Tenth Man Down gs-4

by Chris Ryan

  ‘Hey!’ I shouted in a moment of exultation. ‘How about that!’

  Genesis turned half towards me, and said, very loud, ‘“To give light to them that sit in darkness, and in the shadow of death.”’

  A moment later I felt him shudder violently. My right shoulder was pressed against his left, so the tremor was transmitted straight to me. I turned to look at him again. His head had dropped forward and was rolling back and forth across his chest.

  ‘Gen!’ I shouted.

  I reached for his left hand with my right, lifted it, shook it. When I let go, it flopped off his knee and hung down, lifeless. I shouted his name again and twisted round to look at him. The only way I could get a proper view was by releasing my harness and coming half out of my seat, still holding the throttle and the stick. By doing that I got a sight of his chest, and saw blood seeping out down the front of his DPMs from a point just below the heart. I knew in an instant he was dead. The bullet that shattered the windshield had gone right through his torso from back to front.

  I felt shaken to bits. I couldn’t believe it. Why hadn’t he said something when he was hit? Why hadn’t he yelled? Even if he had, I couldn’t have done anything to save him. But at least I’d have known the score. How typical of him not to complain. He must have known he was mortally wounded. Typical Gen to conceal his own trouble so that he didn’t disturb my concentration. Typical above all, in his last moments of consciousness, to come out with that quote from the Bible.

  I felt choked, exhausted physically and emotionally, pissed off to the final degree with Africa and all these feuding savages. For a few seconds I thought, there’s one easy way to end this: climb to a thousand feet, point the nose down and open the throttle. That would be the finish of your worries, Geordie Sharp. Then, instead of self-pity, I felt shame, and said to myself, what about your mates, Geordie? They’re in the shit, nearly as deep as you, and they need your presence fast. Concentrate. Get back to them. Retrench. That was easier said than done. I’d begun to shake so violently that I could hardly hold the stick still. The cause wasn’t the cold — already the sun was hot on my right cheek and arm — it was more to do with shock and reaction.

  Almost without noticing it, I cleared the highest point of the ridge, which was covered in grey rock and nearly bare of trees. Until then I’d hardly bothered with the altimeter. While waiting for takeoff, I hadn’t been able to see enough to wind it back to zero, and I knew any reading it showed would be only approximate. Now it was giving me 1,200 feet, which was obviously my height above sea level, rather than above the ground.

  As I eased off the power, the temperature gauge began to sink back from its danger level, but the fuel in the transparent gauge was looking perilously low. I’d been planning to descend, following the lie of the land as it fell away towards the river valley, but I changed my mind and held the same altitude, with the idea that I’d get a better view of the ground ahead and see the river earlier.

  Down the far side of the hills the bush thickened again, and the terrain reminded me of the area in which the Beechcraft had crashed. All the better: there must be thousands of scrub-covered ridges just like this one, scattered all over central southern Africa, and Muende’s chances of finding the wreck without my help were practically zero.

  Thinking about the diamond, I realised I didn’t want the damned thing for myself. It had landed us in enough trouble already. No matter what it might be worth, I had a feeling it would always bring bad luck to anyone who owned it. What I did want, though, was to get my hands on Muende and the woman. If it was the last thing I did, I’d exterminate the pair of them.

  My mind was becoming confused. I was too tired to think things through. Off to my right I spotted a dirt road twisting about like a grey ribbon, but running roughly north and south. Was that the track we’d been bounced along the night before? Must be. I checked the compass needle for the umpteenth time and made a small deviation to the left, aiming a few more degrees west of north. However small the risk — and by my calculations it was pretty much nonexistent — I couldn’t afford to hit the river at the mine, or anywhere near it. If Joss’s guys saw a light aircraft approaching from the south, sure as hell they’d open up on it, thinking it was part of an Afundi attack.

  Thank God, the air was completely smooth, the visibility perfect. At one point, to my right, I saw three startled giraffes set off at that curious, floating canter that makes them look as if they’re swimming. I could even make out the puffs of dust knocked up by their pounding hooves.

  Then, at last, across my front, I saw the river. Or rather, instead of muddy water lined by trees, I saw a long, white, winding streak of what looked like cotton wool. Fog! Above the stream vapour had condensed in the cool night air, and the valley was filled by a blanket of mist.

  ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ I shouted. This was the one, knackering circumstance I hadn’t foreseen. For the hundredth time I glanced at the fuel gauge. It was showing all but empty. I’d only got a few minutes’ flying time left.

  Desperately I searched for a landmark that would tell me where I was before descending. The layer of mist looked shallow, but if I went down into it, I’d be blind. Any attempt to land in it could prove fatal. Beyond the fog rose a low mountain barrier. That was the western edge of the range of hills we’d come over before we attacked the mine. But where in hell was the spur on which we’d established our OP — that prominent feature from which Pavarotti had directed the mortar fire? Where was the track down which we’d approached the pontoon? Well away to my right, I hoped.

  I estimated that, by air, the mine and the convent were no more than fifty kilometres apart. Now, unless my navigation was all to blazes, I was heading for a point roughly halfway between them. The eastern end of the Zebra Pans was about thirty-five ks downstream of the mine and fifteen kilometres short of the convent. If, as I hoped, I reached the river about thirty kilometres west of the mine, all I’d have to do would be to turn left and fly downstream until the pans appeared ahead.

  Every few seconds I reviewed my options. What if the engine cuts now? Swing left, head out over the mist to the far edge, and look for a landing place on the other side of it, beyond the river. Then continue downstream on foot. What about Gen’s body? Deal with that when the time comes. What if the engine dies now? The same.

  The river was less than a kilometre ahead. Not a landmark in sight. The decision could wait no longer. I turned left and flew parallel with the edge of the white blanket, two or three hundred metres out. Now the low sun was blazing from straight behind me. Without thinking I’d come down to a couple of hundred feet. Buffalo below — a big, slate-grey herd churned up the dust as my approach set them running, and a cloud of ox-peckers wheeled after them.

  Gen’s torso was lolling to the left in its straps, leaning against my right arm. I shoved it away. The engine spluttered. Fuel gauge on zero. Must be a reserve. Then a gleam of hope: through the fog I saw grey-green water. The mist was thinning and breaking. In a few minutes the sun would burn it off. More glimpses of the river, which was swinging in wide loops, not running fast and straight as it did near the mine. That looked good, more like the flat terrain around the pans. I positioned the aircraft over the centre line of the coils and flew on downstream.

  I’d quit looking at the fuel gauge. There was nothing more it could tell me. The temperature gauges were steady, so I could concentrate on looking ahead. Then, in the distance I saw that the fog blanket spread out to cover an area far wider than the river. The pans! That broad stretch of mist must be hanging above the water, the shallow lake, where Gen had found the reeds growing. Feverishly I scanned the high ground to the north, searching for the little shelf that Pav and I had designated as our RV. From this height it would look different, and I tried to allow for that.

  Here, too, the mist was breaking. I was fast approaching the eastern end of the pans, the point where the vehicles had got bogged. My spirits leapt. Through a gap I saw the very spot where they’d gone
in: a patch of ground freshly churned up, with semi-liquid mud showing dark in the middle of the lighter crust, like chocolate in the middle of coffee, and vehicle tracks all round. From above it looked as though elephants had got bedded and flailed their way out. The main thing was that the mother wagon had got out and had gone.

  Now that I had my bearings, I knew where to look for the RV point. I banked hard right and headed for the hill. Sure enough, there was the shelf, with a rock face rising behind it. Even if the lads had the vehicles well cammed-up, there was a chance I’d see them — I was that low and close. But no, the location was empty. Either they’d never been on the spur, or they’d been there and gone.

  Morale sank. They must have been on it. I knew Pav would not have moved from that location until first light, as we’d agreed. That meant they must be on their way to the convent.

  I banked hard left, coming back towards the river. There was only one route they could have taken: the one that Gen and I had used the evening before. I assumed they’d picked up our vehicle tracks; they must be following them along the bank. At all costs I had to stop them.

  The engine faltered and cut, then picked up again. I was on the way down. I had just enough power to reach the river and turn right above the near bank. All I could do now was line up above the track and keep going until I finally ran out of fuel, then glide in and land. In that crisis, my mind became clear as glass. I wasn’t worried about finding a place to put down; there were patches of open, level ground between the scrub, easily big enough for my purposes. All that mattered was that I should overtake the lads before they blundered into hostile forces at the convent and got captured, just as we had.

  It was only in my final seconds under power that I saw them: two vehicles, one large, one small, crawling right-handed away from the river. Obviously they were looking for a route across one of the tributaries. As I turned towards them, the engine cut and died. In sudden silence, broken only by wind whistling past, I put the plane into a glide.

  Now the sun was hot on my right cheek, the mist rapidly clearing. The vehicles were heading away from me, but I knew they’d turn at any moment, as soon as they found a crossing point, and come back towards me. I aimed for flat-looking ground on the left of a dry sand river, where I could intercept them. Without power, I was committed. I had only one chance. I picked my spot: a patch of bare earth at least a hundred metres long, with a thicket of thorn bushes at the far end which would act as a safety net if need be. I pushed the stick forward and dropped the nose, getting the attitude of the aircraft settled and aiming to maintain a forty-five-knot rate of descent. In the final instants of the approach I thought, Christ, I hope the lads can get to me quickly if this aircraft goes up. But at least it’s got no fuel to start a blaze.

  It was too late to worry. I tried not to look down over the nose, as I knew that would produce the illusion known as ground rush — of the earth tearing past too fast for the eyes to focus on anything properly. Instead I concentrated on my peripheral vision, looking outwards and ahead, with the result that the ground seemed to be coming up round my ears, but at a speed that I could manage.

  With a few feet to go I eased the stick back, flared the aircraft and held it there, letting it sink. As the wheels hit and bounced, I was aware of our pinkie coming past in the opposite direction, scarcely twenty metres to my right, as though on the other lane of a motorway, with Jason the tracker in the driving seat and an expression of utter astonishment on his face. Then he was gone and I was down. The aircraft bounced twice before it slewed sideways and slid right-handed, coming to a halt, still on its wheels, just short of the thorns.

  Within seconds, the guys were all round me. Phil, Mart, Danny and Chalky on my left, Pav and Stringer beside Genesis. They were covered in dry grey mud from head to foot. There was also a fearsome noise; everyone seemed to be shouting at once.

  ‘Christ almighty!’ went Phil. ‘What the fuck’s happened to you?’ At the same time Pav was yelling, ‘Gen! Gen! Wake up! You’ve made it!’ and pulling at his arm.

  ‘He’ll not wake up,’ I said dully. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ roared Pav, incredulously. ‘Never! Come on, boyo!’

  But when he undid the harness and tugged, Gen’s body crumpled toward him and tumbled to the ground. The next thing I knew, I too was on the deck. I had no recollection of unbuckling my straps or of getting out of the seat. I seemed to have passed out, and came round flat on my back, with faces staring down at me. I felt annihilated, as if I’d had a total anaesthetic.

  ‘Where’s Whinger?’ Pav was asking.

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake! How? Where?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. Any chance of some water?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Danny sprang to it and started rooting about in the pinkie.

  ‘Get a guy on stag towards the convent,’ I croaked. ‘The bastards are in there. They may come out looking for us.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The rebels. The place is in rebel hands.’

  The faces above me started to revolve. I’m sure Mart thought I was about to die on him, because he grabbed my wrist and held it, feeling the pulse, and opened up one of my eyelids with finger and thumb.

  ‘Geordie,’ he went. ‘Your face is a mess. You look like the phantom of the fucking opera.’

  ‘That’s how I feel.’

  ‘Stay there while I get something to clean up the cuts.’

  I heard him get up and move away. For the time being nobody else spoke. I think they were in shock, nearly as badly as I was. Then Mart was back. He sponged the dried blood and dirt off my face with water, and when he dabbed antiseptic solution on to my cuts, the sting tweaked me sharply back to life.

  ‘The one on your temple’s not much,’ he said. ‘More of a bruise. The one on your cheekbone’s deeper. Ought to be stitched, really.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ I said. ‘Cover it over.’

  He put on gauze pads and taped them in place. A couple of minutes later I was sat propped against the front wheel of the mother wagon, in the shade, gulping down water by the pint. Somebody had pulled Gen alongside the rear wheel and zipped him into a black nylon body-bag.

  Except for Chalky White, who’d gone on ahead to act as an early warning, the rest of the lads crowded round to hear what had happened.

  ‘It’s all down to that German woman,’ I began. ‘When I catch up with her, her feet won’t fucking touch. That I guarantee.’

  I looked round the haggard, unshaven faces, trying to collect my thoughts.

  ‘We drove right into it,’ I went on. ‘Came up to the back of the convent, and suddenly these blacks were swarming all round us. It happened so fast we never even got to our weapons. They had us on the deck, cuffed us, nicked everything — watches, GPSs, knives, the lot. They’d already massacred the nuns. There were bodies lying around everywhere. Old, white bodies. They didn’t touch her, though. She swaggered about giving orders like she was a fucking general in their army.’

  ‘She’s not a general,’ said Stringer. ‘She’s a crook, pure and simple.’

  ‘Eh? Did that come from the Kremlin?’

  ‘Yeah. In the end the South African police turned up trumps. That guy in the plane whose ID we got — Pretorius — he was wanted by Interpol for embezzlement, international currency rackets and so on. The woman the same. She’s got a record as long as her legs.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ I said. ‘Anyway, at the convent she was frightening the shit out of these blacks, bollocking them in their own lingo. Next thing, all three of us were dumped in the back of a truck and driven to some clapped-out bauxite mine.’

  ‘Was Whinger with it?’ Mart wanted to know.

  ‘Not really. He was coming and going. Mostly going — lucky for him.’ I paused, thinking back. ‘The thing was, the woman must have known where she was, all along. During the time she was with us, I mean. She was never as confused as she pretended. All that crap about needing glasses to read. It w
as shite. She knew bloody well we’d attacked the mine, and that the rebels had captured the convent. She was just waiting to get back there, to join up with them again.’

  I held out the mug in a silent request for more water. ‘Anyway, from the convent, she went ahead in another vehicle. She was at the next place when we arrived. There was a delay — twenty minutes or half an hour. Then we were taken into a hut like a classroom, and in comes Mr Big himself.’

  ‘Muende?’ said Danny.

  ‘Him.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘A right half-caste. Pale skin, hair like tow. Yellow. Colour’s wrong, but otherwise he’s pretty much Afro-looking. Like the rest of these fuckers, only fatter. Quite sleek. Well oiled in every sense.’

  In other circumstances, the lads might have laughed, but none of them even smiled. They knew something horrible was coming. Hardened though they were, the story of Whinger’s end left them looking shattered. As for me, I could hardly tell it. I kept feeling I had to make excuses for not having prevented the disaster.

  ‘The trouble was, the slag really had it in for him,’ I said. ‘She hated his guts. It didn’t seem to occur to her that killing him was the worst thing she could do. Because he’d got burnt dragging her out of the wreck, she was convinced he’d found the fucking diamond. She was out to get him somehow.

  ‘Gen and I were knackered, the pair of us. As I said, we were tied to the chairs. There was nothing we could do. Whenever we tried to help, we got hammered with rifle butts, or kicked. The way she handed Muende strips of liver — it was the filthiest thing I’ll ever see.’

  Pav, who’d been fond of Whinger, suddenly turned and walked away into the distance. I think he cracked up for a moment — I couldn’t see. When he came back, he was together again, and muttering, ‘Fucking arseholes!’ over and over.

  ‘What time did you get out of the mud?’ I asked.