Dead Centre ns-14

by Andy McNab

  The 12.7 had now moved into the open and was static at the junction. The gunner couldn’t control it. Tracer rounds started horizontal, then shot into the air, arcing towards an imaginary Black Hawk.

  More of Awaale’s boys took up positions behind the vehicle. If the general had taught them all they knew, no wonder he was dead: that just concentrated fire; the enemy had something to aim at. If these jokers reckoned 10mm of steel was going to stop them, then the khat must be even stronger than I’d thought. Vehicles give cover from view, not cover from fire.

  More rounds ripped up the road towards the technical, striking the buildings around the junction. An RPG followed, this time much higher. Its smoke trail was three metres above the technical. Then another. No one took cover. I watched it bounce and skid across the road before exploding just out of sight.

  Our technical decided to come back into cover. I didn’t have a clue where the other two were. I gripped Awaale again. This was a Mexican stand-off, but without the Mexicans. ‘Awaale, are we going to stay here until we run out of ammunition? Or we’re all dead? How’s it work, mate?’

  He gobbed off into his radio yet again. No one answered. The dog was going ape-shit behind the door. His claws scrabbled at the steel like a maniac’s. A radio playing Arabic music was turned up to full blast.

  ‘Awaale, mate. Stop. Look at me. I can help you. Do you want to show what a great fighter you are? Like your father?’ I didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Let me take a machine-gun up there.’ I pointed behind the house, to the high ground beyond the Black Hawk Down site. ‘I’ll go and find out exactly where Lucky’s crew are. I’ll tell you — then I can give you covering fire so you can move round and get to them. OK? So we can get this over. You can slot them, then we can move on.’

  His radio moved down to his chest.

  ‘Come with me.’ I got on my knees. Now we were level with the dog, it went berserk. ‘Look, this is how we can do it.’

  ‘How — how?’

  I smoothed out a patch of sand and traced a cross with my finger to show the junction. I jabbed it at the left-hand end of the horizontal line. ‘That’s where we are now, yeah?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And Lucky’s somewhere up here …’

  ‘Sure. We’re going to kill him.’

  I outlined my plan of action and explained how we should each stay out of the other’s arcs of fire. He looked at me like I’d shown him the secret of the universe. ‘Mr Nick, this is so good.’

  I nodded. ‘But we must go before it gets dark. Give me a radio that works. Give me that one. You grab another one off one of the guys. Bring the technicals here. Tell them I’m in charge of this one, OK?’

  ‘OK, OK.’ He sprang up, ready to swing into action.

  I grabbed his leg. ‘Do the drivers know where to go next? I need to get those hostages home.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He was out of my grasp and running.

  Great. If this all went to rat-shit, at least I’d have a wagon to take me to the meeting. Now I just wanted to get on with it, one way or another, before we were here all fucking night.

  9

  It wasn’t long before the technical that had been firing hurtled towards me. The gunner held on for dear life as it lurched across the potholes, sending up a huge cloud of dust in its wake. I couldn’t even see the junction any more.

  I waved it down just in time. It was going far too fast. By the crazed expression in the driver’s eyes he wouldn’t have stopped much before Malindi.

  I opened the door. ‘Speak English?’

  The guy was totally off his tits. I checked behind. The gunner was much the same. I showed them Awaale’s radio. ‘Let’s go.’

  The driver’s eyes rolled. ‘Radio, radio!’ He pointed down. There was already one in the foot-well, another 1990s job, the size of a house brick. Maybe Awaale had thrown it in.

  I pressed the red tab on mine. ‘Awaale, Awaale …’

  Whoever was at the other end clicked on and the line went live with gunfire. Awaale shouted in the background and I heard giggling. Then it clicked off.

  I tried again. ‘Awaale!’

  There was a rustling sound. ‘It’s me, Mr Nick. I’m here, I’m here.’

  ‘Good man. Wait until I get up into the high ground. As soon as I start firing, you get your crew to move to the left of the junction and come up level with them. Once you’re there, you tell me, OK? Do you get that, Awaale?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Mr Nick, no problem.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Yes, yes. OK.’ The radio went dead.

  I motioned the driver out of the way, into the passenger seat. ‘Come on mate.’ I smiled. ‘Chop-chop.’

  I piled back down towards the Black Hawk monument and up the track behind it, towards the little shack on the high ground. The sun was low, casting really long shadows. Half an hour max till last light.

  I slowed as I neared the top of the mound. Fuck the other technical. It was too complicated with these guys out of their skulls. I had one vehicle: let’s get on with it.

  I started to crest the mound. I wanted to see just enough of the ground below us for the 12.7 to have muzzle clearance with nothing else exposed. We’d present too good a target otherwise.

  I manoeuvred into position to the right of the shack, jumped out and moved forward in a crouch.

  I pressed the red tab. ‘Awaale, Awaale, I’ve got them. I can see where they are.’

  ‘Where are they? Where are they?’

  ‘Whoa … Where are you?’

  ‘We’re at the junction. We’re waiting.’

  ‘OK. Can you hear me clearly, Awaale? Can you hear me?’

  He was shouting over the gunfire. I could see muzzle flashes in the distance as Lucky’s gang kept giving it some in the ever-darkening gloom.

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘OK. From the crossroads, if you go up five blocks — repeat, five blocks — you’ll come to another intersection, and that’s where they are. I can see one technical — repeat, one technical — with a heavy gun onboard. But it’s not being used, Awaale. It’s just parked up. I’m just seeing small-arms fire. Do you understand that?’

  I got nothing back.

  ‘Awaale? Awaale?’

  ‘Yes, I understand, Mr Nick.’

  ‘OK. As soon as I start firing, you start to move on the left-hand side of the road. They’re five blocks away.’

  No reply.

  ‘Awaale?’

  No reply. Fuck it. I went to the wagon, jumped onto the back and started shouting at the gunner. I pointed down to the thin green tin boxes of ammunition. ‘You load, yeah?’ I mimed putting one onto the weapon.

  The boxes held about fifty rounds each. That was what they normally came with, anyway. Fuck knew what was going on here. There were about twenty-five rounds hanging from the weapon and onto the steel floor. Empty cases were scattered all over the place. I kicked them out of the way with my Timberlands so I could get a firm, stable firing platform.

  The firing mechanism was a really old one: two wooden handles on metal frames with a paddle in between. I didn’t bother to check if the safety was on. For sure it wasn’t.

  The circular spider-web sight was the kind normally fitted for anti-aircraft work. I lined it up with the foresight on the junction five blocks up. I caught a couple of muzzle flashes and kicked off a three-round burst. The rate of fire was slow. The gas regulator must have been closed down too far. Or, more likely, clogged up with carbon because it was never cleaned.

  The next burst included two tracer. They zinged into a wall just left of the junction, where I’d seen bodies taking cover. I quickly checked the belt. It was running fine. The green tip on every fifth round was tracer.

  I kicked off at the junction itself. Five-round bursts, trying to control the amount of ammunition I was using, and also to keep the fucking thing on aim. The mount wobbled; it wasn’t bolted in properly.

  Pointing down at the next ammo box, I swivelled the gun left
and right. I couldn’t see any movement.

  I got on the radio as the lads started to load it up. ‘Awaale?’

  Still nothing.

  ‘Move, mate. Awaale, move.’

  Two or three seconds later I heard the scream of engines. A cloud of dust billowed above the sea of wriggly tin and moved towards the junction. If Lucky Justice hadn’t known where our technicals were, he did now. All Awaale needed to throw in was a bugle call and the fucking cavalry charge was complete. None of this stealth, getting right on top of the target nonsense: they were just going for it.

  10

  The leading technical, flatbed heaving, came briefly into view through a gap between the shacks. At least they were outside my arc of fire. I lost them again almost immediately. Every time I saw muzzle flashes, I’d put in a three- to five-round burst. I watched the tracer’s gentle arc towards the target, 350 metres away at the most. I put another five rounds into the junction. And then another.

  ‘Mr Nick, Mr Nick?’ Awaale was back on the net.

  I couldn’t respond. In all the excitement, he’d kept his finger on the pressle. All I could hear was his engine gunning. I had to wait for him to release it.

  ‘Mr Nick, Mr Nick?’ This time he remembered.

  I hit the red tab. ‘Yes, Awaale, yes. Where are you?’

  The driver had jumped out, and he was having a go at the targets with his AK. He fired big long bursts, which kicked off in all directions, mostly into the air. He didn’t give a fuck: he was just going for it.

  ‘Where are they, Mr Nick? Where are they?’

  I peered into the gloom. He could be anywhere. There were dust-clouds all over the place.

  ‘Stop, Awaale. Stop. Can you hear me? Stop.’

  I clicked off.

  ‘OK, we’ve stopped. Where are they? Where are they?’

  ‘Calm down, mate. Wait, wait …’

  I wanted him to take a breath, and then we could move from there. ‘Where are you, Awaale?’

  ‘I don’t know …’

  They’d gone careering off without a clue.

  ‘OK. Fire your machine-gun in the air. When I see your tracer I can direct you.’

  I got nothing back.

  ‘Awaale?’

  Five or six tracer suddenly blossomed fifty metres short of the junction, three blocks in on the left.

  ‘Good. I want you to turn directly towards the road. They’re very close to the junction. Is that clear?’

  I had to shout so loudly I almost didn’t need the radio. The gunner was going ape-shit on the 12.7. The driver was going ape-shit on his AK. Three empty magazines lay at his feet. Only he knew who or what he was aiming at. If, indeed, he was aiming at all.

  I looked up. There was another whoosh from the junction. I could see the smoke trail heading our way. I threw myself to the ground just as the thing exploded. It had landed in front of the shack. An old guy burst out of the door, screaming like a banshee. He legged it down the other side of the mound and kept on running. I didn’t blame him.

  Dust and stones showered down on us.

  I got back on the radio. ‘Awaale?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Nick.’

  I could hear the engines gunning; everybody shouting.

  ‘Awaale? Awaale?’

  Nothing.

  ‘I’ll keep firing until you get to the crossing. All right? I’ll fire until you get to the road. Awaale? Can you hear me?’

  There were shouts from the two lads behind me. I jerked my head round and scanned the junction. A couple of bodies were sprawled in the dust. They’d got a couple of kills.

  I bunched my fists, as if gripping the firing handles. ‘Keep going, boys, keep firing …’

  I sparked up the radio again. We just needed the Benny Hill music for this performance to be complete. ‘Awaale?’

  Tracer stitched its way across Lucky’s position as Awaale’s team blasted straight through the intersection like a demented cavalry charge, bouncing over the two bodies as they went.

  I jumped back onto our flatbed, took over the gun and directed rounds towards Lucky’s side of the junction, into walls and roofs and the shells of ruined buildings, wherever I saw anything moving.

  Lucky’s technical emerged from cover to take Awaale head-on. Awaale’s driver spun his wheel so the boys behind the cab could lay down fire without zapping him and the boss if their barrels dipped.

  I punched three-round bursts into Lucky’s metalwork from my vantage-point. The tracer burrowed into the dirt, burning for a couple of seconds until it died. His gunner didn’t hang around. He leapt off the back and legged it before he got the good news. The driver slumped motionless against the steering wheel.

  I gave it one more burst in case any of his mates were still inside. Fuel must have been leaking from a ruptured tank. The tracer ignited it. The whole area was suddenly a riot of yellow and orange. Lucky’s infantry turned and fired back from the flickering shadows.

  Instead of standing back in case they were needed, Awaale’s second technical rumbled forwards and kept right on going. The only area that didn’t get raked with fire was the ground beneath the gunner’s feet.

  I kept my fire to the right, taking on any hint of enemy movement. There was shit on down there but no one cared. Both sides fired like gangsters, side on, with their AKs in the air. I stopped and let them get on with it. My nose filled with the stink of cordite. The barrel was smoking hot.

  I clambered down and waved at the driver and his sidekick. ‘Let’s go, lads. Chop-chop.’ I clapped my hands. We had to move on. I had a meeting to go to.

  I climbed into the cab. My two new recruits hauled themselves onto the flatbed.

  We thundered down the hill. It was well past time to get the fuck out of there and get on with my day job. We closed on the killing zone. I drove past the doorway where I’d gripped Awaale. I made a left turn at the junction, slow and wide enough to make sure the gun had enough play to point where it was most needed. I thrust my hand out of the window and gesticulated wildly. ‘That way, mate. That way.’ I doubted he’d hit anything, but at least he wouldn’t be aiming at me.

  We spotted his crew almost immediately. They were dragging three bodies from behind a wall. They shared the cigarettes they’d lifted from the dead men’s pockets and loaded Lucky’s weapons onto the unarmed technical.

  Awaale was nowhere to be seen. I started flapping. If I lost my English speaker, I was fucked. I picked up the handset. ‘Awaale. Where are you, mate? We’re back at the junction. Where are you?’

  Silence.

  ‘Awaale?’

  Then I heard my own voice coming from the burnt-out shell of a building.

  11

  He clambered out of what had once been a window. He was a very happy boy. ‘We killed some, Mr Nick, and the others turned and ran. No Lucky Justice, but this is still a good day. We’ll do this again. And again. Lucky’s crew will get the message. The general’s crew are back in town.’

  He thrust up his bloodstained palm, inviting me to give him a high-five through the window. I fucking hated high-fives.

  ‘You’re right, Awaale. If Lucky’s still alive, you can see why he was given the name. Now, can we go and see my friends? I really need to know they’re safe.’

  His boys were busy mutilating the bodies with knives, rocks, and then a burst of AK for good measure. The corpses were left behind; they were the message Awaale was talking about.

  I slipped into the back of Awaale’s technical. Awaale wiped his hands clean on his trousers and resumed his place in front. Music blared from every cab. AK rounds stitched another message into the sky. Every mobile within reach sparked up, in case anyone hadn’t already heard the news.

  As the lead wagon joined the celebration, green tracer snaked from the muzzle of its 12.7. The gunner lost control as they bounced back through the potholes and pummelled the buildings four hundred metres away.

  Awaale didn’t seem to mind. ‘Mr Nick, that was good, yes? We kicked the ass,
oh, yes indeed.’ He pulled the Marlboro pack from his sweat-soaked shirt and offered me one. When I shook my head he slapped the driver gleefully on the shoulder. He laughed, and his white teeth gleamed.

  Everybody had had a great night out. Well, apart from the lad whose body now lay on the flatbed behind us. There was a curious innocence to their violence. There was no anger. They seemed to bear no hatred towards Lucky’s crew. Killing and maiming wasn’t an outrageous act to them. It was what they did. It was all they knew. They had no boundaries. And that was what made them so dangerous.

  I leant forward. ‘You did really well, Awaale. I think your father will be very proud of you.’

  ‘I know. I know he will be.’

  He pulled out his mobile, hit the speed dial and was soon waffling away. He sounded as excited as a child. I didn’t need to be a Somali speaker to understand the facial expressions and the boom-boom-boom. There were nods of agreement from the driver, and I twice heard my name.

  Awaale turned to me with the world’s biggest grin and handed me the phone. ‘It’s my father, speak to him.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  He looked puzzled. ‘Awaale, of course.’

  Of course.

  To start with, I could just hear a female voice announcing that the Northwest flight from Chicago had been delayed. Minneapolis was eight hours behind. It must have been about midday there.

  ‘Hello, Mr Nick. My son tells me that you have helped him to do great deeds today. You’ve made me a very proud father.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re there to buy back your loved ones, yes?’

  ‘Yes. I’m hoping your son will be able to help me. Maybe you can too. One of them is the wife of a dead warrior. One of them is a small boy, a little boy. I know you’re a brave man, a famous man here in this city. Will you be able to help me?’

  The Tannoy came to his rescue. The Jet Blue from LaGuardia had landed.

  ‘Mr Nick, I have to go. My passenger has arrived. Please tell my son I love him.’