Decoy (19 page)

Ed Garner sailed down the abseil rope and landed nimbly on the ground, the three other soldiers followed, crouching in the undergrowth. The front gates of the camp had opened and a stream of soldiers was pouring out. Some on foot and some in Jeeps, they ran quickly down the track in the direction of the runway.

Ed watched, trying to keep a rough check on the numbers. He spoke into his headpiece: “Gavin, soldiers are on their way. Close to 1000, some on foot, some in Jeeps, over.” No reply. “Gavin can you hear me? Over.” An ominous silence.
Shit
, Ed thought. “Gavin, troops coming your way. Do you copy? Over.” Nothing. Technical problems. Had to be. No chance someone as experienced as Gavin had wandered into an ambush, not while there was still cover of darkness.

“No response from Gavin?” It was Denbigh's voice from up in the treetops, patched into the same frequency. “Not yet. Keep trying him. What are you seeing on the thermal imaging?” Denbigh checked the screen. Red groups glowed around the inside the wall that encircled the perimeter of the camp. Nothing inside the house. “Looks like they're organised into four main groups in the courtyard. Covering the open ground. You're going to need to get in there quickly if you want to use what's left of the darkness.”

“What's our best entrance point?”

“Rear wall and front left. Mid points.”

“We'll take the left wall. Once we're over let the RPGs fly. We'll add our grenades to the mix. Just make sure you don't hit us.”

Ed ran forwards, quickly over the open ground, ducking behind a stack of oil drums near the entrance to the camp. The three other soldiers followed. He made a quick check no one was about to emerge and a sprint to the left wall, looking for the best place to clamber over. Plenty of jungle vines on the crumbling surface, so it was easy to get a grip. He reached up, pulled himself onto the top of the wall and lay flat, head sideways. Checked the ground below. Ammo crates and a tarpaulin. Perfect. He slid over the wall and took up position behind the tarpaulin. His team followed. Movements swift, well practised and precise.

“We're in, Denbigh.” He said quietly into his mouthpiece.

“RPGs firing to right-hand sector.” He replied. A rushing sound, then the roar of an explosion. Ferocious yellow flames leapt upwards from a corner of the courtyard. Two more rockets in quick succession. Blue flames from a fuel tank. Bodies screaming, figures on fire, human torches running around the courtyard, flinging themselves on the ground. Ed and his men threw volley after volley of grenades into the groups of soldiers, machine gun fire in response, directionless, intermittent, panicked.

“Give me some intel on their position, Denbigh.” Ed said into his mic, ducking back behind the tarpaulin. Denbigh checked his screen, the fire blazing a bright white light, red figures running away from it.

“Two units have dispersed, inside the house mostly. Others are holding steady. One in front of the main building, one by the gate.” Ed signalled to his team.

“Two of you start picking off the group nearest the house. I'm going to sprint between the two units, draw fire, then duck into the fountain. With any luck they'll start shooting each other in the confusion. Stay in position till I give the signal.”

He sprinted forwards over the flag-stoned courtyard, dancing flames casting a flickering light over the scene, jagged shadows that wouldn't stay still. He turned to the group of soldiers by the gate, sprayed several rounds of bullets at them, then turned to the house, another burst of fire. Figures fell, collapsing to the ground. A chorus of high-pitched cries. Children screaming with pain. Not something Ed had been prepared for. Men didn't make the same noise when they were hit. It curdled his blood, made him pause. A fraction of a second delay before he dived into the fountain. The bullet caught him on the left shoulder. Spun him as he fell. No pain, just heat. The adrenalin anaesthetising the wound. He clenched and unclenched his left hand. Still movement. Nothing more than a surface wound.

Gunfire rattled over his head, the two units letting off round after round, returning fire with a vengeance. Ear-splitting confusion, bullets thudding into the house, into the walls that surrounded the camp, ricocheting indiscriminately, tearing through the skin and bones of the soldiers. The captains who commanded each group realised what was happening, tried desperately to make them stop, shouting as loud as they could, but their voices were drowned under waves of machine gun fire.

“More grenades, team. Into the two units,” Ed said into the mic, hardly daring to raise his head above the stone wall of the fountain. It was too much for the ill-trained and ill-equipped soldiers, they ran for the gates, trampling over one another in their effort to get out of the camp, like rats streaming out of a sewer. Denbigh was merciless, firing rocket after rocket from his position in the treetop. A sudden circle of bare earth cleared by each explosion, bodies flung outwards, then the force of the numbers crushing the soldiers back together again, enclosing the space. Fluid and unstoppable, a deathly river.

From his position in the treetops, Denbigh noticed two figures who stood apart from the crowd, bigger than the other soldiers, attempting to catch them by the scruff of the neck. Instil some order in their ragged troops. Senior officers, or whatever the equivalent was in this army. He switched weapons, picked up his rifle. Sent a bullet into each of them. Head shots. They fell to the ground. The last remaining troops sprinted into the jungle.

Ed raised his head above the fountain wall. The encroaching daylight only added to the horror of the scene that greeted him. The courtyard was littered with bodies, some intact, some shredded limb from limb. The flagstones and dirt were stained a red-brown. And all the while the constant background noise of groans and cries from the wounded soldiers.

“Ready to take the house, over.” He said into his mouthpiece. His team sprinted towards the mansion, up the steps to the veranda, taking position either side of the door. Ed jumped over the fountain wall and joined them.

“What have you got Denbigh, where are they?” Denbigh checked the screen.

“Even spread. All rooms occupied. Going to be a hell of firefight. Maybe wait for McCallister, over?”

“No time.” Ed replied. They had to do this before the sun was up. Otherwise they might as well run now. He turned to his team.

“Face masks on. We're going chemical. Only way to clear a building this size. Move in pairs, one providing covering fire, the other releasing the nerve gas. We have 12 canisters. More than enough. We'll ID the boss from the pile of bodies.”

“They have taken the courtyard, General. The soldiers panicked and fled. They do not know how to fight like this. Not when they cannot see their enemy.” The General listened to his second in command, anger welling up inside him.

“They will attempt to take the house next. How many men did you bring inside?” he asked.

“Two divisions sir. Maybe 200 soldiers.” Clement shook his head and bit his lip.

“Two hundred? Are you crazy? A couple of mortars and some grenades and half the force will be wiped out. Listen,” he placed a finger over his lips. Outside an ominous silence.

“The shelling of the runway has stopped. They are getting ready to attack.” Nbotou reached under the table and hefted open the trap door. Before he climbed down he turned and placed a hand on his comrade's shoulder.

“You must stay here, defend the camp. I will leave with my personal guard, meet up with Otope in the jungle. Hold them off for as long as you can. We will encircle the camp and take them from the outside.” He saluted his comrade before disappearing through the trap door, the ten highly experienced soldiers that made up his personal guard following close behind.

He knew it would only be a matter of seconds before the soldiers entered the house, and he knew there would be little point waiting for them to come to him. There was only one way to defeat a guerrilla attack and that was by stealth. The foundations of the house were mined with explosive. Once he was a suitable distance away he would set the detonators. A shame to demolish the old pile, it had stood him well, and he had a grudging respect for the place. But the men attacking him were not regular soldiers. They were not the sort of army that lined up in neat rows and fired well-disciplined bullets at you. They were the sort who hid in the treetops for days on end, crept into your room at night to slit your throat, so quiet even your body guard wouldn't turn round. No, the way to deal with men like that was not to stand and fight, it was to trick them into entering the house, let them think they had won, then once their guard had dropped bring the building down on top of them. A shame it would cost the lives of his own men too, but that was a price he was willing to pay. A soldier was soon replaced in the eastern Congo.

Gavin McCallister knew it was over the minute he rounded the bend in the track. An entire division of soldiers running towards them. His fault for suggesting they follow the track instead of making their way through the jungle. Speed over caution, the need to join the rest of the company as soon as possible. A calculated risk that hadn't paid off.

Nbotou's soldiers paused for a split second, then let rip a hail of bullets, and two of Gavin's men dropped instantaneously. No point in attempting to return fire, too many of them. He dived into the undergrowth, feeling the burning sting of bullet through flesh as he did so, hot and cold at the same time. Twenty metres between him and the advancing soldiers, they closed down the gap in a matter of seconds. Footsteps charged past the area where he'd been standing. He pulled himself deeper into the jungle, through the thick vegetation, glanced over his shoulder. He could still see the road, could see the bullets fired into the backs of his prostrate colleagues. Two soldiers unsheathing their machetes, cutting into the bodies, disembowelling them, mutilating them. They wiped the fresh blood on their faces, their movements mechanical, ritualised. One of them pointed at the road, the marks that led into the undergrowth, the red-brown trail Gavin had left in his wake.

He heard a rustling as they approached, gun in one hand, machete in the other. Gavin had always hated knifes. He knew they would take their time, cut him before they killed him, show him the contents of his own body. He pulled a grenade from his belt, felt its reassuring weight in his hand, strangely comforting. He'd always hated knives but he'd always loved explosions. Might as well go out with a fucking big bang, he thought, releasing the pin.

Nbotou hurried down the tunnel, showers of earth falling down the back of his neck with the explosions above him. The tunnel was narrow, but well-built. Put together by the miners he had digging out the coltan ore. Over a mile in length, it led to a clearing that held four large containers. The sort used on cargo ships. He'd had them flown in from Kinshasa and dropped in place by helicopter. They stored his coltan reserves. Each one was covered with camouflage netting and the jungle had grown up quickly around them, hiding them from the satellites that orbited high overhead.

The detonators were placed at the end of the tunnel. Clement was running now, keen to get to them as quickly as possible, release the charges, bring the house in on itself and whoever was left inside.

Ed coughed, steaming up the side of his facemask. No way he could take it off yet. Two canisters of nerve gas per room and the machine guns to cut down anyone trying to leave. The air in the house was still thick with the poison, a pale green mist that hung over the bodies. They lay by windows, by doors. Wherever they had fallen. The nerve agent took seconds to work, inducing paralysis in the respiratory system, a piano falling on your chest, lungs crushed and useless.

“Hell of a lot of people to go through to ID the General.” One of Ed's men said, rolling a body over with his boot. “And an awful lot of mess to clear up.”

“We don't have to worry about that. Once we find the body I'll radio it in and we're moving out. Our job's done.” Ed replied. Another voice in his ear, Denbigh up in the tree.

“Ed, there's movement out here, something's happening.” Ed ran to a window. Not possible to see over the wall that surrounded the camp. He ran upstairs, three steps at a time.

“What is it? What can you see?” He asked, stepping over bodies, squinting through the shutters in Nbotou's room.

“Something in the jungle.” Denbigh replied. “Movements. I think they're moving into position. The soldiers who deserted. Somebody is organising them.

“Fuck.” Ed replied. Eyes fixed on the tree line. “Fuck fuck fuck. Two options, we can either fight it out here or we can split. Take our chances in the jungle. Ammo's limited so the jungle gets my vote.”

“What about Nbotou, we don't know if we've got him yet.” One of the men replied.

“Fuck 'im. He's either dead or he fled. Nothing more we can do. What's the situation outside Denbigh?”

“Troops in position around the perimeter. I can give you a heads up on where they are but it's almost light now. They'll see you going over the wall and they'll see you coming out the gate. If you can hold out till nightfall maybe you should. Over.”

Ed shook his head, “Not possible, we're all fired out. Now or never.” Denbigh checked the thermal imaging camera.

“Go for the rear wall then. Lowest concentration of hostiles there. I'll create a diversion at the front, send a couple of grenades . . . ” He didn't finish his sentence. An almighty boom and the walls of the house exploded outwards, clouds of smoke and debris catapulted high into the air, ripping through the trees in the courtyard. A timber-splitting screech as the roof collapsed in on itself, colonial grandeur to rubble in a matter of seconds.

“Can you hear me? Team one, anybody. Does anybody copy?” Denbigh asked. No answer. “Team one, do you copy?” He tried Gavin's team. “Team two?” Nothing.

The clouds of dust were just beginning to settle when something whistled past him, a stone. Then another. He looked below. Four boy soldiers at the bottom of the tree, grinning at him like they were trying to dislodge a cat clinging to a branch. They'd put down their weapons to throw the stones. Now they picked them up again.

“Shit.” Denbigh said, as bullets splintered the bark around him. He ducked round the other side of the tree trunk and spoke quickly into his GPS.
Officer Denbigh, LMS
, the code Special Forces used when a mission had gone tits up, Last Man Standing.
Target's death unverified. Repeat, target's death unverified
.

Nbotou listened to the explosion, he allowed himself a brief, satisfied smile as he pulled himself up the ladder and out of the trap door.

“Otope, do you copy? What can you see?” He asked into his walkie-talkie.

“House has fallen, enemy soldiers were inside. I will send men. See what we can uncover from the rubble.”