The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  Two soldiers crouched by the front door, looking for the source of the gunfire. Alex hosed them down with his stolen AK, men tumbling to the ground, legs flailing. I edged the Land Rover closer to the doorway, Alex and Oz scrambling into the lobby. Scooping up the dead men’s weapons, I sprinted up a broad flight of concrete stairs. My lungs burnt from the exertion, my muscles aching from the beating I’d taken.

  The top floor of the tower offered a three-hundred and sixty degree view. The air traffic control consoles and radio equipment were pock-marked with shrapnel, the windows splintered and cracked. In an attempt to make the building defensible, a sand-bagged .50 calibre machinegun had been positioned in a loophole looking out over the gate house.

  Bytchakov huddled behind the MG. Behind him were boxes of ammunition and a heap of rifles, shotguns and grenades. “Apart from a last-ditch defence, Captain,” he said, “is there a plan?”

  I pulled the satellite radio from my pack and switched it on. I keyed Easter, to no reply.

  “Here they come,” said Oz, taking aim with his AK. “It’s the Chinese.”

  “I’ll see you in Valhalla,” the American croaked, eyes flashing. He was as mad as the rest of us. He depressed the trigger, the big fifty calibre spitting flame.

  I dropped down as bullets churned the air around me, pulling out my satellite phone. With trembling fingers I tapped out a message for Marcus:

  UNDER FIRE QUAANI / GRID REF 38MKE26782602209 / CONTACT WITH CHINESE FORCES / BAD APPLE COMPROMISED OPERATION / MM EXTRACTED WITH EW EQUIPMENT / ENDS

  “Whatever you’re doing, hurry the fuck up,” Oz growled. He ducked as another volley of bullets raked the tower.

  Popping my head above the control console, I looked down towards the gatehouse fifty metres distant. Two armoured cars rumbled towards us. They were covered by a well-spaced screen of Chinese marines and Zambutan commandoes, fanning out towards the hangars we’d just left. Those rat-runs would give the enemy plenty of routes to infiltrate behind us.

  Bytchakov shrugged and swung the MG towards the gatehouse. “The Chinese ain’t got proper support weapons, only mortars and UGLs as far as I can see.” It made sense. As an anti-piracy task force, the Chinese marines would only have small arms and light support weapons. Their specialist role was meant to be boarding suspect dhows at sea, not war-fighting.

  “Put fire down on the armoured cars with the fifty,” Oz barked, firing a long burst at two PLA marines. They were making ground under covering fire from the armoured cars.

  The American opened fire, marines disappearing in a series of wet explosions as .50 rounds hammered through them. “These Chinese guys have got balls, I’ll give ‘em that.” He redirected his fire at the armoured cars, the jack-hammer noise of the .50 echoing in my ears. Shells smashed into their armoured hulls, the bullets making the dull clang-and-screech of metal-on-metal.

  “Hey, watch this,” shouted Bytchakov, swinging the big machinegun a fraction to his left. Raising my binos, I watched him shoot out the heavy front tyres of both armoured cars.

  “Good drills!” I hollered.

  He knew the key design flaw of the aging BDRM-2: the crew can only exit via hatches at the front of the vehicle. Now they were trapped inside. Both APCs were scarred with machinegun strikes, but still their stubby cannons fired. Shells peppered our position, making us hug the deck once more.

  “Jesus,” Alex shouted, “do you see that?”

  “It’s that motherfucking BMP,” shouted Oz, “incoming!”

  Tearing past the gate house, the armoured vehicle lumbered toward us, throwing up billowing dust trails as its tracks churned at the chalky earth. Next to its turreted 30mm cannon, on a launch rail, was a rocket. Through the smoke and tracer fire I could make out a helmeted Zambutan soldier in the turret. The fighting vehicle was closing on us, advancing jerkily through swirling clouds of dust and grit.

  The Chinese marines rallied and fell in behind the BMP, covering its advance with small arms fire. Shouldering my pack, I grabbed Bytchakov and dragged him towards the stairs. We reached the steps as his sand-bagged position and machinegun evaporated in a cloud of metal, 30mm high-explosive shells punching holes through the wall. Crazy rays of sunlight lit up the gloomy tower as it was riddled with fire like a Swiss cheese.

  “We’re screwed,” Bytchakov coughed as we half-ran half-fell down the stairs.

  “No shit,” added Oz.

  Outside, the BMP’s three-hundred horsepower engine whined, metal tracks crunching and clanking as it approached. The AFV was obscured by black smoke from the smouldering aircraft that littered the airfield. It pricked my nose and made my eyes water as we stumbled to escape.

  We dashed outside, into the adjacent warren of maintenance buildings. Then the top of the control tower exploded as the BMP’s turret-launched missile struck, the blast hurling us to the ground. The building began collapsing in on itself, radar and communications arrays positioned on the roof toppling into smoking chunks of masonry and rubble. It was a world of shrapnel and fire, of chest-heaving fatigue and throat-burning smoke. My heart pounded and my bowels heaved.

  It was war. I’d survived Maysan and Basra, Bosnia and Kosovo, Sierra Leone and South Armagh… by fuck I was going to survive this.

  Oz dropped into cover by a hangar door, a pilfered light machinegun slung across his chest. “How’s that quick in-and-out job going?” he panted, a smile on his grime-streaked face.

  I peered through the smoke. The Chinese troops had gone firm by the control tower behind us, the BMP reversing into cover. Two marines were carefully examining the ruined doorway, looking for booby traps like the ones we’d left at the prison. Five more stacked up behind them, waiting to assault into the ruins.

  We ran through the maze of alleyways between cavernous hangars, mouths covered against stinking smoke. From the number of bodies scattered on the ground, I guessed the rebels had taken heavy casualties. As we withdrew I scrounged a dozen more AK magazines and grenades from the dead, stuffing them into pouches on my belt-kit.

  There was no plan now other than to flee. At the last hangar Bytchakov pointed at a row of ageing Ural trucks. He pulled himself up into the cab of the first six-wheeler, V8 engine grunting into life as I climbed in. We accelerated through the open doors, along the apron and onto the runway. In the wing-mirror I saw camouflaged figures combing the rubble as the BMP was nudging its way back over the wall of debris, black smoke coughing from the engine. The 30mm cannon pointed into the sky, too high to depress onto us.

  “Slow down,” said Oz.

  “What the fuck? Maybe you ain’t noticed, but there’s a freaking tank chasing us.”

  Oz pointed a grimy finger out of the window, “the Chinese helis, the Z9s!”

  The American came off the gas. We slowly passed the neat line of naval helicopters, Oz pointing his LMG out of the window. He opened fire, hosing bullets into the airframes. Hot brass fell in my lap as the canopies and engine compartments of the Z9s were spattered with bullet holes.

  Oz nodded, satisfied with his vandalism. “OK, let’s go.”

  Bytchakov threw the truck across the runway and smashed through the perimeter fence. Then we were bumping cross-country, a range of low hills to the west. I had no idea where we were going and didn’t care, as long as it was away from the Chinese marines and the Zambutan armour. I found a plastic bottle of warm water in the cab. I passed it around, sighing happily when it was my turn to drink.

  In front of us and to our right cannon rounds churned up plumes of gritty earth as the BMP gunner tracked us. The truck shook as a shell slammed home, Alex hauling the steering wheel down and careering towards a row of scraggly trees. Then there was a noise like two metal animals colliding as the cab of the truck lurched crazily, the front offside wheel collapsing under the chassis as another cannon shell eviscerated the axle. The vehicle slid, crashing onto its side in the soft grey-orange soil. The cab was suddenly full of smoke, dirt, kit and limbs as we tumbled into each other.
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  “OUT,” Oz hollered.

  Bytchakov kicked the windscreen clear and rolled from the cab, AK already shouldered. I had blood in my eyes as I followed Oz, scrabbling in the dirt. The sandy soil felt warm against my face, smelt good after the smell of burning aviation fuel. I looked at my right sleeve, slick with blood from shrapnel wounds.

  “Get up or die,” the American growled.

  I found my rifle and grunted in reply, checking the magazine. Scanning the horizon back towards the airbase I saw the BMP tearing towards us. An extended line of marines advanced behind it. Behind them limped one of the badly-damaged BDRM armoured cars, still coughing black smoke. They were less than five hundred metres away.

  “Don’t figure we’ll get away with surrenderin’ this time,” Bytchakov said quietly.

  Oz shrugged and went over to the truck’s fuel tank. Puncturing it with his combat knife, he put an empty soda bottle from the cab under the stream of petrol, then another. Finally he ripped two strips of fabric from his shredded fatigue trousers and stuffed them into the bottles. “Poor man’s antitank,” he said, passing me one of the Molotov cocktails.

  “I bet you pull grenade pins out with your teeth too,” laughed Bytchakov grimly.

  “How do you walk with balls that big?” I added. We were drunk on fear now, giddy with the hopelessness of our situation. If Oz had done this in the SBS, he’d be up for a Victoria Cross. As a mercenary, he’d get a death sentence and an unmarked grave.

  “I need all the covering fire you can give me,” said Oz, “I’m gonna hide in those trees and flank them. When I get the chance I’ll dump the petrol bombs on the rear deck of the BMP.”

  He had more chance of winning the lottery than getting near the BMP, and we both knew it. Oz winked, nudging the LMG towards me with his boot. Then he darted into the acacia trees and was gone.

  Bytchakov was burrowing into the soft earth, trying to fashion a crude shell-scrape in the pancake-flat earth. I grabbed another belt of ammo and joined him, resting the MG on its bipod.

  The carcass of the truck shuddered, raked with cannon fire. The fuel tank smouldered and popped. A hundred metres away marines dashed across the open ground, through wafting mauve smoke. I swung the MG around and opened fire, forcing them into cover. The American emptied his AK, desperate to win the fire-fight and buy Oz time. Again I saw the familiar mauve, roiling cloud as they hurled smoke grenades. Through the swirling mist I saw the BMP’s distinctive low profile and slanted hull, the pan-shaped turret turning towards us.

  In the trees Oz loped forwards, trailing smoke from the petrol bombs.

  “Cover him,” I barked, switching targets.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Bullets churned the earth in front of my face. I felt something hot pass by, the howl of bullets hurting my ears. A noise like high-pitched thunder cracked over my head, the front of the BMP disappearing in an orange flash. Another object hit the turret in a geyser of white sparks, the armoured vehicle juddering to a halt. The front of BMP had been torn asunder, a body flopping from the shattered turret.

  “What the fuck?” I coughed.

  “I’d say it was an AT missile,” said Alex Bytchakov, “look to my nine O’ clock…”

  I glanced over. To our flank, three vehicles tore across the scorched ochre plain towards the Chinese. They were pick-ups, two with Dushkas and recoilless rifles mounted on the back, the third equipped with an antitank rocket post. The men crammed into the backs of the vehicles looked like something out of a Mad Max movie. They wore an assortment of crash helmets, berets, sunglasses, scraps of ragged uniform and leather jackets. They whooped as they fired rifles and machineguns.

  I didn’t know who they were, but I loved them anyway.

  The remaining platoon of Chinese marines, outnumbered, began to fall back towards the crippled BMP. The BDRM armoured car lurched to a halt on shredded tyres, turret swivelling and cannon chattering. Tracer fire streaked towards the technicals, heavy shells punching into the bonnet and cab of the first vehicle. It lost control and span like a top, soldiers and weapons tumbling from the groaning wreck. The other two vehicles swerved crazily as they sped by, men plugging rockets into their RPGs as they went.

  The American’s voice, usually a high-pitched croak, went down an octave, “I guess they’re on our side.” He jumped to his feet and loped forward, snapping off rounds as he went. Wildly aimed RPG rockets tumbled past the BDRM like demonic fireworks, exploding harmlessly behind it. The rebels started arguing over the RPGs as the antitank crew tried to mount a rocket onto the weapon’s launcher at fifty mph.

  The Chinese troops took advantage of the confusion, falling back and opening fire on the technicals. More mud-caked pick-ups motored past, packed with jeering troops. Black and gold battle flags, gaudily decorated with a stylised leopard, billowed from the vehicles.

  A weapon-studded Toyota, painted in crude camouflage, slowed down. The driver, a slim Zambutan wearing desert fatigues and a bandana, peered at us over his sunglasses. “Are you Captain Winter?” he said in a broad London accent, revealing a mouthful of gold teeth.

  The rebels sat in the back looked at us curiously as Chinese tracer fire popped around the burning truck.

  “He’s Winter,” said Bytchakov, jerking a thumb at me.

  The Zambutan-Londoner looked me up-and-down with a shrug, “stay here. General Abasi sends his regards.” He grunted something in Swahili and the technical sped off.

  Another of the militia vehicles was swallowed by smoke and flame, rebels fleeing as they traded fire with the more disciplined Chinese marines. Zhang Ki’s men calmly withdrew, back towards the airfield while the battered BDRM slowly reversed. A rebel buckled as a cannon shell from the armoured car hit him in the belly, disembowelling him with a wet ripping noise.

  “If they had as much skill as bravery...” said Bytchakov, peering over the top of his iron sights.

  A camouflaged technical ground to a halt as another vehicle was shredded by cannon fire. The Zambutan with the London accent started waving furiously, shouting orders. As the Chinese continued to retreat, the rebels fired rifles in the air and sang. Others started dragging the wounded to a harassed-looking rebel medic, wearing a boiler suit and a red-cross armband. A lone rebel fired an RPG at the retreating enemy, the rocket fizzing across the orange desert and exploding harmlessly.

  Oz trudged out of the trees, an unlit Molotov cocktail in each hand. “That’s the nearest I’ve been to certain death for weeks,” he said, a wry grin spreading across his face.

  I looked at my hand. It was shaking. I held it and pressed it to my chest, heart pounding.

  “You OK?” said Bytchakov, gripping my shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” I lied. “Listen to those crazy bastards.”

  It was singing, the rebels of the Free Zambutan Army triumphant. Their dusty vehicles now flew yet more leopard standards, flapping like the sails of galleons in the hot desert wind. We watched their flying column approach, a circus of machine-gun carrying technicals, Russian armoured cars, motorbikes, jeeps, mortar-carrying pick-ups and trucks equipped with an exotic assortment of AA guns and rockets. There was even an ambulance in Red Cross livery, although the men with RPGs sitting on top suggested only a passing knowledge of the Geneva Conventions.

  An up-armoured Land Rover, painted in green-and-umber coloured camouflage, pulled up next to our blazing Ural truck. General Kanoro Abasi, ‘The Leopard of Zambute,’ stepped out. The rebels all stiffened visibly as he appeared, flanked by scary-looking bodyguards.

  “Captain Winter,” he beamed. “Welcome to Zambute.” Kanoro Abasi was a neat, wiry man in his late forties, eyes hidden behind over-sized sunglasses. His hair was cropped close, as was his salt-and-pepper goatee. He wore neatly-pressed desert fatigues with the NATO rank patches of a three-star general, a holstered pistol at his belt and a silk scarf at his throat. I knew he’d been a senior officer in Zambute’s paramilitary police before deciding to oust President Aziz.

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p; I nodded respectfully as he mentioned my old army rank. I threw up a smartly theatrical salute for good measure. “I’m grateful, General. This is Master Sarn’t Bytchakov and Colour Sarn’t Osborne.”

  General Abasi nodded approvingly at the formalities. “Colonel Murray radioed for us to return and look for you.”

  “Is the colonel back in Kenya?” I said, scraping oily sand from the cut on my cheek.

  “No, we only received a brief radio message. He said his helicopter was damaged, I have sent men to search for him.” Abasi removed his shades and scanned the skies, shielding his eyes from the sun. “We must go, before the Chinese return with their helicopters.” His eyes were heavy-lidded, almost golden-brown in colour.

  “We shot the fuck out of their helis,” Oz grinned. “They’ll need to wait for more.”

  “Excellent,” the General smiled He said something in Swahili and the men cheered. “You will be feted as the heroes you most surely are. We will see if we can find your comrades. I have more soldiers nearby, in a town called Hagadifi. They will help.”

  We were ushered into the rear of the General’s vehicle, which was air-conditioned. A rebel passed us bottles of chilled mineral water from a cooler. It tasted like Champagne as I swilled the taste of burnt aviation fuel from my mouth. I looked at Alex, who raised an eyebrow and chuckled, his much-scarred face smeared with blood and soot. Ten minutes ago I was preparing for death. Now I was enjoying air con and Evian.

  I checked my satellite phone. The little green light on top of the handset winked, the screen showing a reply from Marcus. I filtered the message through the decryption software:

  MESSAGE RECEIVED / AUTHORIZATION TO EXTRACT EW EQUIPMENT WAS DENIED ONE (01) MONTH AGO / CORACLE WRAPPED / TEAM MISSING / EXFIL MURRAY FROM Z ASAP / MAKE VOICE CALL 12:00 ZULU.

  It was now 08:45: twelve hours since we’d arrived in-country. And Marcus had confirmed whatever skulduggery the CORACLE team had planned at the prison was off-policy. The involvement of Chinese forces was a diplomatic disaster, whichever way you looked at it, making Murray an even bigger embarrassment to the UK. I sent a return message: