Manhunter

by Chris Ryan

  ‘Forty minutes, if we take the most direct route.’

  Bowman glanced at his G-Shock: 23.12 hours. If we leave now, we’ll reach the palace just before midnight.

  ‘We’ll have to get moving at once,’ Mallet said. ‘Major, you’ll need to get us to the palace as fast as possible.’

  Mavinda gave a hesitant nod.

  ‘We will follow our orders, of course. It will be a great honour to help protect the family of President Seguma. But we must be careful. There is a chance we will run into the Machete Boys along the way.’

  ‘Who the fuck are they?’ said Bowman.

  ‘A splinter group,’ Mavinda said. ‘They’re aligned with the KUF. But they’re more like a gang than professional soldiers. They wear gris-gris charms to protect them from bullets. Most of them are more interested in drinking and taking drugs than overthrowing the government.’

  ‘If you think that’s scary, you should see Glasgow on a Saturday night,’ Mallet said.

  Mavinda looked steadily at him. ‘The Machete Boys are no joke. They got their name because they offer their victims a choice: T-shirt or shorts. If you tell them shorts, they hack off one of your legs with their machetes. If you ask for a T-shirt, they cut off your arm.’

  ‘Are we likely to run into these nutters?’ asked Bowman.

  ‘It’s possible. They’ve been causing us trouble lately, ambushing the roads, kidnapping civilians, executing our troops. If there’s trouble in Marafeni, they’ll be involved.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Major,’ Mallet said. ‘If we get into a contact, me and the guys will have your backs.’

  Mavinda nodded again, but the look in his eyes betrayed his unease. Bowman didn’t blame him. It wasn’t a question of cowardice. The major seemed like a brave guy. But he clearly wasn’t thrilled about getting into a scrap with a load of drug-induced rebels. I know the feeling, Bowman thought.

  This could all go badly wrong, and we both know it.

  ‘You’re better off coming with us than staying here, anyway,’ Mallet added.

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Mavinda.

  ‘Sooner or later, General Kakuba’s forces will attack this place. The airport will be one of their primary targets. They’ll hit it with everything they’ve got. You won’t want to be here when they rock up.’

  The major stared at him in alarm.

  ‘We need to get moving,’ Mallet said. ‘Where’s our transport?’

  Mavinda cocked his chin at the open side of the tent. A white Toyota Land Cruiser rested on the asphalt, next to a trio of four-door Toyota Hilux pickups and a larger Unimog truck.

  ‘You will take the Land Cruiser. I’ll lead the way in one of the Hiluxes. The rest of my men will follow in the Unimog.’ The big major stared at them in turn. ‘You will stay close to us, OK? Once we leave, we don’t stop for anything.’

  ‘We know the drill, pal. Just get us to that palace.’

  ‘I’m telling you this for your own safety,’ Mavinda replied firmly. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to get captured by the Machete Boys. They will show you no mercy. Especially the woman.’

  He nodded at Casey.

  ‘They try anything, they’ll get slotted,’ Bowman said.

  Mallet waved an arm at the Skyvan. ‘We’ve got some hardware on the plane. We’ll need a hand unloading it.’

  ‘My men will take care of it.’

  The major about-turned and barked an order at his men in a jumbled mix of English, French and the local patois. Lanky, Pockmark and a young guy with a toothbrush moustache dashed across to the Hilux. Mavinda hastened after them, shouting a string of orders at his men before he jumped into the front of the pickup truck. Ten more guys snatched up their AK-47s, utility belts and other bits of kit and sprinted across to the Unimog. Eight of them climbed into the benched seating area at the back. The other two guys sat in the cab upfront. The rest of the soldiers stayed back in the tent, smoking and watching porn.

  Bowman and Mallet hurried over to the Land Cruiser parked to the side of the tented area. Bowman slid behind the wheel, found the keys in the cupholder. He gunned the engine and led the convoy across the tarmac stand to the Skyvan. He pulled up beside the aircraft and left the engine running while Mallet filled in the others on the situation. The disturbances elsewhere in the country, the possibility of running into the Machete Boys. As he talked, several soldiers dropped down from the Unimog. They ran over to the Skyvan and started lugging the heaviest equipment over to the back of the truck. The soldiers worked fast, roared on by Mavinda. They loaded the 7.62 mm ammo boxes first, then the mortar base plate and cannon, the sight box. The five boxes of mortar shells. Mallet and the others dumped the remaining pieces of kit in the back of the Land Cruiser. They would carry their rifles with them in the vehicle for easy access. No one knew what would be waiting for them on the way to the capital.

  After they had transferred the last items from the Skyvan, Mallet gave a signal to Mavinda in the front pickup. The major bellowed an order at his men, they scrambled back into the Unimog, and then the convoy started down the road towards the airport entrance. The Hilux in the vanguard position, the team in the Land Cruiser in the middle of the column, the rest of the platoon in the Unimog at their six.

  Bowman stuck close to the Hilux as it motored towards a crude army checkpoint situated at the main entrance to the airport. A long column of vehicles jammed the opposite lane in front of the checkpoint. As they raced past, Bowman saw three soldiers yanking an elderly man from behind the wheel of his knackered car. A woman pleaded with one of the soldiers, screaming, while his two muckers mercilessly beat the old-timer with their wooden sticks.

  ‘Looks like half the bloody country is trying to get out,’ Loader said.

  Casey glanced anxiously at the long line of vehicles. ‘Maybe the situation is worse than we think.’

  ‘Something has got these people worked up,’ Bowman said.

  ‘Could just be the general unrest,’ Mallet said. ‘We don’t even know for sure that the coup has kicked off yet. Not for sure.’

  ‘What about those reports the major mentioned?’ asked Loader. ‘All them disturbances.’

  ‘Unverified. Could just be a group of rebel fighters getting ahead of themselves.’

  Bowman thought for a beat, then shook his head.

  ‘If it was one isolated incident, maybe. But we’re looking at three separate attacks across the country. And those are just the ones we know about. Something is definitely going down.’

  ‘Why would the rebels start the coup ahead of schedule?’ Casey wondered. ‘Six said they wouldn’t go in until first light.’

  Bowman said, ‘The Russians will have heard about Lang’s death by now. They’ll know it wasn’t suicide. They’ll assume it’s somehow linked to the coup. Which means they’ll want to speed things up. Alert their partners in the KUF and trigger the takeover, before anyone can stop them.’

  ‘We’ve still got time,’ Mallet replied. ‘You heard what the major said. The disturbances are in the south and west of the country.’

  ‘For now. Those other targets might not hold out for long.’

  ‘If they haven’t been captured already,’ Casey said. ‘Those reports are at least an hour old. The situation might have changed by now.’

  ‘Nothing we can do about that,’ Mallet said. ‘All we can do is focus on the mission.’

  Bowman tensed his grip on the wheel so hard his knuckles shaded white. He looked over at the illuminated console display: 11.21. Less than forty minutes to the palace.

  Not far to go now. Not far at all. In less than an hour, Bowman thought, I’ll be reunited with my old friend.

  Mike Gregory had my back once.

  Now he needs mine.

  I just hope we get there before the rebels.

  Mallet tapped out messages on the phone as they continued north towards Marafeni. He pinged off another text to Six and then Casey said, ‘We should stick the radio on. Tune in to the state radio station. Mi
ght tell us what’s going on in the city.’

  ‘Good plan,’ said Mallet. ‘Better than listening to Tiny’s sad voice.’

  ‘Fuck off, John. You’re just jealous. The ladies love a bit of the old Welsh accent.’

  ‘They’re not after you for your good looks or your wealth, Tiny. That’s for fucking sure.’

  Mallet fiddled with the touchscreen while Bowman kept the Land Cruiser hard on the heels of the Hilux. He pressed an arrow key on the console screen, and the vehicle suddenly filled with a harsh burst of static. Mallet tapped the arrow again, scanning through the radio frequencies, found nothing but silence. They were in some sort of dead spot, Bowman guessed.

  They carried on north through the African night. The road twisted past abattoirs and nature reserves and several small villages, the ground dimly illuminated in the bright wash of the convoy’s headlamps. The star-pricked sky was as black as an oil spill. Civilian cars streamed past, racing towards the airport to the south of Marafeni. Others were making their way on foot along the roadside. Bowman glanced again at the time and felt his heart start to beat faster inside his chest: 11.34. Less than half an hour until they hit the palace.

  Almost there.

  Two minutes later, the radio sparked into life.

  Music spilled out of the Land Cruiser’s speakers, faintly at first. Mallet turned the knob, dialling up the volume. A hymn-like orchestral tune was playing. It sounded oddly familiar. Bowman was sure he’d heard it before, but he couldn’t instantly place it.

  Loader frowned. ‘Is that thing tuned in to the right station?’

  Bowman squinted at the console. ‘This is the state radio, mate.’

  ‘Then why the fuck are they playing classical music?’

  ‘It’s not classical music,’ Mallet said. ‘It’s the Russian national anthem.’

  Loader stared at him. The Welshman wore a look as if someone had just slapped him across the face.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  Mallet said, ‘A few of us did some joint-training exercises with Spetsnaz. In the nineties. Before the country became a mafia state. They’d play that anthem all the time. I’d recognise it anywhere.’

  Casey went pale. ‘Then that means—’

  ‘Aye,’ Mallet said. ‘The rebels must have taken over the broadcasting house.’ His shook his head. ‘We’re too late. The bastards are already inside the capital.’

  Twenty-One

  The anthem played on for a couple of minutes, reaching a crashing crescendo before it faded to silence. Then a hoarse male voice spoke in broken English. The man announced himself as General Moses Kakuba, leader of the armed wing of the Karatandu United Front. The despotic reign of President Seguma was over, Kakuba said. He declared that the KUF had taken control of the main army bases and police stations around the capital and called on the remaining troops to stand down. He cycled through a list of grievances as long as Bowman’s arm. He droned on about government corruption, undemocratic institutions, cronyism, torture, the unlawful use of force against protestors. The colonel proclaimed the dawn of a brave new era for the people of Karatandu, together with their Russian allies. A new Marxist government was now being formed, he said. A three-man military junta led by General Kakuba himself. There was the usual promise of free and democratic elections to follow, once the situation had been stabilised. Peace would come to Karatandu. There would be many new hospitals, schools, jobs for everyone. A better life. He was making more promises than a personal injury lawyer.

  ‘Loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?’ Loader said.

  ‘This is bad news,’ Webb said. ‘Very bad.’

  Mallet turned down the volume, reached for his phone.

  ‘I’ll call Six. Tell them what’s going on. They’ll have to get a message over to the main strike force. Those lads need to know what to expect before they land.’

  Casey was silent for a moment. ‘If the KUF are in the capital, it won’t be long before they attack the palace.’

  ‘Or they might be there already,’ Webb said.

  ‘We don’t know that. Not for sure,’ Mallet said.

  ‘Why else isn’t Mike answering his phone?’

  Mallet tapped open the messaging app and dialled the most recent number. The Voice answered immediately. He filled them in as the convoy hurtled north towards Marafeni. The reports of gunfire elsewhere in the country, the radio broadcast by General Kakuba. The likelihood that the rebellion had already spread to at least parts of the capital. Then the Voice took over the conversation. Mallet listened in silence, his frown lines deepening, forming trench lines across his brow. He asked a couple of questions, hung up.

  Then he said, ‘Six has been monitoring the situation in Marafeni. The situation is worse than we thought.’

  ‘What did they say?’ asked Casey.

  ‘They’ve picked up widespread reports of violence in and around the capital. Gunfire. Looting. Killing. Buildings being torched.’

  ‘Christ.’

  Mallet said, ‘That’s not the worst of it. Rebel forces have released hundreds of inmates from the main prison. Political prisoners, activists, murderers, petty thieves. They’re out on the streets, tearing it up. Six has heard that the Machete Boys are joining in the fun too. It’s chaos out there. A free-for-all.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Loader.

  Webb’s face crumpled in puzzlement. ‘Why would Kakuba and his men attack the capital before the airport? These guys normally go for the major roadheads and airheads first.’

  Mallet said, ‘They might have a different strategy. They could be trying to coerce the airport garrison into surrender. Now they’ve got control of the airwaves, they can send out messages to the troops, telling them it’s over, they’re fighting for a lost cause, all that bollocks. Which might persuade the garrison to lay down their arms. They could take the airport without firing a shot.’

  ‘Would that work?’

  ‘You saw the looks on the faces of those guys at the airport. They’re not keen to get into a scrap with the enemy, not if they can help it. If they think the game is up, they’ll give in.’

  ‘Whoever is advising them rebels knows what the fuck they’re doing,’ Loader said with grudging admiration.

  ‘It’s the Russians,’ said Mallet. ‘Those bastards know how to fight.’

  Bowman thought back to what Lang had told them in Monte Carlo.

  They’re sending in some guys.

  Military advisers.

  Special Forces. Big blokes with guns.

  Ten or twelve guys at most, he figured. Veteran SF operators. Calling the shots, directing the KUF paramilitary force in battle. What the military theorists liked to call a force multiplier. The Russians would have been on the ground for weeks, probably. Drilling the rebels in fire-and-move tactics, suppressive fire, using the dead ground to advance unseen on an enemy position. Nothing complicated. But highly effective. A few core tactical principles, good instructors and an intensive training package could transform a group of ragtag rebels into a cohesive, disciplined fighting unit.

  If we come up against those guys, we’re knackered.

  He said, ‘Still nothing from Mike?’

  Mallet grimaced and shook his head. ‘It’s been hours since they’ve heard from him.’

  ‘Could mean anything,’ said Loader.

  ‘Aye,’ Mallet replied. ‘But it doesn’t look good.’

  Loader said, ‘If he is under attack, let’s hope he can hold them rebels off for a while.’

  ‘Mike won’t give up that easily,’ Bowman said. ‘He’s got forty guys with him from the Presidential Guard, remember. The best troops in the country. And the palace is in a good defensive position. He should be able to hold out until we can relieve the pressure.’

  ‘So why isn’t he answering?’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said Mallet.

  They raced on. Bowman kept glancing at the clock, counting down the time and the distance to the palace in h
is head. Eighteen minutes to go. Seven miles. Almost there. They were passing through the outskirts of the city. Bowman saw tin-roofed shacks, crude dwellings, gleaming new mosques. Mountains of rubbish festered along the sides of the road. The streets were dark and empty. Everyone had locked themselves indoors to wait out the fighting. Like the moment the outlaws rode into a town in the Wild West. No one wanted to get caught in the crossfire.

  They continued west until they hit the main bridge across the Karatandu River. Bowman stuck close to the Hilux as the convoy raced across towards the centre of Marafeni. Mallet strained his eyes, scanning the ground ahead. The three other operators in the back of the Land Cruiser stared out of the windows with taut expressions, gripping their rifles. They drove on for another quarter of a mile, and then Casey shot forward and pointed through the windshield.

  ‘Look,’ she said.

  Bowman squinted, his eyes struggling to pick out details in the oily dark. Then he saw them. Three lifeless bodies lay sprawled across the bare dirt ground in front of a food market, their torn clothes stained red. A pack of feral dogs licked at the blood pooling beneath them. A fourth man was slumped face down in a puddle of stagnant water. At the far end of the street a taxicab had been torched. Several more fires raged in the distance to the west. In the orange glow of the flames, Bowman spied bands of looters darting in and out of damaged shopfronts, stealing whatever they could find. Across the road, a couple of kids in football shorts were tugging off the boots from the corpse of a policeman.

  ‘Looks like Six was right,’ said Loader. ‘This is fucking carnage.’

  The passed another large group of rioters, but none of them bothered the convoy. They had other priorities. They weren’t looking to get themselves killed in a contact with a bunch of heavily armed soldiers. A pair of tattooed convicts broke away from their mates and started towards the Land Cruiser, sensing new victims. They caught sight of the hardened faces inside, the weapons they were packing, and quickly retreated. Casey watched them skulk off down the street in search of easier prey.

  ‘Where are all the rebels?’ she asked. ‘All we’ve seen so far are looters and escaped prisoners.’