by Andy McNab
Charlie pored over the map again. ‘Maybe, maybe. But if we get past it, we can box around the city and then head south.’
He looked up at the ground to our left, then behind him. ‘Or we head back cross-country, get around the VCP, then back on the road and south. We can’t go back through the city. It’ll be too easy for them to ping us in this thing once the driver manages to get an SOS out. He’ll be flagging down a vehicle the first chance he gets.’
He paused. ‘What you reckon, worth a go?’
We drove on for another five minutes to make sure we were well clear of the driver, then I chucked the 110 into four-wheel drive and headed left, off road. Once we were out of sight of it, I’d parallel back past the VCP.
The wagon lurched and skidded in the soft ground. The days of intense rainfall had saturated and loosened the soil. It wasn’t ideal, and we didn’t have much time to spare — it’d be a couple of hours, max, until the driver ran back to the VCP and raised the alarm and everyone would be looking for the 110 — but we didn’t have a whole lot of choice.
If we got stuck, we’d just have to dig the fucker out. At least we weren’t on the steeper ground. A combination of heavy rainfall, steep slopes and a surface loose enough to overcome the gravitational pull that kept it in place was the recipe for landslides.
We dropped into dead ground and turned left, but it was no cause for celebration. If anything, the conditions were worse. Glutinous mud sucked at the wheels and we sank down almost to our axles. I checked out Baby-G, then glanced at the dash. We had been going just over thirty minutes, and only covered a couple of Ks.
I turned back to Charlie. ‘This ain’t going to work, mate. At this rate we won’t even be past the VCP by the time he’s raised the alarm. He might even be there now if he’s hitched a lift.’
‘Nothing’s changed, lad. If we head back onto the road, we’re committed.’
I grabbed the map and traced the route round the north of the city, in case we could head west and chuck a left towards Turkey. I also looked out for filling stations, but I didn’t see any marked.
‘That’s got to be better than being stuck right here. At least we get to make distance. That’s what we need, mate. What do you say, cut our losses?’
6
I stopped just short of the crest of the hill and Charlie got out.
He scrambled up to check the dead ground in front of us, dropped onto his hands and knees as he neared the skyline, and crawled the last few metres. We didn’t want to run the risk of piling straight over the top and discovering that our old mates at the sangar were right there in front of us.
He waved me up and jumped back in as I drew level with him. He leaned through the gap between the front seats. ‘The road’s two hundred the other side of the rise. No way have we passed that VCP.’
I edged the wagon uphill. ‘We’ll soon find out, one way or the other. Fuck ’em.’
The time comes when you just have to accept your options are running out and go for it.
We hit the road, hung a left, and I flicked the 110 back into two-wheel to conserve fuel.
No more than a minute later, we saw the duty driver ahead of us. He spotted the wagon and started waving us down.
Charlie laughed. ‘Bet he changes his mind when he sees who it is.’
He was right. As we got closer, the guy did a double take and legged it into the trees.
Another quarter of an hour and we had to slow for an oncoming truck, overloaded with turnips. A few fell off and bounced across the top of our wagon as we manoeuvred round each other.
We came to the top of another rise and the dead ground opened up before us. The camp was in the distance, maybe a K off the road, along what looked like a newly laid gravel track.
It was the size of a small city. Dozens of green twenty-man tents stood in smart, regimented lines along the side of a chain-link-fenced compound. To their right lay a maze of Portakabin-type structures with satellite dishes on their roofs, either linked in terraces or connected by concrete roadways.
Five or six Hueys were parked in a neat line beside a helicopter pan.
The main drag continued for maybe three Ks past the junction towards another camp on higher ground.
Charlie leaned forward again. ‘Fucking hell, they’ve got the whole army here!’
He wasn’t wrong. ‘Any bright ideas?’
He shook his head. ‘We’ve got to keep on going for it. Nowhere else to go. And we’re in a company wagon, aren’t we? Let’s hope the driver hasn’t got to the VCP yet and they just give us a nod.’
I put my foot down and we accelerated past the turn-off to the first camp. The track was actually hardcore, and stretched a K or so to the main gate, where massive US and Georgian flags fluttered shoulder to shoulder in the breeze.
The fields either side of us were a hive of activity. The Partnership for Peace programme was in full swing. American unarmed-combat instructors in green T-shirts and US Marine Corps spotty-camouflage BDU bottoms were putting Georgian troops through their paces. They looked as though they were having a great time, kicking the shit out of the happy boys from the recruitment commercial while their mates force-fed infantry fieldcraft to patrols in arrowhead formation.
No-one gave us a second glance.
So far so good.
The 110 started to shake and rattle as the road surface quickly deteriorated the other side of the junction. I kept my foot to the floor as we moved uphill towards the second camp.
I dropped to third on the steeper gradient and the 110 ate it up. I was starting to feel good about this.
‘Hello, duty vehicle, duty vehicle. Is that you on the hill? Report. Over.’
I looked down at the radio and then at Charlie. He shrugged his shoulders. Somebody with nothing better to do was watching us through their binos. So what?
I changed down to second to get a spurt on past the camp at the top of the hill, in case they’d been instructed to stop us.
‘Duty vehicle, do not go any further. Repeat, do not go any further. Return to our locale. Over.’ Maybe they needed the wagon back to pick up the CO’s sandwiches.
We ignored it again. The throttle was flat to the boards. The engine screamed as we headed on up the hill.
‘Do not cross the demarcation line. Crossing the demarcation line is contrary to standing orders. Repeat, return to this locale. Over.’
‘Demarcation line?’ Charlie’s head was level with mine as he too peered up the hill. ‘These two places in the middle of a union dispute?’
‘Something like that.’ I nodded in the direction of the flags flying over the gates of the camp, now about 150 ahead on our left. They weren’t the Stars and Stripes or anything to do with Richard the Lionheart, but the white, blue and red horizontals of the Russian Federation.
Charlie’s head was level with my right shoulder. ‘Fuck it, let’s just keep going; take our chances. There’s fuck all else we can do.’
We began to parallel the camp’s front fence. Men in uniform swarmed around in confusion alongside never-ending lines of tents and vehicles. By the look of it, they were getting stood to.
There was now a major flap on at the main gate. I slowed as armed men spilled out on the road. Were they throwing up a roadblock?
The radio blared at us again. ‘Duty vehicle, status report. Over.’
I kept my eyes on the uniforms up ahead. They’d obviously dressed in a bit of a hurry; some had combat jackets that weren’t done up, some didn’t have helmets. But they all had AKs. Run one of them over and they’d open up big-time.
‘I’m not going to stop. I’m just going to keep going, but real slow. You up for it?’
I looked back at Charlie in the rear-view.
He winked. ‘So which one are you, Butch or Sundance?’
7
We were level with the main gate and the speedo flickered near twenty. Nobody on the road seemed to know what to do. They were all mouthing the Russian for ‘What the fuck’s a
British 110 doing up here?’ Thankfully they all still had their AKs slung rather than in the shoulder.
Charlie started to wave. ‘How’s it going, lads?’
They stared back, then some of the younger ones smiled and returned the wave. NCOs started shouting angrily, trying to get something organized.
We trundled past, Prince Charlie in the back still doing his greet-the-people bit. Still nobody challenged us.
The radio barked. ‘Duty vehicle, turn around, turn around. Do not stop; do not take any action that is deemed aggressive. If apprehended, comply with their orders.’
‘Shut up, you twat,’ Charlie said, smiling broadly at his new subjects.
I flicked the radio off.
Moments later, we were clear of the confusion. I was braced for shots, but none came. We were going gently downhill, no longer in view from the American camp.
The fence line stopped. Charlie turned and looked back. ‘Still no follow-up. Let’s keep going. Get that foot down, lad.’
Absolutely no argument with him on that one.
For maybe thirty minutes we saw no junctions, no options, no VCPs, just lots of undulating green to our front, a forest to our left, and a valley to our right. The engine was gunning and we were up to 90 Ks an hour in some places where the road surface allowed it.
The duty driver must have reached the VCP by now. But so what? We were well out of the area. There’d be a Welcome to Tbilisi VCP waiting over the horizon somewhere on the road, just itching for the chance to stop us any way it could, but we’d cross that bridge when we came to it. For now, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself.
Then I heard something all too familiar, and my heart sank.
I looked at Charlie and could tell from his expression that I was right.
He wound down his window.
The noise was louder and unmistakable.
The steady throb of heavy rotor blades cutting the air.
They had a pipeline to protect: of course they would have a QRF [quick reaction force] on standby. I just wished they hadn’t taken the quick bit so much to heart.
Charlie bounced around in the back to try to pinpoint where it was coming from. I leaned forward over the wheel, straining my eyes up into a still-empty sky.
The steady beat seemed to come up level with us, and then the Huey broke out of the dead ground to our right, no more than a couple of metres away.
For the two seconds it was overhead, the 110 almost stood still under the pressure from its downwash. I could see the pilot quite easily. Both the side doors were pulled back, and the space between them was heaving with dark green BDUs and the odd two or three in US Marine spotty-camouflage.
They waved urgently, pointed weapons, gestured at us to stop.
Bollocks. They’d have to land on top of me before that happened.
I kept my foot down.
The Huey flared away and disappeared into dead ground ahead. Moments later, another set of rotors started beating the air behind us.
Charlie leaned over the back seat. ‘Here it comes. Shit, it’s low!’
Huey Two passed directly over us, just feet away, following the road. I could see the soles of combat boots resting on the skids and AK barrels sticking out of the open doors.
The 110 shook violently. Maybe they really were going to try to land on top of us.
Charlie scanned the sky. ‘Where’s the first one gone?’
‘Fuck knows, but I think this one fancies us. Look.’
It had scooted about 200 metres ahead, and flared up as it turned back round to face us. The heli’s skids bounced onto the road and troops started jumping into the haze of its exhaust fumes.
From our right, and closing in, I heard the slap of another set of rotors. Huey One passed more or less level with the 110 as it moved to take up station behind us. It was going to drop its troops to cut us off.
Fuck this. I yanked the wagon hard left, over the rough ground towards the treeline. There weren’t enough of them to find us in there.
Huey One immediately turned back towards us and swooped like a kestrel onto a field mouse, settling at a hover just feet above us. A spotty uniform leaned out, feet on the skid, one hand gripping the door frame. He fixed me with a stare and shook his head slowly, then moved the index finger of the other slowly across his throat.
‘Fuck him, don’t stop, lad. Nearly there.’
We had maybe 300 to go. My head bounced off the roof as the wagon took on the terrain. It shook, rattled and tipped from side to side, but still kept going.
The heli moved ahead and landed. More troops fanned out and took up fire positions between us and the treeline.
I swung the wheel half right. Safety was just 200 away now.
Huey Two had picked up its men from the road and was back in the game, coming at us from the right.
‘He’s coming real low, lad…’
Charlie kept up a running commentary while I concentrated on the driving. It was still in two-wheel; I wasn’t going to stop the momentum to get it in four.
‘They got caltrops!’
I kept my foot hard to the floor, leaning over the wheel, urging the 110 closer to the cover of the trees. The rear of the wagon went momentarily airborne and the back wheels spun with a high-pitched whine, like a propeller out of water. We had to beat the caltrops.
Huey Two had come in above us. Its down-wash pummelled the wagon from side to side. It moved just ahead. A spotty uniform was perched on the skid; a ten-metre strip, peppered with three-pronged spikes, swayed from his hand towards the ground.
I swerved right again, paralleling the treeline. Just over a hundred to go.
Charlie pulled the tape and papers from the computer bag, ready to run. ‘The other heli’s up! Here any second. Get that fucking foot down.’
The caltrops were only metres ahead, coming in left to right.
‘Stand by… stand by… they got us!’
The caltrops fell and the tyres hit almost immediately.
8
The steering wheel vibrated violently in my hands for several seconds then the wagon simply came to a halt. Tyres deflated, the wheel rims had just ploughed into the mud.
Both helis were on us. BDUs jumped out metres away, weapons up. The guys would be pumped. Some looked nervous, some like they just wanted to chalk up a kill.
I raised my hands very slowly and obviously and placed them on the dash, where they could be seen.
A black guy in spotty-camouflage, two bars on his lapel, shouted from the front of the wagon, over the roar of the helis. ‘Get out of the vehicle! Get out of the vehicle!’
We didn’t fuck around.
Baby Georgians swarmed round and kicked us to the ground. Hands searched us. Pockets were pulled out, jackets ripped open.
One of the Hueys took off again and hovered above the 110 as I got turned over onto my back and searched some more. A winch cable descended from its belly, at the end of which hung a set of wide nylon straps.
The downwash was heavy with the stench of aviation fuel. My face was splattered by earth, grit, and rainwater from the grass.
Thanks to the caltrops, the wagon wasn’t going anywhere without help, even if the BDUs had wanted to risk another international incident with the Russians. The Georgian boys were all over it like a rash, rigging the webbing straps. This beat the shit out of another day in the classroom.
AKs bore down on us and the black guy loomed back into my line of sight. He carried out yet another search, oblivious to the buffeting of the downwash.
‘The driver’s OK! We dropped him a few Ks from camp. He’s fine.’ I took a deep breath so I could make myself heard over the two sets of rotors. ‘We didn’t touch him, he’s OK!’
People can get very dangerous if they think one of their own has been hurt.
My hands were grabbed. The cuffs had solid steel spacers instead of chains. You can’t flex your wrists in them. They were closed far too tight, but I wasn’t complaining. I just looked d
own, clenched my teeth, kept my muscles taut, ready for another kicking.
The captain grabbed hold of the spacer and gave it a tug. I was totally under his control. He jumped the caltrops, and started running towards the second Huey. It was just too painful to do anything but follow as best I could.
I looked behind me and saw Charlie quick-timing to keep up with his escort.
The captain jumped aboard first. He hauled me up and shoved me into one of the red nylon webbing seats that ran down the centre of the cabin, facing the doors. Charlie’s man did exactly the same from the other side.
The Georgians leaped on board behind us, and the heli lifted. I got a great view of the other Huey, hovering above the 110. It was just about rigged up and ready to go.
The troops it had ferried in would have to stay behind; I guessed they’d come back for them after dropping us off.
As we crossed the main drag, a line of overexcited locals peered up at us from the windows of a rusty old coach loaded with suitcases, shopping bags, chickens in cages, all sorts, on the roof rack. I guessed theirs would be the last happy faces I’d be seeing for a while.
We flew over the bus, giving the Russian camp a wide berth to the left. The captain had pulled on a set of headphones and talked fast into the boom mike. The noise of the engine and the rush of the wind made it impossible to hear what he was saying, but I knew it had to be about us.
The inside of the Huey hadn’t had anything done to it since it left Mr Bell’s factory in the 1980s. The walls were still lined with faded silver padded material, and the floor’s non-slip, gritty paint had worn away before some of these squaddies were even getting the hang of their first water pistols.
We hugged the side of the valley, using it as cover from the Russians who’d be up there, somewhere, radioing a progress report to Moscow.
We flew low and fast, trees, animals and buildings zooming past in a blur.
We tilted left and right, following the contours. Wind blasted the interior as we took a particularly sharp right-hander. I gripped my seat between my legs to stop myself being tipped into the trees.
