Aggressor (23 page)

Charlie’s head was level with my right shoulder. ‘Fuck it, let’s just keep going; take our chances. There’s fuck all else we can do.’

We began to parallel the camp’s front fence. Men in uniform swarmed around in confusion alongside never-ending lines of tents and vehicles. By the look of it, they were getting stood to.

There was now a major flap on at the main gate. I slowed as armed men spilled out on the road. Were they throwing up a roadblock?

The radio blared at us again. ‘Duty vehicle, status report. Over.’

I kept my eyes on the uniforms up ahead. They’d obviously dressed in a bit of a hurry; some had combat jackets that weren’t done up, some didn’t have helmets. But they all had AKs. Run one of them over and they’d open up big-time.

‘I’m not going to stop. I’m just going to keep going, but real slow. You up for it?’

I looked back at Charlie in the rear-view.

He winked. ‘So which one are you, Butch or Sundance?’

7

We were level with the main gate and the speedo flickered near twenty. Nobody on the road seemed to know what to do. They were all mouthing the Russian for ‘What the fuck’s a British 110 doing up here?’ Thankfully they all still had their AKs slung rather than in the shoulder.

Charlie started to wave. ‘How’s it going, lads?’

They stared back, then some of the younger ones smiled and returned the wave. NCOs started shouting angrily, trying to get something organized.

We trundled past, Prince Charlie in the back still doing his greet-the-people bit. Still nobody challenged us.

The radio barked. ‘Duty vehicle, turn around, turn around. Do not stop; do not take any action that is deemed aggressive. If apprehended, comply with their orders.’

‘Shut up, you twat,’ Charlie said, smiling broadly at his new subjects.

I flicked the radio off.

Moments later, we were clear of the confusion. I was braced for shots, but none came. We were going gently downhill, no longer in view from the American camp.

The fence line stopped. Charlie turned and looked back. ‘Still no follow-up. Let’s keep going. Get that foot down, lad.’

Absolutely no argument with him on that one.

For maybe thirty minutes we saw no junctions, no options, no VCPs, just lots of undulating green to our front, a forest to our left, and a valley to our right. The engine was gunning and we were up to 90 Ks an hour in some places where the road surface allowed it.

The duty driver must have reached the VCP by now. But so what? We were well out of the area. There’d be a Welcome to Tbilisi VCP waiting over the horizon somewhere on the road, just itching for the chance to stop us any way it could, but we’d cross that bridge when we came to it. For now, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself.

Then I heard something all too familiar, and my heart sank.

I looked at Charlie and could tell from his expression that I was right.

He wound down his window.

The noise was louder and unmistakable.

The steady throb of heavy rotor blades cutting the air.

They had a pipeline to protect: of course they would have a QRF [quick reaction force] on standby. I just wished they hadn’t taken the quick bit so much to heart.

Charlie bounced around in the back to try to pinpoint where it was coming from. I leaned forward over the wheel, straining my eyes up into a still-empty sky.

The steady beat seemed to come up level with us, and then the Huey broke out of the dead ground to our right, no more than a couple of metres away.

For the two seconds it was overhead, the 110 almost stood still under the pressure from its downwash. I could see the pilot quite easily. Both the side doors were pulled back, and the space between them was heaving with dark green BDUs and the odd two or three in US Marine spotty-camouflage.

They waved urgently, pointed weapons, gestured at us to stop.

Bollocks. They’d have to land on top of me before that happened.

I kept my foot down.

The Huey flared away and disappeared into dead ground ahead. Moments later, another set of rotors started beating the air behind us.

Charlie leaned over the back seat. ‘Here it comes. Shit, it’s low!’

Huey Two passed directly over us, just feet away, following the road. I could see the soles of combat boots resting on the skids and AK barrels sticking out of the open doors.

The 110 shook violently. Maybe they really were going to try to land on top of us.

Charlie scanned the sky. ‘Where’s the first one gone?’

‘Fuck knows, but I think this one fancies us. Look.’

It had scooted about 200 metres ahead, and flared up as it turned back round to face us. The heli’s skids bounced onto the road and troops started jumping into the haze of its exhaust fumes.

From our right, and closing in, I heard the slap of another set of rotors. Huey One passed more or less level with the 110 as it moved to take up station behind us. It was going to drop its troops to cut us off.

Fuck this. I yanked the wagon hard left, over the rough ground towards the treeline. There weren’t enough of them to find us in there.

Huey One immediately turned back towards us and swooped like a kestrel onto a field mouse, settling at a hover just feet above us. A spotty uniform leaned out, feet on the skid, one hand gripping the door frame. He fixed me with a stare and shook his head slowly, then moved the index finger of the other slowly across his throat.

‘Fuck him, don’t stop, lad. Nearly there.’

We had maybe 300 to go. My head bounced off the roof as the wagon took on the terrain. It shook, rattled and tipped from side to side, but still kept going.

The heli moved ahead and landed. More troops fanned out and took up fire positions between us and the treeline.

I swung the wheel half right. Safety was just 200 away now.

Huey Two had picked up its men from the road and was back in the game, coming at us from the right.

‘He’s coming real low, lad . . .’

Charlie kept up a running commentary while I concentrated on the driving. It was still in two-wheel; I wasn’t going to stop the momentum to get it in four.

‘They got caltrops!’

I kept my foot hard to the floor, leaning over the wheel, urging the 110 closer to the cover of the trees. The rear of the wagon went momentarily airborne and the back wheels spun with a high-pitched whine, like a propeller out of water. We had to beat the caltrops.

Huey Two had come in above us. Its down-wash pummelled the wagon from side to side. It moved just ahead. A spotty uniform was perched on the skid; a ten-metre strip, peppered with three-pronged spikes, swayed from his hand towards the ground.

I swerved right again, paralleling the treeline. Just over a hundred to go.

Charlie pulled the tape and papers from the computer bag, ready to run. ‘The other heli’s up! Here any second. Get that fucking foot down.’

The caltrops were only metres ahead, coming in left to right.

‘Stand by . . . stand by . . . they got us!’

The caltrops fell and the tyres hit almost immediately.

8

The steering wheel vibrated violently in my hands for several seconds then the wagon simply came to a halt. Tyres deflated, the wheel rims had just ploughed into the mud.

Both helis were on us. BDUs jumped out metres away, weapons up. The guys would be pumped. Some looked nervous, some like they just wanted to chalk up a kill.

I raised my hands very slowly and obviously and placed them on the dash, where they could be seen.

A black guy in spotty-camouflage, two bars on his lapel, shouted from the front of the wagon, over the roar of the helis. ‘Get out of the vehicle! Get out of the vehicle!’

We didn’t fuck around.

Baby Georgians swarmed round and kicked us to the ground. Hands searched us. Pockets were pulled out, jackets ripped open.

One of the Hueys took off again and hovered above the 110 as I got turned over onto my back and searched some more. A winch cable descended from its belly, at the end of which hung a set of wide nylon straps.

The downwash was heavy with the stench of aviation fuel. My face was splattered by earth, grit, and rainwater from the grass.

Thanks to the caltrops, the wagon wasn’t going anywhere without help, even if the BDUs had wanted to risk another international incident with the Russians. The Georgian boys were all over it like a rash, rigging the webbing straps. This beat the shit out of another day in the classroom.

AKs bore down on us and the black guy loomed back into my line of sight. He carried out yet another search, oblivious to the buffeting of the downwash.

‘The driver’s OK! We dropped him a few Ks from camp. He’s fine.’ I took a deep breath so I could make myself heard over the two sets of rotors. ‘We didn’t touch him, he’s OK!’

People can get very dangerous if they think one of their own has been hurt.

My hands were grabbed. The cuffs had solid steel spacers instead of chains. You can’t flex your wrists in them. They were closed far too tight, but I wasn’t complaining. I just looked down, clenched my teeth, kept my muscles taut, ready for another kicking.

The captain grabbed hold of the spacer and gave it a tug. I was totally under his control. He jumped the caltrops, and started running towards the second Huey. It was just too painful to do anything but follow as best I could.

I looked behind me and saw Charlie quick-timing to keep up with his escort.

The captain jumped aboard first. He hauled me up and shoved me into one of the red nylon webbing seats that ran down the centre of the cabin, facing the doors. Charlie’s man did exactly the same from the other side.

The Georgians leaped on board behind us, and the heli lifted. I got a great view of the other Huey, hovering above the 110. It was just about rigged up and ready to go.

The troops it had ferried in would have to stay behind; I guessed they’d come back for them after dropping us off.

As we crossed the main drag, a line of overexcited locals peered up at us from the windows of a rusty old coach loaded with suitcases, shopping bags, chickens in cages, all sorts, on the roof rack. I guessed theirs would be the last happy faces I’d be seeing for a while.

We flew over the bus, giving the Russian camp a wide berth to the left. The captain had pulled on a set of headphones and talked fast into the boom mike. The noise of the engine and the rush of the wind made it impossible to hear what he was saying, but I knew it had to be about us.

The inside of the Huey hadn’t had anything done to it since it left Mr Bell’s factory in the 1980s. The walls were still lined with faded silver padded material, and the floor’s non-slip, gritty paint had worn away before some of these squaddies were even getting the hang of their first water pistols.

We hugged the side of the valley, using it as cover from the Russians who’d be up there, somewhere, radioing a progress report to Moscow.

We flew low and fast, trees, animals and buildings zooming past in a blur.

We tilted left and right, following the contours. Wind blasted the interior as we took a particularly sharp right-hander. I gripped my seat between my legs to stop myself being tipped into the trees.

We levelled out then surged over the ridge and Camp Vasiani spread out ahead of us.

The fieldcraft training was still in full swing, but I now knew it was just for show. The real Partnership for Peace programme was being played out here in the Huey. Guys like the US Marine in the seat beside me would stay in charge, while the Georgian boys would do the housework and smile for the cameras.

We hovered over the concrete pan and came in to land. Exhaust fumes and downwash gusted into my face.

No sooner were the skids on the ground than we were manhandled in the direction of a waiting 110.

In the distance, the other Huey appeared over the ridgeline, the Land Rover dangling from its belly.

Down here, confusion reigned. The Georgians bundled us into the back of the 110. One of their mates was driving, and the others formed an armed escort. Four outriders sat astride dull-green quad bikes. The marine in charge wore body armour, helmet and wraparounds, and had an M16 slung across his back. The bar on his lapels and the top of his helmet marked him out as a lieutenant.

We were bounced around the camp perimeter and eventually arrived at the Portakabin complex. I didn’t bother coming up with any scenarios. I’d have no influence on events, so I was going to take things as they came. I just had to accept I was deeply in the shit: if they didn’t know it already, they wouldn’t take long to realize that they had a local TV and newspaper star on their hands. And once they did, well, every minute I wasn’t banged up in a Georgian police cell with a crew cut and thumbscrews was a bonus.

We turned into an open square lined by groups of the cream-coloured, aluminium Portakabin modules. The 110 stopped, and the quad bikes pulled up around us.

The lieutenant dismounted and shouted a series of orders.

Three US Marines stood to on our right, in body armour and Kevlar helmets, weapons in the shoulder. Their message was clear. ‘Hands up! Show me your hands! Hands in the air!’

I spotted the air-conditioning units on the roofs of the modules. I had a feeling we’d be needing them.

PART EIGHT

1

The one-bar ran around barking orders into the open door of one of the Portakabins and the marines moved forward. We did exactly as we were told; we each had a muzzle in our face.

We waited for instructions; the trick is to show no sign of fear, or any other emotion that might spark people off. Be neutral; do what you’re told, when you’re told.

‘
You!
You with the dark hair,’ the marine closest to me shouted. ‘Get out of the vehicle, and get out real slow. The old one, stay where you are.’

I stifled a grin. Charlie wasn’t going to like that one bit.

More marines tumbled out of the Portakabins into the square, clad in body armour and Kevlar helmets but not carrying weapons. I had the feeling we were about to meet the reception committee.