Stratton headed up the track from the log cabins, passing the stables on his way to the training area. He felt a little stiff in places after his fall from the horse and he had a few painful bruises on his arms. He put it all behind him by working out his schedule in his mind. He estimated that he could be on the road by around late afternoon, which would give him a couple of hours of daylight to get some distance from the camp. With luck he would make the border on the morning of the second day. He could pretty much imagine the rest of the trip, in particular the last stretch: the train journey from Waterloo Station to Poole and then a pint in the Blue Boar with some of the lads, if any of them were in town. He was looking forward to sleeping in his own bed in his own house, and to making dinner in his own kitchen and watching a good movie and enjoying a glass of good wine. It seemed like a million miles from where he was at that moment but in three or four days he would be there. Just the thought of it made him feel better.
A group of men were waiting for him as he headed down from the top of the rise near the corral. They sat around enjoying the sun and chatting lightheartedly.
When the men saw Stratton approach they got to their feet. The young teacher, David, was one of them; the others Stratton recognised from the supply pick-up - particularly the two who had nicked the rockets for the ambush.
Stratton nodded to David and greeted the others.They seemed unsure how to treat the mercenary, as he was known around the camp: the man who was not one of them and who held no rank. But it was obvious to all of them that Stratton was an experienced soldier, and no ordinary one at that if the parachute drop was anything to go by, a feat beyond any of them. There was also the way he conducted himself generally, the ease with which he adapted and how he carried himself and his weapons. They didn’t know much about him but enough to believe anything he had to say about soldiering.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked the one who had fired the rocket the previous day.
‘Miguel,’ the man replied somewhat sheepishly.
‘How’re your burns?’ Stratton asked.
‘Okay,’ Miguel said, ruefully indicating the bulge of the bandaging under his trousers to the amusement of the others.
Stratton looked at the other man who had tried to fire a rocket.
‘Umberto,’ the man said, with a grin.
‘Would you like to learn how to fire a rocket correctly?’
‘Is there something else I can learn?’ he asked. ‘I don’t like those things.’
The men laughed again.
The next man in line was powerfully built with a more sombre demeanour than the others. ‘Carlos,’ he said.
Stratton nodded and looked at the next.
‘Eduardo,’ he said.
Stratton nodded again and walked a few paces to where he could face them all. ‘The plan is to show you how to use the rockets and the claymore mines effectively,’ he began. ‘Then you’re going to become the teachers to everyone else. Do you think you can manage that?’
They all nodded.
‘They’re not complicated. The big issue, apart from being able to use them effectively against an enemy, is to make sure we don’t hurt ourselves or our buddies. So listen to everything I have to say, ask all the questions you want and, above all, make sure you understand everything about the weapons concerned. When I’m gone there’ll be no one else to ask. Okay?’
They nodded enthusiastically.
‘Good. Let’s go see the toys.’
‘Er, excuse me,’ Miguel said. ‘What do we call you?’
‘He’s called the mercenary,’ Eduardo said to Miguel as if he should have known that.
‘Stratton will do,’ Stratton said.
‘Stratton?’
‘That’s right,’ he said, heading down a track. Eduardo hurried ahead and led the way into the small wood Victor had shown Stratton earlier. On reaching the pallets the men stood back to let him select the boxes.
‘Let’s start with that one there,’ Stratton said, pointing to a box on the top of a pile. David and Carlos lifted it to the ground. Stratton unclipped its latches and swung the lid open to reveal a moulded plastic cover which he removed. Inside lay neat rows of hand-held rocket launchers. He lifted one out and, with a snap, deftly pulled it open into the armed position.
‘Wow,’ Umberto exclaimed, taking a step back.
‘Don’t worry,’ Stratton said, taking a long, slender dart-like object from inside the lid of the box. ‘This is a trainer. It has a non-explosive head. It’s what you had at the ambush - not like Miguel,’ he said.
The others laughed, much to Umberto’s dismay.
‘Let’s take a look in those two there,’ he said.
Miguel and Eduardo hauled down the boxes and placed them in line with the first.
‘Open that one,’ Stratton asked as he closed the launch tube and replaced it in the box alongside the others.
Miguel opened the box to reveal rows of claymore mines in their canvas sacks. He reached to touch one.
‘Stop,’ Stratton said sharply. ‘First rule of this lesson. Touch absolutely nothing unless I say so. Is that understood?’
The men recognised the seriousness of his words and acknowledged them.
‘Especially this,’ Stratton said, lifting out a black plastic box the size of a milk carton. It had a thick red tape around it with warning signs emblazoned on all sides. ‘These are the detonators that fire the claymores. They’re highly sensitive. You get these wrong and you won’t need to worry about getting anything else wrong ever again. You got that?’
They nodded.
‘Open that box,’ Stratton said, indicating the next one.
Miguel reached for the clips on the side of the box, unfastened them and pulled the lid back. He gripped the edge of the plastic moulding and as he raised it there was a metallic pinging sound and something flew out of the box into the air.
Stratton’s mind raced, desperate to remember what the sound meant. He had it before the object landed at his feet. He knew what it was even before he focused on the curved piece of pressed alloy three inches long and spoon-shaped at one end. It was still rolling on the muddy soil as he turned on his heels and yelled ‘Grenade!’ as loudly as he could.
The others did not react as fast. A second had ticked away before the horrible danger struck them and they began to turn away - all except Miguel. He stared in disbelief at the grenade nestled in between the tightly packed rows of military explosives. Only when it smoked and hissed as the fuse that ran down its centre began to burn towards the detonator did he make any effort to get away. His right foot slid on the soft ground as he planted the other heavily.
Stratton counted the third second instinctively in his head, straining to put as much distance between himself and the boxes as possible. Before the end of the fourth second he knew he had to be close to the ground. There was a tree only metres ahead of him and he threw himself down beside it. As he hit the ground he grabbed the base of the trunk and his momentum slung him around the back of it.
The explosion was massive - its force scooped Stratton up bodily and threw him through the bushes. His world lit up like a supernova and before he could come to a rolling stop he started to scurry madly along on his belly, knowing that there was more to come. One after another, deafening blasts whipped at him as he thrashed his way through the dense undergrowth, the shock waves slamming into him like hurricane-driven concrete blocks. Something struck him in the back, burning like crazy, but he fought his way onwards. A huge ball of fire ignited the foliage around him. The heat was intense. Yet he knew it was time to get to his feet - if he still had them.
Stratton pulled his legs beneath him and, keeping low, thrust forward like a sprinter. He punched through a thicket, clawing at the ground in desperation as he went. Another series of explosions went off like a firework display, projectiles whistling through the air in every direction. As he burst from the bushes he rolled down an
