Aggressor

by Nick Cook

  A helicopter passed close by, just below the level of the path. Girling had to bend lower to hear what the Sword was trying to tell him.

  ‘You must go...’

  A burst of machine-gun fire swallowed his words.

  ‘Save yourself.’

  Girling slipped his hands under the Sword’s body. He managed to carry him as far as a group of rocks just beyond the top of the path. He laid him down in the shade of an overhang.

  ‘You are free now,’ the Sword said. ‘Start your life again. Leave me.’

  Girling shook his head.

  ‘I will die with my Angels of Judgement.’

  ‘You’re the only person who can tell the truth. Die and your people will declare a Jihad against the Americans. There will be more hijackings, more Beiruts...’

  Using the smoke and the dust for cover, Girling made his way back down to the outer walls of the caravanserai. One of the gates had a hole blown in it, just large enough for him to squeeze through. He stepped between the bodies and the guns littering the courtyard. He knew what he had to do; he just didn’t know where to begin.

  They came in low towards the patch of scrub designated as the landing area, Shabanov’s Pave Low in front, Ulm’s just feet behind. Ulm could have been in a combat simulator back at Kirtland, watching images on a screen, his headphones filled with computer-generated sounds of weapons and war.

  The bullet that snapped through the windscreen and buried itself in the door above his head was a sudden reminder that this was no high-tech exercise.

  Bookerman threw the helicopter around the narrow sky between the valley walls, responding to reports of incoming fire. Ulm gave few orders. Every man knew what to do. The scene was almost identical to the dummy camp outside Wadi Qena.

  Everywhere people were running for cover. He could see old men and women cowering under the eaves of the caravanserai. A gunner was slumped over the breech of a flak gun on a truck in the middle of the courtyard.

  The Pave Low jinked and weaved as Bookerman responded to the calls of his gunners. At last Ulm spotted the outhouses that held the hostages.

  Suddenly they were down. Ulm threw off his straps and headed for the ramp. Someone chucked him his Heckler and Koch and a moment later he was out of the helicopter, feet pounding the earth. The swirling downwash from the rotors screened them from enemy fire. Ulm made it across the open ground just as the two-man explosives team were putting the finishing touches to the plastic around the hinges of the outhouse door. He pressed against the wall and waited for the synchronized detonation.

  When it blew, Shabanov was first through the smoking doorway, followed by Bitov and Jones. Ulm took a deep breath and rolled in behind them.

  A pall of smoke hung in the room. It was impossible to see more than a few feet. He could make out the three soldiers in front of him, but beyond that only shades of dark and light. Ulm’s every nerve-ending tingled. A stray shot from any of them would mean the difference between success and failure, life and death for hostage and captor. He waited for the first bullet, the first scream.

  A gust blew in through the door, parting the smoke. The cell was empty. Ambassador Franklin and Minister Koltsov were gone.

  Ulm pulled the Balaclava off his face. He sucked in the musty air, trying the suppress the stirrings of a feeling that before meeting Shabanov he had not had in almost four years.

  ‘They must have been moved to the caravanserai,’ the Russian said. His voice bore no trace of surprise.

  Ulm stared at him. ‘Do you realize what our chances are?’

  ‘We have to try, Elliot.’ Shabanov pulled a walkie-talkie from his uniform and barked orders for a helicopter to deploy further down the valley.

  An explosion outside rocked the foundations of the outhouse. Through the doorway, Ulm saw a crater burst close to the helicopters. Someone had managed to rig up a mortar.

  Ulm ordered the machines to get airborne and patrol the sky above the caravanserai. Their miniguns would give them covering fire as they raced towards the ruins of the Sword’s hideaway.

  With the assault team divided into two-man search parties, Ulm and Jones reached the first door leading off the courtyard.

  They flanked the entrance way. Ulm had pulled his Balaclava down around his neck. Jones, still wearing his, lifted his eyes and nodded.

  Ulm kicked down the door and threw the flash-bang into the room. The second it hit the floor and detonated, Jones was moving, Ulm right behind him. Inside, light streamed through a window close to the ceiling. It was a store-room, a silo; bags of grain and rice stacked to the roof.

  The next room was exactly the same; dark and cool, like a church. The thick stone walls drowned the noise of battle, allowing the two men to stop and listen. Inside there was no sound, no movement.

  They turned and moved outside, stealing beneath the eaves of the balcony towards the third silo. Jones stopped before they even reached the door. Without saying a word, he signalled Ulm. It was ajar, swinging gently on its hinges. Jones threw the stun grenade and Ulm careered inside. He rolled, coming to his feet in a crouch on the far side of the room.

  Another larder. One of the rice bags had split, scattering grains across the floor. In the echoing silence, it was like walking across broken glass.

  Ulm looked at Jones, covering him from the door. He heard a high-pitched note, like an ultrasonic alarm in his head. There was someone else in the room, someone besides Jones. He could feel something, a presence...

  He began to turn when the gun barrel hit him in the base of the spine.

  Ulm froze.

  Jones took a step into the room. He squinted against the light. ‘Sir...?’

  Girling came up from behind the sacks of grain. He moved the pistol up Ulm’s spine and held it between his shoulder blades. ‘Drop your weapon, Sergeant.’

  Jones looked at Ulm.

  ‘Do it now!’ Girling shouted. ‘You, too, Colonel.’

  Ulm flinched. ‘Girling!’

  ‘Drop the gun, Colonel.’

  There was a clatter as Ulm let his MP5 fall to the floor.

  Seconds passed, then Jones did the same.

  ‘Don’t say anything, Colonel. Don’t say a fucking word. Just listen and listen good.’

  Girling stepped out from behind his cover. He kept Ulm’s body between himself and Jones. ‘You’ve been set up. There are no hostages. No Franklin. There’s only one reason Spetsnaz are here. The Sword’s an Uzbek, a Muslim from Soviet Central Asia. They need him dead, and they need you to take the fall.’

  Ulm gritted his teeth. ‘What the fuck are you doing here, Girling?’

  Girling’s voice rose to a shout. ‘Don’t you ever learn, Ulm? The Sword wants out, but the Russians don’t know that.’

  ‘This is bullshit,’ Jones said. ‘There are terrorists with fucking surface-to-air missiles out there.’

  ‘They’re Palestinians, Hizbollah,’ Girling said. ‘The Sword got them here to say the deal’s off.’

  ‘The Russians have hostages, too, Girling.’

  ‘Colonel, they’ve gone to a lot of trouble to make this work. And unless you want another Panama here, we’ve got to stop that happening.’

  Jones was about to speak again but Ulm silenced him. ‘You’d better talk fast, Girling.’

  ‘The Sword’s been shot, Colonel, and there’s a good chance he’ll bleed to death unless - ‘ He hesitated. ‘If he dies, Washington carries the can for this whole operation. Those are American helicopters up there.’

  ‘With Russian soldiers on board!’

  ‘Are they wearing red stars on their uniforms?’

  Ulm faltered. Opnaz were the goddamned crack troops of the Interior Ministry. It began to hit him. Uzbekistan... Jesus.

  Ulm tried to turn, but Girling told him to keep his eyes front. ‘Girling, this can’t be happening...’ Then he thought of TERCOM’s discreet offices, the blacked out windows and Joel Jacobson. He suddenly felt tired. ‘There won’t be any further need for t
he gun.’

  Girling held the gun steady.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, man, if you’re right, I’ve got to warn the men.’

  ‘OK,’ Girling said. ‘Then let’s go.’

  They ran across the courtyard, Ulm trying to raise Bookerman and the other pilots on the walkie-talkie. He couldn’t see anything for the smoke and dust drifting across the valley.

  Once through the gates, Ulm ran ahead of Girling, while Jones brought up the rear. Girling was thankful for the escort. The pistol in his hand felt unwieldy.

  They reached an abandoned pick-up truck and ducked down by the driver’s door. Sharp cracks from the cliffs signalled the presence of snipers. Ulm continued to work the radio, but his voice was met by a wall of static. Girling edged round the side of the truck, hand raised against the smoke. He wanted to pick out the path again. He had to get back to the Sword.

  It was then that he saw the Pave Lows.

  The two helicopters had crashed between the caravanserai and the outhouses, each carving its own trench across the valley. There were bodies strewn around them. Broken, burning bodies.

  Ulm took a step forward, but Jones held him back. ‘No, Colonel. It’s too late.’

  An explosion shook one of the wrecks, sending smoke and flames billowing into the sky.

  ‘Christ, Spades. A mid-air?’

  ‘One too many accidents, boss. We’ve got to find the others.’

  As Jones turned, he almost walked straight into Bitov. Ulm was mesmerized still by the burning wreckage. Girling saw the confrontation between the two sergeants, but from the broad smile on Bitov’s face he thought the big son of a bitch was American.

  Jones hesitated. ‘Bitov...’

  The Russian raised his arm and shot the American once, straight through the forehead.

  Girling tried to move, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t tear himself away from the sight of Jones, still falling, his brains spilling through the jagged hole in the back of his Balaclava. It was only when the body hit the ground that the spell was shattered. And by then, it was too late.

  Bitov shifted his aim and Girling stared straight into the barrel of the pistol. Behind him, he heard Ulm’s shout of rage, but it was a faint echo amongst the screams and gunfire.

  Bitov squeezed the trigger. Once, twice... Strange, Girling thought, that there should be no sound.

  The gun had jammed.

  Ulm brought up his MP5, pulling Girling out of the way, and fired.

  Bitov was already diving for the truck. He rolled, but the bullet caught him in the back, close to the spine. His body kept rolling, out of Ulm’s line of fire. And then it lay perfectly still.

  Ulm was doing what he could for the Sword, staunching the flow of blood with a field dressing and killing the pain with morphine when Girling called to him from the other side of the rocks.

  Girling pointed into the sun. ‘Your missing helicopters,’ he announced.

  The sun was coming up behind the two Pave Lows, casting long shadows across the rocks. The helicopters were a little over three hundred metres apart, separated from each other by a cluster of large boulders. Their main blades drooped, motionless. It was as if the machines had been drained of energy.

  For a second, Girling thought the helicopters had been left unprotected, but then he saw movement on the ramp of the nearest machine. As his eyes became more used to the light, he could make out the figure behind the minigun. He was training it left and right, back and forth, with the restlessness of an insect.

  With the Sword’s dead weight to carry, they would not get more than a few yards across the open stretch of land before being cut down by a hail of 7.62 bullets.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  Ulm slapped in a new magazine and snapped back the bolt of his MP5. ‘Those two helicopters can’t see each other. Now if we go for the nearest one...’

  He leaned against the rocks, unslung his weapon and reached into a thigh pocket. He screwed the silencer onto the barrel of the MP5, never taking his eyes off the nearer helicopter. Then he attached the laser sighting system.

  ‘I could take out that guy from here, but I don’t know how many others are inside. This way, I might stay alive long enough to find out and fly us out of here both.’ He looked at Girling. ‘When I signal, bring the old man over to the back of the helicopter. Meanwhile, keep watching that trail. Still got your weapon?’

  Girling held up the pistol.

  Ulm disappeared behind the rocks. Girling tried to follow his progress amongst the shadows, but lost him. The American was working his way around to the other side of the helicopter so as to approach it with the sun at his back.

  Ulm stepped out into the open and began walking towards the nearest MH-53J when it was no more than thirty metres away. He could see the minigunner’s forearms; the rest of his body was hidden behind the wall of the Sikorsky’s cargo hold. If there were other gunners inside, he hoped they were looking the other way. For all the concentrated firepower in the helicopter before him, it was the second machine, away to his left, that worried him most. If any of its crew caught wind of what was happening, they could destroy their only means of escape with a few well-aimed bursts of automatic fire.

  Just before the second helicopter slipped from view, Ulm raised his arm and waved in case any of its crew members were watching him. He hoped he would pass for a Russian. He brought the Heckler and Koch up routinely, flicked the catch to semiautomatic and switched on the laser sighting system. The red spot beam danced over the rocks by his feet.

  He reached the sponson mid-way between nose and tail and stopped. Beneath the helicopter he saw the bodies of its American crew. All three of them had been shot in the base of the neck. He did not let it divert him. The cockpit appeared to be empty, as did the left-hand minigun station just aft of the forward bulkhead.

  Ulm stole along the fuselage, pausing for one last check of his MP5 before reaching the ramp. He pulled his mask down and stepped round the wall of the cargo hold.

  He had perhaps a second to assess the situation. There were two gunners inside. The one on the ramp, the other well forward, manning the right-hand defensive position by the flight-deck bulkhead. Both were training their weapons in the direction of the cliff where Girling and the Sword were hidden. Ulm smiled and nodded to put the far gunner at his ease, then put the barrel of his MP5 against the ribs of the Russian on the ramp, pulled him in towards the gun and shot him twice through the heart. The body jumped and pitched forward, the folds of the jacket catching on the silencer of the American’s gun.

  The second Russian lunged for his MP5 as Ulm struggled to pull the ramp gunner’s dead weight off him. Hearing the machine pistol being cocked in the confines of the aircraft gave him a new burst of energy and he hurled the body off the ramp. Suddenly free of the obstruction, the red laser sight-spot danced on the bulkhead. The gunner saw it, too, and raised his weapon. Ulm knew that a bullet through a fuel line or a critical piece of avionics would dash any hope they had of getting away.

  His hands wet with sweat, he waited till the spot beam held on the Russian’s forehead before firing. The gunner’s body slammed back against the opening for the minigun, catching on the pintle mounting. It hung, twitching, half in, half out of the helicopter.

  Ulm ran outside the hold and snatched a glance towards the rocks that obscured the second Pave Low. There was no sign of any movement. Then he waved Girling over.

  There was a flurry of movement as Girling eased the Sword’s body over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. Then the journalist made his way across the clearing. When they reached the ramp, Ulm helped Girling ease the Sword into the back of the hold. He pointed to some parachute packs hanging on the walls and told Girling to use them to make the old man as comfortable as possible for the flight.

  ‘You know how to work a minigun?’ Ulm asked.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Chances are you’re going to have to.’ Ulm slipped out of the back of the helicopter and jog
ged up the right side of the fuselage, stopping only to pull the dead gunner from his window.

  Ulm turned the handle on the door to the flight deck and tugged it open to find himself staring into the barrel of the gun. He twisted instinctively, like a fish on the end of a line, in a bid to get away. He curved off the foot rest into space at the precise moment the Russian pilot fired his pistol. The slug caught Ulm in the upper chest, spinning him in the air. He landed face down in the dirt, fully conscious. He could see the wheels of the Sikorsky a little way off, but could not raise his head any higher. He heard the crack of gunfire in the valley below. He heard, too, the cabin door swing as the Russian prepared to finish him.

  Girling had made the Sword’s body secure, when he heard the shots from the flight deck. Drawing his pistol, he ran through the hold towards the bulkhead. He wrenched the connecting door open just as the Russian was stepping out. Girling had no time to think. Still only half-way through the access hatch, he fired off two rounds. The first went high, but it made the Russian turn. The second bullet took him in the face.

  Girling wriggled through the hatch and was out of the commander’s door. He rolled Ulm over, convinced that he was already dead. The American’s blood was trickling down the gentle gradient that led to the cliff drop-off.

  As Girling moved him, Ulm coughed violently. Girling pulled the mask off his face and Ulm spat a mixture of dirt, blood and spit into the dust. He tried to speak, but Girling couldn’t make out the words. From the look on his face, though, he took it as some sort of apology.

  ‘Don’t talk,’ Girling said.

  Ulm’s half-choked laugh made Girling realize that talking was all they had left, because the Russians had them now. Their helplessness stirred anger in him and his anger gave him strength. He pulled Ulm onto his feet, ignoring his groans. Half-carrying, half-dragging the American, Girling moved around the front of the helicopter and opened the co-pilot’s door.

  It took him a full two minutes to get Ulm strapped in, by which time he had regained consciousness. Girling took off his own jacket and pressed it between Ulm’s wound and his inertia-reel harness.