Fire Force(9)

‘Sod you, Ollie Hall,’ he murmured again. ‘This is the last hole I dig you out of.’

Ahead, the track suddenly opened up, and Steve could feel his lungs flooding with relief as the Toyota broke out onto a sandy beach. It was lined with palm trees, swaying in the wind, and dotted with broken coconut shells. Paradise, thought Steve. That is, if you didn’t have a truckload of soldiers fifty yards behind you trying to shoot your arse off.

‘Drive straight to the boat,’ he shouted.

You could see the small craft bobbing on the waves twenty yards or so out into the ocean. It was a 30-foot fishing vessel hired 150 miles down the coast in Libreville, with a metal hull, a wooden frame, and a 300 hp diesel engine. There were rough seas on the South Atlantic tonight, with a vicious wind blowing in from the north, and the waves were smashing onto the beach. The Toyota slowed as its tyres struggled to get a grip on the wet sand but it had enough momentum to keep going. Suddenly there was a bark of gunfire as the Nissan arrived at the end of the lane. The Toyota was already crashing into the water. Smoke was rising from the engine, and white, salty breakers were starting to wash over it.

‘Bloody swim for it,’ bellowed Steve. He flung the door open, pushing hard against the water. With his left hand, he grasped hold of Ollie, still blinded by the flash, and started to wade into the sea. At his side, he could see Ian dragging the prisoner. A wave slapped over him, soaking his clothes and knocking him backwards; he had to struggle to stay upright. Behind them, the troops were tumbling out of the Nissan. A rapid burst of fire peppered the waves with bullets.

Christ, thought Steve. We need some covering fire, otherwise there will be blood in this water.

‘Get some fire down Nick,’ he yelled.

His voice was carried eastwards on the wind, and he just hoped it would reach the ears of the boy on the deck. Nick Thomas was just twenty years old, his only training with the Territorials, and although he’d proved himself in Afghanistan, and was the best shot any of the men had ever seen, he was still only a kid. There was a reason why Steve insisted on only working with battle-seasoned soldiers: they’d seen every type of combat you could imagine and they knew precisely how to respond once they were in trouble.

‘We’re going under mate,’ he said, his head swivelling towards Ollie. Then, taking a lungful of air, he grabbed Ollie’s wrist and dived into the approaching wave. With the other hand tucked into Ollie’s belt, he kicked his legs furiously, propelling them towards the blacked-out shape he assumed to be the hull of the boat.

Up on the deck, Nick had positioned an M40 sniper rifle, a weapon first issued to the US Marines during the Vietnam War and, as a result, one of the most widely available high-precision rifles in the world. It wasn’t the best sniper rifle ever made, but it was cheap, you could always find fresh ammo, and it was plenty accurate enough to deal with the 200 yards that separated the boat from the soldiers swarming onto the beach.

Nick held the gun steady in his hand, and licked away a bead of sweat from his upper lip. He was a confident marksman, aware that he rarely if ever missed, but he’d never tried to make a shot from the stern of a storm-tossed boat before and, for the first time ever, he could hear a whisper of doubt inside his head. The boat was swaying under the swell, and as Nick lined up a target in his sights, it was instantly snatched away from him. Aim and shoot, all in the same split second, he told himself. That’s the only way. He paused, then placed the chest of one of the soldiers firing on his mates within the cross hairs of his gun.

‘Kill,’ he whispered as he pulled the trigger.

The bullet bounced harmlessly off the skin of the Nissan.

The soldiers were growing more confident, advancing unhindered, unleashing a murderous barrage of fire. Steve and Ian had dived underwater, but pretty soon the lead skimming through the waves was going to catch them.

‘Kill,’ repeated Nick, firing again.

He slammed his fist hard against the metal of the boat. The bullet had struck a soldier clean in the chest, dropping him to the ground. Nick instantly readjusted his sights, lining up his next shot. Another soldier went down, writhing on the ground. Now the enemy were taking cover, diving behind rocks or their truck: they were still firing their weapons, but watching two of their mates get hit had slowed them down.

Below, Steve and Ollie suddenly burst out of the water, grabbing hold of the side of the boat. Nick reached down and hauled Steve on board. Within seconds, Steve, Ollie, Ian and the prisoner were gasping for breath on the deck. The wind was howling furiously around them, and the boat was swaying in the rising swell, but they had made it.