Live Fire

by Stephen Leather

  Shepherd lifted up the launcher and presented it to the brothers side on. ‘Right, for those of you who haven’t been paying attention, this is a shoulder-fired, single-shot, smooth-bore recoilless launcher. At the front is the muzzle, just behind that is the front iron sight, behind that is the trigger assembly and behind that is the optical sight.’ He pointed at the section in the middle. ‘This is a wooden heat shield, and behind it is the breech.’

  He replaced the launcher on the sacking and picked up one of the backpacks. ‘The grenade that the launcher fires is carried in two parts, the warhead, which is attached to a sustainer motor, and the booster charge.’ He took a cone-shaped warhead unit from one backpack, and a cylindrical booster charge from another, then screwed them together to form one unit. ‘The booster charge kicks the warhead out of the launcher. It’s basically a small strip powder charge. Once the warhead is about eleven metres away from the launcher, the sustainer rocket kicks in. As soon as the warhead has left the launcher, small fins spring out that help keep it on target. There’s no internal guidance system so you have to make sure you’re aiming at what you want to hit. Any questions?

  ‘Just fire the bloody thing,’ said Mark. ‘No one likes a smart arse.’

  Shepherd slid the warhead into the launcher and rested it on his shoulder. He grinned at Mark. ‘Okay, you go and stand in front of the wall. See if I can shoot that cigarette out of your mouth.’

  ‘Yeah, and why don’t you go screw yourself?’ said Mark. ‘Go on, let’s see what it does.’

  Shepherd chuckled and turned to aim at the wall, checking first that no one was standing behind him. The backblast could be fatal. There was little in the way of wind so he centred the sight on the middle of the wall, braced himself, and gently squeezed the trigger. There was a loud whooshing sound and the warhead burst out of the launcher. A second later the sustainer rocket burst into life with a puff of white smoke and a second explosion. The warhead slammed into the wall.

  Shepherd lowered the launcher. Several bricks had been destroyed but the wall was still standing.

  ‘Do another,’ said Mickey.

  Shepherd prepared another warhead and slotted it into the launcher. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Mark behind him, lighting another cigarette. ‘Mark, mate, the backblast from this thing will fry you alive,’ he warned.

  Mark waved an apology and jogged to the Jeep. ‘Fire in the hole!’ shouted Shepherd, taking aim at the hole he’d already made in the wall. He pulled the trigger and the second warhead shot through the air.

  The second explosion did much more damage and left a hole big enough for a man to walk through. Shepherd put down the launcher and went to inspect it with Mark and Mickey. Yates, Black and Wilson followed. Close up, Shepherd could see that the wall was actually two walls, separated by thick steel mesh. The warheads had gone right through. Half a dozen concrete bricks had been reduced to dust and another dozen had been blown to gravel. The metal mesh had been torn apart. ‘That’ll do it,’ Mickey said. ‘We’re in business.’

  ‘Okay?’ Wilbur called.

  Mickey gave him a thumbs-up. ‘Big okay!’ he shouted. ‘Come on, let’s get a drink.’

  ‘They serve booze here?’ said Shepherd, incredulously. Alcohol and guns were a dangerous mix.

  ‘It’s Cambodia, mate,’ said Mickey. ‘Anything goes.’

  They piled back into the Landcruisers and drove across the firing range to a cluster of wooden buildings, one of which served as an office. The Cambodian flag fluttered from the roof and off to the side a camouflage awning shaded a large table and half a dozen teak planter’s chairs.

  The Moores and Shepherd got out of their Landcruiser, which they had parked at the side of a long concrete block with a wooden door at one end. From inside they heard the crack of small-arms fire. Outside seven men in their thirties were standing around a Cambodian soldier who was showing them a selection of handguns. The men were all wearing Tshirts and cargo pants and had the look of former servicemen. As he walked past them, Shepherd heard two talking in Russian. ‘Who are those guys, Mickey?’ he asked.

  ‘Probably tourists. Anyone can come here and fire gear, providing they’ve got the cash.’

  Wilbur walked over to them. ‘Do you want to fire an M60?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Mickey.

  ‘Machine-gun,’ said Shepherd. ‘Seven point six two calibre. Big boys’ toy.’

  ‘Let’s go for it,’ said Mickey.

  Wilbur took them away from where the Russians were being briefed to a firing range where three water-filled oil barrels had been placed in front of a pile of sandbags, behind which was a sloping bank of earth, twice the height of a man. A hundred feet away a trestle table held three green ammunition boxes and half a dozen orange ear-protectors. On the ground next to it was an M60 with a metal stand attached to its barrel. Shepherd picked it up. It had been cleaned and oiled and appeared serviceable.

  ‘How much?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘A dollar a round,’ said Wilbur, lifting a belt loaded with rounds out of one of the boxes.

  ‘How many does it fire?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘Five hundred and fifty rounds a minute,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Mickey.

  ‘You can fire single shots – you just release the trigger,’ said Shepherd. ‘Keep pressing it to fire a burst.’

  ‘You’ve fired one, yeah?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Shepherd, ‘but only in training. You could cut a man in half with a burst. It’s a hell of a weapon.’

  ‘You want to shoot a cow?’ asked Wilbur. ‘For a cow, one hundred dollars.’ He grinned, showing his gold canine. ‘But farmer keeps the meat, okay?’

  ‘There’s no way I’m shooting a cow,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Up to you,’ said Wilbur. ‘We have turkeys. Ten dollars each.’

  ‘The barrels will be just fine,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Spoilsport,’ said Mark.

  The men put on ear-protectors. Wilbur fed in the belt, then showed Mickey how to hold it, with his left hand gripping the carrying handle and his right hand holding the trigger mechanism. Shepherd adjusted the nylon sling to take some of the weight of the gun. ‘Just do single shots until you get the feel of it,’ said Shepherd. ‘If at any time you feel it getting away from you, just let go of the trigger. Ready?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mickey.

  Shepherd pushed the safety lever forward and up so that it was in the fire position and cocked the weapon. ‘Let her rip,’ he said.

  Mickey took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. Even through the ear-protectors the noise was deafening, and they could feel the thud-thud-thud of the shots vibrating through their stomachs. ‘Bloody hell!’ yelled Mickey. He squinted at the barrels. ‘Did I hit anything?’

  ‘Sand,’ said Shepherd. ‘You were ten feet to the left.’

  Mickey corrected his aim and let loose another short burst. The first three shots hit the barrel on the right and water spurted out, but the rest ripped into the sandbags. The recoil of the M60 took some handling, Shepherd knew, but it was fun watching Mickey trying to cope with it. ‘Die, you motherfucker!’ screamed Mickey, as he pulled the trigger and sent a dozen rounds into the earth bank behind the sandbags. He grinned at Shepherd. ‘Wanna go?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. He took the M60 from Mickey, and slipped the sling over his shoulder. He put his feet shoulder-width apart, left foot slightly forward, and gently pulled the trigger. The first couple of rounds went to the right but he edged the front sight to the left and the rounds began to thud into the middle of the three oil barrels. Water spurted from the holes punched in the metal and Shepherd let a dozen rounds hit home.

  He could feel his heart pounding and the adrenaline kicking in as it always did when he fired heavy weaponry, even when he was only shooting at targets. Guns for Shepherd had always been tools of the trade, a means to an end, but that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy letting rip with a big chu
nk of artillery. He let loose another burst, gripping the handle tightly to absorb the recoil. The acrid cordite made his eyes water and tickled his throat, but he grinned when the middle barrel sprouted another half-dozen streams of water.

  Mickey slapped him on the back. ‘Great shooting,’ he shouted. Shepherd put the M60 back on the ground and took off the ear-protectors.

  ‘You handle the gun well,’ said a voice behind him. Shepherd turned. One of the Russians had been watching them. He was a big man, well over six feet, his head shaved to disguise a rapidly retreating hairline. He had a square jaw, a large diamond in his right earlobe and a geometric tattoo running around his left forearm, just above the elbow.

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘Fires itself, pretty much,’ he said.

  The Russian nodded. ‘It is a nice gun. But we have a better one in Russia.’

  ‘The PKS?’ said Shepherd.

  A look of surprise flashed across the Russian’s face. ‘You know of the PKS?’ he said.

  ‘Pulemet Kalashnikova Stankovy. Sure. One of the Kalashnikov family. Same calibre as the M60.’

  ‘You have fired one?’

  ‘No,’ lied Shepherd. ‘Only read about it.’ In fact, as part of his SAS training, he had been taught to strip and fire every type of NATO and Soviet-bloc hand-held weapon there was.

  ‘May I?’ asked the Russian.

  Shepherd indicated Mickey. ‘You’d better ask him, he’s paying for the rounds.’

  Mickey lit a cigar. ‘Help yourself.’

  Shepherd put on his ear-protectors again and the Russian picked up the heavy M60 as if it was made of balsawood. Shepherd tapped his ear-protectors but the other man shook his head. He turned the gun towards the barrels and let off a short burst. The oil barrel to the left bucked and wobbled as the shells tore into it. The Russian fired a second burst into the middle barrel. The gun barely moved in his shovel-like hands. A third burst hit the final barrel, smack in the middle. Shepherd was impressed. ‘You’ve fired one before,’ he said.

  The Russian laughed. ‘I’ve fired more than one,’ he said. He gave the weapon to Wilbur one-handed. Wilbur grunted as he took the weight. ‘You are English?’ said the Russian.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’re Russian?’

  The man extended a vast hand. ‘Sergei,’ he said.

  ‘Ricky.’

  ‘You’ve come all the way from England to shoot guns?’

  ‘We live in Pattaya now,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Me too,’ said the Russian. ‘You go to Walking Street?’

  ‘It has been known.’

  ‘My partner and I have a bar there,’ said Sergei. ‘Absolute A-go-go. Have you been in?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You should come by. We have the prettiest girls in Pattaya. Where are you staying in Phnom Penh?’

  ‘I don’t know – we haven’t checked in yet,’ said Shepherd.

  Mickey took his cigar out of his mouth. ‘The Raffles.’

  Sergei slapped his chest. ‘That’s where we’re staying,’ he said. ‘It’s the best hotel in the whole town.’

  ‘That’s what they say,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Let me buy you Englishmen a beer, and you can explain why you are so keen to sell your football teams to my countrymen.’

  They walked over to the main building. Under the camouflage awning a battered and rusting fridge was connected to a frayed wire that ran from an open window. A young soldier was standing by it and the Russian waved at him. ‘Beers for all my friends.’ The soldier opened the fridge, took out cans of Heineken and handed them around. Yates and Black opened theirs and went to look at an old military motorcycle that was leaning against a coconut palm. Wilson was talking to Wilbur, who was holding a Kalashnikov assault rifle.

  Shepherd popped the tab on his can and sipped.

  ‘So, you were in the army, yes?’ asked the Russian.

  ‘How did you know?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘A soldier can always tell another soldier,’ said Sergei. ‘It’s in the eyes, it’s in the walk.’ He punched Shepherd on the shoulder. ‘And you, my friend, were in the army, I’d stake my life on it.’ He gesticulated at Mickey and Mark, who were looking at a poster of a cutaway diagram of a Kalashnikov assault rifle that had been pinned on the wall by the window. ‘Those two, they’re hard and they can handle guns, but they’ve never been in a battle, never ducked as bullets flew over their heads so close you can feel the heat.’

  ‘You might be surprised,’ said Shepherd.

  Sergei sat down in one of the planter’s chairs. ‘There’s a difference between being fired at and being in battle,’ he said. ‘It changes your outlook on life.’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ agreed Shepherd.

  ‘You were in Afghanistan?’

  ‘Yeah, I was in Afghanistan a few times.’

  ‘Special Forces? Were you SAS, Ricky?’

  ‘Bloody hell, no,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was a paratrooper. I never wanted to be one of the boys in black. Too much like hard work.’

  Sergei raised his can in salute. ‘Bloody right,’ he said. ‘Special Forces are psychos, all the ones I’ve met. Give me a regular soldier every time. You know where you are with a soldier. What is it the Americans call them?’

  ‘Grunts,’ said Shepherd. Wilson called to Black and Yates and the three men went into the indoor firing range with Wilbur.

  ‘Yes, grunts. I like that,’ said Sergei. ‘Grunt. It’s real. Down to earth. I was a grunt and proud of it. I did three tours of Afghanistan,’ he said. ‘I was there in ’eighty-five and again in ’eighty-seven, and I was there when we pulled out in ’eighty-nine. You know, you will never win in Afghanistan, my friend. If the Russian army couldn’t beat the bastards, you and the Americans won’t stand a chance.’

  ‘I won’t argue with you on that score,’ said Shepherd. ‘When did you leave the army?’

  ‘Three years ago,’ said Sergei. ‘We’d had enough, all the men in my unit. We’d done four bloody tours in Chechnya. Four. And they were going to send us back. And you’d laugh if I told you what they paid us. We were sick of it. While the Mafia were bleeding the country dry and the oligarchs were buying mansions in London, and football teams and private jets, we were being bombed and shot at for less than you pay the men who take away your garbage. So when I told my men I was off, they came with me.’

  ‘To Thailand?’

  ‘There are big opportunities in Asia, my friend. Big money to be made. The police are easy to handle, the local Mafia are bone idle and they back down if you show you mean business, so everyone leaves us alone.’

  ‘And what is it you do, Sergei?’

  Sergei looked at him suspiciously. ‘You are not a policeman, are you, Ricky?’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘If you knew anything about me, that’s the last question you’d ask,’ he said. ‘I’m just interested. I’m looking for business opportunities myself, that’s all.’

  Sergei studied him for a few seconds, then nodded. ‘You are a good guy, Ricky,’ he said. ‘I like you.’ He punched Shepherd’s arm, just hard enough to hurt. ‘The business I do, I will not lie to you, my friend, it’s illegal.’

  ‘All the best businesses are,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Maybe I will tell you some time,’ said the Russian. ‘When we are drunk. But now I want to shoot some chickens.’ He drained his can, crushed it with his hand, and tossed it into a waste bin. He pointed a finger at Shepherd. ‘Tonight we can do some serious drinking,’ he said.

  Mickey was sitting at a corner table in the Elephant Bar when Shepherd walked in. He already had a cigar going, and took a long pull as Shepherd sat down. A waiter asked what he wanted and he ordered a Jameson’s and soda with ice. He was pleasantly surprised when the waiter said, ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘You off the beer, mate?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘Just felt like a whisky.’ Shepherd sat back in his chair and sighed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Mickey.

>   ‘If I tell you, you’ll just tap your nose and tell me it’s need-to-know and that I don’t need to know.’

  Mickey blew a tight plume of smoke at a wooden-bladed ceiling fan above their heads. ‘Try me,’ he said.

  Shepherd interlinked his fingers. ‘Okay, here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘This guy who plans your jobs, the Professor. He wants to use RPGs to blow through a reinforced-concrete wall.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But you’ve got to understand that an RPG isn’t a wall-buster, not in the way you want. It’s designed to shoot through heavy armour, say a foot-thick sheet of steel. It might make a small hole in a wall, but that’s all.’

  ‘So we use more than one,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Then timing becomes a problem. Even a skilled operator takes about fifteen seconds to reload. Then time to aim. So if it takes four warheads to blow a big enough hole, that’s going to take you a full minute and a half, at least.’

  ‘So we go in with four RPGs. Each ready to fire. You pick one up, you fire, you put it down, you pick up the next one. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.’

  The waiter returned with Shepherd’s drink on a stainless-steel tray. He put the glass, a napkin and a bowl of salted peanuts on the table and backed away. Shepherd was just about to ask Mickey about the RPGs he intended to buy when Sergei appeared at the doorway. ‘The Russians are coming,’ he said.

  Three other men appeared, all big guys, well muscled and, like Sergei, with diamond earrings and geometric tattoos on their forearms. They walked over to where Shepherd and Mickey were sitting. ‘We’re going out to a bar we know,’ said Sergei. ‘You should come.’

  ‘What’s it called?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘The Red Rose.’

  ‘The one with the upstairs rooms and the circular beds?’

  The Russian grinned. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘We’ll see you there,’ said Mickey.

  Sergei clapped Shepherd on the shoulder with his huge hand. ‘You come, Ricky. We’ll get drunk and talk, okay?’ The Russians headed off.

  When they’d gone Shepherd said, ‘Okay, I accept that three or four or maybe five RPGs might well blast a big enough hole in a wall for us to get out the money, but then what? You start using ordnance like that and every armed cop in the country will be after you. Plus the SAS, plus the spooks, plus anyone else with a gun.’