Empire of Gold

suppressors. A shriek came from the hillside. Another Taliban down. But he couldn’t tell how many remained. Too many.

The onslaught had achieved its purpose, though – the AK fire had all but stopped. Chase glanced towards Green, seeing Starkman haul him upright, Baine running to assist. It would take both men to carry the wounded trooper to the landing zone, and while they were doing that the amount of fire they could provide would be extremely limited. The team was effectively down to five fighting men.

And it would soon be just four. Bluey’s withering storm of lead was now reduced to intermittent bursts as the Minimi’s ammunition supply ran low. The Australian only had one ammo load: two hundred rounds was normally more than enough.

Baine and Starkman supported Green, moving at a jog towards the pass. ‘Keep firing!’ Mac ordered as the thud of Kalashnikovs resumed. Chase sprayed one of the muzzle flashes with fire. He scored a hit. The AK flailed madly, blazing skywards before falling silent. Another magazine change, and now conservation was an issue – he only had one spare mag remaining.

Stikes and the hostages were out of sight, Baine, Starkman and Green nearing the pass. In the distance, Chase heard the thud of rotor blades.

‘Hugo, Bluey, move out!’ Mac called. ‘Eddie, cover them!’ He was about to say something else when his radio squawked. He crouched, struggling to hear the message over the noise of Bluey’s machine gun as the Australian and Castille retreated for the ravine.

Chase switched his Diemaco back to single-shot, trying to pick off the shooters up the hill. Bullets cracked off his cover; he flinched, shielding his eyes from flying stone chips, then snapped his sights on to the source of the fire and pulled the trigger. A dark shape beside a boulder flopped to the ground.

Green and his companions entered the pass, Bluey and Castille not far behind. ‘Eddie!’ Mac yelled. ‘Come on! The gunship’s—’

A rising high-pitched whine from the sky drowned him out—

An explosion ripped a crater out of the hillside sixty feet in front of Chase. The blast knocked him off his feet. His senses reeled as if he had taken a fierce punch to the head, a ringing rumble almost blotting out all other sounds. Somehow, he made out another shrill noise and clapped both hands to his ears. A second detonation shook the ground.

The air support had arrived.

Orbiting the battle zone was an American AC-130U ‘Spooky II’ gunship, a humble Hercules transport turned angel of death. Instead of cargo, it carried three cannons, ranging from a 25mm Gatling gun to a 105mm howitzer, jutting from its port side so they could be fixed on a target as the aircraft circled. The weapon that had just fired was a 40mm Bofors gun, an artillery piece originally designed to shoot at aircraft rather than from them. With its battery of sensors, a Spooky could locate and destroy ground forces from several miles away.

And Chase was in its sights. ‘I’m on your side, you fucking idiots!’ he shouted.

Another explosion, and a fourth, but higher up the hill. Chase hoped that meant the Bofors gunner had finally seen his strobe. He looked round. Mac was now at the pass, signalling frantically for the Englishman to follow.

He shook off the earth and grit the 40mm rounds had thrown on to him, realising he had lost his radio headset, and stood. His hearing returned, the distant pom-pom-pom of the Bofors accompanied by the shriek of incoming shells. More explosions on the hillside. He ran for the pass. Mac gave him one final wave, then sprinted after the rest of his men. The Spooky would keep the Taliban pinned down with its awesome firepower, giving the rescue team all the time they needed to reach the waiting choppers—

The Bofors stopped. One last explosion, and the battlefield behind him fell silent. Either the Taliban had been completely obliterated, or . . .

Chase looked to the sky, and realised the battle wasn’t over. The Spooky’s orbit had carried it behind part of the mountain, placing a barrier of rock between its weapons and their target. The gunship would already be gaining altitude to compensate, but the surviving Taliban now had a chance to continue the pursuit.

Feet pounding, he reached the pass. Mac was over a hundred yards ahead. No gunfire from behind—

A new noise instead. Engines. Not the AC-130 clearing the mountains, but motorbikes.

The Taliban were riding after him.

Two headlights swept down the hill, glare obscuring the bikes and their riders – but if the Taliban had any remaining rockets, one of the men would surely be carrying the RPG-7.

The entire mission was now in jeopardy. An RPG round could easily bring down a helicopter.

Ahead, the ravine opened out on to the plain. Mac was already clear, running towards a sputtering red flare marking the pick-up point. The choppers had not yet touched down, the Black Hawk moving in while the Little Bird circled. Stikes had radioed the pilots to tell them they were collecting only fifteen men rather than the expected twenty; it would be a tight squeeze, but they could all cram into the Black Hawk to save the MH-6 from having to land.

All the eggs in one basket. They didn’t know about the bikes.

Another glance back as he left the pass told Chase that he would never reach the landing zone before the Taliban caught up. Instead he charged for the giant spearhead of rock poking from the sands.

The Black Hawk was about fifty feet above the ground, dust swirling out in concentric rings beneath its rotor vortex. The men at the landing zone shielded their faces from the gritty onslaught. Mac still hadn’t reached them, looking for Chase – and seeing the headlights. He tried to shout a warning to the others, but his voice was lost under the helicopter’s thunderous noise.

The lead bike, two men aboard, burst out of the pass. It turned to follow Chase – until its driver spotted the more tempting targets on the plain. It swung back, the man riding pillion raising his weapon.

The RPG-7. Loaded and ready.

The second bike roared after its original prey, the passenger firing his AK-47 at Chase as he dived behind the rock. Bullets splintered the stone beside him, but he couldn’t shoot back – his attention was fixed on another