by Dc Alden
‘It’ll be light soon,’ Steve whispered in the dark. ‘If we get caught out here, we’re dead.’
As if to reinforce his point, heavy guns boomed to the west of them, and tracers arced across the sky. Mac fiddled with his radio.
‘Anything?’ Eddie asked him.
‘Switch ‘em off,’ Mac ordered. ‘We’re out of range anyway, and if the Hajis are scanning for signals, they might just ping us here.’
Eddie switched his off, then turned to tell Steve to do the same. His eyes narrowed, searching for the inky shadow that was there only a few seconds ago. He brought his rifle up and swept the field. He found him on the third sweep. ‘Steve’s gone walkabout,’ he told the others. ‘Three o’clock, heading for the farmhouse.’
‘What the fuck?’ Mac said, seething. ‘Get after him, Eddie, drag his stupid arse back here. And do it quietly.’
Eddie was already up and moving, keeping low and tight to the hedgerow. His boots slipped on the muddy fringe, and he slowed his pace, snapping his NVGs onto his helmet.
Night became green day. He glimpsed Steve disappearing into the farmyard beyond the field. He thought about cutting across but decided against it, unwilling to leave a fresh trail of military boot prints behind him. Instead, he kept to the hedgerow and worked his way around.
It was several more minutes before he stepped onto the hard standing of the farm itself. To his left were a row of single-storey outbuildings, most of them housing rusted machinery. To his right, 50 metres away, stood the farmhouse, with a muddy pickup parked outside. Eddie moved real slow, gun barrel up, watching for Steve, watching for potential targets. Any moment now he expected to hear the rattle of a chain, the desperate scampering of a guard dog as it charged out of the darkness. He loved dogs, didn’t want to shoot one, but he would if it came to it.
The house was quiet, no sound at all from inside, but a soft light flickered in the downstairs window. Farmers got up at the crack of sparrows, Eddie knew. He also knew that no sane person would be sleeping through the thunder of battle that raged a few klicks away. So this farmer was up, probably cooking breakfast, and the sudden image of bacon and eggs sizzling in a pan made Eddie’s mouth water. He moved towards the window. A low whistle stopped him.
Steve was crouched behind the pickup, a gloved finger pressed to his lips. Eddie went to his side. Steve’s voice was low in his ear.
‘Hajis are inside. I counted three of them, ransacking the place.’
‘We should bug out,’ Eddie whispered.
Steve shook his head. ‘No chance.’
He raised himself up and pointed his weapon across the back of the pickup. Eddie did the same. He heard voices inside, then splintering wood and coarse laughter. He glimpsed one of them through the window, a big guy with olive skin and a straggly beard. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, and the guy had his AK slung across a chest rig stuffed with magazines. He was in no hurry either, and that worried Eddie. The front line might’ve shifted further north than he thought. The man turned as another voice barked, then he moved out of view.
‘They’re leaving,’ Steve whispered. ‘Wait until they’re all outside.’
‘Rog.’
The farmhouse door opened and Eddie saw a different man step out into the green world of his NVGs. He was squat and bald, and he dipped his head and plopped his lid on. He strolled towards the pickup, his AK-12 assault rifle held low in one hand. Two more men followed, one of them the big lump he’d seen through the window. Baldy had a radio in his hand, and he lifted it to his mouth…
Steve opened up, and Eddie was firing too. He heard the thump of rounds hitting body mass, the grunts of pain and surprise. Boots skidded on the gravel drive, and bodies buckled. A rifle clattered to the ground.
Eddie moved around the pickup and advanced slowly, eyes flicking between the Hajis and the farmhouse. He fired again at his targets, putting a bullet in each of their heads. They stopped moving, breathing. Baldy was still alive, though. He rolled on the ground, moaning and clutching his stomach, his helmet lying to one side. Steve broke cover and stood over him. The man saw him and stopped moaning. Steve jammed his suppressor into Baldy’s eye and pulled the trigger.
They entered the building and listened. There were no footsteps, no creaking doors or floorboards, but that didn’t mean there was no one else there. Using NVGs and hand signals, they cleared all the rooms, upstairs and down. They found no more enemy troops, but they discovered the bodies of the farmer, his wife, and their dog in the back parlour. Steve left them where they lay and closed the door.
In the kitchen, Eddie blew out the candle and rounded on him. ‘What’s with the disappearing act? Mac’s going ballistic.’ Steve turned and left the room. ‘Hey! Don’t just walk off. What the fuck’s going on?’
‘Go back to the others, Eddie.’
In the hallway, Steve plucked a hat and coat from the hooks on the wall and stepped back outside. Eddie followed, watched him kneel and rummage in Baldy’s pockets. He straightened up, a key fob in his hand. And suddenly it all made sense.
Eddie caught him up and grabbed his friend’s arm. ‘Don’t do this, mate. You’ll never make it.’
Steve shook his hand off and opened the driver’s door. ‘I’ve already checked the map. If I stick to farm tracks and walking paths, I can make a few miles cross-country before sun up. I’ll lie low for the day, then head south on foot when it gets dark. There’s nothing strategic between here and home, no major roads, nothing.’ He gave Eddie a tired smile. ‘I nearly died back there, we all did. I won’t risk that again, not when I’m so close.’
‘You’re not going anywhere.’
Eddie spun around as Mac loomed out of the dark, his camouflaged face dark and furious. He got straight up in Steve’s face.
‘You’ve put us all at risk, ya selfish bastard. Lose the key, now. We’re heading back to the lie-up.’
‘No,’ Steve told him. ‘This is something I have to do. If you had a family, you’d understand.’
‘Don’t play that fucking card with me. Half the battalion is in the same boat as you, so don’t think you’re a special case.’ He nodded down at the bodies. ‘Search these jokers for intel, then dump ‘em out of sight. Move.’
Steve didn’t.
‘Are you fucking deaf?’
Eddie tried to get between them. ‘C’mon guys, that’s enough. This is stupid.’
‘Back off,’ Mac said. He pulled his pistol from his tac-vest and held it by his leg. ‘Last chance, Palmer. Stand the fuck down. That’s a direct order.’
To Eddie’s horror, Steve smiled.
‘You’re a decent man, Mac, and I doubt we’d have made it this far if it wasn’t for you. You’ve got a nose for trouble, an instinct, one you’ve always trusted, right? Well, my instinct is telling me that my girls are in trouble, and I can’t ignore it anymore. I have to go to them, Mac, d’you understand? I have to.’
Mac stared at him long and hard. Eddie looked on, worried that someone would get hurt, then suddenly Mac deflated. He stepped aside, tight-lipped. Steve gave him a nod and headed for the pickup.
Mac turned around, looked over Eddie’s shoulder and cursed. ‘Jesus Christ, I told you to stay put. Doesn’t anyone fucking listen round here?’
Eddie saw Digger appear out of the dark and kneel by the big Haji. He dragged the AK-12 rifle from his body, then helped himself to the dead guy’s magazines.
‘Quiet!’ Mac whispered.
Eddie heard it then, the low roar of jet engines, getting louder, rolling across the fields towards them. The ripping sound that followed a moment later was unmistakable.
‘A-10s,’ Mac said, and then a series of orange flashes lit up the sky beyond the rising ground to the west. ‘They’re hitting that Haji convoy.’
‘Beautiful,’ Digger smiled. He got to his feet and watched the sky, his helmet missing, a bloody bandage wrapped around his head, an enemy weapon cradled in his arms. He grinned as the Hogs pounded the unseen, distant hi
ghway. ‘That’s it, fry the bastards, Chop ‘em to pieces.’
Mac stepped towards the pickup. ‘Listen to me, Steve. If they stop that convoy, it might open up the route south. Another 24 hours and it could all change.’
‘Could change for the worse too.’ Steve climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘I can’t take that chance.’
Mac nodded in defeat. Digger looked confused. ‘Where’s he going?’
‘Home,’ Mac said.
Digger screwed his face up. ‘Really?’ He marched over and leaned in the driver’s window. ‘Hey, Stevo, you’ll never make it, you daft twat.’
‘So they keep telling me.’ The engine fired up and settled into a low rattle.
‘Got enough juice?’ Mac asked him.
Steve checked. ‘Enough.’
Mac headed around the back of the Nissan. He flipped his rifle over, smashed out the light clusters, then walked back. He looked at their surprised faces and said, ‘It’s still dark, and I’m not gonna sit in this thing while Palmer pumps the brakes every two minutes and gives away our position.’
Steve stared at him. ‘You’re serious?’
Mac shrugged. ‘We’re MIA, anyway. We’ll see you home, make sure your girls are all right, and then we head back – all of us – and find our people. That’s the deal, take it or leave it.’
Digger beamed and climbed into the back of the pickup. Eddie shook his head.
‘I don’t believe this. This is mad.’
‘Stop your whining and grab some more civvy coats,’ Mac told him.
Eddie ducked back inside the house, grabbed everything off the hooks and dumped it all in the back of the pickup. Digger scrambled on top and made himself comfortable.
‘Lose your lids,’ Mac told them, snatching his own off his shaved head. ‘I’ll ride shotgun. Eddie, you take the seat behind Steve, cover the right flank. Digger, stay out of sight, just in case we need an ace up our sleeve.
‘Got it, boss.’
‘What about the bodies?’ Steve asked.
Mac climbed in and shut the door. ‘Just drive before I change my mind.’
Steve dropped the vehicle into gear, and then they were moving. He kept the lights off, crawling around the driveway before pulling out onto the main road and heading east. As they crested a hill, Eddie saw a distant wall of fire. The A-10s, he guessed. They must’ve chopped up that convoy good and proper. Further south, the battle was still raging at Birtley, but the flashes and the thunder weren’t as intense as they were before. Maybe we’re winning, Eddie thought, but it was crazy to assume anything so early on. It hadn’t even been 24 hours yet, and London was almost 400 kilometres away. Wazir would fight for every inch of land in between, that’s what he’d promised in so many of his wild-eyed, finger-wagging speeches. That being the case, the fight would be a long and bloody one.
A few minutes later the Nissan slowed, and Steve turned onto a narrow track. He drove slowly for a bit, then stopped.
‘I’ll need my lid on,’ he told Mac. ‘I need my NVGs.’
Mac nodded, and after a moment they were moving again, bouncing slowly and steadily along the track, the hedge whipping and scraping past Eddie’s window.
‘I feel like we’re running away,’ Eddie said.
‘This is my call,’ Mac told him, his eyes fixed on the world outside. ‘If it makes you feel any better, you didn’t have a choice.’
‘You say so.’
‘I do.’
‘Still doesn’t feel—’
‘Shut the fuck up, Eddie. Please.’
Mac was troubled too. Steve had other priorities, but Eddie knew that when the dust finally settled, he’d struggle with that same guilt. They’d cut the cord from the Second Mass, abandoned their unit, and now they were on their own.
It wouldn’t be long before they were recorded as MIA, but with any luck, they’d link up with the battalion before his folks were notified back in New London. If they were told, Eddie had zero doubt it would rip their world apart. The thought of that pain troubled him deeply, and he now regretted taking Steve’s advice. He should’ve written the letter he’d wanted to write, should’ve told his mother and father how sorry he was, how selfish he’d been. He’d cared only about avenging his brother’s death and had never spared a thought for the fear and uncertainty he’d left behind.
He made a promise to himself, that if he got through this, he’d make it up to them somehow. Stay at home, take care of them, be a good son and not the memory of one framed on a candle-lit mantelpiece.
He took a breath and tried to clear his head. There was no point in stressing about things he couldn’t control, nothing he could do other than try to stay alive. He owed his folks that much, at the very least.
And they were doing a good thing, he decided. They were helping a friend, a brother, one of their own. All four of them had survived this far by sticking together, by good fortune and the bad luck of others. The union they shared, the invisible bond between them, it was keeping each one of them alive. If that bond was broken, then so were they.
Mac had known it back at the farm, and now Eddie knew it too. They had no choice but to see it through, to stand together as a team.
Or fall, divided.
Eddie banished the thought from his mind and gripped his gun a little tighter.
The Nissan headed south across the countryside, the darkness that cloaked its passage slowly yielding to the thin band of gold that stretched across the distant horizon.
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The Angola Deception
The Deep State series - Book 1
“It would have been impossible for us to develop our plan for the world if we had been subject to the bright lights of publicity.”
David Rockefeller
Address to the Trilateral Commission
Tower
“This is it? This is everything?”
Engle blinked behind the lenses of his horned-rimmed glasses as he appraised the government flunkey before him. The younger man was dark-haired and square-jawed, with shoulders that strained at his cheap suit. He looked more like an athlete than a bag carrier for Special Advisor Marshall, and his manner, well, to say it was abrupt was an understatement. The guy was just plain rude.
At sixty-seven years old, and Director for Special Projects at the United States Geological Survey, Professor Bruce Engle was unused to being dictated to. Keyes, on the other hand, was a low-level bureaucrat, yet he seemed indifferent to Engle’s status, or indeed the importance of any of the VIPs sitting around the conference table. Engle glanced at the others, his own indignation mirrored on their faces.
“That’s all of it?” Keyes repeated. “Including backups?”
Engle waved a liver-spotted hand at the piles of folders, tapes and CD-ROM discs stacked at the end of the table.“It’s all there, as requested. And why isn’t Marshall here? He should be here.”
“You spoke to him this morning.”
“He called me at five am. I was barely conscious, for Chrissakes. I don’t appreciate these sudden changes. Of arrangements or personnel.”
“Mister Marshall has authorised me to act on his behalf.”
“This is unacceptable,” the professor grumbled.
Frank Marshall was a National Security Special Assistant at the White House, and Engle’s only point of contact since the data had been confirmed. He’d ordered Engle to make a list of names of those who knew the whole picture: the security guys from the International Energy Agency, the whistle-blowers from Saudi Aramco, Gazprom and ExxonMobil, and two of Engle’s trusted colleagues at the USGS in Virginia. Twenty-three men and women i
n all, the only people on the planet who knew the terrifying truth, now gathered around a grimy conference table in a disused office in Manhattan. Marshall had impressed upon them the need for secrecy. Disinformation was to be positively encouraged, at least for the foreseeable future. They’d all agreed, especially Engle; lately his nightmares of crumbling cities and starving populations were keeping him awake at night.
Keyes produced a plastic tray and pushed it across the table.
“I’ll need all your identification, please.”
“Is this really necessary?”
“The Secret Service will need to record your personal details.”
Engle tossed his wallet into the tray. Keyes took a moment to examine the driving licences and social security cards, the corporate IDs and passports, then handed the tray to someone waiting outside the room.
Two more men appeared, both young and fit like Keyes, wearing the same cheap suits and each pushing a small cart. They began clearing the table, dumping documents and CDs into the carts. One of them dropped a folder, the computer printouts within spilling across the floor.
“Goddamit!” Engle swore, clambering to his feet. With considerable effort, he knelt down and retrieved the documents. “This is sensitive data,” he grumbled. “Be careful.”
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and speed-dialled Marshall’s number. No signal. He approached Keyes, who waited by the open door. He seemed oblivious to Engle’s presence, his gaze fixed on his watch, his index finger resting on the lobe of his left ear. That’s when Engle noticed the small, flesh-coloured receiver nestled inside. Odd, he thought. Perhaps he had a hearing impediment. He cleared his throat.
“Mister Keyes?”