Tenth Man Down gs-4

by Chris Ryan

  My 203 was in the cab of the vehicle. With rounds going down, I wasn’t going to expose myself by climbing up to get it. Instead, I dropped flat on the ground, wriggled inside one of the wagon’s big wheels and lay still in a pool of sweat, eyeballing the approach to the site. How in hell had somebody managed to bypass the pinkie and penetrate this far into the training area?

  At the other end of the radio link the battle was still raging. At our end the body in my view stopped moving. Then, from somewhere high above me, came Jason’s voice: ‘Geordie, sah!’

  ‘Here!’ I called. ‘Under the wagon. Where are you?’

  ‘I come down.’

  I waited a few moments, then heard scuffling noises as he slithered off the rocks above the doorway.

  ‘Who was it?’ I asked from my prone position.

  ‘Two men. Coming for truck. I kill both.’

  ‘Brilliant. Where’s number two?’

  ‘Up top.’ He pointed.

  ‘Are you sure that was all?’

  ‘Don’t know, sah. I saw two. Nobody more.’

  ‘I bet they came in the chopper on its first run,’ I said. ‘Probably left to guard the site. Let’s hope no more of the bastards are lurking about.’

  I eased myself out from under the truck and took a quick look round. I wasn’t going to waste time checking the bodies.

  ‘Go back up where you were,’ I said. ‘You’ll be safer hidden in the rocks than sitting in the cab. There’s only a dozen warheads to go. Ten minutes, and we’ll be on our way.’

  I never got through that last dozen. I shifted another five, gasping with the effort, but the task took me to the point of collapse. My stack in the back of the wagon had risen to head height, and I only just managed to lift the fifth missile on to the top. The strain left me totally drained, hardly able to walk.

  Mental pressure was increased by the sounds of battle pouring from the radio loudspeaker. Even from inside the cavern I could hear heavy firing and the occasional loud explosion. The racket made me desperate to get moving. Further pressure derived from the fact that the last shell I had loaded was slippery with the clear liquid I’d noticed when I first saw the cache. The remaining seven were coated in transparent crystals. It looked as though the casings had cracked when the wooden shelves crumbled, and some of the contents had leaked. No way was I going to touch those faulty specimens. I told myself that they couldn’t be serviceable, so it wouldn’t matter if Muende did get his hands on them. He’d never be able to use them.

  I slammed up the tail-board, and tried to shout, ‘Jason!’ All that came out was a squeak. I cleared my throat, and called again. ‘That’s it! Let’s go!’

  I didn’t bother closing the door of the silo. Instead, I threw the padlock away into thick bush, scrambled up into the driving seat and started the engine. The moment Jason slipped into the other seat, I let out the clutch and set off.

  ‘Okay, sah?’ He shot me an apprehensive look.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I lied. ‘No problem.’

  Big black flies had already swarmed on to the bodies lying in the open; a cloud of them burst off Rasputin’s as I drove past. With every movement of the wagon, every bump or hole in the track, our cargo clanked horrendously. I was gripped by fear that more casings would split, even that one of the warheads would be detonated by concussion. Was that possible? I just didn’t know, and cursed the fact that our training in nuclear matters had been so perfunctory.

  By then, I was in a horrible state, soaked to the skin inside the suit, dehydrated, shaking with exhaustion and reaction. I longed to rip the clammy overall off and throw it away, but fear of the possible consequences stopped me. The trouble was, I was so damned ignorant. Would the suit give me adequate protection? Or was wearing it even more dangerous than removing it, now that the front and arms were smeared with leaked chemicals? Would the suit itself contaminate Jason, sitting beside me? And would the steel of the cab protect him from the deadly load a few feet behind him?

  ‘Time?’ I demanded.

  ‘Fourteen thirty-six.’

  Jesus! We had less than half an hour to reach the LZ. We’d never make it in time. With my right hand I grabbed the mike, pressed the switch and called, ‘Green One.’

  There was quite a pause before Pav answered, ‘Green Two.’

  ‘We’re rolling,’ I told him. ‘But we’re going to be late. Any news of the Herc?’

  ‘Affirmative. Stringer just spoke to the pilot. He’s ahead of schedule.’

  ‘Warn him we may be late to the LZ.’

  ‘Roger. Shift your arse, though.’

  ‘I’m doing that. How are things your end?’

  ‘Plenty of incoming, but it’s all over the place. Some RPGs as well, but they’re falling short.’

  ‘Has the convoy moved?’

  ‘Negative. One of the big wagons is on fire as well. The only snag is, the Gaz that was at the back has detached itself from the rest of the column and headed off across country. For the moment it’s disappeared into dead ground. It could be trying a flanker, to cut off our retreat.’

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Going to our left.’

  ‘Shit,’ I went. ‘That’s towards our exit road.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘How’s your ammo?’

  ‘The five-oh’s getting low.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake keep some to give us covering fire when we get out on that road.’

  ‘Roger. Wait one. Stringer’s got something.’ There was a pause, then, ‘He says the Herc’s already approaching the LZ. He’s come in low-level, two fifty feet, to keep below any radars on the border. He’s going to pop up to a thousand feet to get a look at the terrain.’

  ‘Tell him I’m on my way.’

  I was driving as fast as I dared, inhibited by the rough surface and by the rattling and clanking from our load. I kept glancing over my shoulder through the rear window of the cab, as though I could settle the warheads by glowering at them. I winced at every lurch and nursed the big wagon along, swerving continuously to avoid rocks and potholes.

  Pav came back on. ‘The pilot’s seen the LZ. He reckons he can hack it. He could do with some smoke before he lands, though. How soon can you make it?’

  ‘Ten minutes.’

  Another pause as my message was relayed.

  ‘Roger. He’s willing to lose ten minutes in a circuit. Get your foot down.’

  ‘It’s down. I’m closing on you.’

  ‘Roger. We’ll give you max covering fire when you hit the road.’

  On that rough track, at the speed we were doing, the mother wagon took some holding. The jolting was diabolical, and my arms ached from wrestling with the wheel. We passed the OP without seeing the pinkie or any of our lads — they were all up on a ledge above us — and dived down the channel that cut through the escarpment, then diagonally through the derelict camp and out on to the road.

  The battle had cleared the highway of pedestrians; there wasn’t a man, woman or child in sight. I held my foot on the deck until the engine was screaming in third, then crashed into top and forced the speed up to ninety kilometres an hour. The first half-minute was the danger time. We were broadside on to the enemy, but every second we managed to survive increased the range, and after about thirty seconds we’d be out of reach.

  ‘Keep down!’ I shouted at Jason. ‘Keep below the window!’

  He was on the right, our vulnerable side. He doubled himself down so that he was half lying across the bench seat, with the top of his head near my hip and his bony arse to the door. On the driver’s side I had no option but to stay upright. I pressed myself as far back into the squab as I could go, trying to keep the door pillar and the rest of the cab between me and the enemy.

  With a quick glance to my right, I took in the stranded convoy, no more than three hundred metres away. Columns of black smoke were rising from the wagons set on fire, but flashes of gunfire were spurting from improvised positions round the others. Until we appe
ared on the road, the enemy had been firing in the direction of the pinkie, up on the ledge. Now they had a beautiful new target, lumbering across their front in easy range.

  Within seconds I saw something that looked like a big black dot whip across in front of us, right to left. It went so fast that for an instant I couldn’t identify it properly. I just had time to shout, ‘Eh! Look at that!’ when an explosion cracked off a couple of hundred metres to our left.

  ‘Rocket!’ I yelled.

  One of them into our cargo, and we’d be well stitched. I grabbed the radio mike, and shouted, ‘Incoming RPGs! Keep their heads down!’

  My right boot was flat on the steel floor. The speedometer needle was hovering on the hundred mark. The truck bucked and bounced like a speedboat in rough water, jumping bodily from one side of the track to the other. Less than thirty metres ahead dust-puffs erupted in a line across the road as a burst of small-arms fire raked the surface. Instinctively I hit the brakes. There was somebody out there who could shoot. Like a shotgunner swinging ahead of a distant pheasant, he was giving us a long lead, and nearly getting it right.

  I was fighting the wheel too hard to count seconds, but I knew near enough when thirty had gone. I eased the speed down to eighty. We were already at extreme range, and in as much danger of crashing as of getting hit.

  ‘Coming clear,’ I reported.

  ‘Roger,’ answered Pav, coolly. Then suddenly, in a sharper voice, he said, ‘Stand by. The Herc pilot’s seen something he doesn’t like.’

  What the hell was this? All I could do was keep going. Thirty seconds more, and we were out of range.

  ‘You’re okay,’ I told Jason.

  He came up off the floor with a big grin.

  Then Pav reported: ‘He’s seen military vehicles approaching from the east. At least a dozen.’

  ‘Joss!’ I shouted. ‘It’s Joss, and Alpha. How far out are they?’

  ‘He estimates fifteen ks. He’s turned away to the north to come back round and land.’

  Fifteen kilometres. The enemy must have seen the plane, but for the moment there was nothing they could do to harm it. If the convoy was managing forty, that gave us twenty minutes to reach the Mall, guide the plane in, load the weapons and get airborne.

  ‘Hear that, Jason?’ I yelled. ‘It’s your old friends, following up our tracks, on collision course.’

  ‘Yassir.’

  Pav was on the air again. ‘Closing down the show here!’ he shouted. ‘As soon as everyone’s on board, we’re coming after you.’

  ‘Roger,’ I went. ‘Estimating one k to the start of the Mall.’

  I became aware of a disturbance beside me. I glanced across and saw Jason twisting round to pull down his 203 from the clips behind his head.

  ‘Eh!’ I went. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Car coming, sah!’

  He nodded forward. A single vehicle was streaking through the bush, coming in at an angle from our right front, aiming to intercept us. A plume of dust trailed behind it.

  ‘Contact!’ I shouted to Pav. ‘That fucking breakaway Gaz, it’s trying to head us and block the road.’

  ‘Your pigeon,’ Pav answered. ‘We’re rolling.’

  Somehow Jason had got his head and shoulders out of the window and twisted them forward with his weapon levelled. It was an amazing gymnastic feat. Only someone as thin as he was could have managed it. I saw that his right-side ribs must be getting hammered on the door frame, but he seemed impervious to the pain.

  ‘Wait!’ I roared. ‘Too far!’

  The jeep was being thrown about by the rough terrain, jumping and twisting. As we converged I could see it had no canopy, but there were two men standing in the back, clinging to the tubular framework.

  My right foot was flat down. We were doing ninety again — a crazy speed on that surface. It wasn’t safe to take my eyes off the road for more than a second at a time. In spite of our pace, the jeep was going to reach the road first, before we passed the point where its line intersected ours, unless the driver suddenly stopped so that his crew could open up on us broadside as we went past. In the final seconds of convergence I realised he wasn’t going to. He’d committed himself to blocking our path. Along that stretch the road was built up on a low causeway, maybe a couple of feet high, with sandy banks sloping down into the scrub on either side. We were less than a hundred metres from convergence when the jeep reached the right-hand bank, bounced up it and slithered to a halt at an angle across the carriageway. The driver must have thought the block would make me slow down. Some chance.

  Beside me, Jason hammered off three short bursts from his 203. Dust spurted on our side of the jeep.

  ‘Get in!’ I roared. ‘Get back in!’

  He saw that impact was imminent, and wriggled back inside the cab. Just in time he dropped the weapon and braced himself, hands and feet. I did the same, gripping the wheel with all my strength and forcing myself against the backrest.

  We went in at the jeep with terrifying velocity. I felt I was looking through a zoom lens, so fast did the target grow. Thank God for our bullbar, I thought. I just had time to see the guys in the back of the Gaz struggling to sort themselves and bring their weapons to bear on us when, WHAM!, we hit them broadside with shattering force. The impact lifted the jeep clean off its wheels and flung it away to our left like a toy. I caught a glimpse of the standing guys being jackknifed over the bars they’d been holding on to. Their vehicle was whipped sideways with such colossal energy that the bars drove into their chests and stomachs, doubling them forward. As for us, we took a terrific jolt, but the mother wagon’s weight and impetus were such that it hardly slowed. We came out of the crash still doing seventy. In the mirror I saw flames and smoke rising from the wreck.

  ‘Fucking take that!’ I yelled in triumph. Then I shot a glance at Jason and saw blood running down his cheek. ‘Hey!’ I went. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Sure, sah!’ He was grinning and patting his left temple, showing where he’d nicked it against the roof of the cab.

  I snatched the radio mike, and called, ‘Green One. We’ve disabled that rogue jeep you saw go cross-country. It’s on fire. But watch yourselves when you pass it. There could be survivors.’

  ‘Roger,’ went Pav. ‘We can see the smoke ahead of us.’

  For nearly half a minute after the smash I thought we’d got clean away with it, that our truck was intact. The engine hadn’t faltered, and the steering felt fine. Then I noticed the temperature gauge, creeping up.

  ‘Shit!’ I yelled. ‘We’ve holed the radiator!’

  At that moment, Pav came on with, ‘The Herc’s nearly round its circuit. Looking to land in figures two minutes.’

  ‘Roger,’ I went. ‘Which way’s he coming in?’

  ‘West to east, from behind you.’

  ‘Roger. I’m almost at the end of the Mall. Tell the pilot I’ll try to give him smoke at both ends of a good strip. Got a problem, though. Truck’s overheating. Stand by.’

  Eyeballing frantically to my left, I recognised the start of the Mall and swung left-handed off the road towards the flat ground. On the temperature gauge the needle was up into the red. Before we reached the level area we had to cross an old river bed. Over the bumps I changed down into second. Steam began pouring from under the bonnet. Fifty yards short of the flat, the needle went off the dial. I sensed that if I gunned the engine for another few seconds, it would seize. Somehow I’d got to get the truck on to the flat ground so that the Herc could pull up beside it. No way would the incoming crew be able to carry every missile a hundred metres or more.

  I switched off, and said to Jason, ‘Got to get some water into it. Here, take these.’ I pulled out two smoke grenades which I’d had stowed in my Bergen, down beside my feet. ‘The plane’s coming in this way.’ I made a sweeping movement, indicating an approach from behind us and to the left. ‘Run! Crack one off over there, on the flat. Then run again. Minimum five hundred metres straight along. Six hundred if y
ou can make it before you see the Herc coming. Okay?’

  ‘Yassir!’ Jason’s face was all lit up. He slipped the grenades into his pouches, jumped down, and ran like a grey spider, stumbling over the tussocks.

  ‘Green One,’ I went on the radio. ‘Tell the Herc he’ll have one lot of smoke anyway, maybe two. If it’s only one, that’s his touch-down point; if it’s two, they’ll mark both ends of the strip. Stand by.’

  I leapt to the ground. Steam was still pouring from the bonnet. With the catch released, the damage was obvious: some sharp edge driven into the front of the radiator. The whole engine was dangerously hot. I was still wearing Rasputin’s protective gloves, but first I smothered the radiator cap with a piece of sacking as well, then turned it. Jets of steam spurted sideways. I ran round to the back of the wagon, unhooked the cage that held the jerricans under the false floor, dragged a can out and lugged it to the front. The first few pints of water exploded in steam, but the rest took the temperature down and the system began to fill.

  As I stood there holding the heavy can level, I heard the engines of the Herc. I glanced behind me towards the beginning of the Mall. Green smoke was billowing, going almost straight up, and in the distance Jason was running.

  Fresh water started to dribble from the hole in the honeycomb of metal on the radiator front. I stopped pouring, flung the can away, stuffed sacking into the puncture, replaced the cap, slammed the bonnet down and hauled myself into the driving seat. The engine fired. I went into first, crawled forward, and changed into second.

  With my own engine running, I could no longer hear the plane. How far out was it? Jason had cracked off the first grenade well out on the flat ground. Fifty yards short of it, I stopped at right angles to the line of approach and craned forward in the cab, peering to my left. Nothing in sight.