by Will Jordan
The shit had well and truly hit the fan now. The alert had gone out, klaxons and sirens filling the night air with their harsh wails. Moments earlier the sharp crackle of gunfire had echoed up through the cell blocks. Who was shooting who? He didn’t know. Confusion was everywhere.
The weather conditions were deteriorating by the minute. He could feel the wind getting up and the temperature dropping as a storm front came in from the north-west. The snowflakes were also heavier and more numerous.
If they delayed much longer, they might not make it out at all.
His comrades could well be fighting for their lives a couple of floors below him, but that, like the weather, was out of his hands. The best – and indeed only – way to help them was to hold his position and stick to the plan. That was what they were counting on him to do.
Operations like this broke down when people started panicking and acting on their own initiative without communicating with the rest of their team. No way was that going to happen today.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement in the north-east tower, and swung the rifle around, increasing the magnification on his scope to get a better look. It was a guard, eyes wide with panic, clutching an AK assault rifle as he stared down into the exercise yard. No doubt he expected prisoners to come crashing from one of the cell blocks at any moment.
Keegan wondered if he’d been ordered up there or if he had just gone there to survey the situation. How organised were their enemies? Had they planned for this? Was it part of their training, or were they running around in confusion and panic?
Whatever the reason, Keegan’s response was the same.
‘Take one down, pass it around …’ he mumbled, adjusting his aim to compensate for crosswind.
Perfect sight picture.
Allowing himself to relax, he squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked back hard into his shoulder, and half a second later the top of the man’s head exploded in a spray of blood and brain matter.
Good kill.
‘Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall …’
He didn’t enjoy killing, but he did feel a certain satisfaction that came from exercising the skills he had spent long years perfecting.
Above the blare of alarms, he could hear the clamour of footsteps in the stairwell behind him. ‘Alpha Team, sit rep,’ he spoke into his radio.
It was Frost who answered. ‘Alpha’s in the stairwell. Hold your fire.’
A moment later, Frost and Mason emerged into the observation area, breathless and sweating.
‘Good to see you again,’ Keegan said without taking his eyes away from the scope.
‘Good to be here,’ Mason replied, keying his radio. ‘Alpha’s at the rendezvous point. Bravo, what’s your situation?’
Dietrich’s reply was gasped out through laboured breaths. ‘Bravo Two. We’re on the … stairwell … heading up. Get ready to cover us!’
‘Copy that. You okay?’
‘I’m hit, but … still in the fight. Where’s … the chopper?’
‘It’s inbound right now. We’re—’
Mason’s sentence was cut off as a burst of automatic weapons fire sliced into the observation area, shattering the windows around him. Freezing wind and dry flakes of snow whipped through the now open platform as all three of them hit the deck.
‘Shit! We’re taking fire.’ Frost had one hand pressed against a cut above her left eye where an errant fragment of glass had gashed her.
‘Keegan, you see the shooter?’ Mason called out.
Waiting until the incoming fire slackened off, Keegan peered over the edge of the concrete parapet long enough to scan the other three towers. Another burst of fire was enough to make him duck back down, but it didn’t matter. He’d seen what he had to.
‘South-east tower,’ he said calmly, reaching up to grab something resting on the table above him.
His hand came back clutching a small metal control unit with a long wire snaking out, that Mason recognised immediately as an M57 Firing Device. Commonly referred to as a Clacker, it served as the standard remote trigger for Claymore anti-personnel mines.
‘Fire in the hole,’ he announced, flicking off the safety catch and depressing the simple flat trigger.
A bright flash followed by a concussive boom signalled the destruction of the south-east watchtower, along with anyone unfortunate enough to be inside it.
Peering over the parapet once more, Keegan nodded in satisfaction. A trio of Claymore anti-personnel mines daisy-chained together inside the observation area had done their work well, blasting the structure apart from the inside and shredding anyone within the blast radius.
The injured man was a heavy burden as she fought her way up the spiral staircase, practically dragging him along with her. He was flagging badly, weak from shock, pain and blood loss. His armour and equipment was dead weight that they couldn’t afford.
For that matter, so was he.
She was breathing hard from her exertions, and only now did she realise how weak she had become. Training and exercising daily, it had been easy to convince herself that she had maintained some semblance of her former fitness. But years of poor food, beatings and injuries, and no opportunities to move around had taken their toll.
She couldn’t help him. She’d be lucky to help herself in this condition.
Missing a step, Dietrich stumbled and fell, letting out a cry of pain as he landed on his injured leg. He lost his grip on the sub-machine gun, which clattered down the steps behind them.
‘Get up!’ she yelled, anger and frustration welling up inside. This was taking too long. He was slowing them down. They could be out of here by now if it wasn’t for this idiot.
He was done. Better that he died now before he got them all killed.
Letting go of him, she turned to reach for the fallen weapon.
The click of a hammer being drawn back stopped her, and she turned to look at the injured man again. He was covering her with a USP .45 automatic pistol.
‘Don’t fucking think about it,’ he growled in Russian. He spoke the language well, but she detected a faint accent. German or Austrian, she thought. A proud people, an arrogant people. Twice they had tried to conquer this country, and twice they had failed.
She did a threat assessment. A USP .45-calibre pistol. Twelve-round magazine. Effective range, about 50 metres in the right hands. Massively powerful. A popular choice for Special Forces operatives.
But it was a heavy weapon, and its owner was already weak from blood loss. He was struggling just to hold it steady. Broken down and diminished as she was, she could still disarm him before he managed to get a shot off.
She tensed up, muscles readying themselves for the sudden movement that she would soon require.
Weakness will not be in my heart. Fear will not be in my creed. I will show no mercy. I will never hesitate.
Before she could act, she was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs below. She turned in time to see the other man charge round the corner.
‘Get up, Dietrich,’ he said, grabbing the injured man and hauling him to his feet once more. ‘We’re almost there, mate.’
He managed the weight easily, she noticed with a flash of anger. He was young, strong, healthy, well fed and well rested.
The sharp crack of weapons fire echoed from below, mingled with confused shouts and agonised screams. A furious battle of some kind was raging, and she could guess the cause.
A riot was brewing. He had unleashed something beyond anyone’s ability to control.
‘What did you do?’ Dietrich asked as they resumed the painful ascent, leaving spots of blood on the concrete steps.
‘They’ve got bigger problems than us to deal with now.’ Drake pointed upwards. ‘Maras, up the stairs. Move!’
She needed no encouragement. Freed from her heavy burden, she charged up the stairs, heart pounding, lungs drawing in gasps of freezing air. After years of being confined to a 6-foot-by-8-foot cell, the
mere act of running unfettered was almost alien to her. The stairs were a strange and unusual obstacle that she hadn’t tackled in a lifetime.
Finally rounding the last turn, she rushed through the open door at the top of the stairs and out into a covered observation area overlooking the prison yard.
Then she stopped, staring around in awestruck amazement, oblivious even to the biting cold and the sting of dry snowflakes on her exposed skin.
For almost as long as she could remember, her entire world had consisted of her 6-by-8-foot cell, and the length of corridor she walked to get to the shower rooms. She hadn’t seen the outside world since the day of her arrival. She hadn’t breathed fresh air or felt the wind on her face. She hadn’t looked up at a sky that wasn’t lit by cheap electric lights and blocked by grey concrete.
This was the world she had once been part of, and it was consumed with chaos.
Alarms blared throughout the prison, the crackle of gunfire resounded from various points throughout the facility, mingled with shouts and panicked cries. One of the imposing watchtowers on the south side had been demolished as if by explosives, the observation deck a mass of shattered glass and smouldering debris.
More shouts from below directed her attention to the exercise yard, where a group of prisoners had broken through the main doors and were pouring out into the open space. Where they planned to go, she had no idea. She wondered if they were even thinking rationally, or if the crazed lust for freedom had overridden all common sense.
Either way, she didn’t doubt that Khatyrgan was going to fall tonight. There were too many prisoners and too few guards to hold them back, and they had suffered much in their time here. Their rage and lust for revenge would know no bounds.
She just hoped they were able to get out before the riot consumed the entire prison.
Tearing her eyes away from the chaos in the yard, she watched as her two rescuers emerged from the stairwell, breathing hard and close to exhaustion, driven by sheer determination.
‘How do we get out?’ she demanded.
Drake jerked a hand towards the remaining undamaged tower on the south block. ‘That way. Hurry.’
Chapter 23
‘I SEE THEM!’ Frost called out, pointing towards the north-west tower.
Bringing his weapon with its powerful optics to bear, Keegan caught sight of three figures darting across the rooftop towards them, the woman in front and Drake behind, supporting an injured and heavily limping Dietrich.
He watched Drake reach for the radio pressel at his throat. ‘This is Bravo. We’re almost there. Get the rappelling gear ready!’
‘It’s done,’ Keegan replied. ‘Move your ass, Bravo. This place is going down fast.’
‘Copy that!’
At the same moment, Keegan detected a noise above the shriek of the wind and the crackle of gunfire. A low, rhythmic thudding. It was their chopper.
Glancing upward, he watched in awe as a massive shape loomed out of the darkness to the east, skimming low over the prison as its twin rotor blades beat the frigid air.
His radio crackled into life again as the huge aircraft roared overhead. ‘This is Zulu. We’re about to set down outside the prison, but the weather’s deteriorating fast. We can’t stay on station long or we’ll never get airborne again. Recommend you hurry.’
‘Copy that, Zulu,’ Keegan replied. ‘We’re on our way.’
Outside, Mason was standing on the parapet staring down at the 100-foot drop yawning beneath him. Their rappelling rope was a lone white line tracing its way down the grim stone flanks. A lifeline. Their only means of escape.
Beside him, Frost was just finishing clipping her harness into place. ‘Move it. Go!’ he urged.
She shot him a sharp glare. ‘Easy for you to say.’
Swallowing down a sudden feeling of vertigo, the woman stepped out over the edge and pushed off, using the friction hitch in her right hand to control her rate of descent. She went far faster than she would have liked, knowing that time was limited.
Again she pushed away from the vertical surface and released her grip on the friction hitch, before slowing herself as she swung back in towards the wall again.
As soon as she touched down, Mason went to work clipping himself on. Their climbing harnesses were already a part of their uniforms, fixed in place and secured before they even boarded the flight here.
As he stepped out over the edge, he shouted to the sniper still inside the observation area. ‘Keegan, we’re clear. Fall back now!’
‘Be right behind you, buddy,’ Keegan replied without taking his gaze away from the scope.
No sooner had he said this than he spotted movement in the tower that Drake and the others had just emerged from. He couldn’t tell if it was a guard or an escaping prisoner, but he caught the distinctive frame of an AK clutched in the man’s hand, followed by a sudden muzzle flare as he opened up on full automatic.
‘Ah, shit! I’m hit!’ Mason cried.
Quickly lining up his sights, Keegan loosed a single shot in response, scoring a fatal hit to the man’s centre mass.
Not even bothering to watch the man collapse in his death throes, he turned towards the parapet in time to see Mason topple backwards over the edge.
‘Cole!’
In a heartbeat he had dropped his sniper rifle and sprinted to the edge of the parapet, staring down and expecting to see his comrade’s lifeless corpse sprawled on the snow-covered ground far below.
Instead, he found Mason dangling from his descent harness about 10 feet below, clutching his shoulder. His right arm hung slack by his side.
‘Jesus Christ. You okay, buddy?’
The younger man looked up at him. ‘Took a … round in the shoulder,’ he managed to say, his voice tight with pain.
It took all of two seconds for Keegan to weigh up their options.
Bringing him back up would be an exercise in futility, while going down to meet him was impossible; the line was only rigged for one person. Their best, and indeed only, option was to get him to the chopper where they could treat his injuries.
He could see the aircraft coming in to land about 100 metres beyond the prison wall, the downwash from its massive rotors kicking up a storm of snow and ice. Their salvation was tantalisingly close.
‘Can you still descend?’
‘I think so,’ Mason replied.
Without warning, he released his friction hitch and pushed off from the wall to start his descent. Pain, shock and blood loss had dulled his reflexes, making him careless.
The descent was far too fast. Realising he’d gained too much momentum, he squeezed the hitch closed, over-compensating and jerking himself to a halt about halfway down the wall. The sudden change in velocity upset the line, swinging him inward.
His injured shoulder slammed into the unyielding surface, and he let out an involuntary scream of agony as broken bones grated against each other. Dazed and almost blacking out with pain, he was barely able to keep a grip on the hitch as he slid down the wall, limp as a rag doll.
Frost was waiting for him at the bottom, and quickly unlatched him from the rope before pulling him to safety. It hadn’t been pretty, but he was down.
Bravo team reached the tower only moments later.
‘Move your arse!’ Drake yelled, forcibly shoving Dietrich up the metal ladder to the observation deck. The man was tiring fast, and was using most of his strength just to hold on. Drake knew how he felt.
Then suddenly Keegan appeared at the top, gripped his outstretched hand and hauled him up in a remarkable show of strength for such a small man.
‘Come on, asshole. Get up here.’
Drake went up next, then turned and reached out to help Maras. She didn’t grip his hand, determined to make it by herself.
‘Jesus, you really stirred up a shit storm here,’ Keegan remarked. He had discarded his rifle now, knowing it would be impossible to take the bulky weapon with him.
‘Only thing I could think of
to buy us some time,’ Drake explained. ‘What happened to Mason?’
The older man’s craggy face twisted in a grimace. ‘Took a round in the shoulder. He made it down, though.’
There was nothing more he could do for now. Drake nodded towards the descent rope. ‘All right. Get yourself down there.’
The sniper nodded. ‘You be right behind me, you hear?’
It took him only a few moments to clip himself in. Wasting no time, he jumped up on the parapet, balanced on the edge and vanished into the night, fearless as always.
With Keegan gone, Drake turned his attention to Maras. He had brought a spare climbing harness looped into his belt kit, which he unlatched and shoved at her.
‘Put this on.’
According to Cain, she was fully trained at rappelling and should be able to handle the descent with ease. Experience was one thing, but he had his doubts about whether she could manage the physically demanding task. She was already tired from her exertions, and obviously not in a good place mentally judging by her reaction to the guard.
Still, she seemed to understand what to do, and quickly pulled the two loops of the harness up around her legs, then set about securing the waist straps.
As she worked, Drake dragged Dietrich over to the rope. ‘Come on, mate. This is the fun part,’ he said as he clipped the older man in.
‘I can’t …’ Dietrich protested weakly.
‘Bollocks you can’t,’ Drake snapped. ‘The hitch only needs one hand, and you can brace yourself against the wall with your good leg. Now come on. Move, you lazy arsehole!’
Without waiting for him to reply, he grabbed the wounded man around the waist and hauled him up over the edge of the parapet.
Drake had no way of knowing whether he would make it, but there was nothing he could do about it anyway. There was no time to lower him by hand, and they certainly didn’t have time to rig up a tandem harness. One way or another, Dietrich would have to get through this by himself.
Seeing the fear and worry in his comrade’s eyes, he leaned in close and gripped his shoulder. ‘Just get it done quickly, all right? We can fix you later, but first we have to get out of here.’