Authors: Alan McDermott
Dog began barking the order to cease
fire but the local soldiers were in a shooting frenzy, finally having a target
they could see. Rounds peppered the truck, puncturing one of the tyres
and sending it fishtailing for a moment before the driver got it back under
control. It sped down the runway and out of sight, hidden by the airport
terminal building. The respite didn’t last long as it did a one-
eighty
and began the return journey, the Dillon spewing
fifty rounds a second into the base.
With one tyre shot out it was a job to
control the vehicle as it reached fifty-miles-per-hour, but when both wheels on
the passenger side were rendered useless by incoming fire it began to slow and
yaw like an aeroplane fighting a side wind. The driver tried his best to
keep it straight. His efforts ended when a bullet punched through the
side window and continued through his neck, entering three inches below the
right ear and exiting the other side, destroying his larynx on the way
through. He choked to death on his own blood before the vehicle came to a
halt.
The two terrorists in the back continued
the assault on the camp. One was preparing the second of six RPG-27s
while the one manning the Dillon kept his finger on the trigger, despite the
warnings he had received from Nabil. At fifty rounds per second, the 4400
bullets in the belt-fed magazine would be exhausted within ninety seconds of
continuous fire. Nabil’s instructions were to fire short bursts of around
three to four seconds to make sure the ammunition lasted the entire assault,
but in the heat of battle it was easy to forget such things. Eight
seconds after the pick-up rolled to a stop, the belt feed relinquished its last
round. As it did, the RPG round darted towards the mess hall, blowing a
huge hole in the side of the building.
The hostage strapped to the back of the cab
was doing nothing to deter retaliatory fire, so the terrorists grabbed two of
the single-shot RPGs apiece and jumped over the side of the cargo bed.
They headed away from the base, sprinting over the grass towards the chain link
fence separating the runway from Junk Town. They both threw their weapons over
the top of the fence and began the ascent, but as they climbed one was hit in
the small of the back and he lost his grip, dropping several feet before
landing in a screaming heap. The other, feeling the bullets whizzing
through the air around him, scrambled up the fence and launched himself over
the barbed wire atop it.
Without stopping to check on his friend
he picked up two RPGs and dashed into the middle of the town, just as Sonny and
the two Americans approached it from the left.
* * *
From the cover of a food kiosk, Keane
surveyed the entrance to Junk Town. Not the official name, it was
so-called because each dwelling was made from whatever material the inhabitants
could find. Walls were made from reclaimed bricks and stone, while the
majority of roofs were constructed from corrugated iron. A few had
plastic roofs, while some had nothing more than sheets of polyethylene to
protect the occupants from the elements.
Two armed men stood at the mouth of the
alley leading into the dark village, their rifles hanging loosely in their
hands. One was acting as spotter for the concealed mortar teams while the
other simply stood and admired the fireworks display emanating from the base.
Keane turned to the others and let them
know what they were facing. Sonny swapped places and gauged the distance
to the targets and the ground to be covered. Seeing nothing to hinder the
take down, he turned and indicated that he would clear the way using his
silenced MP5SD. He got nods in return, pushed the stock of his rifle into
his shoulder and broke cover at a crouch.
He approached from their three o’clock
and got to within twenty five yards before they spotted him. As they
brought their guns up he straightened and double-tapped them both before they
even had a chance to get a shot off. Keane — peering around the corner
ready to offer covering fire if things went noisy — saw the men drop and
signalled Harrison to follow him. They trotted over and helped drag the
bodies out of sight, and once again Sonny took the lead as they headed into the
maze of makeshift streets.
The attack on the base had brought the
population out of their houses, presenting Sonny with a host of false targets.
Fortunately for Sonny, they had about enough to spend on clothing as they did
on accommodation, and to a man they wore little more than flip-flops and
shorts, with T-shirts for the women. He motioned them aside as he passed,
the barrel of his MP5 flicking left and right as he searched for anyone
carrying anything more threatening than a penknife.
Sonny heard the familiar
WHOOMP!
as another mortar shell shot into the sky and the sound told him the launcher
was close. Ten yards ahead he saw a side street open up and motioned
towards it. The smell of rotting food and untreated sewage assaulted his
nostrils but his focus was on what lay around the corner. As he
approached, a figure appeared carrying a rifle and Sonny immediately got a
couple of rounds off. The first missed by a gnat’s hair but the second
caught the target on the forehead, grazing the skin and ricocheting off the
bone beneath. A third round found its mark and the figure crumpled, but
not before managing to shout a warning.
“Shit!” Sonny cursed. The last
thing he need was the situation to go loud with so many bystanders around.
He rushed to the corner and sneaked a
peek, just in time to see the mortar team grabbing their rifles. He hit
the first with a double-tap but the second was quicker to his weapon and
returned fire, causing Sonny to retreat back around the corner. The
firing stopped and he counted to five before sticking a quarter of his head
out, but the target had gone.
“One went this way,” he told
Keane. “You two go straight on, see if you can cut him off.”
The two Americans continued down the
main alley while Sonny followed the fleeing terrorist. The side street
ran for seven yards before turning right, and the mortar had been set up at the
corner. He glanced around but saw no-one except a woman consoling a young
girl.
The unmistakeable chatter of M16s could
be heard a couple of streets away, which told him that Keane and Harrison must
have found the target. He followed the sound, stepping round the mother
and child and on to the next corner where he once again stopped to clear the
turn. He saw his quarry disappear around the next corner, rejoining the
main thoroughfare and following in the footsteps of his new team mates.
Sonny sprinted after him, knowing that he had to catch up before the shooter
got on their six.
Training told him that he should stop at
the junction and clear it, but with fellow soldiers in danger he took the risk
and barrelled around it, a move which saved his life. The target was
standing in wait with his rifle pointed at the corner, ready to destroy any
face that appeared. As Sonny exited the side street the rifle spat, but
the man behind the trigger wasn’t expecting a fast-moving target and his
reactions were a little slow, the bullet flying harmlessly wide.
Sonny’s training gave him the edge in
the encounter. Still moving at speed, he brought his weapon up and put
two rounds into centre mass. The man fell instantly and Sonny stopped,
took a few steps towards him and put another round through his forehead to make
sure the threat was fully neutralised.
From further down the alley he heard yet
more gunfire and headed towards it, taking a lot more care when he got to any
side streets. With bullets flying just outside their front doors the locals
had retreated to the relative safety of their ersatz homes and he had the
street to himself, so when the rifle appeared from his right he spotted it
instantly.
Getting a bead on the target, he took up
the tension on the trigger. Another ounce of pressure and the rifle would
spit once more: he just had to wait for a face to follow the gun into the open.
A second later he got his wish and a lesser man would have pulled the trigger
under the circumstances, but Sonny had no equal when it came to distinguishing
friend from foe in high-pressure situations. He dropped the barrel and
drew in a fetid breath.
“I heard shots,” he said.
“We took out another mortar team two
streets over,” Harrison told him. “We carried on to the other end of the
town, it’s clear.”
Sonny told Keane to stay put and asked
Harrison to follow him.
“There’s a couple of boxes of mortar
rounds back here,” he explained as they jogged back to the initial contact
point. “Let’s put them to good use.”
They retrieved the ammunition and lugged
it back to where Keane was waiting, his M16 pointing into the air and trying
his very best — and failing — to look like the archetypal U.S. Army poster boy.
When the figure emerged from a side
street ten yards behind Keane, time slowed for Sonny. He saw the weapon
in the man’s hand and immediately went for his own gun, at the same time
shouting a warning. He wasn’t about to drop the box of live shells he was
carrying and lost a second and a half placing it on the ground. By this
time the RPG was almost on the target’s shoulder and Sonny stood, grabbing the
MP5 which was resting on top of the box and bringing it up in one smooth
motion. His first round left the barrel before he’d even pulled the stock
of the rifle into his shoulder and flew a couple of inches wide. The next
hit the mark but didn’t take the man down, the bullet shattering his left
collar bone and throwing him off balance. Another squeeze of the trigger
and Sonny expected the man to hit the deck, but the firing pin fell on an empty
chamber.
Instinctively he reached for the spare
magazine, even though he knew he wouldn’t have time to load it. He had
just removed it from his pocket when the shot came.
* * *
With the main threat from the mini-gun on
the runway over, Grant realised that there was no more fire coming from the
tree line, and the mortars had also stopped. Just as it looked like the
attack might be over a blast of heat hit him in the back and sent him
sprawling. He looked up to see the main gate hanging from its hinges and
approaching fast was a second pick-up. It crashed through the twisted
metal and came at him on a collision course but he managed to roll himself up
against the side of a building just as it sped past. The Filipino soldier
had less luck, the truck running over his left leg and snapping it like a
twig. His screams of agony were cut short when the gunner in the rear
opened up with the Dillon, cutting him in half.
Grant snatched up his rifle but held his
fire when he saw that once again there was a hostage strapped to the back of
the cab. His heart skipped a beat as he thought it might be Vick, but as
the truck passed into the light cast by the numerous fires he could see that
the human shield was male, which meant it had to be Moore.
The truck had entered the main square
and was driving in a counter-clockwise circle, the gunner and his companion in
the back letting loose with all they had. Two soldiers sought cover by
diving through a hole in building’s wall but the Dillon followed them and
sliced through the thin wood as if it were tissue paper. An RPG round
followed for good measure, destroying more of the wall and bringing the roof
crashing in. Another RPG round was quick to follow, this one completely
destroying the guardhouse.
With the enemy in the tree line
forgotten, the Filipino soldiers turned their attention to the truck.
Grant knew it was only a matter of time before Moore was hit, so he had to
neutralise the threat. His main concern was that the guy behind the
Dillon was standing just inches from Moore, and with the vehicle constantly
moving and jolting it was not going to be an easy shot.
Decision made, he went for the truck's
wheels and engine block, emptying a whole magazine into the front of the vehicle
as it swung its nose towards him. The tyre on the passenger side
immediately went flat but it did little to kill the speed. The truck
continued on its course, showing its back end to Grant, and he went for the
rear tyres, puncturing them both. In the back of the truck his actions
hadn't gone unnoticed, and an RPG with Grant's name on it was thrown over the
terrorist's shoulder. He had his finger on the trigger when Dog took him
out with a single, clean head shot.
With his steering becoming erratic, Nabil
Shah knew that it wouldn't be long before he became a sitting duck. He
gunned the engine and headed for the gate but found Grant standing in his way,
inserting a fresh magazine into his rifle. This was the man Abdul had
been so concerned about, and killing him was the least he could do for his
master. Foot hard to the floor, he drove straight at Grant in the hope of
knocking him down as he made his exit.
He didn't get within five yards.
Grant walked the line of bullets from
the bottom of the windscreen to the top, shattering the glass and almost
splitting the driver down the middle. The truck veered wildly and buried
itself in the remains of a shower block, slamming the gunner against the back
of the cab where he slumped onto the deck of the cargo bay.