Free Defender by Chris Allen

pack fell away instantly, clearing his legs, swinging by the suspension line, 15 feet below him.
    Still, his body battled the inevitable, calling on every remnant of strength remaining to stay alive, whilst preparing for the inconceivable agony that awaited him if he failed. And still, he plummeted. Down, down, down.
    Blood raced through Morgan's temples. The rate of his pounding heart mirrored the speed of his wild descent. All around him, the wind was howling in his ears, screaming at him as he fell to earth.
    Suddenly in the distance, Morgan could hear a voice shouting, louder and louder, as he fell into the night, the insistent intensity of the voice stabbing at his senses from every direction. The voice became clear, growing stronger, more urgent, as he continued to drop. The ground was flashing towards him at breakneck speed. Now the voice was even louder, shouting, deafening in its proximity, shattering his tortured hearing.
    An overwhelming ground rush surged beyond his feet. Seconds to impact.
    "Yes!" Morgan answered with a start. He pulled out his hearing protection. "Yes?"
    'I'm sorry, Sir!" It was Julian, the Somali Loadmaster. He was leaning across the seats, shaking Morgan's shoulder, dragging him back to reality, clawing him from his nightmare. "We have landed, Sir. Welcome to Malfajiri!"

PART TWO

WELCOME TO MALFAJIRI

CHAPTER 13

Malfajiri

    The drive into the hills outside Cullentown was a drive Turner preferred not to take. The sealed roads bled into red gravel and carried you away, past the last of the abandoned shop fronts and old hotels, and through an endless channel of corrugated iron, cardboard, and mud, home to the millions who had settled in a vast horseshoe of squalor around the city's crumbling shoulders.
    No-man's-land. Certainly, no-white-man's-land.
    There was nothing but hopelessness out here. You could feel it. Not that Turner was one for feeling anything for others. His feelings were fuelled only by greed and, on a day like today, self-preservation. He averted his eyes from the deprivation and despair of the shantytown, focusing only on the long trail of red gravel.
    Thousands of people lined the edges of the track, as far as the eye could see. They squatted in loosely formed groups outside their pitiful shacks, in this place where there was nothing left to do. Most were oblivious to the passing Land Rover, too weak and devoid of hope to discern any potential benefit from its passage. But there were those few who paid it much greater attention, drawn by the rattle of the approaching engine. They rushed as one to the roadside, racing towards the vehicle, forming a seething block across its path. Turner expected it, but it shocked him every time. He was forced to slow, but would not stop, not for anything. To stop would mean death. The mob engulfed him and clubbed at the flanks of the Land Rover with rocks and sticks, hands out for food and money.
    'Get there. Get it done. Get back.' He recited this mantra over and over, through clenched teeth in his high-pitched squeal, ignoring the din of the mob. The Rover rocked and bounced, and the shouting crowd was deafening. A crack appeared on the windscreen with a report like a gunshot. Turner panicked and screamed. He planted his foot to the floor and surged coldly through the gaggle of bodies. A barrage of missiles fell upon the retreating car. Rocks, stones and sticks were hurled as he made his escape, but he was soon through and clear. The Land Rover was battered, the windscreen a web of cracks. His foot still planted, he left a long trail of ochre-tinged dust in his wake. Immediately ahead were the foothills of the mountains. Therein, the rebel headquarters.
    Turner felt the skin at the base of his gut crawl, and he squirmed in his seat. The bush became thicker here. More than just the occasional acacia or baobab, it grew tight and tall right up to the track's edge. Nature had reclaimed the land where decades before man had cleared the native