by Chris Ryan
By then everyone was well hyped-up, but Pav was cool enough to look behind us and see that, from this higher ground, there was a long view out over the town. Even better, through the heat haze, we could see a road coming up from the south to join the one we’d just left. The junction was seven or eight hundred metres from where we were standing.
‘Let’s split in two,’ Pav suggested, pointing at the southern road. ‘If Muende comes, that’ll be his route. We can OP it from here and keep the rest of you informed while you recce ahead.’
‘Right,’ I agreed. ‘Better cam up, just in case.’
Pav backed the mother wagon between two tall patches of shrubs, aligning it so that the crew could watch both our own track and the southern approach road from the cab. Stringer, Danny and I left them slinging cam nets from the bushes, and drove on into the wilderness.
For the first few minutes I remained on a high. The place obviously had been used as a training area. Rusting sheets of metal riddled with bullet holes lay around. Roofless concrete-block buildings, without doors or windows, had been assaulted time and again. A pistol range had been excavated from a high sandbank. All this was encouraging, and I felt we were hot on the scent.
Then I began to realise how large the area was. The further we went, the more uneven the terrain became. Low hills restricted our view. We seemed to be driving along the main drag, but branch roads ran off to left and right, disappearing into the wastes of rock and dead grass. Black-and-white painted wooden signpost arms had once pointed to various outlying destinations, but now they had either fallen down or lost their lettering, and they gave no indication of where all the side tracks led.
After five minutes, and about five kilometres, I went on the radio to Pav, and said, ‘This place is fucking enormous.’
‘Yeah, well,’ he went. ‘It’s not surprising. One thing the bastards aren’t short of is space.’
‘I reckon it runs out into the desert and goes halfway to bloody Namibia. There’s tracks leading off in every direction. Wait one, what’s this?’
Stringer was pointing to our left. Below us in the distance, carved out of the face of a low hill, was a semi-circle of what looked like bunkers: pairs of corrugated iron doors, about fifty metres apart, faced on to a wide-open flat area the size of a football field.
‘This looks better,’ I told Pav. ‘Something like an ammunition storage area. This could be it. Stand by while we recce it.’
‘Roger.’
With my pulse speeding up I drove down the access track and on across the open ground to the right-hand pair of doors. Each of them was about ten feet square, an entrance high enough and wide enough for large trucks to drive in. Most of the pale-green paint had peeled off the metal, and patches of rust were eating away at it.
As soon as we drew up alongside, my excitement started to wane. The doors were mounted on rollers and held together by nothing more formidable than one big hasp. There was a ring which would have taken a heavy padlock, but no lock in place. It took a big heave from Danny and me, pulling in unison, to shift one of the doors along its track. Metal rollers squeaked and groaned as we forced it open half a metre. Inside, the heat was phenomenal.
‘Torch,’ I called to Stringer, and he flipped me one from the vehicle.
The beam reached out into a cavernous interior, with a curved roof of concrete sections which came down almost to ground level on either side. The shelter certainly looked as though it had been used to store ammunition, but now it contained not a thing.
‘Drawn blank at the first one,’ I reported to Pav.
‘What was there in it?’
‘Two thirds of three fifths of fuck all.’
‘Try the others, then. How many are there?’
‘Six. Will do. Nothing moving on the road?’
‘Negative.’
We kept trying, with equal lack of success. Stringer drove the pinkie slowly forward across the front of the complex as we forced open one set of doors after another. We’d just reached the fifth when Pav suddenly came on the air with, ‘Stand by. There’s a heli approaching.’
‘A heli! Jesus, where is it?’
‘Coming up from the south, along the line of the road. It’s going to miss us, but I’d say it’s heading your way.’
‘Roger. How far out is it?’
‘Three ks max. You’ve got about a minute.’
‘Roger.’ I looked quickly round. There were no big trees to provide us with cover.
‘Inside!’ said Stringer.
Without another word all three of us put our shoulders to the door and forced it open wider. The rollers ground and groaned, but the gap was just big enough. Danny leapt back into the driving seat, reversed, lined up the pinkie and crawled it in. But could we close the door again? We pulled like lunatics, but the rollers, jammed with rust and sand and sundry shit, wouldn’t move.
We stood in the doorway, gasping from the effort. It was too late to do a runner. We were trapped. We could already hear the distant scream of a turbine. By the sound, the chopper was very low. We held our breath as the noise swelled to a roar and the thudding beat of a rotor buffeted the air. If the aircraft passed in front of the store sheds, the crew was bound to see the pinkie; if it passed behind the hill into which the bunkers were dug, they’d probably miss us. For a few seconds we waited breathlessly, weapons at the ready. Then, suddenly, the storm of noise was diminishing, and I knew we were safe for the time being.
I ran out into the sunlight and just got a glimpse of the aircraft, big and heavy and painted dun grey, as it disappeared over the horizon. A moment later it reappeared in the distance, turning right-handed. Instinctively I ducked, but then I realised that, with the heli banked towards us, the crew couldn’t see in my direction. As I straightened up, it went in to land, somewhere beyond the skyline, and the scream died away as the pilot cut his engines.
‘It’s landed,’ I told Pav. ‘Did you get a proper look at it?’
‘It’s a Hind. There was a guy sat in the open door with a gympi, but that was all I could make out.’
‘It’s got to be a recce,’ I said. ‘I bet Muende’s on board. He’s come to check out the site. I’m bloody sure of it. I’m going after him.’
‘Eh, Geordie!’ said Pav, sharply. ‘Chill out!’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You sound as if you’ve gone all hyper. Take it easy. Don’t tangle with that machine-gunner, or we’ll not see you again.’
I didn’t reply to that, but I demanded of Stringer, ‘What’s he on about?’
‘He’s right,’ said Stringer, coolly. ‘You’re letting it get to you.’
All at once I was angry: angry with Pav, angry with Stringer — who was a dozen years younger than me, for Christ’s sake — angry with the whole situation. I had a sharp ache in the back of my head. I glared at my companions, trying to fight down feelings of rage and frustration.
‘All right,’ I said savagely. ‘What do we do, then? Just let them fuck off with their loot?’
‘No,’ went Stringer. ‘I’ve had an idea.’ He pointed back along the semi-circle of doors, and said, ‘Look at those.’ He was indicating the pinkie’s tracks, which showed up like a dog’s bollocks, freshly printed in the dust and sand. ‘If the heli takes off in the same direction it landed, and swings back low towards its original course, there’s a bloody good chance the crew will see our wheel-marks. If they do, they’ll wonder who the hell’s got in here. There’s no way they can leave without investigating.’
‘So we’d better shift our arses out of it?’
‘Yes, but bait the trap. Leave the pinkie inside, so there’s only one set of wheel-marks. None leading away. That’ll screw them. Deploy with our weapons into the scrub opposite. Then, if the heli lands out there in the open, we can whack the crew from behind when they get out to see what’s happening.’
‘Stringer,’ I went. ‘Your name should be Einstein. Fucking brilliant!’
My anger evaporated
as we shifted the pinkie to one side of the shed, away from the line of the open door, grabbed our weapons and belt-kits, and put through another call to Pav, explaining our plan.
‘We’ll be off the air while we’re away from the vehicle,’ I told him. ‘Call you as soon as we’re back. Wait out.’
We scuttled out across the open area and took up firing positions on the edge of the dunes, well concealed under swathes of long grass, seventy metres from the door, only thirty or forty from where the chopper was likely to land.
We didn’t have long to wait. I’d just looked at my watch and seen that it was after midday. We should be calling Hereford. Then we heard the heli’s engines start up. The roar deepened as the aircraft took off, and we could tell by the change in the note that it had turned in our direction. We’d loaded grenades into our 203s, but I’d told the others not to smack the chopper unless it looked like getting away from us. My aim was to make sure of Muende, if he was on board, and, if he wasn’t, to grab the crew and find out what the plot was.
By the noise, the heli pilot was aiming to pass behind us, very low. Twisting my stiff neck to the right, I peered through the grass and saw the aircraft skimming the dunes. Shit, I thought. He’s too low to see the wheel-marks. He’s going to miss them. For a few had seconds, I thought he had. Then the engine scream changed note and stopped moving. The thudding beat of the rotor increased. The pilot was hovering. The crew must have seen the fresh tracks in the dirt on the road.
Now they were coming back. I had a momentary panic that they’d fly right over our heads, and the downdraught from the rotor would expose us by blowing away our grass camouflage. With my left hand I gathered a bunch of long, dry stems and pulled them down over my back, holding them in place. In fact, the pilot was following the trail we’d laid. He flew back above the road, turned over the side-track, heading for the first of the bunkers, then swung towards us along the front of the complex and went into a hover directly between us and the open door. Never had I had a more tempting target in my sights: one grenade into the flight-deck — curtains.
Sand and dust boiled up in dense clouds as the Hind settled in to land. It was all that airborne shit that gave us our chance. If the ground had been clean, I’m sure the pilot would have kept his engines turning and burning for a rapid take-off. As it was, he obviously didn’t want all that rubbish sucked into his intakes, and he shut down.
‘Danny,’ I said.
‘Aye.’
‘Stringer and me will deal with anyone who gets out. The pilot’s your business. I don’t want him dead or hurt. Just under control. Okay?’
‘Fine. I’ll sort him.’
The rotor blades drooped as they swung slower and slower, gradually winding down. The dust cloud began to disperse. Through it we saw movement, figures emerging from the belly of the aircraft. Moments later four of them were walking towards the open door. I was amazed that they didn’t make any attempt at a tactical approach. I expected two or three to go down and cover the others as they went for the door, but no. They were so far from any battle zone they just weren’t expecting trouble. Maybe they thought some crazy farmer had been using the bunker to store maize. Whatever main weapons they had, they’d left them in the chopper, and were armed only with holstered pistols. In any case, they moved as a loose bunch, two blacks and two whites, all bareheaded, all in DPMs bar the taller white who was wearing a light-blue overall. I didn’t need binos to tell me that neither of the blacks was Muende. Both were youngish guys with short black hair, walking springily, far darker and slimmer than the rotund rebel leader.
Everything had happened so fast that I’d made no plan for dealing with this party. But by then my blood was up. Four was too many for us. We needed to thin them out. I guessed that the whites were mercenaries, the guys with expert knowledge, the blacks just guides or liaison officers. Whoever they were, we couldn’t afford to have any of them reach the open shed and see the pinkie.
‘Drop the silveries,’ I whispered to Stringer. ‘You take the right. I’ll take the left. Ready? Now!’
Our two short bursts were intermingled. The blacks were cut down like blades of grass, flat on their faces, and hardly moved. The whites leapt in the air as if they’d been electrified and came down facing different ways. But they were temporarily bemused. Echoes or ricochets made them think the shots had come from the bunker, ahead of them. Instead of pressing on towards it, they turned and ran for the helicopter, straight towards us.
I aimed into the ground between them and put another burst just ahead. The rounds ripped up puffs of sand and dust. At the same moment, I roared, ‘Stop! On the deck!’
I don’t know whether they went down voluntarily, or tripped. Either way, both dropped, and before they could collect their wits Stringer and I were on top of them.
‘Hands behind your back!’ I yelled. ‘Nobody move!’
I stood over them with my 203 and fired another burst into the ground less than a metre from their heads. Dust erupted and hung in the air. I kept the weapon levelled while Stringer bound their wrists with para cord. A glance at the helicopter reassured me that Danny had the measure of the pilot. Then we relieved the two of their pistols and got them on their feet.
I recognised one immediately: it was the fat, fair-haired South African who’d stood in the background while Inge had ripped the skin off Whinger’s face. When he saw me, he must have nearly shat himself. His mouth fell open and he gave a kind of croak. I could see him trying to work out how in hell I’d got to this place ahead of him. I blasted him with a look and concentrated on the other. In a flash I realised this guy must be Russian: a tall man, dark-haired, with a prominent forehead, hollow cheeks and sunken, pale blue eyes that made me think of the mad monk Rasputin, minus the beard. My adrenalin was already well up, but it ran even faster when I realised what the tall man was wearing: some form of NBC suit. No wonder sweat was running down his lean face and neck.
I went closer to him, and said, ‘Russki?’
He looked amazed, as well as shit-scared, but he nodded.
‘Great!’ I went. ‘You speak English?’
‘A little.’
‘Right. Where’s General Muende?’
The guy looked blank.
‘The rebel leader. Commander of the Afundis.’
The black eyes moved slightly. He’d understood the question, but he wasn’t planning to answer.
‘How about you, shitface?’ I went up close to the South African and jabbed his bulging gut with the muzzle of my 203. ‘Feel like answering a few questions?’
‘Vokken soutie.’ As he spat the words out, giving me a blast of dead-man’s breath, his yellow eyes flickered back and forth.
‘Listen,’ I told him. ‘I haven’t got time to trade insults with a pig. We’re going back on board your chopper. Your pilot will then fly us back to the stockpile of warheads. Understood?’
Again the guy didn’t answer, but again I saw that flicker of comprehension.
‘Get moving.’ I jerked the muzzle of my rifle in the direction of the heli.
The South African shot his mate a look. I could see he was calculating his chances if he lunged at me with a head butt.
‘Don’t try anything,’ I warned him. Suddenly, I put a three-round burst past him within inches of his right cheek. The noise and blast made him flinch, but he stood his ground: a hard case. ‘Any trouble,’ I told him, ‘I’ll make the sun shine through you. Now go!’
He turned and began to walk to the chopper. The Russian fell in behind him. As we came round the starboard side of the body, I saw a 7.62 gympi mounted on an extended arm. Danny was standing behind the pilot, another white, on the flight-deck.
‘Okay, Danny?’ I called.
‘No problem, except that this guy doesn’t speak any known language.’
‘Of course he does. To be a pilot, he must do. Another bloody Russian, for sure.’
I helped Stringer tether our prisoners to safety rings in the heli, well apart from
each other, then told him, ‘Keep an eye on them while I stir up Biggles.’
I nipped up the two steps to the flight-deck and sat in the co-pilot’s seat. I could see at once the pilot was another Russian. He reminded me of Sasha, the great guy who’d got us out of trouble when the Kremlin mission went to ratshit. He had brown hair and a flat, wide face. He even had a couple of grey metal false teeth, one up, one down, in much the same places.
‘I got this off him,’ said Danny, handing me another pistol.
‘Thanks.’
I slipped it into the thigh pocket of my DPMs, where it made a heavy bulge along with the others. Then I waded into the pilot.
‘Don’t fuck about,’ I told him. ‘Just start up and take off.’
With the barrel of Danny’s 203 below his ear, he was already looking like a beaten spaniel. Now he spread his hands, and said miserably, ‘No fuel.’
‘Of course you’ve got fuel. You were airborne just now, no problem then.’
He shrugged, leant forward and flicked a couple of switches, lighting up the instrument panel. He jabbed a finger at the dials. The lettering was Cyrillic, but after our Russian task I could read basic words. The fuel gauges were showing about a third — plenty for a short trip.
‘Your fuel state’s fine,’ I shouted. ‘Get going!’
He stared at me as if I was mad — and probably, at that moment, I was a bit mad. I think stress and anger had sent me temporarily off the rails. The pilot seemed to sense it; he appeared to realise that no good would come of trying to resist me. He shrugged, and said, ‘Maybe we crash.’
‘Maybe we do,’ I told him. ‘I couldn’t give a monkey’s.’
‘Where to?’
‘Back to where you’ve just been.’
