The 6th Plague

by Darren Hale

  The de Haviland Otter hopped across the ground, its pilot banking every ounce of power.

  The trees were approaching fast.

  And then, its engine sounding like a swarm of angry bees, it pitched towards the sky, clearing the treetops with scant room to spare. Had it not been for the early hour of the day, with its cold, dense air, and favourable breeze, the pilot might not have made it.

  ‘Cobra Six – relocate to the camp’s southern perimeter and reacquire primary target. we are moving around to support.’

  About fucking time!

  ******

  ‘Cobra Team this is Cobra One, does anyone have eyes on the prize?’

  ‘Negative Cobra One, we have lost visual contact. The Ace of Spades and Jack of Clubs were last seen moving towards the camp...’

  ‘Crow’s Nest, do you have eyes on our assets?’

  Bradley Leavenworth would have recognised Director Verhoeven’s voice despite the fact that the man’s face dominated the window in the top righthand corner of his monitor, much of which displayed the Icarus’s view of the activity that had exploded around the camp.

  With the rising of the sun, the blobs had resolved themselves into images of men – a large force of which had gathered along the northern edge of the campsite and was now exchanging fire with insurgents inside the camp. And as far as he could tell, the battle had gotten off to a promising start, despite the fact that Captain Ramirez’s attack had been presumptuous, and poorly coordinated.

  Having suddenly appeared at the camp’s northern perimeter, he’d assaulted with barely a moment’s hesitation, and his impetuousness had been rewarded with the lives of six insurgents to the cost of one “friendly” who’d been surprised by a pair of insurgents lost amongst the background noise of bodies. They’d been patrolling near the northern edge of the clearing and had subsequently fallen in the ensuing flurry of gunfire.

  Brad stared at the monitor, the camera atop its screen displaying every measure of the doubt and confidence his face might have betrayed, as it reported to those watching on the other side.

  Mick zoomed in on two figures outlined with boxes. The first, Ramon, was lying on the ground next to a tent, while the second, Nathan Eades, was working his way through the trees around the southern end of the clearing.

  ‘Yes sir – we’ve highlighted them for you now,’ Brad confirmed.

  The director was visible on screen, speaking into his microphone, though his words were not audible. His orders had been directed elsewhere.

  Bradley and his team were hooked into Cobra Team’s radio net as witnesses only. Arlington was in charge, with Crow’s Nest working in nothing more than a support capacity.

  ‘Acknowledged Wheelhouse, we are moving to reacquire targets now...’

  Director Verhoeven turned his attention back to the screen. ‘Well done Mr Leavenworth. Keep your eyes on those two… and there might be a citation in it for you, and your team,’ he said, before disappearing along with the window in which he’d been framed.

  Bradley turned to Mick. ‘We are sure that’s them – aren’t we?’

  ‘Pretty much…’

  ‘Pretty much?’ The rising pitch in Brad’s voice framed the question.

  ‘Given the intelligence we’ve received, I would say there’s at least a ninety-seven percent chance that they’re our men,’ said Mick reassuringly.

  ‘Ninety-seven percent. And how did you come by that assessment?’

  ‘Well…’ Mick explained calmly, ‘I’m at least ninety percent sure that I’m right – but not a hundred. Icarus tracked them as they moved from the landing strip and into a position that is consistent with the last reported visual sighting…’

  ‘Is Snake Pit able to give us a positive identification?’ Brad asked.

  ‘Perhaps, soon…’ said Mick ominously. ‘It looks like the Ace of Spades is moving towards him.’

  54

  Monday 23rd October:

  Rays of light poked their way through the walls of the tent around Ramon, each one marking the wound left by a bullet that might have gone unnoticed, if not for the zipping sound it made if it passed too close, or the chaos it created when striking anything more substantial along the way.

  Enrique was dead. He’d died moments ahead of the battle that now raged around them, having been struck down by two expertly aimed shots from Nathan’s gun. Had it been left to Ramon, he would himself be lying dead upon the floor, having squandered his fleeting advantage on a sentimental desire not to shoot the man he’d called his friend.

  And then the sounds of gunfire had erupted along the northern edge of the camp…

  And one…

  Two…

  Then three… of the camp’s armed occupiers had been thrown to the ground in a hail of bullets.

  Nathan had reacted quickly, and before Ramon could have thanked him for saving his life, he bolted towards the trees, chased by bullets that had fallen so wildly short he might have been left wondering if they’d been aimed at him at all…

  And Ramon followed, keeping his head low. Their attackers had been overconfident in their assault and sloppy in its execution, having anticipated that they might brush aside any resistance with a singular concentration of force, and had been quickly brought to a halt when it had transpired that the men they were attacking were rather better equipped than they might have imagined – thanks to Nathan. Though too many of his men now lay dead, those who’d survived had organised themselves towards the south eastern side of the camp and were giving a good accounting of themselves.

  A couple of arcing contrails zipped towards the trees; ribbons of smoke traced behind rocket-propelled grenades.

  And the trees exploded.

  ******

  ‘Wheelhouse, this is Snake Pit. The Jack of Clubs has turned jackrabbit and is running towards the camp’s southern perimeter.’

  ‘Cobra Six – I have him.’

  A pause…

  ‘Jack of Clubs is hit… I say again… Jack of Clubs is hit…’

  Somewhere in those empty moments between messages, the engagement order had been given. The Jack of Clubs, also known as Ramon Aguilar of Liberación Nacional de Colombia, was going down. Having lost the cargo of drugs that was now flying north towards Colombia, Cobra Team’s primary objective lay in the apprehension of just one man, Nathan Eades, and beyond that, they had been ordered to keep themselves out of the ensuing fray. Ramon and his fellow insurgents would be left to the mercy of the Peruvian military, along with the fortunes of the British captives that were believed to have been sheltering within the camp’s largest tent. Nevertheless, someone had clearly seen fit to offer the Peruvians a helping hand, in the hope, perhaps, of forestalling a bloody combat by disabling their leader.

  Bradley Leavenworth and his team had been watching the conflict unfold on the screens in front of them. The Peruvian contingent to the north of the camp had opened fire, killing a half-dozen insurgents in their opening salvo, as had been judged from the number of man-shaped images lying immobile on the ground. And it had looked as if the bold ‘hit ‘em hard and hit ‘em fast’ plan might have been destined for success, until two poorly aimed rockets heralded a change in fortune.

  The two explosions had, in themselves, caused very little damage. The man-shaped images closest to the blast had still been moving once the dust had settled, though it had been enough to make the attack stutter. One figure, now identified as the Jack of Clubs, had then made a break for cover, only to have been brought down with a single shot from Cobra Six.

  And then…

  Another larger explosion in the treeline to the north, followed swiftly by another.

  ‘What the fuck! Snake Pit – do you have eyes on? What just happened?’

  ‘Cobra One – it looks like the insurgents have found themselves a mortar and are using it on your friends in the trees.’

  Bright streaks of fire sprayed from the southern edge of the clearing, slicing through the gaps between the tents.
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  ‘And a machine gun… Something heavy calibre from the sounds of it…’

  ‘Wheelhouse, this is Cobra One. Our military friends are looking to get themselves massacred. What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Crow’s Nest – this is Wheelhouse. Can you get a fix on that artillery?’ Director Verhoeven’s voice came from the monitor’s speakers, loud and clear, but without the accompanying picture this time.

  Raymond nodded and zoomed in on two clusters of activity just outside the camp’s southern perimeter. The machine gun and mortar appeared bright white, thanks to the heat they were creating.

  ‘Wheelhouse, we’re highlighting the targets for you.’

  ‘Cobra one – this is Wheelhouse. I’m streaming you the tactical data. You are cleared to take out the heavy assets… Fucking Peruvian amateurs…’ The feed from Arlington went quiet as the no doubt red-faced Director Verhoeven remembered and then silenced the open channel.

  ‘Cobra Six – do you copy? We have a kill order on that mortar and machine gun. You should have the tactical data now.’

  ‘I have them Cobra One. Cobra Six engaging mortar now…’

  One of the man-shaped blodges next to the mortar reeled backwards and fell to the ground, quickly followed by the second.

  There was a squelch of static…

  ‘Cobra Six repeat your last transmission.’

  Nothing…

  ‘Cobra Six I say again – repeat your last transmission…’

  ******

  Roberto Frakes exhaled slowly as he pulled the trigger, the air leaving his lungs as the bullet left the rifle.

  His target rolled backwards, obscured by a cloud of red mist.

  The bullet had struck true.

  He couldn’t say where exactly – the man had been partially obscured by the vegetation – nevertheless, he was confident that it would not have fallen more than a fraction of an inch from the centre of his chest, and the fifty-calibre round would not have left much behind.

  He ejected the spent round with a flick of the wrist and loaded another into the breach, lining his sight upon his next target in as much time as it took to draw another breath – and fired again in the time it took him to release it.

  Another gush of blood…

  And another target down.

  He grinned. His targets – a sniper and his observer wearing American special forces camo – had been worthy adversaries, having already disabled Ramon with a single shot to the leg and the three-man mortar team that had been culling the soldiers grouped along the northern edge of the clearing. Though Ramon had escaped alive. The shot, having come from a rifle of smaller calibre, had clearly been designed to disable. Nevertheless, it had been inflicted with such precision as to leave him in no doubt that he was looking for a sniper of some skill. Had the shot come from a weapon like the one he himself was using, the leg would have been cleanly amputated, and Ramon would have bled out on the ground where he’d fallen.

  The crack of the first shot had drawn his attention to some harmless looking trees.

  And the muzzle flashes that followed, had revealed the man hiding there.

  It had then taken but a few heartbeats to line up his own rifle, and some gentle pressure on the trigger to extinguish the threat.

  Something moved.

  The thunderous crack of his weapon had chased away all other sounds and left his ears ringing such that he could barely hear it as it ploughed its way towards him.

  He reached for his pistol. His rifle was of no use to him at close quarters.

  ******

  Ramon had been momentarily dazed. Something had punched him in the thigh, kicking his leg out from under him as the ground swept up to meet him.

  And he’d landed hard.

  On his shoulder.

  And the force of the blow had knocked the wind from his lungs; a pain that had somehow preceded the red-hot poker that stabbed him through the meat of his leg.

  The bullet had passed through-and-through, leaving a ragged hole from which his blood seeped in dusky streams, rather than the ruby fountains that would have indicated an injury to a major vessel.

  He’d been lucky.

  Or the shot had been designed to incapacitate – not kill…

  Without stopping to contemplate the intentions nor marksmanship of his attacker, Ramon thrust himself to his feet and lunged in the direction of the dining tent he had so recently abandoned. It had thus far attracted little attention, despite its prominence, and though its flimsy walls promised no protection from a bullet, their attackers were clearly making efforts to avoid it, doubtless trying to spare the hostages within; an advantage that he would happily exploit.

  He fell against the canvas, unsheathing his knife as he did so…

  ******

  ‘Wheelhouse this is Cobra One. Cobras Six and Seven are down. I repeat Cobras Six and Seven are down. They’re dead. Looks like heavy calibre sniper fire from their two o’clock position. Do we have eyes on?’

  A pause.

  ‘Copy that Wheelhouse.’

  A click.

  ‘Cobras Three and Four, move to intercept sniper. And be advised, Snake Pit and Ace of Spades both inbound on his position. Let’s not have any accidents…’

  Shit! Thought Brad, mentally filling in the blank spots in the conversation. He felt like a spectator at a football match, willing his team on, yet powerless to intervene. Arlington was in charge.

  And he was on the bench...

  Watching the game unfold…

  Having analysed the last few seconds of footage, Mick had drawn a box around one of the blobs undercover to the south-west of the campsite and had labelled it as “Hostile Sniper?”. The boxes now converging on its location had already been labelled, two in blue, moving in from the target’s ten o’clock, and two others, one in blue, with the label “Snake Pit”, and another in red with the label “Ace of Spades”, approaching from the opposite direction.

  Take that fucker out – now!

  55

  Monday 23rd October:

  Juliet had not slept well.

  Where was Martin?

  Having waited for him well into the evening, she had only fallen asleep when she had finally become too tired to stay awake. Though the jungle had been discrete in its silence, her mind had imagined predators of all kinds concealed in the darkness – from the ants marching in columns along the ground, and centipedes as long as her hand, to the snakes and spiders watching her from the trees.

  Had he been captured – or killed?

  She’d not been happy when he’d informed her that he planned to return to the camp to gather “further intelligence” and was taking their only radio with him, though his superiors (whoever they were), had now been informed of their predicament and there was at least some hope of a rescue.

  And he’d insisted on going alone.

  And she’d protested…

  For no other reason than she was feeling bloody-minded…

  Albeit, her protest had not lasted for long. Their previous excursion had been more arduous than she might have hoped, and she’d not wanted to spend another day lying amongst the weeds, feeling like bait for the little biting things that surrounded her.

  But when he’d failed to return, she’d begun to worry…

  Would she be left to die all alone in the jungle?

  The thought had agonised throughout the night, until, come morning, her fears of abandonment (and perhaps ending up in the stomach of one of the jungle’s varied and hungry denizens) had frightened her more than the prospect of dying alone.

  And so, having distracted herself with the many and varied ways she might meet her end, she’d started back towards the camp at a time when the dawn had been nothing more than a washed-out glaze upon the sky.

  ******

  When the first hour had become a second, Juliet had begun to worry that she had somehow become turned around, though such a thing would only have been possible if she’d somehow crossed the Tambor
yacu without knowing it. A forgivable mistake given that the tributary near their camp had resembled little more than a series of puddles and grassy knolls than anything else.

  Unless you’d been her mother… Who had, throughout her life, taken pleasure in telling her that hers was not the best sense of direction in the world, having once gotten herself lost while playing hide and seek on a camping ground little bigger than a playing field. An unfair assessment in Juliet’s mind. She had only been five at the time!

  And then she’d found them…

  The four canoes partly submerged beneath the water.

  And the smell…!

  With a quick search, she’d discovered Arno’s gun amongst the reeds, and it had not taken long to imagine what the smell might have been…

  My God!

  And her heart had crawled up inside her throat where it had threatened to strangle her…

  Snatching up the gun and a few cartridges she’d found nearby, she started towards the camp, taking a circuitous route much the same as the one Martin had used.

  ******

  A quick count had revealed more than a dozen men scattered around the camp. More than there had been the last time she’d been there. And those were just the ones she could see. Some sitting idly, while others walked in an almost distracted fashion around its perimeter. They seemed somehow preoccupied.

  And then she’d heard the first of the shots.

  It had come from the tent she’d once shared with Catherine.

  And her heart had gone cold, imagining the worst for her friend.

  Moments later a wild-looking man, half-dressed in a soldier’s greens, had exploded from the tent, gun in hand.

  And had marched towards the dining tent.

  A shot…

  A cry…

  And her heart had threatened to beat no more.