Stormbound

by A P Bateman

  The figure stopped. Turned around. Rashid could see her face. Vulnerable, scared.

  Rashid added, “Look, I have a gun, I would have used it if I wanted to harm you.”

  Snow and ice showered them, the burst of automatic gunfire tearing up the snow between them. Rashid watched as the bullets tracked towards the woman. He shouted, “Move!”

  Natalia watched the bullets smash through the crust of ice and she darted to her right, towards the treeline. Rashid followed, the gunfire stopping while the gunman changed magazines. He caught up with her, gripped her by the shoulder and guided her to his left. “This way!” he shouted, the gunfire opening up again. The gunman had his eye in now, the bullets tracking closer to their feet. Rashid stopped dead, pulled her backwards and the bullets tracked onwards, paused, then came back. This time they were wide of them and he pushed Natalia onwards towards the treeline.

  He risked a glance as they reached the trees. He could see the muzzle flashes high and right of their position. He pushed Natalia into the trees and threw himself onto his stomach.

  “Get behind a tree!” he shouted. He ignored her, keeping his eyes on the ridge. She had been told what to do and he wasn’t going to babysit her.

  He shuffled over to a tree and used the trunk as cover while he tore off his pack and shouldered the old hunting rifle. He got his right eye to the scope and worked his way to the last position he had seen the flashes. The light was dim, but the scope coped well. He could see the gunman moving on his stomach towards a set of trees. Rashid kept the rifle steady but took his eye away and glanced to his right. He was midway between two sticks poking out of the snow. He tracked across the plateau, counting the sticks on a line with the far slope. He had placed them at twenty-metre intervals. The sticks marked a line some three-hundred metres to the line of trees at the top of the slope. He counted down three sticks until he found the man in his sights. He was still working his way steadily towards the trees. The cluster would give the man a perfect aimpoint and a good amount of cover. Rashid checked the markers again and his calculations put the man at exactly two-hundred and forty-metres. He thought back to King’s reckoning that a bread and butter hunting rifle in these extremes being zeroed for one-fifty metres. Two hundred tops. He put the crosshairs dead centre to the man’s forehead, then eased the rifle up so that the crosshairs sat a full two-inches above the man’s forehead. He kept it there, tracked with the man until he rested still for a moment. The man was looking at a stick in front of him. The bark had been peeled away in several places and resembled an old-fashioned barber’s pole. He craned his neck, saw another one twenty-metres further forward. Rashid saw the man’s realisation as he squeezed the trigger.

  Contrary to widely held belief – and impossible at this close range - you rarely saw the pink mist. The recoil of the powerful round and resetting of the weapon’s aim meant that it was the sniper’s companion – the spotter – who usually saw that. When Rashid got the sights back on target for a second shot, he saw that his first had been enough. The man was slumped forwards and his hat had gone. Which was just as well, because the man had nowhere to wear it. Steam was lifting from the cavity, clearly visible through the scope. Rashid imagined it was already cooling considerably in the cold air.

  Rashid chambered another bullet and scanned the treeline for further targets. For that’s all they were to him. He couldn’t see any, but he would be able to return to the snowmobile without setting foot out of the trees. He looked over to the woman.

  “I’m Rashid,” he said.

  She got out tentatively from behind the tree she had been sheltering behind and dusted the snow off her. “Natalia Grekov,” she replied. “There are others,” she said quickly. “We must get out of here.”

  Rashid nodded and got to his feet. “You look cold and tired.” He picked up his pack and took out the thermos. He handed it to her and she snatched it, unscrewing the cap and drinking straight from the flask. It was hot, but she coped with it. “We’ll get you food and more to drink when we get back.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “An extraction team,” he said. “From the department I represent. To get you out safely and retrieve what you’ve brought for our government.” He nodded. “This way, quickly…”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Caroline dared not move. She had found herself in a gulley with trees on each side. She supposed in the spring it would act as a culvert, taking the vast quantities of water as the snow melted. But right now, it was frozen solid and acted as her lifeline. The sniper could not see her, but nor could she see the sniper. She had no idea whether he was moving calmly down the hill towards her to take a close-up shot or was still hunkered down and playing god at the top of the hill.

  She held the Walther tightly. She knew the tiny 7.65mm bullet packed a punch up close, but what range would she have? She had never used one before and was aware that it was not as powerful as a 9mm, which she had trained with in both the army and with the small arms course in MI5. Although strictly forbidden from using firearms on operations on British soil, in recent years, MI5 had increasingly taken part in operations abroad and the small arms course had been hastily put together by SAS instructors at Hereford to give Security Service personnel enhanced security abroad. But the course had not factored in firearms some seventy-years-old in design. It had concentrated on modern security and law enforcement weapons such as the Sig P225, the Glock 19 and Smith & Wesson M&P 9. A couple of old service Browning Hi-Powers had been thrown in for good measure as a comparison into how far technology had moved on. Caroline had carried a Browning in Afghanistan and had been familiar with it. Other UK units had used Sigs, but army intelligence had kept the older weapon for some reason. Possibly budget or logistics. Or maybe because most intelligence officers worked in an aircraft hangar and barely ventured out of the base. But Caroline had been into the field more than most, and she had used her SA80 rifle many times. She later admitted to King that she had fired a lot of bullets and wasn’t sure if she’d hit anybody, but she was sure as hell she’d made the enemy keep their heads down.

  This was different though. Out in Afghanistan she had been part of a unit. She hadn’t been under-gunned either. Whoever was shooting at her now had a rifle and she felt she had nothing more than a pop-gun to respond with.

  She knew that she should keep moving. She could not afford to let her enemy pin her down. She crawled along the gulley, the pistol held in front of her as she used her right elbow and left hand to crawl, keeping low and trying to watch the hill above her as she made progress.

  The gulley led into the trees and she knew that if she could get further away from the clearing, then it would be near impossible for the sniper to see her through the layers of trees. It would not only provide her with cover from a bullet but would take her out of view altogether. If she could get there, she could be home and dry. Or at least safer. She still had no transport and was over five miles from the hotel with the temperature down to minus thirty and the threat of the storm on the way. But right now, getting out of the line of fire was all that mattered.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  There was only one way to sensibly do it. Park the snowmobile a substantial distance away, far enough that the noise did not give away his position, and approach from the east. Behind the sniper and work his way down stealthily. He carried his knife but was armed with nothing more. But that hadn’t stopped him before. He had faced worse odds. If he could get close enough for a kill, then fine. If he couldn’t do this, then maybe he could get close enough to shout for Caroline to run and he could face off with the sniper, hope to get close enough using the trees for cover, but at least he would have saved Caroline. Or at least given her a chance.

  Sensible. Measured. The best course of action.

  And then there was the other way.

  King gave the snowmobile as much throttle as he dared, damned-near full revs as he hammered up the peak. He was traveling close to sixty-miles-per-hour. The rooster
tail of snow following him sprayed more than fifty-feet in the air, showering his trail behind him like a fresh snowfall. He had memorised the map, but there was no accounting for rocks or trees, so he steered by the seat of his pants, throwing the machine left and right as he dodged or skipped over mounds and obstructions.

  As he neared the summit of the hill, he steered hard to the left and traversed the slope. He heard a gunshot over the engine’s wail. And then another. But this time he saw the muzzle flash. Four-hundred metres distant and at this speed he would be upon the sniper within seconds. But he would also become an easier target the closer he got. He throttled back, veered higher up the slope and turned hard left, throwing up a hundred-feet of snow into the trees. He needed the sniper to take another shot. He needed a marker to aim the snowmobile at when he gave it a full throttle charge. And he needed the sniper to be working the bolt action of the rifle, not taking aim.

  The shot came soon enough. Louder now, the muzzle flash wider and brighter the closer he became. King could feel the zing of the bullet tearing through the air close to him. He reckoned inches rather than feet. The gunman was a hundred-metres from him now and scrabbling to his feet. A tall, thin figure despite the bulky clothing. He shouldered the rifle, took aim, then fell to the ground, the rifle spinning out of his grip and into the snow. King released

  the throttle and the tracks stopped altogether, brought the machine to an abrupt halt. The gunshot that had floored the sniper resonated behind King and echoed throughout the clearing. King could see the man reaching for the rifle. He heard another shot, but the bullet struck the snow a foot in front of the sniper. King glanced behind him and saw Caroline heading out of the trees into the clearing aiming the tiny pistol. She had either had the perfect shot, or a lucky break. King suspected the latter because she was still eighty-metres distant and walking steadily towards her target. The man worked the action of the rifle, but the bullet from the Walther had struck the frame and distorted it enough for the bolt to stiffen in the action. He tugged at it, drew it back. King saw the brass cartridge eject and spin through the air. The man struggled to push the bolt forward. Caroline’s next shot kicked up snow an inch from the man’s foot. King pressed on the throttle and the man suddenly had to weigh up what posed the greater threat. Caroline’s shots were getting close to him, but the snowmobile would reach him with a damned-sight more force. He pressed the bolt home, spun around and fired at King. The bullet struck the front of the snowmobile and the steering went to pieces. King was thrown to his right as the snowmobile veered left and rolled down the slope. He was winded, but instinct told him to move. He tried, but his movements were slow and unsteady. He could not get air into his lungs, and his chest felt as if an elephant was standing on it. He rolled, anticipating another shot, but all he heard was a steady volley from the tiny Walther below him. He looked up to see Caroline lying prone in the snow, aiming the pistol with both hands. The man screamed and hobbled backwards. One of the punchy little bullets had struck him in the thigh. He had dropped the rifle and was now scrabbling up the slope. King got to his feet and started to lumber up the slope after him. He tried to run but slipped and fell. He settled on a rapid walk, crouching low and grabbing at the slope in front of him to steady himself.

  Caroline got to her feet. She had one round remaining and knew better than to waste it. She had wounded the man, her last shot needed to count. She made better progress than King up the slope. She neared him, but he waved her on.

  “Don’t run blindly over the ridge!” he shouted, but it came out as a croak, the air still not finding his lungs quickly enough. “Move left and head him off. He may be waiting…” he saw the rifle on the ground, decided to head for it.

  Caroline did as he said, veered to her left, and pumped her legs hard to sprint up the slope. The sound of a snowmobile starting filled the air. She hesitated, decided to head back towards King. The tone of the snowmobile changed as it accelerated hard and became quieter by the second.

  “He’s gone,” she said. “I wouldn’t have made it over the ridge.” She reached him and hugged him tightly. “Are you hit?” she asked, pulling away and looking at his torso in concern.

  “Winded,” he grimaced. “The handlebars snatched out of my hands. I think his bullet severed the steering rack. That snow is bloody hard…”

  She pressed her hand against his ribs and he flinched. “I think you might have cracked a rib,” she said.

  “Where’s your snowmobile?” he asked, ignoring her diagnosis.

  “He shot out the engine,” she replied.

  “Great.” King turned and headed for the upturned snowmobile. “Here, give me a hand.”

  Together they rolled the snowmobile back onto its tracks. The skids were locked hard to the left. He pressed a button under the lip of the seat and the seat popped up. There were a few tools and a coil of rope stored in a recess.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Well, we’ve got a working engine but no steering and a machine that will steer, but with no engine.” He shrugged. “Where are you parked?”

  “At the bottom, towards the end of the clearing. There’s not enough light to see from here.”

  King swung his leg over the seat and started the engine. It spluttered for a moment, the oil had drained from the sump and the petrol had drained from the cylinders. He gave it a quick rev and it settled into an idle. He then swung his left leg over and stood with both feet

  on the right side of the machine. He worked the throttle gently and pitched himself out to the right. The snowmobile tilted onto its side and he feathered the throttle as he drove it down the hill. Caroline walked beside him. She marvelled at the skill involved but did not say anything. She knew King would simply laugh and say it was luck.

  The snowmobile pitched twice. Once back onto its skids and track, the other time it rolled, and King was thrown onto the ground again. He didn’t complain, but Caroline knew he was hurting. The fall at the top of the hill had damaged him. She would only know how much when they got back to the hotel and she could examine him.

  Side by side, the two snowmobiles were junk. But they were identical models and as King studied the steering rack and pinion, he realised it was a straightforward nut and bolt job. He wasn’t a particularly skilled mechanic, but he was a practical man. The light was dim, and he had lost all concept of time. Constantly removing his gloves to look at his watch was impractical, but when he saw the time, he felt anticipation and regret. The coach would be leaving the hotel by now. Peter Stewart would be on it. A chapter in his life had closed. But it did not rest easy with him. Like so many pivotal moments in his life, he knew chapters could be rewritten.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  As Vasily Rechencovitch looked down at the body on the ground, the blood frozen solid and the mass of brain and bone and blood that used to be the man’s head, now crystallised in the cold, he couldn’t help thinking he had paid his penance from earlier. From alerting their quarry with his enthusiastic volley of gunfire.

  The sniper on his team was laying prone next to the body. He rested in some of the blood, but it did not seem to bother him. As he got to his feet, the blood peeled away from the ice crust like a crimson-coloured pancake. It reminded the Colonel of cloud berry crepes and he realised he was hungry. He watched as the man used his mobile phone to zero in on the angle. An architectural app that measured distances, angles and worked out geometric values.

  The sniper stood up and looked at Rechencovitch. “I reckon two-hundred and fifty-metres max.” He pointed to the corpse and shrugged. “Calibre is anyone’s guess, but I’d say from the point of entry it was a thirty. Three-oh-eight or thirty-oh-six, maybe. It was a soft-nosed hunting round for sure.”

  That accounted for there being only the fractured forehead in place. Everything else was missing.

  “So, a shot uphill from those trees?” Rechencovitch pointed down the hill. “That’s

  quite a turn of events, considering our man had th
e high ground.”

  “Whoever shot him knew he was coming,” the sniper paused. “Or at least, knew someone would be coming.”

  “Why?”

  “They put out markers. Like the British did in established battlefields. The American War of Independence, the Zulu uprisings and Arabia.” He pointed to the row of sticks at twenty-metre intervals. “This was a confirmed rendezvous. The sniper had time to set himself up.”

  “A pro, then?”

  “As good as it gets.”

  Rechencovitch nodded. “Well, let’s get down there and see what else we can find.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  “So, she’s in a room now?”

  “Yes. I’ve charged it to your account.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s too early for the minibar to take a hit.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Ramsay paused. “And I noticed mine is empty.”

  “Not the time to talk about your problems.”

  Ramsay ignored the quip. “What is she like?”

  “About thirty, attractive but had a hard life, I’d bet.”

  “I meant; her state of mind.”

  “I’m not a psychiatrist,” replied Rashid. “But I’d say she’s shit-scared. We ran into some problems. She was being hunted. Numbers and specifics unknown, but I got the person shooting at us.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Ramsay cupped his head in his hands, then rubbed his temples. He looked back at Rashid and said, “Is there a trail?”

  “The body is still there. I had the asset and decided to exfiltrate. But I imagine, like Fitzpatrick, the wolves will be on it soon.”

  “Lovely,” Ramsay said sardonically. “What about King and Caroline?”