Беар Гриллс - The Hunt [=The Devil's Sanctuary]

The night sky was crystal clear. The moon was almost full, throwing the surroundings into eerie light and shadow. The illumination would be both a help and a hindrance. Jaeger would try to use it and the natural environment to his advantage. Old lessons that never died.

His mind raced. The two SUVs packed with gunmen had been lost from sight around the far end of the valley at around 0330 hours local time. He figured it would take them a good ninety minutes to scale the lower end of the gorge, especially with all the kit they would be carrying. It was 0430 now, so they could be cresting the ridge at any time.

They’d then have to ski west-south-west for a kilometre or so to bring them into the OP position from its rear. Jaeger figured he had twenty minutes maximum to execute the kind of deception he had in mind. He upped his pace. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back and soaking his silk inner layer as he pushed on.

Part of him felt physically drained. The lack of food, no doubt. But another part of him was fired up on adrenalin, and he felt as if he could ski like the wind. He’d have to if his plan was going to work.

The snowfield rose ahead of him gently, cresting out at a distant ridge. He was at his best going uphill. Few skiers could beat him in a climb. He just needed to make that ridge alive, and he should be good to execute stage two of his plan.

He halted when he figured he was some 500 metres short of the high ground. There was little point in taking cover, not for what he now intended. He turned and faced the way he had come, back towards the valley. He drew his pistol – a Sig Sauer P228 – and chambered a round.

He was a white figure standing amongst white snow on a moonlit night. They were unlikely simply to see him, and he couldn’t think of any other way to draw their attention. He’d fire a shot into the air. As if it was intended to alert the rest of his team, positioned higher up the slope, to the appearance of the enemy.

Alert, hyped up, muscles coiled tense as a spring, Jaeger waited.

He checked his watch. Any time now.

Sure enough, the first figures hove into view.

Kammler’s team were moving in single file, the lead skier beating a track through the snow for the others to follow; disciplined professionals, mercenaries no doubt, searching the terrain to either side of them as they went.

They clearly knew that Jaeger and his team had set their OP on the high ground, but they didn’t know exactly where. Or at least that was Jaeger’s gamble.

They kept moving towards him.

Like fish in a barrel.

Jaeger’s heart was thumping. He knew the time had come. Time to go overt.

He raised his pistol and fired.

The shot rent the air above Jaeger’s head, the hollow thud of the subsonic round echoing across the snow.

The line of figures came to an abrupt halt.

As they did, Jaeger turned and recommenced his line of march, making for the high ground. He was banking on several factors now. One, he was the better skier. Two, none of the enemy would have brought a long-range weapon with them. You wouldn’t tend to, not when you planned to ambush a small force in a hidden OP.

From behind him he heard the harsh crackle of gunfire. Rounds snarled past to either side, kicking up angry plumes in the snow. He pushed ahead, knowing that his very life, plus those of his team, depended upon it.

He began to zigzag across the snow to confuse the gunmen’s aim. The very worst thing would be one of them scoring a lucky hit and disabling him.

Eventually the fire from behind petered out.

He risked a glance over his shoulder.

The dozen figures had slung their weapons and turned in line to follow him. In a sense, Jaeger didn’t blame them. Where else could a lone figure like him be heading, other than to join the rest of his team at their OP? Nothing else would make sense. Track Jaeger and the gunmen would bag the lot of them – or so they had to be thinking.

The way ahead was a mass of unmarked snow. Jaeger mapped out a route through the contours, one designed to maximise speed. All he had to do was reach the ridgeline ahead of his pursuers.

He drove himself onwards until his thigh and calf muscles were burning, his lungs heaving.

At last he crested the high point. For a few seconds he skied onwards, as if continuing his flight. Once he was out of view of his pursuers, he dropped down, clipped off his skis and crawled back to the ridge. Unslinging the Dragunov, he brought it to his shoulder and eased himself over the lip of rock and ice. The slope below came into view close up, via the Dragunov’s PSO-1 4x magnification telescopic sight.

At first glance, the scope’s reticule – its eyepiece sighting system – looked complicated. The horizontal crosshair was joined at the middle by a series of vertical arrowheads or chevrons, each spaced a millimetre or so apart. On the bottom right of the scope were two fine lines in the shape of a funnel laid on its side. Five marks were inscribed along it, like the lines on a ruler, numbered 2, 4, 6, 8, 10.

Like most former communist bloc kit, however, the scope was actually simplicity itself. And fortunately, the Regiment had taught Jaeger how to use just about every weapon known to man.

You placed the funnel marker over the target until it snugly head to toe. At that point you read off the number, as Jaeger did now: 8. The lead enemy gunman was thus 800 yards away. He raised the rifle slightly, getting the topmost chevron lined up with the target’s chest. Each chevron represented 200 metres extra distance.

Like that, he adjusted for the bullet drop over 800 metres. He calmed his breathing, closed his eyes, and settled. Just for a beat. Then he opened his eyes again, took one long, slow breath, and held it for an instant, confirming his aim.

Sniper training. Never hold your breath for too long or your body would begin to shake ever so slightly. One of the key principles that had been ingrained in him. Instinctive by now.

He squeezed the trigger.

There was the sharp report of the weapon firing, and the lead figure crumpled into the snow. Instantly Jaeger went about acquiring his next target. The column of men had hit the deck, dropping to one knee and unslinging their weapons. There were a few sustained bursts of fire, but they fell well short of the mark.

At this range Jaeger had them pinned down in the open and they knew it.

He had to keep each move calm and deliberate, although he knew how thin the line between life and death was. The only thing keeping him alive was the distance.

Via his scope, he had recognised the weapons Kammler’s men were carrying. Each was equipped with a Chinese-made Type 79 folding-stock sub-machine gun. A good weapon and perfect for close-quarter combat, but accurate up to no more than two hundred yards.

Jaeger fired again. A second figure keeled over. Knowing they had no option but to move, the ten surviving gunmen rose to their feet and started to fan out, trying to rush his position. All twelve had to die. He couldn’t afford for even one of them to get away and raise the alarm with Kammler.

But even as he steeled himself, Jaeger was struck by an utterly chilling thought. He’d been lying here repeating the mantra ‘one bullet, one kill’. But he’d missed something. Something vital.

The Dragunov carried a ten-round magazine… and there were twelve gunmen coming after him. And in his haste, he’d only grabbed the one magazine.

For a fleeting second, he wondered why he’d volunteered to do this. It had been vital to draw Kammler’s gunmen away from the OP. But he could have sent Raff. Or Narov. Or Alonzo.

He knew the answer. Sure, he was the best skier, but it was more that he’d never ask one of his team to do something that he wasn’t willing to do himself.