Tenth Man Down (20 page)

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Authors: Chris Ryan

BOOK: Tenth Man Down
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In the few minutes since things had gone noisy the light had grown stronger. Then, quite quickly, the whole scene turned pink. Screwing my head round, I saw that the sun was halfway over the horizon behind us – a huge, blood-red ball.
Abrupt volleys of small-arms fire made me look left. One poor hippo, taken unawares, had come lumbering back towards the river after its night’s grazing. It didn’t get far. Multiple hits brought it to a halt, then to its knees, and in the end it rolled sideways to the ground where it lay with its stumpy legs kicking feebly.
‘What the hell are they doing?’ I said to Phil.
‘Maybe they’re getting hungry.’
From the far end of the compound a column of black smoke was rising.
‘Fucking roll on!’ Phil shouted. ‘Some stupid bastard’s shot up the fuel store.’
Mortar bombs were still falling near the end of the airfield. Rounds continued to snap over our position, but now the fire was sporadic. What the hell was the Kamangan commander waiting for?
‘Joss,’ I called on the radio. ‘Get ’em going!’
‘Roger.’
He yelled out an order in Nyanja. His section commander passed it on. Leaving half a dozen guys to give covering fire, the rest jumped up and sprinted forward, blasting uselessly from the hip with their AK47s, wasting rounds by the hundred. One man went down before they reached the gate, but the rest piled through, fanned out, and dropped into firing positions inside the compound.
Phil and I stayed where we were, in relative safety. But suddenly I realised that accurate incoming fire was hitting the assault force from the left, from the direction of the accommodation block. One of the guys was slotted, then another. Somebody was shooting far too straight.
‘Left! Left!’ I yelled at the Kamangans still with us. ‘Fire at the white block!’ Rapidly, I scanned the windows, looking for snipers. Over the radio I called, ‘Joss, you’ve got incoming from your left! Swing that way.’
He didn’t answer immediately, so I went, ‘Pav! We’re getting enfiladed from our left. Incoming from the white block. Get the .50 on to it.’
‘Roger,’ he answered. ‘Wait one.’
Seconds ticked past. Rounds were cracking in every direction. Then down came the heavy hammer of our own .50. Its big bullets swept back and forth along the front of the accommodation block, blowing plaster and cement out of its façade. In the middle of the turmoil our RPG let rip at one of the main doors of the equipment shed. The range was about thirty metres, and Number One must have learnt from his earlier cock-ups, because he blew the handle and locking mechanism clean out. With smoke and dust still swirling round the door, his mates rushed at it, ran it half open on its rail, and sprayed rounds inside.
Then suddenly Pav was on the air again. ‘Listen,’ he called. ‘Watch yourselves. There’s some guys out in the bush away to your left.’
‘Outside the wire?’
‘Well outside. They must have done a runner from the compound.’
‘How many?’
‘I’ve seen three. Could be more. They’re in light-coloured DPMs.’
‘Weapons?’
‘Affirmative. Rifles or gympis.’
‘Where are they?’
‘There’s a single bare tree with a big fork in the top.’
‘Got it.’
‘From here, they’re on a ridge, two o’clock and fifty metres from the tree.’
‘That puts them about four hundred metres from us.’
‘Spot on.’
‘Okay. We’re going after them. Tell me if they move.’
‘Roger.’
Phil needed no orders or encouragement. He’d heard the conversation and was on his way. Together we scuttled back off our hill, into hollows, and used dead ground to work our way fast round towards the south. We hustled along, twisting to keep in the hollows. Behind us, to our right, the battle was raging. Explosions that I reckoned were hand-grenades punctuated the small-arms fire. Then, as we came up to a ridge, I realised that some of the shots were going off from close in front of us.
‘Bastards!’ gasped Phil. ‘Sniping from way out.’
‘Get behind them,’ I panted.
We dropped back and took another swing to our left. More single shots cracked out.
‘There’s the marker tree,’ said Phil. ‘Get up to that.’
Ten metres from the top of the bank, we dropped on to hands and knees. For the last little stretch we went into a leopard crawl until we could peep over the crest. Less than forty metres off three guys were down on their bellies in firing positions, weapons levelled, taking controlled shots at the compound. We were nearly abreast of them, slightly behind, so they were looking away from us, concentrating on their targets.
‘Hey!’ I whispered. ‘Take the outer two. You the left, me the right. Count from five. Ready?’
‘All set.’
I put my sight on the right-hand man’s ribs, just behind his shoulderblade.
‘Five, four, three, two, one.’
Crash!
Our weapons went off simultaneously. Neither target moved, except to jerk and slump forward. Suddenly I realised there was something out of place about the man in the middle. He was white.
Before he could react I put another burst into the ground beside his head, and yelled, ‘Throw your weapon away!’
For a few seconds he held on to it, glancing desperately to left and right. When he saw both his companions were dead, he pushed the rifle away to his right and left it lying on the ground at arm’s length.
‘Stay down!’ I yelled. ‘Get rid of your weapon! Right out in front of you! More! Hands on your head. Stay on your belly.’
The man did as ordered.
‘Come on,’ I told Phil. ‘If he tries anything funny, slot him.’
We went forward with 203s levelled until I was a couple of paces from the broad back. Phil walked in front of him with his weapon pointed down at his head. I went and felt under him. My hand lit on a holster containing a pistol. I pulled it out – a Colt .45 with worn wooden grips. I pushed the weapon into my belt and told the guy to stand up.
He got up warily. He was older than I expected, in his forties, with a lined face and grey stubble on his chin.
‘All right,’ I went. ‘Who the fuck are you, bonny lad? And what are you doing here?’
‘No information.’
I gave him a kick in the groin, which made him stagger, then tried again. His answer was the same. The few words were enough to confirm he was South African – that edgy eccent.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘If you don’t fucking talk to me, there are government forces down there, and
they’ll
make you talk.’
A movement above us caught my eye. Another man had appeared on the skyline, a long way off. I saw him only for a second, but I realised from his build – his broad, stocky frame – that he couldn’t be an African. Before I could react he’d ducked down and disappeared.
I hit my pressel, and called, ‘Pav! We’re by the tree. We’ve got one white guy, but there’s somebody else moving above us. To you they’ll be two o’clock from the tree.’
‘Got ’em!’ he cried. ‘Two guys, three. Running like hell. Away from you.’
‘Let ’em go,’ I said. ‘We’ll bring this one down with us.’
We left the two bodies where they lay. The blacks had been firing AK47s, but the white guy had a good-looking sniper rifle with a vari-power telescopic sight. While he glowered at us in silence, I picked the weapon up and slung it over one shoulder.
Below us, the battle was fizzling out. The firing had become sporadic.
I wasn’t going to waste time arguing.
‘Get moving,’ I told him. ‘Back to the mine.’
With us two right behind him, I didn’t think he’d try doing a runner – and if he had, we’d have dropped him without compunction. We steered him down the gullies by ordering ‘Right’ and ‘Left’ until we came up behind the covering force. Just as we reached them, Joss called them forward, and as they ran into the compound, we followed.
In spite of his orders not to cause unnecessary damage, the attackers had shot the place to pieces. The blockhouse was still smouldering, and a far bigger fire was blazing out of the fuel store: barrels of diesel had ignited and were sending a column of dense black smoke boiling high into the sky. The dredging machinery had ground to a halt. The doors of the main building, big enough to admit trucks, had been blown off their guide-rails and were hanging drunkenly. The corrugated-iron walls were riddled with bullet holes. No other prisoners had been taken. Bodies lay everywhere, most of them relatively intact, but several hacked into bloody lumps in an orgy of killing. Away to our left some of the Alpha guys were smashing their way into the single-storey block.
I grabbed the first two men we came to, and said, ‘You two, guard this prisoner.’
They looked a bit shattered, so I added, ‘Just stay here and keep him covered until I get Major Mvula.’
The air inside the main building was full of dust and smoke. Through it I made out inner walls – the secure area, a windowless box maybe fifteen feet high, with the conveyor belt from the dredger arm coming high over it and down through the ceiling. The place was full of men running around screaming and shouting.
‘Joss!’ I yelled. ‘Where the fuck are you?’
Any answer he may have given was drowned out by a volley of shots, deafening inside the steel walls, as somebody emptied his magazine into the locks on one of the secure unit’s doors, trying to blast his way in.
‘
Joss!
’ I roared. ‘Get these guys under control. Get ’em out of here!’
It took him a few minutes to impose his authority, his men were on such a high. But in the end he managed it. Once all the shouting died down, it became possible to talk.
‘Listen,’ I told him as we stood in the main doorway. ‘We’ve got one white prisoner outside. Take charge of him, and keep a good eye on him. We’ll need to interrogate him to find out what the hell’s been going on. And get some of your guys moving. We know three enemy at least made a breakout and got away to the south. There may have been more. The defenders may have broadcast an SOS before we took out the radio. A counter-attack may come in. Send out clearance patrols to check our immediate surroundings. Get people digging in on the perimeter. Leave the .50 section where it is, across the river, but bring the rest of your guys over soonest. You need an immediate resupply: ammunition and rockets.’
Joss nodded. But somehow he looked strange. His eyes were half closed, as if he’d just taken something or had a big drink. Suddenly I realised that in the heat of the moment I’d given him a stream of orders. Had I offended him?
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you what to do. I was just saying what I thought ought to be done.’
‘Fine, fine,’ he said, but he sounded vague.
‘Another thing. See that single tree on the rock up there? There’s two bodies just this side, of it. Let’s get them brought in. First, though, I need some men in here with me and Phil, to help clear the secure area. Can you spare me five?’
I had a feeling I’d blown our relationship, and I wasn’t sure whether he was going to detail anybody to help.
The next few minutes were tense. Inside, the dust was settling, but the heat was horrendous, like in an oven. I took off my Bergen and began sorting some det cord. The walls of the secure area looked pretty solid: there were concrete blocks on the outside, and I expected there’d be a lining of steel on the inside. The door was as solid as the wall, with a heavy-duty lock – a serious, precision-made combination job, with three dials. The bullets fired at it had bounced off, leaving practically no marks. Phil took one look at it, and said, ‘We’ll not pick that bugger.’ So I made up a charge with a couple of ounces of PE, and I was taping it in position when five guys shambled in.
‘Thank God,’ I muttered to Phil. ‘He’s still on side.’
I turned to the Kamangans, and said, ‘Okay, I’m going to blow the door. I expect some of the mine staff to be inside. Once the door’s open, I want you to go in and round up anyone who’s in there. All right? Take prisoners. No shooting unless you’re fired at first. Understood?’
The senior man, a corporal, nodded.
‘We’re going to need these people to get the machinery going again,’ I said. ‘That’s why it’s important – no killing.’
With everyone round the corner out of the way, I cracked off the charge. Inside the tin walls, the noise and shock-wave were stupendous. The door swung ajar. Beyond it, black darkness. We needed torches. For a few seconds I stood with my back flattened against the outer wall, listening. Wild yells were still coming from the direction of the bungalow, but inside the building there was silence, except for the noise of water splashing. Then came a sudden rumble, a shuddering noise and a hum as, somewhere in the depths, a small engine started up. An emergency generator. Lights came on, dim and flickering.
Immediately inside the main door I could see a small, box-like cubicle partitioned off, with a window in the side – the place where workers were checked in and out. Peering cautiously in, I found the rest of the first room was empty – a kind of air-lock. I beckoned the others after me and slipped through the door.

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