Mercenary s-5

by Duncan Falconer

  A group of men were waiting for him as he headed down from the top of the rise near the corral. They sat around enjoying the sun and chatting lightheartedly.

  When the men saw Stratton approach they got to their feet. The young teacher, David, was one of them; the others Stratton recognised from the supply pick-up - particularly the two who had nicked the rockets for the ambush.

  Stratton nodded to David and greeted the others.They seemed unsure how to treat the mercenary, as he was known around the camp: the man who was not one of them and who held no rank. But it was obvious to all of them that Stratton was an experienced soldier, and no ordinary one at that if the parachute drop was anything to go by, a feat beyond any of them. There was also the way he conducted himself generally, the ease with which he adapted and how he carried himself and his weapons. They didn’t know much about him but enough to believe anything he had to say about soldiering.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked the one who had fired the rocket the previous day.

  ‘Miguel,’ the man replied somewhat sheepishly.

  ‘How’re your burns?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘Okay,’ Miguel said, ruefully indicating the bulge of the bandaging under his trousers to the amusement of the others.

  Stratton looked at the other man who had tried to fire a rocket.

  ‘Umberto,’ the man said, with a grin.

  ‘Would you like to learn how to fire a rocket correctly?’

  ‘Is there something else I can learn?’ he asked. ‘I don’t like those things.’

  The men laughed again.

  The next man in line was powerfully built with a more sombre demeanour than the others. ‘Carlos,’ he said.

  Stratton nodded and looked at the next.

  ‘Eduardo,’ he said.

  Stratton nodded again and walked a few paces to where he could face them all. ‘The plan is to show you how to use the rockets and the claymore mines effectively,’ he began. ‘Then you’re going to become the teachers to everyone else. Do you think you can manage that?’

  They all nodded.

  ‘They’re not complicated. The big issue, apart from being able to use them effectively against an enemy, is to make sure we don’t hurt ourselves or our buddies. So listen to everything I have to say, ask all the questions you want and, above all, make sure you understand everything about the weapons concerned. When I’m gone there’ll be no one else to ask. Okay?’

  They nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Good. Let’s go see the toys.’

  ‘Er, excuse me,’ Miguel said. ‘What do we call you?’

  ‘He’s called the mercenary,’ Eduardo said to Miguel as if he should have known that.

  ‘Stratton will do,’ Stratton said.

  ‘Stratton?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, heading down a track. Eduardo hurried ahead and led the way into the small wood Victor had shown Stratton earlier. On reaching the pallets the men stood back to let him select the boxes.

  ‘Let’s start with that one there,’ Stratton said, pointing to a box on the top of a pile. David and Carlos lifted it to the ground. Stratton unclipped its latches and swung the lid open to reveal a moulded plastic cover which he removed. Inside lay neat rows of hand-held rocket launchers. He lifted one out and, with a snap, deftly pulled it open into the armed position.

  ‘Wow,’ Umberto exclaimed, taking a step back.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Stratton said, taking a long, slender dart-like object from inside the lid of the box. ‘This is a trainer. It has a non-explosive head. It’s what you had at the ambush - not like Miguel,’ he said.

  The others laughed, much to Umberto’s dismay.

  ‘Let’s take a look in those two there,’ he said.

  Miguel and Eduardo hauled down the boxes and placed them in line with the first.

  ‘Open that one,’ Stratton asked as he closed the launch tube and replaced it in the box alongside the others.

  Miguel opened the box to reveal rows of claymore mines in their canvas sacks. He reached to touch one.

  ‘Stop,’ Stratton said sharply. ‘First rule of this lesson. Touch absolutely nothing unless I say so. Is that understood?’

  The men recognised the seriousness of his words and acknowledged them.

  ‘Especially this,’ Stratton said, lifting out a black plastic box the size of a milk carton. It had a thick red tape around it with warning signs emblazoned on all sides. ‘These are the detonators that fire the claymores. They’re highly sensitive. You get these wrong and you won’t need to worry about getting anything else wrong ever again. You got that?’

  They nodded.

  ‘Open that box,’ Stratton said, indicating the next one.

  Miguel reached for the clips on the side of the box, unfastened them and pulled the lid back. He gripped the edge of the plastic moulding and as he raised it there was a metallic pinging sound and something flew out of the box into the air.

  Stratton’s mind raced, desperate to remember what the sound meant. He had it before the object landed at his feet. He knew what it was even before he focused on the curved piece of pressed alloy three inches long and spoon-shaped at one end. It was still rolling on the muddy soil as he turned on his heels and yelled ‘Grenade!’ as loudly as he could.

  The others did not react as fast. A second had ticked away before the horrible danger struck them and they began to turn away - all except Miguel. He stared in disbelief at the grenade nestled in between the tightly packed rows of military explosives. Only when it smoked and hissed as the fuse that ran down its centre began to burn towards the detonator did he make any effort to get away. His right foot slid on the soft ground as he planted the other heavily.

  Stratton counted the third second instinctively in his head, straining to put as much distance between himself and the boxes as possible. Before the end of the fourth second he knew he had to be close to the ground. There was a tree only metres ahead of him and he threw himself down beside it. As he hit the ground he grabbed the base of the trunk and his momentum slung him around the back of it.

  The explosion was massive - its force scooped Stratton up bodily and threw him through the bushes. His world lit up like a supernova and before he could come to a rolling stop he started to scurry madly along on his belly, knowing that there was more to come. One after another, deafening blasts whipped at him as he thrashed his way through the dense undergrowth, the shock waves slamming into him like hurricane-driven concrete blocks. Something struck him in the back, burning like crazy, but he fought his way onwards. A huge ball of fire ignited the foliage around him. The heat was intense. Yet he knew it was time to get to his feet - if he still had them.

  Stratton pulled his legs beneath him and, keeping low, thrust forward like a sprinter. He punched through a thicket, clawing at the ground in desperation as he went. Another series of explosions went off like a firework display, projectiles whistling through the air in every direction. As he burst from the bushes he rolled down an incline that took him out of the direct line of fire and when he came to a stop he curled into a tight ball to weather whatever else was to come.

  Stratton lay there, breathing heavily, wondering if he was going to live or die. Being conscious right now was not necessarily proof that he would survive. The explosions continued. He could feel the heat from the blazing wood but the blasts were no longer coming directly at him so he uncurled to take a look.

  His clothes were smouldering but his limbs appeared to be intact. He had all his fingers although they were lacerated. He felt his head and face, his nose and ears and teeth. They were where they should have been as far as he could tell. He felt his stomach and his sides and when he looked at his hands again they were wet with fresh blood from somewhere.

  The shock wave from yet another ground-shaking explosion tore through the foliage and shot over him. Debris rained down everywhere. Something heavy, a piece of a pallet, hit the ground close by. He felt a sharp pain shooting through his back near
his shoulder blades and he reached around to feel something sticking from his flesh.

  Stratton ignored it and forced himself onto his knees as he wondered what had happened to the others. There were shouts coming from the sentry post and men were running in every direction. He staggered a little as he got to his feet and headed back towards the burning wood. A fresh blast sent him to the ground once again and he wondered how many more explosives were left. The wood, what was left of it, continued to burn. Smoke was everywhere, making his throat and eyes as sore as hell.

  Through it he saw a man kneeling and made his way towards him. Another man lay on his back beside him. Both had blackened skin and at first glance were unrecognisable.

  ‘You okay?’ Stratton shouted.

  The kneeling man looked at him, breathing heavily, the whites of his eyes stark in his blackened face, his hair mostly burned away, blood streaming from his nose and a cut on his face. It was David. The other man too was obviously in a lot of pain, cradling his arm.

  ‘Have you seen the others?’ Stratton shouted, realising that his ears were ringing.

  David was in a state of shock but managed to understand enough to shake his head.

  There was a chance that the rest of them could be alive. Every second counted. A series of bangs went off, sounding like small-arms ammunition exploding. Stratton ignored them and headed back to the edge of the wood, pausing to look around. There was no sign of life and he pushed his way back in through the burned branches. He had not gone far before he saw something moving in the ash. The man lay on his side, shaking involuntarily, and Stratton carefully turned him over onto his back. He could not tell who it was. ‘You’re going to be okay,’ he said as he quickly checked him for any obviously serious wounds such as wholly or partially severed limbs. The man looked badly burned - his clothing was stuck to his flesh in places. Stratton knew from experience that the greatest threat to life from burns came after the immediate trauma, with dehydration and infection. But at that moment the most important thing was to get the man out of any further danger.

  Stratton shouted for assistance and several men came towards him to help. He continued on into the wood despite the flames that now played around him. The smoke slowed him down and he was forced to squat low to the ground in order to search for the missing men. He saw another one lying still up ahead, a flaming branch across his body. Stratton hurried to him on his hands and knees, coughing violently as the acrid smoke filled his lungs. He yanked the branch away, burning his hands, grabbed the man under his arms and began to drag him back. But the lack of oxygen was taking its toll and he began to feel dizzy. He made one last effort, inhaling the hot ash-filled air, and as his lungs convulsed again he pulled the body backwards for several metres. As he dropped to the ground hands grabbed him and Stratton let them haul him away, unable to help any more.

  Stratton felt himself being placed on the ground. Although he was now in clean air, all he could do was cough and hack harshly. As the spasm passed he rolled onto his front, panting heavily, black saliva drooling from his mouth. He opened his watering eyes to see the charred figure of a man lying beside him. The man’s face was unrecognisable and he lay motionless, his mouth wide open.

  A voice cut through the noise of the growing crowd, shouting for people to get back and out of the way. Victor arrived and surveyed the carnage.

  He went to the surviving men, talking to them briefly, assessing their injuries. Another body was carried out of the wood and placed on the ground. Victor stood over the survivors, horrified at their condition.

  He came across to Stratton and squatted down beside him. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  Stratton pushed himself up onto his knees. ‘I can manage,’ he croaked.

  ‘Lie back down,’ Victor ordered.

  Stratton knew that the man was right but he needed to prove to himself that he was going to live and to do that he had to get to his feet. He struggled to stand upright but then the light faded and he fell back to the ground, unconscious.

  Chapter 4

  Stratton opened his eyes, feeling drowsy and disorientated. His mouth and throat were so sore and dry that he could not even swallow. After finally managing to focus on the straw ceiling he turned his head on the pillow to see his backpack beside the bed. He realised that he was on the mezzanine floor of Victor’s cabin.

  He was stiff from head to toe. As he made an effort to roll onto his back a violent pain shot through his shoulder blade. He lay still, taking short sharp breaths to ease the stinging, trying to take everything in. But his thirst was unbearable and another look around revealed a jug beside the bed.

  As he stretched an arm towards it he heard footsteps on the stairs. Victor came into view, smiling unconvincingly. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  Because of the constriction in his throat Stratton was unable to answer him. He grappled for the sheet, pulled it away and, mustering all his strength, rolled onto his side, ignoring the pain. As he fought to sit up and lower his feet to the floor Victor helped, knowing it was pointless to try and stop him.

  ‘Why are you always wanting to sit up when you should be lying down?’ Victor asked.

  The movement had been painful and Stratton lowered his head to ease the dizziness. He focused on his bare feet and arms. Most of the ash and smoke-soot had been washed off but his skin was still dirty. He realised suddenly that he was wearing only his shorts.

  ‘You’ll probably fall back down again in a minute.’

  Stratton wanted to say something but the sides of his mouth and throat felt as if they were stuck together. He mimicked drinking from a cup.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Victor said, reaching for a mug that was beside the jug and handing it to Stratton. ‘Drink slowly,’ he advised.

  Stratton tipped enough water between his lips to wet his tongue and repeated the process until the vital liquid was flowing down his throat. He tried to say something but his larynx was still too dry so he filled his mouth with water and tilted his head back before swallowing.

  ‘How are the others?’ he rasped, his voice barely audible.

  But Victor understood him. ‘Miguel is dead. So is Umberto. Eduardo is badly burned. The doctor gives him a fifty per cent chance of survival. Carlos is not quite as bad. He has a broken arm but the doctor thinks he will be okay. David will be fine, as will you be. The doctor removed a piece of metal from your back. He said it did not penetrate your lung cavity.’

  Stratton thought about the information, saddened by the loss of the men even though he had not known them. He emptied the mug of water into his mouth and handed it to Victor to refill.

  Victor obliged. ‘Do you know what happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Have you asked David?’

  ‘Not yet. I wanted to hear it from you first.’ Stratton cleared his throat. He was starting to feel better now that he could swallow again. ‘It was a booby trap.’

  Victor’s mind raced. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘A hand grenade, set to go off when the box was opened.’

  Victor looked disturbed. ‘We’ve never had sabotage before, not like this.’

  ‘Where’re my clothes?’

  Victor indicated a pile of fatigues on the other side of the room. They looked like those worn by the rebels. ‘Yours were too badly burned,’ he said, pointing to a charred pile of material on the floor. ‘Your carbine is under the bed, along with your pistol. I don’t think the carbine will work any more, either.’

  Stratton leaned down, pain stabbing his back, and pulled the guns out from under the bed. The M4 was a mess, its plastic stock and butt brittle and broken in places. The magazine was gone and when he tried to pull back the breech it didn’t budge. He dropped it to the floor and checked the semi-automatic pistol. The grip was a little charred but the magazine slid out easily enough and, yanking back the top slide, he found that the mechanism was working smoothly when a round flew out of the chamber. He put the pistol on the bed to deal with later.

 
Stratton got unsteadily to his feet. ‘Well,’ he said, stretching his back and ignoring the pain. ‘I don’t think I can take any more of your hospitality.’ He went to the pile of fatigues and looked for a pair of trousers and a shirt that might fit.

  ‘I understand, of course,’ Victor said, noticing that the dressing on Stratton’s back was bloody. ‘We’ll need to change your bandage before you put your shirt on.’

  Stratton pulled on a pair of trousers that were long enough in the leg but big around the waist. ‘My boots?’ he asked, looking around.

  ‘Yours are no good. Try those,’ Victor said, pointing to an open box filled with jungle boots of various sizes.

  Stratton went to the box and rummaged through it, checking the sizes, pulling out a boot attached to another by its laces. He noticed that his wristwatch was broken. ‘I don’t suppose you have a box of watches around here too?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. They’re not a common resupply item.’

  ‘What is the time?’

  ‘Almost six p.m. . . . It happened yesterday,’ Victor informed him.

  Stratton looked at him quizzically.

  ‘The doctor put something in your drip to keep you asleep.’

  Stratton checked his forearms to find the tell-tale puncture made by a drip-feed needle.

  The Frenchman went back to the top of the stairs. ‘I must go. I’ll be back later.’

  ‘Victor?’

  Victor paused to look back at Stratton.

  ‘Can you get me to the border? I want to go home to heal.’