Four more rockets destroyed another of the Hyenas and a pair of Shadowtraks. Three compact black helicopters flashed over the battle, looped around and sprayed the Shadows with 30mm gunfire from nose turrets.
Scott watched in amazement as the trio danced through the air, firing off another six missiles to destroy the remaining Shadowtrak and making the Hyena run for it.
A Puma helicopter dropped toward the ground as the Red Shadow infantry charged the Paras’ positions.
Four men, all in black and grey outfits leaped from the Puma’s side door. Leading the group was a guy in an all-black outfit and a grey anti-flash hood. He carried an MP5 sub-machine gun. Following him, close to him, was a man in black and grey camouflage and carrying an American M60E3 light machine gun. A black wool cap covered his head. Next out was another man in an almost identical outfit, carrying an assault rifle. The last out wore a black and grey outfit that looked like a paratrooper’s jump suit; he was carrying a sub-machine gun.
The four men opened fire, the machine-gunner firing long bursts whilst the other three fired short bursts that cut down a Shadow at a time.
After a moment, only three Red Shadows were left standing.
One charged the SAS Force men, and was cut down.
The second tossed away his empty Kalashnikov, drew a knife and charged at Derek Pike, who calmly shot him.
The third Shadow drew his pistol, screamed, “BLOOD FOR THE BARON!” and then put the gun under his chin and fired.
“Holy shit!” Scott exclaimed. One of the other Paras threw up.
The leader of the four SAS Force men strode toward Scott and the sergeant.
“I’m afraid that’s what the Red Shadows are like,” he said, grimly. “Brainwashed fanatics who’d rather die than surrender. Baron Ironblood’s control over them is total.”
The sergeant snapped to attention. “Sergeant Neil O’Donnell, sir.”
“At ease, Sergeant. I’m the captain of SAS Force; you can call me ‘Eagle’. These are some of my best men,” Eagle gestured to each in turn. “Stakeout, Quickfire and Sparrowhawk.”
“So which one of you’s is the clever bugger who shot down the Roboskulls?” asked the man Eagle called Stakeout, his strong accent marking him as a Liverpudlian.
Scott stepped forward, “Me, sir.”
All four looked impressed. “Nice work, son,” Eagle said.
“Ja, ist gut,” Quickfire said. “Not many can shoot down Eisenblut’s Roboskulls.”
Scott frowned, “You’re German? I thought Action Force was British.”
“Nein,” Quickfire replied, cradling his assault rifle. “We’re European, mostly.”
“I’m Belgian,” Sparrowhawk chipped in.
“But we don’t hold it against him,” Eagle said, smiling.
Sparrowhawk smiled a thin smile, which seemed to suggest to Scott that the Belgian didn’t appreciate the comment.
The three small Hawk helicopters landed close by and the lead pilot climbed out of the open cockpit and walked over, pulling off his black helmet.
“Captain, we’ve just got word from the British Army that they’ve got five Pumas on the way. They’ve found the other Puma from this flight,” the pilot said, his accent marking him as an American.
“Good news, Chopper,” Eagle said.
“Was the other Puma shot down as well?” the sergeant asked.
“Yes,” Chopper replied. “They were lucky though, the pilot managed to bring them down more or less intact and with no casualties. They were able to radio for help.”
“We were being jammed,” Scott put in, “By the Red Shadows, I presume.”
“It’s a good bet,” Stakeout opined.
“Get your flight back to headquarters, Chopper. We’ll remain here until the Army arrives,” Eagle ordered.
The American pilot nodded, pulled his helmet back on and jogged back to the small single-seat helicopter.
As the Hawks lifted off and flew away, Scott stepped closer to Eagle.
“Excuse me asking, sir, but what’s it take to join your outfit?”
Eagle looked over the younger man. “Well, Skip’s always looking for Paras and Marines to recruit into Z Force,” Eagle answered. “Our infantry force can always use men of that calibre.”
“What about your mob, sir?” Scott persisted. “What about SAS Force?”
“You’d need to be a sergeant, at least,” Eagle answered. “Preferably a member of either 22 SAS or the SBS.”
Scott knew the SBS was the Special Boat Service, an elite arm of the Royal Navy.
“Once you’ve gained those two positions, we’d certainly be interested in your career,” Eagle concluded.
As he finished speaking, three Puma helicopters dropped toward the ground from the cloudy skies.
Eagle nodded toward Scott and the sergeant. “Nice meeting you,” he said.
The four Action Force soldiers boarded their own Puma and it lifted off moments later.
Scott turned toward Sergeant O’Donnell.
“Yes, I’ll see about having you put forward for Corporal,” the sergeant said before Scott could speak. “I was going to recommend you anyhow. But you’re on your own about getting into the sass.” British troops often called the SAS regiment ‘the sass’.
Summer, 1986
Republic of Santalla, South America
Santalla was a small country on the Pacific coast of South America. In late 1983, the Army General Paulo Mazanna led a rebellion against the country’s right-wing dictator. The civil war had dragged on for some months before Baron Ironblood and his Red Shadows intervened, allying with Mazanna in return for half the country’s wealth and half its army.
After several more months of fighting the capital, Santalla City, and the Presidential Palace fell to Mazanna and the Red Shadows. The President attempted to flee, but was killed. Mazanna then double-crossed the Baron, taking the President’s wealth from his vaults and destroying the military equipment he’d promised to the Baron. He fled the country for parts unknown.
With the country in ruins and no government or armed forces, Santalla fell into chaos and anarchy. Militias battled for control of the cities, like heavily armed street gangs. Thousands fled across the borders into Chile and Peru.
The two countries joined forces and staged an invasion of Santalla, pushing the militias back from the borders, whilst their diplomats appealed to the United Nations for aid.
A UN resolution was passed and an international stabilisation force was deployed to Santalla. US Marines staged a naval assault on the main harbour at Porto Rocas, whilst 2 Para from Britain launched an airborne assault on the Enrique Salazar International Airport outside Santalla City. With these two bridgeheads established, more troops were able to land and aid flights began arriving.
A battalion of Indian troops took over harbour security at Porto Rocas, enabling the Marines to push out into the city proper to establish control. At the same time, Indonesian troops took over security at the airport, allowing the Paras to push into the capital itself. Canadian troops were deployed to the city of Santa Raquel; Egyptian forces took over Rio del Oro, whilst Polish units took control of the city of San Jorge. A joint force of Brazilian, Paraguayan, Uruguayan and Bolivian troops began moving out into the smaller towns and villages, forming safe travel corridors from one city to another, whilst hunting down various bandit groups.
The UN aid operation and the stabilisation force were headquartered at the airport.
Scott, now a full corporal, stood inside the door of the ops room watching the activity in the room. A large wall-map showed the deployment of forces, whilst radio operators along the left wall reported on operations in each city or relayed requests and orders. A row of clocks adorned one wall, giving the local time in each contributing country’s capital and in New York.
Chilean forces had finally withdrawn from the south of Santalla the previous day. The Peruvian forces were due to pull back in the north the following day. The ops room was a hive of activity.
Scott suddenly noticed a soldier in the uniform of a Para sergeant major talking to a lieutenant colonel. The colonel handed the Para a briefing folder, patted him on the arm and then returned the sergeant major’s sloppy salute. Scott frowned as the sergeant-major left. He didn’t recognise the man and there were very few Paras of that rank. Before he could ruminate further, the colonel lifted the mic that controlled the airport’s tannoy system and spoke.
“Platoons 10, 11 and 12 of D Company, Paras, report to your briefing room. Platoons 10, 11 and 12, D Company Paras.”
Scott frowned and left the room. He wondered what was going on, but guessed he’d find out soon.
The ‘briefing room’ was actually a former VIP lounge. The three platoons were crammed in by the time Scott arrived.
At the front, Scott spotted the mysterious sergeant major along with four other men, one of whom was Lieutenant Reynolds, the company commander. The other three were wearing staff sergeant uniforms.
Reynolds quickly began the briefing.
“Good morning, Paras. Today, you’ll be working with the SAS. The UNHCR has been having a lot of trouble in refugee camp North One from drug dealers. A Company has got enough on its plate trying to keep the refugees from fighting as it is, without them getting high on cocaine. Our friends from Special Forces have recce’d the camp and pinned down which of the shacks these guys are operating out of.”
Reynolds paused to look around at the attentive faces. No one spoke.
“10 Platoon will form the outer perimeter. 11 Platoon will form the inner cordon at 25 feet from the building. 12 Platoon will be the net at the five feet mark. Special Forces will be moving in. Our job is simply to make sure no one slips out.”
Reynolds glanced at the sergeant major, who was smirking slightly, but said nothing.
“Your ROE are simple, don’t shoot anyone unless they shoot at you. Remember, you’re going to be inside a refugee camp with lot of innocent civvies around. You really don’t want to open up unless you need to.”
ROE were the rules of engagement. Who you could shoot and when you could shoot them.
Two hours later, the Paras had drawn their weapons and ammo and driven from the airport, south of Santalla City, to the refugee camp to the north. 10 Platoon dismounted to join the Paras of A Company that were manning the guard towers and checkpoints at the camp’s perimeter.
The lorries moved in and stopped in one of the narrow avenues between tents and shanty buildings. 11 Platoon dismounted and moved to the positions given by the SAS men. Finally, the men of 12 Platoon dismounted and moved in taking up their positions around the target building.
The building was surprisingly well built, considering it was made of plywood, corrugated metal and scrap from cars and vans.
The SAS moved toward the front door, pulling on their respirators as they moved.
Suddenly, two panels were pushed away and machine guns poked out.
“COVER!” someone screamed seconds before the guns opened fire.
One of the SAS troopers was hit by a hail of bullets and went down before anyone could react.
Two of the Paras to Scott’s right opened fire with their SLRs, trying to hit the gunners inside. Scott didn’t have a good sight line to fire, so he held off.
The other three SAS men were firing into the building, apparently trying to shoot through the wood to hit anyone inside.
Scott suddenly spotted movement on the building’s roof; two men shoved away a large piece of metal that seemed to be the front of some wrecked car, to reveal a 30mm machine gun.
“Thirty mike gun on the roof!” Scott yelled, before lining up a shot and firing at the two men.
The bullets pinged off an armoured plate at the side of the gun, so Scott took aim again and fired, even as the gunner opened up.
Scott dived for cover behind a battered car that sat in the street, even as the two Paras who’d been firing were cut down. Cursing under his breath, he was sure that was Derek Pike who’d been hit, possibly with Dave McKellan who had been heading that when they’d dismounted.
Scott crouched behind the wrecked car as the 30mm gun swivelled on its mounting and fired toward where Sergeant O’Donnell and Corporal Byrne had been.
Scott had an opening and took it. A long burst of automatic fire from his SLR cut down the gunner and his companion.
The two machine gunners tried to fire at Scott, but the wrecked vehicle hampered their aim.
Scott pulled open the door of the car and leaned across the passenger seat. The driver’s side door was intact, but missing its window. Scott wriggled into the car and peered over the window frame. The machine gunners had stopped firing, trying to spot targets now that everyone had gone to ground behind whatever cover they could find.
Scott propped his SLR on the open car window, before propping himself up as best he could in the cramped Italian import.
“Someone give me some cover fire!” Scott shouted.
Four SLRs obliged with long bursts at the building. The nearest gunner turned his weapon toward the muzzle flashes. Scott could now see him clearly. He lined up his shot and fired.
The drug-runner died instantly. Scott had a clear view of it. The gun fell back inside the shack.
The second machine gunner opened fire, bullets pinging off the wrecked car.
Scott squirmed back out of the car, grabbing hold of the passenger seat and pulling it with him as he went.
The seat tore free of its mountings and fell from the car. Scott picked the seat up, keeping behind the car as he carried it to the back of the car.
Scott knelt his left leg on the seat, sticking his right leg out behind him. He pulled out his bayonet, stabbed the chair and cut a slit in the seat back. He tucked away the bayonet and grabbed hold of the seat at the hole.
Pushing the seat along with his right foot, he advanced around the end of the car. The machine gunner opened fire, which made Scott duck as the bullets punched through the headrest. He kept going, pushing the car seat ever closer to the shack.
Finally close enough, he abandoned the car seat and pulled out his single grenade. He pulled the pin, held the grenade for three seconds and then hurled it through the makeshift gun-slit in the building.
Scott pulled the seat over himself as he hit the ground as the grenade went off. He heard the scream of the machine-gunner.
The surviving SAS soldiers quickly moved up to the door as Scott shoved the seat off himself. Scott darted to a ready position behind the lone SAS trooper nearest him. One of the other pair unslung a shotgun from his back, fired at the top and bottom hinges and then booted the door in.
The other two SAS troops dashed in, weapons up and leading the way. The commando with the shotgun went in next and Scott followed, his SLR at the ready.
The SAS trooper with the shotgun muttered, “What the bloody ‘ell you doin’, Para?”
“Covering your ass, Trooper,” Scott replied. “I just helped you get in, you’re a man down, I figure I ought to help you out some more.”
Scott didn’t see the trooper’s smirk as he cautiously crab-walked along the narrow corridor of the shack to the back room. Scott glanced back at the room they’d crossed to the corridor. Four bodies lay on the floor, blood pooling between them. Scott turned back to the corridor. The cooked grenade had done the trick. He’d killed six people today. It was more than he’d ever known he’d killed.
Ahead, the leading SAS troopers tossed thunder-flash grenades into the back room. The concussive boom deafened Scott for a second, but the eye-searing flash had been blocked by the trooper in front of him.
There were brief bursts of gunfire and then one of the troopers called out, “Room clear!”
Scott lowered and safed his SLR as the three SAS soldiers stood in the room, looking around. He stepped forward and peered around the corner. Six more bodies littered the floor, along with four AK47s and several backpacks. A table was standing in the centre of the room, with several dozen bags of white powder on the top, along with a set of scales.
“I’m guessing they weren’t bagging flour to give to the refugees,” Scott commented.
The lead SAS trooper looked around at Scott, frowned briefly and then looked back at the powder. He bent close and took a cautious sniff.
“Cocaine, alright.” The squad leader stood up. “Nice work, lads.”
The squad leader pulled out a radio and walked back out of the room. The two troopers left grinned at one another before exchanging a high-five.
The one with the shotgun turned toward Scott. “C’mon, kid, let’s go. Job’s done and we owe you a coupla beers back at the airport.”
Scott smiled, “I don’t drink, but I’ll take a good word with whoever’s in charge of selection when I apply.”
The troopers exchanged glances. “Doesn’t drink, he says,” the one with the shotgun commented. “What kind of Para is that?”
“Beats me,” the other Trooper replied. “But considering he took out three machine guns on his own, maybe there’s something to it.”
Scott laughed at that comment.
“You can definitely have a recommendation when we see you at selection, though.” The trooper led the trio back outside. “Along with a very good word to your CO.”
Scott’s grin broadened.
The Para walked out of the building to find the rest of the Platoon gathered near the door and a Military Police truck driving up.
The MPs went inside as Lt. Reynolds ordered 12 Platoon back to the waiting lorries. Reynolds caught Scott’s arm as he walked past.
“Good work, Corporal.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ll be putting you in for a commendation; that was good work with that car-seat. What possessed you to follow the SAS team in?” the Lieutenant asked.
Scott shrugged. “I thought they needed the help. They were a man down, after all. I didn’t think about it much beyond that.”
The lieutenant nodded. “You want to see one of the shrinks when we get back? You did kill six people, so the trooper told me,” he gestured towards ‘Shotgun’.
Scott shook his head. “Don’t think so, sir. I’d rather forget it.”
Reynolds looked sad, “You never do.” He walked off, leaving Scott to consider his words.
As Scott started toward the lorry again, he saw Sergeant O’Donnell.
“Nice work, Scott,” the sergeant said. “Shame we lost Pike, McKellan and Byrne.”
Scott frowned. Byrne had been one of Scott’s best mates since the other Corporal had joined the platoon.
“What about the SAS guy?” Scott asked, looking around.
“He bought it, too,” the sergeant answered pointing toward a military ambulance, which was being loaded with the four soldiers’ bodies.
Scott shook his head. “Goddamn drug dealers.”
The sergeant nodded, “I hear you.”
Nearly two hours later, the Paras arrived back at the airport. Strangely there didn’t seem much activity in the main concourse. The Paras exchanged glances before following the sounds of several TV sets playing the same channel.
Scott found himself in one of the mess areas. A TV fixed to a wall bracket was playing CNN, the American news channel.
Scott tapped a sergeant from C Company on the shoulder. “What’s going on?”
“Signals are pirating CNN’s coverage. London’s been attacked.”
“Say that again?”
“London’s under attack,” the sergeant repeated. “From Cobra.”
“Cobra? Who the hell is Cobra?”
Before the sergeant could answer, an ident played, identifying the channel before the ad break concluded and then the news anchors appeared.
“Repeating today’s top story: London, the British capital is under siege from Cobra, the terrorist organisation which kidnapped peace activist Adele Burkhart in 1982. Cobra forces have continued to cause trouble world wide in the last four years, with efforts by both the US G.I. Joe team and the European Action Force unit to stop them. A report from a TV news crew in London has been aired on the British BBC channel, stating that Cobra forces are in control of London. It’s believed the attack began two days ago, with Cobra troops seizing the Houses of Parliament and several government offices.”
Scott frowned. The anchor was replaced by somewhat shaky footage from inside a moving vehicle showing men in blue uniforms moving through the streets, before cutting to a clip of the men in blue shooting several policemen outside a building and hurrying inside.
“Both BBC 1 and 2 and the other two British channels, ITV and Channel 4 went off air for an hour on the day the attack began. The BBC is now operating out of its Birmingham, England, studios. ITV are operating from a studio in Manchester. It’s understood that the main approaches to London have been blockaded by Cobra troops, whilst anti-aircraft guns are known to be in the city and have shot down a Royal Air Force recon plane. CNN has yet to confirm the status of Britain’s Royal Family, but a broadcast was made earlier today by the Prime Minister who was in a northern English city when the attack began.”
The anchor was replaced by a photo of the PM, while a voice over began. Clearly a radio broadcast.
Scott tuned the PM out; he didn’t particularly like the woman and hated having to listen to her. Instead, he was looking around the room at the other soldiers and the rapt attention they displayed.
Then he heard something which made him look back to the TV.
“Yes, that’s correct. Action Force has been deployed on to the streets of London and those valiant men and women are engaging Cobra’s forces.”
Scott could scarcely believe that the Prime Minister had just admitted that, on radio!
“There have been several battles between Action Force and Cobra in this crisis and Action Force have been fighting Cobra forces since the arrest and imprisonment of Baron Ironblood and the demise of the Red Shadow movement, last year.”
Scott frowned at that. Ironblood’s arrest had been trumpeted on the news and in the press, but there’d been some controversy over the unit’s continued existence, clearly it was because of the threat posed by Cobra, which hadn’t been widely admitted until now.
Scott wandered off, shaking his head. He still wanted to join Action Force, but right now, he just wished he could be back in Britain, fighting Cobra.
Two days later, Scott was waiting for his squad to arrive and join him for a petrol in Santalla City, when Private Anderson ran up.
“Hey, Corp, you heard the news? Cobra’s been kicked out of London!” Anderson informed him breathlessly.
“Fine. Great, now go round up the rest of the squad, we’re due out on patrol.”
Anderson saluted and hurried off.
Scott heard more of the news when the patrol got back to the airport, Action Force had managed to send Cobra packing after a pitched battle in Parliament Square and near Tower Bridge which had seen the St Stephen’s clock tower – often mistakenly called ‘Big Ben’ – blown up by Cobra, and some MPs who’d been held prisoner executed by the terrorists before they could be saved.
1988
22 SAS Regiment barracks, Hereford
Major Franklin walked into the firing range at the SAS barracks to hear the distinct sound of a Thompson sub-machine gun being fired in short bursts. Near the door, the range-master, a sergeant major named Farmer, was leaning on the wall reading the morning paper. Farmer straightened up at the sight of the officer.
“Morning, sir,” Farmer said, with a sloppy salute.
Franklin returned it in an equally sloppy manner. “Mornin’ Sarn’t-Major. Am I going mad or is someone firing a Tommy gun?”
Farmer smirked, “No, Major, that’s Sergeant Fry. He’s using the Chicago Typewriter.”
Franklin frowned at the use of the old-fashioned nickname for the weapon once popular with gangsters in that city.
“What the hell’s he doing using a forty-odd year old antique?” Franklin asked.
“Practicing, same as always. He’s been in here every day when he’s not training or on an exercise, using every weapon we’ve got. The Sterling, the Kalashnikov, the MAC-10, the Skorpion, the Uzi, the Galil, the MP5, the FAMAS F1, the G3 and HK33 and even the Sten and the MP40 we’ve got from the War.”
Franklin gave Farmer another frown. “Why the hell is he using all of those?”
Farmer laughed. “That’s not all. He’s tried out that new Italian SMG – the Spectre M4, the Steyr AUG, the Chinese Type 79, the M16, the Type 81 Chinese assault rifle and the CAR-15.”
Franklin stared at him in shock. “He’s only been here four months.”
Farmer nodded, “Yeah, and he’s in here at least five or six hours a day, firing at least a hundred rounds a day through a weapon. He’s proficient with all of them. He learns to shoot with them, then learns to strip and clean them, reassembles them and then moves on. He’s waiting for us to get that new SA80 the rest of the Army’s adopting to practice with that.”
“Good grief. How’s his shooting?” Franklin asked.
“Improving at a steady rate,” Farmer replied. “He was a fair shot when he got here, notwithstanding him barely getting through Selection. He’s a decent shot with the SLR, but he’s getting better with everything. He’s put fifty rounds apiece through the Dragunov, PSG1, L96 and the L42. Gets head-shots out to 750 yards.”
Franklin whistled. He suddenly noticed that during this recitation, the sergeant had stopped firing and so, turning, went down the other empty lanes until he found the man in question.
Scott was cleaning the Tommy gun when he heard Franklin approach. Scott straightened up and saluted.
“As you were, sergeant,” Franklin said. Scott relaxed and finished wiping the sub-machine gun’s parts and quickly reassembled it.
Franklin studied the sergeant for a moment. He was tall, a hair under six foot one, with a lean, not muscular frame and close cropped brown hair. It was the first time Franklin had met him, though he knew the sergeant and seven others had recently passed selection and joined the regiment.
“Anything you want, sir?” Scott asked as he carefully put the Tommy gun back in the locked cabinet where it was usually stored with the Sten and the MP40, the latter of which was a German weapon from World War Two that some long-forgotten member of the original SAS had brought back from the North African desert.
“Yes, I was sent to find you by Colonel Stamp. He’s got an operation and you’ve been picked for the team.”
Scott picked up his camouflage jacket and pulled it on, then picked up his tan-coloured SAS beret and pulled it on with a great deal more care than the jacket.
“Lead on, MacDuff,” Scott said, “It’ll be nice to go on a real op.”
Franklin nodded, “I understand you’ve been with Mobility Troop.”
“Until last month, yes, Major. I got transferred to Boat Troop. Someone seems to think I should be rotated around to learn the ropes.”
“It’s not an uncommon practice around here,” Franklin replied. “Not getting seasick?”
Scott smiled as the pair neared the door. “Not at all, sir. In fact I’d barely learnt to swim at school. Boat Troop’s the most time I’ve spent on water since 1982.”
Franklin automatically returned Farmer’s salute as he frowned, walking outside. Scott and Farmer exchanged a high-five as the junior of the NCOs passed by.
“1982? Oh, you were in the Falklands?” Franklin asked. “I’m afraid I didn’t graduate Sandhurst until it was all over.”
“Yes, I went South,” the capital ‘S’ was clear in the way Scott said ‘south’. “Goose Green and Wireless Ridge.”
“Ah, 2 Para. I was with the Royal Welch Fusiliers, I’m afraid.”
Scott smiled. “My dad was with them after he left the Paras. Had an accident not long after the War. He transferred to the Royal Welch and then trained as radio operator.”
Franklin led the way to the command room where Colonel Stamp was waiting for them. Three other NCOs were present, Scott recognised two, Wilson and Edwards. Wilson was a medically trained trooper in Boat Troop. Edwards was in the Counter-Revolutionary Warfare wing, he’d been one of the men who’d put Scott through Selection.
Once Franklin had left, Stamp got down to business. “Sorry to have to throw you four together, but what with the continued threat from Cobra and the IRA, I’m putting teams together for ops on an ad-hoc basis depending on who’s the best for a job and who’s available.”
The four men nodded in understanding.
“We’ve got two teams operating in Columbia, supporting their army in the continuing battle against their home-grown terrorists, FARC and M19, and the drug-smugglers. Unfortunately, we need an operation carried out and can’t use those two teams. Too much chance of a mole in the Columbian army. Instead, I’m sending you. You’ll be dropped in the jungle near a compound the drug-runners are using. We believe it’s got vital intel on the whereabouts of the airstrips the cartels are using. You’re to get in, get the intel and get out,” Stamp explained. “Edwards will lead the team, Wilson is your medic whilst Thompson and Fry will basically act as riflemen.”
Two days later the team was dropped by a Columbian Army helicopter three miles from their target. The team rappelled down from the hovering helicopter. Thompson took point whilst Scott brought up the rear with Wilson and Edwards in the middle, the latter carrying the team’s radio.
The four-man team made good progress through the jungle. After two hours of travelling, Edwards called a halt for a short break. Thompson took out his canteen of water and took a drink. Each of the soldiers passed the canteen around until it was empty. Scott remembered how he’d initially recoiled at sharing a drink in such a way, but in enemy territory, it was better to share a canteen and have an empty one, than four part empty ones, sloshing about in someone’s pack, to attract attention.
Edwards checked his map. “We’re about another hour out. Only a mile left to go.”
Thompson led the way as the team moved off once more. Scott walked backwards, covering their rear. He was about to turn back to face forward when he heard a loud animal’s growl and a disturbance behind him, he span around as Thompson cursed.
A Jaguar cat had leaped out of the undergrowth and attacked the point man. The big cat swiped its claws across Thompson’s chest as the soldier struggled to get the creature off himself.
Edwards charged forward and tackled the Jaguar off Thompson, only to get raked across the face by the cat. Wilson and Scott dashed forwards and dragged Thompson clear. He was bleeding heavily from wounds on his chest, face and neck. Scott left Wilson to attend to him as he dashed forward to Edwards.
Scott turned his rifle around and swung like a baseball player, slamming the butt into the Jaguar’s head, dazing it. The spotted cat turned toward him, but he slammed the rifle into the animal’s head a second time, knocking it out.
Scott dragged Edwards across to Wilson. The squad leader was bleeding badly as well. Wilson paused in his ministrations to Thompson, throwing a vial of liquid and a syringe to Scott.
“Load that syringe up. Ten mils, then inject him in the arm,” Wilson instructed. “It’s an antibiotic. No telling what germs the damn thing had on its claws.”
Scott quickly did as he was instructed, then began dressing the wounds on Edwards’ face before moving to his chest.
It took a good ten minutes for the two men to clean and dress the wounds. Wilson administered painkillers to both men.
“We’re screwed now,” Wilson said. “We’re not going to be able to finish the mission with these two unconscious.”
Scott didn’t answer. He picked up Thompson’s M16 assault rifle and put it next to his own. He then began taking magazines from the unconscious point man’s webbing and piling it up. Wilson watched as Scott then pulled out a roll of duct-tape from his pack and began tapping the magazines together in threes. Scott next took Wilson’s MP5 submachine gun from the medic’s piled up kit and put it with the two M16s.
“What are you doing?” Wilson asked as Scott handed the medic Edwards’ M16 and removed the three grenades the two downed soldiers carried.
“Planning to complete the mission,” Scott replied. “Give me your ammo.”
Wilson frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“The ammo for your Hockler,” he replied, using a regimental nickname for the German gun. “I need it.”
“No, I meant what are you talking about that you’re going to finish the mission?”
“What I said. It’s an important mission for the interdiction ops in Columbia. I am not bugging out and abandoning this operation,” Scott answered, finally grabbing hold of Wilson and removing the magazines from the medic’s webbing.
“You’re going to take that compound single-handed?” Wilson asked. “One man against sixty?”
Scott began taping the MP5 magazines together. “What’s the matter, Wilson? Never seen an action movie?”
“This isn’t Commando, and you’re not bloody Schwarzenegger!” Wilson said. “You can’t do this!”
“I know it’s not Commando.” Scott replied. “If it was, I’d be carrying an M60, an M202 rocket launcher and wearing the grenades on my vest by the pins. Which would be stupid.”
Wilson glared at him, not appreciating the flip response. Scott finished his work and slung the MP5 across his chest, put on his backpack, shouldered one of the M16s and then picked up the second M16.
“If I’m not back within three hours, call in. Tell them you need a back-up team to extract you and the wounded,” Scott said. “Oh, and keep an eye on that cat…”
With that he walked off, as Wilson checked his watch.
Half an hour later, Wilson checked his patients. Both were still unconscious. He checked the Jaguar. It seemed to have drifted from unconsciousness to sleep.
Ten minutes later, Wilson heard automatic weapons fire in the distance. He frowned, listening. Someone was firing an M16 in short bursts, whilst at least two .30 calibre guns were firing full-auto. Sporadically, he could hear what sounded like Kalashnikovs.
One of the .30 calibre guns cut off abruptly after two minutes. Seconds later, there was the sound of a small explosion. The second .30 calibre gun fell silent.
An hour after Scott had left, there were still sounds of sporadic gunfire. Mostly an M16 and what sounded like pistols and shotguns.
There were two more small explosions in quick succession half an hour after the gunfire started.
A larger explosion rocked the rapidly darkening jungle. The Jaguar flinched, but didn’t wake. The sound of the M16 was replaced by the more distinctive clatter of an MP5.
Eighty minutes after Scott had left, the gunfire had stopped.
Ten minutes later, Scott walked out of the jungle from a different direction. Wilson nearly leaped out of his skin in shock.
“Where’d you come from?” he demanded.
“A dirt road over there,” Scott replied, pointing. “Found a jeep at the compound.”
Wilson noticed he was carrying the MP5 in his hands, whilst both M16s were over his shoulders. As the sergeant put them down, Wilson noticed that both assault rifles were empty. He also noticed he had none of the nine grenades he’d left with.
“How much ammo did you come back with?” Wilson asked.
“Three rounds,” Scott replied. He was busy setting up the radio.
“Three rounds?” Wilson asked, incredulous.
“There were sixty of them and they had good cover,” Scott answered, sounding defensive. “And it was a cast-iron bitch to kill the thirty-cal nests.”
He looked over toward Edwards and Thompson. “How are they?”
“Unconscious, still,” Wilson said, stooping to check them.
“Any idea how long ‘til they wake up?”
Wilson shook his head, “No clue.”
“Great. Good thing I brought the jeep.” Scott finally activated the radio.
“Dugout this is Striker-One, request extraction from Ell-Zee Alpha. We have two wounded, mission completed successfully. Over.”
After a brief burst of static, a voice replied, “Striker-One, this is Dugout. Winger-One is en route. Estimate forty minutes to Ell-Zed. How bad are the wounded? Over.”
“Dugout, Striker, Wounded suffered multiple claw wounds from large feline. Are currently unconscious.”
“Striker, Dugout. Say again your last, over.” The radio operator at the base with the call sign ‘dugout’ sounded incredulous.
“Dugout, Striker. I repeat, two wounded suffered multiple claw wounds from large feline. We are moving out to Ell-Zee Alpha. Over and out.”
Whilst Scott was on the radio, Wilson had reloaded the MP5 with one of the magazines Scott hadn’t appropriated from him and taken a magazine from Edwards’ webbing and reloaded one of the M16s. He handed the latter to Scott as the younger man finished packing the radio.
“What do we move first? The wounded or the gear.”
“As much as we can of all of it.” Scott picked up his own backpack and put it back on, then put Edwards’ prone body over his right shoulder. He then grabbed Thompson’s backpack and slung it over his left shoulder.
Wilson picked up his own pack, slung Thompson over his shoulder and then grabbed the radio set.
They hurried through the jungle to the jeep, which Scott had parked off the dirt road.
“Why are you so keen to get extracted?” Wilson asked, breathing hard.
“Because I had to frag their radio room and I don’t know if I killed the guys inside and the set before they got a message off.” Scott reached the jeep and set Edwards in the back.
“That was what cost me four of the grenades I took,” Scott went on. “And how I got this,” he pointed to a long scratch on his left cheek.
Wilson stepped over to look at the scratch after putting Thompson in the jeep.
“Not deep. No worse than a razor cut. What was it?”
“Damn splinter from the door when I blew the radio room up.” He took his pack off and left it on the driver’s seat. “Wait here. I’ll go get the rest of the weapons.”
Scott dashed back into the trees. He returned moments later, carrying the two M16s and the two wounded men’s webbing gear. Wilson took one of the M16s and held it on his lap, his MP5 tucked next to his seat.
Scott took the driver’s seat after moving his pack and quickly had the jeep moving.
“What was the big explosion?” Wilson asked. “I thought it was going to wake the Jaguar up.”
Scott shrugged as he slid the jeep into the turn to take the junction leading toward the LZ. “Fuel tank. I threw a grenade at four guys, one tried to throw it back and completely screwed up and hit the tank.”
As the jeep slid to a halt next to the field that was landing zone Alpha, the Colombian Army helicopter that was extracting the team dropped from the cloudy sky. The two SAS commandos quickly grabbed their comrades and the gear and ran toward the helicopter as it touched down in the muddy field.
Moments later, the helicopter was airborne and heading for the Colombian Army base where the SAS were operating from.