Reeve’s question was answered soon enough: a two-man foot patrol guarded the two-lane crossing. They were standing in the middle of the bridge, illuminated by the headlights of their Jeep. At this time of night there was no traffic for them to stop and check, so they were talking and smoking cigarettes. Their eyes were on the distance, the direction Reeve had just come. They’d heard the explosions, seen the smoke and flame. They were glad to be at this safe distance from it all.
Reeve took a look at the dark, wide river, the cold-looking water. Then he peered at the underside of the bridge, and made up his mind. He clambered down to the water’s edge and made his way underneath the bridge. It was an iron construction, its struts a crisscrossed series of spars forming an arch over the water. Reeve slung his rifle over his shoulder and gripped the first two spars, pulling himself up. He climbed slowly, quietly, hidden from land but all too visible from the river, should any boat with a spotlight come chugging along. Where he could, he used his feet and knees for purchase, but as he climbed higher, he found himself hanging over the water below by his hands, moving one hand at a time, his legs swinging uselessly in space. He thought of training courses where he’d had to swing this way across an expanse of water or mud-but never this distance, never under these conditions. His upper chest ached, and the rusty metal tore into his finger joints. He thought his arms would pop out of their sockets. Sweat was stinging his eyes. Above him he could hear the soldiers laughing. He could pull himself up onto the bridge and open fire on them, then steal their Jeep or cross the rest of the bridge on foot. But he knew if he opted for this kind of action, he’d leave traces, and he didn’t want that, he didn’t want the enemy to know which way he’d come. So he kept swinging, concentrating on one hand, then the other, squeezing shut his eyes and gritting his teeth. Blood was trickling down past his wrists. He didn’t think he was going to make it. He started to fantasize about letting go, falling into the water, about letting the river wash him all the way to the coast. He shook his head clear. The splash would be heard; even if it wasn’t, what were his chances? He had to keep on moving.
Finally, he found purchase with his feet. He was at the far side of the span, where the struts started curving downwards towards the riverbank. He mouthed a silent “Jesus” as he took his weight on his feet and legs, easing the pressure on his shredded palms. He felt exhausted as he started his descent, and dropped when he reached solid ground, gasping and panting on all fours, his head touching the dank earth. He gave himself thirty precious seconds to get his breath back. He pressed some strands of grass against his palms and fingers, as much of a compress as he could manage.
Then he got to his feet and moved away from the water, heading northeast. He couldn’t follow the river: for one thing, it led back towards the airfield; for another, he was more likely to encounter civilians close to a water source. Stumbling across a fisherman was not high on his Christmas-present list.
Reeve was running the way he’d been taught: not a sprint, because a sprint used up too many resources too quickly-this running was measured, paced, steady, more a jog than anything else. The secret was not to stop, not to falter-and that was the most difficult part of all. It had been difficult on the Brecon Beacons during those arduous training runs. Reeve had jogged past men he regarded as fitter and stronger than him. They’d be standing bent over, hands on knees, spewing onto the ground. They daren’t sit down-with the amount of kit they were carrying they’d never get back up. And if they stopped too long they’d begin to seize up. It was something joggers knew. You saw them at traffic lights or pausing to cross the road, and they jogged on the spot.
Never stop, never falter.
Reeve kept running.
The terrain became much as it had been the other side of the river, steep ridges of loose shale with shallow valleys between. He didn’t bother counting his steps, just kept moving, putting miles between himself and the river. He knew he couldn’t outrun vehicles, but this terrain, inhospitable to a human, would be downright lethal for any vehicle other than the hardiest. No Jeep could take these slopes, and a motorcycle would slew on the loose stones. A helicopter was the enemy’s best bet, and he’d probably wiped that option out for the meantime. He took strength from that fact.
He was climbing again, trying not to think about the pain in his hands, crossing the ridge, then sliding. At the bottom of the slide, he picked himself up and ran forward four paces.
Then he stopped dead.
He couldn’t really see anything, but some sixth sense had told him to stop. He knew why: it was the nothingness itself that had warned him. He couldn’t see the ground ahead, not even ten feet in front of him. He shuffled forwards, toeing the ground, until one foot stepped off into space.
“Christ!”
He took two steps back and got down on his hands and knees, peering into the darkness. He was on the edge of a gully. No… more than a gully: sheer sides dropped he didn’t know how far. A ravine, a deep chasm. Even supposing he could climb down into it, he’d no idea whether he could scale the other side. He might be trapped. He’d have to go around it, but that might take hours. Damn it to hell. He tried to see something, anything down there, something that might tell him what was waiting for him. He unclipped the night scope from his belt and put it to his eye. Its range was limited, but he thought he could make out shapes at the bottom of the hole, rocks or boulders probably. The drop was pretty sheer, tapering off towards the bottom. In daylight, if he wasn’t rushed, he could probably find enough hand- and footholds to climb out the other side. But in darkness with the enemy behind him…
He took the night scope away from his eyes and was confronted by the ravine’s blackness again. It was taunting him. Everybody, no matter how good, needs luck, it was telling him. And yours just ran out.
“Fuck that,” he said, clipping the scope back onto his belt and standing up. His leg muscles complained. He had to make a decision soon, for all sorts of reasons. Turn left or right? Right, and he’d be heading vaguely in Jay’s direction; left, and he might hit the coast. Was that correct? He screwed shut his eyes and concentrated. No: if he turned right he might hit the coast. He had to turn right.
He ran more slowly now, keeping close to the edge of the ravine so he’d know if and when it ended. The problem was, this close to the edge, he daren’t pick up his pace. One stumble might send him over. The ground was dangerous enough as it was. He remembered the dirt track, and the scree, and the boulders at the bottom of the pit… it was a quarry! The landscape made sense now. And if he was right, then he could half-circle the pit without too much difficulty. Quarries weren’t that big. There might even be places he could hide or, as a last resort, a vehicle he could hijack.
He heard voices ahead of him and stopped again, unclipping the night scope. A two-man patrol. Somehow they’d got ahead of him, which was very bad news. There could be any number of them between here and the coast road. One man had called to the other to let him know he was stopping to urinate. The other carried on. Both had their backs to Reeve. He walked forward in a silent crouch and, when he was near enough, reached down to lay his rifle on the ground. His right hand was already clutching Lucky 13.
The man was zipping himself up as Reeve came close. He’d had to lay down his own rifle while he was peeing. Reeve tensed and sprang, one hand over the man’s mouth, the dagger chewing into the exposed throat below. The man’s hands reached up from his fly too late. Reeve kept gouging at the neck, hot blood spilling over him. It splattered onto the ground like urine. He laid the body on the ground and retrieved his rifle. The other man was calling for his friend. Reeve made an affirmative sound and started jogging forward, like he had finished and was now catching up. His eyes burned into the enemy’s back. The soldier was saying something about radioing in when Reeve grabbed him by the head and went to work with the knife. More steaming blood. Another body.