by Chris Ryan
The silence was broken by a sudden rasping whoosh followed by a loud crash. RPG, Porter realised. It sounded close to the hotel. Dangerously close. He leapt out of the makeshift bed, grabbed his clothes, and quickly dressed. Then he rushed over to the window and peered out through a gap next to the mattress.
The window faced north, giving Porter a partial view of the security cordon at the far end of the access road, fifty metres away. Down below, the fifty Nigerians who had been guarding the access road began retreating towards the hotel entrance, under sporadic bursts of gunfire. They were accompanied by the twenty or so other Nigerians who had withdrawn from the bridge the previous afternoon. Further north Porter saw the crowd of locals on the main road rapidly disperse, people running for cover in every direction, screaming in terror. More gunshots ripped through the air, with several rounds slapping into the ground around the access road. Two ECOMOG soldiers were slumped on the ground next to the sandbags, blood pooling around their corpses.
Behind him Tannon stirred in the bed and immediately sat upright.
‘What is it?’ she asked anxiously. ‘What’s going on?’
Porter said nothing. He turned away from the window and made for the door as another RPG round whooshed towards the hotel. There was a deafening boom and shudder as it struck the palm trees lining the main road.
Shit, he thought.
It’s started.
‘John?’ Tannon said.
Porter stopped and turned back to her. He tried to keep his voice calm. ‘I’m going to have a look downstairs. Wait here.’
‘But—’
Porter didn’t catch her reply. He yanked the door open and stepped outside, then marched quickly down the hallway as the urgent sounds of gunfire continued to ring out from the front of the hotel. He quickened his stride as he hurried on towards the landing, the dread tightening around his throat. Ahead of him he saw Bald and Tully waiting by the stairs, ordering everyone back into their rooms. They turned to face Porter as he rushed over.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he said between snatches of breath.
Tully jerked a thumb in the direction of the lobby. ‘The bridge has fallen. The rebels are headed this way. Hundreds of the fuckers. It’s all kicking off.’
‘Where’s Soames?’
‘Still locked in the storeroom,’ Bald said. He frowned. ‘Where have you been all night?’
Before Porter could reply several shouts echoed from down in the lobby. The voices sounded desperate, and scared. The three men glanced at one another. Then they turned and sprinted down the stairs, clearing the treads two or three at a time. A furious volley of cracks and thumps sounded in the distance as they made their way down to the lobby. The sounds were getting closer.
This is it, Porter thought as he raced after Bald and Tully. We’re under attack.
Forty or so guests stood huddled by the lobby stairs. Early risers who’d ventured downstairs to see what was going on. Crowder and a few of the staff stood close by. Porter, Bald and Tully battled their way through the crowd and looked towards the entrance twelve metres away. More than forty Nigerian troops had backpedalled from the access road, fleeing through the double doors that had been left unblocked the previous day. Porter marched over to the front entrance and gazed outside. He saw the remaining thirty troops further north along the drive. The Nigerians had lost all sense of discipline and were retreating towards the entrance, firing wild rounds at the Cape Road to cover their retreat.
As soon as the Nigerians hit the lobby they began shedding their kit. SLR rifles, secondary pistols, RPG-7s, belts of 7.62mm link. The Nigerians dumped the lot. Even the guy with the GPMG discarded his guns. Once the soldiers had ditched their guns they started taking off the rest of their kit. Helmets, camo jackets, utility belts and boots.
‘What are they doing?’ Bald snarled.
‘Ditching anything that might identify them to the rebels,’ Tully said.
Bald’s expression tightened with impotent rage. ‘We’ve got to put a stop this. Get them back to their positions.’
But Porter could tell just by looking at the Nigerians that it was pointless arguing with them. They were gripped by a combination of crap training, indiscipline and sheer terror. There’s nothing we can do.
Amid the melee Porter spotted the heavyset sergeant they had ran into the previous day outside the hotel. Bald immediately made a beeline for the sergeant, his face twisted into a disgusted scowl. Tully and Porter hurried after him. The Nigerian looked up at Bald as the latter stepped into his face.
‘The fuck you think you’re doing?’ Bald said.
The sergeant gave him a long, hard stare. ‘Protecting my men. There are too many rebels out there.’ He gestured outside, to the sandbags at the far end of the access road. By now the last of the soldiers had pulled back from the cordon and retreated inside the hotel. ‘We can’t hold them off any longer. If the enemy captures us they’ll kill us all. The only way to keep my men alive is to make the rebels think we’re guests here.’
Bald jabbed a finger at the Nigerian’s chest. ‘What about everyone else in here? You can’t just abandon these people.’
The sergeant shook his head. ‘There’s nothing more we can do for them. My men will wait here and hope the rebels spare us. If you want to leave, that’s up to you.’
‘We can’t. The whole place is fucking surrounded.’
The Nigerian stared at Bald with a cold indifference. ‘This isn’t our problem. We can’t help you. Now get out of my way.’
He brushed past Bald and headed for the stairs with the rest of his men, yelling at them to grab whatever clothes they could find to disguise their appearance. Bald shaded white with rage as the Nigerians barged past the guests and scurried up the stairs. The guy was grinding his teeth so hard, Porter could hear the scrape of enamel.
‘Fucking useless,’ Bald muttered.
‘What do we do now?’ Tully said.
As he spoke a flurry of three-round bursts erupted along the Cape Road and a pair of stray bullets thwacked into the concrete walls either side of the glass doors. The rest of the Nigerians picked up the pace and vaulted up the stairs after their mates. Some of the guests turned and followed them, unnerved by how close to the lobby the rounds had struck. Porter narrowed his eyes at the Cape Road and searched for movement. There was no sign of the enemy, but he knew they had to be close. Most of the rebels he’d seen on the streets were kitted out with AK-47s. Probably Chinese or Eastern European knock-offs. The AK-47 had a maximum effective range of four hundred metres, and a stray round might carry on for another two or three hundred metres beyond that. Which put the rebels at anywhere between seven hundred and four hundred metres away from the hotel grounds. Close, thought Porter. But not too close.
There’s still time.
He gave his back to the entrance and looked the two others in the eye. ‘We still have a chance to stop them. We can use the weapons the Nigerians have dumped. Set up firing points on the rooftop and start putting rounds down on these bastards before they hit the entrance. It’s our only chance.’
Tully pulled a face. ‘Just the three of us? I’m all for knocking the bastards down. But there’s no way we’ll be able to hold them off until help arrives.’
‘We’ve seen them chogies in action,’ Bald replied. ‘They’re shit shots.’
Tully looked uncertain.
Porter said, ‘It’s our only option. Either we start hitting the enemy right now, or we’re gonna get our heads chopped off.’
‘What about Soames?’ Tully asked. ‘We can give him a weapon too. That’d make four of us.’
‘We can’t risk it. If he gets clobbered, we’re the ones who’ll end up taking the blame. He stays in the storeroom.’
Tully pressed his lips shut. Then he shrugged and said, ‘Fuck it, then. Let’s go.’
The three men rushed over to the stack of weapons the Nigerians had discarded. Bald grabbed the GPMG, plus several belts of 7.62mm brass lying
amid the pile of helmets and jackets. Porter grabbed one of the SLRs and chucked it to Tully. Took another rifle for himself. The weapon felt good in his grip. Reassuringly familiar. Like all Hereford men Porter had broken his balls with the SLR. Over the years he’d fired thousands of rounds with that rifle on the ranges in the Brecons. It was a sturdy, dependable weapon. In a straight gunfight the SLR would be more than a match for the shoddy AK-47s that Porter had seen most of the rebels packing in the streets of the capital.
A quick glance at the fire selector told him the rifle was one of the L1A1 variants, with only two settings instead of the usual three. Semi-automatic, and safety. Porter thumbed the mag release located on the side of the receiver and gently slid out the clip. A full clip of 7.62 rifle cartridges gleamed dully in the box mag. Twenty rounds in total. He scooped up four additional clips, plus two more from another pair of SLRs. Six extra clips, as well as the twenty in the mag. A hundred and forty rounds in total. As much ammo as he could carry.
As he stuffed the clips into his pockets one of the guests stepped forward from the crowd and cleared his throat. Porter recognised the man with a start. The guy with the scar above his lip. One of the five guys dressed for safari he’d seen hanging around the hotel. A few paces behind the guy stood his four mates, to the right of the small crowd of guests. They were still wearing their African hunting gear, watching the scene at the entrance with a keen interest. The guy with the scar above his lip glanced at Tully and Bald before turning to address Porter.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I think me and my friends might be able to help.’
‘You can help us out by getting the fuck back to your rooms,’ Bald said as he hefted up the GPMG, belts of ammo draped across his shoulder. ‘It’s not safe down here.’
The man smiled weakly. ‘You need more men to keep the rebels at bay, no?’
‘Yeah,’ said Porter as he stood up. ‘So what?’
The guy with the scar above his lip reached into his shorts pocket and dug out a shiny leather wallet. He plucked a business card out and handed it to Porter. The card gave the guy’s name as Vincent Nilis, Senior Engineer for Worldwide Exploration for a company called Perutz Mining Corp. There was a telephone number below the company logo and a postal address in Antwerp.
‘We arrived a few days ago to carry out inspections on our company’s mining equipment. We’ve been trapped here since the rebels entered the city.’ Nilis gestured to his mates. ‘But my friends and I did our national service in Belgium. We all know how to handle a rifle. Let us help.’
Porter handed the business card back to Nilis. Ran his eyes over the four other Belgians standing a few metres away. They all looked to be in their late thirties or early forties, and Porter guessed it had probably been a long time since any of them had fired a shot in anger. Then another burst of gunfire crackled outside from the direction of the main road. It sounded louder than the previous reports and sent the last remaining guests darting up the stairs after the Nigerians. The rebels are getting closer, Porter thought.
We have to act now, or we’re all dead.
‘Well?’ Nilis asked.
Bald leaned in close to Porter. ‘Maybe we should clear this with Hawkridge. If this lot fuck up, we’ll be the ones carrying the can.’
Porter shook his head. ‘There’s no time.’ Then he looked back to Nilis and said, ‘How long ago did you do your national service?’
‘For me, eighteen years. The others are about the same.’
‘Ever used an SLR before?’
‘No. But we trained with the FN FAL battle rifle many times.’
Porter nodded. The British SLR was an inch-pattern variant of the FN FAL. Built to British imperial measurements, rather than metric. But the rifles were practically identical. Like twins separated at birth. Both weapons were chambered for the same 7.62x51mm NATO round. Both had some interchangeable parts. They had the same sighting posts and similar effective ranges. Which meant the Belgians should be able to get to grips with the SLR easily enough. As long as they remember their basic training, Porter told himself.
‘Fine,’ he said to Nilis. ‘You’re with us. Tell your muckers to grab themselves an SLR each. Take as much ammo as you can carry and follow us up to the rooftop. Hurry. We don’t have much time.’
The Belgian called over his mates and told them the plan. While they grabbed weapons and clips from the stash by the doors, Porter marched over to Crowder and pointed to the front doors.
‘Get that last entry point sealed,’ he said. ‘Now. Before the rebels, start attacking us.’
Crowder jolted into action. He barked at the four staff in the lobby. They rushed forward and shoved a wooden piano across the lobby, blocking the glass doors. It wasn’t an imperetrable barricade, Porter knew. But it was better than nothing and would buy them valuable seconds to respond if the enemy managed to breach the hotel. Satisfied, he turned away from the staff and joined Bald, Tully and the Belgians by the foot of the staircase. Then they launched themselves up the stairs.
They moved as fast as they could, equipment clattering and clinking, struggling under the weight of the rifles and the extra rounds they were carrying. Bald gripped the gimpy by its carry handle, belts of ammo slung across his shoulders. Porter raced up the treads alongside him, adrenaline pounding inside his veins. He suddenly forgot about the tiredness. The dryness in his mouth, the dull ache in his bones. His mind was entirely focused on doing whatever it took to stop the rebels. The lives of a thousand civvies, depended on him now. Even if the rebels did spare the majority of the guests, he doubted they would show any mercy to a couple of SAS operators.
The rebels won’t take the hotel. Not today. Not if I can bloody help it.
He ran into Tannon on the fourth-floor landing. The deputy commissioner had dressed in a hurry and she had a flustered look on her face. She glanced at the five Belgians as they raced up the stairs.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked Porter.
‘The rebels have broken across the bridge. They’re coming right for us.’
‘What about the Nigerians?’
Porter shook his head. ‘Abandoned their posts. They’re trying to pass themselves off as guests.’
Tannon composed herself, took a deep breath. ‘What can I do?’
‘Get on the blower your boss,’ said Porter. ‘Tell him it’s fucking urgent. The Yanks need to get a move on and bring the choppers in to evacuate everyone before this mob overruns us.’
‘How long do we have?’
‘We’ll hold them off for as long as we can. But I can’t make any promises?’
Tannon nodded quickly. Then she turned and paced down the corridor leading back to her room. Porter, Bald, Tully and the Belgians continued upstairs. The landings on the upper floors were eerily silent except for the occasional wail of a child from inside one of the rooms. Two more explosions echoed in the distance as the rebels fired more RPG rounds at the hotel. It seemed to take forever to reach the rooftop and by the time Porter climbed the last set of stairs he could feel his thighs burning, his calves swelling with exertion. He reached the exit a couple of paces ahead of Bald. Slammed his palm down on the crash-bar and charged through the open door. Ready to face down the enemy.
SIXTEEN
0710 hours.
A thick wall of heat hit Porter as he stepped out onto the rooftop. He blinked sweat out of his eyes and glanced around to establish his bearings. The rooftop was forty metres long and twenty-five metres wide. Roughly half the length of a football pitch, and half as wide. There was a water tower in the middle of the rooftop with a set of concrete stairs leading up to it and an iron ladder nailed to one side. An air-conditioning duct snaked across the dusty ground, with several smaller feeds and pipes branching off in every direction. A metre-high parapet ran the perimeter of the rooftop with square drainage holes built into the wall, spaced at one-metre intervals. Each one was big enough to fit a gun barrel through. P
orter clambered over the air-con duct and sprinted over to a section of the parapet overlooking the north of the hotel. He worked his way along the roof, scoping out the ground below.
Sixty metres to the north of the hotel stood the access road. Porter could see the abandoned security cordon and the two dead Nigerian soldiers. Directly beyond the sandbags on an east–west axis was the Cape Road, a horizontal grey bar amid patches of brown and green. An abandoned garage with a blue-painted roof was situated on the other side of the Cape Road at Porter’s one o’clock, two hundred metres from the hotel. Eight clapped-out motors were parked in front of the garage, rotting under the sun like metal carcasses. A hundred metres further to the east, at his two o’clock, Porter spotted a row of half-finished buildings with piles of festering rubbish heaped in the narrow alleys. Urban tumbleweed. The derelict structures backed onto a banana tree plantation, four hundred metres away. East of the plantation stood the main roundabout with the big baobab tree in the middle, six hundred metres from the hotel. Further east, at his three o’clock, Porter could just about see the faint outline of the Aberdeen Road Bridge, a mile in the distance.
As he looked on four rapid bursts of gunfire split the air. Porter flicked his gaze back to the banana plantation to the north-east. He saw a group of rebels moving down the road parallel to the treeline, four hundred metres from the hotel. Twenty of them, Porter counted. They were wearing brightly coloured shirts and moving in an asymmetrical pattern as they fired wildly, discharging bursts from their AK-47s at a cluster of a dozen or so civilians running for their lives across the Cape Road. Three of the civilians were cut down by the raking bursts of gunfire. The rest ran in the direction of the hotel, desperate to escape the killing frenzy. There was no pattern to the rebels’ approach, as far as Porter could tell. No tactics of any kind. They were tearing through the streets and murdering anyone in their wake in an uncoordinated charge, fuelled by drugs and bloodlust. Heading straight for the Ambassadors Hotel.
