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Authors: Scott Mariani
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received a tip-off. The news was promising. In two days, The Baron and his second-in-command, Captain Kananga, would be passing through a Catholic mission on the banks of a river delta called Makapela Creek. The building complex had been deserted since back in 1992, early in the war, after the resident nuns and priest had been brutally slaughtered by another marauding rebel group. It was exactly the kind of place the Cross Bones leadership might hole up for a day or two and, according to the intelligence source, The Baron and Kananga would only have a light force of men with them.
An eight-man SAS team were quickly assembled and tooled up. A Chinook from RAF Special Forces 7 Squadron had flown them deep into the jungle. From the Landing Zone they’d trekked through the damp greenery and stifling heat. Reaching the Makapela Creek mission after dark, they’d got into position for the assault. It was meant to have been swift, surgical and decisive.
It hadn’t quite turned out that way.
As the assault got underway, it quickly became clear that there was a much greater enemy force in the area than the intelligence reports had led anyone to believe. Militia soldiers suddenly burst out of hidden positions in the trees.
Hundreds of them. A rag-tag army swathed in cartridge belts, fired up with bloodlust and crack cocaine, heavily armed and running at them like demons.
Before anyone knew what was happening, a wild firefight had erupted across the whole mission complex. It had been mayhem, fast and furious and deadly. The jungle was lit up with the muzzle flashes of automatic weapons as the enemy started closing in. Gunfire exploded from everywhere. Within minutes the SAS team had found themselves encircled and cut off. They’d established positions in and around the buildings and fought back ferociously as bullets pinged and zipped all about them.
But they were massively outnumbered and, however many bodies piled up in the killing ground around the mission, more screaming Cross Bones Boys kept pouring out of the jungle. The SAS squad were in real trouble, and they knew it. Once they’d run out of ammunition, the militia rebels would close in to take them alive. The ensuing machete party would provide hours of macabre entertainment for The Baron.
One by one, Ben watched his teammates go down. Milne and Jarvis were blown to pieces by a rocket-propelled grenade round that ripped through the building they were firing from. Clark, the radio operator, had been crouched right next to Ben in the roofless wreck of the old chapel when he’d taken a .50-calibre machine gun bullet that left his head like a scooped-out walnut shell.
Ben had used his last grenade to destroy the concealed machine gun emplacement from where the shots had come. Moving low through the insane torrents of gunfire, he’d clambered over Clark’s corpse and used the radio to call in air support. At that moment, he’d felt the hot punch of a bullet take him in the shoulder. He staggered, but stayed on his feet.
After that, Ben’s memories were hazy. He remembered the searing heat of flames tearing through the mission buildings. The constant frenzied chaos of gunfire. The screams that pierced the night. The bodies of his comrades lying slumped where they’d fallen. The blur of shapes darting between buildings as the enemy kept on coming. His teammate, Smith, crouching a few yards away with his rifle tight against his shoulder, firing right, firing left.
Suddenly the sky had been filled with roaring thunder as the air support came storming in out of the night-two Lynx helicopters, spotlights sweeping the jungle, flame blazing from their miniguns. Trees snapped and fell, enemy soldiers were mowed down as others ran in a panic. The downdraught of the choppers blasted dust and vegetation into the air, tore the tin roofs from what was left of the mission buildings.
As Ben glanced up at the hovering aircraft, he was suddenly pitched forward on his face by a
An eight-man SAS team were quickly assembled and tooled up. A Chinook from RAF Special Forces 7 Squadron had flown them deep into the jungle. From the Landing Zone they’d trekked through the damp greenery and stifling heat. Reaching the Makapela Creek mission after dark, they’d got into position for the assault. It was meant to have been swift, surgical and decisive.
It hadn’t quite turned out that way.
As the assault got underway, it quickly became clear that there was a much greater enemy force in the area than the intelligence reports had led anyone to believe. Militia soldiers suddenly burst out of hidden positions in the trees.
Hundreds of them. A rag-tag army swathed in cartridge belts, fired up with bloodlust and crack cocaine, heavily armed and running at them like demons.
Before anyone knew what was happening, a wild firefight had erupted across the whole mission complex. It had been mayhem, fast and furious and deadly. The jungle was lit up with the muzzle flashes of automatic weapons as the enemy started closing in. Gunfire exploded from everywhere. Within minutes the SAS team had found themselves encircled and cut off. They’d established positions in and around the buildings and fought back ferociously as bullets pinged and zipped all about them.
But they were massively outnumbered and, however many bodies piled up in the killing ground around the mission, more screaming Cross Bones Boys kept pouring out of the jungle. The SAS squad were in real trouble, and they knew it. Once they’d run out of ammunition, the militia rebels would close in to take them alive. The ensuing machete party would provide hours of macabre entertainment for The Baron.
One by one, Ben watched his teammates go down. Milne and Jarvis were blown to pieces by a rocket-propelled grenade round that ripped through the building they were firing from. Clark, the radio operator, had been crouched right next to Ben in the roofless wreck of the old chapel when he’d taken a .50-calibre machine gun bullet that left his head like a scooped-out walnut shell.
Ben had used his last grenade to destroy the concealed machine gun emplacement from where the shots had come. Moving low through the insane torrents of gunfire, he’d clambered over Clark’s corpse and used the radio to call in air support. At that moment, he’d felt the hot punch of a bullet take him in the shoulder. He staggered, but stayed on his feet.
After that, Ben’s memories were hazy. He remembered the searing heat of flames tearing through the mission buildings. The constant frenzied chaos of gunfire. The screams that pierced the night. The bodies of his comrades lying slumped where they’d fallen. The blur of shapes darting between buildings as the enemy kept on coming. His teammate, Smith, crouching a few yards away with his rifle tight against his shoulder, firing right, firing left.
Suddenly the sky had been filled with roaring thunder as the air support came storming in out of the night-two Lynx helicopters, spotlights sweeping the jungle, flame blazing from their miniguns. Trees snapped and fell, enemy soldiers were mowed down as others ran in a panic. The downdraught of the choppers blasted dust and vegetation into the air, tore the tin roofs from what was left of the mission buildings.
As Ben glanced up at the hovering aircraft, he was suddenly pitched forward on his face by a
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