Mercenary

by Duncan Falconer

  Stratton would have been content to sit where he was for a while and even make himself a brew but he didn’t have the time. This was hostile country and a multi-bundle drop could have been seen for miles around. On top of that the intended recipients would show up at some stage, he hoped. The rendezvous procedure he’d been given was terrible. ‘You’ll know ’em when you see ’em,’ Steel had said. When Stratton had asked for a little more info, the American had replied sarcastically, ‘On one side are soldiers and on the other side are rebels. Don’t give ’em to the soldiers. And if you do, make sure they pay for ’em.’ He’d amused himself, at least. It had heightened Stratton’s suspicion that this was a cowboy operation. So had missing the drop zone by several hundred metres. The good news was that as soon as the rebels showed up he would have one small task to do and then he could get out of there.

  He unclipped his M4, untied the line to his pack and took a walk to check out the immediate area. Satisfied that he was alone, he leaned his gun against a tree and removed his chute harness. He took a nylon bag from his pack and folded the chute into it, then removed a smaller pack that contained a semi-automatic pistol, a change of clothing and boots, medical equipment, some money, a passport, GPS, a bottle of water and some rations, all inside a waterproof bag. He dug a hole between two large roots at the base of the tree, placed the small pack inside and covered it up. He pulled his knife from its sheath, cut a large triangle into the bark at head height and stood back to memorise the tree’s characteristics. He used his compass to note the bearing from the clearing, which he could see through the trees, and felt confident that after he had paced the distance to the edge of it he would be able to find the tree again, in daylight at least.

  Stratton secured the parachute bag to the top of his pack, heaved it onto his shoulders, grabbed his gun and started to march to the clearing, counting the paces as best he could while stepping over dead trees.

  As he reached twenty steps his senses screamed out a warning and he stopped dead. He was being watched. He was not a hundred per cent certain - he wasn’t psychic - but he was experienced enough never to ignore such warnings.

  A glance around revealed nothing and he eased the pack off his shoulder, lowering it soundlessly to the ground.

  As Stratton turned he saw a young man, an Indian by the look of him. The youth wore only a pair of trousers that were cut off just below the knee and he held a bow in one hand, with an arrow placed lightly against the string: his fingers gripping the nocked shaft in readiness to pull it back. A quiver filled with more arrows hung by his side. Stratton guessed that he was about sixty metres away. The Indian would have to be good to get him at that range, especially if he were moving. Stratton needed to know if the youth was alone so he turned slowly. Directly opposite the young man, about the same distance on the other side of Stratton, stood a near-duplicate figure who was watching him with the same calm intensity, a bow and arrow in his hand too. Stratton had to respect their ability to get so close to him, and from opposite directions at that. So much for his keen senses, he thought. Defending himself against two bowmen who’d bracketed him like this would be that much more difficult. Cover from one would be exposure to the other. And if their shooting skills were anywhere near as good as their stealth technique, Stratton was in trouble. But they had not yet drawn back their bowstrings. With any luck, he thought, they did not mean to hurt him. He suspected that he would already have a couple of arrows in him if they did.

  Stratton rested the M4 on his pack and held out his open hands, a smile spreading across his face. ‘Hola,’ he called out.

  The young men did not move, their hawkish stares fixed on him. Stratton swivelled his own gaze from one side to the other, keeping them both in view. They didn’t appear to want to communicate in any way. It was all a little weird. As he pondered his next move a sound that grew louder by the second came from the trees. It was the unmistakable noise of people moving through the undergrowth. He could only hope it was the men he was supposed to meet and that these Indians weren’t working for the other side. If it was government forces he didn’t think they would allow him to leave. In that case he would have some explaining to do.

  Stratton kept his hands in view as he looked in the direction of the new visitors. Another half-naked Indian appeared but this one was older and stockier and carried his bow across his back. The heavy trudging sound came from behind him - it sounded like there were a lot of men.

  The next man to appear was not an Indian but a dark-skinned Latino wearing military fatigues and carrying an AK47. Behind him walked half a dozen others and when they saw Stratton they stopped to allow two more men through. The one in front looked similar to the Latinos but seemed seriously intense. He walked as if he expected someone to shoot at him any second and looked like he was ready to fire back. The man just behind him was short and stocky, in his forties and with European features. He wore a multi-pocket fishing waistcoat over his camouflage shirt, a floppy hat on his head and the only weapon he appeared to have was a pistol in a holster on his hip. His dress and bearing alone singled him out from the others. It appeared that he was the one in charge. Stratton would have been surprised if he turned out to be a local.

  The man in the fishing jacket said something to one of the others who walked back towards the main group shouting at them to halt. The order was repeated for some distance back into the jungle. His intense-looking colleague stopped to let the leader pass. The man eyed Stratton as he approached. When he stopped a few metres in front of Stratton he took a good look around, in particular up at the trees. Stratton maintained a pleasant smile. He felt sure these were rebels and not government troops.

  ‘My scout says you came through the canopy?’ The man’s accent was distinctly French.

  ‘Yes,’ Stratton replied in a tone that conveyed regret.

  ‘I would have thought that since this time they were also dropping a man they might make an effort to hit the clearing.’ The group’s leader looked and sounded irritated. His face had not seen a razor in days. ‘I’ve been up there too so I know what it’s like. It was difficult enough in a balloon. By parachute I would have said it was suicidal.’

  Stratton could only puzzle over what he meant about the balloon. ‘It wasn’t by choice,’ he said.

  ‘Did they push you out of the plane?’

  ‘Good point,’ Stratton conceded.

  ‘I hope they’re paying you enough.’ The man scrutinised him more closely. ‘You’re English?’

  Stratton nodded, wondering what his story was and how he came to be here.

  The man remained moody but he seemed to become less stand-offish. ‘My name is Victor,’ he said by way of introduction.

  ‘Stratton.’

  ‘I am Sebastian’s second in command.’

  Stratton knew nothing about the conflict nor did he know anyone’s name, thanks to Steel’s terrible briefing. But he smiled politely and nodded as if it was all quite clear.

  ‘Did any of it reach the clearing, do you know?’

  ‘I think most of it did.’

  ‘If you would lead on, then,’ Victor said. ‘Neravistas are in the area. We must assume they saw the drop.’

  Another snippet of information. Neravistas were obviously the bad guys. Stratton picked up his pack and weapon. Someone called out the command to march and the shout was repeated several times, echoing back for some distance.

  Stratton had already walked several metres before he remembered that he was supposed to be counting paces. He made a rough estimate of how many he’d taken so far and as they headed up an incline he looked back to see a long snaking line of men and burros. He could not see the end of the column.

  They came to the first container. It was hanging several metres above the ground, dangling from its shredded parachute which had snagged in the upper branches of a tree. The crate had broken open and several large plastic boxes lay on the ground.

  Victor was incensed. ‘If those idiots only realised tha
t it takes valuable time to retrieve these. We must get these boxes loaded as soon as possible!’ he called out over his shoulder.

  Orders were shouted and a group of men set about gathering the container’s contents. Stratton continued on. The undergrowth grew taller and thicker as they approached the edge of the clearing and men came forward with machetes to clear a path. They all looked like they had been living rough in the jungle for a while. They were unwashed and grubby, and most of them had long hair and beards. Apart from their camouflage gear, which seemed to have come from several different sources, they didn’t look like soldiers. But there seemed to be a solid enough rank structure and the discipline was there. Stratton wondered about their soldiering skills, though. Not all the weapons he could see looked in good condition.

  The men soon cut through to the clearing where the bundles lay scattered over a wide area. Stratton took a count.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said to Victor. ‘They’re all here.’

  Victor nodded to the serious-looking officers, who barked some orders and the rebels hurried into the clearing with their burros in tow. There must have been over two dozen animals and a hundred men.

  Stratton made his way to one of the pallets to inspect a plastic container that had fallen out of the crate and had been damaged. He opened the lid and lifted a sponge cover to reveal a couple of dozen green tubes marked with black stencilling.

  ‘Rockets!’ exclaimed one of the men who saw them. Within seconds several rebels surrounded the box, removed some of the launch tubes and inspected them excitedly.

  Stratton watched one of the men holding his tube up the wrong way round. When he began pushing in the rubber firing button, even though the device was not armed at that stage, it was evident he had no idea how to use it. Stratton watched other rebels beginning to do things with the tubes that were definitely inadvisable. He was suddenly alarmed.

  ‘Whoa, whoa, guys,’ he called out. ‘Stop. Just a minute. Hold on. You, don’t do that . . . Listen in!’ he finally shouted.

  They stopped talking and gave him their full attention.

  Stratton looked at the men, most of whom were a few inches shorter than him. At six foot he wasn’t particularly tall, neither was he noticeably muscular, though he was athletic. But he was quite big compared with most of the rebels, this bunch at least. ‘Does anybody here know how to fire these weapons?’ he asked calmly.

  A barrel-chested man held his launcher confidently as he stepped from the group. ‘You just pull this bit here and then—’

  ‘Stop, stop, stop,’ Stratton asked, holding out his hands. ‘Don’t pull anything . . . Do you know what kind of a rocket this is?’

  There was silence. ‘It’s the kind that blows things up,’ someone called out, much to the amusement of the others.

  Stratton smiled along with them. ‘That’s good. You’re right. It’s the kind that blows things up. And if you’re not careful you’ll blow us all up right here and now.’

  ‘So show us how to fire it,’ one of the rebels said.

  ‘Yeah, show us,’ another man echoed.

  ‘Well . . . I didn’t exactly come here to—’

  ‘What are you people doing?’ Victor interrupted, calling out as he strode through the undergrowth towards them. ‘Get this stuff loaded! Or are you just waiting for the Neravistas?’

  The men put the launch tubes back in the box and hurried to the task.

  Victor looked to the sky worriedly, wiping the sweat and grime from his brow before inspecting the rockets. ‘What are those?’ he asked.

  ‘Sixty-six-millimetre rockets.’

  Victor appeared to have mixed feelings about the weapons.

  ‘You didn’t ask for these?’

  ‘We never know what we’re going to get. I think they send us whatever they have a surplus of. Last month we got two hundred pairs of chemical-and-biological warfare over-boots and a dozen gas masks . . . Are they simple to use?’

  Stratton looked down at the tubes. ‘Well, yes - when you know how.’

  ‘You can show us?’

  ‘I came here to show you how to set up the claymores. ’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘They sent you several boxes of claymore anti-personnel mines. I was told to show a couple of your men how to set them up and then I’m on my way.’

  ‘Is it such a big deal to show the men how to fire these rockets as well?’

  ‘No. If you’ve got time,’ Stratton said with some reluctance. He had set his mind on getting going as soon as possible in the hope of making it to the border before the following evening.

  ‘We’ll have plenty of time when we get back to the camp,’ Victor said, walking off.

  ‘Hold on . . . excuse me,’ Stratton said, following him.

  Victor stopped to shout at several men tying a box onto the back of one of the burros. ‘Quicker, you people. We need to leave.’ He turned to Stratton to hear what he had to say.

  ‘My task was to show your people how to set up claymores, but I was supposed to do that here at the drop. I’m leaving as soon as you guys do.’

  ‘We don’t have time to do any training here. We must pack up and go as soon as we can. What do you people think this is? We’re at war. Didn’t they tell you anything?’ Victor walked away.

  ‘Actually, no,’ Stratton muttered to himself. But he wasn’t going to give up so easily. He caught up with Victor as he was chastising a group of men who were having problems with one of the burros. ‘If we move away from here a couple of kilometres and take a break, I can run some training then.’

  ‘We don’t take breaks. We have to go as quickly as we can. It won’t be safe until we reach the camp,’ Victor said, walking away to resolve another crisis.

  Stratton watched Victor go, realising that it was pointless to continue with the argument.

  He had a decision to make.

  He walked to the edge of the clearing, sat down and rested his carbine across his legs. He took the GPS from his pocket and turned it on. The decision he faced was either to follow the rebels to their camp as Victor had suggested, do the training and then leave, or to bug out right there and then. He could slip off into the jungle and probably no one would notice until they were ready to go, by which time he would be a couple of miles away.

  But even as Stratton considered the options he knew that he would never be able just to walk off. Although he didn’t know anything about these people and would never see any of them again, he couldn’t leave as long as he knew there was a chance of someone getting hurt or worse because he wanted to get home a day earlier. He wasn’t happy about it but he would have to stay - for the time being, at any rate.

  The GPS beeped. He logged the location, turned the GPS off and put it back in his pocket. Then he realised there was probably no point in leaving his emergency pack at this location if he was going to the rebel camp. It would be wiser to conceal it closer to their base.

  Stratton shouldered his rifle and went back into the forest. Within a few minutes he was back with his emergency pack, which he tucked away into his large backpack.

  Despite the obvious hardships they’d suffered the rebels seemed a happy enough bunch. He wondered how far away their camp was. On the flight he had studied a map of the country and had worked out that he could probably get to the border from the clearing in under two days, bearing in mind the terrain. Even if the rebels’ camp were a day further away it wouldn’t be such a big deal. Once he crossed the border it would be a simple case of dumping his kit, putting on civvies and travelling like a backpacker to Panama and the airport. He felt a little better about it now that he had adjusted the plan. It would be fine, he assured himself.

  Stratton wondered why Sumners had offered him up for this job in the first place. It was nowhere near the level at which he was used to operating. Perhaps there was nothing else on at the moment, although he found that hard to believe. MI5 and MI6 were always busy. Maybe it was another effort by Sumners to keep him on the outside
. The problem was that the man despised him. It was a deep wound and there was nothing Stratton could do to heal it, not that he particularly cared to. He had no respect for Sumners and all he could hope for was that the man would soon get moved on to another department - or, better still, another country.

  Stratton would have loved to know the connection between Sumners and Steel. They were so different in just about every way. Both of them were arrogant and condescending, of course, though Steel was far worse. He probably knew nothing about Stratton’s past or his qualifications but that was no reason to sport such a disdainful attitude. It didn’t feel personal, though. Steel was probably an arse with everyone. Stratton was no more than a delivery boy to him. With luck he would never have to meet the man again.

  Despite the combination of abuse and encouragement from Victor and his second in command, the intense-looking officer whose name was Marlo, it took the men half an hour to secure the loads and form up the burros ready for departure. At one point a quarrel broke out over the division of the parachutes but Marlo solved the dispute by ordering that the chutes should be sliced into panels and distributed among the most energetic packers.

  Stratton checked the time, compared it to the location of the sun to get a rough directional guide and joined the line that was trudging at an easy pace back towards the forest. A passing burro was not as loaded as the others and Stratton hooked his parachute bag onto the wooden frame across its back. He kept his pack in case he needed to bug out.

  As he neared the trees he picked up the sound of a distant drone. He thought initially that the C130 had returned for some reason. The rebels who heard it stopped to search the skies, looking concerned.