One of the guards gave me a look, reached for his revolver.
Dancer shot him, barking orders in Swahili at the others. The guards fell to the floor, begging for mercy. The dead man collapsed at the bottom of the concrete steps, blood pumping from the fist-sized exit wound in his back. The high-velocity bullet had sailed through his trunk and hit another guard in the shoulder.
“Cal, shall I do for the lot of them?” said Dancer, eyes gleaming.
I looked him up-and-down, “If you were going to do that, you wouldn’t have asked my permission. Lock them up.”
You could tell a lot about a man in the heat of battle. With his blood up, Tom Dancer liked the taste of it. It wasn’t a trait I admired.
The first floor was a smaller secure wing. Four-man cells lined a dark corridor. It smelt of the familiar prison cocktail of urine, sweat and vomit. One of the guards must have understood English, volunteering a collection of steel dungeon keys that looked like they belonged to a fairy-tale giant. We made it to the top floor, up a spiral staircase. A grey-green painted steel door with a sliding wicket dominated the wall, a sign in English reading SOLITARY CONFINEMENT WING. The recessed lock had a blob of flaking orange paint above it, which matched the paint on one of the keys. Even I could work that one out.
“Murray, we’re friendlies!” I called as I slid the key in.
“About fucking time,” came a voice from the other side of the door.
I put my shoulder to the door, Dancer adding his weight.
It swung open.
“Come in,” said Lieutenant Colonel Mel Murray. “But I hope you realise we’ve got a traitor in the camp.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Murray looked like a leader of men, even dressed in a grimy boiler suit and sandals. He had a thicket of wavy grey hair, a hawkish nose and deep-set eyes. He slapped Dancer’s shoulder. “Jesus, Tom, it’s good to see you...”
I looked him up and down. Murray had taken a beating, eyes swollen and hair matted with blood.
“This is Cal Winter,” said Dancer. “We hired The Firm to get you out of here.”
“So you’re from The Firm?” Murray replied. “They do the Devil’s work, so I’m told.”
“If that’s true, what does it make you?” I said. “Let’s go.”
Murray shook his head. “Hold on.”
“This is Charlie Seven Zero, we’ve got the package. Alex, call in Easter,” I said into my mic, ignoring Murray. I looked at my watch, hoping to hear rotor blades at any moment. “SITREP” I growled into my PRR.
“Easter’s team ETA three minutes,” said Bytchakov. “But it’s lookin’ sweet out here. All the action is back towards Quaani.”
Oz’s voice came over the net, “Charlie Seven Zero, you OK in there?”
“Roger, we’ve got the package,” I replied. “He’s in good health.”
This is actually going to work…
“Listen,” Murray snapped. “When I was captured there were two MSS agents with the security police. The Chinese…”
Chinese spies? This was running too much to Marcus’s script for my liking.
“Mel, there’s no time,” Dancer replied.
“… The Chinese knew I was going to be there, dammit. I was betrayed.”
“Tell me about it in the heli,” Dancer sighed, leading the way back down the stairs.
“Hold on, Tom,” I said. “Colonel Murray, what did the Chinese say?”
“I said let’s go,” Dancer pleaded.
“No, this is important,” I growled. “If we’re compromised…”
“I’m glad you understand,” said Murray. “They knew too much about CORACLE, I tell you. I know when I’ve been played...”
“This is Duclair,” said a voice over the PRR. “We’re going to be with you imminently. The rebels have sent a flash signal – they’re getting counter-attacked. You need to move.”
“Cal, we need to shift our arses,” Dancer shouted.
We navigated back through the warren of dimly lit concrete corridors, here and there an empty cell. I saw a suspended landing, cages crammed full of men wearing dirty red boiler suits and chained at the ankles.
Murray said something in Swahili and tossed the keys to one of the prisoners. The guy that caught them nodded and set about undoing the shackles, “red boiler suits are for political prisoners,” he explained. “These men are from opposition parties. We should let them go, it will cause havoc.”
I keyed my PRR, “All call-signs from Charlie Seven Zero, we’re coming out on the opposite side of the courtyard, hold your fire. There are also prisoners in red boiler suits. They’re not hostiles.”
“Roger that,” said Bannerman. “I can hear the heli, let’s go.”
We exited the prison and fanned out, weapons ready.
“Sarn’t Bannerman, nice to see you again,” boomed Murray, spotting the Scotsman prowling across the body-strewn courtyard. The Colonel stuck his chest out, switching on the bluff bonhomie obligatory for British officers in the field. “I haven’t seen you since, when? You were with the Pathfinders in Basra?”
“It was Baghdad, but hello anyway Colonel,” the ex-Para replied, touching the edge of his helmet in salute, pointing towards the smouldering breach. “The helis are that way.”
“What’s happened to your bloody hair?” said Murray, pointing at the singed dreadlocks.
“It was the back-blast from ma AT4, bastard Yank rocket.”
“That’s why you’re not allowed exotic hairstyles in the army.”
“In case you didnae notice, Colonel, I’m nae in the fucking army,” Bannerman grinned. “I’m on The Firm. Fuck off over there and we’ll take you to the LZ.”
Murray nodded, stooping to pick up an AK from one of the dead guards. Dancer and I strode across the courtyard behind him, the throb of helicopter engines in the distance.
“What can you see, Alex?” I said into my mic.
“It’s still looking OK,” he reported. “But there’s war brewin’ back towards the airfield, I see tracer and explosions.”
“Keep an eye on the main road,” I said. “Engage targets moving towards us.”
“Copy that, Captain,” he croaked.
The dun-coloured Dornier swooped in low, thumping onto open ground west of the prison. The Puma would hang back until the first extraction was complete.
“Get ready to cover Easter’s team,” I shouted.
Oz nodded, leading the Grey twins across the yard. My plan was to wait for the SIS team to do their thing while Oz’s team covered the road leading to Quaani, supported by Alex in his miniature fire support base. The four SIS officers trooped towards us, Duclair in the lead. They stepped through the shattered wall, Hugo and Alan shouldering empty kit bags.
“What an awful mess,” said Hugo, tut-tutting as he surveyed the carnage. “You really are a bunch of hooligans.”
“We aim to please,” I replied.
“You OK, Cal?” said Easter from beneath a helmet. She wore body armour, an M4 carbine cradled in her arms.
“Yes, it’s gone as well as we could have hoped.”
She took in the bodies and flaming vehicles, nodding grimly.
I wanted to be in a position to keep an eye on the SIS team, but the exfil came first. There was no point finding more clues if the end result was getting stranded. And if one of these agents was a traitor, why had all of them set foot in the danger zone? It didn’t make sense.
“You’re good to go,” I said to Duclair, who was looking at a schematic of the prison on a hand-held device of some sort.
“Thanks,” she replied coolly. “Mel, it’s good to see you.”
“We need to speak,” said Murray. “Juliet?”
“It’s over,” she replied, her face a mask. “CORACLE is terminated.”
Duclair nodded at the two technical officers. Hugo and Brodie walked towards the prison, ducking into a bullet-riddled doorway. “The staircase is next to this corridor,” he said to his colleague.
“OK,” Brodie replied, voice shaky. He fished a rubberized torch from his belt kit.
“What are they doing here?” said Murray archly.
“We’ve got equipment to extract,” Easter replied, looking at her watch. “We’ll be twenty minutes at most.” She hefted her rifle and looked towards Quaani, a smoky orange pall settling on the horizon.
“Equipment?” snapped Murray.
“Calm down Mel,” urged Dancer. “It’s an SIS matter now.”
Murray stepped forward to remonstrate. “Juliet, you’ve got a problem. The bloody Chinese knew I was going to be at that meeting.” His eyes bulged, hands tightening on the grips of his Kalashnikov. He looked like he was going to flip out. I had plasti-cuffs on my belt kit, just in case.
“None of your meetings were authorised, Mel,” Easter snapped. “No wonder you were compromised, so spare me a lecture. You probably led the Chinese straight to us, monitoring our comms all along. We’ll have a post-mortem back in the UK.”
“What if Mel’s right?” said Duclair. “Juliet, I think we’ve got an OPSEC problem too.” I watched Duclair’s finger slide off the trigger guard of her M4.
Bannerman watched, bemused. “Ladies, if you don’t mind, we’re in the middle of a fucking war zone. Any chance you can have your fucking argument on the fucking heli out of here?”
“Amelia, I’m inclined to agree with Mister Bannerman,” said Easter. “This needs a formal de-brief when we get back. Right now, we’ve an operation to finish.”
Duclair went to speak, eyes flashing. “Jools…”
“Contrary to your expectations, this isn’t a democracy,” said Easter icily. “Please, join the others inside and get this thing finished.”
Duclair almost snarled with anger and headed downstairs.
“OK, are we sorted?” I said, watching Duclair disappear inside.
“Yes, Cal, we’re sorted,” Easter replied. “I’m sorry about that.”
“We’re leaving as soon as your team extracts,” I replied. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
“Come on Mel,” said Easter, expression softening.
Murray stood, head lowered. Bannerman passed him his water bottle.
Murray thanked him and took a gulp, “Glenlivet?”
“Aye, Colonel. Good to see an African prison hasn’t jaded your taste buds.”
I passed Murray an energy bar, which he took gratefully, peeling off the foil with trembling fingers. “I’ll check the perimeter,” I said.
Pushing past a knot of fleeing prisoners, I headed to the breached wall and jogged to the BMP, bodies scattered about it. I wanted to know what the hell was going on with the CORACLE team. From the cold glint in Amelia Duclair’s baby blues, I honestly thought she’d shoot Easter. She wasn’t to know that the only person authorised to murder MI6 officers on this trip was me. Rummaging in my assault pack I pulled out Marcus’ transmitter and plugged the jack into my radio. A list of call-signs scrolled down the display, like I was searching for a Wi-Fi signal on my cell.
I flipped on the SIS team’s private talk-group and waited.
“It’s clear,” said Duclair. “Get on with it, before Mel fucks this thing up.”
“I heard someone upstairs,” replied Alan. “Is Easter clear? I don’t trust the bitch.”
“It’s OK, it’s only Tom…”
“Jesus,” said Hugo, laughing with delight. “I’m in. This is unbelievable, there’s bugger all security to speak of. It’s like a day one training exercise.”
“What is it?” said Duclair expectantly.
“We’ve got the whole bloody lot” Hugo replied, “just like I predicted.”
I heard something to my right, beyond the BMP and main road. It sounded like the grinding of metal on metal. I switched back to our tactical net. “Alex, talk to me – what’s coming up the road?”
“I can’t see,” he replied. “Whatever it is, it’s beyond those trees where the road dog-legs.”
The noise grew louder, the deep bass roar of powerful engines and the creaking and clanking of machinery. I felt fear, the oh-fuck sort of fear that makes you want to empty your bowels. I knew what the noise was, wanted to believe I could be wrong.
I wasn’t.
An armoured beast groaned and clanked towards me, felling trees like a demonic lawnmower with steel-shod tracks. It was a tracked ZSU anti-aircraft vehicle, oversized turret bristling with cannon. Armed men, some of them wounded, clung to the sides. The Zambutan army was retreating from Quaani airbase, back towards us.
My sleuthing would have to wait.
The ZSU was painted in a dirty grey and tan camouflage pattern, four cannons mounted in a lozenge-shaped turret. It stopped, the turret jerkily panning left and right, exhaust fumes roiling through the trees. I held my breath, praying the guns wouldn’t come to rest on my position. I scanned the terrain: to my front the road snaked past the trees, where the ZSU lurked. Then there was the parking lot, where I crouched by the armoured BMP. Further back behind me were the prison and the extraction point.
That made me the meat in a tank sandwich.
A screen of infantry broke the tree-line in platoon strength, fanning out in front of the ZSU. Several bullet-riddled jeeps limped along the road behind. I could still hear explosions back towards Quaani, the dull crump of mortars and the lazy pop-pop-pop of Dushkas.
I flipped my radio back to the main channel. “Contact - we’ve got enemy armour and infantry to the north. I need antitank.”
Alex Bytchakov’s croak filled my ears, “Copy, engaging with AT4. Get your head down Cal.” He made it sound as stressful as ordering a burger. A monochrome flash lit up the hill as the HEAT round, an incandescent fireball, streaked across the open ground and slammed into the ZSU. There was an explosion and a plume of smoke, infantry scattering from the blast.
Taking cover, I lined up the first of the advancing troops in my sights and opened fire. Behind me, near the shattered prison wall, Oz and the Grey twins hid in a shallow ditch. They set up one of the MG4s and began pouring fire into the trees. A return volley of gunfire splashed against the BMPs armour. The damaged ZSU’s turret changed direction, quad-cannon inching towards the hill where Bytchakov was hiding.
The wave of infantry surged forward, firing wildly. Red tracer from one of our MG4’s stitched across their ranks. The first wave of Zambutans faltered then broke. Bytchakov’s rocket had struck the ZSU in the running gear and lower hull, flames licking around the underside of the vehicle. Aiming at the turret, I saw a head emerge. I opened fire, rounds striking the armoured steel. The head disappeared in a dark splash. The rest of the crew leapt from the vehicle and fled.
“The ZSU is disabled,” I said, keying my radio. “Begin exfil.”
“Roger,” crackled Dancer’s voice in my ear. “And thank The God’s of Fuck for that!”
The Zambutan jeeps reversed into the trees, sweeping the road with machinegun and rifle fire as they went. An RPG streaked towards me, flashing by and striking the prison wall.
Behind me I heard rotor blades.
A Land Rover zoomed up the road, the front passenger spraying Oz’s position with machinegun fire. The vehicle suddenly rocked on its axles, as if punched by a giant fist. Aught-fifty rounds from Alex’s heavy rifle shredded it, the gunner leaping down from his weapon. Fire from Oz’s team tore up the road, killing him instantly. More bullets raked the cab, front passengers flailing like bloody dolls. The open ground surrounding the prison now worked against the Zambutans, a killing field with no escape.
“Oz, Alex and I will cover,” I said into my mic. “The rest of you fall back to the heli.”
“Roger that,” said Dancer.
I saw the rest of my team, dark shapes moving across the desert floor, lope away towards the prison. Thumbing the fire selector on the G36 I emptied the magazine into the treeline to my front. The Zambutan assault had been half-hearted, too easily broken. I guessed they’d fallen back to re-org for a second assault.<
br />
Alex continued to fire at targets of opportunity. Now he was using his M-14, the sharp crack of 7.62 rounds echoing across the desert. So far, the decision to put him in the OP had been solid, saving our arses from a variety of threats. Scrambling to my feet, I headed back to the prison.
The SIS team were formed up in a text-book stack by the wall, ready to go. Hugo and Alan both dragged bulging kit bags, secured with heavy padlocks. “We’ve secured the treasure from this fell citadel,” grinned Hugo, in a mock-Shakespearian voice. He was as excited as fuck. I could literally smell adrenaline.
“I’m glad you’re having fun,” I shouted. “Juliet, are you good?” Chilled sweat ran down my back, the stink of cordite and brick-dust in my nose. I tried to make out what was in the bags but the shapes were too indistinct.
“Roger that,” said Amelia Duclair calmly from the front of the stack. She could have been on Salisbury Plain, not in a war zone. “We’ve retrieved the kit, we’re good for exfil.”
Easter nodded, leading Murray and the others away, Dancer following closely behind. Bannerman brought up the rear, Oz and the twins covering them. Their weapons covered every arc, their pace slow but steady to avoid stumbling on the uneven ground. I saw the dark shape of the Dornier ready for take-off, rotor blades churning up a tempest of gritty sand. The team approached the heli, pulling down goggles to cover their eyes from the swirling dust and grit. In the inky-black distance I heard the steady beat of rotor blades. “OK,” I hollered, “here’s the Puma.”
We darted forward to join the others.
The metallic cough of cannon-fire rang out over the engine noise, the flash of weapons flooding my peripheral vision with searing light.
“That’s nae fucking Puma,” Bannerman yelled, “take cover!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A volley of cannon shells tore a strafing line through the Dornier’s cockpit, chewing it up like plastic. We hit the deck as another volley smashed through the heli, smoke billowing from the airframe. The South African pilots lolled lifelessly in their seats, like crash-test dummies. The Dornier’s engine exploded with a dull thump, followed by ammo from the door-guns cooking off.
The Devil's Work Page 13