James Becker - The Messiah Secret

A few yards further up the valley from the cave entrance, one of Masters’s men was sitting on a rock, his Kalashnikov resting across his lap, his hand holding the pistol grip. About fifty yards down the slope, another two of the mercenaries were staring down towards the foot of the valley, their AK-47s slung over their shoulders. The three men were covering the two possible approaches to the cave.

They all heard the unmistakable roaring, clattering sound of a helicopter and for an instant none of them took any notice. They knew they were in a disputed border area, and they had seen and heard several helicopters since they’d crossed into India, so a chopper wasn’t exactly a new sight. But then the Hind appeared over the side wall of the valley, nose-down and heading straight towards the cave.

‘Take cover!’ one of the men yelled, swinging his weapon round to point at the approaching gunship, as his companion opened fire.

The mercenary closest to the cave looked round desperately for somewhere — anywhere — to hide. He knew he’d never make it to the cave entrance, but it was the only possible shelter. He had to try.

His finger slid on to the trigger of his AK-47 and fired a long burst, then turned and started running. But at that very moment the crew of the attack helicopter opened fire. There was a flicker of flame from the nose of the aircraft and a stream of machine-gun bullets ploughed a deep furrow across the rocky ground, ricochets from the impact of the shells and rock splinters flying everywhere.

Half a dozen rounds caught the running man in the chest and almost cut him in two. His momentum carried him forward another couple of steps, but he was dead before he stopped moving.

The Hind’s crew switched their aim, and in less than two seconds the other soldiers’ weapons fell silent as their bullet-riddled bodies slumped down among the rocks.

* * *

The cave echoed with the sound of automatic weapons’ fire. The armed man at the back of the cave reacted immediately, unslinging their weapon and starting to move. Bronson’s attention was fixed on Masters.

The former soldier glanced across at him, then at John Cross and what little was visible of the mountain slope outside the cave. Then he reached inside his parka and pulled out a semi-automatic pistol.

For an instant Bronson thought he was going to shoot them both. Instead the soldier turned, and in a single fluid movement reversed the weapon in his hand and tossed the pistol over to Bronson. Then he swung back, snapped off the safety catch of his Kalashnikov and headed for the cave entrance.

Donovan was white with fear and anger. ‘What’s happening?’ he demanded.

‘Just get out of sight, JJ, and shut the hell up while I sort this,’ Masters snapped. Then he turned away. ‘Don’t go outside,’ he yelled.

But he’d picked his men well — they were all ex-military — and the last thing John Cross was going to do was run out of a dark cave into bright sunlight where enemy troops were probably waiting to cut him down.

Bronson didn’t question, didn’t hesitate. He caught the weapon in mid-air, grabbed Angela by the hand and pulled her as far away from the entrance as he could.

‘What’s going on?’ she demanded breathlessly, crouching beside him in the darkness at the far end of the short right-hand tunnel of the cave.

Bronson craned his neck as he tried to see outside. ‘That sounded to me like two different weapons. One was definitely like a heavy machine-gun, and that could mean-’ He broke off as a renewed burst of firing sounded from outside the cave, and then a familiar deep throbbing noise, overlaid by the roar of jet engines.

‘That’s a chopper.’ Bronson pulled back the slide on the pistol to chamber a round and clicked on the safety catch. ‘Maybe some Indian Army troops have pitched up.’

He looked around the cave. There was nowhere they could hide. He didn’t know how many men the American had at his disposal, although clearly he’d left at least one or two outside the cave, otherwise there would have been no firing. He also had no idea how many troops were in the attacking force, and no clue what the outcome of the fire-fight was likely to be.

But there was one thing he could do that might help their personal odds a little. And he needed to do it straight away.

Nick Masters stood in the entrance to the cave. Down the slope he could see the unmoving shape of one of the three men he’d left on sentry duty. Over to his right, in a left-hand turn, the evil light-grey painted shape of the Hind gunship was unmistakable.

‘Shit,’ he muttered.

‘What the hell’s that gunship doing out here?’ John Cross asked.

As he spoke, the Hind lined up for its next attack, and a short burst from its cannon chewed up the ground immediately in front of the cave entrance. Both men ducked back inside.

Masters tore his glance away from the Hind and looked around the cave. There was no other way out, that was for sure, and nowhere they could hide where the gunship’s weapons couldn’t find them.

Despite the odds, Masters knew they had to neutralize the Hind. But how? With three men dead — and a friend whom he now realised was way too greedy and ambitious for his own good — he was fresh out of options.

‘Wait here,’ Bronson hissed at Angela, and crept forward.

JJ Donovan was cowering behind a pile of rocks, trying to make himself as small as possible. He was staring fixedly at the cave entrance.

Bronson stepped up behind him, smashed the butt of the pistol into the side of his head, then grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the back of the cave.

‘What on earth are you doing, Chris?’ Angela snapped, her indignation at Bronson’s attack on an unarmed man temporarily overcoming her fear.

‘I’m giving us an edge,’ Bronson said, resting the barrel of the semi-automatic pistol on Donovan’s shoulder so that the end of it rested against the side of his neck. ‘As I see it, there are two groups of armed men out there fighting each other. I don’t know who this guy is, but if his people come out on top, the fact that he’s my hostage might mean we can talk our way out of here.’

‘And if the other group wins?’

He sighed. ‘Then it won’t matter either way.’

When Masters had seen the Barrett on sale in the arms bazaar in Islamabad, he’d immediately decided to buy it. He didn’t imagine they’d need to use it, but it was a useful insurance policy. Now he was glad he’d spent the extra money.

The Barrett is arguably the most powerful rifle in the world. In expert hands it is capable of placing a half-inch bullet in a man-size target at a range of well over a mile.

And Masters was an expert. A former SEAL, his particular speciality had been sniping. Thirty seconds after the Hind’s heavy machine-gun had annihilated three of his men, he had the weapon loaded and aimed, and was looking through the scope towards his target.

But that, of course, was only half the problem. There was no doubt in Masters’ mind that he could hit the Hind. But hitting it wouldn’t be enough. The supersonic half-inch bullet would leave a hell of a dent in the chopper’s armour plating, but wouldn’t penetrate it. There was no point in aiming at the twin cockpits, because they were heavily protected, and the engines, too, would be a difficult target with no guarantee the round would destroy or even damage them.

But there were weaknesses with the Hind, as with all helicopters, and these were what Masters was going to try for. And he would, he figured, have only the one shot. If he missed, and the crew of the gunship spotted he was firing from the cave, they’d torch the area and that would be that.