‘What should we do?’ Bernard asked.
‘You need to keep this outpost open,’ Stratton said. ‘There’s a reason someone wanted it wiped out. Set up the radio, inform your people and get reinforcements down here. Tell them to bring half a dozen claymores. This is what they were designed for.’
The radio operator removed his pack to set up communications, the patrol commander putting the headset over his ears.
‘You?’ Stratton said, getting the attention of one of the young men still transfixed by the dead. ‘Cover the route we came in on. You? Cover in that direction. You and you. I want you to clear the high ground,’ he said, indicating the area above the outpost. ‘That whole area all the way to the top.’
The men obeyed.
Stratton went to the lookout position and studied the panorama. The knoll provided a dramatic view of the junction of three valleys, the main approaches to that side of the plateau. He scanned in all directions with his binoculars, hoping to see what the outpost had not been meant to report on. It didn’t take him long to find something.
In the far distance, at the head of one of the valleys, what looked like a long line of soldiers and loaded burros was snaking its way in his direction. ‘Bernard?’
The young man came to his side.
‘When you get that radio working, tell them a large force of foot soldiers is heading this way. Three to four hundred, rough estimate. I also advise they check on the other outposts.’
The two men who’d been ordered to sweep the high ground mounted the rocks on the edge of the position to carry out their task. A couple of short bursts of high-velocity gunfire from the slope spat several rounds through both men, killing them before they hit the ground.
Other shots raked the position. One of the men covering the routes either side of the outpost was killed instantly, the other was seriously injured. Stratton, Bernard, the patrol commander and the radio operator dropped behind cover.
Stratton brought his weapon into his shoulder, waiting for a target. All he could think was that the outpost should never have been manned without a gun team on the high ground. Their only hope now was to defend themselves against an assault - there was no way that they could mount a counter-attack. They could not attempt a move with that gun covering their position.
A soft moan came from nearby and Stratton peered through the foliage to see Bernard clutching at himself, obviously in pain.
‘Where’re you hit?’ Stratton whispered.
Bernard tried to turn enough to see him. ‘I’m okay,’ he said, his voice quivering.
Stratton suspected otherwise.
‘Drop your weapons or you will all die like your comrades!’ a voice called out from the bushes. ‘We have your position surrounded.’
Stratton remembered the men hanging by their necks in the jungle on the day he’d arrived. These attackers would be all too likely to mete out the same kind of retribution to anyone they captured.
‘I have been ordered to take prisoners. Those others, they went for their guns. If you give yourselves up you will be allowed to live. If you fight, you will die.’
It was the kind of threat that the defenders wanted to hear but still could not really believe.
A man in civilian clothes rose from behind cover, his rifle aimed carefully at the rebel patrol’s position. He was followed by another and then more, all of them in civilian clothes.
‘I’m coming out,’ shouted someone not far from Stratton. It was one of the rebels. ‘I’ve dropped my gun. Don’t shoot.’ The radio operator did not waste any time as he got to his feet and stepped into the open, his arms raised in the customary surrender gesture.
The patrol commander followed him. They clearly realised the futility of resistance and were willing to take their chances by surrendering.
‘What about you, Bernard?’ Stratton asked.
‘I . . . I can’t fight,’ he stammered.
Stratton exhaled heavily, his nerves on edge. A twinge of fear gripped him which he fought to hold at bay. It was one of those key moments of decision. He could go for it, come out blasting, take his chances on maybe creating a hole in the enemy’s line and hope to get away. If he did, his escape routes were limited, to say the least. There was a steep drop from the view point behind him. He could jump and hope that he didn’t break every bone in his body. Even then they could still pick him off. The other option was to stand up, surrender and take his chances. There were too many guns aimed at him for him to try and escape, he decided.
Stratton put down his weapon and got to his feet.
Bernard stood up painfully, holding his shoulder, blood seeping from a hole in the front and the exit point in his back.
The leader of the ambushers pushed his way forward and into the clearing. He was wearing a hat and carrying an AK47. He also had a pistol in a holster attached to his belt. He grinned at Stratton. His face was covered in a scruffy beard. ‘Hello, Englishman,’ he said stepping closer as his men closed in.
There were a dozen of them, all dishevelled and grubby.
The leader nodded to his men and several of them descended on the rebels to search their pockets and remove their webbing. One of them handed Stratton’s belt to the leader who looked through the pouches with interest, inspecting the GPS. ‘Tie their hands,’ he barked.
His order was carried out swiftly.The other wounded rebel was dragged over and dropped to the ground alongside the others.
‘I must now execute you all for crimes against the government of Neravista,’ the bearded leader said casually. ‘I’m sorry about the prisoner bit. I was lying. It’s the law, as you know, that all terrorists are to be killed as soon as they are captured. I don’t have time to find a suitable gallows so you will have to be shot.’ The leader whispered something in the ear of his subordinate before stepping back. ‘Carry on,’ he said.
‘Ready,’ the subordinate called out. His men raised their rifles where they stood. ‘Aim!’ he shouted. The radio man began to cry and urine coursed down his legs. Bernard clenched his jaw and stared at his killers.
‘Fire!’
Every rifle went off at once. Stratton flinched. The others dropped to the ground. Bernard and the radio operator died instantly, bullet holes in their heads and torsos. The patrol commander writhed in agony, a hole in his neck spouting blood several feet into the air, his arms motionless because his spine had been severed. One of the ambushers stepped closer, aimed his rifle, and shot the commander through his head. Then he adjusted his aim and put a round through the head of the wounded man who had been dumped on the ground, even though he looked to be already dead.
Stratton remained standing. He had winced when the shots were fired but otherwise had not moved.
The ambushers’ leader chuckled. ‘You don’t like my sense of humour?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you but all the patrols in this area were told not to kill the Englishman if they should come across you.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe someone else wants that pleasure.’
He shouted a command and the group quickly made ready to go.
Stratton took a moment to come back to earth. For several seconds he had really believed his time had come, right up to and including an instant after the shots had been fired. He had felt the bullets striking Bernard who had been so close that he was almost touching him and he’d been splashed by the younger man’s blood. But at that moment Stratton’s brain could not grasp why he himself had felt no pain. The leader’s laugh had come to him like a distant echo.
One of the men slammed him cruelly in the back with a rifle butt to get him going. He felt drained, as if his blood had left him. No amount of previous experience of the sight, sound and smell of death fully prepared one for it.