Empire of Gold

‘I’ll tell you later,’ Chase replied grimly. He looked along the ditch to see that Stikes had caught up with Mac, at the tail of the shambling line of hostages. Starkman, leading, was almost at the bushes. ‘Time to go.’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ said Bluey, releasing a sweeping burst before scuttling crab-like down the ditch. Chase and Castille trailed him. A hollow whomp came from the scrub, and a moment later one of the 4?4s was bowled on to its roof in a huge fireball as another AG-C round found its target. A man, robes and beard aflame, ran screaming into the night. ‘Don’t think they’ll be driving after us now!’

‘They’ve still got bikes, though,’ Chase told him. ‘And horses.’

‘Well, they shoot horses, don’t they?’ With a cackle, Bluey fired another sweep to force the Taliban into cover, then hurried after Stikes.

Chase grimaced at the joke, then took up the rear. The AK fire was now more intermittent, but also better aimed. The remaining Taliban had overcome their initial shock.

The hostages were past the bushes, Mac directing them down the slope. A small object, spitting sparks, arced from the scrub – a smoke grenade. A thick grey cloud spewed from it. A second followed, putting an obscuring curtain between the team and the Taliban.

‘Hugo, Eddie, come on!’ Mac called as Green and Baine jumped up from their hiding place. ‘Choppers are on their way. Move it!’

The two stragglers needed no further prompting, Chase catching up with his commanding officer on the hillside. ‘Mac, those women – they’re all dead!’

‘What? How did the Terries even get near them?’

‘They didn’t. It was Stikes – that bastard shot them!’

Mac’s expression was one of shock, but before he could reply a shout from Starkman interrupted them. ‘Mac! Hammer Four-One is inbound, three minutes away. They want to know if we need support.’

A crackle of AK fire came from behind them. The Taliban were through the smokescreen. ‘I’d say that was a yes,’ Mac told Starkman with a wry grin as the soldiers shot back. He raised his voice. ‘Strobes on, strobes on! Gunship inbound!’

Chase switched on the infrared beacon attached to his equipment webbing. The strobe light’s pulses were invisible to the naked eye – but would flash brilliantly on the approaching aircraft’s targeting screens, warning its gunners of the location of friendly forces.

In theory.

‘Alexander!’ Mac shouted as Starkman made the call. ‘Get the civvies to the landing zone – take Will and Kev. The rest of us will cover you. Go!’

Stikes gave him a thumbs-up and took the lead. Chase saw that despite the danger the hostages were slowing, already worn down by maltreatment and hunger. And the landing zone was still over half a mile away.

Worse, the Taliban were gaining. They were moving cautiously down the slope, keeping in cover behind rocks, but they had the tactical advantages both of moving forward and having the higher ground, while the rescue team had to back up as they fired uphill.

‘Should we hold ’em off here?’ Chase shouted to Mac as they crouched behind adjacent boulders.

Mac expertly assessed the area. ‘Further back, nearer the entrance to the pass. If we can hold them from there, it’ll give the hostages time to reach the choppers.’ He pointed at a large rock. ‘Behind that. We can—’

‘RPG!’ screamed Starkman. Chase immediately scrunched down, covering his face and ears as a rocket-propelled grenade streaked down the slope and exploded less than thirty feet away. The rock protected him from the direct effects of the blast, but the detonation was still painfully loud at such close range. Stones and dirt rained over him. The warhead had been high explosive, not a shrapnel-filled anti-personnel charge, but this near it was no less dangerous.

Bluey, though further away, had been without cover and unable to do more than throw himself flat on Starkman’s warning. Chase saw the Australian clutch at his head. ‘Bluey! You okay?’

‘Those dirty little bastards!’ Bluey yelled back. ‘Copped a stone to my fucking noggin!’ Still on his stomach, he slithered round and fired his machine gun up the hill, then scrambled behind a jagged rock.

Bluey wasn’t the only person affected by the explosion. The hostages were still a hundred yards short of the pass – and panic consumed one of them. He broke from the group and ran for the closed canyon. ‘Green!’ shouted Stikes. ‘Get that idiot back here!’

Green followed – but the Taliban had already spotted the running figure. AKs barked, gritty dust spitting up from the ground around him. The Welshman rushed to tackle him—

Too late. The man was hit, spinning before dropping like a discarded doll. Green, only a couple of feet behind, was caught too, a round ripping into the side of his chest. He fell with a choked scream, trying to crawl behind the hostage’s body for what little protection it provided.

‘Man down!’ Mac cried. Chase swore. Green was exposed, over twenty yards from any usable cover. The Taliban kept firing. If they had another rocket, it would soon follow their bullets.

He knew what Mac’s plan would be before he said it. ‘Alexander, get the civvies to the choppers!’ the Scot yelled. ‘Kev, Jason, get Green. Everyone else – give them cover!’

Chase sprang up from behind his rock and opened fire, his C8 now on full auto. Conserving ammo was no longer a consideration; all that mattered was for himself, Mac, Castille and Bluey to force the Taliban to keep their heads down until Starkman and Baine recovered their wounded comrade.

He picked one AK flash and sprayed it with bullets until it stopped, then moved on to another. His magazine ran dry; he ducked and thumbed the release to eject the empty mag, pulling a replacement from his webbing and slotting it into place with a precise, intensely practised move before tugging back the rifle’s charging handle to chamber the first new round. The entire process took barely three seconds, and he rose to fire again.

Mac and Castille were just as efficient, the rattle of their guns getting louder as sustained fire burned out the