The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  Ruben tripped and fell in the mire, gashing his face on a rock. “Shit, is this entire fucking country trying to kill me?” He fished his G36 from the murky water and checked the semi-transparent magazine, shaking his head. Blood streamed from his nose, attracting a squadron of mosquito-like flying monsters.

  “Aye,” said Bannerman, stopping behind him. “This place makes Basra look like San Tropez.”

  “You’ve never been to San Tropez,” Ruben spat.

  “I’ve seen it on the telly,” he replied, looking for tripwires and mines, now and then stopping and probing debris with his bayonet. “It’s OK,” he hissed.

  On the other bank we took cover behind a clump of twisted grey-green reeds. Oz and Alex joined us, the mud-spattered American carrying an RPK machinegun and an RPG. In the distance the sound of gunfire was more ragged, the mortar fire infrequent. I didn’t know the reason for the lull in battle, and hoped it wasn’t due to our side running low on ordnance.

  Oz scouted ahead into the trees, reappearing a few minutes later. “OK, three enemy up ahead, a hundred metres, setting up an MG to cover the ford. There’s an APC under a camouflage net beyond those spiky trees.” He pointed to a dense copse of Baar trees.

  “They’re setting up a flank?” I said.

  “That’s what I reckon,” nodded the ex-SBS man, “but we beat them to it.”

  “We advance to contact into the trees and along the riverbank,” I said, “and put down fire on the enemy - Ruben, on my signal pop smoke.” We began crawling through the reeds towards the HMG position. I heard hushed voices ahead.

  To our front I spotted an APC, hidden under gauzy green netting. It was an eight-wheeler, a Russian-built BTR80. At the front of the boat-shaped hull was a small turret packing a 30mm cannon. There was another parked next to it, this one without a turret. Boiler-suited Zambutan crewmen stood warily nearby, one talking into a radio, the other smoking. A third guy, who looked like an NCO or an officer, sat on the edge of the tailgate looking at a map.

  We lay in the reeds, sweating. Ruben rubbed his bloody nose, smearing blood and camouflage paint over his face “I’ve got six frag grenades.”

  “Just take the crew out,” said Oz quietly, “Alex, can you drive one of those things?”

  “Sure,” Bytchakov replied. “It’s got wheels, ain’t it?”

  I pointed at the APCs with the chop of my hand and nodded. We sprinted forward, fire-and-manoeuvring towards the APCs. My AK bit into my shoulder as I hosed down a Zambutan soldier. He fell backwards, bouncing bloodily against the side of his vehicle.

  “GRENADE,” Oz hollered. It exploded between the two remaining Zambutan crewmen, shredding them with shrapnel and killing them instantly. Bytchakov fired bursts from his MG, bounding forward and hosing down the enemy with fire. He took cover by one of the APCs and gave a thumbs-up.

  To our right flank I saw smoke and heard yelling as Bannerman and Ruben attacked the men setting up the machinegun. The two mercenaries broke cover, the momentum of their assault sweeping them into the clearing. “Let’s go!” I shouted “take the APC – roll up the riverbank and assault from their flank!”

  “Roger,” said Ruben. “Do I pop smoke now?”

  “When we get to that bend in the river,” I replied, not wanting Ismael’s men to cross too soon. The sound of heavy machineguns and 160mm mortars cranked up again.

  The inside of the APC was painted a pale grey-green colour and smelt of unwashed men, cigarettes and engine oil. The troop compartment was accessed via the roof, and I clambered past piles of equipment, rations and an ancient-looking radio. I finally squeezed into a tiny seat. I saw Oz’s legs in front of me as he settled into the turret to operate the 30mm cannon. Ruben and Bannerman took position by the back of the vehicle, Alex Bytchakov in the driver’s seat. Peering through a tiny weapon slit in the side of the hull I saw trees collapse as Bytchakov nudged the forty-five tonne monster through the trees, accelerating onto a track running along the river.

  Ruben wriggled through the open roof panel and opened up with his G36 at a startled Zambutan soldier. I heard screaming as the grim-faced ex-marine emptied his magazine and fluidly loaded another.

  “Incoming!” shouted Bytchakov from the driver’s seat, bullets screeching off armoured plate.

  Oz fired the cannon, dust and smoke filling the back of the APC. From my vantage point I could see 30mm rounds shred timber and pieces of earth from a sangar, like a buzz saw through plywood. He switched his fire to the Presidential Commandos bugging out of their position, cannon shells raking the ground.

  “Ruben, gimme smoke,” I shouted.

  The little Londoner tugged two grenades from his chest rig and hurled them out of the APC, high into the air. Red smoke gushed into the sky as the APC hit a dip in the earth, barrelling to the right and almost throwing me out of my seat. Machinegun fire splashed against the hull, forcing us back into the crew compartment. By now we were two hundred yards from the wrecked tank, at the foot of a gentle slope opposite the rebels. Cannon-fire hammered the APC, forcing us to stop. RPG rockets snaked towards us, the flash of the launchers popping in the trees.

  “Blockage!” shouted Oz as our cannon fell quiet.

  “RPG,” bawled Ruben. The explosion rang through the vehicle chassis, but didn’t penetrate the armour. The next one might. We bailed out as rebel vehicles raced across the bridge, a fresh barrage of heavy mortar rounds churning up the enemy positions. Rockets flew in both directions, two of the rebel technicals crashing into the side of the two-lane pontoon bridge, engines ablaze.

  “Go!” I shouted, the men splitting into two fire teams. I rolled into cover and opened fire with my AK.

  Oz and Bannerman sprinted ten yards and threw themselves into cover near the wrecked tank. They immediately poured fire onto the enemy positions in front of them.

  “Go” I repeated, pulling myself to my feet. Bullets whipped past us, Ruben thrown off his feet as he was hit. I grabbed him by the yoke of his webbing and dragged him with us, increasingly accurate fire sweeping down from the hillside.

  We went firm near the shattered T-55, Bytchakov spraying the roadside in front of us with his RPK. I could see the body of the rebel motorcycle scout ten metres away, his torso ripped open by shrapnel. I patted down Ruben and found his field dressing. “Where are you hit?”

  “Top of my armour,” he groaned. “It ain’t too bad.”

  The bullet had hit the leading edge of the Kevlar plate, spinning off and grazing his already injured upper arm. “You’re good,” I said, pressing the field dressing on top of the bloody bandages.

  “Easy for you to say,” he grinned.

  Rebel vehicles sped past us, the 4x4s throwing up clouds of orange dust. The wounded groaned and Dushkas thudded, punctuated by the sharp crack of small arms fire.

  Bannerman lay on his belly, scanning arcs. “The wee fuckers are pulling back.”

  The incoming fire was dying out. Battles can be like a flu victim’s temperature. One minute it’s cold, the next it runs hot. I wasn’t ready to relax just yet.

  Ismael jogged up to us, sweating, and collapsed in the dirt next to us. “We’ve lost five men dead, maybe six or seven wounded,” gasped the young rebel, a grim look on his face.

  “We’ve won the fire-fight,” I replied. “Now exploit it: keep the momentum going, keep pushing and attacking. Take your guys forward to the edge of the tree-line, ‘cos the enemy might well counter-attack. Keep the mortar and a couple of Dushkas on the far riverbank.”

  He nodded and darted forwards, weapon ready. He was a good man, now I’d seen him under fire. Calm and assured. I reckoned Ismael would make a good infantry officer…

  …and none of us heard or saw the enemy jet.

  A blast-wave, a white-hot monster, tossed me backwards. The sensation of heat and raw energy rippled through my body like lava. I landed in the soft sandy earth and rolled into cover. My hearing came back with a liquid popping noise inside my head. The sound of screaming and
gunfire filled my ears.

  “GET THOSE FUCKING DUSHKAS SITED,” Bannerman, the eternal NCO, bawled at a nearby gunner, voice louder than gunfire. The ex-Para strode calmly across the battlefield, his confidence infectious. “GET ME SOME ANTI-FUCKING-AIRCRAFT OVER HERE!”

  Oz lay in a heap, rubbing his bloodied nose. I peered over the side of the rusting tank, where another shattered Toyota pickup burnt by the roadside. Further up the road another rebel technical was burning where a trail of rockets had hit. I heard the supersonic rip of jet engines. A dark shape with a blunt nose and swept-back wings zipped past in the distance. It was a ground attack jet, belly bulging with ordnance.

  “I thought we’d fucked their air force,” I shouted at Oz, ears ringing.

  “Don’t look like it,” he shouted back. “But they might fuck us!”

  The rebels readied shoulder-launched rockets and AA guns. Ismael swung up onto his vehicle’s AA cannon and began shouting orders.

  Afterburners screaming, the dun-camouflaged MIG-21 broke cover over the horizon and lined up for another strafing run. AA guns opened up, hurling ropes of sparkling tracer across the morning sky. As the MIG thundered overhead, a black oblong-shaped bomb fell into the treeline and exploded, sending up a giant plume of smoke and fire. The sky was a crazy kaleidoscope of light, blobs of multi-coloured tracer firing in every direction.

  I lay helpless on my back, coughing and wondering if the gunk flowing out of my ears was my brains. Bannerman appeared and sprinted along the road, a grey-painted anti-aircraft rocket resting on his shoulder. He sniffed the air, nodded and fired the weapon. With a crack-and-whoosh, the AA rocket span off, trailing white smoke as it began sniffing out the enemy jet at MACH-2. The ex-para shielded his eyes as he watched the rocket trail, like a golfer assessing a tricky drive out of the rough.

  I couldn’t see the jet being struck, but I heard the cheering of the rebels.

  Pulling myself up, I staggered over to the others. They were surrounded by bloodied first aid kits, bandages and field dressings as they helped wounded rebels. Others were plundering the bodies of the dead government troops, seizing weapons and ammunition. The Presidential Commando had left RPGs, machineguns and a recoilless rifle. Like a train of soldier ants, the rebels returned to their vehicles with the kit. Oz and I jogged to the front of our column. Ismael climbed down from his AA gun and snatched the map from the cargo pocket of his fatigues.

  “Tony, we need to dig in, fast,” I said. We’d won the reverse slope of the wooded plateau, the ground best suited to defence.

  The young rebel captain nodded, eyes narrowed. He’d been hit by shrapnel, blood seeping into the collar of his jacket.

  Two rebels in combat gear sprinted down the road towards us. “Faru!” they shouted.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” I asked.

  Tony Ismael looked at me, wiping blood from his face. “Faru is Swahili for tank.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Achtung Panzer!” Oz barked, “three hundred metres.”

  “Fucking tanks?” Bytchakov was grim-faced, “this RPG ain’t even gonna scratch that.”

  “A lone tank supported by shite infantry? We can take the crew with grenades,” Bannerman shrugged.

  “Fucking right,” Ruben nodded, evil little eyes shining with excitement. “We can do it if we can get close enough.”

  The dirty yellow T-72 main battle tank squatted on open ground beyond our hard-won tree line, next to the Afuuma Highway. The old war machine farted clouds of oily black smoke, gun swivelling slowly in its turret. The tank commander’s head was visible through an open hatch. It looked to me like he was arguing with a soldier in a rusting Toyota pick-up.

  I’d helped brew-up old Iraqi tanks during the second Gulf War, dug in as strong-points. But back then we had decent antitank systems. We’d have to wing this. “Right, listen in,” I said, hopping into the driver’s seat of our jeep. “Oz, get on the recoilless, when we get up there start putting down rounds on the tank. Alex, engage with RPG to distract them...”

  Bannerman looked at me and grinned wolfishly. “I’ll work my way through the trees on their flank, with these bastards.” He pulled two respirator bags from his assault pack. They were improvised bombs, each fashioned from a block of C4.

  “Cover that fucking lunatic,” I ordered.

  Bannerman exuded coolness and bravery. You wouldn’t invite him to the ambassador’s reception, but on the battlefield he was unequalled.

  Shaking his head at the Scotsman, Bytchakov plugged a rocket into his RPG. “Bannerman, you really are one crazy motherfucker,” he said approvingly.

  The Scotsman laughed and bullied a gaggle of rebels forward. He motioned for them to cover him, the men nodding at the grinning, dreadlocked apparition with a sword strapped to his back.

  Gunning the engine of the jeep, I burst through the trees. The rear wheels cleared the edge of the roadside, the vehicle shuddering as Oz fired the Wombat. A puff of smoke marked the impact of the shell on the frying-pan shaped turret. The commander dropped down into the bowels of the tank, slamming the hatch shut after him.

  The T-72s main gun swung towards us, Oz grunting as he heaved another round into the Wombat. As soon as he’d re-loaded, I ground my boot into the accelerator. I fed the steering wheel down, swerving the vehicle to frustrate the tank gunner.

  In the distance, through the grenade smoke, I saw one bullet-riddled technical chewed up by Ruben’s MG fire, infantry on their bellies in the dirt. The second technical was reversing behind the T-72 for cover, glowing red tracer bouncing off metalwork.

  “Cal, turn right!” shouted Oz as the tank gun tracked towards us.

  I complied, slamming the gearstick down to third as we bumped off the road, racing through a screen of bushes and thorns. The boom of the tank gun sent up a curtain of dust. The screeching 125mm round missed, sailing off into the trees. Bytchakov’s RPG streaked across the field, exploding on the side-armour of the tank hull. The T-72 stopped for a moment, the turret panning away from us, like a monster sniffing out a new threat.

  “Oz,” I shouted over my shoulder, “does the T-72 have that rapid auto-loader system?” I remembered from my army recce days, when we studied Soviet tanks like train-spotters, that a well-trained T-72 crew could fire four rounds a minute from the main gun.

  “Yes, it does have a rapid auto-fucking-loading system!” He squeezed off another shot with the RR, the rocket slamming into the heavy machinegun mounted on the turret. Even at this range I could see two black scars our shells had made on the armour.

  “Aim lower - go for the driver’s viewing hatch.”

  “It’s a recoilless rifle, not a fucking sniper rifle,” Oz spat. “Now move!”

  I drove off, parallel with the T-72 before careering right again, driving straight towards it. “Ruben,” I hollered into my PRR, “can you button down that tank?”

  I heard a squelch of acknowledgement, tracer dancing from the ruined technical and across the tank turret and viewing block. The T-72 gunner engaged us with his co-axial machinegun, rounds sparkling towards us the size of burning coke cans. They made a high-pitched buzzing noise as they whipped past.

  Bannerman had covered his first hundred metres, firing from the hip. A covering screen of rebels emerged from the treeline, firing small arms and rockets to cover us. From my position in the driving seat I saw a barrage of tracer and RPG rockets stream across the open ground. Government troops scattered, baffled by the crazy and sudden attack.

  The second enemy technical broke cover from behind the T-72, a skinny guy wearing green body armour hanging off the rear-mounted machinegun. He swung the weapon around at us and opened fire, bullets tearing into the front of our jeep. I fought with the steering wheel, aiming the dying vehicle towards the nearest cover, a shallow embankment twenty metres away. The engine moaned, steam and water pissing from the shattered bonnet.

  Oz’s RR barked again as we slewed to a halt, the vehicle exploding in a ball of ora
nge flame and greasy smoke. The vehicle must have been full of spare gasoline and ammo, the wreck spitting and fizzing with bullets and RPG rounds cooking off.

  “De-bus,” I hollered, rolling out of the crippled jeep.

  Oz hit the dirt, rolled and scrambled for his RPG. Blood oozed from a six-inch long gash on his upper arm, his shredded sleeve slick with claret. Tracking the scene through my rifle sights, I saw the remaining infantry cowering behind the T-72 as Bannerman advanced through the smoke. Sweat streaming down his face, Oz took a knee, RPG in his shoulder. The rocket sparkled across the battlefield, exploding on the turret and setting light to the rolled-up camouflage netting stowed there. The T-72 jerkily reversed behind the trees, the gun trying to depress low enough to hit us. “He can’t get us!” shouted Oz. He slid another RPG rocket from the canvas bandolier across his back and reloaded.

  Bannerman rushed from the treeline, weapon raised. I saw him bellowing as he hauled himself onto the hull of the moving tank. The remaining Zambutan infantry were pinned down by the scything rebel covering fire.

  Oz put the RPG down and reached for a field dressing. I put my hand over his wound and pressed.

  Bannerman slapped two hubcap-sized lumps of C4 onto the tank turret. He leapt from the T-72 and sprinted for the trees, the explosion blasting a jagged breach in the armoured beast, exposing the dirty grey innards of the vehicle. The tank bellowed smoke, moving slowly as it tried to manoeuvre away.

  Bytchakov shouldered his RPG and shouted at the other rebels to do the same. A shrieking volley of rockets slammed into the damaged T-72, more smoke pouring from the doomed machine. Like a dying dinosaur the tank juddered, grey smoke billowing from the hatches. The few remaining enemy troops fled, abandoning their wounded.