Читать книгу Serpent Sting - Toni Grant - Страница 9

CHAPTER 2

The two vehicles travelled the specified route Echo, protected and supported at each end by an armed response protection team. Through the earpiece, a team member announced a warning. Sinclair listened intently. The radio conversation centred on a native man riding a motorbike. He was travelling parallel to the Australian convoy, at distance, and appeared to have an Icom radio hanging over his shoulder.

Sinclair watched closely through the window as the convoy stopped at an intersection. The suspect motorbike rider continued towards the township.

“What’s happening?” the cameraman asked nervously.

“Suspect intersection,” a Dutch doctor responded.

A small number of soldiers carefully dismounted, conducting their five metre drills. They moved out twenty-five metres, looking for small disturbances in the soil and roadside structure. At the same time, they visually scanned positions surrounding the convoy for hidden threats. Within the confined space of the Bushmaster, Gunner Mason assumed his position and through his magnifier site overlooked the front of the vehicles. Metal detectors were deployed. This intersection had improvised explosive device history. A suspect traveller and gut feeling prompted cautious behaviour.

Sinclair strained, listening for the sounds that could literally mean life or death. Through binoculars, he scanned the abandoned buildings and shifting grasses of the small farm beside them. A number of local villagers stopped to watch the convoy and the soldiers.

With multiple hiding places and little room for manoeuvring, it was the scene of a botched ambush only last month. Sinclair knew the reconnaissance groups were in position. He knew they’d already have secured the area with the help of their dog. Yet, something was gnawing at him—a gut feeling he couldn’t ignore.

It was too quiet. And too still. Sinclair didn’t like it. As the local people began to disperse, his gut churned. In his experience, this was a sure sign of attack. He glanced towards the porthole at the top of the vehicle and then the door, fighting the urge to dismount and join the others in the clearance patrol.

After a tense wait, the convoy was cleared to proceed.

The first Bushmaster rolled forward. A cracking blast shattered the silence. The truck took the brunt under the front wheel and the V-shaped hull, damaging the tyre on the rim. It flipped, almost to the side, and landed heavily on all four wheels in a small ditch beside the road. Later reports would show the hastily prepared device had only partially exploded. The occupants were lucky.

A brief moment of stunned silence shattered as unmistakable rapid machine gun fire bounced around the armoured sides. From inside the truck, the noise was a deafening ting ting as bullets rained on the PMV. Gunner Mason retaliated. From the mount atop the vehicle, hot spent shell casings smashed onto the interior floor and occupants.

Sinclair sprang into action. Scanning the windscreen towards the disabled vehicle, he devised a quick plan. Beside him the disembarked patrol scrambled and mounted a counter attack.

Another ambush. This blast was meant to hold them there. The soldiers peeled out of the first PMV vehicle, taking dominating positions and securing the civilians, while under heavy fire.

Unbelievably the motorbike rider returned to take a look. Realising his mistake, he gathered speed heading towards a small clump of trees not far from them. Sinclair watched him drop in the dust as he took a bullet. The motorbike continued on for a few meters before falling to the ground on its side.

Sinclair radioed the disabled vehicle. “This is Captain McCrae. Sergeant, are there any injuries?”

“Only the driver. His foot is trapped.”

“Copy. Stay in the vehicle. Stand by for instruction.”

“Copy that.”

Sinclair knew they were wasting precious time playing sitting ducks for a well-placed rocket-propelled grenade. He radioed the field commander.

Inside the second PMV, the cameraman started working, setting the small camera to record. Through the wide front window, directly behind Sinclair’s massive shoulders, he had a direct view, and with the sound switched on, the journalist recorded the vision and conversation between Sinclair and the soldier in the first truck.

“Get me up closer to that vehicle, Private. As close as you can … follow those wheel tracks,” Sinclair ordered his driver. “I’m bringing everyone across.”

He turned his attention to the two Dutch doctors behind him and said, “Lose those supplies. We’re making way for the civilian passengers.”

The vehicle lurched into action, edging closer to the stranded vehicle.

“Cover me,” he commanded Gunner Mason. “Now,” he yelled to no one in particular and dashed to the open door of the stranded vehicle and leapt inside.

“I’m moving you to the other vehicle. One at a time,” Sinclair said before turning to the journalist he’d met earlier in the café. “You stand here and ready the next person. Be ready to move on my command. Got it?”

The girl nodded and quickly took her position near the door. Nervously she pushed the hair from her eyes.

“No room for extras. Leave your things in the van. Understood?”

Fearful faces nodded in unison.

“Sir, what about the driver? He’s injured,” the journalist said, turning to the driver who was fading in and out of consciousness.

“Let me worry about that,” Sinclair replied. “Ready?”

The girl pushed the first person towards the soldier.

“Good.”

Sinclair signalled Sergeant Fergus who immediately engaged. One by one, the soldier escorted the passengers to the waiting vehicle under heavy return fire. They crammed into the small space. At last he reached the driver. The foot was badly mangled. The injury gouged in above the ankle.

Searching the vehicle for some kind of lever, he remembered a length of metal pipe had been packed in with the supplies. It was meant to replace a leaking water pipe in the hospital sterilization area. Sinclair scrambled to the rear of the vehicle to see the pipe lying isolated and open in the dust.

Quickly lunging for the tool, he reeled at the stinging burn as a stray bullet grazed his thigh. “Bastard,” he swore under his breath, stumbling back into the PMV. He stopped momentarily to check the wound. Ignoring the pain, he spoke to the kid, “Are you still with me Private?”

The weakened response spurred him into action.

“Reckon you can lift your leg with your arms, from below the thigh, when I say?”

The kid nodded listlessly.

Sinclair reached down and levered the metal casing surrounding the injured limb, groaning in effort. The boy screamed in pain. In his earpiece, he heard the field commander’s urgent command: “Evacuate. Stand by for air support.”

“Now, Private. Do it,” Sinclair’s gruff instructions pierced though the noise reverberating around the PMV’s interior.

With a fearsome cry, his leg was wrenched free. The young soldier promptly lost consciousness. Dragging the body from under the shoulders, Sinclair backed his way through the truck. A trail of blood weaved along the centre as the bloodied stump dangled from the torn ankle. Sinclair glanced at the young soldier’s boot eerily resting against the accelerator and ignored it.

Stopping momentarily in the doorway, he signalled a Specialist Service Officer positioned nearby. The soldier opened protective fire. Throwing the body over his shoulder, Sinclair stumbled under the dead weight and his burning leg to the waiting ambulance.

From an open doorway, two sets of arms grabbed at the boy pulling him roughly into the van. Stumbling as the weight transfer momentarily threw his balance, Sinclair fell heavily against the vehicle. It began to move forward.

Aircraft support screamed overhead. With the noise of battle still ringing in their ears, a terrified silence filled the vehicle interior.