Tenth Man Down by Chris Ryan Page A

there was no one left alive in the box. Now, we’ve told them to count the hits on the targets and get back in fast. As soon as—’
    My words were cut short by a new burst of firing from our left. I heard Pavarotti yell ‘ Stop! ’ but several more rounds cracked off, and to my consternation I saw tracer streak towards the killing ground. We already had guys out there. Something was badly wrong.
    There was more yelling, another burst of rounds, tracer hurtling vertically into the sky. When the firing ceased, the commotion continued, with several voices shouting and the sound of a struggle.
    ‘Pav,’ I went on the radio, ‘what the fuck was that?’
    There was a pause before he answered, and when he did, he was panting. ‘Little local difficulty,’ he gasped. ‘One of the bastards flipped.’
    ‘Anybody hurt?’
    ‘I wouldn’t call it that. Let’s say he lost his head.’
    I swallowed an exclamation. Knowing Pav, I was pretty sure what he meant. All I said was, ‘Can you handle it?’
    ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you shortly.’
    The extra shooting put the fear of God into the guys round the targets. The search parties came flying back, the cut-offs first, then the killer group, each commander calling out, ‘Last man . . . in .’ Then suddenly everybody had gone. We heard footsteps crashing away towards the north, and soon the only noise was the crackling of the flames beyond the river.
    When the disturbance broke out, Bakunda had still been lying on the ground between the boulders, so that he hadn’t appreciated the full extent of the fuck-up occurring out to his left. But now he was on his feet and asking, ‘What happened over there?’
    ‘Not sure,’ I said non-committally. ‘Sounded like somebody dropped his rifle and it started firing automatically. We’ll hear when we get back.’
    That seemed to satisfy him, and he asked, ‘What next, then?’
    ‘Your lads are already on their way back to the Bergen cache, fast as they can go. They’ll grab their packs, and then our guys will beest them about fifteen ks to the east.’
    ‘Beest?’
    ‘Hustle them on. Your commanders have to navigate, find their way to an RV. Our guys just keep the pace up. The point is to simulate a fast evacuation from the ambush location. That’s what we’d do in a live situation – get the hell out. Tonight we’ve arranged for a truck to go round and wait at the RV, to bring everyone back to camp.’
    I was still struggling to get my mind round the dust-up in Pavarotti’s group. From his laconic answer, I felt certain the silveries were going to arrive back at base one man deficient.
    To take my mind off that worry, I said, ‘How about a quick look at the targets?’
    ‘Sure.’
    The fire had already retreated from the killing ground as it ate into the bush beyond, and we needed our torches to get a clear look at the figure eights, most of which once again were flat on the deck. All the ground-mounted group in the centre had been well riddled, but the tree targets had taken only a couple of rounds apiece. The right-hand runner had one bullet through the shoulder, and the left-hand target was untouched. So, too, were the two edge-on figures, set for the claymores.
    ‘Look at these,’ I said. ‘I told them they’d got their mines too far apart,’ I said. ‘This’ll be a good lesson to them.’
    ‘What about the fire?’ Bakunda asked.
    ‘Nothing we can do about it. But it’ll burn out when it comes to the next sand river.’
    The President didn’t say much as we trekked back to camp. I thought he was maybe worried or annoyed by the lack of discipline his guys had shown. We passed straight through the Bergen cache, pausing only to pick up his escort of heavies. I was afraid we’d see one pack still sitting on the ground, but the whole lot had gone, and nothing was said.
    Once we reached base, Bakunda became very matey. He started calling me ‘Old Boy’ and chattering away about his time at Sandhurst.