Fire Force(52)

‘Ready?’ said David, as he gunned the engine on the chopper.

Steve was sitting in the back along with Ian, Maksim and Dan. ‘Ready,’ he rapped in reply.

The Alouette’s heavy blade swiped through the air, and with a sudden jerky movement it was rising up into the sky. It rose quickly, even in the hot, thin air, swaying up to 1,000 feet. David pushed it out over the lake. He’d already flown it up from Ibera this morning and was getting used to the controls. The machine ran smoothly enough. Like a vintage car, it wasn’t cluttered with a lot of modern electronics. It was about as simple as a lawnmower and the better for it. Electronics were fine when you had an American aircraft carrier with a full team of mechanics to keep them working for you, thought Steve. Out here, the less you had to worry about the better.

David twisted over the lake, and pointed back towards their fort. ‘Get ready, boys.’ he yelled over the roar of the engine.

The Alouette suddenly plummeted: David was bringing it right down to 200 feet, and for the drop itself, it would come down to fifty. They had coiled four lightweight but sturdy nylon ropes onto winches on the side of the chopper. The winch would regulate the speed of your drop as you threw yourself from the side of the machine, allowing you to land at roughly the same speed as on a parachute jump. Each man was gripping onto his rope with his hand, since as soon as you hit the ground, you had to form a tight square and start shooting. There was no time to unhook a harness. It was hands or nothing.

Steve could feel his stomach rising into his chest as the chopper dropped down. It was always the same, and there was no point in fighting it. They’d be coming in low for the attack, and when you did that, even a man with a constitution like old boots started vomiting. The Alouette was hurtling towards the fort, skimming over the surface of the lake, inching down all the time as David co-ordinated the flight so that it would hit fifty feet just as it hovered over the centre of the parade ground.

A hundred yards, judged Steve.

Fifty . . .

Thank Christ this is just a practice, he told himself grimly. I need a run at this before I do it with blokes shooting straight into my balls.

‘Go, go!’ screamed David.

Steve took only a fraction of a second to glance from the side of the chopper. He’d been through this drill dozens of times with the Regiment. He’d done his basic parachute training by jumping again and again from a tall wooden platform on the end of a rope and he’d seen a few blokes break ankles and legs. He’d done fifty parachute jumps, ten of them in combat zones, and two of them under hostile fire. But it didn’t matter how many times you did it. You could still feel the fear creeping through your veins as you chucked yourself into the void. Your blood froze and your heart pumped furiously. ‘Go,’ Steve repeated to himself. ‘Just sodding go.’

He held on tight to the rope as he fell, releasing just enough grip from his fingers and knees to keep himself moving down. The updraught from the chopper’s blade was creating a vicious blast of air that shot straight upwards, dragging a cloud of dust and dirt swirling into them. As you dropped down through it, you were completely blinded. Steve held tight to the rope, taking less than three seconds to shimmy down its entire length. He hit the ground with a thud, letting his knees bend to absorb the pressure. In that same instant, he whipped his AK-47 from his chest webbing, knelt down and started firing the mag full of blanks he’d loaded into the gun. Above him, David was jerking the Alouette hard into the sky, and slowly the dust cloud was starting to clear, making it possible to see the fort.

Ganju was standing right next to him.

With his AK-47 pointing into Steve’s chest.

Steve stood up, wiping the dirt out of his eyes and glancing around at Dan, Ian and Maksie. If they’d been doing this for real, it looked as if Ian would have died.

And me as well.

‘OK,’ Steve sighed. ‘Let’s keep doing this until we get it right.’

David had taken the chopper up for a clean getaway, and was circling around before bringing it back in to land. Steve checked his watch. It was just after noon. They could do another couple of practice runs, then they had to start assembling their kit and getting some rest.

They weren’t going to perfect the manoeuvre in the time available. But there was no point in worrying about that now. They just had to crack on - and reckon they’d get it right when their lives were on the line. After all, he reminded himself, there was nothing like facing a real live enemy with real live bullets in his guns to get you focused.

Down by the lake, Ollie and Chris were fixing up the boat.

It was a military patrol vessel, at least twenty years old, and manufactured locally. Its steel hull was painted a dark green. There was a small cabin down below with room for three men, and plenty of space for another six men on the deck. Modern patrol boats were made from aluminium for greater speed, but Chris reckoned this one would do just fine. It had two 400-kilowatt diesel engines, which could get it up to a top speed of forty knots if you pushed it hard enough. There were 300 litres of fuel in its tank, fully loaded, enough to get it down to Elephant’s Foot and back twice over, and a generous allowance in a country where diesel was in short supply.