Ghost Watch (46 page)

We roared past the village, though I couldn’t see it through the tarpaulin. I fired back at the remaining vehicles in pursuit and yelled myself hoarse while I did it. Boink joined in, along with Ayesha and Ryder. I glanced at Leila and induced her to pick up her weapon and bang off a shot or two. I popped the mag when I saw the tracer round, put in a new one and kept firing, Boink and Ayesha reaching for fresh mags straight after me. Five assault rifles could bring plenty of heat to bear. The Dong dropped back further. Maybe the driver realized that we couldn’t actually go anywhere and that there were a lot of FARDC forces between us and that nowhere destination. The windshield of the Dong behind us, white and opaque and full of holes, shattered completely and fell back inside the cab over the men crowded along the front seat. The driver slowed a little more and the vehicle fell back well beyond a hundred meters, but that barely had an impact on the volume of lead finding its way into our sandbags, the shooters having sorted out their aiming issues. Rounds were now starting to strike the Kevlar cans directly, which meant that the sandbags were shredded. We rumbled on past the spot where we’d ambushed the weapons truck the day before, but no vultures flew into the air this time.

Our vehicle took the corner at the bottom of the hill and the inbound gunfire stopped instantly. We were getting close . . .

I got up on one knee and banged the metal stock of my M4, against the cabin. The brakes were slammed on. The force of the emergency stop threw me back against the truck’s cab but I was prepared for it. Fighting the deceleration, I got up and ran, launching myself out the back of the vehicle and landing on the road. The brakes groaned and the vehicle rolled backward a couple of meters, and I found myself beneath the truck, between the shredded rear tires where the air smelled of burning rubber, diesel smoke, fried grease and wet mud.

‘Go!’ I yelled to Rutherford, his head out of the window. I waved at him as I picked myself up, and ran into the forest through a stand of banana trees.

The Dong’s engine roared as Rutherford floored the gas pedal and pulled his foot off the clutch. The vehicle jerked forward, diesel exhaust spewing from its pipe. Barely half a second later, the trucks loaded up with FARDC troops in hot pursuit came into view, swerving around the corner, and copper-jacketed rounds from assorted Nazarians, M16s and AK-47s once again resumed their assault on our vehicle’s metalwork. I ran for a spot I’d marked with a length of sugarcane hung with banana leaves. Where was the damn thing? It took me a long couple of seconds to find it. Timing, always tight, was getting critical.
There!
I dove for the small green-colored clackers at the base of the cane marker and started squeezing whatever came to hand, and the forest facing the road immediately burst apart as a gauntlet of Claymores detonated and a dozen pounds of C4 sent thousands of steel pellets ripping into metal, rubber, flesh and bone.

Smoke from the explosions curled lazily through leaves, elephant grass and palm fronds. I got up, somewhat dazed, the taste of oxidized explosives in my mouth, and went over to the road to investigate. A couple of blood-spattered men were lying in the mud, barely moving, torn apart, likely unaware of how they came to be that way. Both enemy trucks were wrecked, their tires no more than loose faps of rubber hanging from the wheel rims, their chassis slightly warped by the force of the explosions that lifted them sideways off the road. Clouds of steam boiled from under their hoods. The back wheels on one of the twisted Dongs were off the ground, revolving slowly. Jesus, so many men – all dead.

As planned, Rutherford had brought the Alamo to a stop a hundred and fifty meters up the road. I started running toward it as it began to move forward slowly, turning off the road into the old plantation. I caught up with it just as Rutherford parked beside the second truck and killed the motor.

After a few long seconds, Boink walked out from under the tarpaulin like a man who’d had too much to drink, his balance a little off, Leila sobbing in the crook of one of his massive arms.

‘Man,’ he said, ‘that shit’s gonna give me nightmares for the rest of my damn life.’

Perceptive.

Rutherford appeared from around the far side of the truck.

‘Nerves aside, everyone okay?’ I asked Boink.

He shook his head to himself like he couldn’t believe what he’d just experienced, and then looked at me open-mouthed and nodded.

I checked Rutherford next.

‘Milk run,’ he said.

I forced a smile. ‘You been talking to my buddy Arlen?’

‘Who’s he?’

‘Someone I’m going to have a few words with when we get back home.’ For Leila’s benefit, I didn’t say
if
we get home. ‘How’s Francis?’

‘Rattled.’

‘Go get him. We need to talk.’

Boink got down from the truck, then gave Leila a hand. She looked utterly beaten, her eyes on the ground. The mindless bludgeoning violence of combat had given her an insight into her own insignifcance. I imagined that might be a terrifying experience for someone who believed they were special.

Ryder and Ayesha appeared from under the tarpaulin and hopped down from the truck.

‘How’s the head?’ I asked Ryder.

‘Not sure. You tell me?’ he said.

‘Still where it should be,’ I muscled up a grin and passed it along to Ayesha, who returned a blank stare.

‘The poor bastards wouldn’t have known what hit them,’ said Ryder.

‘Spirits, maybe,’ I replied.

Rutherford and Francis walked into view. Francis looked haggard, the dressing on his arm soaked with blood.

‘Anyone happen to see if Colonel Cravat was killed back there?’ I asked.

‘Colonel who?’ Rutherford asked.

‘Lissouba.’

‘I am sure he is alive,’ Francis ventured. ‘He will come for us. He is a proud man.’

‘Stylish, too,’ I said.

‘So what’s next?’ Rutherford asked.

As I saw it, we had little choice. ‘We’re going to have to take the mine. And we have to do it now, while we’ve still got surprise on our side.’ Our principals would be there, and so would Lockhart.

‘I can’t do it again,’ said Leila, looking up from the ground, her eyes vacant and yet intense, zombie-like. I’d seen that look often enough in the eyes of people who’ve spent too long in combat or who have just experienced it for the first time.

‘Me, neither,’ said Ayesha.

Best news I’d heard all day. For their own safety I didn’t want them or Boink anywhere near my immediate future. ‘Okay, you and Leila can stay behind and debrief Cassidy and West when they arrive. Boink, I need you here too.’ He opened his mouth to argue the call. At that instant, I noticed that the big man’s trademark bowler was sitting a little askew on his head. I reached for it, but he took it off before my fingers got to the brim. ‘Do you mind . . .?’ I asked and he handed it over. I turned it around. There was a hole – no, two holes, one on each side. I held it up and looked at him through the ventilation. Bullet holes – entry and exit. I gave it back to him and he wiggled a pinky through one of them.

‘Shee-it,’ he said.

‘I need the security here locked down by someone I can trust,’ I told him. ‘That’s you.’

The close call he’d had without even realizing it nudged him in the right direction.

‘Okay, soldier man,’ he said. ‘Can do that, yo.’

‘What about Duke?’ Ayesha asked. ‘He has to stay with us. He’s injured.’

Injured or not, I needed Ryder. ‘Can you fire a weapon, Duke?’ I asked him.

He glanced at Ayesha and then detached himself from her a little. ‘I guess so.’

‘Duke . . .’ Ayesha said, holding onto his arm.

‘This is why they pay me.’

Okay, okay – so I’d
really
misjudged him. ‘Can you drive?’ I asked.

‘I think so. What do you need?’

I wasn’t a hundred percent sure. We had a loaves and fishes situation: too many tasks and not enough people to tackle them. But at least as far as my principals were concerned, their immediate safety was not something I had to worry about, even though I was breaking the number one rule in the book, which was to never, under
any
circumstance, leave your principals without PSO protection. So, in a nutshell, if this leg of our little adventure turned into a cluster fuck, I’d be court-martialed. There’d be a guilty verdict and a dishonorable discharge would follow. Assuming, of course, that I managed to survive said cluster fuck. A cold uncertainty about what lay ahead in the next hour blossomed in the pit of my stomach and the roots grew into my scrotum. ‘Francis, can you shoot a rifle?’

‘
Oui
,’ he said. ‘We go now to free my wife, my people, yes?’

No, we weren’t, not in as many words, but it would most likely happen by default if we also managed to bust out our principals.

‘Can you drive?’ I asked him.

‘
Oui
, but not so well. I have shot more than I have driven.’

‘Can you shoot
and
drive at the same time?’ I asked, pushing my luck.

Francis was looking increasingly uncertain. ‘
Oui.
’

‘But you can drive one of those?’ I gestured over my shoulder at the Dongs.

‘
Oui.
’

I told Rutherford to take the watch. Then, with my boot, I scraped away the leaf litter on the ground until I had a square of earth to work with. ‘Gather ’round. Francis, if I get the layout wrong, let me know. Boink, Leila, Ayesha – when Cassidy and West get here, you’ll need to debrief them.’

‘What should we tell them?’ Leila asked.

Using my Ka-bar, I drew a map of the mine and described the approaches as I remembered them. Francis pulled me up twice. The distances from the wooden beer huts, the mine’s administrative center, to the open pit were underestimated; the distance to the camp, where Francis’s people and many others spent the night under patches of plastic sheeting, was overestimated.

‘The only buildings at the mine are two huts made of wood,’ I said, scratching a cross in the mud with the point of my knife. ‘I’d say that’s where Twenny and Peanut are being held – somewhere close to these.’

‘Busting them out,’ said Rutherford, glancing back over his shoulder at the map. ‘How we gonna do that?’

I wish I knew. I was still trying to figure out what we’d be facing when we got there. It was around five miles from the encampment to the mine, or a little over four miles from our current position. Unless the FARDC used radio, which I hadn’t seen, my guess was that the left hand still didn’t know the right hand had been smacked. If the soldiers at the mine had heard anything – the mortar bombardment – they might have put it down to a localized thunderstorm, something that happened often enough around here.

I turned to Francis, hoping for a little information on the communications front. ‘Do the government troops use radio?’

He shook his head. ‘I have not seen this. When they can, they use the cell phone, but they do not work here.’

‘How many men usually guard the mine?’

‘Not many. Perhaps ten.’

‘What about the trucks? How many do they have?’

‘I do not know,’ he said.

Hmm . . . Lockhart and Lissouba had moved their hostages because they suspected an attack was looming, which meant there was a better- than-even chance that the mine was garrisoned to protect their hostages. And there seemed to be significantly fewer than a hundred and something armed men at the main encampment on the hill.

‘Leila and Ayesha, I need you to refill our magazines,’ I said. ‘We’re heading out in ten minutes.’ I handed over my empties. Rutherford came over and added his to the stack. I expected a complaint from Leila, but didn’t get one. Still in zombie mode, I figured. Boink tag-teamed with Rutherford, taking over the watch.

‘If you see any traffic,’ I told Boink, ‘let us know. Stay out of sight, okay?’

‘Yo,’ he said simply, and went off.

I watched him go and decided that a fart in a crowded elevator had more chance of hiding than a human being the size of Boink. But there were deep shadows in the forest and, after more than a week on the run, he knew the drill.

‘On the trucks front, we’ve accounted for four of them,’ said Rutherford. ‘And one was destroyed at the checkpoint. That’s a total of five.’

I counted six at the mine when I arrived there yesterday. Including the one I stowed away on and the one back at the village, that made eight trucks that we knew of.

‘There are at least four more trucks running around,’ I said. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘You can carry around a lot of men in four trucks.’

A picture was being painted that I didn’t like the look of.

‘Vin,’ said Ayesha, interrupting my thoughts. ‘What do you want us to do with these?’

She was holding up a couple of Claymores, one in each hand.

‘How many we got?’

‘These two and six more.’

The Claymore. It was both a defensive and offensive weapon, or so we were told in basic, the operation of which was only limited by the user’s imagination. Mine kicked into overdrive.