Andy McNab - Battlefield 3 - The Russian

‘Get up there! Make it count, Sergeant.’

The dead man collapsed on to the seat behind Brady as Blackburn took his place and the Humvee roared backwards.

Brady was shouting into the radio again. ‘ Misfit actual this is Haymaker. Encountering heavy enemy fire. Proceeding to target location.’

‘Haymaker actual. Secure ground level. Alert for HVT. Birdseye 2 is three miles away, over.’

They cleared the fire area. Brady yelled up at Black.

‘Good work, soldier. Let’s go cut this snake off at the head.’

The Humvee surged forward down a parallel street to the one they had just vacated. Ahead, smoke billowed from a tall building, a massive crater in its side as if it had been hit by a plane. An Osprey swooped in and hovered above, the rotors’ wash blasting smoke around the building. Blackburn saw the rear hatch open and two gunmen take up position.

‘ Birdseye 2 on station. Package fast roping in, over.’

The men spilled out down the ropes on to the roof of the smoking Ministry. Brady slewed the Humvee to a halt and was out before it stopped. Blackburn looked round for Montes and Matkovic, saw them and pointed at some cover behind a stranded bus, but the guns round the building had fallen silent.

Black waved them towards the entrance.

‘We’re with you, Sergeant.’

‘Okay you guys: watch for friendlies as you clear.’

Most of the personnel had either fled or taken cover. The lobby was awash with broken glass and abandoned files and boxes. An attempt to evacuate had failed as the occupants simply ran for their lives. Loose paper floated in the air, whipped up by the downforce of the Osprey. Above they could hear the shouts of the men who had roped down, clearing rooms and floors as they went.

‘We have a runner on the stairs.’

Black rushed forward as a figure exited a stairwell, hesitated and then turned away from them. Brady, distracted, missed the moment.

‘Take him, take him.’

Black threw himself at the man and collapsed on top of him, winding him. A binder shot out of his hands and skidded along the floor. Brady, right behind, thrust the muzzle of his M4 into the Iranian’s ear.

‘Let me at him.’ Brady pushed a boot against the man’s shoulder, treading on his insignia. ‘Colonel: good. Prepare to die, Colonel. Your war just ended.’

Black turned the Colonel’s head to face Brady. For a second he thought Brady was going to let him have it point blank and got ready to jump clear. But Brady had a better idea. He scooped up the file and calmly started leafing through it as he crouched down beside the Iranian.

‘Where did you think you were headed just now, Sir? Not many places left to go out there.’

The breath hissed between the Colonel’s teeth as Blackburn pressed down on his head.

‘. . Pigs, bastards. .’

Brady kept his tone nonchalant.

‘Yeah, yeah, that’s us all over. You want to die now or co-operate and take us to your leader?’

‘You attack our defenceless people—.’

Brady slammed the file down on the Colonel’s head and screamed:

‘Time’s up, Colonel! Where’s Bashir?’

‘Okay; okay. Not here.’

‘Where then?’

25

Niavaran, Northeast Tehran

They had spotted the US ground forces from their position in the hills, so Dima’s team made their descent into Tehran from the northeast, down the Lashakark Road, which led straight to the Police Park. The streets were littered with rubble and tiles. Some had been blocked altogether by fallen buildings. Every Rakhsh APC the Iranian Army owned seemed to be on the streets, each one wearing hastily-applied PLR markings.

‘I finally figured out what’s different.’

‘Apart from devastation and insurrection?’

‘No traffic. Used to be the world capital of traffic jams. A man once died at the wheel of his car. No one realised for two hours.’

The city was now almost empty. Those the earthquake had failed to scare away had been prised from their homes by the bombardment. In the main shopping streets, looters had tried taking advantage of the chaos: pavements were littered with TVs, dishwashers and other goods, pulled out in triumph and then abandoned, for lack of means to transport them. The Peykans were such an effective disguise they proved to be a magnet for desperate stragglers hunting for transport. They kept their AKs prominently displayed to discourage car-jackers as they made their way to Amara.

Kroll radioed from the second car.

‘ The tracker. It’s working! I’m a genius.’

‘Okay genius. Get us a grid reference.’

‘I’m working on it right now.’

As they closed in on Amara’s street, the air filled with the sound of AA fire, followed by the shriek and thud of a massive shell.

‘Great. Uncle Sam is homing in. Let’s get this done.’

Kroll radioed again.

‘ Okay, I’m getting a signal in Central Tehran.’

‘That’s nice and specific. How about a street or a building?’

‘There’s a lot of interference: that’s the best I can do.’

‘Then it’s all down to Amara and the charming Gazul.’

The house was surrounded by gardens and a high wall, but the street gates were wide open. Shutters and security grilles protected the windows. Gregorin and Vladimir made a full circuit of the perimeter wall and reported the area quiet. Dima called Amara again.

‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes, please hurry!’

‘Come to the door and let us in.’

‘How do you know you can trust her?’ hissed Vladimir, as they approached the door.

‘I don’t.’

At what precise moment Dima realised his mistake, he couldn’t remember. He believed he could trust Darwish, but at a time of chaos allegiances can change by the hour. He could have set them up. Amara could have lost her nerve, aroused her husband’s suspicion or even tipped him off. If he was honest, he knew it was high risk to the point of madness, but so was trying to find a bomb in a quake-damaged city under siege.

They stopped about five metres from the door. It opened a crack, and then wider. Dima gestured to the others to wait until he could see Amara clearly. She was shaking and tearful, which was to be expected, but otherwise she didn’t move. He looked at her, trying to work out what was wrong. She just stood there, clutching the edge of the door for support. Then after a few seconds she beckoned him forward. The light inside the entrance hall was coming from the right and it was the movement of the shadow she was standing in that made his mind up for him.

Without raising it from his hip, he squeezed off a short burst from the AK. He hoped his aim was as good as it used to be, so the shots would panic whoever was behind the door into thinking she’d been hit. The slugs would have to skim the air just above her head, close enough for the shock wave to blast her right back through the hallway.

They fanned out on either side of the door, ready for a response. Gazul Halen was a man who would shoot first and think later, if at all. Darwish was right. The PLR’s Chief of Intelligence — there was an inappropriate title for you — leapt into the doorway brandishing an Uzi like an actor in a cheap TV movie. He sprayed the empty driveway just long enough for Dima to get a fix, so he could put a bullet neatly into his forearm, which travelled on and hit the weapon as well.

The Uzi jumped out of Gazul’s hand. As he convulsed on the floor Dima launched himself forward, slamming one boot down on his injured hand and kicking the Uzi away with his other.

‘Gazul Halen? Nice of you to have us over.’