The explosion echoed across the snowy wilderness.
Simmo sat on the HTank, elbow on his knee and chin on his fist. His expression was thunderous. His eyebrows were dark-bushed storm-clouds. His lips were razors of ruby lightning. His eyes were pools of comet-fallen mercury. And his clenched fists were the threatening knots of tropical hardwoods battered by the eternal elements.
‘Are you ... OK?’
‘Of course I’m not fucking OK!’ screamed the Sergeant, gazing down at Oz and Rogowski. The two men took a step back at Simmo’s wrath, Oz spilling his tea from his plastic pint mug, huge crooked nose wavering a little. ‘We’re here, in the fucking Colombian jungle, fucking sweating like fucking pussies, we’ve found the enemy and what do Spiral HQ fucking say? The fucking politicians are fucking working on a fucking solution and so we can’t bomb the fuck out of the bastards.
‘Of
course
I’m not fucking OK! In fact, I’m ready to ...
kill.’
His dark gaze swivelled around to where Kattenheim was seated on a felled hardwood tree - his face and upper torso a mass of battered, bruised and
sliced
flesh.
Kattenheim was staring at Simmo. And then he smiled.
Simmo felt his temper exploding, but calmed himself.
‘You want a cigarette?’ said Oz uncertainly.
‘The Sarge not smoke cigarettes.’
‘A drop of whisky?’ suggested Rogowski.
‘You boys should know by now! Sarge not drink on ops.’
‘Yeah, I know, but I just thought...’
‘Yes?’
For such a simple word, it carried a wealth of threat. Like a barbed wire maggot in an apple. Rogowski, a soldier who had been shot in the head once and in the body fourteen times, was oblivious to such verbal niceties.
‘... I just thought you might savour a nip, you know, after Kattenheim there wouldn’t speak despite your best efforts with the iron bar - God, I thought you were going to kill him! And then we get lifted all the way out here, spend ten hours piloting fucking tanks through jungle lanes just to find ... to find ... that we ... we are ... we are not allowed ...’
He finally faltered.
Simmo’s scowl could not get any blacker. He glanced again at Kattenheim, seated calmly on the log with his hands tied tightly behind his back with wire. His ankles and knees were also bound tight. Spiral were taking no chances with the Nex warrior.
Simmo drank from his canteen, then hopped off the HTank and moved forward past the stationary bulks of other tanks to where Kattenheim sat. Simmo glanced down at him and the Nex looked up, scarred red eyes defiant, gleaming.
‘You want a drink, fucker?’
‘That would be pleasant.’ Kattenheim’s words were a little distorted by his broken jaw and cheekbone. Simmo stood, drinking, water dribbling down his chin.
‘Well, fuck you. Talk to us and I might allow you to drink. And eat. And maybe even sleep a little.’
Kattenheim merely smiled, a smile that disheartened Simmo. Deep down he wanted to kill the Nex - but Spiral had instructed him to bring him back alive for trial.
He moved back to the HTank, frustration gnawing him.
There came a call from the jungle, and some of the TankSquad men lowered their weapons as Mo and Haggis moved into view, M24 carbines held pointing towards the ground in case of NDs.
Mo made his report to Simmo, who nodded, face blank. Then they sent the report to Spiral and awaited further orders. Simmo sent some more scouts out, securing a wider perimeter around the tanks. As night started to fall the men began slinging hammocks between the tanks and some surrounding mahogany trunks. Simmo had only once - obstinately - slept on the floor in the jungle. He’d suffered 239 ant bites, huge swellings that had left him in blood-red throbbing agony and in no fit state to piss, never mind fight in a covert jungle operation. Simmo was a big man, who hated hammocks - but in this contest with the vicious and uncompromising rainforest he had backed down after the first jab, never mind waiting for the end of the first round.
Darkness was falling quickly.
They kept a cold camp, no fires, and the jungle seemed to creep in on the TankSquads. The huge black outlines of the silent weapons of war became shadow-haunted structures around which the enemy could creep and hide. Trees reared all around, sometimes erupting with bursts of monkey chatter or the hiss and click of large invisible insects. Other jungle night sounds warbled around the sixty or so men, some of whom stood guard, eyes alert, and some of whom relaxed within the barricade of heavy steel and mammoth metal tracks.
Simmo squatted next to Rogowski, Mo and Holtzhausen. They were boiling a pan of water for tea over two chemical kem-blocks, which glowed softly in a tiny ring of stones.
‘You want some tea?’ drawled Holtzhausen in his German burr,
Simmo nodded, dropping a bag and spooning sugar into his mug. He held out the plastic vessel and Holtzhausen poured the boiling water in. Simmo inhaled the steam hungrily. Simmo was the sort of man whose appetite was eternal. And if you fell asleep, he wouldn’t just eat the last slice of pizza, he’d steal the entire contents of your fridge.
‘You like your sugar,’ said Mo, grinning. He too held a large plastic mug, larger than everybody else’s - from which he drank a whole litre of tea. His mug looked more like a paint pot.
Simmo nodded. ‘The Sarge surprised you not piss all night, drinking so much tea.’
‘Hey, Sarge, what did you do with that fuck Kattenheim?’ Holtzhausen spat on the ground and continued to sharpen a sliver of wood with his broad-bladed combat knife.
Simmo frowned. ‘What you mean? He over there.’ Simmo turned, peering through the darkness. Their little camp was lit by nothing more than kem-blocks, the occasional dull luminescence of a NightCube, and the glowing tips of a few cigarettes. Simmo squinted.
‘
Where?’
asked Mo. ‘I can’t see him.’
Simmo cursed, spilling his tea over his combats as he lurched to his feet and sprinted forward, tea sloshing over his huge fist. A sound alerted him even as he reached for his holstered SigP7 9mm pistol strapped to the small of his back and he turned - into a heavy uppercut punch that rocked him back on his heels and sent stars spinning through his head ...
Simmo staggered, dropping his tea.
To see Kattenheim, fists raised, grinning at him with a mouth full of broken teeth. The huge German ex-para came forward slowly and there was a chorus of clicks as several of the TankSquad men cocked their weapons.
Simmo grinned nastily, holding up his hand. ‘No, lads. The Sarge handle this.’ His fingers were covered with blood from his split lip. ‘You do well slipping the wire, Nex.’
‘Lots of practice,’ said Kattenheim, rolling his shoulders and then settling into a boxer’s stance. ‘You gonna fight me fairly this time, you ugly hunk of army meat?’ Sweat was rolling down his heavily scarred head and in the weak red light of the NightCubes he looked totally demonic. His red burned eyes seemed to glow - and within their depths shone the copper heart of the Nex warrior.
Simmo cracked his knuckles by clenching his fists, then strode forward.
‘Lads - if he kills me, then you can fucking shoot him. But as long as I still live you will be disobeying direct order and The Sarge have you up on a charge!’ He squared up and looked down at the smaller man. Nex, he thought. It is not a man, it is a concoction. Either way, I pulp fucking face.
Kattenheim attacked, a fast fluid combination of punches - straight right, right hook, left hook, left upper-right straight. Simmo found himself backing away under the flurry of heavy precise blows which he manned - just - to block with his forearms. Simmo returned with a thundering right straight but Kattenheim rolled smoothly to Simmo’s left under the punch and came up, hammering a right hook that caught Simmo on the side of his head and staggered him with the colossal impact. Another right straight shook Simmo’s head again, and then a front kick to the face sent the huge man stumbling down on his knees.
Kattenheim stepped back, folded his arms, and waited.
Slowly, Simmo climbed to his feet.
He is too fast, realised the huge soldier. Just too fucking fast.
Simmo approached warily, and Kattenheim still had his arms folded across his chest, a look of arrogance on his face. Simmo spat on the ground and around him he could feel the pressure of the TankSquad soldiers, of the Spiral agents who were watching and understanding and he knew that he had to kill this fucker with his bare hands - and rip out its spleen.
The Sarge was a legend.
To lose a fist fight?
With a fucking
Nex?
‘Better off dead! Sarge not let that happen!’ he said, unintentionally out loud, and then threw himself at Kattenheim. They exchanged a series of heavy blows at great speed, and Kattenheim tried another kick, but Simmo punched down on his opponent’s kneecap. The onlookers all heard the splintering of bone.
The two fighters drew apart.
‘You move well, for such a big man,’ said Kattenheim. He displayed no obvious pain but had altered his stance, favouring his left leg instead of the right and moving so that the damaged limb was partially shielded by the one that was still sound.
‘And Sarge
kill
well for such big man - as you find out.’
Simmo charged again, teeth glinting in the red light.
They exchanged punches, and Kattenheim landed another right hook that shook Simmo. Growling, The Sarge launched himself on top of the smaller Nex warrior and gripped him in a tight bear-hug, lifting him from the ground and exerting a massive pressure on the Nex’s spine. Kattenheim growled, and slammed his head into Simmo’s face - but after the second blow Simmo twisted and shook the Nex like a rag doll ...
Kattenheim continued to head-butt Simmo - in the neck, in the face - as tendons popped along his spine. Somehow he managed to free an arm and started raining down blow after heavy cracking blow until Simmo was forced to drop him. Kattenheim leapt high into the air and came down with the butt of his elbow on the crown of Simmo’s head. Simmo hit the jungle ground hard, stunned. Blood seeped in pulses from the wound and Kattenheim stood over Simmo, who was rocking and groaning, down and temporarily blinded and out of the fucking game ...
Kattenheim glanced around, to see what stood between himself and freedom.
And only then, in the dull jungle glow, did the TankSquad Spiral operatives suddenly realise that the Nex held Simmo’s matt black SigP7 gun.
The pistol lifted and, as shots that sent bright muzzle-flashes piercing the gloom rang out, the men split up. They leapt for safety, their own weapons coming up but unable to fire because immediately in front of Kattenheim was Sergeant Simmo ...
Simmo felt as if his skull had been cracked open. Pain pounded through the centre of his brain and pulsed like hammer beats as blood soaked his shaved scalp. A rage like nothing he had felt for years arose - a red tide engulfing him. He could not speak, scream, shout nor curse because this intense, and insane tidal wave of hatred consumed him and carried him to—
Consciousness.
His eyes flickered open.
Kattenheim was firing
his
pistol at
his
men.
‘Cheeky motherfucker,’ Simmo snarled. He lifted back his boot and from his position on the ground kicked as heavily as he could at Kattenheim’s injured knee. This time a real crack echoed through the jungle as the knee folded in on itself and the leg collapsed, pitching the man to the ground as he howled through blood-speckled lips and clenched teeth. Simmo grabbed the wrist holding the gun and they both lay, locked for a moment, staring into one another’s eyes.
Simmo slammed his head into Kattenheim’s nose. Then he released the hand that wasn’t gripping the gun and, reaching down, punched at the twisted broken knee - five times, six, seven, eight. Then he took the gun like a man taking an ice cream from a child, and climbed ponderously to his feet.
Simmo levelled the SigP7 at Kattenheim’s face.
‘Say your prayers.’
Kattenheim said nothing, merely glaring at Simmo with hatred.
As something leapt from the darkness of the jungle, something huge, armoured and with a triangular head.
Simmo’s gun came up as he spun round. A bullet smashed in the ScorpNex, which scooped Kattenheim from the ground and disappeared into the blackness. Submachine gun rounds ripped after the Nex, slicing through leaves, tree trunks and ferns and spitting soil from the ground. Ricochets whined all around as bullets bounced off hardwoods.
‘Cease fire!’ screamed Simmo.
The gunfire stopped.
The TankSquad men turned towards Simmo. Both Mo and Haggis had taken rounds from Kattenheim’s crazy erratic firing and Haggis was seated, nursing his stomach. Simmo glared around angrily. This wasn’t supposed to be how the game went.
‘Fuck. Get your shit together - we as compromised as a man fucking his brother’s wife in his brother’s bed as his brother walks in. In other words, we fucked from both sides - by exposure of our location and by Spiral.’
‘We going in, Sarge?’
‘Yeah, we’re fucking going in.’
‘I thought the order was to wait.’