by Andy McNab
Anyway, for the time being he'd be having those aircraft search the coastline for Sunburn rather than us three.
Invisible birds started their morning songs as a bright yellow arc of sunlight prepared to break the skyline and yield up a hot morning. I'd already repacked my docs and map in the two layers of plastic bags, tying each one off with a knot. I checked the Velcro flaps on the individual mag pouches of the harnesses to ensure that they weren't going to fall out during the next phase. Finally, I made sure all my clothing was loose, with nothing tucked in that might catch water and weigh me down.
I undid the plastic clips for the back straps of the harnesses and fed the ends through the handle of the jerry-can before refastening them. I did the same with the neck straps, through the carrying handle of the M-16. I'd learnt from my own experiences, and from others, that more soldiers get killed negotiating rivers than ever die in contacts under the canopy. That was why everything was attached to the empty jerry-can and not to me, and why I hadn't moved until first light.
I dragged the whole lot down to the edge of the tepid, rusty-brown water. It felt good as I waded in up to my thighs, then ducked my head in to take the sweat off my face. Refreshed, I heaped the three harnesses and weapon on top of the floating jerry-can, which wanted to go with the current. It was stronger than it had looked from the bank, and freshly dislodged foliage, green and leafy, sped past as the jerry-can bobbed in front of me, now more than half submerged with the weight of its load. I pushed on into gradually deepening water, forearms over the weapon and harnesses, until eventually my feet began to lose touch with the riverbed. I let myself go with the flow, kicking off from the mud like a child with a swimming float. The stream carried me with it, but I kept contact with the bottom to keep some control, alternately kicking and going with the current as if I was doing a moonwalk.
The loggers had been here and both sides of the river looked like a First World War battlefield, a wasteland of mud and tufted grass, just the odd dead tree left standing.
Because of the river's meandering route I had no idea how long it was going to take to get to the mouth, not that there was much I could do about it: I was committed.
After about half an hour, with the sun low but clearly in view, the jungle began to sprout up on either side of me, and as the foliage got denser it cut out more and more light. The sun wasn't yet high enough to penetrate the gap the river created in the canopy, so above me was just brilliant blue sky. Apart from the noise of the moving water, there was only the odd screech from more invisible birds up in the canopy.
I kicked along, keeping near the left bank, always having contact with the bottom as the river got wider. The opposite bank gradually got further away, looking as if it was another country now. The jungle gave way to mangrove swamp, making the place look like a dinosaur's backyard.
The river soon widened to well over one and a half Ks. As I rounded a particularly wide, gentle bend, I could see the Pacific Ocean lying just a K further downstream. In the far distance I could see two container ships, their funnels spewing smoke as the sun bounced off the calm, flat surface of the sea.
A lush green island sat out there five, maybe six Ks away.
I kept on going, keeping my eyes peeled for anything that would help me locate Sunburn.
The current was slowing and I moved downstream another five hundred metres.
Then, maybe two hundred metres from the river mouth, approaching me to my left, was a small, open-decked fishing boat that had been dragged up on to the bank and left to rot; its rear had collapsed altogether, leaving a skeleton of grey, rotting wood. As I got closer I could see there was a clearing beyond the boat in which stood a small wooden hut in a similar state of decay.
I floated past, my eyes scanning the area. There had been movement, fresh movement. I could clearly see the dark underside of some large ferns just up from the bank, and some of the two-foot-tall grass growing around the boat was interlaced where it had been walked through. Only tiny details, but enough. This had to be it, it had to be. There was no other reason for it to be here. But I couldn't see any sign in the mud leading from the bank.
I carried on for another fifty metres, with the ocean in front of me now, until the canopy took over and the boat disappeared. I touched bottom and slowly guided the jerry-can ashore.
Dragging the kit into the canopy, I got on my knees and unbuckled the harnesses and M-16. The weapon wouldn't need any preparation: a brief dip in a river wasn't going to stop it working.
I donned the first chest harness and adjusted the straps so that it hung lower than it should have, virtually around my waist. Then I put on the second, a bit above the first, adjusting it so it was at the bottom of my ribcage, and the third one higher still. I rechecked that all the mags were stored facing the correct way, so that as I pulled them out with my left hand the curve of the magazine would be facing away from me, ready to be slapped straight into the weapon. Finally, after rechecking chamber on the M-16,1 sat on the jerry-can for a minute or two longer, mentally adjusting and tuning myself in to the new environment. The coolness of the water on my clothes began to lose out to humid heat once more as I checked Baby-G. It was 7.19, and here I was, Rambo'd up, bitten half to death, my leg held together by a soggy bandage, and no plan except to use all my mags.
This would be my 'go, no-go' point. Once I moved from here there would be no turning back unless I fucked up totally and was running for my life. I looked down and watched the drips from the harnesses hit the mud, making little moon craters, not wanting to check my docs in my map pocket just in case the knots hadn't worked. This was wasting time, I was as ready as I was ever going to be, so just get on with it... Wiping my hair back with my fingers, I stood up, jumped up and down to check for rattles and that everything was secure. Then I removed the safety catch, pushing past single rounds, all the way to Automatic.
I moved towards the hut, pausing every few paces, listening for warnings from the birds and other jungle life, butt in my shoulder, trigger finger against the guard, ready to shoot and scoot with a full mag to scare, confuse and, with luck, kill while I broke contact.
The ground was a lot wetter and muddier here because we were at sea level. I wanted to get a move on but also had to take my time; I had to check the area around the hut, because it would be my only escape route. If the shit hit the fan it would be a case of straight down to the river, pick up the jerry-can, jump in and go for it, down to the sea. After that, well whatever.
Like a cautious bird rooting for food amongst the leaf litter, I squelched forward four paces per bound, my Timberlands heavy with mud, lifting my feet up high to clear the crap and mangrove vines on the jungle floor as I concentrated on the sun-bleached wooden hut ahead.
I stopped just short of the clearing, went slowly on to my knees in the mud and protective foliage, looked and listened. The only man-made sound around here was the water dripping from my clothes and chest harnesses on to the leaf litter.
The track leading into the canopy had been used recently, and something had been pulled along it that cut a groove through the mud and leaves. Either side of that groove were footprints that disappeared with the track into the trees. I hadn't seen any sign in the mud as I floated past, because it had been covered with dead leaves and maybe even had water poured over it to wash away the sign.
Past the bank, though, the sign was clear to see: stones pressed into the mud by boots, crushed leaves, broken cobwebs. I got up and started to parallel the track.
Within twenty paces I came across the Gemini, with a Yamaha 50 on the back. It had been dragged up the track and pulled off to the right, blocking my way. The craft was empty apart from a couple of fuel bladders and some fallen leaves. I was tempted to wreck it, but what was the point? I might be needing it myself soon, and destroying it would take time as well as alert them to my presence.
I moved on, and could still see masses of ground sign heading in both directions as the narrow track meandered around the
trees. Still paralleling the track to my left, I started to move deeper into the canopy, using it as my guide.
Sweat trickled down my face as the sun rose and lit the gas under the pressure cooker. A heart-monitor bird was up in the canopy somewhere, and the crickets just never stopped. Soon the sun was trying to penetrate the canopy, shafts of bright light cutting down to the jungle floor at a forty-five-degree angle. My cargos had a life of their own, the weight of the wet, caked-on mud making them swing against my legs after each pace.
I patrolled on, stopping, listening, trying to keep up speed but at the same time not compromise myself by making too much noise. I continued checking left, right and above me, all the time thinking: What if? and always coming up with the same answer: Shoot and scoot, get into cover and work out how to box round and keep moving to the target. Only when I knew I was fucked would I try to head back to the jerry-can.
There was a metallic clang in the trees.
I froze, straining an ear.
For several seconds all I could hear was my own breath through my nose, then the clang rang out again. It came from straight ahead and just slightly off to my left.
Applying the safety catch with my right thumb, I went down slowly on to my knees, then on to my stomach. It was time to move slower than a sloth, but BabyG reminded me it was 9.06.
I inched forward on my elbows and toes, with the weapon to my right, exactly as I had done when I attacked the Land Cruiser, except that this time I was having to lift my body higher than I'd have wanted to stop the chest harnesses dragging in the mud.
I was panting: the crawl was hard work. I put out my hands, put pressure on my elbows and pushed myself forward with the tips of my toes, sinking into the mud.
Moving through the undergrowth six inches at a time, I could feel the gloop finding its way up my neck and forearms. I stopped, lifted my head from the jungle floor, looked and listened for more activity but still only heard my own breath, sounding a hundred times louder than I wanted it to. Every soft crunch of wet leaves beneath me sounded like the popping of bubble wrap
I was constantly looking for alarm trips wires, pressure pads, infrared beams or maybe even string and tin cans. I didn't know what to expect.
A mud-covered Baby-G now told me it was 9.21.1 made myself feel better about the time by thinking that at least I might finally be on target.
Mosquitoes materialized from nowhere, whirring and whining around my head. They landed on my face and must have known that I couldn't do anything about it.
There was noise, and I froze. Another clunk of metal on metal then a faint, fast murmur above the noise of the crickets. I closed my eyes, leant my ear towards the source, opened my mouth to cut out internal noises and concentrated.
The inflection in the voices wasn't Spanish. I strained to listen, but just couldn't work it out. They seemed to be talking at warp speed, accompanied now by the rhythmic thud of full jerry-cans.
It was 9.29.
I had to get closer and not worry about the noise, not worry about the people making it. I needed to see what was happening so I could work out what I had to do within the next twenty minutes.
FORTY-ONE
I lifted my chest from the mud and slithered forward. Very soon I began to make out a small clearing beyond the wall of green. Sunlight penetrated the canopy in thick shafts, dazzling me as it bounced off the wet ground and perimeter foliage.
Movement.
The black-shirted guy who'd been on the veranda crossed left to right in the clearing before disappearing as quickly as he'd arrived, carrying two black bin liners half full and shiny in the sunlight. He wore a US Army webbing belt with two mag pouches hanging down from it.
I took some slow, deep breaths to re oxygenate myself. The thud of my pulse kicked in my neck.
I made another two slow advances, not bothering to lift my head to look forward through the foliage. I'd know soon enough if they'd seen me.
The voices came again from my right, a lot clearer, and faster, but still in control. I could understand them now, sort of... They were Eastern European, maybe Bosnians. The doss-house had been full of them.
The small cleared area in the trees was about the size of half a tennis court. I couldn't see anything, but heard the unmistakable hiss of fuel under pressure being released in the vicinity of the voices.
One more slow, deliberate bound and now I heard the fuel splash. Not daring even to rub my lips together to wipe off the mud, I strained my eyes to the top of their sockets, my mouth open. I felt dribble run down from the corners.
Black Shirt was to my half right, maybe six, seven metres away, standing with the little fat guy who'd been with him that night. He was still wearing the same checked shirt. The jerry-cans were being emptied over the assembled contents of their camp: camouflage netting, American Army cots, a generator turned on its side, plastic bin-liners full and tied. All were piled into a heap. It was nearly time to leave, so they were destroying any evidence linking them to the site.
I remained perfectly still, my throat dry and sore as I tried to listen to the two Bosnians above the din of crickets and bird calls. Their voices still came from my right, but we were separated by foliage.
Holding my breath, straining my muscles to keep total control of them to cut down on noise, I edged forward another few inches, my eyes glued to the two at the rubbish dump just a few metres away as the last of the fuel was poured and the cans thrown on top. I was so close I could smell the fumes.
As the area to my right opened up a bit I saw the backs of the two Bosnians, dressed in green fatigue tops and jeans, bathed in a shaft of sunlight. They were bent over a fold-down table, one twisting the hair on his beard as they both studied two screens inside a green metal console. There were two integrated keyboards below each screen. That had to be the guidance system; I'd wondered what it looked like. To the right of it was an opened laptop, but the sunlight was too bright for me to make out what was on any of the screens. Beside them on the ground were five civilian rucksacks, two M-16s with mags on, and another jerry-can probably to deal with the electronic equipment after the launch.
I wanted to check the time but Baby-G was covered in mud. I couldn't risk movement so close on target. I watched the two Bosnians talk and point at the console screens, then look over at the laptop as one hit the keyboard. Beyond them I could see cables running down from the rear of the console and into the jungle. The Sunburn had to be at the river's mouth. As I'd have expected, the guidance system was separated from the missile itself. They wouldn't have wanted to be right on top of shed loads of rocket fuel when it went off. There was no generator noise, so I guessed the power supply must be part of the missile platform.
The Bosnians were still gob bing off as the fifth member came out of the canopy from behind the console. He, too, was dressed in a green fatigue top, but had black baggy trousers, an M-16 over his shoulder and belt kit. He lit a cigarette with a Zippo and watched the Bosnians hovering over the screens. Sucking in deeply on his nicotine hit, he used his free hand to wave the bottom of his shirt to circulate some air around his torso. Even if I hadn't recognized his face, I would have known that pizza scar anywhere.
The two fuel pourers moved away from the rubbish dump as Black Shirt lit up as well. They were totally uninterested in what was going on at the table just behind them and mumbled to each other as they checked the time.
All of a sudden the Bosnians began to jabber and their voices went up an octave as Pizza Man sucked on his filter and bent in towards the screens.
Stuff was happening. There must be only minutes left. I had to make my move.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed up on to my knees, my mud-caked thumb shifting the safety to Auto as the weapon came into the shoulder. I squeezed with both eyes open, short, sharp bursts into the mud by the dump. There was a rapid thud, thud, thud, thud as the rounds penetrated the first layer of mud and slammed into the harder ground.
Unintelligible screams mixed with the
sound of rounds on auto as the Bosnians panicked and the other two went for their weapons. The fifth just seemed to vanish.
My shoulder rocked back with another short burst as I held the weapon tight to stop the muzzle rising. I didn't want to hit the Bosnians: if they could fly the thing, they could stop it. The sounds of automatic gunfire and panic echoed round the canopy and a cloud of cordite hung in front of me, held by the foliage.
The mag emptied as I kept on squeezing. The working parts stayed to the rear.
I got to my feet and moved position before they reacted to where the fire had come from. I ran to the right, towards the table, using the cover, the mud heavy on my clothes, pressing the magazine-release catch with my forefinger, shaking the weapon, trying to remove the mud-clogged magI felt the mag hit my thigh as I fumbled at the lower harness and pulled out a fresh one. I smacked it on and hit the release catch. The working parts screamed forward as long bursts of automatic fire came from my left, from the clearing.
I dropped instinctively. Mud splattered my face and the air was forced out of my lungs. Gasping for breath, I crawled like a madman, pushing to the edge of the clearing. If they saw me they would fire where I'd dropped for cover.
I was in time to see the Bosnians disappearing down the track, their terrified voices filling the gaps between bursts of gunfire. I also saw Pizza Man, the other side of the clearing, in cover, shouting at them to come back.
"It's just one man, one weapon! Get back!"
It wasn't happening, the other two were following the Bosnians, firing long bursts into the jungle.
"Fucking assholes!"
Weapon in the shoulder, he took single shots at them. Fuck that, I wanted them alive.
Flicking safety to single rounds, I gulped in air, closed my left eye and took aim centre mass of what little I could see of him, stopped breathing and fired.
He dropped like a stone, disappearing into the foliage without a sound.
The other two were still firing into shadows as they moved down the track.
