Wiseman finally cracked a smile and Sam nodded his thanks, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and marched back down the walkway with a renewed purpose.
A new target.
As the rain lashed the poverty-stricken estate like a cat-o’-nine-tails, Sam disappeared into the stair well to tell a desperate dad that he may have some hope after all.
Chapter Thirteen
‘I don’t believe in no-win situations, sir.’
Sam Pope spoke proudly, his back straight, chest out. His jaw was set, a thin layer of stubble an indication of the three-day hike he and his squadron had taken. The relentless heat poured from the sun like a broken tap, bathing Sudan in a scorching glow. The African country, home to over thirty-eight million people, sat just below Egypt, with the town of Wadi Halfa situated just over twenty kilometres from the border. With the rocky, desolate plane that they were walking, it had taken the troop just over a day, and as they reached the border to Egypt, Sergeant Carl Marsden had called them to a halt. He had asked his squadron to lie low, set up base camp, and for them to keep an eye out for Egyptian patrol. When questioned, he had responded with the notion that being spotted would end in defeat. It had been Corporal Sam Pope who had responded with his usual lack of fear.
‘Every situation is a no-win situation, Corporal. It’s just you are trained to not lose.’
Pope smiled, his white skin clearly sun kissed and sweat dripped from his forehead. As a man whose parents had emigrated from the very continent they were standing on, Marsden’s skin showed less evidence of the heat. He wiped his brow with the back of his forearm and looked around at the five-man team. Corporal Simon Murray, as loyal as he was intimidating, who had proven himself to be an exceptional leader of men. Theo Walker, calm, well-educated, and one of the finest young medics within the armed forces. Private Lawrence Griffin, the youngest of the group, a little scrawny and his ginger complexion was providing a lot of entertainment for the rest of the crew, especially in the relentless heat. Corporal Paul Etheridge, a bomb disposal expert and one of the most intelligent men Marsden knew, if maybe a little too smug for his own good.
And Sam Pope. The man was by far the finest sniper he had ever witnessed in his twenty-two years serving his country. With over fifty confirmed kills, he had been the first name on the sheet that Marsden’s superior had given him for the mission.
General Ervin Wallace.
Marsden knew that there was a specialist unit being put together under the notorious General, one that would exist so far off the books they were out of the library.
Project Hailstorm
Marsden knew he was too old for such an elite team, his years of combat were weighing heavy on his body, despite the lengths he went to maintain his physique. He still ran an extra mile than even the youngest recruits every morning, but his wisdom and experience was best served in putting together the team.
Not leading it.
This exercise would be a simple in and out job, with the team expected to infiltrate a Jihad base just past the Egyptian border and neutralise the threat. Intelligence had strong suspicions that a bomb factory was hidden behind the ancient, rural ruins that housed a small terrorist cell and Marsden was to deploy the team at midnight.
Pope would cover from the rocks. Murray and Griffin would accompany Etheridge in, eliminate any hostiles and decommission any explosives. Etheridge would do the technical parts.
Murray and Griffin the grunt work.
A simple job.
As the men checked their weapons, Marsden tried to radio back to base, his signal hitting nothing but a high-pitch block. Angered by the uselessness of his equipment, Marsden turned to Etheridge expectantly, the man’s reputation with technology preceded him. Etheridge gladly took it and began twisting the frequency knob, staring intently at the device, his attention focused on the task and not on his feet. With the rocky terrain alienating them from existence, Etheridge took a few steps to the right side of a large boulder, lost his footing and found himself tumbling down a twenty-foot slope. His body bounced and collided with a few rocks, his femur shattering in an instant.
His cry of pain alerted his squadron to his dilemma.
It also drew immediate fire from a three-man patrol that was circling the area in a roofless jeep.
Etheridge closed his eyes and accepted his fate.
Three shots echoed through the caves in quick succession.
When he opened his eyes again, Etheridge saw the last of his attacker’s slump forward from the vehicle and hit the dusty track, a bloody hole in his forehead. He assumed the other two motionless bodies bore the same injury.
As he peered back up the slope, he could see Theo Walker carefully abseiling down towards him, the beefy Murray holding the other end of the rope and gently feeding it to Griffin who steadied it as best he could. Marsden stood beside them, offering his expert hand and still considerable strength to the task.
Beyond them, Sam Pope stood, the rifle still in his hands, his eye at the scope, ready to lay down covering fire. As the sun began to set beyond the rocky vista, Etheridge took a deep breath. Although his left leg was shattered, his pride hurt more.
He wasn’t seen as a soldier. He had been trained as they all had, knew how to handle a gun and himself in hand to hand, but his strengths were in strategy and the equipment.
The man was a genius.
He was a thinker. Not a fighter.
Tumbling down a mountain, exposing the mission, and sending three men to their graves would give the guys no end of material.
He would never hear the end of it.
Theo fashioned a makeshift splint and with careful, measured steps, the two of them ascended
