Sonny switched the rifle to his left hand and pulled out his knife, the six-inch serrated blade feeling comforting now that his primary weapon was empty. He ran at a crouch, eyes peeled for danger as well as some more ammunition.
Sonny spotted a fallen figure and made a beeline for him, but from out of the shadows came the biggest man he’d ever seen, with a coal-black face and flaring nostrils.
The apparition looked to be twice Sonny’s size, and wielded a machete that made his own knife look like a potato peeler. He swung his rifle like a club at the giant’s head, but a raised arm harmlessly deflected the blow while at the same time slicing at Sonny’s head with an already-bloodied weapon. Sonny dodged the strike, glad that the huge man wasn’t equally matched in speed and height, but as he took a step back he tripped on a tree root and tumbled backwards, just as the machete came flashing towards his head.
Sonny tried to scramble to his feet, but in two enormous strides, Fene was standing over him, machete raised above his head. Sonny feigned terror, but he knew that the big man would have to stoop to deliver a killing blow, and he timed his moment perfectly.
Fene bent double as he brought the cleaver down towards Sonny’s head, but the smaller man rolled to the left and brought his right boot up, connecting with the giant’s happy sack. A groan erupted from Fene’s throat as pain exploded in his groin. Sonny used the moment to roll quickly to the right, his left leg bent so that his knee collided with the big man’s skull.
Fene collapsed to the ground, clawing the dirt blindly, hoping to catch hold of Sonny. The last thing he saw was the knife as it arced towards his head and came to rest in his ear, the blade entering his skull up to the hilt.
Sonny rolled away, the fight forgotten as he concentrated on arming himself. He found an AK-47, quickly checked the magazine and saw that it was half full. After dispatching another fleeing figure, he searched the pockets of a corpse and came out with more ammunition. He was instantly up and chasing the survivors, who now numbered less than fifty. It was a figure that dropped rapidly as they fled the scene, their leader slain and nothing left to fight with, their reckless shooting having expended all ammunition.
The team converged as they continued the clean-up operation, and minutes later the battle was over. They’d won a tremendous victory against an overwhelmingly superior force—if only numerically—and the only tinge of sadness they felt was that it would never be officially recognised.
Still, very few SAS missions made it into the public domain, and they would at least have bragging rights on their next visit to the mess in Hereford.
‘All clear,’ Smart said over the net. ‘We’ll let you know when we find the trucks.’
Tom Gray acknowledged the transmission and told Smart to move the vehicles up to their current position as quickly as he could.
‘Did everyone make it?’ Gray added.
‘John Sharp took one to the shoulder, but he’ll live.’
‘Send him out,’ Gray said, ‘and we’ll treat him along with the others.’
Smart signed off and ordered the men to grab as much ammo as they could, just in case they came across any more surprises. As he trudged through the undergrowth towards the coordinates he’d been given, the first rays of the African sun painted the clouds an appropriate shade of red.
Smart barely noticed the spectacle; he was simply relieved that the end was finally in sight.
Chapter Twenty
Wednesday 9 October 2013
The grey sky promised a turbulent flight as William Hart ducked through the entrance into Luton Airport, sons Aiden and Sean trailing in his wake. His preferred departure point would have been Gatwick to the south of London, but the only direct flight from there left just before six in the morning. The trade-off of a lie-in for a budget flight meant no free food on board, but on a four-hour flight it was no real inconvenience. He’d paid the few extra pounds for priority passes, and that allowed them to jump to the head of the queue for check-in, security and boarding.
The trip was uneventful, and they landed at Las Palmas airport ten minutes ahead of schedule. Their priority passes didn’t work so well on arrival, and the trio had to queue with everyone else to get through immigration and collect their luggage. An hour after touching down, they left the terminal and basked in the heat as they walked to the hire car, a clear, blue sky the perfect antidote for the windy, wet weather they’d left behind.
Hart senior climbed behind the wheel and pulled out of the airport and onto GC1, the main highway that would take them to the southern resort of Puerto De Mogan. His sons looked sullen as they drove past the more laddish resort of Playa Del Ingles towards what was, to their mind, one of the more boring spots on the island. Still, they knew it was only a short taxi ride to their preferred playground, and William Hart didn’t exactly set curfews for his kids.
It took forty minutes to reach the villa, which was built into the old, volcanic cliffs, overlooking a harbour filled with sailing boats of all shapes and sizes, as well as the obligatory fishing charters. Beyond that, the beach was already packed with tourists from a dozen nations, united in their quest for sun, sea and relaxation.
Hart parked the car in his private garage and his sons retrieved the suitcases from the boot, following their father up the gently winding stone stairway. Fifty steps later they arrived at the door and were met by Judy, an ex-pat who looked after a few of the holiday villas and apartments on the island, making sure everything was ready for the owner’s arrival and cleaned again once they’d left.
‘Here you are,’ she said, handing over the keys with a smile. ‘I filled the fridge and the receipt’s on the table. I also put a dozen towels in the bathroom closet.’
Judy had no idea what Hart did for a living, nor did she care, happy to earn a few hundred euros a month to supplement her husband’s army pension and afford them a decent lifestyle in the sun.
Hart thanked her and handed her a small bundle of twenties before going inside and picking up a cold beer on his way to the bedroom. The interior of the building was surprisingly cool, the open French windows allowing a gentle breeze to blow through the room. He changed into shorts and smeared himself with factor-fifty sun cream before walking out into the blazing heat of the veranda.
His sons joined him a few minutes later, armed with fresh beers, and the men relaxed on the recliners.
The fact that they were there to avoid implication in an upcoming murder was a million miles from their thoughts.
Sese Obi wasn’t often overcome with nerves, but the lack of communication from his people in the south had him distinctly on edge. After thirty minutes of failed attempts to speak to Fene Adebola he’d sent some men from the airport to investigate, but that had been an hour ago and he still hadn’t heard back.
His scheme was unravelling quickly. Despite the months of preparation, only the first twenty-four hours had gone to plan. Since then, he’d stalled fifteen miles from the capital and was losing men at an astounding rate. The Malundian forces were stubbornly resisting every probe, inflicting casualties beyond his already-generous predictions. And without the hundreds of men who were now under Adebola’s control, it was unlikely that his bid for power would succeed.
He almost dropped the phone as it vibrated in his hand; after composing himself he pressed the green button.
‘It’s about time!’
The caller hesitated, clearly dreading the reaction his message was likely to cause.
‘Sir, Fene is dead,’ a voice eventually said.
The news was unexpected, but Obi knew these things happened in battle. Adebola was a good warrior, but he was but one man, and unlikely to influence an entire campaign.
‘Who is in charge now?’ Obi barked. ‘And why haven’t they been updating me?’
Another pause, and Obi sensed the bad news piling up. ‘Speak, man!’
‘There is no-one to lead, or follow. We found them all dead. There are no survivors.’
Obi felt like he
’d been kicked in the stomach. How could a few Agbi soldiers wipe out hundreds of his men, especially while shepherding women and children? It didn’t make any sense at all. Could they have had outside help? If they had, he imagined it had to be a sizeable force, one that was sitting not too far south of him. They could even be powering their way towards him at this very moment.
Was it something to do with the plane that they’d shot down during the night? He’d been told that a transporter had ventured too near the airport for comfort and had been blown out of the sky, but could there have been more of them? If there were, they weren’t landing, so that meant paratroopers, which pointed to the Americans or Europe.
It still made no sense, though. He racked his brain for a reason for those superpowers to intervene in an African skirmish and found none. Rwanda, almost twenty years earlier, was a classic example of western apathy, with all countries condemning the genocide but doing little to help prevent half a million people dying. Like Rwanda, Malundi had no oil or mineral interests to entice the big boys into the fight, so why were they here?
Whatever the reason, he knew it wasn’t to shake his hand.
Much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t continue with his quest for power. It would have been hard enough with Adebola’s men at his disposal, but with them gone and an unknown and evidently powerful force to his south, the war was lost.
He realised that he was still holding the phone, and he considered the best way to extricate himself from the situation. The men could sneak back over the border with Kingata in dribs and drabs, returning to their former lives as if nothing had happened. For Obi, though, there would be no return. If he was a wanted man last week, the price on his head would have increased by several orders of magnitude now.
To reach the western border meant crossing miles of inhospitable ground, leaving him the only real option of heading east and slightly north. The adjacent country had an unstable regime and power plays were a regular occurrence. He’d fit in nicely there, and after surveying the lay of the land, he’d affiliate himself to whichever faction was most likely to take the reins when the next, inevitable coup manifested itself.
With that thought in mind, he decided to take the remaining men with him. Offering his own services wouldn’t be that big a draw to the various rebel outfits, but if he had two thousand men at his disposal . . . .
After consulting the map, he put the phone to his ear and gave instructions for the men to abandon the airport and head for a point a couple of miles from the border, where he would meet up with them later in the day in preparation for a night crossing. He then called Baako and Themba over, entrusting his lieutenants with passing on the order to regroup at the assigned location.
On reflection, his capitulation wasn’t the end of the world. It hadn’t cost him his life, valuable lessons had been learned—not least, to make sure he had more reliable commanders in place—and he still had a considerable army behind him.
Obi sat back in his seat and let out a sigh, his hand fiddling with the victory cigar in his breast pocket. Looking down at the five-inch tube, he considered lighting it, but decided not to.
There was nothing to be gained from tempting fate.
Chapter Twenty-One
Wednesday 9 October 2013
‘What is it, Johnny?’
Okeke squinted through the windscreen and pointed at a group of figures blocking the road a couple of hundred yards ahead.
After hours in the stifling cab of the ancient truck, Gray had thought the worst was over. They’d met no resistance on their way to the border, and had crossed into the neighbouring country unimpeded. At that point, their destination had been just one hour away: a small town with a rudimentary hospital and the chance to grab some much-needed food and rest.
The two vehicles blocking the highway ahead, not to mention the dozen armed men, effectively meant their respite was on hold. Although the troops appeared to be wearing military uniforms, it was quite possible that they were one of the militia groups vying for control of the troubled country.
‘They look like army, Mr Tom, but I can’t be sure.’
‘And if they’re not?’
Okeke mulled the question over. ‘Then make every round count.’ Great, Gray thought.
‘Any suggestions?’ Johnny was gripping the steering wheel, preparing to flee or stop on Gray’s command.
‘Pull over twenty yards from them,’ Gray told him. Into the comms net, he added: ‘Heads up. Keep your weapons hidden until I give the word.’
In the open flatbeds of the trucks, the word was passed on. Everyone had a round in the chamber and safeties came off, but they kept their rifles out of sight.
Johnny pulled up and climbed out of the cab. He walked slowly towards the two approaching soldiers, and Gray strained to hear the exchange between them. All seemed calm, the soldiers carrying their rifles across their chests as they chatted.
Another three soldiers emerged from the roadblock, taking a casual stroll around the trucks. At the sight of the white men, they started shouting in a language Gray couldn’t understand, but the tone was universal. His finger moved to the trigger of the AK-47, ready to bring the weapon to bear as he watched Johnny trying to placate the sentries.
The discussion quickly descended into a one-sided shouting match, and Johnny walked submissively back to the truck. He opened Gray’s door and gave him the bad news.
‘They want us to go with them,’ Johnny said. ‘I think we should do it.’
‘There’s not many of them, and—’ Gray began, but Johnny stopped him in his tracks.
‘They’ve already radioed this in. There will be an entire army after us if we fight our way out of this. Besides, they think you’re mercenaries, here to help overthrow the government. Once we prove them wrong, they should let us go.’
Gray wasn’t itching for a fight, and if a quick conversation could speed them on their way, he was up for it.
He climbed down and shouted for the others to drop their weapons and dismount.
‘Tell them we have wounded,’ Gray told Johnny. ‘They need to get to hospital as soon as possible.’
The message was conveyed, and the foreign soldiers began the job of segregation. The British and Freddie Rickard were told to stand to one side of the road while everyone else was lined up facing them, the dirt road separating the groups.
When the AK-47s were discovered, tensions increased immediately.
One of the soldiers, evidently their leader, raised his rifle and aimed at Johnny’s head. He began pointing at Gray’s team and then to the trucks, all the time screaming at Johnny for explanations. Okeke did his best, but it soon became obvious that his words were falling on deaf ears. He was ushered over to stand next to Gray.
‘Just do as I do,’ he said from the corner of his mouth, before dropping to his knees and clasping his hands at the back of his head. Gray followed his lead, and soon the entire party were on the ground, staring up at weapons held by some seriously pissed-off soldiers.
They remained in place for twenty minutes while the Malundian villagers and the wounded boys were placed into two of the trucks, and those wearing military clothing were herded over to Gray’s side of the road.
Hansi Cisse was frantic at the thought of losing his son again, and it was only after much pleading and begging that the boy was allowed to remain behind with him.
The old Bedfords departed, and as they disappeared in a cloud of dust, Gray hoped they were heading towards medical help. After all the effort his team had gone through, it would have been nice to personally deliver the occupants to safety, but that was out of their hands now. They had their own safety to consider now, and judging by the look on the faces of their captors, it was fifty-fifty as to whether any of them got to see their own homes again.
The leader ordered one of the prisoners to stand, and he was brusquely frisked before being ordered onto the remaining truck while the next member of the team was called forward. The process t
ook twenty minutes, and the flatbed was jam-packed by the time everyone was on board. Most had to stand, while the unlucky ones were sardined onto the wooden benches lining the sides of the truck and had to spend the entire journey with their faces stuck in various stinking crotches.
After an hour of bouncing along dilapidated roads, they came to a small town. Yelling children ran alongside the truck as it motored along the semi-tarmacked streets, scattering dogs and chickens as it made its way towards a walled compound. They passed through large, wooden gates and into a courtyard framed on three sides by buildings. Stairs ran up the walls to the fort’s defensive positions, making the place look like the stronghold in a Beau Geste film set. The men were ordered to climb out and line up against a stone wall and assume the kneeling position once more.
The patrol commander disappeared into a building and returned five minutes later with an African man who wore the insignia of a British Army colonel. The officer stood with his hands on his hips, chest puffed out as his eyes wandered up and down the line of prisoners.
Gray knew his type: full of self-importance and a chip on his shoulder, traits he’d seen in more than one officer in his time. It meant an ego that had to be massaged, and Gray knew he’d have to play the man carefully.
‘Which one of you is in charge?’ the colonel barked.
Gray raised his hand and was ordered to step forward. He stopped a couple of yards from the officer, who took a step closer.
‘What is your name and rank?’
‘Tom. Tom Gray. I have no rank, sir.’
The colonel looked sceptical. ‘What are you and your men doing in my country, Tom Gray with no rank?’
The colonel’s English was good, thankfully removing the need for an interpreter who could inadvertently twist his words. The accent was refined, as if he’d spent time in England. Perhaps a university, Gray thought.
4. Gray Retribution Page 13
