The Reich Legacy: A Jim Slater novel (The Jim Slater series Book 3)

by Stanley Salmons

  He says, “Suppose they toss in grenades?”

  “Unlikely,” Bruce says. “I know how these people operate. They want to have some fun with anyone who’s survived, and do nasty things to the ones who haven’t. Grenades mess things up for them. They won’t use them unless they have to.”

  “So,” Scottie says, “Three under the cabin and one in the pod?”

  I shake my head. “Too risky. If they take out the cabin we’re three down. And it’s better if the fire’s coming from different directions. It’ll cause panic, give us extra seconds. Ryan’s the smallest. He can get inside that pile of debris by the co-pilot. We wait till they’re all down here, and then let them have it.”

  Scottie says, “It’s not ideal. We could kill each other in the crossfire.”

  Bruce says, “It’s not an ideal situation, Scottie. No raking. Aimed shots, single taps. You take the engine cowling. Jim and I will take the cabin. But first pick up some of our guys’ water bottles. It’s hotter than hell out here, and they won’t be needing them now. Let’s move.”

  We take up our positions. After that it’s a matter of waiting and watching.

  The desert isn’t still, it moves constantly in the hot air. The cabin hull provides some shelter from the sun but it only multiplies the heat underneath. Another ten minutes go by. Not long now. Flies come out of nowhere and start to buzz in clouds around the bodies of my comrades. I stiffen. Four of those piles have no cloud of flies. I’ve seen it and if I have so will the ragheads.

  I crack a tin of emergency rations, nip out quickly, and smear the meat paste on the camo bundles. Then I get back under cover as fast as I can. It solves the problem. Now there are flies bloody well everywhere, including on us.

  I’m just in time. The ridge line is waving in the heat but something dark disturbs it. I see the flash of binoculars. I wait. Ten minutes later the ridge line breaks up some more and they start to come down the dunes like a line of beetles. I count six.

  There should be seven. Where the hell is number seven?

  It’s a trade mark of this band that they go around in sevens. Maybe they think it’s their lucky number. I know that and my mates know that, so they’ll be looking out for the missing man, too.

  I watch them, breathing quietly through my mouth. One of the six makes hand signals and they fan out, keeping a good distance, three circling one way, three the other. Now I’ve lost sight of them. A deadly calm settles on me. The only sound is the buzzing of those bloody flies.

  Then the faint crunch of boots on the sand. They’re coming in cautiously. I can see five. I glance at Bruce, but he’s waiting calmly. I hope Scottie and Ryan don’t open up too soon; if there are any left outside our circle all they need to do is toss in a grenade. And where the hell is number seven? Minutes go by. All six are here now, poking at the heaps with the muzzles of their rifles. They haven’t found the dummy heaps yet, but when they do…

  Single taps from one of our weapons. Now it’s bedlam. They’re shouting, running around, dark faces, black beards, firing bursts at unseen targets. Bullets zip through the air, flinging up fountains of sand, smacking through the hull over my head, and all the time I’m sighting and firing, sighting and firing, and I can hear the steady tap, tap of the other guys’ weapons. Then everything goes quiet.

  Are they all down? I think so. Then I hear a cry of “Allahu akbhar!” and there’s a mighty explosion and something hits my face, and then there’s a second explosion. What in fuck’s name was that? I can usually tell different bits of ordnance apart by the sound but not when they’re that close.

  In the aftermath of the explosions my hearing feels dull. I wipe a hand over my face and it comes away bloody. It doesn’t hurt.

  I rise a little higher, take a cautious look, start to count bodies, see only six. But now Scottie is standing, a six-foot-four massive target. If he can do that the coast has to be clear.

  We regroup.

  Bruce says, “Where’s Ryan?”

  We go over to the cockpit wreckage, Scottie ahead of us. He throws aside his helmet and multi-rifle and steps forward. Then he drops to his knees and buries his head in his elbows, and he’s saying, “Shit, shit, shit” over and over again.

  I look into the cockpit. Ryan is lying in there with half his head missing.

  I lean over Scottie, squeeze his shoulder. “What happened?”

  He uncurls slowly and looks up. “Number Seven,” he says. “Came out from behind the big rock. He’s got a grenade and he’s about to toss it in the middle. My high-velocity jams so I use the grenade launcher.”

  “You killed him with a fucking grenade launcher?”

  “Well if I hadn’t he’d have taken out the whole damned lot of us.”

  “Why didn’t Ryan drop him?”

  “Ryan was in the cockpit – this guy was behind him, so I saw him first. Anyway, it worked. It blew the bastard to bits.” He draws a breath. “Only one of those bits was his hand and the grenade was still in it with the pin out. It landed in the cockpit.”

  I’m not listening any more. I find the sat link, fire it up, give the evac team our coordinates, and tell them to bring seven body bags. They’re for our guys; we’ll leave the insurgents for the vultures to pick over.

  Even after the evac team land in their RotoFan, even after we help them get the bodies of our dead comrades on board, even after we take off, leaving that godforsaken place behind us, I’m still torturing myself over what’s happened. Scottie’s made it clear he wants to be on his own, so I give him some space, just leave him brooding in a seat further forward while I sit with Bruce.

  I keep my voice down. “Bruce, are you going to report Ryan as a blue on blue?”

  He shakes his head. “No. Blue on blues are much harder for the families to take. It was enemy action all right, just bad luck the way it panned out.”

  “Right.”

  I’m still thinking about it as we fly back over the desert, and I was thinking about it all over again now, lying on my bed at the SAS base at Hereford, my body aching for sleep that wouldn’t come.

  Did Scottie’s rifle really jam, or was that just his excuse for taking out an Arab with a grenade launcher? Is that what he wanted: to see the guy blown to pieces?

  What if he did? A grenade in the centre of the wreckage would have ripped us all to shreds. Scottie was right to take him out. He saved our lives. Who cares how he did it?

  And I remembered my reaction when I got back to the base camp in Yemen and looked at my face in the mirror. The blood wasn’t mine. Nor were the pink bits of flesh clinging to my uniform.

  Scottie got his revenge all right.

  14

  By the following morning I’d made up my mind. I found Owen Gracey in his office.

  He smiled, waving me to a chair. “Problem, Jim?”

  I sat down, back straight. “This business involving Major Scot Hayward…”

  His face fell. “You’ve heard about that.”

  “Yes. I gather he’s gone berserk.”

  He nodded. “Afraid that’s putting it mildly.”

  Again I had to fight the urge to say that something smelt wrong about the whole thing, that I knew Scottie, that he wouldn’t…

  “Owen, I don’t understand why it’s been left like this. If there’s one thing you learn in the SAF and the SAS – and the regulars, for that matter – it’s that you look after your buddies. If one goes down you bring him back. You don’t abandon him.”

  “He hasn’t ‘gone down’, he’s turned into a human demolition machine. He kills anyone he sees, makes no difference whether they’re hostiles or non-combatants, friends or enemies. I can assure you I’m no more happy about the situation than you are. He’s been a good soldier, solid, dependable, and I have a huge regard for him. But we tried out there, believe me, we really tried. His own mates couldn’t get anywhere near him.”

  “I know. That’s why I’d like to go out there myself. Find him. Bring him back.”

 
His laugh was closer to a cough. “You’re not serious!”

  “I’m deadly serious.”

  Half-smile, eyebrows raised. “And what makes you think you can succeed where the others failed?”

  “I know the psychology; we were trained for this kind of thing.” Lies, but all in a good cause.

  He blew out his breath. “All right, so you were trained for it. Have you ever used it?”

  “Sure. Last time I talked down a guy who held up a drug store. Took a child as hostage when the police showed up.” More lies, still in a good cause.

  He shook his head slowly. “Jim, I’ve been asked to keep you safe, not put you in the firing line.”

  “Look, Owen, I’ve been stuck behind a desk for I don’t know how many months, planning missions for other people to carry out. I come here and I’m not even doing that much. The inactivity is killing me. Much more of it and I’ll go bananas myself.”

  “You’ve been training with the ORs, haven’t you? And Ed Halloran tells me you’ve been a tremendous help with the combat classes.”

  “It’s not the same as being on an assignment. I’m experienced, I’m fit, and I have skills I’m not using. You have an officer in deep trouble. If there’s a shadow of a chance of saving him, I’d like to take it.”

  A few moments of silence passed. I was looking at him, and he was looking at me, drumming his fingers on the desk. I knew what he was thinking. We were the same rank. He might be the CO of this outfit but he couldn’t stop me. Only I didn’t want to play that card. He’d been helpful and accommodating. I didn’t want to abuse his good will.

  He said, “It’s probably too late by now.”

  My heart missed a beat. “What do you mean?”

  He sucked in a breath. “What Scot has been up to is a major embarrassment, to us in The Regiment, to the UK, to the West. The current President of Nigeria is not particularly sympathetic to our presence there. This could be the last straw. If he starts demanding that all foreign troops leave his country – and right now that seems increasingly likely – it would be disastrous.”

  “Why? Oil? I thought the developed world had moved to a hydrogen economy.”

  “That’s largely true, but there’s still plenty of value in oil as a raw material for the chemical industry. And Nigeria has useful mineral deposits, including niobium, tantalum, and uranium. Western companies have been quick to move in, and the previous administration welcomed them. But the jihadis in the north are still active, and companies won’t stay there, or invest further, unless there’s adequate protection. That means a military presence: UN boots on the ground, mainly US and UK boots. If we have to withdraw now there isn’t a company that wouldn’t pull out. After which, of course, China would set up shop.”

  “The companies could put in private contractors.”

  “Mercenaries? Too expensive, especially when the profit margins are slim, and in many cases they are.”

  “What’s the SAS doing out there anyway?”

  “Officially we’re wearing blue helmets, escorting company employees and patrolling the perimeters. Unofficially we’re carrying out covert operations, taking the fight to the jihadis. It’s all part of a necessary security operation.”

  “I see. So if someone like Scot runs amok—”

  “The whole house of cards collapses. That’s why he’s got to be stopped.” He met my eyes. “Jim, I hate to lose a man, especially a man as highly skilled as Scot. I’ve tried to protect him, but we’re talking about international diplomacy here. These decisions are made at a higher level.” His lips tightened. “The Americans are planning to send in a drone to take him out.”

  I blinked in disbelief. “My God.”

  He lifted open hands. “I know. And there isn’t a bloody thing I can do about it.”

  My mind was racing. Scottie and I were a team. Twice he saved my life, once in Waziristan and again in that Yemen fuck-up. Do I have to sit behind a desk while the Americans get ready to blow him to bits?

  “Owen, that only strengthens my case. I have to get him out while there’s still time.”

  “You’re determined to do this, aren’t you?“

  “Yes, I am.”

  He sighed. “All right. I’ll set it up. The troop out there is under the Command of Captain Stephen Pascale. The rest will be up to you.”

  “Thanks, Owen.” I got to my feet. He engaged me with his eyes.

  “Jim?”

  “Yes?”

  “For Christ’s sake, try not to get yourself killed.”

  15

  I flew civilian from London Heathrow to Lagos and on to Kano. I snatched several hours’ sleep on the first leg, but the second flight was cramped and crowded, and when I disembarked the following morning I felt hot and sticky, and in need of a shower and a change of clothes.

  Captain Pascale had told Gracey that he’d send a driver to pick me up and I was relieved to see him waiting for me. I found myself automatically looking for his name tab, then remembered that most British Army uniforms didn’t carry them. He introduced himself as Corporal Masters.

  “This way, Colonel.”

  “Thanks.”

  A wall of heat met me as I emerged from the airport building but the air wasn’t humid, just hot enough to make my skin prickle. On the way to the car park I asked Masters if he knew Major Scot Hayward. He looked at me.

  “The man who…?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head. “No, we never met. He was with the other troop.”

  I didn’t push it.

  The car park came into view, shimmering in the heat, and now I could see the vehicle he was heading for. It was an Army Endeavour, complete with four-wheel-drive, massive tyres, and an exhaust pipe that exited above the cabin. I wondered why we needed it in a town like Kano.

  I stopped wondering as soon as we went off-road. This was much older equipment than we’d use in the SAF, but it certainly did the job. Twice we plunged across shallow rivers and up slippery banks, spattering the side and rear windows with mud, and the vehicle just took it and asked for more. But after that there wasn’t any more rough ground, just mile after mile of featureless grassland. Corporal Masters referred to the NavAid at frequent intervals, and I let him concentrate on the route while I watched the scenery go by. I guessed this was the type of terrain Scottie was operating in, and I was thinking about how he’d go in and out of cover.

  Eventually we pulled into the temporary base, which consisted of a couple of large tents and a cluster of smaller ones. Masters drove the Endeavour under a canopy, where it joined some other vehicles. He switched off the engine and turned to me.

  “Captain Pascale is expecting you, sir. Would you like to see him now?”

  “I think it’s a good idea.” I was fatigued after the flight and the rough journey but it was protocol to introduce myself, and I wanted to know what kind of help I could expect. As we walked back I noticed another canopy, and under it a familiar sight: a Rotofan, this one camo’d for jungle operations.

  We found Captain Stephen Pascale in one of the large tents. He came forward right away to shake hands, then nodded to Corporal Masters.

  “All right, Masters, that’ll be all.”

  “Sir.”

  As he left the tent I turned and said, “Thanks for the ride, Corporal.”

  Pascale looked fresh as a daisy, which was quite an achievement in this heat, and probably a good distance from the way I looked right now. He was straight-backed and blue eyed, with blond hair that was just about short enough to comply with regulations. The sun had lent his pale skin a pink tinge rather than a tan. He gestured to a couple of chairs, and as we sat down he said, “Not a very comfortable ride here from Kano, I’m afraid.”

  “Good for the kidneys, they say. Thanks for making room for me on the base. Did Colonel Gracey brief you at all?”

  “Yes indeed. Look, Colonel—”

  “It’s Jim.”

  He smiled briefly. “Jim, let me say straight
away, I’m more than happy to help. I imagine I’m as anxious as you are to get Scot Hayward back.”

  “Because…?”

  “Well, for his sake, obviously, but there’s more to it than that. Thing is, we’re conducting operations in the same area, and the last thing I want is for one of my patrols to stumble into him by accident.”

  “Right. So you do have some idea where he is.”

  “Yes, let me show you.” He got up, then glanced sideways at me, no doubt taking in the red-rimmed eyes and creased uniform. “We could do this tomorrow if you prefer.”

  “No, I’d like to do it now.”

  He had a lap top open on his desk and I joined him behind it.

  “I’ve been downloading images taken by a military satellite,” he explained, as I watched the screen over his shoulder. “High-resolution optical and infra-red. The sweeps aren’t frequent enough to catch him on the move, of course, but you can often see the villages he’s been through. There’ll be smoke, or collapsed huts, even bodies in the open.”

  I swallowed. “That bad?”

  “Yes, that bad. The previous troop sent a reconnaissance drone up there to locate him. Scot Hayward shot it down. They still didn’t give up. One of the officers took a patrol to the spot to try to get him back.”

  “That would have been Major Nigel Greenaway.”

  ‘That’s right. He’d served with Scot Hayward for quite some time but it was hopeless even for him. In fact his patrol got such a hostile reception he advised me to stay clear.”

  “Any idea of the route Hayward’s taking?”

  “He seems to hit a couple of sites in succession, then goes off in an entirely different direction.”

  “He’s trying not to establish a pattern.”

  “Yes, but there’s a lot of open grassland and scrub and he has to hide the all-terrain whenever he stops. So my feeling is, he dodges in and out of the jungle up here.” He ran a finger over the screen without touching it.

  “Good analysis, Stephen. Only one problem.”