Silent kill, p.15
Silent Kill, page 15
part #1 of Extreme Series
Flipping open the Pelican box, Bald saw the single-shot, twelve-gauge flare gun nestled inside. Four 26.5mm flare rounds lay next to it. Bald slotted one of the rounds into the breech of the gun and snapped it shut as another three-round burst tore up the hull. He waited for the abrupt lull in the gunfire. Then he sprang upright, holding the flare gun in a two-handed grip. With no one at the wheel, the dhow bobbed along, pitching markedly as Bald zeroed in on the pirate boat. Twelve metres to the target. He almost lost his balance as he trained the flare gun on the pilot. Then he gave the guy the good news.
The flare hissed out of the snout in a fist of smoke and fire. There was no accuracy to a flare gun: it was designed purely to sling a round out into the sky. But at a distance of ten metres from his target, Bald didn’t need much accuracy. The round did the trick, keyholing the pilot in the upper chest with such force that it spat out of his back and ignited on the motorboat’s deck. One of the pirates stooped to pick up the burning flare and throw it overboard. His arm was instantly engulfed in flames. He gasped in pain and dropped the flare, waving at his mates for help. One of them kicked him overboard as the fire quickly blazed across the deck. He and the other two pirates tried in vain to stamp out the fire.
‘Fucking go!’ Bald boomed.
Stegman picked himself up and ran at a crouch to the bullet-stippled wheelhouse. He grabbed the wheel and cranked up the speed. The Marlowe steamed ahead, breaking away from the pirates. Flames were spreading over the motorboat now. Black smoke churned out of its engine and funnelled into the sky. The pirates jumped overboard, wailing for help. None of them could swim. Bald chuckled grimly at their despair as he swung back towards Priest.
‘Break out the guns,’ he roared. ‘We need firepower.’
Priest nodded and spun away, stumbling across the swaying deck to the cargo hold, water sloshing over the gunwale and soaking him. He dropped to one knee beside the nearest crate and wrenched open the lid.
Stegman shouted to his slaves, ‘Give the fella a hand, for fuck’s sake.’
Bald glanced over his shoulder. They were forty metres ahead of the motorboat now. The fire had pretty much consumed the pirates’ vessel. Two of them were fighting over a piece of floating wood. One had pulled a knife and was slashing wildly at his mate as he clung onto the wood with his free hand.
We’re getting away, thought Bald.
His relief was cut short by a panicked yell from Stegman.
‘Shit!’
Bald spun around. ‘What?’
‘Look!’
Stegman pointed to the river bank at their eleven o’clock. Ninety metres north of the dhow. Bald chased his line of sight. The bank to the west was a steep incline, and on the top of this, twenty metres above the river, stood a line of acacia trees. Between them ghostly figures were moving about. Ten of them, Bald counted. Wearing the same gear as the guys on the motorboat. And likewise wielding AK-47s. They were taking up positions along the treeline, preparing to put down rounds on the Marlowe.
‘More pirates,’ Stegman hissed. ‘The guys on the boat must have radioed ahead to their mates.’
‘Master,’ Eli said, his voice trembling. ‘What are we going to do?’
Stegman’s neck muscles tightened. ‘Race past them,’ he said. ‘We’re not far from the camp. Seven nautical miles, give or take. If we can just scrape past these bastards we can make it in one piece.’
Bald listened. At the same time his eyes were fixed on the gunmen training their sights on the dhow eighty metres due south of their position. He suddenly realized something and called to Stegman, ‘Steer towards the bank.’
Stegman shot him a look like a Turk at a baptism. ‘What, and crash into the bank so they can pick us off? You’re fucking crazy, man! And you reckoned I was the one chewing too much khat.’
Seventy metres between the Marlowe and the ten gunmen, now all in place, their assault rifles trained on the dhow. Bald pointed out a bend in the river a couple of hundred metres ahead. Two boats were just visible there.
‘They’re lying in wait for us,’ he shouted. ‘Classic ambush tactics. You have a cut-off group to the back and front, and a main kill group in the middle. The guys on the river bank are the main kill group. They know we’re out numbered so we’re likely to make a run for it. But if we steam on we’ll run into the front cut-off group. The main kill group will swing around the back and trap us.’
Sixty metres to the bank now. Bald saw the slaves scooping out weapons from the crates and laying them out on the deck. He counted four AK-47s and several clips of ammo. Priest unpacked a heftier weapon and glanced at Bald, grinning absurdly. It was a Negev light machine gun, chambered for the 5.56x45mm NATO cartridge and with a cyclic rate of fire of 850 rounds per minute. The kind of tool that could vaporize a man, Bald thought admiringly. Priest unloaded a belt of open-link brass from the same crate and placed it next to the Negev.
‘We have to head for the centre,’ Bald shouted to Stegman. ‘Attack the kill group. If we push them back we can make our way to the RV on foot.’
Eli’s eyes widened to poker chips. ‘But we’ll be steering straight into heavy fire!’
Bald glowered at the slave. ‘No two ways about it. We’ll sustain some casualties. And we’ll lose the cargo on the boat. But it’s the only way of getting out ourselves of the shit. If we steam straight on, they’re gonna nail us.’
Fifty-five metres.
Stegman nodded firmly at Eli. Nothing sobered up a man like the threat of death. ‘He’s right. We have no choice.’
A clatter of gunfire erupted. Tongues of flames licked out of the muzzles dotted along the line of acacias and simultaneous three-round bursts fizzed out from the bank like flaming arrows and slapped against the side of the hull. Stegman sank to a crouch as he yanked the wheel hard left. The dhow pitched on its keel and nosed towards the bank at speed, engine growling, water slopping over the sides, washing the blood of the dead slave across the deck. Now a second volley of rounds ripped into the boat, tearing chunks out of the prow. Stegman kept the dhow pointing towards the bank. Gripping the wheel with his left hand, wildly loosing rounds from his M1911 with his right. The river was narrow and Bald saw there was just under twenty metres between the dhow and the bank. But Stegman’s aim was poor and even at this short distance his rounds missed their targets, three thumping high into the branches of the trees, three more thudding low into the soil. The gunmen saw the boat surging towards them and started pepper-potting back, retreating a further ten metres beyond the treeline, discharging three-round bursts at the Marlowe.
The earth moved as the dhow collided with the bank. The deck shuddered. Bald lost his footing and crashed against the wheelhouse, pain reverberating through his skull, disorientating him. Like someone had socked him with a bag of spanners. There was a powerful tremor as the bow skidded up the bank. The engine screamed as the propeller scraped the riverbed, churning up sand. Then the boat lurched to a halt.
Bald quickly picked himself up. Shaking his groggy head clear, he scanned the area immediately ahead of the prow. The bank rose twenty metres on a steady incline to the treeline, where toothbrush trees and thorn bushes were mixed in with the acacias. Beyond the bullet-riddled prow he could pick out the gunmen. All ten of them. They had finished regrouping and were some thirty metres from the dhow.
Bald pounded across the deck and, ignoring Priest, grabbed the Negev. It was heavy – eight kilos of stamped steel and iron – and he felt the strain in his forearms when he hefted the weapon up. Like lifting some priceless bronze sculpture. A belt of 150-round link ammo lay next to the LMG. His hands working smoothly and with speed, Bald lifted open the feed tray and inserted the link, snapping the first round into the groove with the bolt carrier underneath.
‘Shit!’ Bald glanced back and saw Stegman sucking the air between his teeth as he pawed at a flesh wound on his forehead. Blood seeped between his fingers, trickled down his face. ‘Banged my head against the fucking wheel—’
Bullets whizzed overhead, a torrent of hot lead zipping across the prow. Bald slapped the feed tray shut. Then he tugged on the charging handle on the right side of the Negev, the belt of open link drooping like a brass tongue from the feed tray’s side. Then he slid back to Stegman.
‘We’ve got to send these pricks south before their mates upriver join the party. We’ll take the left flank.’ Bald tilted his head at the three slaves. ‘Your guys know how to use a tool?’
‘They’re Somalis. They’re practically breastfed on it.’
‘OK, you and your men put down suppressive fire on the fuckers.’
‘What about you two?’
‘We’ll break across open ground towards the gunmen and flank them from the left. Once we’re in position, you’ll attack from the right flank. That way we’ll pin them into position and pick them off.’
Stegman nodded. ‘Take one of my children with you.’
Eli heard that. He gulped audibly. Bald recognized the sound of fear, having seen enough wet-behind-the-ears squaddies. Priest passed AK-47s to Stegman, Eli and the other two slaves. Gripping his own weapon, he inserted one clip of 7.52x39mm brass into the mag feed on the underside of the barrel and stuffed a second clip into the waistband of his shorts. Nodded at Bald.
The Scot nodded back, then told Stegman, ‘On my count, we move.’
From the treeline a cacophony of gunfire crackled through the air, rounds fizzing into the prow of the Marlowe. Stegman vaulted over the gunwale and dropped down the right side of the hull. Eli and one of the slaves stumbled after him. Bald saw them take up position on the incline.
‘Go!’ he barked at Priest and the third slave.
At the same time Stegman roared deliriously to his two men to start putting down rounds on the gunmen. Bald jumped down from the boat after Priest and the other slave. The ground was soft and cushioned his landing.
Gripping the Negev, he led the charge towards the enemy.
Twenty-one
0727 hours.
The gunmen didn’t spot Bald advancing towards them. Not at first. They were pinned down by the rounds coming from Stegman and his slaves. The South African was fulfilling his side of the bargain, concentrating a steady stream of fire on the gunmen from his baseline five metres up the bank from the beached dhow. The rounds powered into the ground several inches short of the gunmen, flinging soil and bits of rock into the air. But the rate of fire was consistent and kept them static, and that was all Bald needed Stegman and his men to do. Isolate the targets while he closed in on the left flank with his own fire team. Adrenalin coursing through him, Bald surged ahead of the other two, filled with a grim determination to finish the job. The pirates had threatened to put the brakes on his RV with Pretorius.
Now they were about to regret ever fucking with him.
He stopped fifteen metres short of the treeline. Four gunmen to the right of the group, farthest from the arc of suppressive fire, had managed to crawl away to cover behind rocks and were returning fire at Stegman. They appeared giddy with excitement, blissfully unaware of Bald unfolding the bipod on the underside of the LMG’s stock and sliding to a prone firing stance. His chest were pressed flat against the damp ground, his legs shoulder width apart.
Bald glanced at his six. Priest and the slave were a couple of metres behind. At a signal from Bald the two of them hit the dirt either side of the Scot as he flicked the fire selector on the left side of the pistol grip from the safety position to ‘R’: semi-automatic. Then he peered down the sights at the rightmost gunman of the four at the rocks. Coolly lined him up between the front post and the rear aperture.
Exhaled.
Fired.
There was zero kickback as he depressed the trigger. Just the bark of the round racing out of the muzzle, the machine-like clang of the Negev’s parts sliding back and forth, the sweet kink of the spent jacket flying out of the ejector. It felt good. It felt even better when he saw the gunman’s head explode in a vivid shower of brain matter and bone. The gunman dropped. Instantly his three mates swivelled their sights as one towards Bald. He had less than a second to act. He didn’t panic. He thumbed the fire selector to automatic and gave the trigger a squeeze, raking the machine gun across the treeline. Bullets pulverized the rocks, throwing up a cloud of dust. The belt link chugged through the feed tray, shells spitting out of the ejector at a ferocious rate. A second gunman did the dead man’s dance. Then a third. The fourth dived to the ground.
Seven targets left.
‘Displace!’ Bald roared.
Priest and the slave shot to their feet and pushed ahead of him towards the treeline. Bald kept up a steady stream of fire at the fourth gunman, hemming him in among the rocks. The suppressive fire suddenly cut out at his three o’clock. He risked a glance at Stegman’s team, fourteen metres away. The South African and Eli were reloading, the other slave fumbling with his AK-47. Stoppage, thought Bald. A grim thought hit him. The stoppage had created a fatal lull in the team’s suppressive fire. With no rounds being put down on their position for a moment, the six gunmen grouped at the treeline would have a grade-A opportunity to put a bunch of holes in Stegman and his men. Bald grimly adjusted his sights on the Negev, angling the sights towards the targets to the right. Then he pulled the trigger. Didn’t have time to aim. Just unleashed a furious burst of lead at the targets. The rounds thumped like invisible fists into the ground. The gunmen scrambled for cover at a scrape a few metres behind the treeline. Aiming at his back, Bald brassed up another of the fuckers.
Four dead, six to go.
It was only as Bald started to swivel the Negev back towards the lone gunman at the rocks, ten metres ahead of Priest and the slave, that he grasped his own mistake. In putting down rounds at the six enemies at the treeline to protect Stegman’s fire team, he’d unwittingly diverted his covering fire from his own men. With no suppressive fire to keep him penned in behind the rocks, the lone gunman now sprang up from cover and targeted Priest and the slave as they advanced up the hillside. Dread lodged in Bald’s throat. He sighted the Negev on the gunman. He was too late. Priest and the slave were exposed. The gunman had time to pick his spot. Three rounds flamed out of the barrel and promptly riddled the slave. The bullets punched holes in his chest, skittered through his lungs and exploded out of his lower back. A scream gurgled in his throat as he dropped like a marionette with its strings cut. Priest immediately threw himself to the ground a metre to the right of the slave as the gunman shrank behind the rock. He left his lower left leg trailing out of cover.
A split second later Bald put rounds down on him. A round tore into the guy’s heel. He shrieked in agony, leaning sideways to clutch his wound, removing his head from cover. Bald saw Priest unload a quick burst at him. Three rounds punched the gunman in the face, and Bald saw that he no longer had a lower jaw. His upper teeth were hanging out and Bald could even see the back of his throat, cartilage glistening. Looking at the gunman’s body slumped against the rocks, a warm feeling worked through Bald. He was pleased with their work. They’d walloped the four at the rocks, along with one of the others. He hefted the Negev off the ground and raced after Priest, hauling the big man to his feet.
Five dead.
Now he had to take care of the five gunmen grouped at the scrape, four metres ahead of the rocks and fourteen metres away from him and Priest. Stegman’s fire team had resumed a stream of suppressive fire, pinning down the five gunmen. Two of these turned their attention to Bald and Priest as they launched up the hillside. They opened fire. Bald and Priest hit the ground eight metres short of the rocks and twelve short of the scrape as a relentless wave of fire chopped and slashed through the treeline. Bald raged inwardly. The five gunmen ahead of them had both angles covered: left flank and right, Bald and Stegman.
Stalemate.
Then a throaty roar went up and Bald glanced over his right shoulder. Eli at his four o’clock. Stegman had been trying to displace to new cover further up the hillside. But the gunmen had the drop on them and the second slave jolted as rounds thwacked into his torso. Eli panicked by his side, throwing himself to the ground as the slave dropped, his body hideously contorted, blood staining the soil black. But with the gunmen preoccupied with the two slaves, Stegman took the opportunity to swing around to the extreme right flank. Rounds ripped up the ground inches from his feet as he reached the treeline. He dropped to a crouch and weaved between the acacia trees as the gunmen swung their rifles towards him and fired. Bullets slapped into bark, showering Stegman in a mist of splinters as he took cover behind a thick clump of acacias fifteen metres due east of the gunmen at the scrape. Bald watched Stegman look over his shoulder, panic flaring up on his face as he realized Eli wasn’t by his side. His slave-child was sprawled on the ground further down the hillside. He appeared to still be alive, clutching a trauma wound to his right thigh.
‘My son!’ Stegman bellowed at the gunmen. ‘You shot my fucking son!’
As the gunmen continued to spray the trees surrounding Stegman, Bald spied the two motorboats forming the lead cut-off group along the river. They were heading for the beached dhow, a hundred and eighty metres away. Well within the effective range of the Negev – the LMG was true up to a distance of three hundred metres. But Stegman was in trouble and Bald spotted a chance to take down the gunmen. He turned back to Priest.
‘Cover me.’
He got to his feet and pushed up the bank. Heading towards the rock that the last gunman to die had been crouched behind, six metres short of the scrape where the remaining five were gathered. He carted the LMG in a two-handed grip, right hand fastened around the pistol grip, left hand wrapped around the forward handguard as he swept around the rock and dropped to one knee beside it so he could dive behind cover if his plan went sideways. The gunman had their backs turned to him. All five were zeroing their AKs on Stegman, the South African drawing their sting as he shrank behind the acacias, pinned down by an unremitting stream of bullets. One of them saw Bald making his approach. The guy spun round – too late. Bald levelled the Negev with the gunmen and let them have it.
