Rogue President. D.K. WildeЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Well,” replied Sammy looking around to the others. “The Colonel and the team go on a Presidential mission and disappear. Out of the blue the Colonel’s unknown brother, who also happens to have headed up MI6, asks the four of us to go on a rescue mission. Coincidently in a country that is terrorized by some lunatic who happens to have befriended a Senator’s son. On top of that the son disappears with some amazing prototype weapon. Then finally we arrive in our rooms to the exact gear we all normally select … seriously guys … does that not seem suspect to you?”
Waiting for Sammy to finish and studying the faces of Bud and Franco; Wade replied.
“I agree something does seem odd. But we need to see where this is going if we are to find and help the others. It’s another reason that we need to be on the top of our game.”
The three hardened warriors dropped their eyes, nodding, knowing Wade was right.
The flight was uneventful. The jump went to plan. They had buried their chutes and oxygen gear and were gathered at the predetermined meeting point one hundred metres back from the Moa River, the river dividing Sierra Leone and Guinea. Shuffling sounds could be heard off in the distance. Wade’s ears pricked as he listened and waited. Watching the others, and their nonchalance to the noises, he decided it was due to his lack of field work, over the last five years and especially in jungles.
The three men had encircled Wade and were established in a perimeter fire fight position, scanning the area to their respective fronts, while Wade took bearings. Suddenly a loud bang shattered the chatter of the jungle creatures and all four men hit the ground, chest first. The blast was a flare. The sky above lit up like daylight. They ripped their NVG’s off and tried desperately to get their vision to focus. Rounds ripped from the trees on three sides. Within the first five seconds Bud had taken a round through the side of his face and two in the chest. Franco had taken three in the back. His stomach area was gone. Both men dead, instantly.
Returning fire, in three round bursts, Wade knew they were blindsided. The flare had dropped behind the trees and the light was fading. Sammy and Wade crawled backwards. Pumping rounds and grenades blindly into the trees; only slightly delaying their attackers. The twenty metres to the the jungle felt like a kilometre. They had already changed magazines twice, aware ammunition restraint was imperative, when the massive tree trunks, that bordered the rivers edge, appeared.
They leapt to their feet, turned and ran for the water. The head high grass was thick and wet as the indiscriminate rounds slashed around them. Using their rifles to push the razor sharp Wild Jungle Grass aside they charged through the pitch black terrain when suddenly the ground beneath them disappeared and they plunged into the rapidly flowing waters.
Ditching his pack, as the water tried to drag him down, Wade burst through the surface. The openness of the river aided in more available night light. Looking around he saw the black silhouette of Sammy’s pack. Sliding his rifle over his shoulder he swam and kicked as hard as he could.
Reaching the now sinking body he flipped him over. Released the pack. Held Sammy’s head above water and kicked for the shore. Sammy spluttered and coughed. Wade struggled to keep the huge man’s head up and steady.
It had been four minutes since they hit the water when they crawled on to the thick muddy opposite shore, nine hundred metres downstream. Wade dragged his friend into the grasses. Removed his webbing and shirt. The gaping hole across his stomach was opened like a skewered plum. The tree branch he had landed on when hitting the water had ripped a ten centimetre cut, torn his intestine and blood was pumping profusely. The webbing had acted like a bandage while in the water. Now removed it was gushing like an oil well.
Using Sammy’s blood and water soaked shirt and a makeshift grass bandage Wade stemmed the flow. Sammy was pale. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. Wade plunged the needle, from his first aid kit, into Sammy’s leg. The combination of morphine and adrenaline acted instantly. Wade watched as the potion raced through his body and Sammy slowly started to focus. Aware they had limited time Wade gave him a further sixty seconds and then helped him to his feet. Having memorized the surroundings, and being blessed with an inbuilt compass, he heaved the big man across his shoulders and they headed northwest.
They had been moving slowly, with frequent stops, for fifty minutes. The sound was behind them. Downwind. The jungle was dense and the night creatures were frantically going about their business making all their usual noises. Wade’s hunting instincts had heard it. Leaning Sammy against the tree he slung his rifle onto his back. Removed his razor sharp Ka-Bar knife and doubled back.
He had covered ten metres. Had already lost sight of Sammy, when he heard it again but this time it was off to his left. Whoever it was they were quick and stealthy, thought Wade. He had taken three steps toward the sound when the branch cracked behind him. His senses at their peak. The hairs on his neck standing on end. His muscles woven as tight as springs. Sweat rolling down his body. He spun as the Black Panther leapt through the large, wet, elephant ear ferns.
Years of intense battles both in the jungle and in the confines of urban society had skilled him in the art of remaining patient, waiting and reacting at the best possible moment. But nothing had him ready for this as he instinctively brought the knife up and into the chest of the mighty beast.
The two hundred pound, jet black, claws out, fangs protruding, yellow piercing eyes crashed down on top of him. The knife punctured the creature’s heart killing it instantly but the sheer weight and razor sharp claws sliced him from his shoulder down his left arm.
Rolling from the now limp creature he slit further cuts to try and increase the blood flow. Already aware the blood on Sammy was like a beacon to the jungle night hunters. Hoping the scent of the panther’s blood might distract further attacks; he made his way back to Sammy.
Removing his blood soaked shirt and with the limited night light he hunted for the vines and plants he needed. Years of working in the world’s most difficult jungles and learning the art of foraging for various plants and insects, as shown by multiple indigenous races, had taught him survival. His own indigenous upbringing enabled a sixth sense understanding of how and why some things, that appeared poisonous, could be life saving and others that appeared harmless would in fact kill you.
Five minutes had passed. He had rubbed the cuts with the head of the medicinal plant and had wrapped the vines from wrist to shoulder. He replaced his shirt, webbing and was gathering up his weapons when the trees above erupted with the noise of monkeys chattering and scurrying higher.
“Come on. We need to get out of here, and fast,” whispered Wade. “The cats have arrived.”
Every creature in a five hundred metre radius had detected the smell of the blood. Within minutes a frenzy of fights would break out until a pecking order had been established and the panther had been ripped to shreds and devoured.
With Sammy leaning against Wade the two men tried desperately to limit the noise and not rub blood against any trees or plants. Pistols drawn they crashed through the huge Orb spider web. The humidity had become more and more suffocating. Stepping over the one metre high root of the large African mahogany tree it was like entering another world. Seconds later the rain had gone from a mist to a waterfall. The coolness was a relief. The two men stood and let it soak in. Sammy wobbled on his feet.
The rain was relentless. The jungle floor turned to a torrent. Both men, now as wet as if they were back in the river, were glad to have the blood washed off. The rain aided in hiding their noise but increased the difficulty with movement and vision. The ground had quickly turned to a slush pool of mud. Wade pushed his weight against Sammy and used his rifle as a walking stick. Every tree root was an obstacle. Every branch or fern had them slipping and sliding like they were on ice skates. Movement had become incredibly energy sapping. Both men were at exhaustion.
6.
Sitting in the oval office President Markham had all the direct links he needed to his most senior people. All lines in and out were secure and repeatedly checked for hackers or bugging. His chief aide had just left the office when an insignificant, untraceable, encrypted mobile