Exit wound, p.28
Exit Wound, page 28
I pulled back the link for Anna to squeeze the bike through. Zar kept his head down. He was switched on. He was a good lad.
Once through, I got back on the driving seat, checked the compass and then the sky. The cloud was starting to lift. A breeze was moving things along. Ominously, shafts of light broke through in the distance, like someone up there had a fucking great torch.
The ground had been getting boggier so there’d be no more cross-country. I took the first track I found running north, up to higher ground. From there, we’d be able to get better eyes on the target ground.
There were no signs or coloured markers on this track. We climbed through forestry blocks and undulating grassland. The valves chattered but Cuckoo plugged on gamely. I stopped to watch the sky and listen, but saw and heard nothing.
We’d been going about an hour since the last fence when I checked the fuel gauge and pulled off to one side to top up the tank.
The cloud was almost gone. The wet fir trees glinted in the unexpected light, and steam rose from the leaf litter on the ground. Shadows appeared at the roadside as the sun burnt through the mist.
Anna dismounted and drank direct from a stream. ‘I’ll untie Zar and let him stretch his legs.’
‘No. Too much time. I’ll make sure he—’ I held up my hand. ‘Listen . . .’
It wasn’t the thunder of an Antonov. It was the sound of something much smaller, coming from behind us, from the south. I couldn’t see it. The fir trees blocked the view.
I screwed up the cap and threw the can back at Zar’s feet. ‘That’s it – it’s started.’
Anna leapt on the bike behind me. I kick-started it and pointed to the sky. ‘Keep looking up, keep looking up.’
We bounced back the way we’d come, heading south, as I dodged and wove among the potholes. I stopped about ten metres short of the edge of the forest and rolled the Ural the rest of the way to the tree-line.
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Two aircraft were approaching from the south. The second was flying about four hundred metres behind the first. It was hard to judge the altitude, but I knew it couldn’t be any higher than ten thousand feet. That was the limit of the 16’s effective range.
The gap between them suddenly increased. The lead aircraft had cut away the drone. It banked left, orbiting back towards the air base. Almost simultaneously, the drone’s jet engine sparked up, creating a heat signature as it surged towards us. It passed over us, heading north, its engine giving out a deep, throaty roar. Sunlight glinted off its wings.
All of a sudden, flares burst out either side of the fuselage – brilliant, blindingly white balls of magnesium that decorated the sky like a Roman candle.
The white smoke trail from the SA-16’s power pack streaked across the tree canopy about two K to my half-right. Then it screamed up into the air and towards the balls of light.
The missile jinked left and right.
It locked onto a flare, rejected it, moved onto the next, rejected that too, moved on up, defeating the dark flares like they weren’t even there.
The explosion, when it came, wasn’t massive. Ground-to-air missiles rely on kinetic energy as much as their warhead to down an aircraft. The rear of the drone disintegrated. Splinters of it showered from the sky as the main body started to spin towards earth.
I started running. ‘Back to the bike. We carry on down the track.’
Zar must have been flapping about the explosion, but he didn’t budge.
I kick-started and we were off. The back wheel lost a bit of traction, and slid out. I corrected, and the whole bike shuddered as the sidecar wheel hit a rut. I stood up on the foot pegs to get a better view. I had to keep the power on to keep that back wheel spinning, and I had to keep looking the way I wanted to go – not pointing, but looking. Start worrying about where you’re putting your wheels and the bike stops doing the thinking for you.
The track opened up from the forestry a couple of hundred metres ahead. I could see clear sky.
Legs and arms still straight, I eased back on the throttle. We were close to the end of the firs. I trickled forward another ten metres and nosed it as far into the trees on the right as it would go, then closed down.
Zar didn’t take much coaxing to climb out.
‘Anna, bring the cameras.’
She gripped the kit while I dragged Zar to the nearest tree and retied him. He looked happy just to be breathing.
I waved to Anna. ‘Give me your scarf.’
I stuffed one end of it into his mouth to fill the cavity and make sure he couldn’t develop any sort of sound. I tied the free end round his eyes. Then I grabbed one of the cameras from Anna and we moved forward. When we reached the end of the firs, I stopped and listened. I could hear the buzz of another aircraft. I started running. I wasn’t going to wait for her and I didn’t have to – she had done her bit. Now it was time to do mine.
I hit the next tree-line after twenty metres and slowed. I was sweating big-time under the heavy bike gear but I didn’t give a shit. We were nearly there.
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I got down on my hands and knees and crept to the edge of the trees. I could make out bodies about three hundred metres away. They stood on the middle of an expanse of tarmac that began where the firs ended. There was another little strip of forestry to the far side of them. The runway disappeared off to the right.
The tarmac dried in a steamy haze around their feet as they chatted. A table and chairs had been set up beneath a small gazebo beside them. It was like a fucking garden party.
I motioned Anna forward. All she could hear was their laughter. She couldn’t make out what they were saying.
I got out my camera and zoomed in on the two eggs on legs. I could hear Anna doing the same.
Spag and Brin stood next to each other in identical light cargos and blue fleeces. It was like one of them was holding up a mirror to the other. They covered their eyes with their hands as they heard the buzz of another prop engine, high up and behind us. Altun and the Taliban were still dressed for the boardroom.
I picked out movement in the trees beyond them. A fifth body stepped out of the shadows with a launcher on his shoulder. Almost immediately, he seemed to change his mind. He swapped it for a fresh one from the back of a people-carrier parked behind him.
He took a couple of steps towards the picnickers, who were now toasting each other. The Taliban watched the others gun a shot glass down their necks. I felt my face flush with anger. I’d have given anything for a weapon to help their party really go with a swing.
A jet engine sparked up above me.
All heads turned to the sky as the second drone came into view.
Altun offered the Taliban a baseball cap but he refused. He’d be used to the sun and, besides, he’d want an unimpeded view. Altun continued his sales pitch as the Taliban looked over at the firing station, then back up at the sky. He nodded slowly as the flares kicked off.
There was a deafening roar as the 16 left its tube. A cloud of smoke erupted beside the people-carrier and a white trail streaked up into the sky. Like its predecessor, it jinked left and right, up and down as it interrogated the flares and sniffed out the correct target.
Two more seconds and it made contact.
Three of them clapped gently as the remaining fragments of the drone cascaded downwards. The Taliban stared open-mouthed at the hole in the sky where there had recently been a plane. He was probably thinking he should have bought more.
I checked the people-carrier. The guy was already pulling out another missile.
I got to my feet.
‘Nick – where you going?’
‘To do what we came here for.’
She nodded.
I turned and ran back towards the bike.
112
I didn’t have time to tell Zar how lucky he was. If he’d been in the sidecar he’d have been coming with me.
I kick-started the Ural and bounced back onto the track, screaming over ruts and potholes towards the open tarmac. The chainsaw, helmets, wheelie-case, all the shit in the sidecar jumped and jolted as I rode out onto the pan.
I had to screw up my eyes. The sun glared off the wet tarmac. I squinted to see the bodies the other side.
The people-carrier was still stationary. The four men beside the gazebo spun towards the overworked motorbike. They didn’t know what it was, but they’d have guessed it wasn’t bringing dessert.
They started hesitantly towards the people-carrier. Before they could get there the lad who’d test-fired the missiles jumped into the wagon and it lurched towards me.
The four players melted into the trees.
Full revs, I aimed at the point where they’d disappeared, trying to outrun the wagon.
I knew immediately it wasn’t going to happen.
The Ural splashed into a puddle the size of a small lake and aquaplaned. I kept the revs up, kept looking the way I wanted to go.
The wagon was gaining on me. Within seconds it was all I could see in my mirrors.
I jinked the handlebars and swung left. The wheel of the sidecar lifted. I had to throttle back before we flipped.
The wagon closed tight up behind me.
Less than a hundred and I’d be in among the foliage.
The sidecar jerked and was suddenly in front of me. The bike was spinning. The fucker had kicked me up the arse.
I had to jump. If I didn’t get off, it was going to take me off. My right leg was hemmed in by the sidecar bars and air intake. If I didn’t go now, I might have to leave it behind.
Hands over my head, chin tucked in, I launched myself sideways. All I could do was curl up, fly, and accept the landing.
I hit the tarmac hard. The air was punched from my lungs. I skidded across the ground. All that lay between me and a severe cheese-grating was the set of 1980s waxies. My elbows and hands took the pain as I rolled and tumbled.
I flipped over onto my back and my head met the cheese-grater. The asphalt ground through hair and skin down to the bone. I was slowing down. I spread my arms and legs to create more friction.
When I finally came to a stop I couldn’t seem to function. I tried to get to my feet. I couldn’t. My vision was blurred. The back of my head felt like a blowtorch was trained on it.
I could see the blurry shape of the van. I saw the door open. The body behind the wheel began to get out.
All I could do was stagger towards it.
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I hurled myself at the driver’s door and rammed it as it opened. There was a pistol in his left hand. His arm was extended. The metal frame banged against it. I held it there, slapping him like a drunk.
It wasn’t working. He screamed at me through the window as I pulled the door open and he started to launch himself out. I slammed my weight against it and rammed his head back against the trim. His arm came down. I tried to kick the pistol away. He screamed as I held him there, kicking again and again at his hand, sometimes hitting, sometimes missing.
The pistol finally dropped. I yanked open the door again and slammed it hard into the side of his head. He collapsed into his seat. His head crashed into the steering-wheel, then slumped towards the footwell. His jaw came to rest on the door-sill. I raised my foot and kicked down. There was a loud crunch as his jaw gave way and the top of his head carried on four or five inches more towards the tarmac.
The rest of him poured out of the wagon and hit the deck. He wasn’t going anywhere. My head was still spinning. I tried to take deep breaths.
The whine of jet engines sparked up on the other side of the firs.
I stumbled over to the weapon and picked it up. It was a Makarov. I slipped it into what was left of my jacket pocket as the Falcon’s engines got louder. It was still the other side of the tree-line but definitely on the move.
I looked through the windows of the wagon. The seats were down and there was a stack of long green plastic containers in the back. I pulled up the tail hatch and grabbed the handles of the top two. They were light. They’d already been fired. I pulled them out and chucked them down beside their owner.
The next two were heavy.
The nose of the Falcon emerged from the far corner of the tree-line, about four hundred away, turning slightly left, then right again as it positioned itself for take-off.
I spun back to the container and took a long, deep breath. I had to be in control.
My heart-rate slowed, and so did everything around me.
I knew what I wanted to do. I knew how to do it.
I mustn’t rush. If I rushed, I’d fuck up.
The four catches along the side of the tube flipped open easily. I lifted the lid. The 16 and its two-kilogram warhead nestled in a solid-foam cut-out.
The engines screamed as the Falcon developed the thrust to rattle down the runway and take off.
I pulled the weapon from its housing and hefted it onto my shoulder.
I was calm. I was in control.
The sun glinted on the clean white fuselage, still wet from the rain. I just hoped they were looking out of their windows and could see what was about to happen.
I turned on the power pack and heard the gentle whine of the electrics sparking up.
Everything was self-testing. It completed in seconds. As the Falcon’s engines reached take-off power, I took my final deep breath.
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The aircraft rolled, and was soon roaring down the tarmac, piercing the heat haze and throwing up a huge plume of mist.
I positioned the range ring of the sight on my target. I’d need to keep it there throughout the engagement sequence. Like Paul (not Pavel) had said, the SA-16 was an all-aspect missile. You could engage the target from any angle.
There was no IFF on this one. The Taliban didn’t need it. Neither did I. I felt with my forefinger for the arming switch on the right of the grip stock. The Falcon was halfway down the runway. I pushed the switch forward from safety to armed. The weapon readied itself for firing, super-cooling the seeker to allow it to lock onto the target’s primary heat-source, those three engines on the back. When enough infrared energy was detected, I would hear a high-pitched signal.
It was too easy. The electronics buzzed loud into my ear as it locked on.
The front wheel lifted from the tarmac.
My right ear filled with a high-pitched whine.
The seeker had a firm lock and was tracking the heat-source. We were ready to rock and roll.
I pulled the trigger just as the rest of the aircraft left the tarmac and tried to gain height.
Paul (not Pavel)’s words echoed in my head: provided the aircraft was below 10,000 feet, its destruction was 99.9 per cent guaranteed.
The missile made me wobble as it exploded from its tube. The white smoke trail was almost perfectly horizontal. It created a little white circle as it rolled over to the left, corrected itself, then jinked a little to the right as it locked on.
The aircraft was no more than a hundred metres from the ground when the missile struck. There was a small explosion. No big fireball, just debris falling away from the rear of the target.
The Falcon seemed almost to hesitate, and then dropped back down in a slow clockwise spin. It impacted beyond the end of the runway, throwing up walls of mud around its final resting-place.
A few pieces of wreckage fluttered from the sky like industrial-strength confetti.
As I threw down the tube and staggered towards the driver’s seat of the people-carrier, the third drone scudded across the sky, chucking out flares as it went.
The back of my head felt like it had been dunked in acid. I got into the wagon and hit the ignition. The bike was lying on its side, engine still throbbing. The chainsaw lay about fifteen metres away.
I picked it up. This wasn’t finished.
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I sped along the runway towards the crash site as hundred-dollar bills fluttered out of the sky. Thousands of the things papered the wet tarmac – it looked like Broadway after a ticker-tape parade.
In the distance, the Falcon looked like a broken toy in a lake of mud. The back third of the fuselage had snapped clean off and lay about a hundred metres from the main section.
I swerved round another chunk of twisted aluminium. The last thing I wanted was a puncture. We still had to get out of this fucking place and I reckoned the Ural had already done its bit.
Brin was moving – staggering – across the tarmac. I swung the wheel towards him. He took another couple of steps, turned and looked me in the eye. His face and hands were charred, his clothes tattered.
My foot hit the accelerator. The people-carrier must have been doing at least forty when it hit him. It didn’t connect with the same explosive force as one of his 16s, but it was the best I could do.
He flew backwards three or four metres. I hoped he’d have massive internal damage. I wanted him to know the meaning of pain before I killed him. I turned back and came to a halt a couple of metres from his burnt and shattered body. I pulled myself out of the wagon. He was face down on the tarmac. His back heaved a couple of times, but each breath sounded like a death rattle.
I pulled him over onto his front and stood above him. Brin’s eyes stared at me. His brow furrowed. Maybe he was trying to work out where he knew me from. He was welcome to try, but it wasn’t going to happen.
He gasped and jerked as I raised the weapon. I didn’t care if he was about to die anyway, I wanted to make sure the job was done – and I wanted to make sure it was me who did it. I had some promises to keep.
I flicked off safety and aimed at his head. I fired just once. I was going to need every round I had.
He lay completely still. His eyes stayed open.
I turned away, leaving him lying in a fast-spreading pool of his own blood, just like he’d left Dex and Red Ken.
