by Ryan, Chris
Any minute now, thought Bald.
Once the aircraft had safely touched down it would make for the turning circle at the other end of the runway. The tailgate would lower and the lads from Air Troop would set up a defensive perimeter while Bald and Fuller hurried up the ramp. Then the Herc would rev its engines and catapult off again. If everything went smoothly they would be back across the border in a couple of hours.
Twenty-four hours from now, I’ll be back in London and on the beers. And I’ll never have to deal with those twats at Vauxhall again.
Bald watched and waited.
Fuller’s phone buzzed. She read the message and said, ‘Rescue team is five minutes out. Making its final approach.’
Freedom, thought Bald.
Fuller smiled.
He looked south beyond the airstrip, straining his eyes at the horizon. For a while he saw nothing except the occasional smudge of cloud in the sky and the belt of jungle below.
Then he saw it.
The distinctive shape of a Hercules C-130 transport plane, faintly visible against the sky.
The Herc was a few miles to the south of the airstrip, coming in low and fast above the treetops. The landing gear lowered, the orange lights glowing on the wingtips. Mechanical drone of the four turboprop engines blasting across the clearing. Bald felt a flood of relief sweeping through his veins at the sight of the aircraft.
Finally. We’re getting the fuck out of here. It’s almost over.
As he looked on, the Herc started to bank sharply to the right.
For a terrifying moment the aircraft seemed to hang in mid-air, as if suspended.
Then it plunged to the ground.
THIRTY
The C-130 fell suddenly out of the sky. Bald saw it lurch away to the right before it dropped on its belly and pancaked into the foliage a mile or so away from the strip, disappearing from view behind the canopy. There was a dreadful beat of silence before the thunderclap of thirty thousand kilograms of aircraft exploding with a deafening boom. Flames and black smoke mushroom-clouded into the air above the crash-site, the fumes from the burning jet fuel blackening the sky.
‘Dear God,’ Fuller gasped.
Bald watched the fire for several long seconds, in a kind of trance. He saw Fuller to his right, staring at the scene in horror, the colour draining from her face.
His first thought was, No one’s surviving that crash. Anyone who hadn’t been killed on impact would have been consumed by the blaze. His second thought was for the Regiment lads who had been on board. A dozen or more outstanding soldiers, no doubt.
Then a realisation socked him in the guts.
Our ticket out of here just went up in flames.
We’re shafted.
‘What . . . what the fuck happened?’ said Fuller.
Bald didn’t respond. He wasn’t an aviation expert. But he knew that the Herc had a reputation as a reliable old bird. Workhorse of the RAF.
‘We need to call Strickland,’ he said at last, trying to piece together a plan. ‘Someone needs to tell her what the fuck just went down.’
Fuller nodded vaguely but kept on staring at the flames fountaining up from the jungle. Her face white as uncut cocaine. Then her training seemed to kick in and she shook herself out of her stupor and reached for her phone. Not an easy thing to do, Bald knew. Focusing on the job at hand when you had just watched several comrades plummet to their deaths. Fuller was clearly made of strong stuff. A toughened operator. Tougher than the likes of Hugo Merrick, for sure.
She was about to hit Dial when Bald saw something else.
A cloud of dust, pluming into the sky towards the southern end of the strip. A kilometre away.
The plume was getting bigger.
Fuller saw it too and froze. Thumb poised on the screen.
‘Vehicles?’ she asked.
Bald nodded.
‘Civilians?’
‘Maybe.’
Or maybe not.
He dropped low amid the undergrowth and told Fuller to do the same. Staying in the gloom at the very edge of the jungle canopy, Bald tore the pocket binoculars out of the pouch on his front vest and quickly unfolded them. Peered through the lenses at the approaching dirt cloud. Saw the magnified image of a pair of bulked-up SUVs trundling north along the airstrip from the direction of the track a kilometre away. A black Ford Expedition. And a white Ford Explorer.
The same colour and model as the wagons he’d seen parked outside the stronghold.
Bald looked on as the two SUVs skidded to a halt in the middle of the airstrip, opposite the shacks. Six hundred metres away from Bald and Fuller.
Two figures debussed from the Expedition.
One of the guys was stocky and barrel-chested and wore a pair of wraparound shades. The bloke next to him was physically gargantuan. He looked like he belonged in a freak show. He made the guy with the shades look like a dwarf in comparison. His hands were like wrecking balls. His legs were so wide you’d need a dozen hippies to hug them. Both figures were dressed in the unofficial uniform of mercenaries. Dark trousers, Gore-Tex boots and bulletproof vests over their short-sleeved shirts. Aviator gloves. They were both armed with M4 rifles attached to slings. The rifle looked tiny in Freak Show’s grip. Bald didn’t recognise either guy but from their builds and stances, he was willing to bet that they were ex-Special Forces.
Then he saw the other two figures getting out of the Explorer.
A sinewy redneck in a red baseball cap.
A tanned guy with a blond horeshoe moustache and heavily tattooed arms.
Both gripping their rifles. Hulk with his short M4, Dudley with the sniper variant.
He recalled what Taylor had told them at the briefing. The extraction plan.
There’s a fishing town. Rio Verde.
Four hundred and fifty miles from the stronghold.
A reception team will meet you there.
Two of our guys. Ex-SEALs.
Hulk and Dudley must have alerted the reception team, he realised. They would have raised the alarm with their mates as soon as they had bugged out from the president’s mansion. Those guys would have rushed over more or less immediately, aiming to intercept Bald and Fuller from the east, before linking up with their mates.
‘Shit,’ he growled as he watched the enemy through the binos.
‘What?’ Fuller whispered. ‘What can you see?’
‘The Americans. They’ve got backup. Two of the bastards.’
‘How did they find us? This RV is a secret.’
‘Maybe one of your mates at Six tipped them off,’ said Bald.
‘No. Can’t be. Madeleine runs a tight ship.’
‘Bastards must have had some way of following us here.’
A thought scraped fingernail-like at the base of Bald’s skull. He shoved it aside and looked on through the binos. Six hundred metres to the south, across the dirt runway, the four figures formed up next to the shacks and had some sort of conference. They were looking around, scanning the ground either side of the airstrip. There was a lot of gesturing and pointing going on. Bald considered retreating into the jungle, but quickly dismissed the idea. There was still a chance that the Americans might take a quick look around, find nothing and head off again. In which case Bald and Fuller could race over to the Land Cruiser, check it for tracking devices and move out. It would be a bad move to flee into the jungle, thought Bald. They had no supplies. Fuller was physically shattered after their escape from the mansion and the long drive across the country. They would have to cover miles to get to the nearest town, with no certainty that they would be able to steal a car or get help. Better to stay put and see how it played out.
Hulk took out his satellite-cum-smartphone and made a call while Freak Show and Dudley cleared the shacks. Then Hulk beckoned to Shades and the latter carried over a map, placing it flat on the dirt ground. The others crowded around Hulk as he took a knee beside it and tore off a blade of grass, tracing it across the map while he listened
to the person on the other end of the line. He paused. Looked up. Looked down again, as if trying to reconcile the landscape in front of him with the details on the map. Then he pulled out a pair of compact binos from one of his vest pouches, unfolded them and looked through the glasses at the forested area beyond the northern edge of the airstrip.
There was another pause.
Then Hulk thrust out an arm.
Pointing directly at Bald and Fuller.
Hulk knows exactly where we are. He’s pinpointed us.
We’re fucking blown.
In the next breath, the American grabbed the map and shot up, yelling orders at the others as they leapt to their feet and scrambled towards the Expedition.
‘Fuck.’
‘What is it?’ Fuller asked, fear creeping into her voice.
‘They’re on to us.’
Bald made an instant calculation. He was cornered with Fuller at the threshold of the airstrip, with dense primary forest to their six o’clock and to the east and west. There was no chance of legging it to the Land Cruiser now. The wagon was hidden in the secluded area next to the airstrip, six hundred metres away. The ex-SEALs would cut them down long before they could reach it.
He reached a decision. Lowered his binos and arced up his M4. Squeezed off two three-round bursts at the tiny figures clustering around the SUV, peppering the shapes with hot metal.
At six hundred metres, Bald was firing at targets beyond the M4’s maximum effective range. But he wasn’t shooting to kill. He was stalling for time, forcing the enemy to get their heads down. Stopping them momentarily in their tracks. Giving himself and Fuller time to make a run for the jungle.
He put down a third burst and spun round, yelling at Fuller madly.
‘Head for the trees! Move yourself!’
Fuller got the message. She spun away and hurried falteringly towards the treeline. Bald loosed off a fourth burst, turned and ran after her before the ex-SEALs put down fire on them. Bullets cracked and slapped into the undergrowth and the tree trunks either side of Bald in a hail of splinters and dirt, missing him by inches. He was moving on pure adrenaline, going as fast as his legs could carry him as he raced towards the denser patch of forest. Ahead of him the terrain was a green curtain of tall trees, prickly bushes, shrubs and ferns, reducing visibility to less than fifteen metres. In there, if anywhere, they stood their best chance of giving the Americans the slip.
Then he heard a crack and a sharp cry at his six. He glanced over his shoulder. Saw Fuller dropping to the ground two metres behind him, hissing through clenched teeth. A bullet had grazed her left hand, slicing through her skin. Another round thumped into the undergrowth, three or four inches to her right.
Bald raced over, ducking low as he grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her to her feet. ‘We’ve got to fucking move! Come on!’
Fuller stumbled forward, almost tripping up as they raced further away from the turning circle. The canopy overhead thickened, the light faded to a grey gloom as they plunged deeper into the jungle.
Bald could see no more than a dozen metres in front of him now. They were surrounded by a screen of vegetation in every direction. He pushed on, moving effortlessly through the terrain. Fuller struggled to keep up, taking in ragged gulps of breath. The ground underfoot was a sea of dead leaves and fallen branches and mosses and gnarled roots, slowing her down.
They ploughed on for another twenty-five metres and then she let out a torrent of curses. Bald wheeled round and saw her thrashing wildly as she tried to tear herself free from a prickly bush, ripping off the sleeve of her blouse. He rushed back, unhooked the barbs from her clothing, grabbed the torn material and shoved it in his pocket. He didn’t want to leave any obvious signs for the enemy to pick up. No point making their job any easier for them. Fuller was gasping for breath, hands planted on her legs, like a runner at the end of a race.
‘I’ve got to stop,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Please. Just for a minute.’
‘We can’t,’ Bald replied firmly. ‘Bastards are on to us. Come on.’
Fuller rose unsteadily to her feet. The fighter in her. She wasn’t ready to give up yet. Bald glanced back in the direction of the treeline. They had covered about a quarter of a mile since rushing into the trees. He figured they had a six-minute head start over the enemy. Maximum. But with the state Fuller was in, the enemy would soon catch up with them.
We’ll never give them the slip. Not at the rate we’re going.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘How are they following us?’
‘Tracking device. Only explanation. One of us is bugged.’
‘But we got rid of phones.’
Bald looked hard at her. ‘You sure you’re not wearing anything?’
‘Of course not.’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘What about your equipment? Where’s all that stuff from?’
‘The CIA gave it to us. At the camp.’
‘Have you checked it?’
‘I’m not that bloody stupid. You can’t bug grenades and shit like that. There’s nowhere to hide a tracker in any—’
He stopped. Lowered his gaze to the rifle he was holding.
The thought, scraping across his skull again. Something to do with the buttstock.
We’ve looked everywhere.
Except we haven’t.
He hastily dropped to his knees beside Fuller and took a closer look at the retractable stock. It appeared newer than the rest of the M4, Bald thought. Almost brand new. No scuff marks, no signs of wear and tear.
He lifted up the lever on the underside of the stock, gripping the rear plate with his other hand. Pulled on the stock, detaching it from the rifle. Set the stock down and inspected the hollow metal tube jutting out of the end of the receiver.
Secreted inside the tube was a small black unit, no bigger than a thumbnail.
A red signal blinked on the front of the device.
Fuller looked over his shoulder. ‘What is it?’
Bald angled the receiver upwards, tipping the transponder out of the buffer tube. Showed it to her. ‘Those pricks bugged our fucking weapons.’ Anger pulsed inside his chest. ‘They’ve been tracking us since the moment we bugged out of the stronghold.’
He stared at the transponder unit for a beat. The kernel of a plan formed inside his head.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Fuller snapped. ‘Get rid of it.’
‘It’s too late. They’ll be on us soon enough, with or without this thing. We’ve got no chance of outrunning them.’
‘You’re not suggesting we take them on?’
Bald shook his head. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’
‘What?’
‘No time to explain.’ He dropped the transponder, and crushed it beneath his boot. Picked up the broken device and stuffed it in his pocket. Slid the stock back onto the tube and straightened up. ‘Get your arse in gear. Follow me.’
They set off again through the forest. Fuller was moving with obvious difficulty now, limping heavily. Bald carried on, eyes shifting left to right as he scanned the ground. He was making no effort to cover their tracks now. The opposite, in fact. He grabbed branches and snapped them in half, kicking over dead leaves on the ground to expose their paler underside and brushing past plants and bushes. Deliberately luring the enemy towards them. With all the signs Bald was leaving behind Hulk and the three others would have no problem following their trail through the forest.
Which is exactly what he wanted.
They moved on for another eighty metres, and then he found exactly what he was looking for. A slightly elevated piece of ground on his left flank, partially obscured by a thin line of trees, with a mostly flat area of trees and bushes to the right and a rough trail running between them. The perfect position in order to make his plan work, thought Bald. He drew up twenty metres from the high ground and pointed it out to Fuller as she caught her breath.
‘This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to move up fifty metres past that pos
ition, then put in a dogleg and come back on ourselves but to five metres to the left, on that high ground. That’s going to be the baseline for our attack.’
Fuller looked at him with alarm. ‘What are you planning?’
‘We’re going to put in a linear ambush,’ said Bald. ‘We’ll set a trap and let them walk right into it. Then we’ll launch a follow-up attack. Wipe out any survivors.’
‘Will that work?’
‘It’s our best chance of getting out of here alive.’
‘What if they don’t fall for it?’
‘Then we’re fucked,’ Bald said. ‘But it’s either this, or we let them hunt us down like dogs.’
She nodded.
He turned and moved on, quickening his stride as he broke past the area of high ground to his left. Bald paced out fifty metres beyond that point, counting it off in ten-metre increments in his head, just like he had once done in the Regiment. Then they broke left and put a loop in, doubling up on themselves as they manoeuvred south on a parallel bearing to the path they had just taken. Bald moved along for fifty metres until he reached the slightly elevated point he had indicated to Fuller. He found a hollow next to the trees, facing out across the lower spread of forest opposite, five metres away. Fuller had taken the Browning Hi-Power out of her jeans waistband and gripped it in her good right hand.
‘You know how to use that thing?’ asked Bald.
‘I’ve fired them once or twice,’ she replied, in a way that suggested she had used them a lot more often than that. She wouldn’t be much use in a firefight, he decided, not in her present condition, but if their backs were to the wall he was confident that she could at least loose off a few rounds at the enemy.
‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘Stay low and keep your head down. I’ll be back in a few minutes. If those fuckers show up on our flank, start putting down rounds.’
‘What about you?’
Bald grinned. ‘I’m going to leave them a nasty surprise.’
He grabbed the daysack, slung it over his back and rushed forward from the hollow. Moved down from the slope and broke through the trees until he hit the edge of the rack, five metres from the hollow.
Bald guessed he had no more than four or five minutes until the Americans caught up with them. They would be slogging through the forest, navigating the near-impenetrable maze of thorny bushes and trees and slippery undergrowth. Moving as fast as they possibly could. He assumed they were no more than three or four hundred metres away.