As the sound of trotting horses grew louder he went motionless, feeling as defenceless as a tortoise on its back.
A lone horse slightly ahead of the others slowed to a walk and a flashlight beam played along the track and into the bushes. The light passed over Victor but the rider continued on. Another horse followed a little way behind and stopped a few metres beyond him. A new beam came on and shone along the track. Victor practically stopped breathing.
This horse and its rider remained perfectly still as if listening. Victor was afraid they could hear his heart pounding in his chest.
The sound of more hooves announced other riders closing in. They came to a stop. ‘I found his hat,’ a man’s voice said. ‘He was wearing it when he left.’
Another pair of riders joined them. ‘We saw his horse,’ one of them said. ‘There was no sign of him, though. He’s ducked into the forest.’
The men fell silent. Victor stared at the feet of the horses that were almost within touching distance. Then: ‘Victor!’ a voice boomed. ‘I know you can hear me. You’re lying somewhere nearby in the dirt, scared to death and wondering if we will find you. You have every reason to be scared. If we find you we will slit your throat. I have a message for you from Hector. Don’t go back to Sebastian’s camp or you will die. If you value your life you’ll leave this place, leave this country and never come back.That’s not just a warning, Victor. That’s a promise.’
The horses remained still for a moment before trotting away in the direction of Hector’s encampment.
Victor lay where he was for a long time without moving, partly to ensure that the riders had gone and were not trying to trick him but mostly because he simply did not know what to do. The very question he had pondered earlier had been answered for him. His revolution had indeed come to an end.
All those years of fighting and sacrifice were suddenly history. Worse still, he was now an enemy of those he had once fought alongside. He had known it would end one day but not like this. Even his death, which he had contemplated on occasion, would now be meaningless and without glory. He would not see the end of the great struggle. For him, there would be no celebrations, no hugging of comrades, no emotional reunions.
He could, of course, ignore the threat. Sebastian might even give him protection if he ever forgave him for going to Hector’s camp in the first place. But Victor did not think he could live with that threat hanging over him. The constant danger would be too much for him to bear.
An hour or more passed before he eventually crawled out from under the bush and got to his feet. He stood in the middle of the track, bruised and filthy, and looked in the direction of Hector’s camp. His chest hurt like hell, particularly when he took a breath. His faced throbbed where the branch had struck him. But he was alive.
Where he was headed he had no idea. Home was the obvious choice. Back to France and his beautiful Pyrenees. Strangely, the idea did not fill him with joy as it had in the past. Enforced on him by the threat of death, his exit from the rebellion would be made under a shadow. No more the return of a valiant hero. It would be a private homecoming. His story, with its unflattering ending, would not be worth telling to anyone, not when he and any listener were sober, at least.
Victor turned his back on Hector’s camp and walked on into the night.
As the first rays of light broke through the gaps in the straw roof, Louisa awoke in Stratton’s arms. They had made love several times throughout the night, their lust for each other heightened by the knowledge that he would soon leave.
Stratton was on the edge of sleep and his eyes opened as he felt Louisa sit up. He watched her stand and walk to the top of the stairs where she stopped to look back at him. She smiled, sadness in her eyes, and walked down the stairs, her rich black hair cascading down her back.
He sat up. He could hear her getting dressed and when her boots sounded across the floor he went to the balcony to watch her leave. She blew him a kiss before opening the door and then she was gone. It struck him that he might never see her again.
Stratton tried to think how it would be to stay. The obvious question was for how long. Even if the revolution ended that week, what would he do? Follow her around like a puppy, hoping she might have a spare moment for him once in a while? Her path was set, or at least she had a plan and was the type to pursue it vigorously. Her political involvement would require work and dedication and mixing with similarly committed people. Having a soldier in tow, a lover from the fighting days, would be trying to live her life in two different worlds. It wasn’t practical. It had no future. If it was so obvious to him it would be the same for her. Last night had been as much about goodbye as it had been about anything else.
Stratton rooted around the kitchen looking for any food he could take with him. He found some bread, cheese, dried meat and an apple which he distributed around his pockets.
He shouldered his parachute and pack, picked up his rifle, took a last look around and left the cabin.
Stratton cut across towards the defensive position at the foot of the slope leading up to the stables. He paused to look at Sebastian’s cabin, the urge to knock on the door and see Louisa nearly overpowering him. He reminded himself once again that it was pointless and took a couple of steps away. But he stopped again. The pressure to see her was too great. It was almost painful.What was the harm, he reasoned. All he wanted was to see her face, a chance to touch her one last time. It was as if a part of him were willing him away while another tried to push him towards her.
A man ran down the slope calling his name. It was David. ‘Victor’s horse has returned without him,’ he said, out of breath and looking extremely concerned.
They hurried together up the incline to the stables where Bernard had unsaddled the animal and was inspecting it.
‘He has cuts on his face and flanks,’ Bernard said, kneeling to inspect its legs. ‘This horse has been run pretty hard through jungle.’
‘Anyone know where Victor was going?’ Stratton said.
There was no answer.
‘Where’re the Indians?’ he asked.
‘Mohesiwa was here when the horse arrived,’ Bernard said. ‘He left as soon as he discovered the animal was Victor’s.’
Stratton thought of his last conversation with Victor. The man wanted to effect some kind of change somewhere that would take him the night to get there and back to. ‘How far’s Hector’s camp from here?’ he asked.
‘Three hours,’ David replied. ‘Why would he go there?’
‘I didn’t say he did.’
‘That road is dangerous,’ David said, wondering if Stratton knew more than he was prepared to say. ‘There have been reports of Neravistas on that path.’
‘I’d like to look in that direction,’ Stratton said, not really knowing what he would be looking for other than an unhorsed Victor lying injured somewhere.
‘The patrol to relieve the northern outpost leaves soon,’ Bernard said. ‘It follows part of the route to Hector’s camp. Maybe the outpost knows something.’
‘Let’s do it,’ Stratton said.
‘Give me those,’ David said, taking Stratton’s pack and parachute. ‘I’ll leave them in the end stall for you.’
Stratton shouldered his rifle and magazine pouch and followed Bernard to the main entrance.
Half a dozen men equipped for their duty in the outpost were getting ready to leave the camp. The main entrance was busy with its usual traffic of burros bringing in food supplies, wood and water.
Bernard had a quick word with the patrol commander and came back to Stratton as the party headed out. ‘We can go with them,’ he reported as they followed the patrol through the entrance. ‘They’ve not heard from the outpost this morning.’
‘Is that unusual?’ Stratton asked.
‘No. The radios are old American HF sets and don’t work very well.’
‘How far is the outpost?’
‘Less than an hour.’
Stratton looked back, t
houghts of Louisa still lingering in his mind, hoping she might have heard about Victor’s disappearance and come to see him. He could not see her in the crowd and within minutes the camp entrance was out of sight as they headed into the jungle.
The track was well travelled and easy underfoot, apart from a rocky section that was more of a climb than anything else. From the top Bernard pointed to a distant knoll, a kilometre or so away, where the outpost was located.
They trudged along, spread out in single file, Stratton near the rear with Bernard. As the head of the patrol approached a lone tree with the knoll beyond the lead man quickly signalled a halt, followed by another order to go to ground. Each man stepped off the track and dropped into a crouch, looking in every direction for signs of the enemy.
Bernard turned to Stratton. ‘There’s something wrong,’ he said, looking around tensely. ‘Someone from the outpost is usually waiting by that tree to meet the relief, but no one is there.’
Stratton found Bernard’s unease alarming. The track traversed a long slope covered in long grass and patches of dense bush. They were exposed to the high ground, not the ideal place to hang around. ‘We shouldn’t stay here,’ Stratton suggested.
Bernard understood and moved ahead. As he approached the front of the patrol the lead men were moving forward to the tree. Bernard signalled the others to move on.
One by one, each man walked past the tree, stepping between a group of large rocks and disappearing out of sight.
When Stratton reached the same spot he saw the others up ahead, standing around as if transfixed by something. As he approached he could hear the intense buzzing of thousands of flies. Lying on the ground in a small clearing were the six members of the rebel outpost, all dead, shot through their heads and torsos. One had had his throat slit.
One of the relief patrol moved away to throw his guts up. The rest stared unmoving at their fallen comrades with looks of horror and disgust.
Stratton found the situation curious insofar as the outpost crew had been shot out in the open rather than behind cover as one might expect in a firefight. He picked up one of the dead men’s rifles and removed the magazine. It was full. He checked the man’s magazine pouch which was also untouched. A similar inspection of another dead rebel’s weapon and ammo pouch revealed the same. ‘They didn’t return fire,’ he said.
He grew very uneasy with the location and looked to the high ground.
‘What should we do?’ Bernard asked.
‘You need to keep this outpost open,’ Stratton said. ‘There’s a reason someone wanted it wiped out. Set up the radio, inform your people and get reinforcements down here. Tell them to bring half a dozen claymores. This is what they were designed for.’
The radio operator removed his pack to set up communications, the patrol commander putting the headset over his ears.
‘You?’ Stratton said, getting the attention of one of the young men still transfixed by the dead. ‘Cover the route we came in on. You? Cover in that direction. You and you. I want you to clear the high ground,’ he said, indicating the area above the outpost. ‘That whole area all the way to the top.’
The men obeyed.
Stratton went to the lookout position and studied the panorama. The knoll provided a dramatic view of the junction of three valleys, the main approaches to that side of the plateau. He scanned in all directions with his binoculars, hoping to see what the outpost had not been meant to report on. It didn’t take him long to find something.
In the far distance, at the head of one of the valleys, what looked like a long line of soldiers and loaded burros was snaking its way in his direction. ‘Bernard?’
The young man came to his side.
‘When you get that radio working, tell them a large force of foot soldiers is heading this way. Three to four hundred, rough estimate. I also advise they check on the other outposts.’
The two men who’d been ordered to sweep the high ground mounted the rocks on the edge of the position to carry out their task. A couple of short bursts of high-velocity gunfire from the slope spat several rounds through both men, killing them before they hit the ground.
Other shots raked the position. One of the men covering the routes either side of the outpost was killed instantly, the other was seriously injured. Stratton, Bernard, the patrol commander and the radio operator dropped behind cover.
Stratton brought his weapon into his shoulder, waiting for a target. All he could think was that the outpost should never have been manned without a gun team on the high ground. Their only hope now was to defend themselves against an assault - there was no way that they could mount a counter-attack. They could not attempt a move with that gun covering their position.
A soft moan came from nearby and Stratton peered through the foliage to see Bernard clutching at himself, obviously in pain.
‘Where’re you hit?’ Stratton whispered.
Bernard tried to turn enough to see him. ‘I’m okay,’ he said, his voice quivering.
Stratton suspected otherwise.
‘Drop your weapons or you will all die like your comrades!’ a voice called out from the bushes. ‘We have your position surrounded.’
Stratton remembered the men hanging by their necks in the jungle on the day he’d arrived. These attackers would be all too likely to mete out the same kind of retribution to anyone they captured.
‘I have been ordered to take prisoners. Those others, they went for their guns. If you give yourselves up you will be allowed to live. If you fight, you will die.’
It was the kind of threat that the defenders wanted to hear but still could not really believe.
A man in civilian clothes rose from behind cover, his rifle aimed carefully at the rebel patrol’s position. He was followed by another and then more, all of them in civilian clothes.
‘I’m coming out,’ shouted someone not far from Stratton. It was one of the rebels. ‘I’ve dropped my gun. Don’t shoot.’ The radio operator did not waste any time as he got to his feet and stepped into the open, his arms raised in the customary surrender gesture.
The patrol commander followed him. They clearly realised the futility of resistance and were willing to take their chances by surrendering.
‘What about you, Bernard?’ Stratton asked.
‘I . . . I can’t fight,’ he stammered.
Stratton exhaled heavily, his nerves on edge. A twinge of fear gripped him which he fought to hold at bay. It was one of those key moments of decision. He could go for it, come out blasting, take his chances on maybe creating a hole in the enemy’s line and hope to get away. If he did, his escape routes were limited, to say the least. There was a steep drop from the view point behind him. He could jump and hope that he didn’t break every bone in his body. Even then they could still pick him off. The other option was to stand up, surrender and take his chances. There were too many guns aimed at him for him to try and escape, he decided.
Stratton put down his weapon and got to his feet.
Bernard stood up painfully, holding his shoulder, blood seeping from a hole in the front and the exit point in his back.
The leader of the ambushers pushed his way forward and into the clearing. He was wearing a hat and carrying an AK47. He also had a pistol in a holster attached to his belt. He grinned at Stratton. His face was covered in a scruffy beard. ‘Hello, Englishman,’ he said stepping closer as his men closed in.
There were a dozen of them, all dishevelled and grubby.
The leader nodded to his men and several of them descended on the rebels to search their pockets and remove their webbing. One of them handed Stratton’s belt to the leader who looked through the pouches with interest, inspecting the GPS. ‘Tie their hands,’ he barked.
His order was carried out swiftly.The other wounded rebel was dragged over and dropped to the ground alongside the others.
‘I must now execute you all for crimes against the government of Neravista,’ the bearded leader said casually. ‘I’m sorry
about the prisoner bit. I was lying. It’s the law, as you know, that all terrorists are to be killed as soon as they are captured. I don’t have time to find a suitable gallows so you will have to be shot.’ The leader whispered something in the ear of his subordinate before stepping back. ‘Carry on,’ he said.
‘Ready,’ the subordinate called out. His men raised their rifles where they stood. ‘Aim!’ he shouted. The radio man began to cry and urine coursed down his legs. Bernard clenched his jaw and stared at his killers.
‘Fire!’
Every rifle went off at once. Stratton flinched. The others dropped to the ground. Bernard and the radio operator died instantly, bullet holes in their heads and torsos. The patrol commander writhed in agony, a hole in his neck spouting blood several feet into the air, his arms motionless because his spine had been severed. One of the ambushers stepped closer, aimed his rifle, and shot the commander through his head. Then he adjusted his aim and put a round through the head of the wounded man who had been dumped on the ground, even though he looked to be already dead.
Stratton remained standing. He had winced when the shots were fired but otherwise had not moved.
The ambushers’ leader chuckled. ‘You don’t like my sense of humour?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you but all the patrols in this area were told not to kill the Englishman if they should come across you.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe someone else wants that pleasure.’
He shouted a command and the group quickly made ready to go.
Stratton took a moment to come back to earth. For several seconds he had really believed his time had come, right up to and including an instant after the shots had been fired. He had felt the bullets striking Bernard who had been so close that he was almost touching him and he’d been splashed by the younger man’s blood. But at that moment Stratton’s brain could not grasp why he himself had felt no pain. The leader’s laugh had come to him like a distant echo.
One of the men slammed him cruelly in the back with a rifle butt to get him going. He felt drained, as if his blood had left him. No amount of previous experience of the sight, sound and smell of death fully prepared one for it.
Mercenary s-5 Page 21
