by Andy McNab
‘They were slowing him down so he shot them.’ Sam was trying to control his anger. ‘As you do.’
Standish glanced up. He didn’t give a shit. ‘Listen in, both of you. We were going to leave the gunshot wound anyway. The other guy wouldn’t have wanted to . . . He was his brother, cousin, something like that.’
Sam bent almost double to face Standish out, but the fucker continued to give every last bit of his attention to his rice. ‘Let me tell you something, Sam,’ he grunted, between mouthfuls, ‘death solves all man’s problems. No man, no problem. Simple as that.’
‘You think quoting a couple of words from Stalin gets you off the hook?’
Even Bateman wasn’t impressed. He was sitting down, leaning over the pot, but his AK was resting carefully across his crossed legs. His body might have been in shit state, but his weapon wasn’t. Whatever else he was, this guy was a professional.
‘It was fucking outrageous, man, you know that. We should have brought them in. Don’t ever do that again when I’m there, you heartless piece of English public-school shit. I will never leave a man out there to die, no matter who he is. If he’s one of us, we take him.’ Bateman stared grimly at the sangars. ‘And if those fuckers get to find out, we’ve got a problem. An even bigger problem. They know no one else is coming to help them, man. They’ll run as soon as they can, mark my words. Without kindoki on these fuckers you have no control.’
Standish flicked his now empty can into the mud as dismissively as he must have despatched the two men. ‘Our only problem is that we lack the numbers to keep this mine. It’s as simple as that.’
He pulled himself up and grabbed his weapon. It, too, was clean. At least he had some standards, even if he was only keeping it in working order to zap his own side.
6
Standish stormed off towards the fire trenches as if he knew where he was off to.
‘Stop!’ Sam pointed at the one with the firing cable going into it. ‘You’re in there with me. Nick, you take the left flank.’ He swung round and pointed at Bateman. ‘You’ve got the right. Crucial, you know where you’re going.’
A rumble of thunder rolled up the valley, followed this time by a crackle of lightning on the horizon. The storm would be with us soon. It was like last night’s deluge had decided to come back and give us a second helping.
Standish and Bateman headed to their designated fire trenches. I wasn’t surprised that Bateman went so obediently. He might be an arsehole, but he was still a professional. He knew that Sam knew what he was doing, so he didn’t need to question his orders. And that was also why he hadn’t liked Standish zapping his own men. It had nothing to do with morality: what Standish had done was bad drills, pure and simple.
Sam started towards Sunday’s tent and I got level with him. ‘What about Silky and Tim?’
‘They’re in with you. I’ll take Sunday.’
His tone was very straight, very clear-cut. We could have been back in the team job all those years ago. He held out his hand for the firing device. I took it off my shoulder. ‘I had to get a second reel. The two cables together haven’t been tested.’
He nodded. ‘I guess I’ll be doing that soon enough.’ He put the strap over his shoulder and walked away.
‘Sam, I need mags. Just got the one.’
He gestured towards the tent nearest the cooking pot. ‘There’ll be a few in there. I’ll get Crucial to help you with Tim.’
I ducked through the flaps. It was dark inside. She was sitting in a canvas director’s chair by his head. They both looked up expectantly. His legs were still bound together, and blood leaked from the dressings. It was about to get worse.
I smiled at him. ‘Got any painkillers in that bag of yours?’
He nodded.
‘Well, you’ll need them, mate. I’m going to move you into the trenches. You’ll be safer there.’
Tim wasn’t stupid. ‘They’ll be coming soon, won’t they?’
‘Yep.’
‘I’ve seen it before. What about the villagers and my guys down there?’
‘They’re all right. They’re still in cover. That’s the best we can do.’
A few metres away on the other side of the canvas, Standish exploded. ‘What the fuck’s going on? Get him out of here!’
Silky turned her head. ‘Who’s that?’
‘No one.’ I explained about the other patrol getting into a contact, and that there were just two survivors. I left out the arsehole bit.
Silky massaged her temples with the tips of her fingers. ‘Those poor men . . .’
Tim gripped her arm to comfort her, but looked at me. ‘Nick, I’m sorry I was such a tosser when we first met. I didn’t realize the full extent of the situation. You were absolutely right – it was best to get everyone in here. I’m sorry.’
Tosser? It was the first time I’d heard anyone use the word since the time I should have been at school. It sounded strange hearing it again, especially here, now. ‘Not a problem . . .’
‘They’re going to hit the mine hard, aren’t they?’
‘That’s what they’re here for.’
He writhed with frustration. ‘I feel useless. I want to do something. Anything . . .’
Crucial came into the tent. He stood right alongside me, and he stank. We probably all did. ‘The best thing you can do to help us is grab hold of that cot of yours.’
Crucial and I moved either side of him.
‘One, two, three – up!’
We lifted, and he did as he’d been told.
We started to shuffle out, and he had to fight the pain.
I looked down. ‘I told you to keep taking those pills, didn’t I?’
At least I got a smile out of him.
Silky followed, carrying the sail bag. By the time we got out of the tent, Standish was in his trench. Sam was still standing in the fan-shaped backblast channel, holding Sunday by the rope.
The next trench was manned by Crucial, then Bateman to the far right. He was already setting up. He had his weapon in the shoulder, checking his arcs and different fire positions, making sure he had good muzzle clearance.
Standish was already making damn sure he presented as small a target as possible, but that didn’t make him any less angry. ‘More? Who the fuck are that lot?’
I jumped in before Sam had a chance to: ‘We’re that coffee shop for the stupid you were talking about. We’ve even got the villagers down there in the valley, Sam’s kids too. And you know what? It makes your half-arsed little gangfuck suddenly seem worthwhile.’
We kept shuffling. Fuck him, what was he going to do? Give me the sack?
7
We lowered Tim down beside the backblast channel. Crucial followed. He passed up the RPG gear, and we shifted Tim gently to a point where I could jump in too. Then we lifted him in.
The cot would be important for him. It would support his legs, and when the rain came, the trench would turn into a swamp, logs or no logs. We needed to keep him as uncontaminated as possible, or that leg of his would get infected and fester.
There were lots of groans and much gritting of teeth, but he was eventually settled. There was only a foot or so of room to play with at each end of the cot.
Crucial went back to his own trench and I told Silky to get the RPG rounds down alongside his legs. I looked down and fixed on Tim. ‘Sorry, mate, I can’t leave them out there,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Put them wherever you want.’
From the look on her face, Silky wasn’t thrilled to be handling HE. I banged two rounds together to show they were safe. ‘It’s OK, they won’t bite. You can throw them about. And once you’ve moved that lot, get yourself down by Tim’s head, and shove the bag in too. Both of you, make sure your heads stay below the parapet.’
She started to sort herself out, hobbling around on her damaged ankle.
I went back and collected the four mags and some damp Russian factory-packed cardboard boxes that each contained twenty ro
unds of 7.62 short.
Back into the trench with my jerry-can, I wedged the RPG upright in the corner, then five rounds on each side of the cot. The line stretched from his feet to his armpits.
The stabilizer pipe that stuck out of the back of the round contained more than just the booster charge to kick it out of the launcher and the sustainer motor that carried it on its way. It also housed the two sets of fins that deployed inflight. There were as many variations of this little fucker as countries that made them, but basically there would be two large stabilizer fins about halfway along the pipe to maintain direction, and a smaller set behind to induce rotation, making the round rifle through the air like an American football.
There was a logical order governing this sort of situation: my weapon, my kit, myself. Seeing as there was no kit, and no time, only the first mattered.
The lid of the crate of RPG rounds had been ripped off and placed on the parapet to protect resting weapons from the mud. I took off the AK mag and put it down on it. I unchambered the round, and used my cuff to clean the working parts. My shirt was like wire wool on my raw skin, but a shower and a shave wasn’t on offer right now. Most weapons will still fire if they’re covered with crap, but dirty and contaminated working parts inside will give you a stoppage every time.
Silky was scrunched up in a ball by Tim’s head. Their faces were almost touching, and I had to admit to myself that neither looked out of place. She watched me as I pushed down on each mag to check it was full of rounds, and cleared any mud, then shoved a few of the loose ones in to fill them up. I could tell she wasn’t thinking about the here and now. Her face was too calm for that. She had other things on her mind, and they didn’t include weapons, injuries or the LRA.
And that was OK, because my mind was elsewhere too.
The thunder was getting closer. There was just a sliver of light left over the lip of the valley behind us. I capitalized on it to load a mag, recock the weapon and apply safe before lining up the magazines next to the boxed rounds at Tim’s feet.
‘Look after them, will you?’ I was trying to raise another smile. I don’t know whether I succeeded. It was all but dark down there.
I got into the fire position and followed Bateman’s example. I checked how far I could move the AK, especially in the confined space. I couldn’t move along the fire trench, so would have to keep to one end. The trick was to keep as low as possible, to present a smaller target, yet still have good muzzle clearance. It was easier said than done.
A breeze brushed my face, and it felt great. The wind was picking up. Rain was on its way.
Next to be checked was the RPG, basically a simple steel tube, 40mm in diameter and just under a metre long. The middle was wrapped in wood to keep the heat off the firer. At the front end, you stick in the stabilizer pipe until the round head is locked into position. The back end is flared to help shield the blast, which it does very badly, and reduce the recoil, which it does very well.
On top two iron sights flicked up, one in front and the other about a third of the way down. There were meant to be optic ones, but maybe Lex had sold them to the guy with the fragmentation rounds.
There were two pistol grips underneath. The forward one housed the trigger, safety bar – which was the same design as the GPMG’s – and the cocking lever at the rear. The ignition was mechanical, nothing fancy, the same principle as a firing pin on a revolver’s hammer striking the percussion cap on a bullet. The rear grip was just for support, to help aim the thing. All in all, very simple, very cheap, and it weighed less than a GPMG, even when it was loaded. No wonder that, in tests, nine out of ten rebels preferred them.
I put a round into the launcher, got the weapon on the shoulder and checked out the backblast channel, making sure that when I fired it I wouldn’t be making Tim and Silky’s lives any worse by killing them. I never bothered using the safety on these things; I didn’t trust them. When I needed to fire, I just cocked the lever at the back and squeezed the trigger.
I was ready.
I had one last look at the valley in front of me, to set the mental picture before it went pitch black. The high ground at the top of the horseshoe was behind us; we were on the knoll below it, but still on higher ground than the valley floor. We had about four hundred metres of valley between us and the claymores. The Nuka mob were about two hundred metres down on our left. The valley was a couple of hundred metres wide.
The high ground to the left had four sangars on it, roughly fifty metres apart and at varying heights to maximize arcs of fire. Same on the right; another four sangars.
From my elevated position, I covered not only down into the valley, but also on to the left flank.
Sam and Standish were about five metres away, with Sunday somewhere out of sight. They were covering forwards, but could come round and fire on to the left flank quite easily and, to a lesser extent, the right.
The trench beyond them, another five metres to their right, was Crucial’s manor. I watched as he set up his RPG, plunging a grenade into the launcher. He, too, was covering forwards, but could also aim right.
Bateman was further away still, AK already in a fire position. He covered the right flank. We could all fire up at the high ground behind. There weren’t any sangars. And with all the arcs covered, we didn’t need arc stakes. We knew what the fuck we were doing.
All we had left to do for now was watch the moody light-show ahead, as the storm crept closer.
‘When will they come?’ Silky sparked up, to no one in particular.
I answered anyway: ‘Soon. Maybe fifteen, thirty, an hour . . . Who knows?’
PART NINE
1
19:46 hours
The sky emptied on us. Rain hammered at my head and shoulders, but it was a relief not a hardship. Water cascaded down my face and into my open mouth. I sucked it in greedily.
I needed to piss, and just let it happen: it wasn’t as if I was going to stain my OGs. I bent down to check it didn’t smell as bad as it had at the claymore dugout, then brought the jerry-can back up to my mouth to replace what I’d lost.
I passed it over so Silky and Tim could get some down them too. We’d been in position for nearly twenty minutes and there was nothing to do but keep our eyes open and wait, or watch our fingers go wrinkly in the rain.
We’d soon know when they were on their way. They were going to do one of two things: burst through the front door with weapons blazing, or infiltrate until they hit a contact. Either way, it was just a question of the sangars firing at everything and anything that could be seen in the arcs.
Sam would decide the right time to kick off the claymores. We wanted as many of them as possible to be taken out by the explosions, and the rest to be running around dazed and confused in the killing ground. In the darkness, it would be a tough call.
Tim had somehow pushed himself up on to his arse to stop his face being pelleted by the rain. He leaned against Silky and reached for the bag. He fiddled about in the dark for a moment and eventually pulled out some painkillers. She cupped water in the palm of her hand for him to drink.
Lightning cracked and sizzled, filling the valley with brilliant blue shafts of light. I looked across at the other fire trenches. Heads, shoulders and weapon barrels were silhouetted all down the line. They were doing the same as I was, watching and waiting.
Two of the forward sangars opened up in unison.
Seconds later, nearer the river, muzzle flashes sparked like giant fireflies.
Screams and wails of panic drifted up the valley from the re-entrant.
Another couple of sangars joined in as the LRA came within their arcs – or maybe they could see fuck-all and were just going for it.
Sam screamed: ‘Stand by, stand by.’
We had nothing to aim at yet, and didn’t want them to know we were there in reserve, so we stayed as we were.
The rattle of gunfire echoed round the valley as everyone in the front third opened up. Tracer from our guys floated
down towards the entrance. Some of it hit rock and bounced straight up into the air before burning out or disappearing into the low cloud.
There was a huge rumble of thunder, and lightning strobe-lit the whole valley. A swarm of figures jerked into view. They were starting to pour in. I couldn’t tell if they were adults or kids, but I knew there were a hundred plus, and that was just for openers.
Below me, Tim talked calmly to Silky: ‘We’ll be OK, we’ll be OK . . .’
To my right, Sam’s hands were on the plunger handle.
‘Not yet! Not yet!’
I realized he was screaming at himself.
A couple of rounds thudded into our position. I ducked and shouted down at Silky. ‘Overshoots! Not aiming at us – they don’t know we’re here. It’s OK, just keep down.’
Sam was still at it. ‘Not yet! Not yet!’
Then he yelled, ‘Here we go! Here we go!’
I watched his hands push down, his eyes fixed dead ahead.
2
Nothing happened.
‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’
I’d already launched myself halfway out of the trench.
‘What, Nick? What?’ Silky was losing it.
‘Wait here. Don’t move.’ As if.
I clambered out in time to see Sam give the plunger another seeing-to.
Still no detonation. We were going to lose the firefight.
I ran across and jumped into the backblast channel behind him. ‘I’ll sort it! I’m going to go high left, OK? High left.’
Standish swung round in his trench, shouting shit: ‘What’s happened? What’s gone wrong? You fucking moron! Make it work!’
I ignored him and waited for Sam to give me the nod, then jumped up and ran back to my trench. Muzzles flashed and cracked below me. I lay in the mud of the backblast channel and yelled, over the din, ‘Silky, get up here! Help me, help me!’
I reached down and grabbed the RPG with the first round still in it. ‘Hurry up! Get out of there!’ I laid the launcher in the mud and pulled out another three rounds. I turned my back to her. ‘Shove them down my shirt. Right the way down to the waistband.’
