Manhunter Chris Ryan (phonics story books txt) 📖

country. They’ll retake the airport and secure the infrastructure in and around the capital. D Squadron will land at the private airfield up the road. Twenty miles from here. Which is good news for us. Means they’ll get here sooner.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘Depends,’ said Mallet.

‘On what?’

‘The situation on the ground. The guys might run into an ambush on the way over here. Or they might hit an IED. Any number of things could slow them down.’

‘Or the rebels might attack the airfield,’ Webb said.

‘Not likely. There’s a military contingent based at the airfield. Two platoons. They’re under orders to protect the airstrip at all costs.’

‘What about air support?’ Bowman asked.

‘I’ve asked the question. It’s a hard no,’ Mallet said. ‘Nothing in the area. No fast air. It’s just us.’

‘This op just keeps getting better and better,’ Loader grumbled.

‘We’ve still got the upper hand. We’ve got the high ground, the hardware. A few hours from now, D Squadron will fly in and roll through the enemy.’

‘As long as they get here before the KUF, I’ll be happy. General Kakuba sounds like an evil bastard.’

Mallet said, ‘We’ve had no reports of KUF paramilitary activity in the area. As far as we know, the only rebels nearby are the Machete Boys.’

A few minutes later, the first pale glimmer of light fringed the horizon. Gradually, the darkness lifted. Bowman sipped coffee and glanced round the estate. He could see the ground to the west more clearly now. The distant trees resolved themselves into a dense palm grove. There was another grassy field to the east of the stronghold leading towards an orchard. He saw the blackened stumps of burned-down trees and bushes at the front of the mansion. The thick woodland a hundred metres north of the clearing. In the far distance he spied a chain of hogbacked hills shaped like the knuckles of a clenched fist, silhouetted against the lightening sky.

A minute passed.

Then another.

Then Webb said, ‘I’ve got movement.’

‘Where?’ Mallet said.

‘The farms across the main road,’ Webb replied.

‘Rebels?’ asked Bowman.

‘Civilians. Unarmed. Men and women, some kids. A big group of them.’

‘What are they up to?’ asked Loader.

Webb said, ‘They’re running into the interior. Moving fast. Looks like they’re expecting trouble.’

‘They must know something we don’t,’ Loader said.

‘It’s the rebels,’ said Bowman. ‘They must be on the way.’

‘Why aren’t these people staying hidden indoors?’

‘This isn’t a spectator sport, Tiny. They won’t want to stick around when the shooting starts.’

Mallet tapped his pressel switch. ‘Mike, Alex, Major. Heads-up. The locals are scarpering. We’re about to get engaged.’

Webb kept the AWC trained on the ground to the north of the mansion. The others scanned the flanks and rear. Bowman tightened his right hand around the GPMG grip. The pain between his temples had faded. He wasn’t thinking about the pills anymore, or how long until his next hit. Every fibre of his being was concentrated on the imminent battle.

Then Webb said, ‘Enemy movement. On the approach road. There’s a technical with them. Coming this way.’

‘Move!’ Mallet shouted.

The others swiftly converged on the north side of the parapet. Bowman and Loader stood with their GPMGs resting on the top of the stone capping, either side of Mallet. The latter dropped to a prone firing position and poked the .50 cal barrel through an opening in the parapet. Bowman peered through the Gimpy scope and saw the stone archway at the far end of the front drive, four hundred metres to the north of the stronghold. He saw the clearing beyond. The dark mass of woodland either side of the approach road, screening the main road from view. He concentrated on that area, straining his eyes.

Then he saw the technical. Which was basically a battered pickup truck with a machine gun mounted on a tripod on the rear platform. The distance from the rooftop to the vehicle was something like six hundred metres but Bowman could clearly identify it. He saw the gun mounted on the back, the gunner. The technical was crawling along at walking speed towards the stone archway.

Two groups of rebels were moving forward in the shadows either side of the truck, staying close to one another. A safety in numbers thing, Bowman guessed. He couldn’t see their faces at this distance, but he could easily distinguish their shapes through the GPMG sights. The driver had killed the technical’s headlights to reduce their visibility.

Loader said, ‘The Machete Boys?

‘Looks like it,’ said Webb. ‘Three of them are wearing lucky charms.’

‘They won’t be feeling so lucky in a few minutes.’

‘Do you see any weapons, Patrick?’ said Bowman.

‘Most of them are carrying AK-47s. A few have got pistols or knives.’

Mallet hit his pressel switch and spoke into his throat mic. ‘We’ve got incoming rebels. Approaching the archway. Don’t fire unless I give the order.’

‘Roger that,’ Gregory said.

‘Roger,’ said Casey.

Mallet scoped out the enemy with the .50 cal. ‘Tiny, on my signal you take the guys on the left of the technical,’ he said. ‘Josh, drop the fuckers on the right. We’ll deal with the technical.’

Bowman exhaled and kept his cross hairs fixed on the rebels. Dawn burnished the sky, a ribbon of orange rising above the distant hills. The shapes to the left and right of the technical grew more distinct as they neared the clearing. Bowman understood why Mallet wanted to wait. If they fired too early, the Boys would scatter into the woods. Better to hold their fire until they had broken beyond the trees. Once they were in the open ground, there would be nowhere to hide.

‘How many guys have you got eyes on, Patrick?’ Loader asked.

‘Thirty,’ said Webb. ‘Two more in the technical. One driver, one on the back manning the machine gun.’

‘A small unit for an assault.’

Bowman said, ‘They’re not expecting a big fight. They probably think they’ve only got to deal with a few guards.’

‘Patrick, I’ll go for the engine,’ said Mallet. ‘You take out the driver and the guy on the back.’

‘OK.’

Bowman lined up the wire cross hairs with the