Defender: Intrepid 1 Page 10

  “Listen, Turner. You’ve had months to prepare for this. You all knew this coup would happen; it was just a matter of when.” Morgan grabbed the man’s collar, pulling him close until their faces were just inches apart. “Everybody and everything that wasn’t nailed down has been salvaged or taken back to Cullentown. There’s nothing left here now except you, and those people out there waiting for you. We’re out of time. See for yourself!” Morgan spun Turner and forced him to look out of the window.

  “Fine! I’ll finish deleting what I have to and then we’ll go,” he spat, shaking, avoiding Morgan’s eyes. “But rest assured, Major Morgan, I will be making a formal complaint via the appropriate channels in the Foreign Office the moment I return to London. You’re a thug. I will see to it—”

  A deafening explosion shook the building, wrenching a gaping hole through the concrete and metal at the far end. Sparks spewed from walls torn open by the blast, and instantly, long arms of wild cabling punched out into the open. Shattered office furniture and huge chunks of wall and roof flew in every direction. Morgan and Turner were hurled to the ground by the blast, showered by shards of glass and debris as they fell, narrowly escaping the path of a filing cabinet as it sailed over them, crashing hard into the wall behind their heads.

  “Jesus Christ!” Turner shrieked, petrified. “What’s happening?”

  “Mortars!” Morgan yelled. “There’ll already be more in the air.” He was on his feet. “Right, move or I’ll leave you here.”

  “But—” Turner howled, cowering on the floor, an angry gash spilling blood across his brow and into his eyes, “they can’t get their hands on this—”

  The Puma was turning and burning outside, waiting for them. Morgan pounced at Turner and launched him through the door.

  “I’ll take care of your bloody computer. You get on that chopper now!”

  He watched as Turner stumbled and fell repeatedly, fumbling to retrieve his round tortoiseshell glasses from the floor before hurtling headlong for the doorway, unleashing a torrent of obscenities back at Morgan as he retreated. Turner clutched at the carry strap of the laptop case, dragging it behind him like a kite that wouldn’t fly. Morgan turned to the PC; somehow he knew that he would regret destroying it. Destroying what? Turner’s secrets? Evidence? But there just wasn’t time to check. At least there was still the laptop. Raising the barrel of his AKM he emptied a burst directly into the computer, disintegrating it instantly.

  Crump! Crump! Crump!

  One explosion, then another, and another, scored direct hits on the building and vehicle compound, sending more debris and a volley of white-hot shrapnel straight for Morgan. The former paratrooper dropped and rolled under the remains of Turner’s abandoned oak desk. Waves of glass, debris and furniture hurtled about the wreckage of the room, missing him as he sheltered on the floor. The explosions ignited fires, and in seconds the flames engulfed the vehicles outside and most of the ruined headquarters. Fuel tanks on the abandoned trucks and four-wheel drives erupted, catapulting the vehicles high into the air before gravity threw them back down into crumpled heaps against the building and across the endless expanse of red dirt that surrounded the complex.

  Thick black smoke enveloped Morgan. He began to choke and cough, flames licking at every inch that surrounded his shelter. The wind howled through the gaping end of the building, fueling the flames and urging the toxic smoke on to cut off his only path of escape. Morgan made a dash for the door as a mass of live electrical cabling whipped savagely about him in sporadic, frenzied surges, spitting deadly bolts of electricity in every direction. He was forced back behind cover.

  Morgan was nauseous, his eyes raw with the stinging effects of the toxic smoke, and his throat as dry as sand. “Jesus!” he gasped, pulling the folds of his shirt collar up around his mouth and nose, struggling to breathe. Morgan knew that he wouldn’t survive if he remained under the desk. He’d become trapped, killed by the fire, smoke or the next barrage of incoming mortars. Worse still, he could end up embroiled in a gun battle with the advancing troops, holding out for only as long as his few magazines of ammunition would allow, before being butchered – not a scenario that he found particularly appealing. He remembered the dry comments of an old sergeant major who’d trained him as a young officer: There’s always someone worse off than you, Mister Morgan.

  “Where?” Morgan asked under his breath.

  Thankfully, in a bizarre turn of luck, another wave of mortars finally marked the end of the power supply, and the demonic cabling retracted, falling uselessly to the floor. Seizing the moment, Morgan was on his feet, sprinting through the smoke and fire to the only safe exit, straight for the helicopter.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Alex!” Steve Kruger, at the controls of the Puma, was struggling to maintain a safe hover as shockwaves from the explosions buffeted the chopper. Clumps of concrete, vehicle wreckage and shrapnel peppered the air and Kruger had been forced to pull away from the helipad many times to avoid the debris, while he and the others waited for Turner and Morgan.

  Kruger knew Turner had been the problem. Everybody did. He was a notorious pain in the ass, and had been since taking over the site nine months ago. But he was one of the new big names in the firm, and leaving him behind wasn’t an option. They’d all seen Morgan go back for him. But now that Turner was finally aboard, Kruger couldn’t leave Morgan behind. He knew the others felt the same way, although the stress was starting to take its toll. Some evacuees were already screaming hysterically. Soon they’d demand that Kruger lift off and take them to safety, whether Morgan was aboard or not. After all, Morgan knew the risks. That was his job. Better to lose one than lose them all.

  Then Morgan appeared. With black smoke billowing from the doorway and the walls collapsing around him, he rushed from the flaming building and fell heavily to the ground, clutching his rifle, retching.

  “Oh my God!” cried Ari as she saw Morgan fall and the building reduced to rubble behind him.

  “Sewa!” cried Kruger to the security guard closest to the open rear door. “Get out there, man. Get him on board!”

  Sewa dropped from the cargo hold without hesitation and ran the 150 feet to where Morgan lay. Ari found herself trying to clamber from the cargo hold over the top of the others, struggling to get out and follow Sewa to Morgan. She had no idea what she could do or even why she felt compelled to help. She just knew they couldn’t leave Morgan out there. She stepped from the chopper, her foot almost back upon the red dust.

  “No, Ari!” Kruger yelled from the cockpit. “I need you onboard, not out there. Please.”

  Ari stared back at Kruger through wide eyes, stress etched across her face. Her knuckles were white as she clutched at the doorframe. She looked out to Morgan and then back to Kruger, fighting her instinct to leap out. Kruger shook his head at her. She turned, braced by the door, and watched as Sewa finally reached the motionless figure on the ground. He took hold of Morgan under the shoulders, heaving him to his feet.

  “Major Alex! It’s me, sir,” Sewa yelled over the bedlam. Morgan slowly came back to life. “Quick, we got to get back to the chopper.”

  Still dazed, recognition slowly came back to Morgan. He cast a familiar eye over Sewa’s sweat-streaked features. The irrepressible smile, even in the middle of a mortar attack, was unmistakable.

  “Sewa,” coughed Morgan, sucking in deep lungs full of hot air. “I’m OK, mate. I’m OK. Let’s go.” Then, they were running, the big African moving fast, dragging Morgan along with ease.

  A wall of mortars fell upon them. The shriek of descending death was deafening, raining down upon the building Morgan had left behind seconds before. It was pulverised. As the blast wave reached them, both men were punched to the ground.

  Morgan knew that the thick mushroom cloud of toxic smoke pouring from the wreckage of the headquarters would at least obscure a clear line of sight from the rebels to the chopper. But their aim was deadly, and when Morgan saw how close the mortars wer
e falling to the diesel and LPG tanks nearby, he knew he couldn’t afford to waste any time. If the tanks blew, the blast would incinerate everything within 200 yards, including the Puma and everybody onboard.

  Kruger was fighting at the chopper’s controls. An assault of orange flame and shrapnel forced him into evasive action – again. He pulled the Puma back in a dramatic pitch to the east, not realizing in the confusion of smoke and fire how perilously close he’d brought them to the fuel farm. On the run, Morgan saw it all. He waved frantically at Kruger to pull away to the north, in the direction of the water tanks, as far from the fuel farm and the advancing rebel mortar barrage as possible.

  “Get out of there, Steve! Get out of there!” Morgan yelled.

  Ari was forced to her knees by the sudden change in direction, and braced herself against the back of the cockpit. Most of the others were screaming.

  “Stay calm, everyone,” she cried. “Hold on. Steve will get us out of this!” At least she hoped he would, although, unable to see Morgan at all now, she was suddenly racked with guilt. How could she even think about getting away?

  Back at the controls, Kruger searched desperately for a way out, and found it in a clear corridor that appeared for a second through the dense, pitch-black smoke. The Puma’s engines screamed. The tail rotor spun wildly against the security fence enclosure of the fuel farm, sending great showers of sparks for hundreds of yards across the compound and storage tanks. At any moment, the sparks would ignite the fumes. Kruger thrust forward hard on the cyclic stick, dropping the nose and raising the tail, instantly propelling the endangered aircraft straight ahead. Frantically, he pumped the tail rotor pedals to spin the aircraft’s tail to starboard, simultaneously advancing the power levers to the stop, and manipulating the collective to increase power and lift. In a nanosecond he had the aircraft clear of the fuel storage enclosure and was racing forward in a direct line for the water tanks, his heart kicking wildly in his chest.

  Morgan and Sewa were running for their lives when the first bursts of small arms fire from the rebels broke through from beyond the burning building and strafed the ground at their feet.

  “They’re on top of us, Sewa,” Morgan yelled. “Get yourself onboard. I’ll try and keep the bastards back. Go! Go!”

  “Sir!” Sewa called breathlessly, without looking back, propelling his long body as rapidly as possible away from the danger. “Come on, sir!” he yelled.

  Morgan dropped behind the cover of a burning vehicle hulk, laying down rapid bursts of fire with the AK at the approaching rebels. It was difficult to see them through the confusion of smoke and dust, but Morgan saw two take direct hits, killing them instantly and slowing the advance of the others. They were too used to fighting the poorly trained conscripts of the Malfajiri army, he thought. As soon as heavy, accurate fire was thrown back at them, they panicked and scattered. With a succession of lethal bursts, Morgan held them back, firing magazine after magazine, covering Sewa as he ran. Then, reloading with a fresh thirty-round clip, he was on his feet again, hot on Sewa’s heels, leaping over the trail of destruction that littered his route all the way back to the hovering chopper.

  Kruger found a depression in the ground, a concealed spot by the water tanks, to set down. Through the chaos, he could just see Sewa and Morgan racing toward him. Twenty more feet, he willed them on. They would be onboard in seconds.

  “If they don’t make it this time, then leave them,” a trembling voice cried out.

  All heads immediately turned. It was Turner, calling from the press of terrified evacuees.

  “You’ve got a nerve!” Ari yelled, her contempt shared by all. “If it wasn’t for you, we would have been out of here long ago, and Alex and Sewa wouldn’t be stuck out there.”

  John Stanley, senior foreman and an ex-Guardsman who had served in Cyprus, Northern Ireland and the Falklands before getting into the mining game, possibly the biggest man on the site, reached through the tangle of huddled bodies from the back corner of the cargo hold and grabbed what he could of Turner’s shirt collar. “Say another word and you’ll be out there, you pompous twat! If we leave anybody behind, it’ll be you.”

  Turner folded himself as far back into the cargo hold, and as far away from Stanley, as he could, clutching his laptop to his breast. His eyes darted from face to face, searching for support. There was none.

  Morgan caught up with Sewa. They were running neck and neck. The open cargo door beckoned them.

  “We’re there, sir! We’re there!”

  Ten feet to go.

  Five.

  Morgan and Sewa were rocketing forward.

  Three feet.

  As they reached for the door, welcoming arms were stretched to pull them inside to safety. A smile broke out across Sewa’s exhausted face. He reached out for John Stanley’s huge paw.

  A hail of machine-gun fire erupted from the rebels. Rounds saturated the air in squadrons. It was all too close. Sewa fell, and Morgan went down with him.

  CHAPTER 23

  Kruger could see the rebels closing fast upon the burning carcass of the buildings, firing wildly on the run. There definitely looked to be a company’s worth, one hundred or so men, maybe more, all heavily armed and headed straight for the helicopter. Already on borrowed time, Kruger knew if he waited another second, he would almost certainly be killed and with him dead at the controls, the others would be slaughtered.

  “I’m shot, sir! My leg. Help me!”

  Sewa was in a heap on the red sand, clutching at his leg, the agony contorting his face. His hands were covered in blood, his dark eyes wide with fear and pain.

  “I’ve got you, mate,” Morgan said. He dropped to his knees in a slide, reaching for the young African, slinging him across his back. Sewa screamed. With one awkward heave, Morgan hoisted him up. Sewa sank heavily onto Morgan’s shoulders, a dead weight.

  Morgan chanced a look back toward the rebels. They were everywhere, their rounds biting into the dirt at his feet. The distinctive crack of high-velocity ammunition pierced the air inches from his face. Morgan expected that at any second he would feel the unmistakable thump and burn of a bullet. A quick death was preferred, but unlikely, especially if he was still alive when the rebels reached him.

  In the midst of the firefight, Morgan looked across and caught Kruger’s gaze from the cockpit of the chopper, hovering above the tarmac. He knew Kruger had to lift off, but Morgan’s gaze implored the pilot to wait for just a few more seconds. Kruger’s recognition was a mere flicker. Then, through all the confusion, Morgan’s eyes somehow found Ari, her stoic silence willing him to jump on board, even though she knew he could not leave Sewa behind.

  Morgan ran for the chopper. As Kruger bounced the Puma down just inches from him, Morgan made the few remaining steps, then threw the AKM into the cargo hold. Inside, Stanley caught the weapon and immediately returned fire as best he could to cover Morgan and Sewa. Sewa was in a bad way. One booted foot flopped uselessly beneath him and Morgan could see that he was leaving a thick trail of blood in their wake. His shin was bent at a repulsive angle, shattered by the gunshot.

  “Ari!” Morgan bellowed from beyond the unstable platform of the cargo hold floor. “He’s yours. Get ready.”

  Sewa howled in agony with every movement. Kruger was attempting to lift off.

  There would only be one chance.

  With a backbreaking heave, Morgan launched Sewa into the Puma, just managing to wedge the young guard’s chest and arms over the lip of the rising floor. Ari, Stanley and two other men grabbed Sewa, dragging him inside. Even above the howl of the engines, his screams were deafening. Blood gushed from his shredded leg and spilled over Ari, the floor and the other evacuees.

  The Puma was rising, its floor already level with Morgan’s head. He turned to see the rebels advancing rapidly. They’d be on him in seconds. He reached out, grabbing at the hands of the other men. Ari’s eyes were filled with anguish. Morgan’s face, only a few feet from hers, was etched with p
ain and exhaustion. She grappled for him, trying to reach his hands; but it was hopeless.

  “Alex!”

  Another deluge of machine-gun fire blazed across the concrete tarmac surrounding the water tanks, ricochets biting hungrily into the exposed flanks of the helicopter, narrowly missing Morgan and the passengers. In the cargo hold they all screamed as bullets seemingly sliced the air about their heads, the added horror of Sewa’s mangled leg forcing home the reality of their plight. Now they were yelling at the pilot to take off.

  Kruger had no choice.

  He dropped the nose, powering forward, away from the danger, away from Morgan, yet still low enough on the move to give Morgan every possible chance to grapple his way to safety, before Kruger would be forced to arc skyward and abandon him. Morgan ran, sprinting for all he was worth, chasing his last hope across the tarmac while the rebels continued their wild shooting spree.

  “He’s not going to make it,” Turner snapped, screaming. “For God’s sake, leave him. Get us out of here!”

  John Stanley lunged forward unexpectedly. Struggling over the others, he grasped any available handholds until he was literally hanging out of the door, reaching for Morgan. “Come on, son,” Stanley roared, his big voice easily finding its way to Morgan through the noise. “Jump! Jump!”

  “Jump, Alex!” Ari cried.

  The chopper was moving fast across the open ground. Kruger was a heartbeat from liftoff.