‘Oh, shit.’
‘Yeah, boss. Mike thinks we’re being jammed.’
CHAPTER 32
They took a revolving sentry, Winter and Gallen at opposite sides of the dome, but moving to the hole to their left every minute. The snow drifted and abated, swirled and then wound down like a huge jet motor being de-throttled. The light changed with each squall, bringing different pieces of ground into focus and then covering them over again.
‘What’s this about Donny’s watch?’ said Gallen, nibbling on two raisins he’d found in his parka pocket. He was sensitive about Donny McCann being disrespected, but he still had to know.
‘Mike and Donny swapped watches back in Kugaaruk,’ said Winter. ‘Mike was amazed at the cold — him bein’ an Aussie and all — and he kept askin’ what the temp was. So Donny says, Here, swap with me — this G-Shock gives you the temperature too.’
‘You see this beacon?’
‘Sure did, boss.’
‘And?’
‘And I ain’t seen that kit since I was in the Ghan, and from time to time we was working with the Agency.’
‘This beacon is CIA?’
Winter moved to the hole on his left. ‘Or Pentagon. It’s government spook gear. Hell, when I was at ISAF they’d put that shit in our watches, in our weapons, underneath our radios — you name it, boss, the Agency and the Pentagon was tracking everyone with those stickers.’
‘Shit,’ said Gallen softly. He remembered once seeing one of those circuitry-loaded stickers on the back of a map he was returning after a ten-day recon stint. It was the size of a quarter, had a green base and gunmetal circuit board, and he’d decided not to follow it through.
They swapped a look in the dark. ‘Probably tracked you too, boss.’
Gallen saw a movement in the snow. ‘Got something, Kenny. My two o’clock.’
Joining Gallen, Winter had a look.
‘See where that long ridge dips back to the bowl?’ said Gallen.
‘Yep,’ said Winter. ‘I make two boogies, snow-cam suits.’
When Gallen looked through the hole again, the drifts had closed the sight-line.
Unsheathing his Ka-bar, Winter hacked another hole in the alloy dome, pulling the blade down and across to create a triangle and a shooting point.
‘I want you up here,’ said Gallen. ‘Give me cover. I’m going to flank them from the left. When the shit starts, you come at ‘em from this side.’
‘No offence, boss,’ said Winter, ‘but you’re not well, and this is my line.’
‘You’re saying?’
‘I’m saying that I’d rather you cover me from up here. The way I can do this means we might keep the helo.’
Gallen took a breath, coughed out the cold air in a plume of steam. ‘Okay, Kenny, but tell Ford to stay with Florita, okay? And kill the lights. Let’s make these assholes work for it.’
The squall lifted for several seconds, revealing one man lying in the snow behind the long ridge. Raising the Heckler to his shoulder, Gallen was tempted to take the two-hundred-yard shot, but kept his finger along the trigger-guard. He wanted Winter to start the assault when he was good and ready. That way, they could take out the first two mercs and even up the odds for the remaining boogies.
He’d allowed Ford to open one of the side windows of the base, giving him a sweep of the rear of the demountable. It was going to bring the temperature of the base down dramatically, but they needed someone in the rear.
‘What the fuck are you waiting for?’ said Gallen to himself, checking the other peepholes and returning to the shooting point Winter had carved out.
Through the snow, lights cast an eerie path, sometimes hitting the snow in front of the base, other times diffusing into the endlessly dancing drift. Taking a breath, he aimed in the direction of the lights, now hearing the thump of rotors and the scream of a turbine engine. It was a helicopter, but whose?
Slowly the snow flew in a slightly different pattern and a huge yellow machine appeared out of the whiteness. It looked like a Cormorant CH-149, the search-and-rescue aircraft of the Canadian military.
Moving out of the dome, Gallen braced himself on the gantry as the snow and drift was driven into him by the rotor downwash, pushing the fur-lined hood back onto his shoulders. Lighting up the area with its floodlights, the helicopter depowered as Gallen looked for the mercs.
Carefully descending the ladder from the gantry, he hit the deep snow and waded to his right, around the back of the helicopter. Crouching behind a ridge, Gallen looked for the mercenary but could see nothing among the flurries.
Circling further around, shoulder-deep in drift, he almost ran into a mere — the third one, walking towards the helicopter in a snow bowl, oblivious to the intrusion. Gallen raised the Heckler and made a single chest-shot from the high ground then waded through the snow to the fallen mere.
Kneeling over him, he saw the eyes still fluttering and felt the Kevlar vest. The fallen man’s arm swung sideways, knocking the rifle out of Gallen’s wrist, making his arm flap. The mere’s knife arced upwards at his chest, slicing through the arctic parka as though it was paper.
Rolling away, Gallen went for the SIG on his waistband but the mere was too quick, coming at him with another knife strike, which Gallen fended by attacking the man’s wrist with the back of his forearm. The snow made it like fighting in mud and Gallen could see the mere was as tired as he was after only a few seconds of struggle.
Punching the mere hard in the left temple as he lost his balance, Gallen swung, driving a flat hand into his nose and then grabbing the man by the throat as he held the knife wrist with his other hand.
The man bled freely from the nostrils but he threw his knife hand under Gallen’s chin and hit him in the throat. Gasping slightly, Gallen felt the man slide from underneath him and tear his knife wrist free as Gallen was thrown on his back. Kicking out, Gallen got the mere in the jaw with his JB Goodhue, snapping the man’s neck back and stunning him. Pushing his attacker’s jaw, Gallen finally found his own Ka-bar and sliced down into the carotid artery, bleeding the man by the throat while shifting his hand to cover the mouth.
Crouching over the man as the last twitches jumped in his hips, Gallen looked around, panting for air and knee-deep in snow. His parka was in tatters up the front and he’d lost his rifle.
Kneeling, as the cold attacked his torso, he undid the mere’s jacket and put it on. It felt warm and as he zipped up he felt the wetness of blood on the collar. Checking the man’s Beretta 9mm handgun for loads before he put it in his waistband, he saw it had a full fifteen-shot magazine.
Crawling around, looking for the Heckler, he realised it was futile. There wasn’t enough light and they’d struggled over a large area. Seeing something sticking out of the snow, he waded to it and picked up what he hoped was the Heckler. Looking at it, his heart jumped: it was a Russian-made hand-held rocket launcher, of the type favoured by the jihadists in the north of Afghanistan.
If this was what they were armed with, what was the mission? Looking at the helicopter, whose rotors were almost stopped, Gallen saw it at once.
‘Get out,’ he screamed, wading towards the yellow beast and the rescuer in the red exposure suit.
The rescuer, who was wearing a full-face safety helmet, didn’t hear Gallen, and when his buddy joined him on the snow and looked away at CAM fifteen, he didn’t hear either.
Following them, with barely the energy to stand, Gallen tried to catch their attention, but they were walking to the building.
‘They’re gonna bomb it!’ he cried, but it was too late. The shrieking whoosh snaked through the snow storm and, missing the helicopter by inches, piled into the white dome at eighty mph, instantly turning it into a sphere of fire and debris.