Nick held the gun steady in his hand, and licked away a bead of sweat from his upper lip. It wasn’t the best sniper rifle ever made, but it was cheap, you could always find fresh ammo, and it was plenty accurate enough to deal with the 200 yards that separated the boat from the soldiers swarming onto the beach. Up on the deck, Nick had positioned an M40 sniper rifle, a weapon first issued to the US Marines during the Vietnam War and, as a result, one of the most widely available high-precision rifles in the world. With the other hand tucked into Ollie’s belt, he kicked his legs furiously, propelling them towards the blacked-out shape he assumed to be the hull of the boat. Then, taking a lungful of air, he grabbed Ollie’s wrist and dived into the approaching wave. ‘We’re going under mate,’ he said, his head swivelling towards Ollie. There was a reason why Steve insisted on only working with battle-seasoned soldiers: they’d seen every type of combat you could imagine and they knew precisely how to respond once they were in trouble. Nick Thomas was just twenty years old, his only training with the Territorials, and although he’d proved himself in Afghanistan, and was the best shot any of the men had ever seen, he was still only a kid. His voice was carried eastwards on the wind, and he just hoped it would reach the ears of the boy on the deck. We need some covering fire, otherwise there will be blood in this water. A rapid burst of fire peppered the waves with bullets.Ĭhrist, thought Steve. Behind them, the troops were tumbling out of the Nissan. A wave slapped over him, soaking his clothes and knocking him backwards he had to struggle to stay upright. At his side, he could see Ian dragging the prisoner. With his left hand, he grasped hold of Ollie, still blinded by the flash, and started to wade into the sea. He flung the door open, pushing hard against the water. Smoke was rising from the engine, and white, salty breakers were starting to wash over it. The Toyota was already crashing into the water. Suddenly there was a bark of gunfire as the Nissan arrived at the end of the lane. The Toyota slowed as its tyres struggled to get a grip on the wet sand but it had enough momentum to keep going. There were rough seas on the South Atlantic tonight, with a vicious wind blowing in from the north, and the waves were smashing onto the beach. It was a 30-foot fishing vessel hired 150 miles down the coast in Libreville, with a metal hull, a wooden frame, and a 300 hp diesel engine. You could see the small craft bobbing on the waves twenty yards or so out into the ocean. ‘Drive straight to the boat,’ he shouted. That is, if you didn’t have a truckload of soldiers fifty yards behind you trying to shoot your arse off. It was lined with palm trees, swaying in the wind, and dotted with broken coconut shells. ‘This is the last hole I dig you out of.’Īhead, the track suddenly opened up, and Steve could feel his lungs flooding with relief as the Toyota broke out onto a sandy beach. ‘Sod you, Ollie Hall,’ he murmured again.
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