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.”
57
“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.