Recoil (32 page)

4

The sun was now only just visible above the horseshoe, having lost its fight to burn completely through the clouds. The place the ANFO had been mixed was now in shadow, a scrapyard of empty drums, discarded sticks and torn fertilizer bags. A layer of red dust and a dozen or so cigarette butts floated on top of the one drum of diesel that remained.

I climbed through it, and up the track towards the tents. There was now a constant rumble of thunder beyond the river. Sam yelled an incomprehensible order and men stirred in the sangars.

He was on the edge of the knoll, pointing at the second fire trench. ‘I want it here, with me.’ I lifted and flicked the firing cable like a hose, to manoeuvre it round the front of the trenches. I risked it getting trodden on or kinked if I left it draped along the track.

I stopped Sam as he started to walk away.

‘Where is she?’

He pointed to the first tent. It was dark inside the dirty, sagging canvas but I could see movement. Her face appeared briefly at the flap, and I was treated to the most fleeting half-smile before it disappeared back inside.

Sunday was still tethered next door, surrounded by sheets of paper. I guessed they must now be covered with drawings of stick men firing guns into stick-man huts, and more stick men lying down with very real blood pouring out of them.

Crucial bobbed up and down like a gravedigger as he grabbed RPG rounds from a stack at ground level and shifted them into the third trench.

Sam’s had about ten RPG rounds in it, stored with the pointy bits facing up and a launcher in the corner, loaded, ready to fire. The bottom of the trench was lined with logs to keep the weapons mud-free. The RPGs were the closest we had to artillery, and that was why they were sited here. They wouldn’t be very effective if fired directly, because we didn’t have the fragmentation rounds that would throw out shrapnel with a kill area of more than a hundred metres. The anti-armour rounds we did have were designed to punch forward into armoured vehicles. They were killing American tanks in Iraq right now, by being fired in volleys. The weapon was easy to use, and very accurate if fired close up. The insurgents had been getting within eighty metres of their target before firing. The first round took out the outer plate of the tank’s reactive armour. The second, aimed at the same impact point, penetrated the remaining layers of armour and fucked up everyone inside.

Here, if they were fired directly at the targets, the rounds would hit the mud and the main force of the explosion would be sucked into the ground. Sam was going to make use of their soft detonation. They self-detonated after about five seconds, and the further back they were fired from, the better the chance of them exploding above the ghat-munchers and killing them with an airburst.

If we were attacked from the high ground, they could be fired over the valley lip and would explode as they started to come down into the dead ground the other side. Not a good day out for anyone on the way up.

5

Standish and Bateman were hunched over the cooking pot. The fire was long dead, but there was still some congealed gunk in the bottom of the pan, and they were digging in like they hadn’t eaten for days. Sam stood close by, not bothering to disguise his disdain.

For the first time in history, Standish was looking rough. His hair was flat against his head, and his face, neck and arms all had long thin cuts from running through the bush after the contact. They were both in shit state, covered with mud and soaking wet. Flies buzzed round their heads, not much caring whether they got to the food, the sweat or the blood.

The cicadas were going ape-shit now that it was getting darker. The only other ambient noise came from the river and the still-distant rumbles of thunder. No firing from the LRA, none of our guys making noise, nothing even from the Nuka mob in the dead ground.

Standish and Bateman weren’t the only ones who were hungry and thirsty. I approached the huddle, the plunger still over my shoulder.

I lifted one of the four jerry-cans now by the fire. The nozzle was caked with rice from the last drinker, but that didn’t bother me. The sterilization tabs made it taste like the council swimming-pool I used to piss in when I was a kid, but I wasn’t worried about that either. I gulped hard and long, feeling the water travel all the way down to my stomach, and only stopped when I ran out of breath.

Sam waited for me to finish. ‘Take it with you.’

Standish kept scooping rice from a burned tin can and shoving it into his face with the palm of his hand. He was a long way from the Guards Club. ‘It was the skinny surveyor who went down, right?’

I lowered the jerry-can again, careful not to spill a drop. ‘Yep.’

‘We found the fat boy after we crossed the river. They’d taken his arms and legs off.’ His face contorted with anger. ‘All you had to do was get them out of here. What the fuck did you think you were doing? They’re expensive to replace, you idiot. Which fucking Chinaman with even half his marbles will want to spend months on end in a place like this once word gets out?’ He waved an arm across the skyline, then got back down to his rice.

Fuck him. It wasn’t worth getting sparked up about. There was always time for that later, once we were out of here.

I got more water down me. This wasn’t about enjoyment: this was a pit stop. ‘What about the rest of the patrol?’ I looked to Sam for an answer. ‘The gunshot wound and the other guy?’

Sam pointed at the back of Standish’s not-so-immaculate blond head, with the sort of expression that said he was one step away from cracking it like an egg. ‘He killed them.’

I brought the jerry-can down again. ‘What?’

‘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.’