Mercenary (6 page)

Stratton shouldered his rifle and went back into the forest. Within a few minutes he was back with his emergency pack, which he tucked away into his large backpack.

Despite the obvious hardships they’d suffered the rebels seemed a happy enough bunch. He wondered how far away their camp was. On the flight he had studied a map of the country and had worked out that he could probably get to the border from the clearing in under two days, bearing in mind the terrain. Even if the rebels’ camp were a day further away it wouldn’t be such a big deal. Once he crossed the border it would be a simple case of dumping his kit, putting on civvies and travelling like a backpacker to Panama and the airport. He felt a little better about it now that he had adjusted the plan. It would be fine, he assured himself.

Stratton wondered why Sumners had offered him up for this job in the first place. It was nowhere near the level at which he was used to operating. Perhaps there was nothing else on at the moment, although he found that hard to believe. MI5 and MI6 were always busy. Maybe it was another effort by Sumners to keep him on the outside. The problem was that the man despised him. It was a deep wound and there was nothing Stratton could do to heal it, not that he particularly cared to. He had no respect for Sumners and all he could hope for was that the man would soon get moved on to another department - or, better still, another country.

Stratton would have loved to know the connection between Sumners and Steel. They were so different in just about every way. Both of them were arrogant and condescending, of course, though Steel was far worse. He probably knew nothing about Stratton’s past or his qualifications but that was no reason to sport such a disdainful attitude. It didn’t feel personal, though. Steel was probably an arse with everyone. Stratton was no more than a delivery boy to him. With luck he would never have to meet the man again.

Despite the combination of abuse and encouragement from Victor and his second in command, the intense-looking officer whose name was Marlo, it took the men half an hour to secure the loads and form up the burros ready for departure. At one point a quarrel broke out over the division of the parachutes but Marlo solved the dispute by ordering that the chutes should be sliced into panels and distributed among the most energetic packers.

Stratton checked the time, compared it to the location of the sun to get a rough directional guide and joined the line that was trudging at an easy pace back towards the forest. A passing burro was not as loaded as the others and Stratton hooked his parachute bag onto the wooden frame across its back. He kept his pack in case he needed to bug out.

As he neared the trees he picked up the sound of a distant drone. He thought initially that the C130 had returned for some reason. The rebels who heard it stopped to search the skies, looking concerned.

‘Into the forest!’ Victor shouted. ‘Quickly!’

Most of the rebels were already inside the jungle but half a dozen burros and a dozen men were still out in the open. The men yelled and beat the animals to get them moving quicker. The rebels were clearly worried about something.

As the sound grow louder it became tinny and nowhere near as powerful as that of the engines on a Hercules. But as with any aircraft not easily visible and flying close to the ground, especially over woodland, it was difficult to judge where it was.

The plane burst into view right over them, only metres above the forest canopy. It was a light single-engine aircraft, two or four seats at most. Its noisy appearance frightened the burros, one of them bolting into the jungle while a couple headed across the clearing.

‘Quickly!’ Marlo yelled. ‘Get those damned animals under cover!’

The craft banked steeply to make a tight turn.

‘He’s seen us!’ Victor cried. ‘Hurry. Get those animals under control. Everyone into the trees!’

The men did not need encouraging. But no amount of shouting and beating could move one particular burro. Loaded with bundles, it sat on its backside and stubbornly refused to budge.

As the plane made a wide turn around the clearing Stratton was startled by several shots close by. It was Marlo, firing rapid bursts of automatic fire from his AK47. Although the aeroplane was a relatively slow-moving craft, a hit at that distance would still have been lucky. Other men joined in and a sustained volley of fire crackled around the clearing.

The aircraft held its course, flying in a wide arc until it disappeared over the forest.

‘He’ll be back!’ Victor shouted, agitated. ‘Move that animal!’

Several men struggled with the burro, one of them beating it severely with a branch, but still it would not move.

Marlo and his group remained alert, their rifles aimed skywards as they waited for the aircraft to return.

It appeared at the far side of the clearing, heading directly towards them.

‘Here it comes!’ Victor cried as he ran over and kicked the burro in frustration. ‘Get this animal up or I will shoot it!’

Marlo and his men fired at the plane.

As Stratton watched the aircraft he saw something sticking out of its side window. When the plane closed in he realised it was the co-pilot’s arm and he was holding something. Stratton’s instincts warned him to find a tree to get behind.

The men did not stop firing as the aircraft flew right over them.

The co-pilot released the object.

As the plane disappeared over the tops of the trees the ground shook with the force of a violent explosion.

The bomb had landed not far from the stubborn burro and the animal went berserk, jumping to its feet and kicking out wildly. One of the rebels had been wounded by the blast and was kneeling, inspecting his bloody abdomen, when the donkey struck him hard with both its back hooves, sending him flying. Blood poured from the animal’s flank as it bucked and brayed madly.

One of the men went to the aid of his comrade who had been kicked, only to discover that the wounded man had died.

A shot sounded and the stubborn burro dropped to the ground, its legs still kicking. The rebel fired another round into the animal’s head, finishing the job.

‘If a bomb hits those boxes we’ll all be dead!’ Victor shouted in frustration.

The men grabbed up the boxes and ran with them to cover. A couple more picked up their dead comrade and followed.

The aircraft appeared again, turning around the outside of the clearing. The men feverishly herded the remaining burros into the jungle. As the craft came at them once again, they fired on it.

Halfway across the clearing the aeroplane veered sharply as if it had been struck, but it righted itself and the co-pilot poked his arm from the window once more. Stratton suspected that the bombs were mortar shells, ideal for dropping from light aircraft.

As the plane flew overhead the man released the bomb and this time everyone flung themselves to the ground. The missile fell short of the group, exploding noisily but failing to injure anyone. By now every man - except Marlo’s anti-aircraft team - was inside the forest. They could hear the plane but couldn’t see it, and it continued to buzz around the area, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of the column through a gap in the jungle canopy. An explosion some distance away perhaps signalled the enemy’s frustration. It was followed by silence.

While the rebels regained their composure, some of them wrapped the dead man in a poncho and secured the body to the back of a burro. The group was soon snaking through the forest at a steady pace.

Stratton joined the men near the rear. He hadn’t seen much of the Indians since that first meeting and assumed they were scouting ahead. So far it had been an interesting morning. These people really were at war. The aircraft could have radioed the column’s location and if the government forces were in any way organised the rebels could expect another contact of some kind. It was clear that Stratton was going to have to keep alert.

He still felt annoyed at being with the rebels despite having settled for a revised plan of escape. The problem he had was the reason for his being there. He was a salaried member of Her Majesty’s forces and this was a half-arsed job for a US Special Forces colonel. The US and the UK were allies, sure, but this was essentially a covert operation. He was beginning to think that Sumners might not have had the authority to send him. And why hadn’t Steel used one of his own boys? That was a bit odd, to say the least.

Stratton had considered all that before the jump but since the mission was supposed to be nothing more than a drop, a quick lesson in explosives and then a trek back home, he hadn’t given it much more thought. Now he was growing concerned. What would happen if the other side caught him, for instance? Steel had sketchily covered that by telling him that he had friends on both sides and that Stratton would be fine. Stratton was no longer confident that would be so. The urge to bug out and leave these people to their own war grew in him again but he held it at bay. He decided to take things one phase at a time and reckoned that if the situation changed significantly he would quit and go home. He ran his fingers through his moist hair, scratched a small bite on the back of his neck and trudged on.

For the first few kilometres the terrain was fairly level but after crossing a shallow river it began to ascend. The forest canopy also thinned beyond the river and the sun shone down on the column. Within a couple of hours they had gained a lot of altitude and the ground became rocky. The view of the roof of the forest they had walked through was stunning.

In the late afternoon the sun went behind dark clouds that promised a deluge and the humidity increased notably. Eventually rain pelted down and slowed the column’s progress as the steep terrain grew slippery. Victor kept the men marching with only a few short breaks. The rebels ate on the move.

The rain finally ceased as they were traversing a steep hillside and shortly afterwards the column came to a stop. Stratton sat down on a rock and had a sip of water. He did not feel as fit as he would have liked, not yomping fit at least. It was always the same. A man could go for as many runs as he liked and do all the gym training he wanted. But when it came to a good long trek carrying a heavy pack there was no better preparation than yomping itself.

The front of the column had disappeared into a dense wood and some movement ahead turned out to be a runner making his way back down the line. He was informing each man of something and as he passed Stratton he whispered a single word harshly. ‘Neravistas!’

Stratton watched the man reach the rearguard and after a brief chat all but a handful of men, left to watch the burros, hurried past him up the line towards the front. The tension among them was perceptibly high.

Stratton instinctively studied the surrounding terrain, looking for places that offered cover from any gunfire and for potential escape routes. Any firefight involving these people would be a very good reason to get out of there.

Yet after several inactive minutes his curiosity got the better of him. He picked up his pack and rifle and headed up the line of burros. As he reached the front of the column he saw why it had halted. A dozen men hung by their necks from various branches. The ghoulish expressions on the faces were horrifying: their eyes bulged, their tongues hung out of their mouths, their necks were elongated and broken. One noose held only a head - the body lay on the ground beneath it. Thousands of flies crawled over the bodies, concentrating on their eyes and mouths. The smell of death and decay was overpowering.

Stratton had seen his share of dead bodies but he would never get used to sights like that. The smell alone was enough to make anyone vomit and he moved upwind of the macabre display.

All the rebels except those minding the burros were huddled in a group just below the crest of the hill. Victor, Marlo and a handful of others squatted to one side and appeared to be arguing heatedly in low voices.

Stratton kept his distance and sat against a tree to watch what was going on, ready to take off at the slightest sign of trouble. There seemed to be some indecision among the rebels about what they should do. He couldn’t tell if the warning about the Neravistas was that they were nearby or that they had already been and gone.

The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of one of the young Indians who went directly to Victor. Whatever he said caused more discussion, which continued after Victor sent the Indian back the way he had come.

One of the rebels from the large group saw Stratton and decided to come over and sit close by. He was a young man who, despite the excitement, had a casual air about him. He took a piece of dried meat from a breast pocket and offered some to Stratton.

‘No. Thank you,’ said Stratton.

The young man, who was quite skinny, had piercing dark eyes below a greasy jet-black fringe. ‘They are unable to agree on whether to attack or not,’ he said, taking a bite of the meat and tucking the rest into his pocket.

‘Attack what?’ Stratton asked.

‘There is a Neravista patrol heading our way, the other side of this hill,’ he said, pointing towards the crest. ‘The scouts say they do not know we are here . . . They may be the ones who did this,’ he said, indicating the bodies.

‘Who are they?’

‘They’re from Bajero’s brigade. The one with his body separated from his head, he’s Altorro, Bernard’s cousin,’ he said, jutting his chin towards a strong-looking young man with long hair and a beard on the edge of the group who was looking towards the dead rebels with a forlorn expression on his face. ‘I knew him too,’ the young man added.

‘Why’d they hang them?’

‘That’s what they always do to us when they capture us. It’s their policy. It’s a good incentive to fight to the death, no?’ he added.

Stratton had to agree. ‘What do you think is going to happen?’

‘Now?’

‘Yes.’