He jumped out, followed by Daffaut and Meyer, and ran back towards it.
What was left of the truck was continuing to burn off remaining fuel. Then, Reynolds heard the helpless screams from deep within the lashing flames. There was nothing he could do and just as he went to try, Daffaut pulled him back to prevent him from doing so.
The Frenchman looked him directly in the eyes. ‘They’re gone, David!’
Meyer then shouted across to them. ‘Look, we have survivors!’ They followed his gaze behind the truck to see three figures crawling away from the burning wreckage.
Sami Ahmed and Tolly Evans had managed to get out of the now-buckled cab, almost unscathed. They then saw the quivering image of Micko Morris as he lay on his back, a gushing wound in his side and both legs missing below the knee.
Inside the burning pyre, they could just make out another figure, Jerome, who having been directly above the landmine, did not have a chance.
Reynolds knelt down beside his old friend. ‘Take it easy, Micko, you’ll be fine.’
Morris saw through his team leader’s façade. ‘Don’t bloody lie to me, Big D.’
Reynolds nodded. He knew that Micko did not have long, and as if they had suddenly acquired a telepathic bond, he reached down to his shoulder holster, pulled out his automatic, and after checking the safety, handed it down to the mutilated figure of Morris.
They locked eyes on each other as Morris said his last words. ‘Just tell Nicki I love her and will always be with her.’
Then, to show a mark of respect, the five remaining men looked away as the single shot rang out around them.
Reynolds closed Morris’ eyes, retrieved his pistol and assessed the situation. He had lost two good men.
As they stood contemplating whether to carry the body of Morris back over to the still-burning truck, the ground around them erupted in a hail of gunfire. At the top of the road, a group of soldiers were running towards them, their assault rifles blazing as they advanced.
Reynolds, Tolly and Sami ran towards the edge of the road, taking cover in a ditch as bullets whizzed above their heads, while Daffaut and Meyer returned fire as they scrambled across the road. Tolly then started returning fire, realising his two friends had done the right thing to cross to the other side. He moved further up the ditch and saw his chance to do the same.
‘No Tolly, get down!’ Reynolds shouted, as the little Welshman fixed his eyes on his friends, then took off, firing up the road as he bounced across. He had almost arrived, when a round hit him above his right ear, killing him instantly.
From the ditch, Reynolds watched him go down and lowered his head in despair.
Meyer also saw him, and decided to break his cover. Edging his way forward, he crawled over to the body.
Then, what remained of Reynolds’ team had a new challenge, as explosions rocked the ground around them. The advancing Greek soldiers were now using mortars.
Meyer, lying prone next to the lifeless body of Tolly Evans, reached under the Welshman’s tunic and, placing his fingers on the exposed neck, realised there was no pulse. Now what would he do?
Bullets continued to ram into the stony road around him. Pinned down by them, something occurred to Meyer. He knew the best chance his friends had was to get across the road and make a run for it over the field, using the cover of the natural darkness.
He glanced over to Reynolds as more explosions from the poorly-aimed mortars pierced their ears. Suddenly, the German had an idea. ‘David, Sami, wait for my signal, then get across this road.’
Reynolds, wondering what the German had in mind, turned in bewilderment to the Moroccan, who watched as Meyer got up from behind his dead human shield, pointed his AK-47 at the advancing soldiers and opened fire.
As the hail spat from the muzzle of the gun, Meyer called out. ‘Now, David — go, man!’ Meyer walked on, rifle blazing away. Reynolds saw his chance and, gripping Ahmed’s sleeve, he ran across the road as the spray from the Kalashnikov protected their sprint.
Before him, Meyer noticed men falling as the Russian-manufactured 7.62mm projectiles hit their targets.
Suddenly, the German halted, as over the brow of the hill came the squeak of rolling wheels. A Greek T-34 tank was now moving towards him. He had spent too long gazing at it and two rounds from one of the soldiers hit him on the arm. Enraged by this, Meyer looked at the tank, then holding up his rifle, aimed straight at it.
The bullets from his gun bounced off the armoured plating of the vehicle. He knew it was pointless, but it managed to draw their fire so that his colleagues could escape.
Reynolds, from his vantage point at the top of an escarpment, looked on as Meyer stepped towards the war machine with his weapon still raised, continuing with the rapid firing from his AK-47. The next thing Reynolds witnessed was the big German’s disappearance in a ball of smoke and flame, as the shell ignited from the tank’s barrel, hitting the ground beneath Meyer’s feet.
Reynolds didn’t have time to grieve now. He knew that his friend had done this to save him and the others. He ran down the mound of sun-baked earth shouting to them. ‘Right lads! Now’s our chance. Let’s go!’
The two men also stood up, moving rapidly towards the field. Around them, bullets zoomed, as the Greek soldiers stood at the roadside, firing across their path.
The three mercenaries ran as fast as their legs could carry them across the grey, barren terrain, then, suddenly, Ahmed stumbled as a round hit him in the centre of his neck. Seeing him fall, Reynolds and Daffaut expected that he was gone, and did not stop.
They had run a few more yards, when the darkness around them was suddenly bathed in light. The search lamp on the turret of the tank had picked them out and more gunfire soon followed; the soldiers now concentrated on the position of their moving targets. They continued to run, but as the bullets came closer Daffaut felt a sharp pain as a round hit him in the shoulder; he dived to the ground, the pain increasing.
Reynolds stopped and raising his Sterling, fired futilely towards the light. He had fired only a couple of bursts before he was also hit, and clutched his arm as the blood seeped through his fingers. He leant over his number two, who was lying on the ground still holding his shoulder. ‘I’ll carry you, Jacques.’
The Frenchman shook his head. ‘What, with one arm? Don’t be a fool! Go — I will hold them off. Go to your daughter!’
Reynolds, having to leave his colleague, stood transfixed with agonising hesitation.
Daffaut barked at him. ‘Get going, Big D. Go quickly!’
Reynolds glanced at the silhouettes of advancing soldiers. ‘Good luck, Jacques.’
‘Good luck to you too, my friend. Now get out of here!’
Reynolds ran on, hearing the exchange behind him.
Fifty yards later, the firing had ceased. He didn’t look back. With thoughts of the men he had lost and the urge to still be able to see his daughter, he continued across the field and evaporated into the smoke-filled night.
Chapter 19
The operations room inside the top-secret deep underground military position yellow — familiarly referred to as DUMPY — was small. However, that did not prevent the key personnel present from participating in this crucial exercise. In attendance were heads of government, the police commissioner, senior representatives of the armed forces and leaders of local authorities.
Christopher Allenby wiped his brow and taking his lead from other figures in the room, removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The emergency exercise codenamed: ‘white knight’ had been organised in response to the escalating crisis currently playing out in the eastern Mediterranean. Although a ceasefire was now in place, the prime minister’s COBRA committee had decided as a necessary precaution to conduct this important manoeuvre, in case the situation should escalate. No-one in the room wanted it to, but this was one of the designated sites where home affairs would be governed in the event of the worst possible scenario and today, deep beneath Dover Castle, they had gathered to act out their specific roles in case of such a crisis.