it lumbered into the air. AK-47s chattered, tracers streaking after the rising aircraft. Moonlight flashed off another RPG-7 as a Taliban slowed his mount to take aim. A burst from Chase’s C8 cut him down before he could fire. The chopper was safe, but now the nearest riders were almost upon him—
A sizzling chainsaw rasp from above – and men and horses alike were torn apart by a laser-like stream of orange fire.
The Little Bird swooped down, its twin six-barrelled Miniguns blazing as each unleashed over sixty rounds per second at the Taliban forces. It pulled up sharply, pivoting to follow the surviving horsemen, then fired again. Hundreds of spent shell casings hailed down around Chase, one plinking off the top of his head and singeing his scalp. ‘Great, now I’ll have a fucking bald spot,’ he muttered as he fired at the last of the horsemen. The shot hit home, but it became academic a moment later when the man literally disintegrated under the force of the MH-6’s firepower.
The Miniguns stopped, but he could still hear more horses approaching. Holding back a curse, he looked up at the Little Bird as it started a rapid descent towards him.
No time for it to land. This would have to be a moving pickup, and he would only have one chance . . .
He glimpsed the pilot in the green light of his instruments, his night vision gear making him look like a cyborg. The Little Bird was coming right at him, slowing, but still travelling at twenty miles an hour.
Chase jumped—
The skid slammed against his chest. He wrapped his arms round the forward support strut and clung for dear life as the MH-6 went to full power. The helicopter surged skywards, Chase flapping beneath it like a banner.
He turned his face away from the downwash to see the plain wheeling below – and tracer fire rising up after him as more Taliban came out of the pass—
They disappeared in a tremendous explosion as the AC-130 reacquired its targets and, friendly forces now clear, fired its big gun. The blast from the 105mm shell collapsed part of the ravine, burying the Taliban under tons of rubble. More explosions ripped along the length of the pass as the Bofors gunner dealt with any stragglers.
The Little Bird levelled out, flying after the Black Hawk. Chase heard a voice; he squinted up to see the pilot shouting at him from the doorless cockpit. ‘Are you all right, man?’
Despite the fact that he was dangling from a speeding helicopter a thousand feet above hostile territory, Chase still managed a grin. ‘Never better, mate. What’s the inflight movie?’
The Black Hawk landed at the Coalition base, the Little Bird close behind it. The MH-6 had briefly touched down, once both aircraft reached nominally friendly territory, so that Chase could climb aboard; he leapt from the cabin and ran to the larger helicopter. Three men from the Royal Army Medical Corps were waiting, two bearing a stretcher and a third to attend to the wounded Green. He was carried out of the Black Hawk by Starkman and Baine, and quickly whisked away by the medics.
The hostages came next, and were escorted to a temporary building nearby. Finally, the remaining soldiers clambered from the helicopter, Mac ruefully looking after Green. The others were simply relieved to have made it back in one piece. ‘Christ,’ said Bluey, rubbing his shaved head, ‘that was a bit fierce.’
Starkman saw Chase. ‘Damn, almost thought we’d lost you,’ said the Texan. ‘You okay?’
Chase ignored him, eyes locked on another man: Stikes. The captain stepped out, donning his beret and adjusting it to a precise angle. ‘Seven hostages rescued, and it would have been eight if that idiot hadn’t panicked. Not bad.’ He saw Chase step towards him. ‘So Chase, you—’
Chase smashed a brutal punch into his face. Stikes’s regal nose broke with a wet snap, and he fell back against the fuselage. ‘You fucker!’ Chase shouted.
Baine lunged at Chase, but Mac intervened, hauling the Yorkshireman back from the fallen officer. ‘Eddie, for Christ’s sake!’
A hand to his bleeding nose, Stikes pulled himself upright as the other team members looked on in bewilderment. ‘It’s a court-martial offence to strike a superior officer, Chase!’ he cried. ‘You’ll get five years for an unprovoked attack – which you all witnessed!’
‘Unprovoked, my arse!’ Chase said furiously. ‘You pointed a fucking gun at my head!’
‘Eddie!’ Mac snapped. ‘Sergeant!’ Still tight-lipped with rage, Chase stood at attention. ‘What the hell is