by Matt Lynn
Alex nodded. She was right. There were vehicle tracks through that section of the minefield. But they had no way of knowing whether it was really clear. She’d be risking her life.
But it was her choice.
“Give me two minutes,” she said. “Then get ready to attack.”
Chapter Twelve
Jack had been in jails before and although he didn’t much care for them, he knew they had their own camaraderie. Men locked up together had little choice but to co-operate. It was us against them. They could only survive by sticking together.
It took a couple of hours, but finally a guy call Mustef struck up a conversation. When they discovered that he was an American, and Special Forces as well, they were happy to make friends. All the men in here were rebel fighters. Mechanics, builders, truck drivers, even a dentist. They were ordinary guys from Benghazi and the other towns along the coast who’d had taken up arms in the struggle against The Colonel’s hated regime, and were unlucky enough be captured, and thrown in these cells. It was brutal and cramped, but many of their comrades had been executed on the spot by the mercenaries fighting for the old regime, so they counted themselves lucky to be alive. For now anyway.
“What’s happening on the outside?” demanded Mustef.
He was a tall man, more than six foot. About thirty, with close cropped black hair and a beard that was starting to grow straggly in the weeks he had been held captive. His clothes were torn and blood-stained, and his eyes looked weak from being held in the semi-darkness for more than a month now, but his spirit was still strong, and any sign that the regime was close to collapsing lifted his mood, and renewed his determination to survive this and be re-united with his wife and children back in the west of the country.
“The end is close,” said Jack. “The rebels are getting closer and closer to the centre of Tripoli all the time.”
“How long?”
“A day, maybe less.”
“That is good,” said Mustef.
But he sounded nervous, noticed Jack. Some of the other men were whispering quickly in Arabic. The guards were shouting at the front of the corridor, and messages were being passed in urgent whispers down the block.
A shout. A guard pulled a man out of one of the cells, and slammed the door behind him. He put a gun to his head. A single shot rang out, echoing along the cramped corridor. The man dropped to the ground, dead.
One by one, the cells fell silent.
“What the hell is happening?” whispered Jack.
“Colonel Zayed is preparing to evacuate the compound,” said Mustef. “They are going to surrender it to the rebels, and make their last stand from a base in the interior of the country. But before they leave, they are planning to execute all the prisoners.”
“Shit,” muttered Jack.
“It looks like I won’t live to see my country liberated after all,” said Mustef sadly.
Chapter Thirteen
The more often he saw her in combat, the more Alex came to admire Zena’s fortitude and resilience and her appetite for battle. She’d moved up close to the wire without a moment of hesitation, wriggling across the dusty ground, face down, ignoring the risk of getting blown in half with every yard she advanced.
As she did so, Alex had moved up to the main gate. He was crouching down behind a boulder, watching the four soldiers closely, his heart thumping as he waited for the scrap to kick-off.
The sun was on their side. With the temperature close to forty degrees, even the Libyan soldiers were losing concentration. Two men were standing up, patrolling the entrance, but the other two were sitting under a canopy a few yards away, sheltering from the fierce midday heat. Their weapons were at their side, ready to fire, but it would take them a few seconds to scramble for action. If they could take out two guards in the first few seconds, then it would be two against two. With those odds, Alex sensed they could prevail.
Zena raised a single finger.
The signal.
Alex readied his rifle. To his right, Zena leapt to her feet, releasing a sudden burst of fire straight into the doorway. This was a quiet posting, reckoned Alex. The soldiers might go months without seeing any action, and they were taken by surprise. The bullets were spitting into the ground all around them. The two men standing had started to run for cover, whilst the guys in the shade were reaching for their weapons. Alex had already kicked back with his heels and started to run down the dirt track. At two hundred metres, he was just within range of his AK-47, but he kept moving. None of the four soldiers had noticed him yet; their attention was distracted by the rapid bursts of fire from Zena just on the edge of the perimeter fence. A hundred metres. He could see two soldiers straight ahead, both men firing into Zena’s position. Alex slowed a fraction, gripped the assault rifle, then squeezed the trigger. The bullets pumped out of the barrel of the gun, peppering the first man in the back. He collapsed onto the ground. Alex flicked the gun rightwards a fraction. The second man was just turning around, but it was too late. One bullet caught him in the side of his chest, whilst another ripped through his throat.
Alex threw himself against the doorway to the bunker, flinging it open. The two seated soldiers were now on their feet, their guns in their hands. Both men looked frightened and confused. They had no idea what kind of force had hit them, or what kind of numbers they might be up against, and that was a disorientating experience for any soldier reflected Alex. But they were brave and well trained and looked tanked up for the fight. One man had advanced towards the fence, flinging a grenade towards Zena’s position, whilst the other was advancing towards the door, Alex was sheltering behind. As soon as he put his head out to see what was happening a smattering of bullets from the man’s AK-47 forced him back inside again.
Zena had already started running back through the minefield. As the grenade came down, she’d put fifty yards between herself and its detonation point, but the shockwave it punched through the air still thumped her in the back and made her stumble to the ground. A ball of fire and smoke rolled upwards, but, as the soldier who threw it no doubt planned, that wasn’t the real damage it was designed to inflict. The shrapnel from the grenade flew out across the minefield, creating a rolling thundercloud of explosions as one after another the mines exploded. Suddenly, the ground itself was shaking, and clouds of smoke and dust were filling the air.
Zena picked herself up, and ran even faster. A piece of shrapnel winged her side, cutting open a flesh wound just above the rib cage, but to stay where she was meant certain death. She hurtled clear of the mines, and started to run towards the entrance. ,
Amid the noise of the minefield going up, Alex slipped out of the doorway. The racket had distracted the two remaining guards. Clouds of smoke were billowing away from the perimeter fence. The soldier who’d flung the grenade was running back towards the bunker, while his mate was still advancing towards the door. As Alex emerged he opened up a lethal burst of fire straight into the man’s belly, spilling his guts out onto the concrete, then turned his gun towards the second soldier. The bullets winged into him, one catching his leg, a second his chest, but the man was strong. His body absorbed the lead, and he knelt down, releasing an angry burst of fire into his attacker.
Up ahead, Alex could see Zena running down the track towards him. One part of his brain was telling him to take cover. The rational part. It was two against one now and they could deal with this man in good time. But he didn’t want to look cautious in front of Zena. Stupid, he told himself. We’re professional soldiers, not teenagers on a first date. But he felt it all the same. Throwing caution to the wind, he roared with anger, charging the man with his guns blazing. One bullet winged passed him then another. It was the kind of crazy stunt he’d seen boys in Afghanistan try, because all they had ever seen was Rambo films, and they thought that was how you prevailed in a fire fight. It usually got them killed. But as he moved closer, he could see he was getting away with it. His opponent was already wounded, and his aim off. A third bul
let from Alex’s AK-47 shot him clean through the forehead. And that strike was terminal.
Alex doubled over, gulping down huge lung-fulls of oxygen, then turned back to the doorway of the bunker. “Are you okay?” asked Zena.
“Fine,” said Alex. “You?”
“Fine,” she said, with what Alex suspected was a hint of a smile.
Alex flicked on a light switch and started to walk into the interior of the bunker. “Then let’s find this bloody document and get the hell out of here.”
Chapter Fourteen
Greenway walked back into the small, cramped briefing room. “Another coffee,” she barked. “Right now.”
She strode across to the map. Harford was examining the latest pictures coming in from Tripoli. The airport had fallen to the rebels, and so had one of the main military bases to the east of the city. As they day progressed, they were getting closer and closer to victory.
“Well…?” asked Harford.
“I spoke to the PM.”
“And?”
“We have authorisation for a cruise missile strike.”
“I think we may need it.”
He pointed up towards the screen. The rebel forces were advancing on the Compound on three main fronts. One was six miles away, another three, and one just two. They were meeting resistance along the way, but none of The Colonel’s remaining fighters could hold them up for more than a couple of hours at most. “They will be there by nightfall,” said Harford.
Greenway sighed. She’d sent men to a certain death before. It was part of the job and if you were uncomfortable with sacrificing men’s lives there was no point in applying to run Unit Five. It came with the territory. But she couldn’t ever get completely used to it. They risked their lives for their country. And then their country abandoned them. It was hardly pleasant work.
“We’ll send the strike in at twenty-two hundred hours,” she said.
It doesn’t make any difference, anyway, she reminded himself.
They are already dead men.
Harford smiled. He looked towards the command and control desk. “Get a pair of missiles ready,” he barked. “We’re preparing a strike.”
Chapter Fifteen
Alex led the way down into the bunker.
As he suspected, the building above ground was only a fraction of the complex. It was powered by its own generator which kept the electricity running, and a well that supplied water. On the ground floor, there were living quarters for a force of twenty men, but there was no sign of any guards other than the four they’d dealt with by the entrance. All The Colonel’s elite troops had been called back for the defence of Tripoli, he figured. There wasn’t much point in defending this place if the rebels were planning on stringing you up from a lamppost in the capital.
“Quick,” said Zena. “We haven’t much time.”
They hurried down a concrete staircase. Straight in front of them was a sealed steel door, and next to that an electronic keypad. If they had a few hours and a couple of tons of TNT they might be able to blast their way through it reckoned Alex. But fortunately, The Colonel had given them the code. He’d memorised the twelve-digit number rather than risk carrying it with him, and swiftly punched it in. The door swung up.
Alex stepped inside. The bunker was long and narrow, stretching fifty feet into the distance, and twenty across. Close to the entrance, there was a cache of weapons. Sophisticated assault rifles of American, Swiss and Israeli origin, handguns, grenades, and several tubes of what Alex guess were chemical agents, probably developed either in Russia or Iraq. At least the madmen hadn’t used those on his own people – not yet anyway. Further up, there was a stash of money. There were filing cabinets filled with the records of the stocks and bonds the regime held around the world, and next to those a more immediate form of cash: what looked like a couple of million at least in dollar bills, and as much again in euros: a stack of gold bars, worth another couple of million; and a tub of diamonds and other precious stones that could be converted into ready cash in any pawn shop or jewellers in the world.
None of that interested Alex.
Whoever wound up in power in Tripoli after this was all over was welcome to all of it.
He just wanted the document.
The filing cabinet was right at the back of the bunker. A slim, metal case, it was the same kind you might see in any office. Alex pulled it open and started rifling through the files. Zena grabbed another drawer and started inspecting it. They were shuffling through dozens of pieces of paper. Contracts, diplomatic cables, and private treaties signed with leaders from around the world.
But Alex knew precisely what he was looking for. The Colonel had told them what was marked on the envelope. ‘Document 451’.
“Got it,” said Alex eventually.
“Then let’s get the hell out of here,” said Zena.
She moved back swiftly towards the entrance. By the doorway, she paused to grab some weapons. They might need to fight their way back into the Presidential Compound. The more kit they had with them, the better their chances of survival.
Alex was walking towards her. He’d opened the envelope, and was briefly reading the document. “Shit,” he muttered out loud as he read the words.
“Here take this,” said Zena. “There may be more fighting ahead.”
She thrust as Browning Hi-Power, the standard issue service handgun for the SAS, into his chest, together with five clips of ammo.
Alex slotted the gun into his jacket, then passed the sheet of paper across to Zena. “I think you should read this,” he said.
“We’ve no time.”
“Just bloody read it.”
Zena glanced down, here eyes scanning the document. “Christ…”
“Precisely,” said Alex. He rubbed his hands through his hair. “Do you really want to fight for people who are capable of a deal like this? Do I?”
Chapter Sixteen
Jack looked around at the men in the cell. Dark eyes were staring back at him, some suspicious, some nervous, a few already all but dead. “There’s no point in sitting around here waiting to get executed,” he said. “We can break-out. If we get killed in the process, we haven’t exactly lost anything.”
It was three hours now since they’d seen the guards execute one of the men in the prison. Outside, they could hear the sound of gunfire. Where it was coming from precisely, there was no way of telling. They were underground, and even mortar fire sounded dulled. But the rebels were getting closer all the time. They could tell that much. It might only be hours before The Compound fell. And perhaps even less.
“But how?” asked Mustef. He shook his fists against the bars. “There’s no way out of here.”
Jack nodded towards the two soldiers standing at the entrance. “We can bribe our way out.”
He reached into the sole of his boot and withdrew a single gold coin. Half an ounce, worth more than a thousand dollars at today’s prices. Hard currency in a country falling apart. They searched him briefly for weapons before throwing him into this cell but they hadn’t done a full body search. If they had, they’d have found the coin, but as it was he’d managed to hold onto it. And used the right way, gold was as good a weapon as any gun. Maybe even better. “With this,” he said, holding the coin up.
One of the men in the cell advanced as if he was about to steal it, but Mustef pushed him angrily away. “Call the guards over,” said Jack. “I’ll talk, and you translate.”
Mustef glanced around the rest of the men and hissed a few words in Arabic. Each of them nodded in turn. It was a plan anyway, even if it wouldn’t necessarily work. It was better than sitting around waiting to be shot. Agreement reached, he lent back into the metal bars, and snapped a few words at the soldiers. Both men came across. AK-47s were swinging from their chests, and there were pistols strapped to their belts. Jack took a couple of paces back, and held up the coin, spitting on it first so that it glinted even in the semi-darkness of the cell.
“Tell him this is for him, just so long as he releases us,” said Jack.
Mustef repeated the words in Arabic.
“Tell him The Colonel’s finished. Tell him he’ll have to escape Tripoli, and a man will need money for that.”
The soldier hesitated, looking hard at the gold. Jack met his eyes. The soldier was twenty-five, at least, and that made him an experienced soldier in The Colonel’s army. This was no kid, and no fanatic either. He probably had a wife somewhere. Maybe children as well. He wasn’t planning on dying. Not on a lost cause anyway.
“Okay,” grunted the soldier.
He pushed the key into the door, then barked something in Arabic. Mustef turned back to Jack. “He says give him the gold first.”
“No way,” snapped Jack. “Tell him to open the door first.”
The man pointed his rifle butt through the door. Jack put the coin on the tip of his tongue. He glanced towards Mustef. “Tell him I’ll swallow this before he shoots me, and even if he wants to cut it out of my body, it’s going to take a few hours and The Compound will have fallen by then.”
Mustef repeated the sentence. The soldier hesitated, then grinned. A professional, thought Jack. He knows the score. He pushed the key into the lock. The door swung open. As he stepped inside, a swarm of men crowded around him. Jack barked at them to leave the guy alone. “Here,” he said, thrusting the coin into the man’s hand.
He grabbed his keys, and started to march up the corridor, flinging open the cells as he did so. “Time to go home, boys,” he said. “You’re war is over.”
Chapter Seventeen
There were few military tasks that required more expertise than hitting a moving target from a fast vehicle but Alex was not in the least surprised that Zena had managed to accomplish it with complete professionalism. His foot was pressed hard onto the accelerator of the Golf GTI, pushing the machine up past eighty miles an hour, an almost suicidal speed on Tripoli streets that were filled with roaming, heavily armed gangs of rebels and looters. But they had no choice. It was already past nine in the evening, and if they didn’t collect The Colonel and Jack from The Compound soon it would be too late.