by Damien Lewis
At 4.30 p.m. the Thuraya rang. Kilbride grabbed it. ‘What’s the score, Nick?’
‘Just as you predicted: an ambush has been set in the gorge. It’s easiest for me to send you the pictures, if you have the Psion working. I think they’ll tell you everything you need to know.’
‘Give me a few minutes, then send the pics across to us. Anything else?’
‘One thing. We intercepted a mobile phone call from the commander of the ambush party, to the Old Man himself. He sounded rather excited. It seems he thinks that truck you’ve just been moving is carrying their missing gold.’
‘They swallowed the bait.’
‘It would appear so.’
‘Thanks, Nick. Keep me posted.’
Kilbride fired up the Psion and downloaded the satellite photos. What he saw was a classic ambush, and he was more than a little impressed by the speed and professionalism with which it had been set.
‘Who are these people?’ Kilbride murmured as he stared at the screen. ‘That’s the sort of ambush we would have gone for …’
He called Berger and Boerke over to take a look. ‘What d’you make of that?’
Berger studied the images for several seconds. ‘That, buddy, is a killer ambush.’ He jabbed a finger at the computer screen. ‘Oil drums, split in two down the middle. They’ve laid them flat, what, thirty feet apart, the open side facing the road. You can bet your bottom dollar they’re full of gasoline. There’s ten half-drums, five on each side. That’s a kill zone of some one hundred and fifty feet. See them dots set back a little? They’ll be the Claymores. We hit the kill zone and they trigger the Claymores, the fuel drums blow and the whole gorge becomes a blazin’ inferno. We drive into that valley and no one’s coming out alive. Bushman?’
Boerke gave a faint inclination of his head. ‘We get hit by that ambush and we’re dead – simple as that, man.’
Kilbride stared at the computer screen, a dark frown creasing his forehead. ‘Who the fuck are these people?’
‘Does it matter, man?’ said Boerke. ‘I know all I need to know, which is that they are the enemy. They kill us or we kill them, that’s all there is to it.’
Kilbride glanced at Boerke. ‘You’re forgetting one thing: the enemy have to walk away from this one alive, and with the prize.’
Boerke gestured at the satellite images of the gorge. ‘Listen, man, I have a bad feeling about that place. Always have done, ever since we drove through it. And I never ignore my instinct. If we drive into that valley we will all die in there, man.’ He flicked his gaze towards Bill Berger. ‘I think our American friend feels the same way.’
Bill Berger nodded. ‘Ain’t no other way to describe it, but it feels kinda evil in there.’
‘So what d’you suggest?’ Kilbride demanded.
‘Simple, man – we don’t drive into the valley … You said you wanted to make a show of fighting, but let them seize the truck. Well, how about we take the fight to them. Let’s say we stage a vehicle breakdown, just this side of the gorge. Then we hit them by surprise, tonight, and turn their ambush against them. Think about it, man. We could fry a significant number of the fuckers in that gorge … The survivors will be forced to come after us: we flee and abandon the truck. I think it would work, man.’
‘Hell, anything beats drivin’ into fuckin’ Death Wish Valley,’ Bill Berger added.
Kilbride stared into the computer screen. He’d been so focused on steeling himself to lead his men into that ambush that he’d never even considered the alternatives. Suddenly, he knew with a burning conviction that Berger and Boerke were right. The valley was a death trap. And the only option open to them was the one that Boerke had outlined.
‘It’s a good plan you got there,’ he announced, with a relieved smile. ‘Let’s do it. Thank fuck I’ve got the two of you with me …’
Bill Berger checked his watch. ‘What are we, two hours from sundown? All it takes is a couple of guys to sneak in there tonight, trigger the ambush and get the hell out again.’
Boerke glanced across at Berger with his cold blue eyes. ‘Wrong, man. All is takes is one man. I work best alone.’
*
An hour later and the three vehicles pulled away from the farm. A mile short of the gorge Boerke began flashing the lights of the truck. The convoy rolled to a halt. Boerke got down from the cab and levered open the engine cover. He leaned inside, played around with a few spanners and came up cursing. The truck had blown a fuse, he announced. He needed daylight to fix it. They would have to camp where they were until morning.
Forty-five minutes later a lone figure slipped away into the shadows of the night. With the natural sense of a born hunter, Boerke skirted a patch of scrub that lay to the south and climbed into the rocky folds of the gorge. He had a black woollen hat covering his white-blond hair and a thick smearing of cam cream on his face. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness and he travelled light and fast. He had a commando knife on his webbing belt and a SIG-Sauer pistol in a chest holster. On his back he carried a daypack with a bottle of water, an infrared strobe light, a set of passive night-vision goggles (PNGs) and several white-phos grenades.
Boerke picked his way up to the edge of the gorge, then headed west keeping just below the ridgeline. He counted his paces as he walked, keeping a rough track of the distance travelled, and halted when he figured that he was too close to the enemy to remain standing. He dropped to a crawl and covered a further two hundred yards. Then he removed his backpack, squatted down and pulled out his passive night-vision goggles. He scanned the slope below him, the eerie green glow of the night vision picking out the ambush positions. The enemy had set all eight of their sentries on this side of the gorge, giving them a clear field of fire into the killing zone.
Boerke checked for the enemy vehicles and found them, bunched up at the far end of the valley, along with the rest of the enemy’s men. He selected his route down the hillside and slipped away. He made for a gully that cut down the slope and slunk into its shadows on his belly, doing a leopard crawl. Five minutes later he stopped again. For several minutes he waited and listened, immobile in the rocky darkness. It was a wild and brutal landscape and Boerke felt completely at home here. He held his mouth open to act as a sound trap and to boost his hearing. He detected an enemy sentry, not thirty yards ahead and to his right. Then he spotted the silhouette of a second, further up the valley, plus two more down below him.
He removed three grenades from his backpack and laid them on the rocky ground. He took the first, slipped the pin free and placed the sliver of metal softly on the earth. He brought his arm back and hurled the grenade up and outwards towards his right, the clip flying free as he did so. Without waiting to see where it landed he grabbed the second grenade and did a repeat performance, hurling this one in front of him and to the opposite side of the road. The first grenade landed with a clearly audible thud, by which time Boerke had a third arcing its way through the air towards the enemy positions.
There was a muffled cry of alarm as the sentry reacted to the vaguely metallic thump of the grenade landing – and then it exploded. There was a sharp crack, and a shower of blinding white balls of light shot into the air. A split second later the burning phosphorus hit the first oil drum, and the gasoline went up in a massive whump! In quick succession the second and third grenades exploded – and suddenly the Valley of Death had become a fearsome inferno.
Boerke dropped low and scurried for the shadows of the gully. Behind him a Claymore fired, cooked off by the flaming gasoline. There were muted screams as the ball-bearings tore the enemy sentries apart. Screams followed screams as more gasoline ignited and the valley bottom became a boiling sea of flame. Boerke paid no attention and made for the ridgeline. But suddenly there came the staccato bark of a weapon firing. Boerke halted for a second, worrying that he’d been spotted. But it was impossible, he told himself. His attack had been too savage and too quick. He pressed ahead but was forced to dive for cover as bullets started
kicking up the dust all around him. As he hit the deck he felt an odd kick to his left thigh. Boerke rolled behind a rock and went to crawl away, but his left leg refused to respond.
Below him were more enemy cries, followed by probing bursts of gunfire, and Boerke knew for sure now that he’d been spotted. He put his hand down to inspect the damage. As he brought it up to his face it glowed red and angry in the fiery light. It was slick with blood. Suddenly, a third Claymore fired off and the gunfire coming in Boerke’s direction ceased, to be replaced by a horrible screaming. Boerke prayed that the enemy soldier would die quickly, asking God to gift him that one enemy life, so preventing him from revealing Boerke’s position to his fellow fighters. He was not a strictly religious man, but he had been born and brought up a Christian, and he still prayed in times of dire need.
Boerke could feel a stump of bone sticking through his blood-soaked trousers, just above the knee. The bullet must have shattered his femur, and only a severed artery would produce that amount of bleeding. He reached down and grabbed his commando knife. With his other hand he tore the khaki scarf from around his neck. Gritting his teeth he sat up and tied the scarf around his thigh, with the knot hard on the damaged artery. He thrust his knife beneath the knot and twisted it several times, each turn tightening the tourniquet. When the blood stopped spurting he shoved the blade through the thick material of his combats, so holding it fast.
From his left chest pocket Boerke pulled out a syringe of morphine. He broke the protective cover off the needle, punched it into his arm and drove the shot home. He had six phials of morphine with him. It should be enough to get him back to Kilbride. Using his arms and his one good leg he began to haul himself back up the gully, dragging his injured limb behind him. He counted to one hundred, forcing himself to keep going, and then collapsed for a minute’s rest. He leaned against a boulder, his injured leg stretched out before him. His face was bathed in sweat and burning from the heat thrown up by the fire below. Three more times he went back to his task, dragging himself higher and higher up the gorge, but the ridgeline still seemed impossibly distant. Waves of exhaustion and pain ripped through him.
Boerke reached for another syringe of morphine, punching it into his arm. Sweet release flooded through his body, filling him with a floating, unearthly calm. That Boerke had made it this far and was still conscious was little short of a miracle. He knew he needed to drink to replace lost fluids, but the very thought sickened him. As he scrabbled in his daypack for his water bottle, his hand felt the hard shape of the infrared strobe. He pulled it out and stared at it for a second, his dulled senses trying to comprehend what it was. Then he flipped up the power button and clipped it to the rear of his backpack. He couldn’t explain why he had done so, but that was what the years of training had ground into him. He turned onto his stomach and began to inch his way upwards once again.
Down on the barren plain of Wadi Jehannam Kilbride felt a growing sense of unease. The whole of the sky above the gorge was lit up an angry red, the heavens like an upturned umbrella of burnished copper. Boerke’s one-man counter-ambush had clearly been spectacularly successful, but they had expected him back some time ago. Kilbride had his men drawn up in all-round defensive positions, as they waited for the enemy to counter-attack, as he knew they would. But there was still no sign of the tough South African. Suddenly, Kilbride heard the ringing of the Thuraya. He grabbed it and hit the answer button.
‘What?’ he demanded.
‘Spectacular light show, Kilbride. Congratulations. I take it you decided to strike first. Something decidedly odd, though. We’ve picked up an infrared signal on strobe, moving slowly up the valley. Very slow. Keeps stopping. I’m not there on the ground, of course, but I’d say you may have a man wounded …’
‘Well done, Nick. What’s the GPS coordinates?’
‘Erm, one minute … GPS coordinates are 34.27.18 / 36.06.41. Moving steadily south up the valley side. Anything more we can do to help?’
Kilbride snorted. ‘Call in a search-and-rescue chopper? Just keep your eye on it. If there’s any change, let me know.’
Kilbride cut the line. He grabbed his map from his trouser pocket and called Bill Berger over. He spread it out across the vehicle bonnet and traced the GPS coordinates.
‘Boerke’s been hit,’ Kilbride announced. ‘There’s an IR on strobe, moving slowly away from the ambush site, up the side of the valley towards the ridgeline. It’s got to be him.’ Kilbride glanced at Berger. ‘I’m going to bring him in.’
Berger shook his head. ‘No way, buddy. This ain’t about heroics or any of that shit, it’s just about what’s practical. You’re in command and you gotta stay here with the men.’ Berger glanced at his watch. ‘I got twenty-one thirty-three by my piece. If I’m not back within the hour, you get in the jeeps and you get the fuck outta here. Okay?’
Kilbride saw the sense of what Berger was saying. It was no time to argue. Berger picked up his Minimi, turned and loped off into the shadows. The big American jogged across the valley floor, making a beeline for the ridge. If he could get to Boerke quickly enough, maybe they’d be okay. As he pushed ahead the surrounding terrain was lit up by the valley inferno, the glare being thrown back from the night sky in weird, dancing shadows. A boulder reared up before him, jet black, harsh and threatening, and then it was thrown into sudden stark relief as an explosion ripped through the gorge.
Berger reached the ridgeline a sweating, panting wreck. He forced himself to keep moving, staying down off the high ground for fear of being silhouetted. Once the valley bottom was directly below him he stopped and took cover behind a boulder. He pulled out his GPS and checked his position with Boerke’s last known coordinates. By rights the South African should be one hundred feet below him. Berger got to his feet in a crouching run and began to shuffle his way down the valley side. Loose stones kicked out at his passing, tumbling downhill, and Berger cursed at the noise he was making.
Boerke heard the approaching figure before he saw him. He drew his SIG-Sauer pistol and flicked the safety off. His senses were dazed but he took aim as best he could. When Bill Berger appeared around a group of rocks above him Boerke’s stoned mind equated the big American with an enemy soldier. The squat form of the ammo box on his Minimi machine gun had mutated into the curved magazine of an enemy AK47, Berger’s movements being those of a prowling enemy fighter. Boerke squeezed the pistol’s trigger, three times in quick succession. The rounds skitted off the rock to Berger’s left side, missing him by inches.
The big American rolled to the right, landed with a thump and raised the Minimi to fire. Instead, he found himself face to face with the wounded South African. Boerke swung his pistol around, preparing to fire again, but Berger was too quick for him: he lashed out with his weapon, bringing the muzzle down hard and smashing the South African’s hand to the ground.
Berger pounced on Boerke, pining him to the deck by his throat and kicking the pistol away from him. ‘Cut the crap, you dumb Afrikaner scumbag!’
Boerke stared back at him, his pupils dilated with the morphine. For a second he looked completely blank, but then a flash of recognition came into his eyes.
‘Try anything else that fuckin’ stupid and I’m fuckin’ leaving you,’ Bill Berger hissed. ‘You got it?’
Boerke nodded a vague understanding. ‘I’m with you, man,’ he mouthed, but the words were slurred and barely comprehensible.
Berger dropped the Minimi to his side and felt along the South African’s injured leg. There was the sharp end of lacerated bone sticking through the trousers and the tight constriction of the tourniquet above it. Berger fished in his pocket for some morphine and waved it in front of Boerke’s face. You want some more of this? The South African nodded, his eyes glazed with exhaustion and pain. Berger punched the syringe into him. Then he grabbed the handle of Boerke’s commando knife, pulled the blade out of his trousers and loosened off the tourniquet. For a few seconds he let the artery bleed. If the tourniquet rem
ained too tight for too long, Boerke’s leg would be finished in any case.
‘You ready?’ he whispered, bending low over Boerke’s face. ‘I’m gonna have to carry you. It’s gonna hurt.’
Boerke nodded. But as the big American went to lift him he heard a faint movement from behind. Berger turned slowly and spotted an enemy fighter some fifty yards below him, silhouetted by the fire on the valley floor. Two more figures were to his right, moving slowly up the hillside towards their position. He and Boerke were in the shadows of the gully, and Berger reckoned they hadn’t been spotted yet. But it was only a matter of seconds before they would be seen.
He groped in the darkness for the Minimi. He touched the cold metal of the weapon and hoisted it off the ground, but as he did so he dislodged a rock. Below him the enemy figures froze. With an AK47 levelled at the hip the nearest fighter turned in Bill Berger’s direction. Slowly the big American brought the Minimi to bear at the shoulder, knowing that any sudden movement would be spotted. He sighted his weapon and squeezed the trigger.
The Minimi barked, a streak of flame sparking in the darkness, and Berger heard rounds punching into soft flesh. As the first man went down he adjusted his aim. The second enemy figure dived for cover and Berger followed him down with a stream of lead. He saw the body jink as a round hit, heard the enemy cry out in agony. Without pausing Berger poured a long burst of fire after the third figure, turning the slope below him into a killing ground. When he’d shot off what he reckoned was half the 200-round ammo belt he ceased firing. He grabbed Boerke by the crotch and one arm, hauled him up onto his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, reached for the Minimi and ran.
Fifty yards further up the hill he dumped the South African behind a boulder and sank to his knees. Above the noise of his pounding heart Bill Berger could still hear the unearthly screaming of the enemy wounded. He hoped that that would hold them up a little. He pulled out three high-explosive grenades from his chest pouch and laid them in front of him. He grabbed one of Boerke’s water bottles, took a long pull himself, and then tried to force some liquid between the wounded man’s lips. Boerke was losing consciousness, his eyes glazing and his lids drooping. Berger checked his watch: 10.29 p.m. It was four minutes short of the one-hour deadline that he’d given Kilbride. There was no way he could make it back in time. He just had to hope that Kilbride would hang on.
