Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

‘You ever worked partner assault?’

Danilov turned at Cowley’s question, not understanding it. ‘What?’

‘Worked with a partner, as a team? Staying close, watching each other’s back?’

‘No.’

Cowley sighed. ‘We’ll keep together when we get there. You hear me say “go down” you go down, fast as you can. That’s all we’ve got time to work out. OK?’

Danilov nodded. ‘Listen out for me, too.’

Cowley smiled, wanly. ‘We should have practised.’

‘They turned off the main road!’ shouted Melega, from the helicopter. In his excitement he began in Italian, having to stop and start again, in English.

Everyone moved back towards the machine. Danilov stowed his unwanted jacket in the rear, where the tail narrowed, but carefully, folding one lapel across the other so neither would crease, and straightening the sleeves side by side.

‘You’re right to be careful,’ tried Patton. ‘Lot of thieves around here.’

None of the others laughed. Danilov forced a smile.

‘Let’s get ready,’ urged Melega.

They took the same seats, like people do in an interrupted journey: there was a lot of noise getting seatbelt buckles engaged. They put on their helmets, plunging their heads into a cacophony of Italian. The pilot depressed switches and buttons: the engine whined and coughed, the whine growing in pitch, and the helicopter lifted off precisely at the moment Melega, hunched over his watch, patted the pilot’s back.

They didn’t soar, bird-like, into the air as Danilov had expected. Rather the helicopter came cautiously up over the low peak of the mountain and momentarily hovered there, like a player in a grown-up game of hide-and-seek, which Danilov supposed was exactly the game they were playing. Continuing the impression, other helicopters peeped up all around, from neighbouring valleys, like awakening flying things seeking prey. Danilov counted five, then six. A seventh straggled into view. They all abruptly started to move at the same time, in an arrow-head formation. Theirs led at the very tip but they did not go up, like people are supposed to fly. but down to hide again, skimming the valley floors so close Danilov could see the bushes and the scrub and the trees but at the same time not see them, not clearly, everything blurred and rushing in front of him. He clamped his mouth against the stomach retch and closed his eyes, which didn’t help because with his eyes shut he was more aware of the lifts and drops. One climb seemed higher than the rest and when he looked he saw they were going over the island-crossing highway: cars already blocked it, uniformed policemen motioning protesting traffic back the way it had come. One Chinook was already on the closed-off part of the road, disgorging troops in camouflaged fatigues, and another was flying in, following the road line, the soldiers sitting with their legs dangling over the side, ready to jump before it properly landed. Beside him Danilov saw Patton’s mouth forming words no-one could hear: the man’s head was moving slowly from side to side, a shake of resignation.

Danilov was never able, later, to separate the crossing of the sealed-off road and disgorging soldiers with what happened at Villalba. Helicopters seemed to fill the sky, a swarming insect cloud. There were snatched glimpses of panicked people running from houses and buildings, to look, and then being driven back to cover by the swirling, deafening whirlwind of descending rotors.

Danilov was aware of running but not knowing where, blinded by the billowing dirt, someone’s hand on his shoulder for contact, not for guidance. There were a lot of popping sounds, like a faulty scooter exhaust, which Danilov did not at once realise were shooting: it didn’t then – or at any time – occur to him to crouch or take cover. The hand wasn’t on his shoulder any longer. Then the dust cleared, and with it his confusion.

The farmhouse was directly in front of him, two helicopters – one a Chinook – beyond. The village was behind and to his left, his view limited to one or two houses and what appeared to be a shop of some sort. People’s faces were at its window. He could not see Melega, Cowley or Smith, but Patton was directly, ahead and running straight towards the farmhouse. Danilov ran after the American, without thinking of what he was doing. A squad of soldiers in flak jackets, maybe five or six, ran suddenly around from the rear of the building. There was a loud blast, of a shotgun, and Danilov clearly saw a soldier’s head blown entirely from the top of his body: another explosion and the flak jacket of another soldier puckered and he went down.

And then there was another shotgun blast, right in front of him. Danilov was never able to remember if he actually heard the shot, ahead of everything else. His first conscious awareness was being hit by something very hard, which stopped him in his tracks: of stinging all over his chest and body, and a lot of blood, and then he was falling. But not by himself; with someone on top of him.

It was Patton, he realised: Patton who had been hurled back into him by the force of the shotgun blast that had completely severed the man’s right arm above the elbow: Patton whose blood was gouting all over him and who was initially too shocked to feel any pain and seemed surprised to find Danilov so close – holding him – and who began: ‘What the fuck…’ before they landed one on top of the other in full, unobstructed view and range of the farmhouse, the American virtually cradled in Danilov’s lap. Stupefied, they both looked at the shattered, gushing stump. Angrily Patton said: ‘My arm! They’ve taken my fucking arm! Where’s my fucking arm?’ And then he shrieked as the agony gripped him, arcing up from Danilov as if they were partners in some odd choregraphed dance.

The scream broke Danilov’s inertia. He heard someone shouting to get down and, recollecting what Cowley had said, tried to pull Patton back to the ground. Patton did slump, and as he did so Danilov looked beyond, to the farmhouse – and saw the double-barrelled snout of a shotgun emerge, aiming directly at them.

Danilov felt no fear: rather, there was an almost serene, disembodied calm in which he knew precisely what to do and how to do it: that he could do it. He was unaware of drawing the Beretta or of releasing the safety catch: it was just suddenly in his hand, ready, and he was aiming, unhurriedly, without panic. There was a lot of other firing all around but he was aloof, separate from it, not distracted or worried by the noise. He reviewed his first shot with studied control, sure it was the one that splattered plaster off the window edge, annoyed it was not more accurate. It was still good enough for the barrel of the rifle to be jerked back out of sight, unfired. His next shot entered the window without any deflection, and the one after that, and the one after that: he was shooting without haste, allowing the pause between each trigger pull, cautious against the weapon jamming. Patton was unconscious but still cradled in his lap, his body shuddering in spasm at the blood loss from his massive wound.

Danilov pumped carefully placed round after carefully placed round into the window space, his mind functioning sufficiently for him to wonder if he was hitting people and making them bleed to death like the man he was holding was bleeding to death. When the Beretta clicked empty he groped for Patton’s gun, but the waist holster was empty too. I suppose I’ll die now, he thought. He hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much when the bullets or the cartridges tore into him.

Danilov never saw how the stun and teargas grenades got into the farmhouse: probably through a window on one of the other sides he could not see. There was just the vibrating whump of the stun bomb, which actually made his ears ring, and then the billowing smoke of the gas making it look as if the house was on fire.