Mark Abernethy - Golden Serpent

More gunfi re came through the open door, taking out the light hanging from the ceiling. There was still a light on in the gold room.

Manz was now on Mac’s side of the door, Fitzy on the other.

They shouldered weapons then Fitzy counted them in: three, two, one…

They stepped half a pace into the fi ring line, executed what to Mac’s ears was a perfect symphony of three-shot take-outs, their heads rock-steady, their eyes lined up with their sights. Only their M4s moved up and down, with the shoulders and head following as one whole set-piece. It took huge skill to keep perfect form and composure while you did what Manz and Fitzy had just done.

Cordite hung. Silence.

Sawtell and Spikey moved in between the shooters, weapons shouldered, Mac and Paul in behind them. They fanned out. Five Filipinos lay on the concrete, blood on gold, only one still alive. An older bloke, in orange ovies. He dragged himself up, leaned against a pallet of bullion, blood pouring out of his chest, changing the ovies to purple. He didn’t seem to notice.

Magazines were pulled out and pushed in. Breeches cleared, hands checked for load.

Paul walked up. Rattled off something in Tagalog.

‘He’s ex-army,’ Paul said to Sawtell. ‘Heard about this gig through his cousin. Pay’s okay, food’s okay. Could have done without the lead poisoning.’

‘He know where our bomb is?’

Paul asked but the guy shrugged, then spoke.

‘He says the command is down the end. There’s something in a big green tote bag. Takes two men to carry it,’ said Paul. ‘He says the command complex is another quarter of a mile into the mountain.’

A raised voice came from the door. ‘Sir, got company,’ said Fitzy.

Mac was glad for the distraction. From the Vietnam War era, the Green Berets had a reputation for an aggressive interviewing style.

Mac didn’t want Spikey to dip into that kit of his for a whole new set of reasons. Mac had been watching how these guys worked. They were intense and instinctive like a pack of wolves, coalescing round their alpha dog. If Sawtell decided the injured bloke was bullshitting, all it would have taken was a nod from the captain and they’d have torn him up like a two of spades.

They paused at the door, Mac’s fi nger slippery on the safety. Paul’s face had a new glow. Through the nose tape and the black eye Mac could see he liked this stuff. Most blokes with a gunshot wound would have been lying in MMC, goosing the nurses. Mac just liked to achieve his end but real soldiers liked the means too.

Sawtell signalled quiet as they listened to another vehicle approach from inside the mountain. Sawtell keyed the mic and checked on Gordie, who was almost at the mine entry.

Sawtell pointed at the LandCruiser and the men leapt to it. Fitzy pulled the wheel round and the other guys pushed forward, then pushed it backwards into the gold room.

Sawtell pulled most of the men behind the LandCruiser then sent Jansen and Manz – a leftie and an orthodox – to the doorway.

The noise got louder. It was slower than the fi rst vehicle.

Jansen’s M4 spat. Manz’s made more noise. They laid down fi re.

Return fi re came in, louder than God – thwacker, thwacker – tearing off chunks of concrete as big as loaves of bread. The noise was deafening and dust and mortar fi lled the air.

Sawtell moved out to support Jansen as someone yelled, ‘Fuck!

Fifty cal!’

Whoever was out there had brought along a heavy machine gun.

Sawtell tried to get beside Jansen but a whole chunk of the sixty-year-old wall just fell away in a cloud of dust. They ducked, covered in grey dust, pebbles and chunks bouncing off their helmets.

The whole troop moved forward and returned fi re. Mac decided to switch to his left. He could fi re off both hands, even though he didn’t like to do it. Kneeling as the concrete burst around him, a chunk fl ew in his eye. He leaned against Manz’s left leg to get the best angle as a beige Ford F100 pick-up appeared about thirty metres away. It had a belt-fed machine gun mounted on a rail over the cab.

A Filipino in dark red ovies held the thing with two hands, his forearms bunched up with intensity. Every tenth round glowed white through the air.

Three other men with assault rifl es sheltered around the side of the truck. Mac aimed under the truck, at the closest one’s legs. He hit a knee on the fi rst three-shot. The guy dropped, but could still shoot.

Mac hit him again, in the ribs, and he fell to the concrete.

The air was now fi lled with gunfi re. The F100 looked like someone was trying to paint it alloy colour, patch by patch. The machine gun on the truck swung away from Manz for a split second and Manz put a bead in the shooter’s face. The body fell back and down on the fl at deck with no fanfare. It wasn’t like in the movies.

Another man tried to get to the machine gun. Sawtell shouted,

‘Alley oop!’ and the would-be machine gun operator got a bullet in his lower leg, then his hip. That stopped him on the fl at deck. Manz moved out and along the wall to get a better shot. Aimed up, put a three-shot in the guy’s chest.

The last of the shooters turned and ran. Manz took three strides forward, took up the standing marksman and yelled, ‘Halt!’

The guy continued and Manz dropped him. It was a small conceit in the military that soldiers never conceded that they had shot someone in the back. It was the fl oating ribs or the kidneys. That’s where Manz hit him. Three times.

Sawtell got them in. Fitzy had a small line torn in his calf muscle.

Only fl esh, but very painful and bleeding. Manz was the medic on this mission and when he put his medic pack on the ground, Spikey reached in, pulled out saline solution and squirted it into his dusted-up eyes.

Manz pulled Fitzy’s legging up, wiped the blood with an iodine pad. Then he squirted grain spirit straight into the bullet-hole. Fitzy gasped, lips peeling back making him look like a werewolf. He kept it tight. Grain spirit was the best thing you could do for a fl esh wound in the fi eld, but God, it was agonising. Like you were being cauterised.

Manz bandaged the wound and the unit pushed the F100 out of the way, dragged bodies off the drive, changed mags and checked weapons.

Sawtell got Gordie on the radio, said, ‘Open up the tunnel and sweep back through to our position.’

‘Copy that,’ said Gordie.

Fitzy rose. Tested the leg, gave thumbs-up.

Sawtell pointed at Spikey. ‘You drive.’

Sawtell’s group split at the Y-junction. The main tunnel kept going straight and the other road veered off to the left. Mac and Paul were led out by Fitzy, who asked Mac to sweep.

They walked down the bulb-lit tunnel at a medium pace. Water was coming down in torrents at intervals. Mac’s ill-fi tting helmet was becoming a distraction so he took it off, left it on the ground.

A straight section appeared where Mac could see for a hundred metres. There were fi ve or six doorways along the right wall. They got to the fi rst. No door. They peeked around the corner, then walked into a smaller space populated with cot beds. Mac followed Fitzy’s Maglite to another door at the back. He’d bet these rooms linked with the main tunnel.

They advanced through the barracks. Mac didn’t like the lights being out. It felt like a trap.

Mac caught up with Paul and Fitzy and they paused well short of the internal doorway. Fitzy held his fi ngers over the Maglite, giving them better sight into the dark of the next room. They edged to the door, Fitzy going fi rst. Mac and Paul shouldered their M4s.

Fitzy did head-out, head-in twice, then left his face there and looked for what seemed about thirty seconds. Taking his fi ngers off the Maglite, he shone it into the room. Boxes and sacks. Another door on the far side.