and one man who’s got his hands in the air. That still leaves four people unaccounted for. Until I know their locations, I’m not moving. And if the mercenaries are still at large, maybe one of them will do me a favour and shoot that irritating priest.’
As Masters had hoped, when Cross walked out of the cave entrance and over to the left, the Hind moved slightly to follow his path. The pilot brought the gunship to a low hover about fifty feet off the ground and perhaps seventy yards away from the cave. He then selected the public address system and keyed the microphone.
‘Step forward five paces, then lie face down,’ he ordered.
Cross obeyed, keeping his movements slow and deliberate.
In the cave, Nick Masters took a deep breath, and concentrated on the sight picture. The Hind had swung round slightly clockwise, and he could now see most of the port side of the aircraft.
Helicopters have several weaknesses, but the big three are those parts of the machine that keep it in the air – the main rotor, the tail rotor and the gearboxes that drive them. The gearboxes were probably hidden behind armour plate – Masters didn’t know enough about the design of the Hind even to be sure where they were – and because he was looking at the helicopter from the side, the main rotor was almost invisible. So his target of choice – in fact his only target – was the tail rotor.
Slowly, carefully, Masters adjusted his aim, settled down until the sight picture was absolutely clear, then gently squeezed the trigger.
The Barrett kicked into his shoulder – he’d almost forgotten how hard the weapon’s recoil was. When he’d recovered, he checked the view through his telescopic sight. There was a neat hole drilled through the rear of the fuselage about six inches forward of the tail rotor disk. Damn, he thought. The chopper had obviously moved very slightly at the moment he’d fired. But the Hind was still in the same position, so he guessed that the bullet had simply passed through a part of the fuselage without armour plating, and the crew had felt nothing and were still unaware what had happened.
Masters settled his breathing – the weapon was semiautomatic and another round was already in the chamber – and again concentrated all his attention on the view through the telescopic sight. Moments later, he squeezed the trigger once more.
Travelling at supersonic speed, the half-inch bullet hit almost the exact centre of the tail rotor disk. The rotors were designed to withstand the impact of rounds from small-arms fire and even bullets from assault rifle, but the Barrett M82 was in a different league.
The bullet tore one blade completely off the hub and splintered and twisted the one next to it. That in itself would probably have been enough to cripple the helicopter, but the round hadn’t yet completed its journey. It ploughed on, smashing through the thin aluminium skin of the fuselage into the tail rotor gearbox. The bullet crumpled and deformed as its kinetic energy was spent, and the effect on the gearbox itself was catastrophic. The casing split, driving fragments of metal between the spinning gears and cogs. In a little under a tenth of a second after the bullet hit, the gearbox seized solid.
As the gunship lurched sideways, Masters saw a portion of one of the tail rotor blades spin away from the fuselage. The nose of the helicopter lifted as the pilot struggled to control an aircraft that suddenly wasn’t responding the way it should. He tried to gain height, which was exactly the wrong thing to do, because it made the situation worse. As the nose pitched even higher, the gunship started to spin on its own axis.
And then there was nothing the pilot could do. The moment the tail rotor gearbox seized, he’d lost all directional control. The spin became even more violent and suddenly the Hind was plummeting to the ground, the main rotor blades smashing into rocks, debris flying in all directions as the fuselage impacted. There was a brief moment of silence, and then the fuel in the helicopter’s ruptured tanks ignited, turning the wreckage into a massive fireball.
Masters stepped back into the cave feeling drained. It was over. The crew inside the Hind could not have survived the impact – or the fire. There was nothing more for him to do.
* * *
Sitting in the rear seat of the Dhruv, Tembla watched the catastrophe unfold in front of him. He had to get out. The overwhelming tactical superiority afforded him by the presence of the Hind had gone, and he was suddenly uncomfortably aware that he was sitting in a thin-skinned and extremely vulnerable helicopter, and less than a hundred yards away was a group of mercenary soldiers armed with assault rifles.
‘Abort! Abort!’ he yelled. ‘Get us out of here now!’
The pilot reacted immediately, hauling up on the collective and swinging the aircraft in a tight climbing turn away from the cave, accelerating as hard as he could towards the edge of the valley.
Killian was standing open-mouthed, staring at the scene of devastation in front of him. Then he heard an escalating engine note from behind him and glanced back to see the Dhruv taking off.
He watched helplessly as the man who’d walked out of the cave – and then apparently surrendered – stood up and drew a pistol. Holding his weapon ready, he started to work his way across the slope towards him. Killian looked around, but there was nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide, a cliche come hideously to life. He raised his arms and waited.
But even as he watched the armed man approach, he smiled slightly. Whatever happened now, he was content. If the Lord God had not wanted him to be here, in this place and at this time, he would not be here. God clearly still had a task for him to complete. He closed his eyes. ‘Thy will be done, oh Lord,’ he prayed.
John Cross strode over to where Killian stood. ‘On the ground, face down, arms and legs wide apart,’ he ordered.
Killian obeyed, and Cross quickly and expertly searched him.
‘Who’s this?’ Nick Masters asked, walking across to them.
‘No idea, but he climbed out of that chopper that buggered off, so he must have something to do with whatever the hell this is all about. Maybe Donovan would like a word with him? Nice shooting, by the way.’
‘Thanks,’ Masters replied. He reached down, grabbed the recumbent figure by the collar and hauled him unceremoniously to his feet.
‘You speak English?’ Masters asked, and their captive nodded.
‘OK. We’re going down to the cave. You try to get away and I’ll shoot your legs from under you – you understand that?’
The man nodded again, and the short procession started making its way across the slope towards the dark shadow that delineated the cave entrance.
65
‘Masters!’ Donovan called out, as the mercenary soldier walked back into the cave. ‘Bronson’s got a gun. You’ve got to help me.’
Masters walked over to where Bronson was holding Donovan, the barrel of the semi-automatic pistol pressed into his neck.
‘Where did he get the gun?’ Donovan demanded.
‘I gave it to him,’ Masters said simply.
‘You did what? Why the hell did you do that?’
‘Because I’m a soldier, not a hired killer. That means I don’t shoot unarmed people whose only crime seems to be that they’re smarter than you are, Donovan.’
There was a commotion as Cross dragged in another man and slammed him against the wall.
‘Who are you?’ Cross demanded roughly, pushing his gun into the captive’s chest.
The man peered around in the gloom, his eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness, but didn’t reply.
‘Chris, it’s the priest,’ Angela said, standing up. Her voice carried clearly across the cave. ‘He was the one
