Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [51]
The path led him down among the wild herbs growing on the hillside. After the heat of the day their fragrance was intense. The smell made him feel slightly nauseated. Warren always used those herbs when he cooked for them. Warren was ridiculous. Even a girl would have been more use than the fat idiot. They’d actually discussed the idea of bringing a girl along to cook for them. It had been voted down. So they were stuck here with Warren feeding them. He had even once cooked them fish, thinking that the Mediterranean would be cleaner than his native American waters. Presumably because you didn’t find syringes on the beaches here. Yet. There had been illness in the camp for days after the fish. Guthrie had been doubled over with stomach cramps. If he hadn’t been so weak he would have smashed Warren’s face in with a rifle butt.
Guthrie turned away from the herb smell, starting back on the other sweep of his patrol. He marked the end of this perimeter by a cluster of huge broken stones just down the hillside. As he walked he imagined the obese figure of Warren in front of him. In the sights of his weapon. The thought led to other images of combat. Adrenalin mixed into his blood, waking him up fully. Again he thought of an assault from the sea, by night. All his senses sharpened. Now Guthrie imagined that he was about to be attacked. He felt for the safety on the gun he carried. It was a weapon developed in South Africa for riot applications. The magazine held 512 rounds which could be dispersed in less than seven seconds. It wasn’t accurate but it was thorough. Guthrie rehearsed combat scenarios in his head, excitement releasing more adrenalin inside him. He imagined the enemy rushing in out of the dark. He imagined dim figures surging up the hillside.
He was ready for them.
* * *
Ace flinched as Dfewar moved. The figure of the sentry had appeared on the hill above and Dfewar was already on the last metre of the slope, running silently. In the moonlight he became an indistinct grey shape against the grey rocks of the hillside. The sentry turned just as Dfewar swept on to him.
The shapes of Dfewar and the sentry merged in the colourless light, then flattened as the two figures tumbled to the ground. Ace heard abrasive scuffing noises as heels dug frantically into dirt, digging for grip, then a single grunt. Then silence.
Nothing moved on the hilltop. Ace waited a moment, bracing herself. Then there was a burst of sound so strange it had Ace on her feet and racing up the slope.
Dfewar crouched on the ground over the sentry. The sentry’s eyes were moving quickly, specks of reflected moonlight shooting across them. They fixed on Ace, wide with fear. Dfewar had one hand tight over the sentry’s mouth. The other hand trembled a little, holding his knife. The blade, still clean, was pointing away from the sentry’s body. The sentry had been wearing a Walkman and the headphones had come loose when Dfewar had slammed him to the ground. Now a tinny insect ringing came out of the tiny foam beads. An American thrash guitar solo, some long‐haired blond playing his Viking brains out. Loud in the stillness on the hilltop. Ace grabbed the headphones and yanked the cable out of the tape player, silencing them. She stared down at the sentry’s face, now looking from her to Dfewar in terror. The sentry was, at the most, fourteen years old.
* * *
Sean was nuking Indonesia. He was in the cockpit of a Loki fighter