The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  The SIS officers scattered, hurling themselves to the pancake-flat killing ground.

  Another heli flashed low overhead. From the glow of the burning Dornier I saw the glint of a sleek fuselage and weapon pods. Ice-cold sweat pooled at the small of my back.

  “Get down, Raph!” howled Ruben Grey.

  A dark shape zoomed overhead only to be replaced by another, spraying the road with cannon-fire. Raphael Grey disappeared in a hail of steel and smoke, body twisting as if spun by a giant hand.

  “Who the hell are they?” said Dancer, flat on his belly.

  I strained to hear him over Bannerman firing his MG4 into the sky, hot brass tumbling onto my arms and back.

  “Z9’s,” said Oz, appearing next to me. He went through the prep drills for his Stinger shoulder-launched rocket, “looks like the Chinese navy by the markings.”

  A third heli howled overhead, then a fourth.

  “What the fuck is the Chinese navy doing here?” I shouted. The blazing helicopter lit up the open ground beyond the prison, exposing us like rabbits cowering from a circling hawk.

  “Shit,” said Oz, looking at the rocket tube in disgust, “it’s fucked.”

  There were at least four helis. They circled hungrily, lining up for another strafing run. Orange and white flashes lit up the night as cannon pods fired, shells gouging jagged holes in the road. Now I knew what the Iraqi Fedayeen must have felt when we called in attack helis, like the entire sky was trying to kill you, crowded with psycho Valkyries.

  Murray appeared at my shoulder. “We need that ZSU,” he said, pointing at the anti-aircraft vehicle. “I can operate the guns, assuming the on-board radar is still working.” Murray, an SAS veteran, would have mastered any number of foreign weapon systems.

  Flash bastard.

  I got on the radio and ordered the SIS team to find cover. Easter’s team complied immediately, dragging the bags of stolen EW kit after them. They scanned the inky night sky as they headed towards the prison. I heard helicopter engines change pitch as the Z9s began to turn for another attack run.

  The muzzle of Alex’s .50 flashed over on the hill. A hovering Z9 lurched in the sky, began careering drunkenly. It was too dark to see where it had been hit, but it lost altitude and chuntered back towards the air base.

  “The Yank’s a mega-fucking-shot,” grunted Bannerman, reloading his MG. “I’ll give him that.”

  I led Murray into the trees, towards the crippled ZSU. The smouldering vehicle lay abandoned next to a clutch of burning acacia. Murray dropped into the belly of the armoured beast, bellowing instructions. Oz lowered himself into the turret as the chassis jerked unhappily, power-assisted servos creaking.

  I heard Ruben’s voice behind me, high-pitched and desperate, “over here!”

  Crouching by the roadside with Bannerman, they worked on Raphael Grey. They’d dragged him from the killing ground, into a semblance of cover by some rocks. Emergency medical kit was scattered like confetti, bloody dressings and IV lines snaking across body parts. Raph was groaning, his right leg blown off above the knee by a cannon-shell. Another had hit him in the shoulder, tearing off his arm and leaving a gaping, meaty void in the side of his torso.

  Bannerman had stuffed Raph’s shemagh scarf into the wound to staunch the bleeding. Ruben was speaking quietly to his twin, sliding a morphine shot into his remaining arm. The ex-marine’s body armour gaped open, exposing a mess of blood-soaked uniform, entrails and charred meat.

  “Just shoot me,” groaned Raphael, face ashen and slick with sweat. His eyes rolled wildly. “Do it!”

  Bannerman shook his head. Ruben looked at me grimly and nodded. “Do it, Cal. Please, mate, I can’t...”

  I shouldered my ’36 and shot Raph in the heart, twice. “Move,” I grunted. “We’ll fetch him later.”

  Ruben followed Bannerman towards the trees, weapons painting arcs as they advanced. Taking a last look at the shattered corpse, I ran after them. On the tree line, the guns of the ZSU tracked the Chinese helis. I’d been a soldier and mercenary for over twenty years and never come under attack from aircraft: a Twenty-First century First World warrior fights with air supremacy. It was terrifying, helis disappearing and diving at will in the blackness, the rasp of weapon systems roaring fiery death far beyond reach.

  The ZSU 23/4 guns, when they fired, weren’t as loud as I’d expected, or maybe I was just deafened by the noise of explosions and gunfire. Gouts of white flame licked from the quad-barrels, streams of glowing tracer spitting into the sky. The high-pitched whir of mechanical components continued after the guns finished.

  The Chinese helis weaved and banked when they saw the AA gun open up, engines whining.

  “BLOCKAGE,” Oz hollered from inside the ZSU.

  I heard muffled cursing and swearing as Murray, huddled in the turret, struggled with the guns. For the moment the skies were clear, the Chinese Z9’s spooked by the unexpected flak. The ZSU’s guns roared again. There was more swearing from inside the turret as Murray tried to explain the finer points of antiaircraft gunnery to Oz.

  “Cal,” shouted Bannerman from behind the ZSU, “listen!”

  I heard the thud of rotor blades again, slower and steadier than the little Z9s. The orange and black Super-Puma sped in low from the south, skimming the tops of trees and bushes. It landed two hundred yards from our position. I could see Steve Bacon crouched in the side door, scanning the LZ with the mounted machinegun.

  “They’re fucking mad” said Bannerman, “the magnificent wee fuckers!”

  “GO, GO, GO!” I shouted into my PRR mic.

  The men nodded and began sprinting towards the Puma.

  I heard arguing as Murray refused to leave the turret. “Get out, before I throw a fucking grenade in there, Colonel.” I yelled. “You’re the only reason we’re here.”

  Murray grunted as the ZSU’s guns swivelled jerkily, the radar dish fitted to the back of the turret sniffing out a new target. They let rip again, shell casings spewing onto the ground. I heard the sound of metal-on-metal, then a groaning crash as the cannon shells ripped through a distant target. I could see fire in the distance, flame-tinged clouds spewing into the night.

  “That will buy us time,” said Murray, “OK, let’s go.”

  I wasn’t going anywhere without Oz. “Get to the heli. I’ll be there once I’ve got Oz out.”

  Murray nodded, levered himself out of the turret and disappeared into the night.

  Oz watched him go. “Cal, that Puma won’t cover ten miles if they know the AA gun is abandoned,” he panted, wiping sweat from his forehead, “let’s hold ‘em off, then exfil on foot or have one of those jeeps away.”

  I nodded and keyed my PRR, “This is Charlie Seven Zero: All call-signs bug out. We’re staying with the ZSU to cover you. We will exfil via vehicle and issue coordinates on the sat phone later. That’s an order.”

  “Roger,” Bannerman replied over the net. “We’re almost at the heli now, good luck Cal...”

  “Mortars,” I shouted.

  Bannerman and Ruben fell to the ground, a stick of bombs exploding near the roadside. I saw Murray running towards the heli, limping and holding his thigh. I flinched as the flash-and-smoke of high-explosive strikes crept towards the LZ, the plot swathed in smoke.

  “Go!” I heard Bannerman shout over the PRR, and then he was gone. I couldn’t make out if he’d made it to the heli or not, among the flaming clouds and flickering shadows from burning wreckage.

  Then, engines roaring, the Puma took off, turning one hundred and eighty degrees and thundering back towards the border. Next to me, from inside the ZSU, came a pinging noise. The ageing Soviet radar had acquired a new target. The ZSU’s AA guns opened up again, joining the sound of mortars and small arms.

  I hopped off the open-topped turret and rolled under the tracks. “Easter,” I spat into my mic, “are you getting this?”

  “Roger,” she replied. “We didn’t pick up Bannerman or Grey. We’re doing a sweep now.�
��

  “I think they’ve been hit,” I replied. “If you’ve got Murray, go. We’ll find them.”

  “Keep heading south,” she said. “We’ll find you.” It was the sort of thing you were expected to say, like a medic reassuring a dying man he’d be OK.

  Dark shadows appeared to our front, enemy infantry ghost-like through night vision. There was a crack of a sniper rifle and one of the men fell, then another from our left flank. It was Alex, still plying his trade with deadly accuracy. More mortar bombs fell like rain, a non-stop barrage of fire and steel. I hugged the earth and screamed as my eardrums threatened to pop.

  “Fuck this,” yelled Oz. “I’m bailing out.”

  I tried to raise Bannerman on the radio, heard nothing but static. Engines rumbled to my right, near the tree-lined cliff edge. I glanced over and saw two armoured cars trundling towards us, stubby cannon protruding from their Dalek-like turrets.

  Oz flopped down next to me, “Cal, I think for us the war is over.”

  I looked over my shoulder. The Puma was gone. Hopefully the time we’d bought would be enough for them to make the border. I heard the drone of engines from the Z9s nearby, prayed they wouldn’t catch up.

  “Do I call Fallen Eagle?” I said.

  Oz scowled. “If they could realistically help us, why are we here in the first place?”

  I pulled the sat phone from my assault pack. “Are we fatally compromised or not?”

  The ex-SBS man looked at the approaching troops. “Not yet,” he grunted. “Murray’s been rescued. We haven’t failed.” His eyes bore into mine. “Understand? We haven’t failed.”

  “OK,” I agreed. I wondered if he knew something I didn’t.

  Alex appeared out of the gloom, a rifle in each hand. “I’m Airborne. I’m meant to be surrounded,” he puffed, sweat trickling down his face, “but there’s a company of infantry out there with support weapons. Where the hell did they come from?”

  “You didn’t believe the intelligence reports, did you?” I said. “We’re surrendering. Keep schtum as long as you can.”

  “Schtum?” said Bytchakov.

  “Don’t tell them anything,” said Oz.

  “We all spill our guts in the end,” Alex shrugged. “Ask my second wife.”

  “Was that the one who stabbed you in Baha?” I said, smiling. I dropped my rifle and stood up, hands in the air. I cringed as a bullet whipped past me, a shrill voice shouting something in a language I assumed was Mandarin. Perhaps we’d be executed, cut down where we stood.

  It bothered me more than I thought it would. I hadn’t stood over Monty, a gun pointed at his scrawny throat, watched him piss himself with fear…

  The voice belonged to a Chinese PLA marine. He stalked towards me, assault rifle tipped with a bayonet. He was joined by the rest of his squad, clad in blue-grey camouflage uniforms, faces streaked black.

  Their officer was a tall, arrogant-looking bastard with high cheekbones and narrow black eyes. He wore a faded fatigue cap and hooded camouflage jacket, a cigarette smouldering from the corner of his mouth. He stood just out of striking distance, rifle ready. “I am Colonel Zhang Ki. You are the British mercenaries?” He gave a thin smile, his English flawless.

  “Fuck you,” growled Bytchakov in Russian.

  “I see,” replied Zhang Ki easily, in the same language. “You’ve shot down one of my helicopters and killed at least seven of my men. You’ve entered the sovereign territory of Zambute illegally and destroyed half of their air force. You realise the sentence for mercenary activity here is death?”

  “Forgive my friend,” I said in Russian. “He’s had a bad day.”

  “Trust me, it’s going to get worse,” said the Colonel, a smile on his thin lips. “Drop the façade. I know you are English.”

  “I ain’t English,” spat Bytchakov. He looked at Oz and me. “No offence, guys.”

  “None taken,” I shrugged.

  “No, Mister Bytchakov, you are an American are you not?” Zhang Ki’s expression was almost apologetic, “and you are Mister Winter and Mister Osborne?”

  Duclair was right. We’d been set up. I didn’t know how, and I didn’t understand why the People’s Liberation Army were involved. After all, the Chinese were known for their doctrine of non-military intervention. Their anti-piracy taskforce had a strict mandate, and fighting rebels wasn’t part of it.

  “Colonel,” I asked politely, “is the People’s Republic now formally fighting for President Aziz?”

  “Of course not,” smiled Zhang Ki, studying his cigarette. “We’re simply part of the anti-piracy effort. We were moving aviation assets to Quaani, part of a routine deployment order, when we were attacked by terrorists and… you. My hand was forced. Our rules of engagement entitle us to defend ourselves.”

  “How convenient,” I replied.

  “Ask the families of the men I’ve lost before you speak of convenience,” he spat. “There will be an investigation. Shang Shi! Take these men, search them and take them to the airbase!”

  A wiry Chinese sergeant, uglier than sin, bound us with plastic handcuffs. We were bundled into one of the armoured cars, a Russian army-surplus BDRM-2. The drive back to the Quaani airbase took fifteen minutes at full speed, the sergeant looking daggers at me. Finally the BDRM stopped, engine chugging and wheezing like an old man. The dawn light was rose-coloured, lighting up the blackened skeletons of aircraft and charred corpses that littered the concrete apron. The buildings were pock-marked with bullet holes and damage from RPG strikes, stinking black smoke rolling out of shattered buildings.

  Zhang Ki was already there, tapping a cigarette on the back of his hand. He looked at his watch and smiled, “I have a few hours to question you before the Zambutans arrive. I’ve just learnt that Colonel Murray is missing. It would be easier for you to be... frank.”

  “What do you want?” I said.

  The Colonel produced a sheaf of papers in Mandarin and English. “I’d like a video confession. You can read from these statements, which outline your rogue mercenary activities for the British Secret Intelligence Service. Sign them.”

  I had a feeling that it if I signed it, the statement would be the last thing I would ever put my name to.

  “Fuck you,” snarled Bytchakov.

  “I have to agree,” I added, as bravely as I could.

  “Very well,” Zhang Ki shrugged. “Let it begin.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The interrogation was simple but efficient. The Special Operations marines of the People’s Liberation Army stripped us naked, dragged us into an aircraft hangar and kicked the shit out of us. Bytchakov responded with the most foul-mouthed rant I’ve ever heard in Russian, a linguistic achievement in itself. Then he bit the pig-ugly sergeant. The marines gagged him, kicked him in the balls and stubbed cigarettes out on his chest and scrotum.

  Bytchakov laughed and called them pussies.

  They noticed my Russian prison tattoos and the leg injuries I’d picked up in Kurdistan. The Colonel apologised as he cut the suture with a knife and stamped on them, waves of sharp pain doing circuits through my lower body. “Sign your statements. I will order them to stop.”

  I clenched my teeth, breathing bloody snot as I shook my head.

  “The Zambutan secret police are much worse,” said Zhang Ki gently. “They have men with AIDS on hand to rape you, pump you full of killer seed. On the other hand, if you confess to me I will have you dealt with leniently.”

  Oz sat cross-legged, looking around for a weapon or escape route. Bytchakov was curled up in a bruise-coloured ball.

  During our brief hiatus from torture, the Colonel rifled through our equipment. “Enough for now,” he said. “Whatever you are being paid isn’t worth your fate. Confess and I will deliver you to the multi-national anti-piracy force headquarters in Mauritius. The commander there can either render you to the People’s Republic for trial or hand you to the International Criminal Court.”

  “Can you do that?” I
said, trying to disguise my incredulity. Neither sounded appealing, but better than a cell in Marsajir’s secret police HQ.

  Zhang Ki shrugged, eyes shining, “who is there to stop me?”

  “Let me see the statement.”

  “At last,” said Zhang Ki, unable to disguise the relief in his voice. He pulled the papers from inside his jacket, holding out the English version for me to examine.

  The statement bore a passing resemblance to the truth. It confessed that we’d been hired to rescue Murray as a pretext for stealing Chinese technical equipment by unnamed British intelligence officers. Either the Chinese knew less than they were letting on or it was a version of events tailored to suit an agenda. Nonetheless, the entire CORACLE rescue plan had been compromised.

  We’d been well and truly stitched up.

  “I’m not signing that,” I grunted.

  Zhang Ki kicked me in the guts. “This is my only promise: You will get a slow death, but a quick ride to hell. I will be watching as the Secret Police set their worst dogs on you, watch them fuck you up the arse!”

  Oz pulled a face. “He’s obsessed with buggery, ain’t he?”

  That earned us another beating.

  We were plasti-cuffed and left naked in the hangar as the colonel led his men away. I lay curled by a petrol drum, face resting in a pool of oily gunk. “As long as the satellite radio is switched on we can be tracked,” I whispered. My comms kit was lying on top of my Bergen. The sat phone had been switched off, but not the modified US satellite radio.

  I lost track of time in the sweltering hangar. When I almost fell asleep a marine appeared and poured a bucket of tepid water on me, which at least allowed me to sip some fluids. Slipping in and out of consciousness, I heard the chop of rotor blades. There was soldierly hollering as two Chinese civilians swept in. One was tubby, one was skinny but they wore identical grey poly-cotton suits and black-rimmed glasses. With them was a plump Zambutan wearing a summer-weight khaki uniform, followed by two other local soldiers in camouflage fatigues and berets.

  Zhang Ki arrived and spoke with the Chinese guys in suits. I watched warily, in case this meant a one-way trip to Secret Police HQ. “These men are from the... foreign service,” he explained. I assumed they were Chinese spooks from the MSS, the Ministry of State Security.