Jungle Kill (Black Ops) Page 9

  He’s got that wrong, thought Mitch.

  ‘The fact you didn’t shoot me after you killed my men means your gun is useless!’ continued Ngola.

  But he’s got that one right, mused Mitch.

  ‘If you give yourself up, I will give you a quick and easy death!’ Ngola shouted. ‘But if you make me come and find you, your death will be more painful than you can imagine!’

  There was silence, and then Ngola shouted: ‘Very well! You wish to die painfully!’

  With that, he shouted more orders, and his men began to crash through the jungle in search of Mitch.

  Great! thought Mitch sourly. He looked at the FAL rifle in his hands, and cursed silently again. A good weapon, ruined by some idiot! Now it was only useful as a club.

  The sounds of Ngola’s men’s boots were getting nearer. If he started to run, they’d hear him crashing through the undergrowth and they’d start shooting. Even firing blind, with automatic fire there was a good chance that some of their bullets would hit him.

  Mitch scanned the area immediately around him, and saw a dark patch of water. A jungle swamp. He didn’t know how deep it was, or what dangers might be lurking in the stagnant water, but it was the only protection he had on offer right now.

  He slid on his belly to the edge of the swamp and let himself sink into the stinking, thick muddy water. He took the FAL in with him. The firing mechanism was already jammed, so mud inside it wouldn’t make it any more useless than it already was.

  He sank further. The water was deeper than he’d thought, and now it came right up to his neck. He reached out and grabbed hold of a nearby tree root, just as his head sank beneath the surface. No sooner had he submerged than he felt the thudding vibration of boots crashing past, shaking the tree root and rippling the thick oozing water. He stayed beneath the water, holding his breath, mouth closed firmly.

  He could feel water insects and leeches on his skin, eager for fresh food. They crept over his body, along his arms, digging into the skin of his neck and back.

  Mitch stayed under as long as he could. He’d have to take a chance and put his head out to get some air soon. He couldn’t feel any more vibrations, but that didn’t mean that Ngola’s men weren’t near by, maybe even watching this jungle pond.

  Carefully, slowly, Mitch eased his head out of the water, taking in a breath gratefully as his nose and mouth broke the surface.

  There was no one around. Ngola’s men had gone.

  Mitch stayed with the rest of his body beneath the water and listened for a while longer, letting his eyes get used to the jungle half-light again.

  He could make out some of Ngola’s men back in the grounds of the hotel. The rest were probably still searching for him in the jungle.

  The hotel itself was still in semi-darkness, so he guessed they hadn’t been able to repair the generator yet.

  Where was Ngola? Again, Mitch guessed that he’d be back inside the hotel, talking on his satellite phone, trying to salvage the situation. No doubt he was pretending to his customers that he still had Mwanga and the soldiers as his prisoners.

  Mitch pulled himself clear of the water and slid on to the earth. He was covered from head to foot in black slime, and was armed only with a rifle that didn’t work. But he had promised himself that he would protect the villagers who’d helped them, so he was going to find Ngola even if it was the last thing he did.

  25

  Mitch weighed up his situation. The rifle he had didn’t work, but there would be better weapons inside the hotel. If he dumped the rifle on the ground here and Ngola’s men found it, they would be able to track his movements and discover he was heading for the hotel. He wanted Ngola to think he was on the run in the jungle, so he slid the rifle into the jungle pond and let it sink out of sight beneath the murky water. There would be no trace of it. But now he was completely unarmed. If caught, he couldn’t even bluff his way out of trouble.

  Mitch crouched down just inside the edge of the jungle and studied the hotel. In the dim light he could see that some of the windows had been uncovered during the fire-fight, the wooden boards and sheets of iron dangling and broken. One of those windows would be the best way in. He settled on one with no light at all coming from it. No light meant no torches, which he hoped meant no one was inside.

  Some of Ngola’s men were still out in front of the hotel. He could see a couple at the back, by what remained of the generator, shining torches on it and examining it for damage.

  Good, he thought. That will keep them occupied. So long as they don’t turn those torches my way.

  He crept low and fast from the jungle to the unguarded side hotel wall. He dropped down in the grass beneath the dark broken window and strained his ears for any sound from within. There was nothing.

  Mitch stood up carefully, keeping alert the whole time for any movements. He checked the window. In one corner of it, the glass had been smashed out. Mitch carefully pushed the dangling wooden board to one side, pulled himself up to the window sill, and then slid into the room.

  Once inside, he knelt on the floor, his vision adjusting to the dim light. He heard sounds from outside, and from the rooms nearby. Then he heard Ngola’s voice, loud and commanding. It came from somewhere upstairs. Wherever he was, the door of the room was open because his voice was perfectly audible. Then Ngola stopped shouting and Mitch heard a door slamming and boots crashing down the stairs.

  He hurried over to the door and peered through the crack. One of Ngola’s men was coming. The man went into the room opposite where Mitch was. Immediately a hubbub of voices broke out, but was muffled as the door shut.

  The men were worried about their money. That much Mitch had heard before the door closed. With Mwanga gone, there would be no ransom.

  Mitch guessed Ngola was already planning his next scheme. Another kidnapping probably. Maybe foreign workers on the oil fields. The oil firms usually paid up, if the worker taken was vital to them.

  This came to an end for Ngola now, vowed Mitch. But he needed a weapon.

  He scanned the room. It was a shambles. There were pieces of broken furniture and wrecked chairs everywhere, and a collapsed wooden table with only three legs remaining. Mitch went to the table and picked up the fourth leg from where it lay on the floor. It felt heavy. It would make a good club.

  Then his eyes caught a glint in the half-light: something metal on the floor near one of the walls. Mitch moved over to it. It was a knife.

  He picked it up and felt it in his hand. It was double-bladed with a sharp point and a good hilt. Well balanced if it needed to be thrown. At a distance it was no match for a gun, but up close it would be silent and deadly. But first he had to get near to Ngola. And alone, without any of Ngola’s men around to defend him.

  He was about to put the table leg back down on the floor when he stopped. A weapon was a weapon. A club and a knife. They could both be useful.

  Mitch peered out through the crack in the door again, checking the hallway and the stairs. No one was there. Silently he opened the door wider and slid out, then padded across to the stairs and began to climb them. He had thought of taking off his boots to make himself as silent as possible. Then he considered the other possibilities: treading on broken glass from the fire-fight, having his feet slashed at with a machete. He decided to keep his boots on.

  He made it to the top of the stairs. The first-floor landing went in both directions, left and right. Which way would lead him to Ngola? And which room? If he blundered into the wrong one and came face to face with a bunch of Ngola’s armed bandits, he was as good as dead.

  26

  Suddenly a phone rang out. Ngola’s satellite phone again! Coming from one of the rooms to the left.

  Mitch moved noiselessly along the corridor until he came to a door from behind which he heard Ngola’s voice, bargaining, still offering the death of Mwanga ‘at a good price'. Mitch pushed the knife into the belt of his trousers. He held the broken table leg firmly in his right hand an
d his left went to the door handle. Slowly, he turned the handle and pushed it gently, just a crack, enough to hear Ngola’s voice clearer and to know that the door hadn’t been locked.

  Ngola was still talking on his phone. Good, thought Mitch. His attention will be on the conversation.

  Mitch pushed open the door and stepped in, swinging his gaze around the room to see if anyone else was there. Ngola was alone.

  Ngola turned, and as he saw Mitch his mouth dropped open.

  I must look like some nightmare creature from the swamp, thought Mitch grimly, covered from head to toe in slimy mud.

  Ngola recovered and his hand reached for the pistol that lay on the top of a large desk near him. Mitch acted quickly, hurling the broken table leg straight at Ngola. It struck the bandit leader full in the face and he fell backwards with a yell. Mitch leapt forward, reaching for the pistol, but Ngola reacted, throwing the table leg at the gun. The gun went skidding off the desk, sliding into a jumble of papers and clothes and then disappearing between some shelves and the wall.

  Mitch turned towards the shelves, but Ngola was shouting for help from his men. Swiftly, Mitch kicked the door shut, then yanked another heavy wooden desk across the door. That would hold them back for a short while. So long as it was enough time to finish Ngola.

  Ngola had scrambled back to his feet and thrown himself towards the shelves, tearing at them, searching for the fallen gun. Mitch took the knife from his waistband and lunged at Ngola. Ngola saw the movement and twisted himself back, the blade narrowly missing him.

  He ran for the door. For a moment Mitch thought he was going to pull the desk away, but instead Ngola had snatched something up from near it. Now he stood and smiled triumphantly at Mitch. In his hand was his machete.

  ‘You have a knife,’ he sneered, ‘but it is nothing against a machete!’

  Ngola’s men had arrived outside now and were shouting and pushing against the door, trying to force the desk away from it.

  Ngola moved towards Mitch, swinging the machete, a smirk on his face.

  I’m in trouble, thought Mitch. This guy’s an expert with that, and he’s dead right that a knife is no match for a machete in a hand-to-hand fight. If he gets close …

  Ngola gave a yell, triumph mixed with rage, and swung the machete back ready to strike as he lunged powerfully at Mitch. Mitch took his chance and threw the knife hard. The point hit Ngola full on in the throat.

  Ngola stopped, dropped the machete and stumbled, his eyes staring at Mitch in amazement, his mouth opening and closing, unable to speak. Mitch bent down and scooped up the fallen machete, and with one swift slash delivered the fatal blow. Ngola toppled to the floor.

  From outside the door the shouting and banging increased. Then came the sound of loud machine-gun fire. Mitch looked towards the window, the only way out. But that window was barred by a protective iron sheet fixed firmly across it. There was no way he would get through it before the bandits shot their way in.

  Then he realised with a shock that the shooting and shouting had stopped.

  ‘OK, Mitch, you can open this door now!’ called a familiar voice.

  It was Two Moons!

  27

  Mitch hauled the heavy desk away from the door, and opened it to reveal Two Moons, Gaz and Nelson, all carrying automatic rifles. The bodies of dead bandits littered the corridor.

  Mitch stared at them, stunned. Gaz and Two Moons were grinning at his look of astonishment, but Mitch could tell from the very grim expression on Nelson’s face that the colonel was furious with him.

  Two Moons looked down at the dead body of Ngola.

  ‘Wow. You really got him,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s do the compliments later,’ said Nelson tersely. ‘The chopper should be coming back soon. This time we’re going to be on it.’

  As Mitch followed the others along the landing and down the stairs, he could see more bandits’ bodies. The guys had done a massive clear-up job.

  ‘The chopper took Mwanga and Tug for treatment,’ explained Gaz. ‘Benny went with them to make sure everything’s OK. We stayed to look for you. Once we heard all hell breaking loose inside the hotel, we knew that’s where you must be.’

  ‘But Nelson said –’ began Mitch.

  ‘The colonel says lots of things,’ said Two Moons. ‘But one thing is always true: we don’t leave our men behind.’

  By now they had come out of the hotel and Mitch could hear the familiar whirring of a helicopter’s rotors, its lights fast approaching.

  Whatever consequences Mitch might face, they’d rescued Mwanga, Ngola was dead, and the villagers were safe. The mission was over.

  The helicopter took them over the jungle, past the lights of the oilfields around the Niger Delta and across the open sea to where a US warship was waiting for them.

  Nelson sat at the front with Two Moons. Mitch sat with Gaz. He was uncomfortably aware that Nelson hadn’t exchanged a word with him since they left the room and Ngola’s dead body.

  ‘I guess I’m in the colonel’s bad books,’ he said.

  ‘You disobeyed a direct order, Mitch,’ said Gaz. ‘You know what the military are like about orders.’

  ‘Yeah,’ admitted Mitch. He looked again at Nelson, at the angry expression on the colonel’s face. Then he frowned, puzzled.

  ‘This chopper …’ he said.

  ‘What about it?’ asked Gaz.

  ‘The colonel said he didn’t trust anybody. So where did it come from?’

  ‘The colonel said he didn’t trust anyone on our side,’ emphasised Gaz. He jerked his thumb at the pilot. ‘This is sort of a private arrangement between the colonel and some old ex-army buddy of his. Turns out the guy’s working as a pilot for one of the oil companies.’

  ‘But how did the colonel get hold of him?’

  Gaz shrugged. ‘I don’t ask those sort of questions,’ he said. ‘Just be grateful he did.’

  The chopper landed on the flight deck of the warship. Benny was waiting for them. ‘Glad you made it,’ he said. He gave Mitch a broad grin. ‘Man, you sure are dirty!’

  ‘How are Mwanga and Tug?’ demanded Nelson.

  ‘They’re in sick bay. Both doing fine,’ Benny said.

  ‘Good,’ said Nelson. He turned to Mitch, his face still unsmiling. ‘Go get cleaned up. Then I want to see you, Mitch. I’ll be in the captain’s cabin. Report to me there in an hour.’

  With that, Nelson headed for the hatch that led below decks.

  Gaz sighed ruefully. ‘Somehow, from his tone, I don’t think you’re in line for a medal, pal,’ he said.

  An hour later, showered and changed, Mitch knocked at the door of the captain’s cabin.

  ‘Come in!’ called Nelson.

  Mitch entered.

  The cabin, like most on the warship, was small and the large figure of Nelson seemed to fill it. He was sitting at a small table.

  ‘You know what this is about, don’t you,’ said Nelson. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. His tone, like the expression on his face, was grim and hard.

  ‘Me going after Ngola,’ said Mitch.

  Nelson nodded. ‘You put the operation at risk. We had Mwanga on board the chopper. We’d come back to pick up the rest of the unit. We were all ready to get everyone to safety, and you rush off on some private vendetta.’

  ‘While Ngola stayed alive, those villagers were in danger.’

  ‘In a battle zone everyone’s in danger, whatever happens,’ snapped back Nelson. ‘The point is that you disobeyed a direct order from your commanding officer. In army terms, that’s mutiny. I should have shot you dead as soon as you headed for the jungle. I’d have been within my rights, and you know it.’

  Mitch hesitated, then he nodded. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t need your agreement!’ barked Nelson angrily. ‘It’s a fact! You didn’t just put the mission in jeopardy, but also the lives of your fellow soldiers.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘You’re a maverick, Mitch. You
’re a fine warrior, but a bad soldier. I don’t want you on my team.’

  As he heard these words, Mitch felt his heart sink.

  After being out of the game he had been reluctantly drawn back in. And he’d found a comradeship with Two Moons and Gaz that really meant something to him. As part of Delta Unit, he’d felt at home for the first time in a long while. The Band of Brothers. And now it was being snatched away from him.

  ‘But Tug does,’ added Nelson.

  Mitch looked at Nelson, shocked. ‘Tug?’ he echoed.

  Nelson nodded. ‘And Benny. And Two Moons and Gaz. They seem to think I ought to overlook this and give you another chance.’

  ‘Tug and Benny?’ repeated Mitch, still stunned by what he had heard. He could understand Two Moons and Gaz speaking up for him, but Tug and Benny? It didn’t make sense.

  ‘So, although, as you know, this outfit is not a democracy and orders are orders, that gives you four votes of confidence against one. So, what do you say? Can I trust you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Mitch.

  ‘You’ll obey orders?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ repeated Mitch, more firmly this time.

  ‘OK,’ said Nelson. ‘In that case, consider yourself part of the team. But this is a test period. I’ll be watching you, Mitch. You screw up like that again, you’re out. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel.’

  Tug was lying in a bed, a cage over his legs, as Mitch entered the medical quarters. Drips and tubes were running into him.

  ‘How’s the leg?’ asked Mitch.

  ‘It’ll be worse when the anaesthetic wears off and the pain kicks in,’ said Tug. ‘I’m glad you came by. I didn’t get the chance to thank you for coming back for me.’

  ‘I’m the one to say thanks,’ said Mitch. ‘Colonel Nelson was going to kick me out of the unit. He says you spoke up for me.’

  Tug shrugged. ‘It seemed the right thing to do,’ he said.

  ‘Because I came back for you?’