Page 59 of Nobody's Hero
‘Ha! That’s what I said. But apparently transatlantic flights requiretwopilots.’
She took a moment, then said, ‘Gosh. Who’d have thought?’
‘You could have just shouted this, Ben,’ Carlyle said. ‘There was no need to expose yourself like that.’
‘I need your gun. The Makarov, not the derringer.’
He thought she’d argue. Tell him she’d seen active service too. That she could handle a weapon. But she didn’t. Instead, she handed over the Makarov without comment. Koenig knew she’d triaged their situation. He was expendable; she wasn’t. It was cold, but he admired her for it.
Koenig press-checked the Makarov. There was a round in the chamber. It was an unfamiliar weapon, so he’d use the SIG first. He tucked the Makarov into his waistband. Cowboy thing to do, but he had no choice.
He stood and walked away from the Jag.
Time to see how good these guys were.
Chapter 63
Koenig had trained with the Rangers, one of the world’s elite units when it came to ambush and counter-ambush tactics. The first thing he’d been told was that there were only two types of ambush: deliberate and snap. Everything else was a variation. The second thing he’d been told was that a deliberate ambush was largely unsurvivable. It was rehearsed, and it had security and designated kill zones. A deliberate ambush made use of mines and obstacles, and was only triggered when it met the unit’s tactical objective.
Snap ambushes were different. By definition, they were put together quickly. The drills were rehearsed, but the specifics were dictated by the terrain. Nothing was prepared in advance. They predominantly relied on surprise. Snap ambushes were vulnerable to counter-ambush tactics.
His Ranger training instructor, a wiry Kentuckian with a scar running from nose to ear, had said, ‘If you got the balls, you charge them muthafuckas. You don’t stop to think. You don’t get down in the dirt and scratch about for a firing position. You charge, you scream like a stuck pig, and you get in among ’em. You think them muthafuckas gonna be nice and calm, thinking about keeping their breathing steady if a Ranger is charging towards them, screaming his head off? No, they fucking ain’t. You make ’em regret the day they thought about ambushing a Ranger patrol.’
Koenig didn’t want to run. He thought that would be the wrong thing to do. A running target elicits a snap response from professional soldiers, which almost all mercenaries had been at some point. A running target is like the white tail on a startled cottontail. It draws the eye, lets muscle memory take over. Koenig didn’t want the men in body armour using muscle memory when he stepped away from the Jag.
He wanted them thinking.
He wanted themoverthinking.
He press-checked his SIG, then winked at Margaret. ‘See you on the plane,’ he said.
‘I’ll have a cold beer waiting for you.’
‘Good luck, Ben,’ Carlyle said.
Koenig stood.
Draper started firing. Tried to give him as much covering fire as her SIG would allow.
The men in body armour ignored her.
As one, they turned their Spectres on Koenig.
Chapter 64
Koenig couldn’t see their expressions, but it didn’t take an expert in body language to know the men in body armour were confused. Anxious even. He could sense doubt. Like when a sheepdog is confronted by a ewe with lambs. Ewes with lambs came with a whole bunch of attitude. Belligerent, not docile.
He had stepped out from behind the Jag, and the three men had opened fire. Short, controlled bursts. Disciplined. But despite him now being within the Spectres’ effective range, none of the bullets hit him. The grass airstrip was hurting them. Only direct hits counted. The bullets were kicking up puffs of dirt, but they weren’t bouncing up like they would if the Gulfstream had landed on a blacktop. Koenig didn’t have to think about ricochets.
The men in armour glanced at each other. Koenig wasn’t playing the game. He was supposed to cower behind whatever cover he could find. He wasn’t supposed to walk towards them likehewas the one wearing body armour. Koenig didn’t think he needed it. Not yet. Despite it being a machine gun, the Spectre’s barrel was only slightly longer than the SIG’s. There was less than an inch in it. And the Spectre was heavier, and the men’s vision was compromised. If Koenig could have designed a perfect opponent to walk towards, he’d have had them wearing cumbersome, impractical body armour, firing one of the most inaccurate machine guns in production.
If they knew what they were doing – or were being led by someone who knew what they were doing – they’d have stood still, taken the best aim they could, then kept their triggers pressed until they’d emptied their magazines. One hundred and fifty 9-millimetre Parabellums, the same ammo Koenig was using, all headed his way. The law of large numbers said at least one bullet would have hit him.
But theydidn’tknow what they were doing. They were using the Spectres like scalpels when they should have been using them like sledgehammers.
One of them got lucky. A bullet slammed into the front of Koenig’s boot. Right into the thick rubber tread. Stuck in it. Made his boot look like it had a small metal nose. Koenig stumbled but stayed on his feet.
‘You ready, Koenig?’ Draper yelled.