The Protector Read online

  The ground was close enough for Mallory to pick out fine details such as a goat lying near a bush. The animal must have been dead because the others had scattered. Mallory disconnected the communication cord from his helmet as he got ready to exit the craft.

  The down draught of the helicopter’s rotor blades hit the ground with tremendous force and just as Mallory caught sight of a man in a grey one-piece flight suit scurrying from behind one of the buildings the dust rose up to mix with the green smoke and obscured his view. Mallory studied the ground as it drew closer, calculating the best moment to jump. It was an exhilarating feeling, getting ready to abandon the safety of the craft to leap into the unknown.

  The Sea King jolted as it turned through ninety degrees, its tail majestically sweeping around, its rotors blowing all before them, before dipping a little as it came to a wavering halt. Samuels was positioning his cabin door to face the Tornado pilot, a sign that he too had seen the man and was giving his boys the shortest route and ensuring that they would not have to run around the ’copter’s nose or tail.

  Mallory estimated that he was a body’s length from the ground and jumped out of the doorway, hitting the packed sand hard. He dropped to one knee, his outstretched hands only just stopping him from falling on his face. He cursed himself for not allowing for the added weight of his body armour and equipment. As Mac landed beside him he pushed himself up and, though all he could see ahead was swirling dust and green smoke, he ran on into it, knowing that the downed Tornado pilot was somewhere beyond.

  As Mallory emerged a few paces ahead of Mac, his mouth and the back of his throat coated in dust, he saw the pilot on his knees the length of a tennis court ahead and wondered why he was not running towards them. As Mallory closed the distance the pilot wobbled as he got to his feet, one of his legs unable to support him - it was clear the man had an injury.

  Mallory glanced left and right for any sign of the enemy as he covered the last few metres. He threw an arm around the pilot’s back as Mac grabbed him from the other side.

  ‘You OK?’ Mallory shouted.

  ‘Did something to my bloody leg on landing,’ the pilot said in a refined English accent, his breathing laboured. ‘Just get me going and I’ll be fine,’ he added, displaying a strength of character as he clung on to both men’s shoulders.

  Mac and Mallory part-carried, part-dragged him back towards the dust storm as he tried to put his weight on his good leg when he could.

  A shot rang out close by, followed by another. The three men kept up their pace as Mallory looked in the direction of the firing, an action made difficult due to the pilot’s arm wrapped tightly around his neck. More bullets ripped into the sand in front of them and as the men responded by increasing their speed Mallory was struck by what felt like a hammer blow to his right foot. It was followed by a searing, burning pain. His leg gave way as if the nerves had been severed and he dropped, unable to stop himself.

  The pilot released him and Mac slowed to look back for his partner. ‘Mallory!’ he cried.

  ‘I’m OK,’ Mallory shouted as he got to his feet. ‘Keep going! Keep going!’

  Mac saw him stand and obeyed, taking the pilot’s weight onto his hip and pushing on into the swirling dust and smoke.

  Mallory took a step but his leg gave way and he dropped to the ground again. The limb seemed to be losing its strength near his hip, as if a major nerve had been severed, even though the wound appeared to be in his foot. He pulled himself up, forcing his wounded leg ahead of him in an effort to kick-start it back into action. But a painful spasm short-circuited the muscles and it buckled again. He looked up from the ground to see Mac and the pilot disappear into the dust storm and with a growling shout intended to inspire a supreme effort he pushed himself up once again. It appeared to have the desired effect but as he moved forward the ground immediately in front of him exploded in a series of bullet strikes from a machine gun close by and a round slammed into the side of his helmet, throwing him over like a rag doll. It was as if he had been kicked in the head by a bull and his vision blurred.

  Mallory’s animal will to survive took charge and he staggered to his feet once more. But as he lurched towards the helicopter another swarm of bullets spat around him. His subconscious screamed at him to take cover and he dived towards a low wall, misjudging the distance and hitting the top of it. As another volley struck the wall beside him he slipped over the top to fall hard on to his back.The voice in his head continued to cry out for him to move and he crawled as fast as he could, scurrying on his belly like an alligator, every limb pushing and clawing at the dirt, keeping his head and backside low. He reached a small gap in the wall and caught a glimpse of the helicopter inside its shroud of dust - the green smoke had dissipated now that the dispenser was exhausted.The seconds were ticking away and Mallory knew that the Sea King would lift off as soon as Mac and the pilot were on board. They had to.The extraction had turned hot and the chopper pilot had a responsibility to the others.

  Mallory braced himself to get up and run towards the craft but as he raised his body and brought his good leg beneath him the Sea King’s screaming engines powered up to the max and the rotor-driven sandstorm intensified. The hub of the ’copter’s blades then emerged from the top of the dust cloud. The craft followed its nose in a tight turn before straightening up as it continued to rise, gaining speed with every second.The nose dipped as the helicopter moved away from Mallory, the aircraft banking to one side and then the other like a fish trying to avoid a shark snapping at its tail. Mallory was compelled to stare at it, partly in disbelief and partly hoping that it would turn in an arc to come back for him. But deep down he knew that it had gone for ever and a voice inside his head urged him to run . . .

  Mallory could hear his own heavy breathing as the sound of the chopper’s engines faded. He scanned around, assessing his options, and saw his only way out: the collection of buildings where the Tornado pilot had originally hidden. He dropped to the ground and scrambled as far as he could on his stomach away from the wall, keeping it between him and the original source of the gunfire. But Mallory was moving far too slowly and, unable to bear it, he leaped to his feet, gritted his teeth against the pain in his leg and ran for all he was worth.The nerves in his hip seemed to have rediscovered their connections and he got into his stride. But he had covered barely a dozen metres when he was struck by a fierce blow to his back that punched him forward with the force of a flying sledgehammer and he sprawled in the sand. Mallory did not pause to speculate about what had happened nor about his condition. If he was alive he would keep going and if he was seriously wounded he would not be able to. He pushed himself up and onward and another round whistled past him. He dived over a waist-high wall as several bullets struck it and he rolled ungracefully onto his knees. Then, pushing off like a sprinter starting a race, he propelled himself forward, straightening up as he gained speed, and ran as if the very hounds of hell were snapping at his heels.

  Mallory arrived at the first building and skidded around the corner where a dirt street separated two blocks of shacks opposite. Not a soul was about: the only movement that caught his eye was a goat wandering along the street. He sped across the gap, the pain shooting up his leg which he fought to control.

  As he ran down the line of dilapidated buildings he reached for his holster, finding the pistol and wrapping his hand around the grip, his thumb pushing aside the Velcro tab that held it in place. He pulled the gun free. His feet lost traction on some slimy garbage as he made a sharp change in direction into an alleyway but hitting the far corner wall helped him to regain his balance. He jumped over a mound of trash and charged on through a long puddle of rancid water, close to slipping several times. But his momentum kept him going. Unable to look back as he ran in case he lost his footing, a strangely euphoric feeling spread through him. Perhaps it was the release of endorphins into his bloodstream, or the buzz of fear itself. Whatever the cause he suddenly felt he had the wings of Mercury on his hee
ls. But the high was not enough to kill the pain in his leg or lighten the reality of his position. Although the shooting appeared to have stopped he had to believe that the bullets could fly his way again at any second.

  A woman carrying a bundle suddenly stepped from a doorway and, unable to change direction, Mallory slammed into her with such force she hit the wall of her house and bounced off it to fall flat on her back in the dirt. Mallory hardly felt the impact: his weight, more than twice hers with his body armour, and the kinetic force of his speed must have been like having a horse hit her. Mallory kept on going without a backward glance, every sense concentrated ahead.

  The end of the dead-straight alleyway was still some distance away and Mallory’s fear of being shot from behind became more intense. Unable to bear it any longer he slammed on the brakes and swerved into the opening of a hut, bouncing off the wall as he fell in and slipping onto his side on the dirt floor. He got to his feet right away, hunched in a stoop because of the low ceiling, and spun in a circle, gun held tight in a two-handed grip, ready to shoot, gulping in air as perspiration flowed, his eyes straining to see into the darkened corners.The room looked like someone’s home: rugs, cushions and cooking implements were laid out as if the occupants had recently departed in a hurry. An opening in the opposite wall, looking as if it had been fashioned with a sledgehammer, led to an adjoining room and Mallory moved to look inside. It was another living quarters, with blankets and pillows on the floor, its walls bare but for a jagged hole high up that served as a window.

  Mallory was breathing heavily and he removed his helmet, feeling stifled by it. He wiped away the sweat that was flowing into his eyes as he moved into the smaller room where he jumped up and held onto the edges of the opening to take a look outside. It was another narrow alleyway like the one he had just run down but the point was that it was a different one. He tossed his helmet out, pulled himself up, wriggled through like a maggot and dropped hands first without dignity onto the mucky ground outside. As he got to his feet and picked up his helmet the pain shot through his leg again and he part-jogged, part-limped along the cramped passageway. He checked behind him every few paces, anxious to increase the distance from his landing place but at the same time mindful of the risks of remaining out in the open. Moving increased the chance of running into other dangers and the wisest option was to find somewhere to hide. That would also give him time to formulate a plan, sort himself out and, most importantly, open up communications with his people.

  A wrecked car blocked the end of the alleyway, as if someone had once tried to drive it through, got stuck between the buildings, given up and left it to rot. Tatty flat-roofed mud huts lined either side of the alley and just before Mallory reached the car a gap appeared on his right as if one of the buildings had collapsed. He slowed as he reached it, his gun held in front of him, and turned the corner into what looked like a small yard surrounded by buildings on three sides. Each had an opening although only one had a door, fragile and battered, which Mallory opted for since it offered concealment. He approached it stealthily with his pistol leading the way and eased it open, helmet in his other hand, and looked inside. It was dark with no windows and he quickly moved into the room, stepping away from the doorway and out of sight in case someone passed. The air was musty, smelling like rotten rags, and the room did not look as if it had been recently used, although there were some signs of a previous occupation: cooking pots, wooden boxes containing what appeared to be rusty electrical fittings, a stripped engine block and an assortment of other junk.A rug covered a large portion of the dirt floor but like everything else in the place it was decomposing and caked in dust.

  Mallory closed the door and, feeling overheated, took a moment to get some air. He would have liked to undo his bulletproof jacket to let the air circulate around his sweating body but he knew better than to relax. His injured foot was throbbing and he allowed himself the luxury of squatting on a log for a moment to stretch out his legs and ease the pain. He moved the injured foot into a shaft of sunlight coming in through a crack in the door and inspected it. There was a hole through the instep of the sand-coloured suede boot with a corresponding one on the other side, a dark bloodstain around both. But there was no sign of blood leaking from the wound at that moment. A bullet had passed through the fleshy part of the sole of his foot but it had missed the bone or at worst had only grazed it. An inch higher and the outcome of his escape might have been different, not that it was by any means a done deal at the moment.

  The foot grew more painful as blood was allowed to circulate more freely through it and Mallory contemplated removing the boot to put a dressing on it. He had a small medical pack on his belt but the risk was too great. And the boot might be difficult to get back on if his foot swelled. If it had been bleeding he might have taken the chance but no one ever died from pain, he mused, and decided to forget about it. The worst that could happen to it now was infection and that would take days before it showed.

  He picked up his helmet which gave no ballistic protection and inspected the entry and exit holes in the top of it. He felt the top of his head in case it had been nicked by the bullet and though it was soaked a check of his fingers revealed only sweat - no blood. He had been lucky there, too - an inch lower and it would have been curtains. He reached around his back to search for the third bullet strike in his body armour, his finger finding the hole in the shock-absorbent powdery material that had done its job. Mallory had used up a lot of luck so far but he was going to need more if he wanted to make it home in one piece. The thought of what he needed to do to get out of this mess was depressing and he considered his options for escape.

  The first thing he had to do was set up communications to let his people know he was alive and where he was. He removed his standard-issue SARBE emergency search-and-rescue radio and beacon from its pouch on his belt. It was a waterproof and robust device no bigger than a cigarette pack, and he checked it for damage. He turned it to the radio function long enough for a light to flicker - indicating sufficient power - before turning it off and putting it back in its pouch. This was not the place to send his emergency signal. Mallory needed to be in a secure open area for any rescue craft to land.

  He checked his watch.The ideal location for a pick-up was outside the town and that meant waiting until dark.The Tornado pilot had initiated his beacon immediately because he was in dire straits but Mallory had a responsibility to ensure the rescue team’s safety as well as his own. That meant he had to find a safe landing site.

  Mallory was parched, his mouth dry as a bone, but he had no water. Adding a bottle to his belt kit was something he had considered but decided against, limiting the amount of equipment he carried to enhance his mobility.

  Mallory’s eyes gradually became accustomed to the dim light and he noticed a dirty sheet that was hanging on a couple of nails on the opposite wall and that appeared to cover a hole. He got to his feet, ignoring a stab of pain from his stiff foot, limped over to the sheet and moved it aside.The roughly hammered hole was an entrance to a smaller, darker room that seemed to be filled with more junk. He removed a small pencil light from a pouch and switched it on. The light revealed a weapons store, an Aladdin’s Cave of armaments: dozens of AK47 assault rifles, RPG7 hand-held rocket launchers and an assortment of metal ammunition boxes. Mallory’s first thought was to get out of there, imagining that the owners of such an important storage facility might not be far away. But on the other hand a high-velocity rifle would be more useful in a fight than his pistol.

  He stepped inside, allowing the sheet to drop back across the opening, and took a closer look at the cache. There were hundreds of AK47 magazines, many of them filled with bullets, and inside an open ammunition box were several pistols. On closer inspection much of the ordnance turned out to be old and rusty, while the wooden stocks and butts on some of the AK47 rifles were badly damaged. Mallory holstered his pistol to inspect an AK47 that looked in better condition than the others and carefully drew b
ack the working parts to check the breech and ejection mechanisms. It didn’t look too bad - a touch of oil would do it the world of good.The AK47 was a cheaply manufactured weapon but that was also its advantage. Its low-tolerance moving parts could function even when poorly maintained, one reason why it was the most popular weapon with poorly trained ragtag armies.

  Mallory sorted through the ready-filled magazines, all of which were in bad condition. A couple of empty ones were in reasonable shape but he needed some loose ammunition to fill them with. The next ammunition box he inspected contained pistol rounds and the one beneath that was empty. Another ammunition box was filled with spare parts for an 82mm mortar: a rusty tube and base-plate lay on the floor beside it.

  A clean, relatively new-looking metal ammunition box sitting alone in a corner under a stack of empty sandbags caught his eye. Mallory squatted on a bundle of dirty Iraqi army uniforms in front of it to take the weight off his throbbing leg. He removed the sandbags and pulled on one of the box’s catches but it was tight. He put the end of the flashlight in his mouth, allowing him to use both of his hands, and after a struggle the catch sprang open. He gripped the sides of the lid and raised it. The light bathed the inside of the box and Mallory almost dropped the small torch from his mouth when he saw what was inside.

  He pushed the lid back fully and removed the pencil light from his mouth - which stayed open in disbelief. The box was filled with neatly packed rectangular bundles of green-grey printed paper, each sheet of which had the image of Benjamin Franklin in its centre and the figures ‘100’ in each corner.

  Mallory took out one of the bundles to examine it more closely, turning it on its side and flicking through the crisp notes with his thumb to find every one identical apart from its serial number. He took out a couple more bundles to reveal that the ones beneath were also all made up of United States of America hundred-dollar bills. Suddenly worried that the owners might appear at any moment he went back to the opening to peer through it.