Defender (13 page)

"You were supposed to be out there, ready to go 15 minutes ago, Turner. You're jeopardising the lives of everyone else who got there on time." Morgan held the door open with his leg and leaned dog-tired against the doorframe. "Let's go."

"But you said that we had plenty of time before we'd have to move.

This is your plan. You told me I'd have time. I've ..."

"There's no time for this," Morgan barked. "We've got ten minutes, if we're lucky, before rebel troops are crawling all over this place. Get out there. Now!"

"You don't understand. I couldn't let ... this highly sensitive company information ... our records ..." Turner gestured with the laptop case and then back at the PC that remained on his desk. "You take this and I'll finish cleaning the hard drive, delete some files and so on. Surely there's still..."

Turner was shaking, clutching the laptop in front of his chest like a shield to protect himself from Morgan, while handing it to him at the same time. Morgan knew what this was. It was panic. Turner had become so familiar with his tiny little corner of Africa that to go outside, out into the reality that was disintegrating around him, would be the point of no return.
In
his mind, if he could stay safely tucked away, buried in work at his desk, then the world could pass him by.
It
was denial. The fear was in his voice. Morgan had heard it and seen it before in others. The fat little bastard wasn't going to budge. Morgan's temper simmered. Through the windows he could see the plumes of dust trailing the rebel trucks growing in size, closer and closer.
If
Turner wouldn't move, then Morgan would move him. He headed straight for Turner, threatening, intimidating.

Turner recoiled. But in his position, even more so as the General Manager of Alga Creek Mining in Malfajiri, he was not about to be rushed by the know-it-all, glorified policeman. Oh yes, Turner knew he was there to snoop. But there were things that Morgan must not discover. He already appeared to be far too inquisitive. Turner had to maintain control, tighten the leash, and let Morgan know who was boss.

Morgan was upon him.

"Listen, Turner. You've had months to prepare for this. You all knew this coup would happen; it was just a matter of when." Morgan grabbed the man's collar, pulling Turner close until their faces were just inches apart.

"Everybody and everything that wasn't nailed down has been salvaged or taken back to Cullentown. There's nothing left here now except you, and those people out there waiting for you. We're out of time. See for your self!" Morgan spun Turner on his axis and forced him to look out of the window.

"Fine!" Turner snapped. "I'll finish deleting what I have to and then we'll go," he spat, shaking, avoiding Morgan's eyes. "But rest assured, Major Morgan, I will be making a formal complaint via the appropriate channels in the Foreign Office the moment I return to London. You're a thug. I will see to it ..."

A deafening explosion shook the building, wrenching a great gaping hole through the concrete and metal at the far end. Sparks spewed from walls torn open by the blast, and instantly, long arms of wild cabling punched out into the open, smoking breach. Shattered office furniture and huge chunks of wall and roof Bew in every direction. Morgan and Turner were hurled to the ground by the blast, showered by shards of glass and debris as they fell, narrowly escaping the path of a filing cabinet as it sailed over them, crashing hard into the wall behind their heads.

"Jesus Christ!" Turner shrieked, petrified, "What's happening?" "Mortars!" Morgan yelled. "There'll already be more in the air."

Morgan was on his feet. "Right, move or I'll leave you here."

"But..." Turner howled, cowering on the Boor, an angry gash spilling blood across his brow and into his eyes, "they can't get their hands on this ..."

The Puma was turning and burning outside, waiting for them. Morgan pounced at Turner and launched him through the door.

"I'll take care of your bloody computer. You get on that chopper now!" He watched as the short, fat, balding Turner stumbled and fell repeatedly, fumbling to retrieve his tortoise shell round-framed glasses from the Boor before hurtling headlong for the doorway, unleashing a torrent of obscenities back at Morgan as he retreated. Turner clutched at the carry strap of the laptop case, dragging it behind him like a kite that wouldn't fly. Morgan turned to the PC, somehow he knew that he would regret destroying it. Destroying what? Turner's secrets? Evidence? But there just wasn't time. At least there was still the laptop. Raising the barrel of his AKM he emptied a burst directly into the CPU, disintegrating it instantly.

Crump! Crump! Crump!

One explosion, then another, and another scored direct hits on the building and vehicle compound, sending more debris and a volley of white hot shrapnel straight for Morgan. The former paratrooper dropped and rolled under the remains of Turner's abandoned oak desk. Waves of glass, debris and furniture hurtled about the wreckage of the room, missing him as he sheltered on the floor. The explosions ignited fires, and in seconds the flames engulfed the vehicles outside and most of the ruined headquarters. Fuel tanks on the abandoned trucks and four-wheel drives erupted, catapulting the vehicles high into the air before gravity threw them back down into crumpled heaps against the building and across the endless expanse of red dirt that surrounded the complex.

Thick, black smoke enveloped Morgan. He began to choke and cough, flames licking at every inch that surrounded
his
shelter. The wind howled through the gaping end of the building, fuelling the flames and urging the toxic smoke on to cut off his only path of escape. Morgan made a dash for the door, when a mass oflive electrical cabling whipped savagely about
him
in sporadic, frenzied surges, spitting deadly bolts of artificial lightning in every direction. He was forced back behind cover.

Morgan was nauseous, his eyes raw with the stinging effects of the toxic smoke, and his throat as dry as sand. "Jesus!" he gasped, pulling the folds of his shirt collar up around his mouth and nose, struggling to breathe. Morgan knew that he wouldn't survive if he remained under the desk. He'd become trapped, killed by the fire, smoke or the next barrage of incoming mortars. Worse still, he could end up embroiled in a gun battle with the advancing troops, holding out for only as long as his few magazines of ammunition would allow, before being butchered -not a scenario that he found particularly appealing. He remembered the dry comments of an old Sergeant Major who'd been training him as a young officer, 'There's always someone worse off than you, Mister Morgan.'

"Where?" mused Morgan, under his breath.

Thankfully, in a bizarre turn of luck, another wave of mortars finally marked the end of the power supply, and the demonic cabling retracted, falling uselessly to the floor. Seizing the moment, Morgan was on his feet in a flash, sprinting through the smoke and fire to the only safe exit, straight for the helicopter.

"Alex!"
Steve
Mason, at the controls of the Puma, was struggling to maintain a safe hover as shockwaves from the explosions buffeted the chopper. Clumps of concrete, vehicle wreckage and shrapnel peppered the air and Mason had been forced to pull away from the helipad too many times to avoid the debris, while he and the others waited for Turner and Morgan. "Quick, somebody get him on board!"

Mason knew Turner had been the problem. Everybody did. He was a notorious pain in the arse, and had been since taking over the site nine months ago. But he was one of the new big names in the firm, and leaving him behind wasn't an option. They'd all seen Morgan go back for him. But now that Turner was finally aboard, Mason knew that he couldn't leave Morgan behind. He knew the others felt the same way, although the stress was starting to take its toll.
It
was only a matter of time before panic set in and reason was thrown out. Some evacuees were already screaming hysterically with every explosion. Soon they'd demand that Mason lift off and take them to safety, whether Morgan was aboard or not. After all, Morgan knew the risks. That was his job. Better to lose one, than lose them all.

With black smoke billowing from the doorway and the walls collapsing around him, Morgan rushed from the flaming building and fell heavily to the ground, clutching his rifle, retching.

"Sewa!" cried Mason to the local security guard closest to the open rear door. "Get out there, man. Get him on board!"

Sewa dropped from the cargo hold without hesitation, and ran 50 metres to where Morgan lay. He took hold of Morgan under the shoulders, heaving him to his feet.

Back on-board, Arena Halls attempted to clamber from the cargo hold over the top of the others, struggling to get out and follow Sewa to Morgan. "No, Ari!" Mason yelled from the cockpit. "I need you on-board, not

out there. Please."

Arena stared back at Mason through wide-open eyes, strain etched across her face. Her knuckles were white, clutching at the doorframe. She looked back out to Morgan and then back to Mason, fighting her instinct to leap out. Mason shook his head at her. She turned, braced by the door, and watched as Sewa finally reached the motionless figure on the ground.

"Major Alex! It's me, Sir," Sewa yelled over the bedlam. Morgan slowly came back to life. "Quick, we got to get back to the chopper," urged Sewa.

Still dazed, recognition slowly came back to Morgan. He cast a familiar eye over Sewa's sweat-streaked features. The irrepressible smile, even in the middle of a mortar attack, was unmistakable.

"Sewa," coughed Morgan, sucking in deep lungs full of hot air. 'I'm OK, mate. I'm OK. Let's go." Then, they were running. The big African moving fast, dragging Morgan along with ease.

A wall of mortars fell upon them. The shriek of descending death was deafening, raining down upon the building Morgan had left behind seconds before. It was pulverised instantly. As the blast wave reached them, both were punched to the ground.

Morgan knew that the thick mushroom cloud of toxic smoke pouring from the wreckage of the headquarters would at least obscure a clear line of sight from the rebels to the chopper. But their aim was deadly, and when Morgan saw how close the mortars were falling to the diesel and LPG tanks nearby, he knew he couldn't afford to waste any time.
If
the tanks blew, the blast would incinerate everything within 200 yards, including the Puma and everybody on-board.

Mason was fighting at the controls. An assault of orange flame and shrapnel forced him into evasive action - again. He pulled the chopper back in a dramatic pitch to the east, not realising in the confusion of smoke and fire how perilously close he'd brought them to the fuel farm. On the run, Morgan saw it all. He waved frantically at Mason to pull away to the north, in the direction of the water tanks, as far from the fuel farm and the advancing rebel mortar barrage as possible.

"Get out of there, Steve! Get out of there!" Morgan yelled. "Christ!" screamed Mason.

Arena was forced to her knees by the sudden change in direction, and braced herself against the back of the cockpit. Most of the others were screaming. "Stay calm, everyone," she cried. "Hold on. Steve will get us out of this!" At least she hoped he would.

Back at the controls, Mason searched desperately for a way out, and found it in a clear corridor that appeared for a second through the dense, pitch-black smoke. The Puma's engines screamed. The tail rotor spun wildly against the security fence enclosure of the fuel farm, sending great showers of sparks for hundreds of metres across the compound and storage tanks. At any moment, the sparks would ignite the fumes. Mason's response was drilled precision. He thrust forward hard on the cyclic stick, dropping the nose and raising the tail, instantly propelling the endangered aircraft straight ahead. Frantically, he pumped the tail rotor pedals to spin the aircraft's tail to starboard, simultaneously advancing the power levers to the STOP, and manipulating the collective to increase power and lift.
In
a nanosecond he had the aircraft clear of the fuel storage enclosure and was racing forward in a direct line for the water tanks, his heart kicking wildly in his chest.

Morgan and Sewa were running for their lives when the first bursts of small arms fire from the rebels suddenly broke through from beyond the burning building and strafed the ground at their feet.

"They're on top of us, Sewa," Morgan yelled. "Get yourself on-board.

I'll try and keep the bastards back. Go! Go!"

"Sir!" Sewa called breathlessly, without looking back, propelling his long body as rapidly as possible away from the danger. "Come on, Sir!" he yelled, still running.

Morgan dropped behind the cover of a burning vehicle hulk, laying down rapid bursts of fire with the AK at the approaching rebels.
It
was difficult to see them, through the confusion of smoke and dust, but Morgan saw two take direct hits, killing them instantly and slowing the advance of the others. They were too used to fighting the poorly-trained conscripts of the Malfajiri army, he thought. As soon as heavy, accurate fire was thrown back at them, they panicked and scattered. With a succession of lethal bursts Morgan held them back, firing magazine after magazine, covering Sewa as he ran. Then, reloading with a fresh 30-round clip, he was on his feet again, hot on Sewa's heels, leaping over the trail of destruction that littered his route all the way back to the hovering chopper.

Mason found a depression in the ground, a concealed spot by the water tanks to set down. Through the chaos, he could just see Sewa and Morgan racing towards him.
]
use 20 more feet, he willed them on. They would be on-board in seconds.

"If they don't make it this time, then leave them," a trembling voice cried out.

All heads immediately turned to the voice.
It
was Turner, calling from the press of terrified evacuees.