Defender (8 page)

"Action stations!" cried the Loadmaster. Again, the outstretched arm.

This time, two fingers were crossed in a tight 'X'.

The men were on their feet, they'd already checked each other's gear: front and back, top to toe. Morgan cast a discerning eye over the faces of his troops. There was Sean Collins, just a few men ahead, barely recognisable beneath the camouflage cream and the shadows cast under his helmet by the dim red hue of the overhead cabin lights. As usual, the cold metal floor of the aircraft was awash with vomit, still detonating in florid bursts from those who, despite their seasoned experience, had been unable to control the effect that claustrophobic conditions and hours of contour flying, imposed upon the human body. And so, as always, the confined interior of the Herc hummed with retching and nervous tension. Morgan prayed for the cold comfort of exit, and the escape it would deliver from the stench and the crushing embrace of his equipment.

It was time. From the edges of both the port and starboard para doors, red jump lights blazed into life.

"Stand by!"

On either side of the aircraft, the para doors were up and clear. The deafening howl of punishing, ice-cold winds screamed into the fuselage. The men automatically packed up hard against each other, facing the door, one behind the other, ready for exit. They were just seconds from the drop zone - moments from the green light, an instant away from the life-and death decision to leap into the ominous call of the night.

The lights blazed green. "Green on!"

"Go!"

Without hesitation, each man in turn shuffled to the para doors. Stumbling under the weight of their gear in a macabre parody of waddling penguins, slipping on the vile carpet of vomit and spit, they scrambled for the freedom of the sky and the rollercoaster ride of the slipstream. Seconds later, Morgan was out, discarded from the bowels of the aircraft, grateful for that familiar instant release of weight, and relishing the sting of the cold, fresh air upon his face, sucking it deep into his lungs. The exhilaration of the experience found him every time, as he was thrown out into the darkness.

It was a perfect exit. Feet together, hands clasped firmly at the top of his pack and a good strong leap.

Already he was counting to himself: "1000!"

Falling. "2000!"

Falling. "3000!"

Routinely counting down until the reassuring tug of the parachute deployment and the billowing beauty of a full canopy would take control of his life and carry him safely back to earth.

"4000!"

Still falling.

Morgan felt the tug of the static line and the parachute reluctantly deploying from his back.

"5000!"

Concern. It was taking too long.

He felt the snap of the risers, and the suspension lines as they were dragged violently into the air, and then nothing.

"6000!"

Still nothing! Nothing but nerve-racking speed straight down, and the ominously mocking noise of useless silk whipping high above his head - a streamer! A totally failed canopy.

Morgan knew it couldn't be worse. He looked up again, praying to gaze up into the centre of a full and strong canopy mushrooming overhead, only to be confronted by every paratrooper's worst nightmare.

Falling, falling. Speed. Wind. Noise.

A mess of twisted risers and rigging lines engulfed his tunneled view, all the way from his helmet and upwards to the parachute skirts. There was no chance of a full, dark green dome billowing majestically on the slipstream. His retarded chute was totally collapsed, struggling to catch even the slightest breath of wind.

Dropping like a rock. Speed. Wind. Noise.

Without warning, the parachute began to disintegrate, shredding mercilessly in huge chunks under the relentless onslaught of his uncontrollable descent. Like rats from a sinking ship, great chunks of silk tore free, disappearing forever into the endless darkness of the night sky. Morgan's blood was boiling, his body's automatic response mechanisms trying desperately to ignite every instinct and skill hewn solely to ensure his survival.

Suddenly at the pitch of his struggle, clawing at the last remaining seconds of his life, Morgan caught the unmistakable image of Victor Lundt, the missing SIS agent, withdrawing back inside the Hercules, his twisted face broken in a snarl, as he pulled down the para-door hard, shutting it tight. Then the tail of the giant bird lumbered on into the night, free of its cargo, leaving Morgan behind
to
his fate.

Lundt? Missing, presumed dead.

Without a moment to spare, Morgan tore at the risers that extended uselessly from the harness at his shoulders to the rigging lines above. With all his strength, he grasped as tightly as he could, and tried to wrench the twisted lines apart, kicking his legs in a bizarre imitation of riding a bicycle, furiously attempting to propel his own body motion in the reverse direction of the rigging line twists.

"Come on! Come on, you bastard!" he swore through gritted teeth. The chinstrap bit into his face as he yelled, and the cruel blast of cold air stung at his eyes as the ground beneath grew imminently closer by the microsecond.

He was fighting for his life, his mind racing, searching for solutions, scanning for obstacles to his survival. He found one. His field pack! The bank vault strapped across the front of his thighs was hampering his efforts to kick free of the twists. He reached down for the release strap, fumbling clumsily in a blind search, before finding it and pulling hard. The pack fell away instantly, clearing his legs, swinging by the suspension line, 15 feet below him.

Still, his body battled the inevitable, calling on every remnant of strength remaining
to
stay alive, whilst preparing for the inconceivable agony that awaited him if he failed. And still, he plummeted. Down, down, down.

Blood raced through Morgan's temples. The rate of his pounding heart mirrored the speed of his wild descent. All around him, the wind was howling in his ears, screaming at him as he fell to earth.

Suddenly in the distance, Morgan could hear a voice shouting, louder and louder, as he fell into the night, the insistent intensity of the voice stabbing at
his
senses from every direction. The voice became clear, growing stronger, more urgent, as he continued to drop. The ground was flashing towards him at breakneck speed. Now the voice was even louder, shouting, deafening in its proximity, shattering his tortured hearing.

An overwhelming ground rush surged beyond his feet. Seconds
to
impact.

"Yes!" Morgan answered with a start. He pulled out his hearing protection. "Yes?"

'I'm sorry, Sir!"
It
was Julian, the Somali Loadmaster. He was leaning across the seats, shaking Morgan's shoulder, dragging him back
to
reality, clawing him from his nightmare. "We have landed, Sir. Welcome to Malfajiri!"

The drive into the hills outside Cullentown was a drive Turner preferred not to take. The sealed roads bled into red gravel and carried you away, past the last of the abandoned shop fronts and old hotels, and through an endless channel of corrugated iron, cardboard, and mud, home to the millions who had settled in a vast horseshoe of squalor around the city's crumbling shoulders.

No-man's-land. Certainly, no-white-man's-land.

There was nothing but hopelessness out here. You could feel it. Not that Turner was one for feeling anything for others. His feelings were fuelled only by greed and, on a day like today, self-preservation. He averted his eyes from the deprivation and despair of the shantytown, focusing only on the long trail of red gravel.

Thousands of people lined the edges of the track, as far as the eye could see. They squatted in loosely formed groups outside their pitiful shacks, in this place where there was nothing left
to
do. Most were oblivious to the passing Land Rover, too weak and devoid of hope to discern any potential benefit from its passage. But there were those few who paid it much greater attention, drawn by the rattle of the approaching engine. They rushed as one to the roadside, racing towards the vehicle, forming a seething block across its path. Turner expected it, but it shocked him every time. He was forced
to
slow, but would not stop, not for anything. To stop would mean death. The mob engulfed him and clubbed at the flanks of the Land Rover with rocks and sticks, hands out for food and money.

'Get there. Get it done. Get back.' He recited this mantra over and over, through clenched teeth in his high-pitched squeal, ignoring the din of the mob. The Rover rocked and bounced, and the shouting crowd was deafening. A crack appeared on the windscreen with a report like a gunshot. Turner panicked and screamed. He planted his foot to the floor and surged coldly through the gaggle of bodies. A barrage of missiles fell upon the retreating car. Rocks, stones and sticks were hurled as he made his escape, but he was soon through and clear. The Land Rover was battered, the windscreen a web of cracks. His foot still planted, he left a long trail of ochre-tinged dust in his wake. Immediately ahead were the foothills of the mountains. Therein, the rebel headquarters.

Turner felt the skin at the base of his gut crawl, and he squirmed in his seat. The bush became thicker here. More than just the occasional acacia or baobab, it grew tight and tall right up to the track's edge. Nature had reclaimed the land where decades before man had cleared the native forest for fuel and building materials. He came upon the signposts of recent carnage

- abandoned vehicle hulks, Gumpled and burnt out, some lying discarded, half-in and half-out of the bush, the result of an RPG hit or improvised road side mine. These roads, far from the centre of Cullentown's protection, were treacherous. It was the training ground for young rebel initiates striving to impress the leadership - even the Army wouldn't come up here.

This was just too much, Turner thought. This man Lundt was exerting excessive control over him. Enough was enough, Turner promised himself. When his work here was done, if he ever lived to see that day, he would never return to Africa. And if he never saw Lundt again, it would be too bloody soon.

He made the final approach along the sweeping left-hand bend that led to the compound, crunching through the gears and coming to a stop at the gates. Two young rebel soldiers, no more than teenagers, appeared from the verandah and sauntered over to open the big cyclone mesh gates. They looked at him without interest, their eyes dulled by the narcotic concoction they'd been fed by their masters to maintain their sense of loyalty. He was expected, and hard to miss as he eased the vehicle through to the compound and pulled up to the building. Turner didn't like to leave the vehicle when he came up here. The battered Land Rover was a life buoy when you are the only white face within a sea of angry black faces, far from the relative sanctuary of the mine site. But on days like today, when he had to come out here, nobody at Pallarup could know where he was, and with every step Turner took away from the vehicle, the more distant his tenuous grip on self-preservation became.

A third rebel soldier, older than the others, appeared. He was huge and moved with authority. The two younger ones cowered when they saw him. At least 6 feet 5 inches, with limbs like heavy industrial equipment, he marched from the wide-open doors of the old house and stormed across the rotting boards of the verandah, straight for Turner. Turner's pulse went into overdrive. He recoiled into the seat, fleshy knuckles white upon the steering wheel. The soldier's eyes were locked on Turner, no emotion on his dark features, only resolve.
In
two strides, he was off the verandah and tearing at the car door. Turner was unceremoniously dragged from the car and catapulted into the house. A big hand immediately took the scruff of his collar, lifting him through the doors.

Turner gagged at the stench of the place. Things had deteriorated since his last visit. He was thrust into a void, a rudimentary stairway, stepping amidst human waste. Within seconds, he lost all natural light. He knew he was on his own, completely at the mercy of the rebels.

A single bulb glowed at the far end of a long, dark space. He could vaguely make out cages along the walls and from the smell and noise, knew they all had people inside them. Turner became faint, his legs turning to jelly, his head swimming with fear. He fell helplessly to his hands and knees, retching.

"Oh, Christ," came a familiar voice from the darkness. "Bring that useless git down here."

Again, gargantuan hands came from nowhere and lifted Turner to his feet. Still gagging, he was shunted along the line of cages to the back of a long room, towards the single, hanging light bulb.

"This had better be good, Turner," snapped Lundt.