The Valhalla Prophecy_A Novel

by Andy McDermott

  But it was too late.

  The approaching men also reached into their coats – but unlike Eddie, they had weapons concealed inside. Three pistols came up. One man shouted in Swedish. Nina didn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear: don’t move! Two of the men kept their guns aimed at Eddie and Nina while the third grabbed the startled Tova, burying the muzzle of his weapon in her side.

  A bystander saw the commotion – and the guns. She shrieked, alerting other people nearby. The taxi driver’s eyes bugged wide in shock as he saw what was happening, then he stomped his foot to the floor and set his vehicle fishtailing away as quickly as it could go.

  ‘Oi!’ Eddie yelled as the third man hauled Tova towards the waiting Audi S4. ‘Let her go!’

  ‘Shut fuck up, and get back!’ one of the others snarled, jabbing his gun at the Yorkshireman. His companion did the same to Nina, making her flinch away.

  Tova screamed, her heels scraping through the snow as her captor dragged her across the plaza. The Audi’s engine revved, its driver signalling for his comrades to hurry up. The man holding Nina at gunpoint said something – Russian, she thought – to his companion and ran to help the third kidnapper manhandle their prisoner into the back of the car.

  ‘No fucking move!’ the remaining man ordered, swinging his gun back and forth between Nina and Eddie. He backed up, risking a glance at the car once he was sure the gap was wide enough to prevent Eddie from charging him. ‘You move, I kill you!’

  ‘Just let her go, and nobody has to get hurt,’ said Nina, more afraid for Tova than herself. If the Russians wanted her and Eddie dead they would have killed them already, but there was no way to know what they had in store for their victim.

  ‘Shut up, get fucking back,’ was his only reply. Behind him, the other two men had forced the struggling historian into the car. Gun still raised, the last of the three jogged backwards and clambered into the remaining seat. Before he had even fully closed the door, the Audi peeled away, snow spraying up from its tyres.

  Eddie ran after it, but knew he would never catch up. The S4 had four-wheel drive, easily finding grip on the ploughed road. He searched for another car he could flag down to give chase . . .

  The only approaching vehicle was not what he had in mind. ‘You’re fucking joking,’ he said under his breath, checking the other side of the boulevard for something, anything better. But he was out of luck.

  No choice. He ran into the street, waving furiously for the driver to stop.

  Nina had taken out her iPhone to alert the police, but saw that others on the plaza were already making emergency calls. Instead, she ran after her husband. To her dismay, she realised that he intended to pursue the kidnappers – and her alarm only worsened when she saw what he was about to commandeer. ‘Eddie, what’re you doing?’

  ‘I’m going after them!’ he shouted back as he pulled the startled driver, a young man in thick-framed glasses and multiple layers of trendy clothing, from his vehicle. ‘Hope you speak English,’ Eddie told him, ‘’cause I need your car.’

  ‘That’s not a car,’ Nina protested as she reached him. ‘That’s a golf cart!’

  It was actually a Renault Twizy, a minuscule electric buggy with a futuristically styled – and open-sided – pod-like body. It had only two seats, a small passenger space directly behind the driver’s position. ‘It’s all we’ve got,’ insisted Eddie. The driver made a flustered objection; the Englishman pushed him away. ‘Sorry, Bjorn. Just call the police. Polis, polizei? Whatever they are in Swedish, call ’em!’

  Nina was already squeezing into the cramped second seat. ‘You seriously think I’m going to let you leave me behind?’ she said, anticipating her husband’s response.

  ‘Yeah, I should’ve bloody known by now.’ He dropped into the front seat, ignoring the continuing squawks from the Twizy’s owner, and stepped on the accelerator.

  The little electric car’s response was not exactly Ferrari-quick, but it was better than running. Eddie saw the kidnappers’ car rapidly disappearing down the boulevard. Pushing the accelerator pedal as far as it would go, he set off in pursuit.

  6

  Vietnam

  ‘Welcome to the jungle!’ sang Chase tunelessly as the mercenary team began their trek.

  They were some fifty miles west of Da Nang, Sullivan’s local contact having driven them from the city to their drop-off point in an elderly Volkswagen minibus. The road they took was marked on the map as a major highway, though Chase considered it no more than a country lane by British standards. But it was paved, so the journey was relatively straightforward – even if Vietnamese traffic discipline was far looser than anything in Europe.

  The minibus had turned south off the highway on to a dirt track, heading through a small village and continuing on as rough farmland gave way first to scrub, then actual jungle. Once they entered the dense woodland, it did not take long before the track petered out entirely. After checking their surroundings to make sure they were not being observed, the team armed up with the gear Bluey had provided. The weapons were AK-47s, almost certainly dating back to the Vietnam War, but Chase found that the Australian had been as good as his word. The rifles were still in working order.

  The rest of the gear was also as promised. Once everyone was kitted out, the VW departed, heading back north. Hoyt watched it go as he lit another cigarette. Sullivan checked a map, then directed his men deeper into the jungle.

  ‘If our info’s right,’ said the New Zealander as he took the lead, ‘we should go five or six klicks before we get into our bandits’ area of operations. But watch out before then, eh? We don’t want to run into any sentries.’

  ‘If that storm reaches us, it could make them hard to spot,’ Castille said.

  ‘Could work for us, though,’ Chase countered. ‘It’ll give us some cover too, and if it’s pissing it down, the bad guys’ll want to stay in the dry.’ He peered up through the overhanging canopy. The weather had definitely started to turn, the sweltering tropical heat falling as the sky clouded over and the wind picked up. The storm was due to make landfall in a couple of hours; if it continued along its predicted course, the worst of it would strike them about an hour later. ‘But yeah, I’ll keep my eyes open.’

  They continued south, Sullivan checking the map every so often. The terrain was rough and crumpled with hardly a flat piece of ground to be found. The jungle itself also slowed their progress; there were no paths, so thick undergrowth frequently needed to be hacked through. All the team members had been on missions in similar conditions, accepting the strenuous nature of their progress with weary shrugs.

  There was something about this particular jungle that set it apart from the others Chase had traversed, however. It was impossible to escape a constant sense of foreboding – a feeling that death was all around them. Part of the infamous Ho Chi Minh Trail had run through the region during the war, feeding North Vietnamese troops and supplies into the South, and as a result the whole area had been subjected to massive herbicidal assaults by American forces to kill the vegetation and strip away their enemies’ cover. Even though the environment had recovered to an extent after over three decades, dead trees still lurked all around, rotting monuments to chemical warfare. The Englishman was the first to admit that he was not burdened with an overactive imagination, but there was still something unsettling about the poisoned land.

  After two hours, the light had dropped considerably, and not just because evening was approaching. ‘Wind’s really pickin’ up,’ said Lomax. Heavy clouds roiled ominously above. ‘Storm’ll be on us soon, I reckon.’

  ‘Looks that way,’ Sullivan replied. ‘I’d say we’ve got no more than ten minutes before the rain hits us. You might want to put on your gear now.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Chase, shrugging off his pack and taking out a hooded nylon poncho with a mottled green camouflage pattern. ‘Although if the storm’s turned into a typhoon, we’ll get wet no matter what.’

&
nbsp; ‘I will take a little dryness over none at all,’ said Castille, donning his own poncho before taking a plastic bag from his pack.

  Chase sighed. ‘What weird fucking fruit’ve you got now, Hugo?’

  Sullivan retreated, making a face. ‘It’d better not be a durian. They smell like a chimp’s arse.’

  ‘Ah, you people,’ said Castille with cheery disdain. ‘You never want to discover new tastes. No, it is not a durian. It is a longan.’ The Belgian took one of the brown spheres from the bag and squeezed it to split the shell, revealing the pale, almost eyeball-like fruit within. He popped it in his mouth and chewed. ‘Delicious.’

  ‘I’ll stick with Golden Delicious,’ Chase told him, producing a mocking snort from his friend.

  Rios checked his map. ‘If the bandits are in this area, where will they be?’

  The others joined him. ‘If they’re stupid,’ said Hoyt, ‘they’ll be in this valley here.’ He pointed it out. ‘It’s flat ground, so it’d be easy for them to make camp – but they’ll have boxed themselves in.’

  ‘I doubt we’ll be that lucky,’ Sullivan told him. ‘If they know the jungle, which I imagine they do, they’d know somewhere like that would flood in typhoon season. But . . .’ He ran his finger across the map from the valley to an area above its steep western side. ‘That would be a better choice. The ground’s fairly level, it’s defensible – but there are avenues of escape if they need them.’

  Chase examined his own map. ‘If we come in from this big hill to the north-west, that gives us higher ground and a better vantage point.’

  ‘If that is where they are at all,’ Castille pointed out.

  Sullivan surveyed the location. ‘If they’ve got prisoners, they’ll have to secure them somewhere, so they can’t just bivvy down and be ready to move at a moment’s notice. They’ll need space for an actual camp.’ His eyes flicked over other possibilities. ‘That’s as good a place as any. If they’re not there, then we just continue the search – but it’s our most likely target.’

  Hoyt hefted his AK-47. ‘Good. Then let’s go in there and get ’em.’

  ‘Minimum force,’ Sullivan reminded him sternly. ‘I want this to be easy in, easy out if we can manage it.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ said the American mildly, though he kept his gun raised.

  Chase took a compass bearing. ‘That way,’ he said, pointing south-east. ‘About a mile. It’ll be dark by the time we get there, though.’

  Castille peered unhappily up at the swaying trees. ‘The storm will have reached us, too.’

  ‘All the more reason to stop talking and start walking,’ said Sullivan. ‘Okay, let’s move.’

  The rain began soon after.

  Even beneath the tree cover, it was a deluge. The rising winds tore through the canopy, exposing the ground beneath to the torrential fall. Soil turned to mud, the thick, cloying sludge clinging to the team’s boots with every step. The last daylight had faded too, turning the jungle almost pitch black. Even though their eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, the mercenaries were forced to slow even further, each footfall perilous on the uneven ground.

  Crossing a slope, Chase almost stumbled where a rivulet of running water had loosened the topsoil. He held in an obscenity, mindful of the need for stealth. ‘Are you okay?’ Castille whispered from behind him, holding up one hand to warn the others to stop.

  ‘Yeah,’ Chase replied. ‘Watch your step, there’s a lot of water coming down the hill.’

  ‘If it gets much worse, there could be a mudslide,’ Sullivan warned. ‘Everyone stay close to those large rocks down there.’ He pointed at a line of rain-slicked shapes below their current path.

  Chase was about to move again when he caught a flicker of movement in the distance. He raised his hand, this gesture signalling potential danger. The other men immediately crouched, drawing their weapons. ‘What is it?’ hissed Castille.

  ‘Saw something.’ The Englishman shielded his eyes from the rain, watching the site of the movement intently. He spotted nothing but the vague shapes of trees swaying in the darkness for several seconds . . . then it reappeared.

  A light. Faint, but in the black of the jungle it stood out like a beacon. It bobbed between the trees, then vanished again, obscured by the trunks.

  Chase didn’t need to see any more. The only person who would be strolling through the jungle at night with a typhoon bearing down on them was a sentry. ‘It’s a torch,’ he whispered as Sullivan moved up to join him. ‘We’ve found them.’

  The news sent a crackle of electricity through the group. They had been alert before; now they were fully focused, ready for action. Hoyt spat out his damp cigarette and crushed it under his boot. ‘Okay,’ said Sullivan at another glimpse of torchlight, ‘he’s about two hundred metres away. We’ll stay on this level and move in to one hundred for a better look. We don’t get any closer until we’ve got an idea of how many there are – and where they are. Spread out to five-metre spacing. Eddie, lead on.’

  Chase slung his rifle over his shoulder and crouched, almost on all fours as he began his cautious advance. Castille waited until a gap had opened up between them, then followed. The other men picked up the trail one by one after him, Hoyt at the rear.

  By the time Chase had covered roughly half the hundred metres, he had already spotted further signs of life. The torch definitely belonged to a sentry, trudging back and forth along a curving path. There was at least one other sentry farther away, forming a perimeter. Within the circle, more lights were revealed as he got closer. Diffuse glows gradually took on the form of several tents with lamps inside, and a lantern hung at the entrance to another shelter.

  He stopped a hundred metres from the camp. Beyond the tents was some sort of building, a boxy cabin. Reflected light picked out the rain running in sheets down its slab-like sides. A faint glowing rectangle marked a window in one wall. It didn’t seem to be a bunker left over from the war; it looked more like a caravan or shipping container.

  He had more immediate concerns than the mystery structure, however. The two sentries were still slogging around the perimeter, and as he watched, a man emerged from one of the smaller tents and scurried across the camp to enter the largest of the shelters. The guards were not the only bandits still awake.

  The other mercenaries reached him. Chase gave them a brief summary of his observations. ‘No idea what that cabin is, mind,’ he concluded.

  Sullivan took out a pair of binoculars and scanned the camp. ‘Can’t see a damn thing in all this rain,’ he muttered. ‘The small tents, I’d say you could get three, maybe four men in each of them at a squeeze. The big one . . . ten, or more.’

  ‘So we’re looking at, what, up to thirty guys?’ said Lomax unhappily.

  The New Zealander shook his head. ‘I doubt it. The hostages are probably being held in the big tent – it’d be a lot easier to keep them all together in one place. So that’s eight people accounted for already.’

  ‘Still twenty-two against six. I don’t like those odds.’

  ‘We’ve got surprise on our side,’ Hoyt pointed out. ‘We could take most of ’em out before they even knew we were here. If we had to,’ he added, as Sullivan frowned at him.

  ‘If the aid workers are in the big tent, I think we can get to ’em without being seen.’ Chase pointed at a patch of darkness between the shelters and the path the first sentry was following. ‘If we timed it right, we could hide in the bushes and get across the perimeter when that guy’s heading away from us, then sneak right up behind the tents.’

  ‘Has he followed the same route every time?’ Castille asked.

  ‘Since I’ve been watching him, yeah. He’s probably made a path and doesn’t want to move off it in the dark.’

  Rios bit his lip. ‘We need to be sure where the hostages are. If we go in, and they are not where we think . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said Sullivan. ‘We need a better idea of how many other guys we’re dealing with, too. Some
body’ll have to take a closer look.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Hoyt at once.

  Sullivan regarded him with an unreadable expression, then shook his head. ‘Eddie, Mac told me you’ve got recent experience in jungle infiltration and hostage extraction work. Correct?’

  ‘If two years ago counts as recent, then yeah,’ Chase replied.

  ‘Think you can get in closer without being seen?’

  He gave the encampment another look, judging distances, paths of approach and exit, the movements of the sentries . . . ‘Yeah. I can do it.’

  ‘Good man,’ said Sullivan. ‘Hugo, you’re with me – we’ll move down to those rocks there and cover him. The rest of you, stay here and keep watch.’

  Lomax, Rios and Hoyt all nodded, then spread out to positions where they could observe what was happening below – and maintain a clear line of fire. The other three men moved carefully down the slope to the rocks. Castille and Sullivan stopped, watching the tents, as Chase prepared to advance. ‘Good luck,’ Sullivan whispered.

  ‘Fight to the end, Edward,’ added Castille.

  ‘Always do,’ Chase replied, nodding to his friend before dropping low and moving into the undergrowth. A brief look back; the two men were little more than shadows from a distance of just fifteen feet, the three higher up the slope practically invisible in the darkness and rain. Hiding from the bandits would not be a problem.

  Nor would locating them. The man on patrol was making no attempt to conceal himself, the light of his torch standing out clearly, nor was he being all that attentive to his surroundings. The beam spent far more time aimed at the ground ahead of him than sweeping the jungle. Nevertheless, Chase froze once he got close to the approaching sentry’s route.

  From his hiding place, lying beneath the drooping branches of a large plant, he watched the man as he passed twenty feet away. The bandit was wearing a long rain cape and a wide-brimmed khaki hat, water streaming off both. From the glimpse of his expression in the torchlight, he was not at all happy to have been assigned sentry duty.