Josie closed the cabin door and flicked the catch shut, locking it from the inside and eased herself into the narrow space between the bunks. Steel was already out of his life-jacket and waterproofs and had begun to strip his jeans and socks, rolling them into a bundle that he slipped under his pillow. His shirt would join them once he was in his bag and settled. He struggled in the tight space to manoeuvre his injured torso through the ninety degree swing to stretch out on the coffin sized bunk, at least they were fully open and not the half planked style found on a lot of boats. Now and again the muscles of his chest tensed, it didn't hurt as such, but he was aware of a discomfort, part of the healing process he reckoned and slowed down to accommodate it. He moved cautiously, easing his body on to the bunk and sliding down the sleeping bag, unzipped to the knee, he couldn't quite reach the zip and left it with the bag open, but laid across him. It wasn't that cold outside tonight and the bag was five seasons rated. He dragged the shirt over his head with a few groans of protest until he felt the strong pull of Josie's hands rolling the material up his chest and over his head. She had stripped to her underwear and leaned over him, her proximity filled the confined space with the subtle infusion of her perfume and the natural scent of her body. In the tangle of bodies and clothing as she stripped his shirt he noticed details, the tilt of her chin and the line of the lobe of her ear. Most powerfully the softness where her breasts came from her chest and the dusky shadow plunged through her cleavage. He fidgeted, trying to hide the response in his boxer shorts that he was sure she could not avoid noticing. She tucked the shirt under the pillow and straightened the bag, zipping it shut with a flourish, then to his surprise leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. A big wet, sisterly kiss. "Thanks Don," she said, "it's nice to know I haven't lost all my charm."
"Who said you had?" He said.
"No-one, but sometimes you just have a feeling that things aren't quite right," she said cryptically, "goodnight, sweet dreams and a pleasant waking."
"Goodnight Josie and the same to you." His voice barely more than a whisper and carefully rolled over to face the cabin wall. Josie turned out the light. The cabin was black, except for the portholes where a wash from the masthead light filtered through the curtains. Steel whispered softly, you're safe here, you're safe here, a spoken mantra to keep the nightmares at bay. Josie propped herself up on one elbow and looked at the crooked shape in the bunk opposite and wondered just how great a distance the four feet between the two bunks could be. She watched quietly, listening to the whisper and the tenor of his breathing until she was confident it had settled into the relaxed rhythm of sleep: then she flopped back and let herself go, snuggling into the warm embrace of the sleeping bag and her own sleep.
Charlie padded silently across the deck and stopped by the vent to the forward cabin and waited, listening. The sound of voices trailed away as sleep crept up on Steel and Josie and he waited a while longer, before moving just as silently back to the cockpit at the stern. Langhers pushed his day-sack on deck and followed it. "They're asleep?" He asked. The jeans and sweatshirt had been changed for drab green trousers and fleece smock top, alpine gaiters topped his boots. The sack was stuffed with a change of clothes and high-energy rations for three days, first aid kit and waterproofs. One of the machine pistols, a Heckler-Koch SP5, was stripped, wrapped in a canvas pouch and strapped across the top of the pack. There was a spare magazine in each pocket of the pack and two more inside. Kurt had strapped his Browning across the flat of his stomach, under the smock. It wasn't ideal, but it was the best he could do for now.
"They are," said Charlie, "and you're sure about this?"
"Yes, I'll be with you in Tobermory as soon as I can, but I need to speak to the Grange and change the Range Rover, a Defender would be useful and a little less conspicuous. Even with switched plates, the plods are going to be looking for a dark coloured Range Rover." Langhers said softly, Charlie was untying the painter to the tender and moving it around from the stern. He gave the rope to Langhers and dropped over the rail. Langhers passed his pack down and swung a leg over the rail, reaching gingerly for the rubber boat. Charlie held it alongside until they were settled before he put out the oars and pulled away, the blades digging deep. He used a stroke similar to the J stroke of a canoeist, where the blade never leaves the water but feathers for the return stroke. Keeping his stroke nice and steady the passage to the beach was as near silent as he could make it. Charlie kept going until the boat crunched against the beach and Langhers stepped into a couple of inches of water. Charlie grabbed the painter and stepped out beside him. The two men shook hands. "Watch your back lad and I'll see you soon."
"You too Charlie. And you will relay that message for me."
"To Angel, yes and you're sure he'll know who it's for?"
"He'll know, for Granger, Auslander, that's it."
"I've got it," Charlie said. "Outlander?"
"But in German, that's the important bit." Langhers stressed as he swung his pack over one shoulder and scrunched his way up the beach. Charlie listened to him go and waited until he heard the harder sound of boots on rock and tarmac before he pushed off and rowed back to the ketch. Langhers walked to the Range Rover, keying the alarm button on the fob and watching the indicators flash. He tossed his day-sack on the passenger seat, slid behind the wheel, slammed the door and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine fired first time and he clicked on the sidelights and dipped beam before setting off. Charlie watched the wash from the lights swing through Salen and then swiftly down the loch-side as he headed for Fort William. The ferry at Corran Narrows was out of service until the morning, so he had to go the long way round, coming into Fort William from the west down the Mallaig road. Charlie calculated that Langhers would be in Glencoe around daybreak. He waited for two hours and then he sent the message.
Langhers drove the Range Rover south out of Fort William and past the sleeping ferry at Corran and across the bridge at Ballachulish and inland towards Glencoe. He motored on until the landscape opened up towards Rannoch Moor before he pulled over and stopped. Two-forty five in the morning, an hour or more before daylight began to creep over the rugged landscape, but there was a cold light lifting the heaviness of the night, a strange pre-dawn glow from the north and east. The mist swirls began to lift out on the moor, wraith like from dark peaty water pooling on the saturated ground. A breeze stirred the wiry grass at the roadside and the crash of tumbling water spilling over a rocky bed came up from the bottom of the valley. Langhers sorted out his day-sack, checked the flask and sandwiches he had prepared on the ketch were lodged securely inside and that the second flask was tucked under the seat of the Range Rover. He moved a small digital camera from the flap pocket of the sack and strapped the canvas parcel wrapping the gun back to the top. He estimated his distance to go as three and a half miles and most of that uphill, so he gave himself two hours, there was no point rushing and equally, with the sound of the river in his ears, no real incentive to creep around. A final check around the car and he set the alarm, zipped the keys into the hip pocket of his trousers and slung his pack, cinching the straps snug to his shoulders and fastened the waistband. There was no ease of access for either of the weapons he carried, effectively unarmed. He didn't expect opposition beyond a bloody-minded sheep annoyed at being woken by some stupid human with more energy than good sense as he set out across the valley towards the foot of the slope. The gradient made rushing out of the question, this was a steady disciplined plod, of one foot in front of the other and he stepped up the mountain. The skyline was where the solid black of the earth stopped and the sprinkling of the stars began, following the line he saw the nick in the wall where the hanging valley entered the glen. His route would take him over the edge half a mile west of the cut. Cautiously picking his way, placing his feet solidly on the coarse grass and loose crumbling scree, testing his weight and moving on. An hour later he scrambled over the edge out of the glen and began a smoother walk across the shoulder of the mountain, the
first light of day moved across the landscape and the shadows in the dead ground were deep and solid. He moved steadily, skirting the clusters of sheep, trying to disturb them as little as possible, in the direction of the hanging valley. Then turning up the narrow defile until he came to the approximate area where the helicopter had lifted Steel to hospital. He stood for a while taking in the open treeless hillside, any form of shelter from the elements was at a premium, boulders butted up through the grass, but even they seemed to hug the ground as close as possible, few of them more than a couple of feet high. Dark regiments of forestry plantation blotted the landscape, huddled into close defensive ranks. Langhers ran his fingers through his hair, flattened the sweaty strands against his skull and wondered how much of this was his own imagination. The shiver trembled through his body and he knew only part of it was the cold air crashing down from the mountaintop. The contours softened in the morning light as the sun flared over the horizon and the solid shadows thinned out. Last night it was a brilliant idea to go and look where they found Steel; out here he wasn't so sure. How much of it was simply to stop playing gooseberry to Steel and Josie. She hadn't tried to talk to him yet, but she would and he couldn't trust himself to be impartial, they were both important to him. They all needed space to work it out. Charlie would stand his watch on the boat and keep an eye on the proceedings. Steel was as safe as he could be on Westering Home, but it wouldn't last. The stakes would rise in Tobermory when he made contact with the nurse. Langhers cleared his nose, blocking each nostril in turn and blowing hard. A nearby sheep bleated and got an answering call from higher up the valley before it trotted off. Langhers continued to climb, scanning the ground ahead for any signs of disturbance, his best chance was to pinpoint where Jock Bruce had travelled with his quad bike and then cast around from there. The odds were stacked against him, but now and again, even the longest shot paid off and it gave him a sense of purpose. He walked to the head of the hanging valley and began to check the sheep trails that crossed the turf and eventually found one where the peaty soil had been churned up by tyre treads. He stood and looked down the valley, noting the fall of the land and the vegetation and found what he was looking for, a patch of lush green, a place where water collected and so the grass wasn't so drought resistant. He began to walk slowly on a line between the two, his head bent, eyes focused on the ground in front of him, an extra twenty pairs of eyes would have been useful, but he didn't have them, so he settled to doing it the hard way. Every ten paces he would stop and look wide, examining the ground to each side. The first walk completed he turned round, moved a yard to his left and went back, repeating the process over and over until he had covered an area half the size of a football field. One patch of ground had caught his eye, the upper edge of a sheep trail had broken away and soil had slipped across the track, the grass nearby was broken, it might be stretching it a bit, but maybe an object had tumbled down the slope here. The odds favoured sheep, but he checked it, picking his way down the slope to the bottom of the ditch where a trickle of water ran. Langhers shrugged off his day-sack and left it on the edge of the ditch, lowering himself as close as he could to peer closely at the scene. It could be something or nothing, the ground was definitely disturbed, but without a first-hand witness he couldn't say with even the remotest confidence that this was the place where Steel had come to rest after his drop from the helicopter. It was lighter by the minute, but the cold of the night lingered in the valley, Langhers ignored the cold and carried on. He took out the digital camera and photographed anything which seemed interesting. Completely wrapped up in what he was doing, he never heard the quad bike approaching and was unaware of the shepherd until one of his dogs barked. Langhers turned to face the trio who had the high ground.
Jock Bruce snapped the breech of the over-and-under shut and let it rest in the cruck of his arm. He could see no visible weapon, but strange things had been happening on the hills and he was taking no chances.
"Good morning to ya," he said, "looking for something interesting?"
"It depends on what you're interested in." Langhers answered casually. The muzzle shifted, swinging towards Langhers.
"Things have not been normal around here lately, makes you a bit jumpy. Kindly put your hands where I can see 'em, there's a good laddie. Unsteadies things and ah don't like things unsteady. Steady is how ah like 'it. Nice and steady, let's see the hands."
He held the camera between his thumb and third finger and put his hands to where Jock could see them clearly. There would be no unsteady moves from Langhers; the hands that cradled the shotgun were too sure. A wrong move and it would be a wounding shot, a shoulder peppered with lead and a story to the local police of an accidental discharge. It wasn't worth the trouble and Langhers had no quarrel with him, most likely the opposite. He came to the point. "You're Jock Bruce, aren't you?"
"Ah may be, if I am you have the advantage over me. Who might you be?"
"Kurt Langhers, which will mean nothing to you, but it might change things if I told you that you found a friend of mine up here not long ago."
"Aye, ah found a poor bastard up here," Returned Jock, "and you say you're a friend. Can you prove it?"
"None, he had no identification, in fact it took almost three days to put a name to him. The hospital had to wait until he regained consciousness to find out who he was. He's making a good recovery, mentally at least, but the wounds across his chest have taken a bit of a beating. What else can I say, he's about thirty, well built, on the stocky side, fifteen and half stone at a guess, dark hair with a bit of grey at the temples. Injuries to his chest and face." Langhers offered, "and could owe a lot to a dog, I'd guess one of those two."
The muzzle lowered slightly, drawing a bead on the ground a yard and half in front of Langhers. "Sounds like you know the lad, or you've done a lot of homework."
Langhers chuckled.
"What's so funny?" Jock demanded.
"Nothing, the way you gave the hint of going along with this, you're as suspicious as ever."
"It's just ma way."
"Don't get me wrong, I appreciate it, the question is, are you prepared to accept what I have said for the time being, until it either checks out or it doesn't?" Langhers remembered the camera and held it forward. "I may be able to convince you, if you have a look at this."
"Which is?"
"A digital camera, the pictures are stored on disc, there may be one which has Steel on it. It won't be a superb picture, but it might be enough for you to recognise him." he walked forward a couple of yards and laid it on the ground. Jock said something in Gaelic and the dogs moved forward, taking up a position on each side of Langhers. Bruce came down the slope took the camera and then stepped back. The dogs watched Langhers closely as Jock Bruce opened the distance between them and flicked through the stored images as they flashed upon the viewing screen. After a couple of minutes he nodded sagely and lowered the gun. A shrill whistle pulled the dogs back to his side. "Ah think that'll do, for now anyway. It certainly looks like him. Alright Mr Langhers, pax it is between us." He said. "Ah am Jock Bruce, what can I do for you?"
"Tell me what happened up here; how you found him, whatever you think might be relevant. Anything out of the ordinary." Langhers requested.
"Well. Ah was on ma way back to the house, I'll give ya a lift if ya don't mind riding on the back of the beast." He said.
"It will probably be quicker than walking; my car is down in the valley."
"Ah know, the dark Rover, an interesting vehicle."
"You make it sound almost mythical." Langhers said as he tucked the digital camera in his day-sack and slipped his arms into the straps. He followed the Scot back to his quad-bike. There was a seat of sorts on the back and Langhers perched himself on it, his feet hanging over the back of the vehicle as Jock Bruce swung his leg over the petrol tank and dropped into the saddle. He strapped the shotgun to the handlebars, flicked the starter and the engine coughed and kicked into life. He took it s
teady back to the road, where Langhers collected the Range Rover and followed Bruce on the quad back to the farmhouse, covering the distance in a touch under the hour, the dogs trotting alongside, drifting close and moving off as they travelled. Jock pulled into the farmyard and switched off. The door opened at the sound of the bike arriving and Sally Bruce stood in the doorway. Faded jeans tucked into old Wellingtons and an oversize sweater, stretched by too many washes, with her jet-black hair scraped back and twisted up into a bun. Her cheeks had a red chapped look of cold wind and rain, but healthy with it. She was a hardy lass, well suited to the life she shared with her husband. Langhers parked the Rover and climbed down from the car. He closed the door, reached inside his smock and drew the Browning from its holster. He held it by the barrel and pressed the magazine release. The loaded box dropped into his hand. "Mister Bruce, trust is a two way thing," he said, "I have asked you to trust me; I wish to show my trust in you. I hand this to you for safe keeping, for the duration of my stay in your home. However long or short the time," and handed over the handgun.
"That won't be necessary Mister Langhers. You're outnumbered."
"I prefer Kurt, if you don't mind."
"Then ah'm Jock and this ma wife, Sally," he turned to his wife and introduced Langhers. "Sal, this is Kurt Langhers, he's a friend of the lad they brought off the hill."
"Good morning to you, Kurt, welcome, will you join us, I've just put the breakfast on, there's plenty." Her accent was softer than Jock's, with a musical lilt to it.
Langhers bowed his head slightly, "I will ma’am that would be most welcome." He slipped the magazine back into the Browning and replaced it in the holster under his smock. He collected his day-sack and followed Jock into the house. The dogs stayed in the yard Sandy by the gate and Jed lay down a yard or so behind him. Sally stepped back and ushered them inside. Jock led the way into a large kitchen with an ancient oak table as the centrepiece and obeyed the directions as to where he should sit, he found himself with his back to the door. Jock took his seat at the far end, where he could see the door and Sally bustled around arranging plates and cutlery. Pint mugs of tea were poured to start the proceedings and breakfast followed in their wake. The two men talked as they ate, occasionally twisting the words around mouthfuls of home cured bacon and eggs.
"What are ya looking for anyway?" Jock said, after sluicing a mouthful of bacon down with tea.
Langhers paused in his chewing, swallowed and said thickly. "Anything, everything, I just don't seem to have anything to go on, we know how he got to the top of the mountain, he told us that himself, what we don't know is where he came from to get there, or who did the business on him."
"Can you tell anything from his injuries?"
"Bugger all, but he wasn't interrogated, he has absolutely no recollection of any form of questioning. Whoever they are just beat the shit out of him, then as a final flourish carved him up with a leather glove wrapped with barbed wire, which the doctors said was probably rusty and may have been contaminated in other ways as well."
"Then dumped him on the mountain to rot." Jock added.
"That's about it." Langhers said and forked another piece of bacon in to his mouth. Jock Bruce had set aside his knife and fork to concentrate on the mug of tea for a while and sat with his elbows on the table and the mug held in front of his face. "So, he's beaten up, dumped on the mountain and that's an end of him, or that's what was hoped."
"The hinge factor was you and your dogs; they thought they had picked a good spot."
"They had, If the weather had turned the day before, I wouldn't have been out there, I was on the mountain to check the sheep." Jock explained.
"What about the days before you found him, do you recall anything out of the ordinary, no matter how trivial, or did you hear anything?"
Jock fell silent and thoughtful. "You’ve got me there, lad, there isn't a single thing which sticks out, we've had helicopters around; that's not unusual. That could be the army dropping troops on exercise, the rescue lads or any one of a dozen commercial aircraft from mappers to oil developers. All shapes and sizes really."
Langhers bulldozed egg yolk around his plate with a piece of bacon. "I suppose you get to the point where you never even look up when you hear them coming."
"Out on the quad, there are times when you don't even hear them, can't hear a bloody thing most of the time. It's a noisy little bastard, but you're right, if ya see an unusual one come over the horizon, well, then you'd notice it, but ah don't make a point of it. Makes more sense to keep your eye on the ground, especially with the beast."
Sally cleared the dirty crockery to the sink and joined them at the table. The teapot had been recharged and the mugs topped up. Langhers declined, protesting that his teeth would float off if he drank much more. A rare flash of humour in a despondent morning, lightened only by the company he had found. Jock Bruce was a quiet, thoughtful man, but not one who would be pushed around. His quietness was drawn from the knowledge of his surroundings, you can make all the noise you like in the eye of the storm, but no-one will hear you outside, so you may as well take it quietly and stand firm when you have to. Kurt Langhers had felt no shadow of a doubt when the muzzle of the shotgun had tracked towards him earlier on, with sufficient provocation Bruce would have fired and he owned a practical knowledge of the landscape to ensure that the body was not found for a long time. Now and again, as it did now, stillness settled on him. Alert to his surroundings, he was nonetheless detached from them, wrapped in his thoughts. Sally turned to Langhers. "Your friend is recovering well?"
"Yes thank you, he's out of hospital at the moment, but I think he may have left a little prematurely. At the moment he's resting on a friend's boat. The confinement will do him good though there's a pretty good chance he'll not appreciate it."
"He's in good hands?" Jock enquired. His silent reverie ended.
“You could say that," Langhers laughed, "the best, but he'll not admit it."
Sally raised an eyebrow. "He's not alone then?"
Langhers nodded, the smile firmly fixed to his face. "He's found himself a good nurse and just so he doesn't get carried away they have a chaperone, who like Nelson, would feign blindness if needed."
Jock drained his mug and stood, pushing the chair back with the back of his calves. The legs scraped on the tiled floor. "Ah must be off out again Sal, there's still a fair bit of the mountain to cover." Jock announced, “you’re welcome to stay awhile longer Kurt."
Langhers glanced at his watch and remembered the phone call to the Grange, Jardine would not be concerned, but there was little point in delaying the contact for much longer. "It's good of you, but I must be getting on, there are still some things to sort out. Thank you for your time and your hospitality and for your help."
"Ah'm sorry we couldn't be more use, it seems precious little, we've heard nothing and apart from finding your friend we seem to have seen nothing."
Langhers rose from the table and smiled at them. "I wouldn't worry about it, there are times when what at first seems negative has a positive side, even if it only tells me how little information I have to go on. Look," he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet, opening it he slipped out a business card, "there could be something, but you just haven't remembered it yet. When you do and it may be that seeing something again jogs your memory, so when you do, give this number a ring and leave a message. Either pass the information on, or ask me to get back to you. I'll do that as soon as I can." Sally took the card and slipped it behind the clock on the mantelpiece. Langhers replaced his wallet and zipped up the pocket. "It's been nice to meet you." He said and held out his hand. Jock took it, shaking it firmly, then it was Sally's turn and Langhers noted that her grip was as strong as her husband, though neither of them made any show of it in the handshake. Jock ushered Langhers outside and stood by the door of the Range Rover as Langhers climbed aboard and started the engine, he blipped the throttle and Jock gave an appreciative
nod. "A throaty beast isn't she."
"Yes and thirsty," he leaned forward and tapped the gauge, an odd trait, but he had done it for as long as he could remember, the electronic sender was immune to the judicious tap of a finger, "I could do with getting some fuel, I'm down to a quarter."
"If you're heading that way," Jock aid, nodding southwards, "there's a petrol station near Tyndrum, or you can go back towards Ballachulish."
"Thanks Jock, I'll head south, I've got some things to sort out down Glasgow way and I've got a spare tank in the back. I should be OK." Langhers replied. Jock Bruce stepped back and waved as Langhers swung the car into a three point turn in the yard and headed off down the track. Sally watched from the top of the step. "Will you be back in time for lunch?"
"Aye ah'll be back, in plenty of time I hope." He stood and listened to the sound of the Rover as it bounced down the track and swung on to the road. Then pausing only to kiss his wife Jock Bruce straddled the seat of the quad bike and whistling the dogs, turned over the engine and set off for the mountain. He went straight back to the area where he had found Langhers and began to work his way across the ground from there, checking his sheep and dispatching the dogs to sweep the hillside and bring them down towards the farm. The long range forecast wasn't too good and he wanted the chance to shear and dip them before they went back out for the summer and for the lambs, by now almost as tall as the ewes he would see which ones needed their tails docking. He stopped once to spot Langhers' car as a distant speck on the road as the landscape opened out towards Rannoch. He was well above the valley floor when he saw the shadow flitting across the landscape below, then realised almost immediately that it wasn't the shadow, but the helicopter itself, flying low and hugging the line of the road as it came out of the glen and buzzed southwards. He shrugged and went back to tending his sheep, slotting the information into the back of his mind he would come up with the answer to the conundrum while he worked.
Langhers had the window down, enjoying the breeze from the slipstream of the car and with the CD turned up, a compilation of rock ballads poured from the speakers as he took in the scenery as he drove. One hand on the wheel and the other elbow resting on the door with his head propped on his hand, taking as much notice as he needed on the road ahead and the framed image in his rear view mirror. The dark spot was steady in the centre, growing rapidly and he muttered a curse under his breath, it was bound to happen, the police would eventually cotton on to the changed registration and decide to scour the countryside for a dark coloured Range Rover. He glanced upwards as the spot loomed large as an insect and then carried on growing as it caught up on the car. There was no point trying to outrun the helicopter as it thundered by at a hundred and fifty feet. Whoever it was, it wasn't the police and he jerked up in surprise, then puzzled as the Robinson R44 Raven swung across the road and flew back on the other side. It was behind him now and lower, the down wash from the rotors hammered the vegetation, twisting and bending the scattered bushes and heather and the din of the six cylinder Lycoming piston engine drowned out the sound of the car. Whipping up the pools of water and small lochs alongside the road. It swooped again, its landing skids only feet above the tarmac, a miscalculation on the pilot's part and he clipped one of the marker poles lining the road. Eight feet or so tall, they marked the course of the road following heavy snow, the top of the pole broke off and he edged the machine a little higher. Langhers eased off the accelerator and let the Range Rover slow a little, a manoeuvre that was matched by the Robinson then reached across for the day-sack. Dropping it flat on the seat he snapped the catches holding it closed and dragged the canvas pouch clear and reached inside for the digital camera. He left it on the seat and spotted a passing place not far ahead. The road ahead was deserted for as far as he could see in both directions. The landscape appeared to be empty except for the helicopter, now set into a circling pattern around the Range Rover and the Range Rover itself. Langhers stamped on the gas and the car leapt forward and for a moment left the helicopter behind, the pilot adjusted his course and circled again. Langhers watched the aircraft closely. Figures moved around inside, taking up positions in the cabin, he turned his attention back to the road ahead, checking the distance to the passing place and tucked the camera in his smock pocket. The Browning was still in its holster, underneath the jacket and not easy to reach while he still drove. The Robinson was flying parallel now, low down and the pilot jockeying to hold it alongside the speeding car, chasing its prey. The wind and engine noise through the window muffled any other sound, a moment before the passenger window exploded inwards Langhers saw the door panelling twist and buckle as bullets slammed through it. The downward angle of fire sent the bullets low and he felt them hammer into the seat mounting and floor around him. It wouldn't be long before something vital was damaged and he lost control of the car and his options were limited. He was trying to think when a second salvo ripped into the rear wing, broken glass and twisted metal preceded the angry crack and whine of ricochets. Amazingly the car was still responding, a third salvo perforated the roof as the Robinson swung across the road and moved off, hurtling down the road to spin under its main rotor and position itself directly ahead of the car. Langhers left the car in second and drew the Browning, he slipped the safety with his thumb, pulled back the single action hammer and laid it in his lap, then he floored the pedal and the car lunged forward, aiming straight for the hovering aircraft. It spun slowly to expose the two figures crouching in the rear and Langhers could see the machine pistols settling their sights on the car. Langhers took the chance and squeezed off a double tap through his own windscreen. Two rounds in rapid succession, the first shattered the window, the second passed unhindered. It was a gesture of defiance as much as anything but one of them found a mark and Langhers saw one of the gunners twist. He dropped the weapon and it tumbled out of the window. Langhers stamped on the brakes and stopped after driving over the gun, allowing the wheels to pass either side of it. The Robinson had lifted out of range, keeping its distance while the remaining gunner poured another burst of fire into the Range Rover. The radiator went, bleeding hot water and coolant on to the road. Langhers grabbed the canvas roll, pushed open the door and went out, dropping on to the tarmac and scuttling around the back to where the gun had fallen. It gave him vital seconds, with the canvas tucked tight under his arm and the Browning held by the barrel in the same hand he sprinted, scooped the gun off the road without breaking his stride and dropped into a gully. He looked at his prize with mixed feelings, a Sterling, successor to the Sten and the Para model with a shortened barrel and no stock, 9mm calibre and pretty good at house clearing. He ducked as the aircraft thundered over his head and he tore open the canvas, working fast, his actions driven by adrenaline and fear working hand in hand he assembled the Heckler-Koch and slapped in a magazine, he cocked it and set it down. The first burst would come from the Sterling, emptying the magazine. He didn’t stop to think, "Where the fuck did they come from" there wasn’t time and the Robinson passed again, pulling up short and hovering above the road. Langhers realised his chances were going downhill faster than a yellow snowball in hell, they had all the advantages. The weak spot, there must be a weak spot, must be the helicopter itself. He had to stop the helicopter. The limited fire power at his disposal gave him little choice. The pilot seated on the right hand side of the cockpit or for the rotor-head above the engine and pray that the 9mm shells would do enough damage? Langhers cocked the Sterling and swung the muzzle upwards as the Robinson passed overhead, the pilot was getting cocky, blasting his quarry with the down-draught from the rotor. The blast of air whipped up twigs, grit and sand into a vicious whirlwind. He squeezed the trigger and the gun shuddered in his hands, the tearing sound of the sub-machine gun adding to the cacophony around him and he swore he heard the bullets hammering against the bodywork. The action slammed against an empty breech and Langhers tossed the gun aside, picking up the MP5SD and dragged a round into the chamber. T
he safety was off and the muzzle tracked across the silhouette of the helicopter. Stung by the fusillade from the Sterling it had reared up and drifted away, Langhers pulled the stock of the silenced MP5 tight into his shoulder and waited. Exposed to their field of fire; the knowledge that he had reached that place where his survival was beyond question and it came down to how many he was taking with him cleared his mind, time slowed and his perception became clearer. The integrated silencer of the MP5SD reduced the muzzle velocity of the shells, but not so much that it made any difference when they came up against flesh and bone. He tensed, waiting for the impact of bullets into his body and clicked the action for the machine pistol to automatic and returned fire. His first burst went into the cockpit windows, shattering the glass and setting the aircraft bucking as the pilot fought to regain control. More by luck than judgement he had winged the pilot, two bullets found their mark, one in the wrist and the second tearing into his left leg. The gunners were tossed around inside the fuselage and Langhers switched his target and pumped a second burst into the rear of the cabin, then back to the cockpit and he emptied the magazine. He stripped the empty box from the gun and pushed the second magazine into the slot. Another burst went into the fuselage and he ducked instinctively as one of his assailants gathered enough wit to reply, Bullets kicked up dirt and tarmac around him. Chance was running his way, the pilot, disabled by his injuries lost control and the Robinson dipped, slamming heavily against the ground and slewing to one side where the rotor tip struck the dirt and disintegrated hurling splinters in all directions. The opposing blade followed it, shattering on impact and the engine began to over-rev. The pilot struggled hampered by his injuries he shut down the engine and stumble out of the cockpit before the helicopter destroyed itself. The gunners tumbled from the cabin and scrabbled across the road. Langhers switched the action to single shot and followed them with the foresight. One nursed a shattered shoulder, his arm hanging limply by his side, his companion in arms appeared unhurt and brought his weapon out with him. Langhers fired once, the bullet punctured the bicep of the uninjured gunman and the man with the broken shoulder tried to raise his good hand. The pilot had made it from the cockpit, stumbled on the edge of the fuselage and slipped as his bloody leg collapsed under his weight and he tumbled into a shallow pool where he wallowed in the cold, peaty water. Langhers covered the man with one hand raised as he walked back on to the road and moved towards him and watched the pilot as he floundered in the muddy water. The MP5SD was still tucked against his shoulder when they stood face to face. The pain was clear in the man's eyes, overpowering the hard stare he wanted to throw across the narrow divide. It was too much for him and he closed his eyes against the pain. The pilot was on his feet, saturated and limping up the banking to the road. Langhers stepped back from the pair on the road and settled the machine pistol against his hip and his thumb clicked the selector back to automatic. "Stay where you are and place your hands on your head, very slowly." He was as surprised by the sound of his own voice as the realisation that he had come out in one piece and now he had to do something with them. He motioned the pilot to come on to the road and join his colleagues, Langhers spent five minutes spacing them out on the tarmac and spread-eagling them, before he eased off, backing towards the wrecked Range Rover and searching for the sat-phone. He stared dejectedly at the smashed device; two rounds from the first salvo had reduced it to scrap. He tossed it back into the car and slammed the door. The offside of the vehicle was remarkably untouched, but the near-side was a total ruin, glass and paint-work was riddled with holes and one tyre was flat, a spreading pool of water ran from under the radiator and worked its way down the camber on the road. So far as he could see, he had a couple of options, to walk them back towards the farm, or set fire to the Robinson and wait for it to be noticed, hopefully, by Jock.
Jock had worked it out sooner than he thought and turned his quad back to the farm, the dogs running alongside and Sally had been surprised to see him back so soon. He jumped off the quad as it rolled to a stop in the yard and was halfway up the steps when Sally opened the door to him. "You're early?"
"I know; yon Kurt was right I did remember when I saw it again. That chopper is back again."
"The one you saw a couple of weeks ago?"
"Aye, it's just come up the glen, heading for Rannoch, the same direction as Kurt and ah've got a feeling." He said and opening a cupboard over the sink lifted out a small nylon rucksack. Sally went into the scullery and came out with a box of cartridges and a semi-automatic shotgun. She loaded it and handed it to him. "Take that, it will be more use than a double barrel," and pushed the cartridge box into the rucksack. Jock was in another cupboard dragging out the first aid kit; he stuffed that in the rucksack and worked the cartridges back on top. He tugged the draw-cord tight and dashed for the door, grabbing the keys to the Landie from the hook on the wall. He dragged open the car door, threw the shotgun and the rucksack across the seat and bundled himself inside in one movement. Rammed the key into the ignition, swearing when it failed to fire up first time, it lit on the second try and a cloud of diesel smoke belched from the exhaust. Soon he was on the road and heading for Rannoch.
Langhers leaned against the trashed Range Rover and watched the three stooges spread-eagled on the tarmac. They were going nowhere in a hurry and that took them out of the game but he needed a transfer to a place where they could be isolated and he had to talk to Jardine. No closer to resolving his difficulty, his heart sank when he saw the vehicle approaching from the direction of Glencoe, lifting slightly when it stopped and Jock Bruce stepped out carrying the shotgun. He looked at Langhers and then at the motley collection at his feet. "Been in the wars have we?" Banal, but it was the best he could come up with, which avoided the blatantly obvious "What the fuck!" which followed close in its wake.
Langhers grinned with relief. "Somebody doesn't like me."
"Maybe it's your car." Bruce nodded at the trashed Range Rover.
"Whatever, the problem is, what the bloody hell am I going to do with them."
Jock Bruce cast his eyes around the scene and whistled softly. "These guys are serious, Ah reckon after a fuck up like this, the other team won't be happy."
"Need to get them off the road," Langhers remarked, then, suddenly decisive. "I need your help to get the Range Rover out of the way."
"That gives us a couple of options. We shove her off the road and let her sink, there'll be a deep boggy spot near here, or we tow her back to the farm and you get her shifted from there. The helicopter on its own will be a puzzle for anyone who finds it, but the solution will be less obvious. I'll spin some bullshit if anyone asks. It could be lucky it didn't burn." Bruce suggested.
"Take her back, have you got somewhere we can lock them up until I can get some support?"
"Oh aye, that'll be no problem." Jock said, "There’s plenty of baling twine, but we'll get them out of here first, then come back for the Rover." Jock left Langhers keeping an eye on them while he turned the Landie around and Langhers loaded the captives. They settled down with their backs to the cab and an air of resignation. The bastard wasn't supposed to fight back. Langhers collected the first aid kit and loaded it the cab of the Landie. Jock tethered the trio together and latched up the tailgate. "On second thoughts Kurt, maybe we'd better take the Rover with us; you can keep an eye on these three from there while I tow you back." Jock said and reversed the vehicle with a crashing of gears, a dash of dodgy clutch control and a complete lack of sympathy for the poor bastards in the back. Langhers retrieved the tow-rope from the tangled mess of the Range Rover and hitched it to the forward towing point, then paid out the line until Jock was in a position to hang the other end on the tow ball of the Landie. Langhers slipped behind the wheel checked the steering lock was off and turned the wheels and between them, they managed to bring the car round to face in the direction of the farm. Jock set off at a steady pace, Langhers keeping the tension on the line with a touch on th
e brakes now and again. Jock led the ragged convoy into the yard and stopped alongside the entrance to the barn. It took a few minutes to unload the bloody cargo and half an hour to clean and bandage the wounds. Langhers worked calmly cutting, swabbing and dressing, then finally dumping all the waste in a bucket and carrying it outside. Jock sat and watched patiently, the MP5SD steady in his hands and checked they were securely bound before he joined Langhers outside. "I could do with some petrol Jock," Langhers said holding up the bucket, "just enough to burn this little lot."
"No problem, there's a gallon can in the back of the Landie, but what are you going to do about them?"
"Make a couple of phone calls then we'll have to wait for a few hours. With a reasonable amount of luck I might be able to get rid of the Robinson as well, but it will take a bit longer."
"Ah don't think we'll get much trouble from them for a while," Jock jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the barn door as they crossed the yard."
"They could be the first big break we've had, aw, fuck it, this is the only break we've had. Steel put the last one in hospital and we can't get to him. The police are just as keen to talk to him as we are."
"Well, make ya phone calls and then ah'll get Sally to have a look at you."
"I'm fine Jock, really." Langhers said.
"Aye, ah know, but you've a face to frighten the bairns right now. Glass, ah think, maybe when the windscreen went."
"Let me burn this first, then we can wash off the smoke as well as the blood." Langhers said and Jock hefted the petrol can from the truck bed, he handed it to Langhers who went outside the yard and found a spot where rubbish had been burned before then soaked the waste and set light to it. Jock set about washing down the back of the Land Rover, swilling the blood from the metal floor. Sally hovered in the doorway, watching furtively through the kitchen window and door as she moved around inside, eventually she came outside and wandered around the wrecked Range Rover. "How did you get out of that without being killed?" She asked as Langhers came back into the farmyard with the empty bucket.
"Pure chance, it has to be. I've probably got their arrogance to thank for still being here. They played with me and that gave me long enough to hunker down and sort out my defences. Then I really got lucky, I managed to injure the pilot and he hit the ground with his rotor." He said. Sally came towards him and took hold of his chin, turning his head this way and that. "Let me take a look at that, then you can make your calls." Langhers followed her into the farmhouse and submitted to her attentions, wincing slightly as she sponged down his face and carefully extracted a few shards of glass from the wounds. She stepped back and admired her handiwork. "There, that should do, you should pass for human."
"In a bad light with the sun behind me." He joked.
Her smile was tight, the furrows on her forehead deeply etched lines of concern.
Langhers said. "Sit down Sally; you've got something to say haven't you."
She sat down across the table and clasped her hands in front of her on the scrubbed wooden top. ""I'm afraid Mister Langhers, sorry Kurt, but using your first name makes this actually more difficult to say. I'm scared, not for myself, but for Jock, he's a good man, too trusting in many ways, but that's a part of his nature. What are we getting ourselves mixed up in?"
"Nothing I hope, I want to be able to lift this out of your lives within the next couple of hours, eight hours at the most. There may be some people and equipment around for a while after that, but then we will be gone, hopefully, for good," he said quietly, his voice surprisingly gentle, "now, please may I use your telephone?"
"Of course you can," she said, "there's one in the front room.”
"Thanks, I really appreciate this and what you've just said." He popped outside to tell Jock he would be using the phone and added. "Go to Sally, she's a bit worried."
Jock nodded. "I'll be a minute." He said and watched Langhers go back into the house before he dropped the hose-pipe and went in. Langhers slipped quietly into the front room and found the telephone on a small table under the window. The room was arranged with old furniture, some of it probably antique, but with the patina of being part of a living house, even though the room itself was quiet. The tidy stillness of a room set aside for visitors and Langhers guessed that life continued apace in the kitchen for most of the week. He sat cross-legged on the floor and lifted the telephone down, picked up the receiver and dialled the Outland number. He let it ring four times, cut off the call and then re-dialled.
Jardine flinched at the hard jangle and froze with his hand hovering over the telephone on his desk, a count of four, then silence and it rang again. He answered it on the next ring. "Morning Kurt, I was expecting your call sooner."
"Morning sir, yes, sorry about that; had a spot of local trouble, the opposition turned up, with a Helo and full metal jacket. Sorry Boss, but I've bent the Range Rover." Langhers began.
"Where are you Kurt?" Jardine asked.
"I'm with the shepherd who discovered Steel, between Glencoe and Rannoch Moor; I wanted to see the place for myself. Look, I know it was a long shot, but I was chancing my arm that something would turn up. It did, sporting a couple of machine guns, fortunately the insurance I had was useful. Sadly it couldn't save the car, but I walked away, not quite the situation for the helicopter and its passengers. The copter is a write off and I've three injured guests. I've done what I can, but I need a discreet paramedic, any chance you could get one to drop in."
"Spare me the details for now, Kurt, tell me what you need and I'll have it on its way as soon as possible."
Langhers scratched his head. "I guess, three things, replacement vehicle, one of the lightweights if possible, a paramedic for the wounded and Sentinels to keep an eye on the shepherd and his wife, again discreetly."
Jardine scribbled notes on a pad as Langhers spoke, turning his words into men and material. "Tell me what this sounds like; you're looking at is a four by four, two quad bikes and a team of six, as of yesterday. Give me five hours and start the clock, for a count of sixty." Jardine told him.
Langhers chipped in, catching him just before he signed off. "Sir, the sat-phone is out. It stopped a couple, sorry but it's scrap. I'll call you back in an hour with a possible contact point."
"Don't worry, just give me a DZ within five miles of your present and we'll take it from there. I'll get word to Steel that you're infantry and you'll be with him as soon as possible."
*****
Chapter Eighteen
Iceline Page 19