Twenty-Eight
CHRIS HAD GRABBED HOLD OF the machine gun, spraying bullets towards the soldiers on the hillside. Two of them had been cut down by the gunfire, but the rest had scuttled back to the armoured vehicles.
Steve checked his mag. Three bullets left. Then he was out of ammo.
All ten men were sheltering behind the vehicles, with Tshaka still bound and gagged next to them. They were soaking, covered in blood and mud, and running dangerously low on ammo.
Up ahead, the armoured vehicles were advancing steadily towards them, their machine guns laying down heavy fire. Steve was rifling through the clothes of one of the corpses, ripping a mag from his chest webbing, but there were only another four bullets left in the clip.
‘What’s the next bright idea?’ he said to Ollie.
‘Pray.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ Steve said tersely. ‘But there are military graveyards full of men who were doing just that.’ The vehicles were only 100 yards ahead now, advancing in a tight formation. Less than a minute, and they’d be upon them.
‘Use this bastard as a negotiating tool,’ said Ian, grabbing hold of Tshaka.
‘That’s surrendering,’ objected Chris.
‘It’s better than fecking dying,’ shouted Ian. ‘It’s—’ But the sentence was cut off by a huge explosion as one of the armoured vehicles ahead of them ignited. Flames were pouring out of the machine and lethal shards of shrapnel were flying everywhere. Steve ducked to avoid any of it hitting him. The screams of two men being incinerated split through the air, whilst another man jumped to the ground, his back covered in flames. He threw himself into the sodden mud, trying to put out the fire, but it was already too late: the flames had gripped his uniform, and within seconds the heat had melted his lungs.
Then another explosion.
And another.
‘Watch out for shrapnel!’ shouted Ollie. ‘Get your heads down.’
Pulling his hard hat into place Steve hunkered down under the steel coating of the vehicle they were squatting behind. With shrapnel, you had to protect your head and your heart. A wound anywhere else could be fixed. Not in the head or heart, however. That killed you.
He listened as round after round crashed into the opposing vehicles.
He recognised the sound. It was the L118, a British-made artillery weapon, sold around the world and universally referred to as the ‘Light Gun’. In service since 1975, the ‘Light Gun’ was a small artillery piece that could be dropped into the battlefield by helicopter or towed on a Land Rover. Its 105mm cannon could fire six to eight missiles a minute over a range of 17,000 yards, and its night-imaging kit meant it was effective even in the dark. Steve had trained with them plenty of times, as had most soldiers around the world: along with the American-manufactured variant, the M119A1 Howitzer, it was one of the most widely available field guns in modern military armouries.
I’d recognise the meaty thump of its shells anywhere, Steve told himself. And I’m sodding glad it’s on our side. He counted five, six, then seven missiles crashing into their target, each one detonating with deadly impact. The heat rolled in waves through the valley, and his lungs were aching as the oxygen was sucked out of the air. But there could be no doubt about what was happening.
‘Wallace?’ said Steve, glancing towards Ollie.
Ollie wiped some of the grime from his face. ‘Just in the nick of bloody time as well.’
The gun fell silent as suddenly as it had started up. The roar of the cannon faded, and the smoke cleared. Steve waited a few more seconds, making sure it wasn’t just a lull in the combat, then looked down the valley. The armoured vehicles were smouldering wrecks, broken to pieces by the heavy shells blasting into them. Debris was lying everywhere, much of it still burning. Six corpses were visible on the ground, and there would be the charred remains of more inside the vehicles. One man was staggering forwards, clutching his face, clearly blinded from the way he was walking. Nick had already picked up his rifle and slotted a pair of bullets into his chest to finish him off. In the circumstances, it was the kindest thing to do, reflected Steve. They were decent soldiers, and they’d given a good account of themselves, but they’d lost and there was no point in any of them complaining about their fate now.
‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ he shouted at the others.
Dan had grabbed hold of Tshaka, and Chris was helping Ian. The unit moved at a swift jog through the valley, hopping over the puddles of burning diesel. Wallace’s men were clearly visible a half-mile down the track. He was leading a convoy of four heavily armoured Land Rovers, with a single Light Gun planted in front of them, manned by a crew of three men. Steve picked up his pace, running across the slippery ground. We don’t want to hang around here any longer than we have to, he said to himself. Who knew where Tshaka’s army might have some reinforcements tucked away?