Fire Force(63)

The real test, Steve knew, was about to begin.

A column of ten men was preparing to break out of the main barracks.

‘Take cover,’ he shouted, pointing towards the shooting range.

He held himself steady, laying down constant fire from his AK-47, moving backwards as he did so. The four men retreated in a steady line, putting round after round of ammunition into their opponents. It was only ten yards but it felt like fifty, as the bullets started to spit into the ground around them. The rain was still falling hard, soaking through their clothes and turning the ground to mud. But, as the smoke cleared, the visibility was improving.

We can see the enemy now, Steve told himself.

And they can see us.

He threw himself behind the wooden fence that was used for target practice. Three feet across and five feet high, it was sturdily built and there was a steel plate down its centre. On an assault in Bosnia, back in the Regiment, Steve had learned that a firing range was the perfect place to take cover: it was built to withstand bullet after bullet. He checked that Ian, Maksim and Dan were safely in place then peered out around the wall.

A kid was running towards them, a hand grenade clutched in his fist.

The lad was no more than ten, judged Steve. Short and stocky, he had a goofy smile on his face, and was wearing a fake Manchester United shirt. He pulled the pin from the grenade and kept on running, heading straight for the wall. Christ, thought Steve. A child soldier. You get them all over Africa. And they’re using him to kill us.

He lined up the child in the sights of his AK-47, but his finger jammed in the trigger. In his mind, he could see the kid’s brains getting blown apart by the bullet, his crooked smile disappearing for ever, and he couldn’t do it.

Then the child fell. A bullet had smacked into his face, blowing it half away, whilst his body tumbled on top of the grenade. He was blown apart, his intestines flying out across the fort.

‘You bloody bottled it,’ snarled Maksim, smoke still rising from the barrel of his AK-47.

‘He was a child,’ Steve said.

Maksim shrugged. ‘He was going to kill us.’

Steve knew he was right.

‘That’s a weakness,’ the Russian said. ‘And a soldier shouldn’t allow himself any of those.’

There was no time for Steve to reply. Ten men were advancing steadily towards them, laying down round after round from their assault rifles. The bullets were cutting into the wall, chewing up clumps of wood. Steve took aim, planning to bring at least one man down, but the fire was too intense. He couldn’t line up any kind of a shot without getting his face blown off. At his side, Ian had ripped free a grenade, tossing it over the parapet, but before it could explode, one of the men had kicked it away, so it exploded harmlessly twenty yards away.

We’re pinned down, realised Steve. We can’t move out of here, and we can’t strike back.

And where the hell has Ollie got to?





Twenty-Three

OLLIE WAS LEADING THE CHARGE through the breach that had been blasted in the fort’s wall. There were mounds of rubble strewn across the ground and, amidst the debris, the corpses of a dozen men who had died trying to hold the defences.

Ollie heard a groan to his left. He looked around and saw a man’s hand reaching out towards him. He was horribly mutilated, his torso ripped to shreds, and one leg blown clean off, but he was still hanging onto life. Ollie grabbed his Uzi and put two clean pistol shots through the man’s face, killing him instantly. We’re not giving these bastards any chance to regroup themselves and start fighting back, he told himself fiercely.

‘Take the barracks!’ he shouted.

Looking through the fort, Ollie reckoned at least half the soldiers inside had died in the initial assault. There were twelve men down at the wall, and another eight corpses were spread out close to where the chopper had come down. They must have died when Steve and his boys had put down their first rounds of fire.

Fifteen yards to his left, the officer’s mess was quiet. Ollie reckoned Tshaka would be holed up in there while his men repelled the attack. Twenty yards to his right, the main barracks building was still held by a group of men with a machine gun. And across the parade ground, ten men were steadily advancing towards where Steve had taken cover behind the shooting range.

Ollie took a second to assess his options. They had to help out Steve and his guys. But they had to take out the machine gun inside the barracks as well. If they didn’t, they’d get mown down as they tried to cross the parade ground.

‘Newton,’ he snapped. ‘The gun.’

‘It’s . . .’

Ollie knew at once what the man was about to say.

It’s suicide.