The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  Idris, who’d spent hours doing pre-flight checks, like a midwife expecting quadruplets, fired up the heli. Engines pulsing, the tiger-striped Puma lifted into the air, the Grey twins squatting behind the door-mounted MGs. Sitting in the seat nearest the side doors, I felt the airframe tug as the heli took up the slack of the RIB slung underneath.

  Idris spoke into his mic, “ETA to LZ One is an hour and five minutes.”

  I peered over the side of the deck. Easter stood in the swirling dust, shielding her face from the stones and grit thrown up by the rotor blades. She waved at us, a grin on her sun-tanned face. Duclair, hands-on-hips, stood next to her.

  “There’s no shortage of fit birds in MI6, is there?” chuckled Ruben. Not even the threat of imminent death can stop British squaddies thinking about sex.

  “Shame none of them go for street-urchins or Neanderthals,” Dancer replied.

  “You ain’t an officer anymore, and I ain’t a marine, Mister Dancer,” Ruben grinned. “So you can fuck right off.”

  Dancer grinned and flipped him the bird.

  The men bantered some more as we gained altitude, before settling for gazing out into the hazy blue night. I left them to their thoughts.

  Our route would follow the border, flying low to avoid radar, then jink north and hug the coast. Through my headphones I could hear chatter between Idris and the Saffas back at base, until they too were quiet. Next to me was the satellite radio, tuned into Bytchakov’s frequency. I keyed the mic, “Charlie Seven Alpha?”

  “Yup,” said the American easily, with an engaging lack of interest in correct radio procedure.

  “This is Charlie Seven Oscar actual. We’re an hour from Lima Zulu One, over.”

  “Copy that. It’s quiet here,” he whispered, barely audible as I squashed the receiver to my ear, “primary target is quiet - no aircraft movement from the secondary.”

  The heli’s interior lights went out as we tracked towards the coast. The guys lit their red tactical torches to check and re-check their kit. I joined in the obsessive-compulsive routine that allayed fear. My shakes had gone, adrenaline trumping the craving for booze. First I unloaded the 5.56mm rounds from the magazines of my G36 rifle and cleaned each with a cloth. I slid them back into the magazine and tapped it on my heel, to settle the rounds. Then I slid it back into the weapon. I did the same with my pistol before re-checking the protective cap on my rifle optics. My fingers tapped the boot-knife. The razor-sharp blade fitted snugly into a hidden panel in the top of my Lowas, handle flush to the leather. The grenades on my body armour were all secure, spare magazines positioned in pouches angled just-so for fast re-loading.

  Sitting on the other side of the heli, Bannerman, Ruben and Oz were asleep, surrounded by neatly-stacked weapons and kit, including the explosive wall-breaching equipment. Raphael Grey, silent as usual, was checking his first aid bag and collection of flares, ropes, night-vision and communications kit. He looked at me approvingly as I fussed over my stuff.

  Marcus’ present, retrieved from the package the Russian loadmaster gave me, was tucked at the bottom of my assault pack. It was a multi-channel receiver that allowed me to secretly patch into the CORACLE team’s secure comms. Although Brodie had rigged a main working channel for the operation, the SIS team were using a separate, dedicated secure net. Now I could listen in to not only their team channel, but personal radio-to-radio traffic.

  I checked my watch: it was 20:05. The rebels where scheduled to attack Quaani air base in thirty minutes. The landscape, grainy and flat through my NVGs, looked like an alien planet as the heli banked starboard and headed out to sea. Losing altitude, it felt low enough to reach out and touch the waves.

  “Wake up ladies,” hollered Steve Bacon cheerfully. “We’re at the LZ.”

  The Puma slowed to a hover as the Grey twins moved to the winch. Raphael hooked on with a scuffed green karabiner and stepped out of the heli, clothes squashed to his body in the rotor’s down-wash. His job was to release the RIB and steady it as we fast-roped down. Ruben stood and operated the winch with Steve. The wind was light, the sea calm as Idris held the Puma steady. I dropped into the night, following Oz down into the RIB.

  Raphael caught the shoulder strap of my webbing as I landed. “Over there,” he grunted from behind the controls, pointing to my position at the front of the RIB. It was the most I’d heard him say since we’d arrived.

  Dancer roped down last, surprisingly agile given his bulk. He settled next to me and gave a thumbs-up signal. Bannerman was to my front, stubby VSS rifle cradled in his arms, bulbous night optics mounted on top of the weapon.

  Oz chopped his hand towards the mainland, the faint glow of the GPS illuminating his face. Raphael said something into his throat mic and the Puma began to turn, the harness and cargo net disappearing above us. We waited, bobbing gently in the choppy black water, for the heli to disappear. Now we were on the start line, and there was no going back. Even with noise-reduction alterations, the sound of powerful diesel engines sounded deafening in the night-time quiet. Raphael let them run before throttling down to a gentle chug.

  “Twenty minutes to the beach,” Ruben announced.

  The RIB edged forwards, the coast a dark jagged strip ahead. Minutes ticked by, and I saw lights atop the vertical cliff edge marking the perimeter of the prison. From the sea, the most prominent feature was the angular block house and pale yellow walls. The beach, a thin grey crescent, lay to my right. It was less than a kilometre away now, partly screened by acacia trees.

  I studied my watch.

  The attack on Quaani was five minutes late.

  “What was that?” whispered Dancer. In the distance I heard a percussive pop-and-roar.

  “Mortars,” Bannerman replied matter-of-factly. “I hope it’s friendly.”

  I held my breath for a moment, felt a wave of relief at the chorus of explosions and the unmistakable chug of HMG fire. A warbling siren chopped through the night-time silence like an axe. This was the part of the plan that had been laden with risk, relying on the rebels to be on time. It was looking like they’d delivered: testimony to their loyalty to Colonel Mel Murray.

  “Two ‘undred metres to the beach,” said Raphael Grey, crouching at his pilot’s position.

  “See, it speaks!” said Ruben.

  “Shut the fuck up, you mug. I’m working.”

  “I agree,” I hissed, scanning the beach with my NVGs. I saw a grey-green blob in the trees. “Look left: the tree nearest rocks, possible tango.”

  “Seen,” Bannerman replied. He cricked his neck and settled into the optics on the VSS. “It’s a sentry. I think he’s having a piss.”

  “Take him,” I replied.

  “Roger.” Bannerman lay on side of the hull, pulling the rifle tightly into his shoulder to off-set the movement of the RIB. The suppressed VSS coughed once, a waft of cordite tickling my nose.

  Through my NVGs I saw the figure crumple and fall.

  “Targets will fall when hit,” the Scotsman whispered.

  Raphael increased the power. Within a minute the RIB nudged onto the beach. We hopped out, water lapping at our knee-pads, weapons covering arcs through three-hundred and sixty degrees. Raphael set a timed charge in the RIB, set to explode in an hour.

  I scanned ahead of us, into the trees. The steeply-wooded slope led directly to the parking lot next to the prison. I saw nothing, but heard vehicles manoeuvring on the cliff top above. We threaded our way through the trees, Oz leading us towards the target. We passed the body of the sentry, clad in clean camouflage fatigues. I noticed the orange-and-black flash of the Presidential Commando on his sleeve. Bannerman’s bullet had hit him in the sternum, a dark patch of blood spreading across his uniform.

  As we crept forward, floodlit prison walls loomed above us through the trees. Originally built by Italian fascists, Kivuli Hatua was every inch the ham-fisted thirties tribute to imagined Roman glory. Through night vision it was a grey-green monstrosity of barbed-wire draped walls
and rectangular turrets, rising from a scab of rock like Mussolini’s chin.

  “It reminds me of Govan,” Bannerman whispered, “barbed wire, guns, gloom and the prospect of imminent violence... makes a man homesick.”

  “Nah,” said Ruben Grey, “it’s gotta be the flats off Ripple Road, the ones you can see from the A13…”

  A solitary light burnt in the guard tower nearest us, flaring in my NVGs. Behind was open ground leading to the cliff edge. To our front a metalled road ran past the gatehouse, due north towards Quaani. Lying at the edge of the treeline, I made out the shape of an armoured vehicle, the BMP we’d seen on the satellite images. The stubby AFV made strange shadows through my NVGs.

  We cleared the trees at the top of the slope. I ordered the team to halt, the men dropping into all-round defence. “Alex, can you see us?” I whispered into my mic.

  “Copy that,” he replied. “You’ve got three tangoes approaching the BMP.”

  A trio of Zambutan soldiers morphed out of the gloom and clambered aboard the armoured vehicle. The driver tried to start the engine, which sputtered and died. The BMP was directly in front of our route to the prison wall, turret-mounted gun pointing towards Alex’s position. The 30mm cannon could fire up to 800 shells a minute and had to be neutralised.

  Now we were on higher ground, I saw the flash of explosions, due north of our position. Blobs of tracer rose and fell in shallow parabolas, fire-tinged balls of smoke drifting on the wind. I heard a voice in my ear. “They ain’t got any idea you guys are there,” Alex reported.

  I tried to focus on the Alex’s OP, on the hill over three hundred meters west of us. I couldn’t see it. “Can you take the BMP crew?”

  “Yup.”

  Dancer crawled forward, face streaked with camouflage paint. “Look,” he whispered, the urgent chop of his hand pointing towards the prison, “the blockhouse?”

  “Seen,” I replied.

  He shifted his hand right, my eyes following it, “top floor to the right of the blockhouse, rectangular window - that’s where we reckon Mel is.”

  The blockhouse was a three-storey stone box, jutting bulwark-like from the prison walls. A staggered series of towers could be seen beyond.

  “The first MG tower is on the far side of the blockhouse,” Oz reported. “It can only cause a problem if we end up inside the prison yard.” The machinegun towers were set at different levels, each with its own arc of fire. It was a 1930’s design flaw, the prison built before the advent of helicopters. No single tower enjoyed a three-hundred and sixty degree view.

  Bannerman took my night vision binoculars and scanned the prison, “I’m going tae blow the wall next tae the blockhouse, the floor-plan shows a door in the facing wall behind there.”

  Dancer shifted on his belly, reaching for the binoculars. “I’m sure you’ve done the maths, old chap, but those walls are eight inches thick.”

  Bannerman pulled a circular camouflaged bag from his pack and pushed it in front of him. “Meet the Ensign Bickford rapid wall breaching kit, Mister Dancer: it’ll blow clean through ten inches of reinforced concrete. And if it doesn’t then I’ll give the wall some lovin’ with an AT4. My only concern is not blowing the fucking blockhouse over the cliff and intae the drink.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Dancer smiled, “apart from the bit where we blow Mel into the sea, of course.”

  My radio, tucked into the top of my assault pack, bleeped. I keyed the handset.

  “Charlie Seven Zero?” said Juliet calmly, “we’ll be on the start line in five minutes.” The Dornier had landed at an LZ fifteen kilometres southwest of Bytchakov’s OP.

  “Roger that and good luck,” I said.

  “You’ve got movement by the gate,” said Alex over our tactical net.

  “Let them go, Alex,” I said.

  “Copy that. The gates are opening, three jeeps manoeuvring outta the gates, about six guys in each...”

  We watched from the trees as the three Land Rovers roared past us. Heavily-armed Zambutan soldiers jeered at their colleagues with the stricken BMP and zoomed north.

  I waited until the vehicles were clear of the prison. “Alex, take out the BMP crew, then the sentry in the tower nearest the blockhouse.”

  The only acknowledgement over the net was the crackle of static. Then the muzzle flash from the .50 rifle lit up the night. I heard the supersonic crack of the round breaking the sound barrier. The first crewman was torn in half by the high calibre bullet, torso thrown in one direction and legs in another. The second soldier, perched on the turret, evaporated from the shoulders up. The third Zambutan darted towards us. Bannerman’s VSS coughed twice, both rounds hitting the soldier in the chest.

  “Go!” I barked.

  We formed pre-agreed fire teams, Oz and the Grey twins sprinting for the BMP while the rest of us covered them from the trees. I heard the men’s boots padding across the dusty ground and the creak of equipment as they advanced. Alex’s .50 barked again. The top of the guard tower rocked, a second shot blowing the sentry out of his perch. His carcass toppled fifteen metres to the flag-stoned deck below. The aught-fifty rounds were designed for fucking up lightly-armoured vehicles. A guard tower posed few problems for its velocity and killing power.

  Bannerman’s team went firm and it was our turn to dart forward. We fell to our bellies, weapons covering arcs. “Go,” I spat into my mic.

  The Scotsman nodded and scurried up to the blockhouse. I could still hear the boom of the .50 mixed with the crack of Kalashnikovs. Bannerman motioned for us to back off as he busied himself with the wall-breaching kit. I squinted through the sights of my own rifle, ready to engage anything that moved.

  “Contact!” barked Dancer. He coolly fired up at the wall, like he was at a Northumbrian game shot. The ragged burp of an MG4 followed. I looked up at a shadowy shape darting along the battlements and snapped off two shots.

  “GRENADE,” Oz bellowed, stepping forward and scooping something up. He tossed it back over the wall and fell to his belly.

  I ducked back down as the grenade exploded. The Grey twins opened fire, dragon’s breath spewing from their automatic weapons, raking the tops of walls and guard towers. The one-in-six tracer made distinctive glowing blobs, like fiery snowballs arcing into the night. Bannerman aimed the MG4 up at the lip of the guard tower, raking its entire length. The muzzle flash lit up his face like some sort of avenging demon, a thin smile on his lips. There was a groan as a dark shape fell and was caught on the dense coils of barbed wire. “Re-loading!” he called, flipping the cover of the feed tray.

  I nodded in acknowledgement and fired a controlled burst. The rhythmic TAK-TAK-TAK of aimed rifle fire filled my ears, the familiar smell of cordite and burnt weapon oil in my nose.

  All the time I could hear the boom of .50 rounds as Bytchakov covered us, his high-pitched voice inside my earpiece, “you got tangos trying to get out of the towers onto the walls, keep up that coverin’ fire ‘cuz they’re pinned down.”

  “Get back!” Bannerman ordered, doubling away from the explosives package.

  We all sprinted towards the parked BMP when, with a thunderous roar, the block house wall evaporated. The vortex of flame, smoke and debris rocked the armoured vehicle on its axles. The wall wasn’t breached as much as demolished, a ragged chasm splitting the blockhouse asunder. A steel door hung off its hinges like a coffin lid.

  A cloud of smoke and dust rolled towards us. “Go,” I said into my PRR. Beyond lay the courtyard, swathed in smoke.

  Dancer and the Grey twins were already there, weapons aimed into the courtyard. Taking cover by the rubble, Bannerman fired a long burst from the waist, tracer bouncing across parked vehicles. Oz took advantage of the covering fire to move forward, taking his turn to hose down the open yard with fire. Uniformed bodies littered the ground. The Grey boys darted across the yard, firing at anything stupid enough to move. A body flopped from a shadowy corner, hitting the floor with a wet crunch.

  “RPG,” Banner
man hollered. He shrugged an AT4 onto his shoulder and pointed it at the furthest guard tower. Shielded by steel plates, a helmeted figure desperately tried to bring a RPG launcher to bear.

  I rolled out of the way as Bannerman fired, the gout of orange-white flame from the back-blast filling the breach in the wall. The guard tower disappeared in a cloud of white fire and smoke.

  “Ma fucking ‘dreds!” shouted the Scotsman. The rocket’s back-blast had singed his long copper dreadlocks, “bastard-fucking-piece-of-shit-Yank-fucking-rocket!” He tossed the empty rocket tube onto the ground and kicked it.

  I slipped past him, to the blockhouse door. I kicked it off shattered hinges, “on me!” I bawled. I made a hand signal to Dancer: clear the room.

  “GRENADE!” he acknowledged, tossing a M67 inside the doorway. A flash illuminated the night, smoke spewing from the corridor.

  I emptied a magazine into the darkness, bellowed “CLEAR!” then called out my re-load. Dancer was already ahead of me, rifle pushed forward, into a dimly lit office with white-washed walls. The Surefire torch attached to his rifle lit up the corridor. Dancer’s face was sweat-slicked, his breathing laboured. Nonetheless, he was keeping up.

  “It’s OK out here,” said Oz over the PRR. “Eight dead tangos.”

  “Roger that: go firm on your position,” I said into my mic. “Wait for us and provide cover, then meet Easter’s team when I call them in.”

  “Roger,” said the ex-SBS man. He and the Grey twins would run an outer security cordon for the extraction.

  Through the corridor was an open prison wing, flanked by flights of metal stairs.

  “Fuck,” said Dancer, “what do you want me to do with this lot?” Rushing down the steps were a dozen terrified Zambutan prison guards, hands aloft. They wore a hodgepodge of sweat-stained khaki uniforms. Most of them looked like they’d just woken up. The others smelt of sweat and cheap whisky.

  “Get them to lock themselves in a cell,” I grunted, pushing past them and heading up the stairs.