Havoc

By Paul Henke

Europe is a seething cauldron of hatred. Islamophobia and xenophobia sweep the continent as incessant terrorist atrocities terrify the population. Legal and illegal immigrants are blamed for attacking the white, Christian establishment. Whipped up by the press, non-whites and non-Christians are being hounded and persecuted in retaliation for the deaths caused by the terrorists.

A backlash begins.

But all is not as it seems. The immigrants are as much victims as the whites. Who is masterminding the race war? Is this an Islamic plot against the west? Or something even more sinister?

Once again this master storyteller has highlighted the fears and prejudices of a world on the edge. As always, Henke’s meticulous research creates a background that is rock-solid and thought provoking. The conclusions drawn by his imagination are disturbing in the extreme.

As hero Nick Hunter battles against this latest threat to democracy, Henke fearlessly brings forbidden issues to the fore in an action packed story that enthrals the reader from beginning to end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Henke
• Release date: Mar 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9780955896668

Paul Henke

Born and raised in the mining valleys of South Wales, my father was a Polish immigrant who came to the UK during the Second World War. I was educated at Pontypridd Boys' Grammar and from an early age had a burning desire to be a Royal Naval officer. After training at Dartmouth Royal Naval College I qualified as a bomb and mine disposal expert, specialising in diving and handling explosives. I led a crack team of underwater bomb disposal specialists and also became the Commanding Officer of various minesweeping and minehunting ships. I survived a machine gun attack by IRA gun runners in Ireland in 1976. Using plastic explosives I was responsible for blowing-up a number of Second World War mines found off the coast of Britain. In the Royal Navy I had the good fortune to work with Prince Charles for a year.

Book preview

HAVOC

By

Paul Henke

Copyright © 2004 Paul Henke

The right of Paul Henke to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Smashwords Edition

First published in 1999 by Good Read Publishing A Good Read Publishing paperback. Reprinted in 2002 by Good Read Publishing

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The exceptions to this are the historic characters described.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

ISBN 1 902483 06 5

Good Read Publishing Ltd Balfron

G63 0RL

Paul Henke

"An unquenchable thirst for daring and creativity" The Sunday Times

The Tears Series:

A MILLION TEARS

THE TEARS OF WAR AND PEACE

SILENT TEARS

TEARS UNTIL DAWN

The Nick Hunter Adventures:

DÉBÂCLE

MAYHEM

CHAOS

HAVOC

TURMOIL

Also by Paul Henke

PHOENIX RISING

THE SEVENTH CIRCLE

NEVER A WINNER

Visit Paul Henke on his website for current titles and future novels at:

http://www.henke.co.uk/home.html

or email Paul at

[e-mail]

PROLOGUE

HIS PASSPORT DESCRIBED him as a reporter. When pressed, George C. Clarke also described himself as a reporter. The truth was, he hadn’t reported much in over a year. In fact he had been sliding down the totem pole for nearly a decade now. And at fifty-five he had few places left to go. Which was why he’d accepted this latest assignment to Egypt. His editor back in New York had made it clear - either go to Africa or clear his desk. So he’d gone. Now here he was in a crummy bar in Cairo, drinking too much aquavit and beer chasers.

He could trace his slide from grace to exactly five years ago. Happy Anniversary, he toasted himself in the dirty mirror lining the bar. Getting home from the Moscow trip early and finding his wife in bed with another man had been a shock. Breaking his jaw had been satisfying but expensive. She’d got the house, the kids, and the portfolio of stocks. He’d been lucky not to go to jail for assault.

Alcohol cured his despondency for a while. He’d started drinking. Only in the evenings at first. Within a year it had been lunchtime. Now lunchtime started around eleven o’clock and frequently finished twelve hours later. His hand shook as he raised the shot glass of clear liquid to his lips. He threw it down in one smooth gesture and followed it with a mouthful of beer. The shaking stopped.

He took stock of the dump he was in. The room held about fifty scarred and battered tables, arranged to face the small stage. A fat belly-dancer was lethargically going through her routine. The place was half full or half empty, depending on your outlook. For him, like his glass, it was half empty. He knew he needed to get back to the conference centre to cover the afternoon’s session, but what the hell. He’d get what he needed from one of the others. Hacks stuck together. Usually.

Fans turned slowly, re-distributing the smoke-filled and oppressive air. He signalled the barman for a refill and watched hungrily as the liquor was poured. To delay the moment of drinking, he turned his back on the bar and surveyed the room. The clientele consisted mainly of men, with a few prostitutes adding colour here and there. One table in the corner caught his interest. There was something vaguely familiar about the man sitting with his back to the door.

Clarke turned back to his drink. It would come to him if he gave it long enough. He stared at the drink like it was his enemy, before wrapping a clammy hand around the glass. His was the action of the practised drunk and he drank it greedily. Lighting a cigarette, he leaned back against the bar and tried to stop thinking about the next shot. The gyrating woman did nothing for him and he lost interest as soon as he looked at her. The occupants of the other tables showed the same lack of interest. He glanced again at the corner table. Two Europeans and two Arabs, in deep discussion. His reporter’s instincts twitched. It was a feeling he hadn’t had for many years.

With beer glass in hand he moved to an empty table for a better look. He definitely knew the man. But who was he? His memory, befuddled by years of alcohol abuse, was working slowly. Even one of the ragheads appeared familiar.

What the hell, there was no harm in it. The thought had barely formed when he found himself at the table, looking at the four men.

‘Say, don’t I know you?’ The reporter held his hand out to one of the Europeans, a silver-haired man about his own age.

‘I don’t think so. This is a private conversation. Please go.’

‘Sure I do,’ Clarke withdrew his hand, too drunk to notice the consternation he’d caused. ‘It’ll come to me in a moment.’

The man he had addressed said something to one of the Arabs. The man nodded and quickly rose.

‘Hey,’ Clarke protested as he was hustled towards the back door.

Another man crossed the room to help. Clarke found himself in a filthy alleyway at the back of the club. The Arab slipped a stiletto through the base of Clarke’s skull and into his brain in a flash of agony. He didn’t die for three seconds. Time enough to make the connection. Charles Gustav.

1

Know your enemy. Hunter had been studying his prey for several minutes. Watching the palm spider weave its delicate track across his arm. Tenacious, a survivor, it scurried into the bed of rotting leaves as soon as Hunter made a minuscule movement of his fingers. Hunter closed his eyes, allowing the sensations of the jungle to pour over him. Instinctively he filtered the noises. Directly above was the hiss of a tree-rat. The TIFAT operative hoped the rodent would stay until nightfall, when the other, larger mammals went marauding.

Hunter had been in the jungle on three previous occasions and had hated each one. His love was the sea, his passion was diving and sailing. Being in a hide in Suriname was not his idea of fun. He and his team had been there for four days. The smallest country in South America, Suriname in recent years had become a major route for the transhipment of drugs destined for Europe. According to intelligence reports, the heavily escorted mule train of cocaine they were waiting to ambush was worth in the region of half a billion dollars. The sums of money involved were astronomical.

There were ten of them in the team and most of them lived on incomes of less than £32,000 per annum, which included special services pay...And here they were yet again putting their lives on the line. He grinned mirthlessly. Neither he nor the rest of the team would have it any other way.

Their ingress into the country had been secret. Official permission for the operation would never have been forthcoming. For eight of the last twenty-two years the military had been in power. Suriname was trying to strike a fine balancing act between the civilian and military rulers. No permission and no official recognition. It was too easy to be betrayed by a corrupt pen pusher. There were many hands greased by the huge bribes that oiled the trade.

They had parachuted in from a Hercules W2, normally used for weather reconnaissance and operated by the Meteorological Research Flight based at Boscombe Down, in England. The white and grey fuselage, with its long pointed nose sticking out far in front of the plane, operated mainly in the northern hemisphere. A special visit to Brazil had been arranged at short notice and the plane despatched. They had refuelled from Hercules C1K tankers twice before arriving in Suriname airspace. The team had bailed out high, at night, aiming for a clear spot in the jungle. Not long ago the jump would have been considered suicidal. But using satellites and mobile positioning gear they could leap out at 25,000ft with pin-point accuracy. They had landed safely with all their equipment, bivouacked for what was left of the night and at dawn began a forced route march through the interior. Two of their number had taken the opposite direction. They had the heaviest loads to carry but had only five kilometres to cover. They would make the journey four times ferrying the back-up equipment. Hunter hoped they wouldn’t need it.

The remainder of the team had twenty klicks to travel. Thanks to up-to-date satellite mapping, they were steered along existing paths, past impressive waterfalls, to the track they wanted. The trip had taken under five hours. It had seldom been necessary to machete back the encroaching jungle. Each man carried 65lbs on his back, carefully packed into his bergen. The going was tough, with the temperature in the nineties and the humidity over eighty. Sweat poured out of them as if they were under a shower. They chewed salt tablets, sipping their specially prepared water - doctored with much needed chemicals - at regular intervals. Rests were taken five minutes every hour. No one complained. It was what they had signed up for.

The nine men and one woman in the TIFAT patrol were hand-picked special services operatives from the world’s best. Hunter would have trusted any of them with his life and often had. Their skills and tenacity had carried the team through countless disastrous situations. A mine and bomb-disposal diving specialist in the Royal Navy, Hunter led the team. His second-in-command was Joshua Clements, an American on secondment from Delta force. In the party were Jan Badonovitch, a Russian Spetsnaz, Claude Masson, a Frenchman from Commandos de Recherche et d’Action. Doug Tanner - the only African American, was a SEAL from Louisiana. Frank Hales - a New Yorker seconded from the Green Berets - was the other American on the team. All the others, REME sergeant Don Masters, a quietly spoken, tough Scotsman, David Hughes, a SAS sergeant from Wales, and Douglas Napier, a lieutenant with the British Special Boats Service, were British. The tenth person - Ruth Golightly, the only woman in the team - was on loan from the Israeli Mossad. Bringing her along on the mission had been a difficult decision for Hunter. They had been lovers for some time and his instinct was to protect her, not expose her to the vagaries of the South American jungle. But Ruth was as committed to the eradication of the drug runners as any member of the team and he had no justifiable reason to leave her out.

In recognition of her sex, Ruth’s pack weighed merely 45lbs, the only concession offered or accepted. They had yomped in single file, with Hughes half a klick ahead, and Frank Hales the same behind. Intel updates were transmitted every hour, on the hour, from TIFAT HQ in Scotland.

They had set up the ambush along a well-worn path, wide enough to allow two donkeys to pass without touching. Hughes continued on point, ready to warn of the smugglers’ arrival. Frank Hales went back half a klick along the path to mop up the advance guard they knew would be leading the donkey train.

When it wasn’t raining it was steaming hot. On arrival, each of them had dug a hole waist deep and long enough to lay down in. The hides were carefully camouflaged. Nobody moved outside their hole to ensure that there was no disruption to the area. After only a few days it looked like a natural part of the landscape. One give-away in these situations was the sense of smell. Rotting vegetation was one thing, cigarette smoke and the minty tang of toothpaste another. None of the team were smokers but they all missed brushing their teeth. Hunter used small pieces of twig to clean his, chewing fern tips he knew to be safe.

The other major problem of being in a hide had been taken care of. Prior to arriving in Suriname they had spent four days eating special rations. By the second day their systems had been cleansed. They would not need to go to the toilet until after the operation. Apart from urinating. Even that was an art form, as their urine passed through a personal purifier for re-use. They had tried a group purifier but the consensus of opinion was they would rather die of thirst than drink it.

Each of them heard the Intel updates on their personal sat-nav phone and were assured that the narco-traffickers were finally coming. Only their time of arrival was unknown. The smugglers were using a trail that was over a thousand kilometres long. A combination of dense rain forest and vast quantities of camouflage netting kept the smugglers hidden from the spy-satellites. Infra-red seekers were almost useless. The temperature difference between the surrounding jungle and the bodies walking the route was insufficient to register properly.

Three days they had been in situ. The hours had dragged slowly, sapping their energy. It was too dangerous to walk through the jungle at night and so there had been no fear that the smugglers would have arrived while it was dark. Day and night the jungle was never silent. Small animals and reptiles roamed freely amongst the ferns and spiky palms that made up the undergrowth. The odourless insect repellent the team was using was a washout. They were tormented by mosquitoes at dawn and dusk.

They had two escape routes once the job was over. The one Hunter favoured was a helicopter ride into Brazil. The second meant a trip down the River Maroni, fifty klicks to the east. The two-man escape team was already there and waiting. Just in case.

The radios picked up a signal a few minutes before 3pm. No voice. Just three clicks then a pause, followed by three more clicks. There was a further delay while Hughes counted the advance patrol as they passed him. He sent five clicks. Five armed men in front. The team waited, nervous sweat mixing with the perspiration caused by the heat and humidity.

Five men came into sight, dressed in army fatigues and carrying rifles slung over their shoulders. They were speaking loudly in a Portuguese patois that was incomprehensible even to the two Portuguese speakers in the team.

More clicks. Two this time, as Hunter and his team watched the five men vanish around a corner in the trail. The main body of the caravan was half a klick behind. They waited with cold-eyed determination. Half a billion dollars worth of coke would cause untold suffering in the West. It had to be stopped.

‘Boss,’ Hughes broke radio silence with a whisper. ‘I don’t like it. I count eighteen armed guards and here’s the bad news, they’re all either European or American and highly alert.’

‘Roger that,’ whispered Hunter. ‘Any tail-end Charlies?’

‘Negative. There are twelve donkeys being led by one peasant with another bringing up the rear. The guards are either side.’

The team was using silenced Steyr Tactical Machine Pistol submachine guns. Constructed entirely in synthetic material, the TMP was so tough that steel inserts to guide the bolt were not required. It fired in single or automatic bursts and the magazine held up to twenty-five rounds of 9mm Parabellum cartridges. The sound suppressers they had fitted reduced the noise of the gun to a burp in a high wind. Yet their primary weapon remained surprise.

They could hear the caravan approaching. Two soldiers came into sight, unshaven, their wary eyes roaming back and forth. They spared only a glance for the positions where the team were hiding. The first soldier had already passed Hunter when a click in his ear piece told him that the last smuggler had reached Badonovitch at the furthest end. It was the signal to begin. Hunter aimed upwards from a distance of about three metres, firing through a slit in the foliage. He fired twice, aiming at the third man in the file. Both shots hit home - one through the heart, the other through the throat. His second target screamed as he smashed onto the track, struck by Hunter’s bullets. The man in front spun around with an oath but he was far too late. Hunter’s next two shots killed him instantly.

Pushing back the camouflage, Hunter leapt out of the hole. The jungle air was filled with yells and curses. The donkeys began to bray and kick as automatic gunfire rent the air. Hunter took a snap shot at one of the peasants but he was already vanishing into the jungle and the bullet missed. One guard lying on the ground brought his gun to bear and began pulling the trigger. It was on fully automatic and the bullets stitched a pattern across the track and into one of the foxholes. Hunter killed the man with a double tap, both shots to the body.

The other members of the team were climbing out and finishing off the job. Because they had been so well hidden none of the team were shot at directly. Most of the smugglers had died before they even knew what was happening. The peasant at the end of the donkey train had turned and fled. Hunter sent out a radio message which Hughes acknowledged. He would wait until the man arrived at his position.

Frank Hales reported in. ‘All five down. No problems.’

‘Roger that. Stay where you are in case of unexpected visitors.’

The team began cutting open the sacks tied across the donkeys’ backs. They contained pure white cocaine, refined to the highest quality. They hacked the sacks to pieces, scattering the fortune in coke across the jungle floor. Already the slight breeze was dispersing it, wiping out half a billion dollars. The rain began again and helped the process. The donkeys had settled down and stood placidly, snorting, shifting a leg, unperturbed amongst the clouds of white dust.

Napier had been rifling the pockets of the dead men. ‘Boss, you’d better take a look.’

Hunter took the offered document and recognised it as a French passport. He compared the picture to the dead man. It was him all right.

The wounded smuggler groaned. Hunter knelt by his side. ‘What’s your name?’

The man looked at Hunter with hatred and spat out a mouthful of insults, his French vowels identifying him as a native of the Midi. Hunter asked the question again, in the same language. He was given another mouthful of abuse.

The remainder of the team had been ready to move at a moment’s notice and were already pulling their bergens from their holes and strapping them to their backs.

Hughes radioed in. ‘Boss, we’ve got problems. A patrol has just rushed past me, moving fast. I counted twenty in all. They’re on foot and heavily armed.’

‘Roger that. Time to go.’ Hunter was preparing to put a bullet in the head of the injured man when the Frenchman arched his back and exhaled for the last time.

Standing up Hunter grabbed his bergen, searching Ruth out automatically. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked her.

‘Sure. No problems. You?’

He looked into her brown eyes and grinned. The shower had already passed and the sunlight filtering through the treetops reflected an her smooth, lightly tanned skin. The shadows from the leaves made geometric patterns across her beautiful face. ‘Listen up,’ he called. ‘You heard Dave. We need to move fast. All set?’

They moved out at a rapid pace. Hunter had already prepared a number of booby-traps while he had been in the foxhole. He quickly set them.

‘Dave, are you following?’ Hunter transmitted.

‘Affirmative. They’re coming fast as they’re travelling light. Between me and them are three donkeys, each with a minder, with packs. Another man has just joined them.’

‘He was probably the one who ran up the track. They’ll slow down now, if they know what’s happened. Can you take out those four and ditch their supplies?’

‘Will do. They’ve stopped. Some of them don’t look too happy about following. They’re arguing. Hang on.’ The radio went silent for a few seconds. ‘They’re coming this way. They’re heading back up the trail.’

‘In that case leave them. As soon as they’re out of sight follow us. Frank?’

‘Here, boss.’

‘Stay hidden. As soon as we’re past, set the explosives. When Dave reaches you follow behind. We’ll have whoever is chasing us between a rock and a hard place.’

‘Roger that.’

Hunter surveyed his handiwork. The green thread was impossible to spot. He hurried after the others, opening out his stride. At six-foot two he had a long reach. The traps he had just set were, according to international agreements, illegal. Classed as an anti-personnel mine they were a variation on the Claymore. He had set four of them. Any of eight tripwires would set them off. When they did, C-4 plastic explosive would fire seven hundred steel balls in a forward sixty degrees pattern that grew to six feet and killed anybody within one hundred and seventy feet.

They passed Chief Petty Officer Frank Hales who had set a similar trap before dropping back into his hide.

The team had travelled nearly three klicks when they heard the explosions, remarkably faint in the distance. They continued on, moving fast, returning along the path they had followed three days earlier. It was twenty minutes before Hughes called in.

‘The Clays took out three and wounded one. He was shot through the head by his own people. One of the men went berserk, screaming orders at the top of his voice. They radioed in somewhere but I’ve no idea where or to whom.’

‘Roger that. I’ll ask HQ. Isobel’s listening to all frequencies in this area. When you reach Frank follow - fast and carefully.’

Hunter broke the connection. Like the others he was breathing heavily as they kept up their killing pace. Plan Alpha was the cushy option - a helicopter ride out. They were meant to return to the drop point and await the arrival of the helo. If they couldn’t stop their pursuers there was no chance. They would have to use plan Bravo. They were nearly forty minutes from Hales when he radioed.

‘The trap took two. They’re well strung out now, taking fewer risks. I count fourteen.’

‘Roger that. Follow with Dave but don’t get seen.’

‘He’s here now. We’re moving out.’

They had a lead of about forty-five minutes. Too small a margin to sit waiting for a helicopter to arrive, so there was no choice. The odds now were almost even. An ambush would turn the situation to their advantage. Hunter was already planning ahead, remembering the terrain they had crossed. One piece of ground sprung to mind. He knew the track passed through a defile, with walls as high as seven or eight metres in some places. At one time it had been the bed of a stream but the water had long since dried up.

Explosives each end and an ambush from above would soon settle matters.

Between gasps he briefed everyone over their personal radios. He had just finished when the sat-nav phone warbled.

‘Nick? Isobel.’ Hunter recognised the voice of TIFAT’s IT expert. ‘You’ve got a big problem. We intercepted a radio message from the scene of the ambush to somebody in the capital, Paramaribo. They called for helo backup. Three have been scrambled.’

‘Hell! We’ve nothing to take out a helo. Are they attack ‘copters or just bringing in reinforcements?’

‘We don’t know at this stage. But from the transmissions we’ve intercepted you’ve kicked over a hornets’ nest. Somebody is going berserk over the loss of the shipment - over the half a billion profit, more like. The men chasing you have been told if they fail they needn’t bother returning.’

‘Any chance of back-up?’

‘The General is working on that right now.’

Hunter was thinking furiously. They had about eight klicks to the ambush site. He was gasping when he asked, ‘Are those enemy helos airborne yet?’

‘Negative. I’ll let you know as soon as they are. You can cross into French Guiana at the River Maroni.’

‘What’s the chance of hot pursuit?’

‘Inevitable, I should think. They could scream murderers and thieves and demand free access.’

‘That’s what I figure. All right, I need to go.’

Breaking the connection, Hunter knew that if they were to survive they had to make the river.

Hunter checked the sat-nav picture and broadcast to the others. ‘Three klicks. Let’s step on it.’

They increased their speed, the pace murderous to all but the fittest. It became a brutal race. They needed cover, they needed time to prepare and they need luck, and not necessarily in that order.

The team got to work as soon as they reached the narrow gorge. Each member knew what was required without being told. Hunter left them to get on with it while he climbed the steep slope to the top. From the jungle plain the hill he had climbed sprung up like a carbuncle. It had been cut in two by eons of water erosion, though the stream running through had dried leaving a rocky defile. Steep-sided, a hundred feet high in the middle, it was surrounded by impenetrable jungle on all sides. It was the only way through and a good place for an ambush. A fact their pursuers would surely recognise as well.

Staying low he crawled over the top and lay behind a boulder, focusing binoculars on the path they had just run. He called Hughes and Hales for a sitrep.

‘Boss, we’re about five klicks away. About half a klick behind the enemy.’

‘Roger that. Close up when you’re one klick away. When I give the word launch an all out attack.’

They broke the connection. The sat-nav phone warbled softly and Hunter answered it. General Malcolm Macnair, head of TIFAT, his gruff voice, slightly distorted by space and distance, coming all the way from Rosyth, still managed to instil Hunter with a sense of power and authority.

‘Hullo, sir. Any good news?’

‘Yes. The Ark Royal is on exercise in the Atlantic. She’s steaming at full speed towards Suriname. According to the Captain, he can launch in five minutes.’

‘What’s he sending?’

‘Harriers, Foxtrot Alpha Twos.’

Hunter knew the Sea Harrier named was used in the twin roles of combat air support and battlefield interdiction. They carried Sidewinders, AMRAAM missiles and cannons.

‘How did you manage it, sir?’

‘Friends in low places,’ joked the General. ‘They know the picture. They’ll be coming up country following the river Maroni, staying on the border between Suriname and French Guiana.’

‘How long will they stay?’

‘No more than five minutes. The enemy helos have launched and we reckon they’ll be on site in thirty to thirty-five minutes.’

‘Roger that, sir. Thanks and thank the Ark for us.’

‘Will do.’ The General paused and then added, ‘Good luck, Nick.’

The connection was broken and Hunter turned his attention back to surviving the next forty minutes.

The team had already deployed. If they were tired after their yomp through the jungle they didn’t show it. Hunter shucked down by Ruth.

‘You okay?’ He respected her professionalism too much to compromise her with anything more.

Their eyes met, conveying emotions which could not be articulated just then.

‘Sure, Nick, quit worrying.’

At that second, he wished fervently that they had told the General about their plans. Maybe Ruth could have gone home and told her parents. Her father had been the Deputy Prime Minister of Israel and was about to start fighting a general election. He was a man Hunter greatly respected.

As if reading his mind, Ruth smiled. ‘Once this is over we can make the announcement and celebrate in style.’ She eased her bergen and lifted out a couple of hand-grenades.

Hunter tapped her shoulder, smiled and moved to his position ten yards away. The team checked in. All preparations were complete. They lay silently in the baking heat. The sun was hidden by a thick layer of cloud and as they looked across the top of the jungle they could see isolated storms. Jagged flashes of lightning streaked across the sky. There was no rain as yet, just a heavy, hot and humid atmosphere.

Hughes radioed in. ‘One klick and closing fast.’

‘Okay. Close up and when I give the word hit them with everything you’ve got.’

It was another five minutes before Masters broke the silence. ‘Here they come. They’re at the edge of the jungle.’

‘I see them,’ replied Hunter.

One man was edging along the path, cautious now without the cover of the jungle. He stopped and spoke to another, who was still out of sight. There was more movement and the second man appeared. He put a pair of binoculars to his eyes and began to slowly scan the defile. Nobody in the team moved, hardly breathing. Another two men came equally cautiously into view.

Hunter spoke softly into his microphone. ‘Dave, Frank, hit them...now.’

From inside the green jungle screen came the unmistakable sound of machine-guns opening fire followed by the loud bangs of detonating grenades. Hughes and Hales were certainly doing as they had been instructed. Across the two hundred metres of open ground came the yells and curses of soldiers being attacked.

The man with the binoculars pointed and bellowed an order. All his men came streaming out of the jungle and along the path towards the defile. Hunter and the team waited patiently. Twelve men in total, so the attack had whittled down another two of their number.

The lead man was already at the gorge and turning to give covering fire to his colleagues. They quickly entered what they considered to be the relative safety of the defile and fanned out, ready to fend off whoever was behind them. They could afford to wait. With attack helos and reinforcements arriving soon they had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Masters set off the first explosion.

The plastic had been carefully laid at the entrance to the defile. When it detonated tons of rock were dislodged, raining down on the men in the gorge. Two were killed outright and three were seriously wounded. The remainder turned as one and ran along the path. The first man was almost at the midway point when a second explosion erupted at his feet. He was blown to pieces, as was the man close behind. The third man was shielded and stayed on his feet but a rock the size of a football landed on his head and crushed it like a ripe tomato. Other rocks rained down maiming and injuring others.

Before the dust had settled hand grenades were lobbed down. Any screams and yells ended abruptly. The team stayed where they were, listening intently. So far it had not been necessary to show themselves and risk getting shot. A wounded man could easily be waiting below, determined to get revenge before he died.

After a few minutes Hunter cautiously looked over the edge. Twenty metres down he saw nothing except fallen rocks and body parts. He scanned the area closely. Nothing moved. Over his radio he said, ‘Take a careful look.’

Along the edge of the defile the team moved slowly, inching forward, taking a snap look. The gunshot was loud in the aftermath of the battle. A bullet struck a rock next to Napier’s head and a chip of stone cut deeply across his cheek. In order to fire at his target, the man had stood up suddenly. Before he could drop back down out of sight Doug Tanner put a bullet in his brain.

Hughes and Hales arrived at the beginning of the defile and were working their way along, looking for live bodies. They reached the spot where the second explosion had occurred and gave the all clear.

‘Prepare for the helicopters arriving,’ Hunter ordered. He called TIFAT HQ and gave a sitrep.

‘Excellent, Nick,’ said the General. ‘But you’re not out of trouble yet. Their helicopters are five minutes out. Our Harriers are fully ten minutes behind them.’

‘Roger that, sir. We’d better get ready.’ At the bottom of the defile the team were checking the bodies of the dead men, searching for papers.

Claude Masson joined him. ‘Boss, I recognise one of these scumbags.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Used to be a paratrooper with the Legion. Tough son of a bitch. One thing I remember about him, he was ultra right-wing.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You know, the usual crap. France for the French, provided they’re white. I’m sure he was thrown out for killing an Algerian in a brawl in a bar in Toulon.’

‘Did he go to prison?’

Masson shrugged. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember.’

On impulse Hunter thrust a handful of passports at him. ‘Take a look at these and see if you recognise anyone else.’

The sergeant quickly looked through them and looked at Hunter in puzzlement. ‘I’m positive about one other and I’m almost sure I recognise a third.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Special forces. Or ex, anyway. You know what a small world we inhabit.’

Hunter nodded. He knew people all over the globe who were in special forces. Theirs was a close-knit world.

He’d just buttoned the passports into his top pocket when the first helicopter screamed into sight.

They were AS565s, known as Panthers. Built in France by Aérospatiale the Panther carried various externally mounted weapons, including air to ground missiles. The lead helo pilot made a grave error almost immediately. He flew in close to determine the identity of the men on the ground. Unfortunately for him, the TIFAT operatives he targeted were Badonovitch and Weir, the latter an Olympics standard rifleman. They already had their sniper rifles out and loaded with a specially constructed explosive bullet. They fired simultaneously and both men hit the helicopter. The bullets exploded on impact, killing the pilot outright. Out of control, the helo began to spin before crashing and erupting into flame less than a hundred metres from where the team stood. The other two ‘copters swung down and away before the riflemen could take aim.

‘Incoming!’ Badonovitch yelled, seconds before a missile slammed into the side of the gorge. The explosion was huge. Tons of rocks were blown into the air, landing amongst the team, causing some minor injuries.

The helicopters hovered out of range and a second missile was launched at the team. It landed between Ruth and Frank Hales who were lying on the ground behind large boulders. The explosion sent a rock flying through the air striking Hales on the temple, killing him instantly. A second rock flew high and landed with a sickening crunch on Ruth’s leg. She screamed in agony as her knee was crushed.

2

Men began to rappel out of the helicopters. Before the first touched the ground a Sidewinder missile flew into the side of the helicopter and blew it to smithereens. Debris and burning fuel tumbled out of the sky, killing the soldiers who were deploying underneath, preparing to attack. The cavalry, in the form of the two Harriers, had arrived just in time.

The other helicopter met the same end. When the second missile hit it, two of the soldiers had already reached the ground and were running in the direction of the defile. They had been expecting the helicopters to supply massive covering fire in the form of missiles and cannons. When the helicopters blew apart the two men stopped in shock. The first was killed by Badonovitch and the second wounded by Tanner.

The two Harriers flew over, waggled their wings