by Andy McNab
We emerged into a huge valley, with a network of rivers and streams, and at least ten Ks of undulating ground separating the mountains on either side. It was big, tree-covered country out here, Switzerland without the cows.
Even though we had escaped the confines of Tbilisi it was still going to be difficult lifting this thing. The traffic wasn’t anything like as busy as it had been in the city, but there was a constant stream of military trucks, full of bored Georgian squaddies rolling their heads from side to side, and packed-out buses with sacks of spuds and bags and all sorts strapped on top, bouncing between towns and slowing down only to squeeze past each other on the narrow stretch of crumbling tarmac.
We passed yet another of them, heading towards the city, and drove into a depression a couple of hundred metres long. We were in dead ground. It was as good a place as any.
I held up a hand. ‘I need a piss.’
The driver slowed immediately, and pulled up on the grass verge.
I got out and walked round the front of the wagon, so I could position myself on the driver’s side, before moving towards the rear and going through the motions. Charlie also got out and stretched his legs. He wandered past the radiator grille and seemed to spot something. He pointed underneath the bonnet, then looked up at the driver. ‘What is this? Driver, get out!’
The squaddie jumped dutifully out and joined Charlie at the front of the vehicle. I turned and followed, two steps behind.
Charlie was still bumping his gums. ‘Who’s responsible for this wagon? Look at the state of it.’
The driver looked, but he couldn’t see anything wrong. ‘But, sir, I can’t—’
I closed my hands around his mouth and jaw and jumped on his back. I pulled his head into my chest, wrapped my legs around his waist and toppled backwards.
5
I landed in the grass, with him on top of me, and hooked my legs through the inside of his. The boy didn’t resist for a second or two, then he started to kick and flail his arms.
‘It’s OK, mate, it’s OK,’ Charlie said.
I pulled back even harder and kept my body and legs rigid.
‘We’re not going to hurt you, mate. Just calm down. Come on, composure . . .’ Charlie leaned over him and raised his finger, as if scolding a child. ‘Cool it, son, we’re not here to hurt you. There’ll be no pain.’
He jerked and writhed even more in response, so I reined him in more tightly still.
Charlie went through his pockets and tossed the contents onto the grass. I knew he’d be checking for a cell. If he had one, it would have to be dumped as soon as we were down the road. There’d be no point in calling Crazy Dave with a warning order that he had a lot of shit to sort out, and no point in taking it with us, in case it was tracked.
He stepped back. ‘Nope, he’s not got one.’
The boy was breathing a little easier now.
Charlie pointed at him again, and this time his tone was almost apologetic. ‘Listen, son, we’re going to take the wagon, and we’re going to leave you here. I know it won’t be your idea of a perfect day out, but just accept it. If you start playing silly buggers, we’re going to have to slap you about a bit, and take you with us. If you behave, we’ll let you go. Now that’s not rocket science, is it?’
He nodded as best he could with his head still compressed against my shoulder.
‘I’m going to let go of you now,’ I said. ‘I want you to just roll off and start walking away. That’s it, mate, that’s all you have to do. OK?’
His breathing slowed a little and he gave something approaching a nod.
‘OK, here we go.’
I released my grip, untangled my legs, and he did exactly as he’d been told.
Charlie kept an eye on him as I got to my feet and moved round to the driver’s door. ‘That’s it, son, just walk away. Well done.’
Charlie jumped into the back seat and I switched on the radio. If anyone was going to start gobbing off about us, I wanted to hear it.
We were good for fuel. The tank was three-quarters full. No surprises there – duty wagons were always topped up after every job, ready for the next.
I glanced over my shoulder. Charlie had the laptop bag on his knees. ‘On the metal or cross country?’ I threw him the map.
‘Shows fuck all.’ He studied it for a few more seconds and shook his head. ‘So I guess we’re committed to this, unless we see a minor they haven’t bothered to include.’
‘It takes us straight through Vasiani . . .’
Charlie pored over the map again. ‘Maybe, maybe. But if we get past it, we can box around the city and then head south.’
He looked up at the ground to our left, then behind him. ‘Or we head back cross-country, get around the VCP, then back on the road and south. We can’t go back through the city. It’ll be too easy for them to ping us in this thing once the driver manages to get an SOS out. He’ll be flagging down a vehicle the first chance he gets.’
He paused. ‘What you reckon, worth a go?’
We drove on for another five minutes to make sure we were well clear of the driver, then I chucked the 110 into four-wheel drive and headed left, off road. Once we were out of sight of it, I’d parallel back past the VCP.
The wagon lurched and skidded in the soft ground. The days of intense rainfall had saturated and loosened the soil. It wasn’t ideal, and we didn’t have much time to spare – it’d be a couple of hours, max, until the driver ran back to the VCP and raised the alarm and everyone would be looking for the 110 – but we didn’t have a whole lot of choice.
If we got stuck, we’d just have to dig the fucker out. At least we weren’t on the steeper ground. A combination of heavy rainfall, steep slopes and a surface loose enough to overcome the gravitational pull that kept it in place was the recipe for landslides.
We dropped into dead ground and turned left, but it was no cause for celebration. If anything, the conditions were worse. Glutinous mud sucked at the wheels and we sank down almost to our axles. I checked out Baby-G, then glanced at the dash. We had been going just over thirty minutes, and only covered a couple of Ks.
I turned back to Charlie. ‘This ain’t going to work, mate. At this rate we won’t even be past the VCP by the time he’s raised the alarm. He might even be there now if he’s hitched a lift.’
‘Nothing’s changed, lad. If we head back onto the road, we’re committed.’
I grabbed the map and traced the route round the north of the city, in case we could head west and chuck a left towards Turkey. I also looked out for filling stations, but I didn’t see any marked.
‘That’s got to be better than being stuck right here. At least we get to make distance. That’s what we need, mate. What do you say, cut our losses?’
6
I stopped just short of the crest of the hill and Charlie got out.
He scrambled up to check the dead ground in front of us, dropped onto his hands and knees as he neared the skyline, and crawled the last few metres. We didn’t want to run the risk of piling straight over the top and discovering that our old mates at the sangar were right there in front of us.
He waved me up and jumped back in as I drew level with him. He leaned through the gap between the front seats. ‘The road’s two hundred the other side of the rise. No way have we passed that VCP.’
I edged the wagon uphill. ‘We’ll soon find out, one way or the other. Fuck ’em.’
The time comes when you just have to accept your options are running out and go for it.
We hit the road, hung a left, and I flicked the 110 back into two-wheel to conserve fuel.
No more than a minute later, we saw the duty driver ahead of us. He spotted the wagon and started waving us down.
Charlie laughed. ‘Bet he changes his mind when he sees who it is.’
He was right. As we got closer, the guy did a double take and legged it into the trees.
Another quarter of an hour and we had to slow for an oncoming truck, overloaded with turnip
s. A few fell off and bounced across the top of our wagon as we manoeuvred round each other.
We came to the top of another rise and the dead ground opened up before us. The camp was in the distance, maybe a K off the road, along what looked like a newly laid gravel track.
It was the size of a small city. Dozens of green twenty-man tents stood in smart, regimented lines along the side of a chain-link-fenced compound. To their right lay a maze of Portakabin-type structures with satellite dishes on their roofs, either linked in terraces or connected by concrete roadways.
Five or six Hueys were parked in a neat line beside a helicopter pan.
The main drag continued for maybe three Ks past the junction towards another camp on higher ground.
Charlie leaned forward again. ‘Fucking hell, they’ve got the whole army here!’
He wasn’t wrong. ‘Any bright ideas?’
He shook his head. ‘We’ve got to keep on going for it. Nowhere else to go. And we’re in a company wagon, aren’t we? Let’s hope the driver hasn’t got to the VCP yet and they just give us a nod.’
I put my foot down and we accelerated past the turn-off to the first camp. The track was actually hardcore, and stretched a K or so to the main gate, where massive US and Georgian flags fluttered shoulder to shoulder in the breeze.
The fields either side of us were a hive of activity. The Partnership for Peace programme was in full swing. American unarmed-combat instructors in green T-shirts and US Marine Corps spotty-camouflage BDU bottoms were putting Georgian troops through their paces. They looked as though they were having a great time, kicking the shit out of the happy boys from the recruitment commercial while their mates force-fed infantry fieldcraft to patrols in arrowhead formation.
No-one gave us a second glance.
So far so good.
The 110 started to shake and rattle as the road surface quickly deteriorated the other side of the junction. I kept my foot to the floor as we moved uphill towards the second camp.
I dropped to third on the steeper gradient and the 110 ate it up. I was starting to feel good about this.
‘Hello, duty vehicle, duty vehicle. Is that you on the hill? Report. Over.’
I looked down at the radio and then at Charlie. He shrugged his shoulders. Somebody with nothing better to do was watching us through their binos. So what?
I changed down to second to get a spurt on past the camp at the top of the hill, in case they’d been instructed to stop us.
‘Duty vehicle, do not go any further. Repeat, do not go any further. Return to our locale. Over.’ Maybe they needed the wagon back to pick up the CO’s sandwiches.
We ignored it again. The throttle was flat to the boards. The engine screamed as we headed on up the hill.
‘Do not cross the demarcation line. Crossing the demarcation line is contrary to standing orders. Repeat, return to this locale. Over.’
‘Demarcation line?’ Charlie’s head was level with mine as he too peered up the hill. ‘These two places in the middle of a union dispute?’
‘Something like that.’ I nodded in the direction of the flags flying over the gates of the camp, now about 150 ahead on our left. They weren’t the Stars and Stripes or anything to do with Richard the Lionheart, but the white, blue and red horizontals of the Russian Federation.
Charlie’s head was level with my right shoulder. ‘Fuck it, let’s just keep going; take our chances. There’s fuck all else we can do.’
We began to parallel the camp’s front fence. Men in uniform swarmed around in confusion alongside never-ending lines of tents and vehicles. By the look of it, they were getting stood to.
There was now a major flap on at the main gate. I slowed as armed men spilled out on the road. Were they throwing up a roadblock?
The radio blared at us again. ‘Duty vehicle, status report. Over.’
I kept my eyes on the uniforms up ahead. They’d obviously dressed in a bit of a hurry; some had combat jackets that weren’t done up, some didn’t have helmets. But they all had AKs. Run one of them over and they’d open up big-time.
‘I’m not going to stop. I’m just going to keep going, but real slow. You up for it?’
I looked back at Charlie in the rear-view.
He winked. ‘So which one are you, Butch or Sundance?’
7
We were level with the main gate and the speedo flickered near twenty. Nobody on the road seemed to know what to do. They were all mouthing the Russian for ‘What the fuck’s a British 110 doing up here?’ Thankfully they all still had their AKs slung rather than in the shoulder.
Charlie started to wave. ‘How’s it going, lads?’
They stared back, then some of the younger ones smiled and returned the wave. NCOs started shouting angrily, trying to get something organized.
We trundled past, Prince Charlie in the back still doing his greet-the-people bit. Still nobody challenged us.
The radio barked. ‘Duty vehicle, turn around, turn around. Do not stop; do not take any action that is deemed aggressive. If apprehended, comply with their orders.’
‘Shut up, you twat,’ Charlie said, smiling broadly at his new subjects.
I flicked the radio off.
Moments later, we were clear of the confusion. I was braced for shots, but none came. We were going gently downhill, no longer in view from the American camp.
The fence line stopped. Charlie turned and looked back. ‘Still no follow-up. Let’s keep going. Get that foot down, lad.’
Absolutely no argument with him on that one.
For maybe thirty minutes we saw no junctions, no options, no VCPs, just lots of undulating green to our front, a forest to our left, and a valley to our right. The engine was gunning and we were up to 90 Ks an hour in some places where the road surface allowed it.
The duty driver must have reached the VCP by now. But so what? We were well out of the area. There’d be a Welcome to Tbilisi VCP waiting over the horizon somewhere on the road, just itching for the chance to stop us any way it could, but we’d cross that bridge when we came to it. For now, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself.
Then I heard something all too familiar, and my heart sank.
I looked at Charlie and could tell from his expression that I was right.
He wound down his window.
The noise was louder and unmistakable.
The steady throb of heavy rotor blades cutting the air.
They had a pipeline to protect: of course they would have a QRF [quick reaction force] on standby. I just wished they hadn’t taken the quick bit so much to heart.
Charlie bounced around in the back to try to pinpoint where it was coming from. I leaned forward over the wheel, straining my eyes up into a still-empty sky.
The steady beat seemed to come up level with us, and then the Huey broke out of the dead ground to our right, no more than a couple of metres away.
For the two seconds it was overhead, the 110 almost stood still under the pressure from its downwash. I could see the pilot quite easily. Both the side doors were pulled back, and the space between them was heaving with dark green BDUs and the odd two or three in US Marine spotty-camouflage.
They waved urgently, pointed weapons, gestured at us to stop.
Bollocks. They’d have to land on top of me before that happened.
I kept my foot down.
The Huey flared away and disappeared into dead ground ahead. Moments later, another set of rotors started beating the air behind us.
Charlie leaned over the back seat. ‘Here it comes. Shit, it’s low!’
Huey Two passed directly over us, just feet away, following the road. I could see the soles of combat boots resting on the skids and AK barrels sticking out of the open doors.
The 110 shook violently. Maybe they really were going to try to land on top of us.
Charlie scanned the sky. ‘Where’s the first one gone?’
‘Fuck knows, but I think this one fancies us. Look.’
&nb
sp; It had scooted about 200 metres ahead, and flared up as it turned back round to face us. The heli’s skids bounced onto the road and troops started jumping into the haze of its exhaust fumes.
From our right, and closing in, I heard the slap of another set of rotors. Huey One passed more or less level with the 110 as it moved to take up station behind us. It was going to drop its troops to cut us off.
Fuck this. I yanked the wagon hard left, over the rough ground towards the treeline. There weren’t enough of them to find us in there.
Huey One immediately turned back towards us and swooped like a kestrel onto a field mouse, settling at a hover just feet above us. A spotty uniform leaned out, feet on the skid, one hand gripping the door frame. He fixed me with a stare and shook his head slowly, then moved the index finger of the other slowly across his throat.
‘Fuck him, don’t stop, lad. Nearly there.’
We had maybe 300 to go. My head bounced off the roof as the wagon took on the terrain. It shook, rattled and tipped from side to side, but still kept going.
The heli moved ahead and landed. More troops fanned out and took up fire positions between us and the treeline.
I swung the wheel half right. Safety was just 200 away now.
Huey Two had picked up its men from the road and was back in the game, coming at us from the right.
‘He’s coming real low, lad . . .’
Charlie kept up a running commentary while I concentrated on the driving. It was still in two-wheel; I wasn’t going to stop the momentum to get it in four.
‘They got caltrops!’
I kept my foot hard to the floor, leaning over the wheel, urging the 110 closer to the cover of the trees. The rear of the wagon went momentarily airborne and the back wheels spun with a high-pitched whine, like a propeller out of water. We had to beat the caltrops.
Huey Two had come in above us. Its down-wash pummelled the wagon from side to side. It moved just ahead. A spotty uniform was perched on the skid; a ten-metre strip, peppered with three-pronged spikes, swayed from his hand towards the ground.
I swerved right again, paralleling the treeline. Just over a hundred to go.