and the cloud began to settle.

  I set off behind them, keeping to the right, using the cover of the bush as best I could. The Skyvan soon disappeared behind me.

  I pulled off the top of one of the mini-flare sets to expose the penjector. I took it out, screwed it onto a flare, and pulled it out with a gentle pop. I kept on running. It was vital that BB didn’t see me. His M4 was accurate to about three hundred metres. The flares weren’t accurate at all.

  BB disappeared into a stretch of scrub and heat haze and didn’t come out again. My feet slipped in the sand as I tried to make ground, still using the cover.

  BB might be fronting it. Going to ground, staying concealed. We look for him, we lose him, and at last light he moves off.

  It was what his training would be telling him to do. And he would have the bottle for it. He might even know I was behind him, and be waiting for me to move into his weapon sights. What’s the point of running if there are people behind you that you can’t s
hake off? Stop, take me on, kill me, and then keep going.

  This wasn’t a frightened animal I was chasing. It was a highly trained ex-SAS trooper with a score to settle and a big cash prize ahead of him.

  I moved right of the point where he had become unsighted.

  Slowing down now. Throat burning. Head burning. Relentless heat.

  I kept low but fast, not daring to lose ground. Within a few seconds, I came to a dried-up watercourse. It was three metres deep and a couple wide after centuries of angry flash floods. I lay down at the wadi’s edge and scanned its bed, left and right. There was no sign. No sign at all. No one had been along here in any direction. He must still be somewhere down on my left.

  Feet first, penjector in hand, I slipped slowly down the bank. When I hit the bottom, my left hand supported my right, as if I was holding my Glock. My body became a firing platform. My legs were shoulder-width apart, left foot forward so I turned forty-five degrees to the direction I was heading. I was balanced forward and back, left and right, as I started to move along the wadi.

  Only my trigger thumb was free. It was the only thing I allowed to move as I kept the flare ahead of me, in my field of view.

  30

  Slowly, in bounds, as if I was patrolling, I kept moving, using the wadi as cover. I came to a bend. I stopped and listened before inching round it, weapon up, into the dead ground.

  The watercourse twisted and turned, casting shadows, as it headed east towards the sea. The sun was now facing me. It burnt into my face, making it hard to see. I stopped short of another bend, listened again, then carried on, keeping low, hands up in the aim.

  I negotiated a left-hander and heard a whisper ahead. I stopped. Leaning towards the sound, left ear pointing towards it, I held my breath so I could hear what the fuck was going on three — maybe even six or seven — metres away.