The Seventh Scroll - Smith Wilbur - Страница 68

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down in the heated depths of the gorge. He guessed that it was a signal

from one of the scouts coming up the trail towards him. Mek Nimmur's

party was on the move.

Boris reacted instantly. He slipped off the trail, and ran back the way

he had come until he reathed the beginning of the pathway along which he

had descended the cliff. He climbed just high enough to be able to

overlook the trail. However, he realized that he had lost Much of the

advantage that he had built up by cutting across the mountain. This was

not the ideal ambush position, and his escape route was exposed to enemy

fire from below - he would be lucky to make it to the top. But the .

idea of abandoning his vengeance never occurred to him. As soon as his

targets were in'his sights, he would shoot from this stance.

However, he acknowledged to himself that Mek Nimmur had taken him by

surprise. Boris had not anticipated that he would move before the sun

had set. He had expected to be able to take up a position above the camp

in the thorn patch and to be able to get off two careful, well-aimed

shots before he was forced to run.

It was also part of his calculations that, once he had dropped Mek

Nimmur, his men would not be eager to follow up with too much despatch.

Boris planned to make a running retreat, stopping at every defensible

strong point to fire a few shots, knock down one or two of them, and

keep the pursuit circumspect and cautious until they eventually lost

their taste for the game and let him go.

However, all that had now changed. He would have to take the first

opportunity that presented itself - almost certainly a moving target -

and as soon as he had fired he would be exposed on the path up the cliff

face. His one advantage here was that his hunting rifle was a superbly

accurate piece, whereas Mek Nimmur's men were all armed with AK-47

assault rifles, rapid-firing but notoriously wild at longer range, and

more especially in the hands of these shufta. With proper training, the

fighting tribesmen of Africa made some of the finest troops in the

world. They possessed all the necessary skills, with one exception -

they were notoriously poor marksmen.

He lay flat on the ledge, and the rock under him was so hot from the

direct sunlight that it burned painfully even through his clothin - He

pulled the pack from his 9 back and set it up in front of him, settling

the forestock of the, rifle over it to give himself a dead rest. He

peered through the telescope, wriggling into a comfortable position,

sighting on a small rock beside the main trail and then swinging the

barrel from side to side to make certain that he had a clear arc of

fire.

Satisfied that this was the best stance he could find in the short time

left to him, -he set the rifle aside and picked up a handful of dirt. He

rubbed this gently into his face, and the sweat turned it to mud that

coated his pate skin and dulled the shine that an alert scout might pick

out at long range. His last concern was to check the angle of the sun,

and to satisfy himself that it was not reflecting off the lens of his

scope or off any of the metal parts of the rifle.

He reached over and pulled at the branch of the shrub beside him so that

it cast its shadow over the weapon.

At last he settled down behind the rifle and cuddled the butt into his

shoulder, regulating his breathing to a deep slow rhythm, dropping his

pulse rate and steadying his hands. He did not have long to wait. He

heard the bird-call again, but this time much nearer at hand. It was

answered immediately from the far side of the trail, down closer to the

river bank.

"The flankers will be having difficulty maintaining station over this

terrain." He grinned without hurriour, a death's-head grimace. They will

be bunching and straggling." As he thought it, a man came into view

around the bend of the trail, about five hundred metres, dead ahead.

Boris picked him up in the magni   of ens.

He was a typical African guerrilla, a shufta dressed in a tattered and

faded motley of camouflage and civilian clothing, festooned with pack

and water bottle, ammunition and grenades, carrying his AK at high port.

He hatted the moment he came through the turn, and crouched into cover

behind a boulder at the side of the trail.

For a long minute he surveyed the lie of the land ahead of him, his head

turning slowly from side to side. At one point he seemed to be staring

directly at Boris, who held his breath and lay as still as the rock

beside him. But finally the shufta straightened up and gave a hand

signal to those out of sight behind him. Then he came on down the trail

at a trot. When he had covered fifty metres the rest of the party began

to appear, keeping their intervals as precisely as beads on a string. It

would not be possible to enfilade this line even with an RPD from a

prepared position.

"Good!" Boris approved. "These are crack troops. Mek must have

hand-picked them." He watched them through the lens, examining the

features of each man as he came into view, searching for Mek Nimmur.

There were seven of them spread out down the trail now, but still no

sign of their leader. The man on the point drew level with Boris's

position and then went on past him. A pair of flankers passed directly

beneath where he lay, rustling softly by in the scrub not more than a

dozen paces from him. He lay like a stone and let them go. The rest of

them passed his position, well spaced and moving swiftly. For some

minutes after the last of them had gone, the gorge seemed deserted and

devoid of all human presence. Then there was another stealthy movement

out there.

"The rear guard," Boris grunted softly. "Mek is keeping the woman at the

rear. His new plaything."He is taking great care of her."

He slipped the safety-catch on the rifle gently, making certain that no

alien metallic sound fell on the heated and hushed air.

"Now let them come," he breathed. "I will take Mek first. Nothing fancy,

no head shots. Squarely in the centre of the chest. The woman will

freeze when he goes down.

She does not have the reflexes of a warrior. She will give me a second

unhurried shot. At this range there will be no question of a miss. Right

between those pretty little black tits of hers." He became sexually

charged by the image of blood and violent death set opposite Tessay's

loveliness and grace. "I might even have a chance to get one of the

others. But I can't bank on that. These men are good.

More likely that they will dive into cover before I have even had time

to kill the woman."

He watched the faces of the rear guard as, one at a time, carefully

spaced, they came into view. Each time he felt his heart trip with

disappointment. In the end there were three of them on the path, moving

past him at a steady, businesslike jog-trot. But no sign of Mek and the

woman. The rear guard disappeared down the path, and the small sounds of

their progress dwindled into silence. Boris lay alone on the ledge, his

heart thumping and the sour taste of disappointment in the back of his

throat.

"Where are they?" he thought bitterly. "Where the hell is MeV And the

obvious answer to his own question occurred to him immediately. They had

taken a different trail. Mek had used this patrol as a decoy to lure him

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