The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  “Get back to me when you’ve got something,” I replied, ending the call. The priority, as usual, was defending reputations and covering arses in Whitehall. I felt a wave of anger wash from the pit of my stomach to my forehead.

  But anger solves nothing.

  So, as the Americans like to say, I embraced the suck and headed back to the vehicles. I asked Oz to plot a route to Afuuma and rummaged in my pack. I found my radio handset, the decryption device still plugged in. Putting in my earpiece, I found a playback function and rewound the recording of last night’s radio traffic after the Chinese arrived. There wasn’t much to listen to, the sound quality was poor. All I could hear was the sound of helicopters and mortar fire in the background.

  “Go,” said a female voice, either Duclair or Easter.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” shouted Dancer.

  “I’m hit,” screamed a high-pitched voice. “Fuck, I’m hit!”

  Duclair’s voice was clearer now, “shut up, it’s a fucking scratch.”

  I heard Idris’ voice, scratchy and faint, in the background. He was reporting damage to the airframe in a low, calm voice.

  “New route,” said Dancer. “Grid reference… no Mel, we can’t go back… put that bloody hand-set down.”

  That must have been Murray’s call to Abasi. Then I heard the hammer-blow racket machinegun rounds hitting the heli, the groaning of steel and whine of engines.

  “What are…?” said Easter.

  “Juliet, no,” Duclair replied, “Idris, move to the grid we…”

  The recording ended.

  All I took from it was that someone had been wounded, Dancer ordering Idris to re-route the heli. I didn’t know why. It might have been part of an impromptu escape and evasion plan. Murray had been on the radio to Abasi, but Dancer stopped him. Again, it was open to interpretation. Was Murray going to squeal on SIS, tell Abasi that CORACLE was finished?

  “Have you made a decision?” said Tony Ismael, hands on hips. A cigarette smouldered at the corner of his mouth, flak jacket gaping open to reveal a much-scarred torso.

  “Yes,” I said, pointing at the map. “This feature here, halfway between Afuuma and our current location, is the MSR from Afuuma to the rest of the occupied zone. It looks like a bridge and easy to defend. I want to wait there and go firm, pending further intelligence from London.”

  “Yes, that’s the Afuuma River road bridge. We could be there in four, maybe five hours. And what’s an MSR?”

  “Brit army terminology for Main Supply Route,” Bytchakov explained, pronouncing route ‘rout’ like Yanks do. “It’ll FUBAR the enemy logistic train if we cut it off, which will help the General out.”

  I nodded my agreement. “Have you spoken to the General?”

  Ismael offered me a cigarette. “He’s sending men with heavy weapons. They should be with us by morning.”

  “That’s good,” I replied quietly.

  “I suppose this helps us,” Ismael continued. “The plan is to harass Afuuma and draw in the 21st Brigade. A new offensive is happening, very soon. I think you’re right: drawing them into a trap would be a result for us.”

  I nodded. “Is there anywhere else to cross the river?”

  He looked at the map. “Yeah, several fords, but heavier vehicles have to use the bridge. If we hold there, the enemy tanks will have to make a long detour.”

  “The way I see it,” said Bytchakov, “this is a win for all of us. An attack on that bridge will stir up a world of shit. It’ll make enough of a distraction for us to mosey over to Afuuma for a look-see.”

  “He’s right,” Oz nodded. “Cal, we need to move our arses. Murray and the others could be on a slow boat to bloody China by now.”

  “No problem,” said the rebel captain. “We’ll move out and set camp five miles from the bridge for tonight. There’s an old herder’s track we can use. It’s a longer route, but safer.”

  We mounted our vehicles and followed the rebel pick-ups. It was midnight when we pitched camp, sleeping under blankets donated by the rebels. The bedding smelt of oil and goats, but did the job. The rebels ate porridge, fruit, bush-meat and crackers from ageing American MRE ration packs. Entombed in dark brown plastic, it was Cold War vintage scoff.

  “Shit, when I left the army I swore I’d never eat one of these again,” said the American, pulling a face as he chewed on stale crackers. “They taste like dried shit, just not as good for you.”

  Oz pulled his trusty bottle of Tabasco out of his pocket. It had survived every fire-fight and explosion intact. “Have some of this,” he laughed.

  “Hey, shit-and-Tabasco,” Bytchakov grinned. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  I ate some porridge and swilled it down with coffee. The rebels sat with us, chain-smoking and drinking horrible local hooch. They wanted to talk about Premiership football in broken English. Oz tried to persuade them to support Ipswich. An urgent order was suddenly barked in Swahili and the men scrambled for their weapons. I picked up my AK and crawled forwards, peering into the darkness.

  “It’s OK,” said one of the rebels in English.

  The rebels relaxed as a ramshackle convoy appeared, headlights masked with tape so only small rectangles of light were visible. There were a dozen pick-ups, an old ambulance and a rusty armoured car with a boat-shaped hull. The vehicles were covered in camouflage netting and foliage, bristling with Dushkas and recoilless rifles.

  “Hello wankers!” cackled a familiar voice. Duncan Bannerman leapt from a pick-up, MG4 still slung across chest. His baggy smock and fighting gear were filthy and torn, face sunburnt. A sullen Ruben Grey waved from the back of the vehicle, arm bandaged from shoulder to wrist.

  “You’re fucking indestructible,” Oz laughed.

  “This is true,” the ex-Para beamed, “the Gods of Airborne Warfare yet again smile on the Bannerman.”

  “Airborne, fuck yeah.” Bytchakov agreed.

  “See? We’re brothers really, you ugly Yank cock-sucker.”

  A grin spread across the American’s scarred, meaty face. “I’ll take that as a compliment, comin’ from a skirt-wearing Scotch goat-fucker.”

  “Get a room. This is getting like Brokeback Mountain with assault weapons.” I laughed, shaking Bannerman’s hand. “Good to see you both. What happened?”

  “A fucking war, that’s what happened.”

  The five of us gathered around the back of the pick-up, smoking and sharing a tin mug of coffee. Bannerman told us that after the Puma took off, Ruben had been hit by shrapnel, gashing his arm. “We just looked at the GPS and started hoofing it south,” he shrugged. “We saw half the Chinese army coming over the hill and thought fuck that.”

  “By daybreak I was proper shagged,” said Ruben, his usually coffee-coloured skin ashen. “I reckon I’d lost a pint of blood. We were picked up by a rebel patrol this morning.”

  “These rebels are top boys,” said Bannerman approvingly. “They got a radio message to come up here and reinforce ‘The Europeans.’ I reckoned it would be you lot and asked if we could come along.”

  “When are we getting the fuck out of here?” said Ruben. “We’ve lost Murray, right?”

  Oz gave me a look. “Are you going to tell them?” The tone of his voice suggested that if I didn’t, he would.

  I explained that we’d been compromised, but kept it simple.

  “Fucking spies,” said Bannerman darkly, as if they were a species of poisonous snake. I supposed it wasn’t far off the mark.

  “They got Raph killed,” glowered Ruben. “The Firm can go and fuck itself. I’m not going anywhere until the bastard who gave us up is dead.”

  “And I’m not going anywhere until I’ve got my hundred grand,” added Bannerman.

  It’s always good to meet a man who knows what his priorities are.

  “We’re gonna make all those things right,” I promised. “And, yeah, The Firm can go fuck itself.” Those words tasted sweet in my mouth.

  Ruben Grey looke
d at me with dark, wet eyes. “Do you promise, Cal, we’ll get the bastards who did for Raph?”

  I gripped his forearm and squeezed. “It’s a promise, Ruben.”

  “I appreciate it, mate.” His eyes welled with tears.

  I pulled him to me, hugged him tight. The way I would like to have hugged a son. “Ruben, there’s only us, right? And we look after our own,” I whispered in his ear. “Keep it tight and remember: Raph would want you to see this through.”

  “Yeah, I make you right,” he sniffed, wiping his face with the sleeve of his tattered combat fatigues.

  “There’s no shame in tears for a brother,” said Bytchakov.

  Then we parked our vehicles together, ate and set up a harbour area. Finally, we got some sleep. I dozed fitfully for a few hours.

  “STAND-TO,” Bannerman hollered, “STAND FOOKIN’ TO!”

  I crawled from underneath my blanket, shivering, and flipped the safety on my AK. It was just before oh-five-hundred. Oz had crept behind the engine block of the jeep and was scanning arcs, AK in his shoulder. Rebel guns spewed fire into the darkness, rockets and grenades lighting up the night like a freakish fireworks display. A parachute flare flooded the desert floor in strange lemony-coloured light.

  A body lay sprawled fifty yards away.

  “CEASE-FIRE,” Bannerman ordered. Surprisingly, the rebel guns fell silent.

  We all knew that the Chinese marines and their Presidential Commando allies were out there somewhere, and the sentries were jumpy. The team patrolled towards the body, weapons ready. A gaggle of rebels followed on. The corpse was that of a skinny African guy wearing a grey-brown woollen cloak and armed with a vintage bolt-action rifle. You didn’t have to be that ginger bloke from CSI to work out the cause of death was fifteen-odd high-velocity bullet wounds to the torso and head. It wasn’t pretty.

  “Vultures,” nodded Ismael, patting down the body.

  “We’ve been up against these bastards before, on the border,” I said.

  “From the camps?” said Ismael, shaking his head. “They take the name, but they aren’t the real thing. These are Xaboyo tribesmen, mercenaries. They hire themselves out to the government as trackers and scouts. Or sometimes they join the Jihadis.”

  “Well this one ain’t much of an expert scout,” Bannerman grunted. “He’s deader than disco.”

  Ismael sighed and slung his Kalashnikov. “You don’t get it. Some of our men are shit-scared of them. They believe the Xaboyo practice witchcraft: it’s said that to kill one means you might get cursed.”

  “You really are a long way from London, Captain,” I said.

  “Fucking tell me about it,” he laughed, “and I told you to call me Tony.”

  “Then I figure I killed the Vulture,” said Bytchakov, “Tony, tell your men it was me. I ain’t afraid of no curse.”

  Tony Ismael translated. His men cheered and slapped Alex on the back. “They’re very pleased you took the curse for the team,” said Tony, grinning. “You mug.”

  “So the Xaboyo are linked to the Jihadis,” I said. “Is that true?”

  Ismael sighed. “Sometimes, but we can’t fight everybody. The Xaboyo keep to the border and the disputed zone. At the moment, if we see them we ignore them, and vice versa. Shadow of Swords is different, if we see those fuckers we attack.”

  I knew General Abasi, like President Aziz, were Christians. Despite being a hard-line socialist, Aziz had been savvy enough to allow religious freedoms. And Zambute’s minority Muslim population were Sufis, not usually given to radicalism.

  “Aziz is a bastard,” Ismael continued, “but he’s a bastard who slaps down Jihadis. That means the Americans tolerate him for now.”

  We returned to camp and slept, a golden slice of sunlight splitting the horizon as we stirred from our pits. We brewed rich Zambutan coffee and cracked open more US MREs. I ate peanut butter smeared on crackers, the nutty sludge washed down with sugary coffee.

  Oz shovelled cold macaroni with lemon powder and Tabasco into his mouth, “this,” he said, “is the breakfast of champions.”

  “It tastes like shit,” moaned Bytchakov. “I’d pay ten thousand bucks for a Big Mac right now.”

  “What about all this ‘I’m Airborne’ bollocks? I thought you lot were tough.”

  “Man, we all got our Achilles Heel,” Alex shrugged. “Mine is food.”

  Ismael appeared suddenly, satellite phone clamped to the side of his head. “Let’s go,” he shouted at us, “no time for breakfast.”

  “What is it?” said Oz.

  “We have people in Afuuma, spies,” he said. “The 21st Brigade is on the move. We’ve got to cut off the bridge.”

  “How long do you need to hold it?” I asked.

  “No more than a day,” Ismael grinned. “But I’ve heard that one before.”

  I looked at the motley collection of vehicles behind us and the crew of lightly-armed teenaged rebels. There were no more than sixty men. “Can you do it?”

  Tony Ismael shrugged. “I’m only a special needs teacher from East London, but you guys are Special Forces. I need your help, if you’ll give it.”

  “He ain’t Special Forces,” Oz grinned, pointing at me. The others laughed. That I’d never served with the balaclava-and-beards brigade was a joke that never got old.

  “Compared to us he is,” Ismael replied, locking eyes with me. The rebel captain suddenly looked like a lost kid. We needed to get to Afuuma. Yet again, a rebel attack would be the perfect distraction.

  I wanted to help. I knew we could make a difference.

  Ismael saw the look on my face. “When Abasi sends reinforcements he’ll bring antitank weapons. We only need to delay them – we’ve got mines, MGs, mortars and RPGs.”

  “They’re good lads,” nodded Bannerman. “We should try to make something good out of this cake-and-arse-party.”

  “I’m with the Scotchman,” Bytchakov declared.

  “It’s Scots, you ignorant prick,” Bannerman sighed.

  “Yeah, whatever dude.”

  Oz nodded his agreement and looked at Ruben.

  Ruben nodded grimly, “if fighting gets us out of here quicker, then I’m in.”

  “We vote,” I said. Democracy is unusual on operations, not to mention dangerous. But I’d decided to change the rules, and in more ways than one.

  “No call to our handler?” asked Oz.

  “No way,” I replied.

  We voted.

  It was five-nil in favour of going to war. It wasn’t a decision The Firm would have approved, which is why making it felt so good.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Afuuma road bridge spanned a debris-strewn riverbank, the treacly brown river threading below. On the far side lay a rusting tank carcass, just shy of wooded high ground. The trees were still skinny desert acacias, grey and with papery leaves, but would provide ample cover for a defending force. Our side of the river was scrubland – an apron of baked mud interrupted by deep ruts and copses of spiky foliage.

  It was nine in the morning, and already hot as Hades.

  “That’s an American pontoon bridge, a Mark II,” said Bytchakov over my shoulder. “I guess it was built twenty years ago.” American peace-keepers had once attempted humanitarian intervention in Zambute, sparking the war that lead to the ascension of Aziz.

  An order to halt came over the radio from Ismael. “Wait for the scouts to check out the bridge,” he said.

  We watched as a kid on a trials bike zipped across the metal-framed pontoon. He reached the rusting tank when the motorcycle erupted in a ball of orange fire. Tracer spat from the tree line on the opposite riverbank. I heard the hollow cough of mortar tubes firing in the distance, men scrambling for cover.

  “That wasn’t a very elegant ambush,” I said, rolling into a ditch.

  “Good camouflage and concealment though,” said Oz grudgingly. “I can’t see them.”

  Rebels scrambled from their vehicles and took cover, well within killing d
istance of the mortars. Snatching a shovel from the side of the jeep, I started digging a shell-scrape, feeling the bowel-loosening fear of bombardment.

  “That’s nae a bad idea,” Bannerman laughed, nearby mortar rounds sending up spumes of gravel and sand.

  The rebels returned fire, Dushkas raking the riverbank. A volley of RPG rounds followed, their impact marked by puffs of grey and black smoke. They unhitched the heavy mortar and began setting up, urged on by an elderly rebel wearing a Manchester United shirt and a Russian-issue steel helmet.

  Tony Ismael scurried towards us, falling to his belly as bullets cracked overhead. “Shit, I thought we’d get here before the army,” he grunted.

  If we retreated we’d concede the bridge to enemy armour. If we tried to defend they’d bombard us with mortars. “We attack,” I shouted over the sound of artillery fire.

  “Huh?” said Ismael.

  “I’ll take my team across, further down the river,” I said, pointing to a mud-choked ford a few hundred metres to our left, “we’ll flank them and draw their fire. Get those mortars to put down smoke, then assault across once we’re engaged.”

  Ismael nodded.

  “We’ll pop red smoke when we want you to cross the bridge, OK?” I said, “in the meantime plaster that side with mortars and Dushkas. Just keep their bloody heads down.”

  The rebels’ giant 160mm mortar coughed, the enemy side of the riverbank shuddering as high-explosive rounds detonated. Men in camouflaged uniforms panicked and broke cover, only to be mown down by rebel machineguns.

  Readying weapons and equipment, Oz nosed the jeep along a muddy ridgeline for cover. We’d scrounged locally-made chest rigs for spare ammo, as well as AK74 rifles and Chinese-manufactured grenades. Following the curving riverbank, we had a better view of the wooded plateau where the enemy were dug in. I could make out hastily prepared fortifications covered with camouflage nets, heavy machineguns marked by tell-tale puffs of smoke as they poured fire at the rebels. If they had flank protection, I’d yet to spot it.

  Oz stopped the jeep maybe three hundred metres from the bridge. The riverbed here was little more than a muddy, boulder-strewn ford, Alex and Oz covering as the rest of us waded across. Sludge sucked at our boots as we slapped at clouds of biting insects, trying not to trip on debris from years of fighting: scraps of metal, rotting coils of barbed wire and submerged vehicle tyres.