Recoil (28 page)

My claymore plan was simple – it had to be, because there was no time. And simple equals it’s more likely to work.

I was going to make just two giant claymores with the ANFO and as much metal as I could muster, then site them so that anyone coming along or across the river would get the good news early.

There’s nothing sophisticated about a claymore. Even the nice factory-made American ones are just an explosive charge shaped to direct a mass of steel ball-bearings to the front of the HE like shotgun pellets. They are rated as small anti-personnel mines, but the ones I had in mind were going to be big anti-everything mines.

I kept on towards the valley entrance, fighting the lethargy in my legs and the pain in my head. Maybe it wasn’t down to dehydration. Maybe it was because I couldn’t get out of my head what Sam had said about Standish’s big Swiss cheese and the Chinese connection.

4

Behind me, a human train was forming, each truck loaded with plastic fertilizer sacks of ANFO.

I shouted up at the guys in the sangars as I made my way to the valley mouth. I wanted them to know exactly who was moving into their arcs. ‘I’m going there, over there!’ I gave them a thumbs-up and a couple waved.

I wanted two holes, not too deep, one on each side. The theory was that when the claymores were detonated, a shallow pit would contain the majority of the main force of the explosion, and send the shrapnel that had been packed in front scything into the advancing enemy.

Problem was, ANFO is low explosive. The combustion rate is slow, under six thousand metres per second, which is why it is used in mines and to make craters. High explosives, like the stuff in the box I had under my arm, has almost instantaneous combustion, with a shockwave that can be directed at the enemy.

With more HE, I could have built the claymores with oil drums – placed the HE at the bottom, packed the metal on top, and pointed them towards the killing area. But with low explosive, I had to try to contain the detonation and focus it in one direction. It would still take a huge lump out of the hill, but with luck I could direct most of the blast forward – smack into the LRA.

I had never made one of these things with low explosives before – it had always been HE. But it seemed logical that there still had to be a buffer between the explosive and the metal I hoped to be piling in front of it – in this case a mud wall at least a foot thick. Without one, the high detonation temperatures would just melt the metal in front of it, producing a big blob of white-hot molten alloy – great if you wanted to penetrate a tank, but not if you wanted to devastate an area.

My hope was that a buffer would give the claymore’s gases a nanosecond to build pressure before they broke through and blasted bits of metal into LRA flesh and bone across the killing ground. Of course, some of the energy would be converted into a fucking big crater as well, but I hoped I’d direct at least 60–70 per cent of the pressure wave outwards, towards the targets.

Fuck it, there was only one way to find out.

I scrambled up and down the high ground on the right side of the entrance. The ideal hole would be at least three metres above the valley floor for a better spread of blast over the killing ground.

I was also looking for the perfect angle: when the thing was detonated, I wanted the shrapnel to blast the two hundred or so metres across the front of the valley, but also along the riverbank towards Nuka, and over the river into the trees.

I aimed to do exactly the same on the opposite side, which would cover the way Silky and I had left earlier, upstream. Just as the beaten zones of the GPMGs lay over each other like circles in a Venn diagram, when these things kicked off nothing in the killing ground would survive.

I found a dugout rather than a shaft, which couldn’t have been better. It looked like they’d stopped digging when they’d encountered a different, grey-coloured rock, or maybe just got bored. Whatever, the shallow cave would contain and direct the explosion perfectly. Had it been a shaft, a lot of the force would have been dissipated into the ground.

It looked like someone’s home. There were the embers of a cooking fire inside a small ring of rocks, and the usual aluminium pot. A couple of blankets lay on the ground. Whoever they were, they’d have to visit an estate agent after I’d finished today’s makeover.

The cave was about three metres wide and a couple high at the entrance, sloping down two metres towards the back. I lay down at its centre and checked what arcs I’d achieve with the explosive. As the combustion looked for the easiest way out, it would initially go forward, then spread left and right, up and down – a bit like shotgun pellets do so that men in tweed can bring down pheasants and think themselves excellent shots.

Sweat poured down my face, and all my joints were aching as if I had flu. To top it all, I had a stinging lump on my left forearm that I kept scratching through the material. I was tempted to keep lying there and tune right out.

I needed a piss. I didn’t want to lose any more fluid, but it had to be done. I unzipped and sprayed the mud. Dark yellow and stinking; not good. I was still badly dehydrated.

I wanted one row of bags right along the back wall, then another on top of that. I wanted a chain reaction. They needed to be packed tight so they had contact with each other – but not too tight. Compress the mix too much and it won’t detonate.

Crucial turned up with two gunners as the first of the bags were laid. There was so much link dangling round their necks, it probably weighed more than they did. They carried the guns by the handle and their shoulders drooped under the weight.

There was no longer a smile on Crucial’s face, just lots and lots of sweat. He had a coating of white froth round his mouth. I wasn’t the only one in need of fluid. ‘They’ll cover both ways on the approach routes,’ he said, in his high-pitched voice. ‘If they start firing, you get straight back into the valley and leave them to it. That OK? I’ll take over.’

‘What about metal? We need shed-loads.’

He turned away and rattled off a set of instructions in French at the departing gunners. ‘Don’t worry. It’s coming. I’ll be with you. Just sort things out here, man, and I’ll do the rest.’

The air was thick with grunts and groans from the beetles as they humped and sited their heavy loads. I’d arranged a row of eight bags along the bottom, then another of eight on top, and finally one of six. It looked like I was going to be able to pack in another three rows in front.

Fair one. Crucial was right: I should worry about my patch, and let him worry about his.

5

I waited until the last four or five bags had been hauled up the bank and deposited in the cave. There must have been a total of forty or more in the stack by now, enough to bring down the House of Commons. The ANFO boys were busy making another batch for the other side so maybe we had enough to take down Westminster Abbey while we were at it.

I opened the box of HE. That wasn’t what the Chinese were calling it, but it sent a message everyone could understand. The moment the lid was lifted, the pungent smell of marzipan filled the air and made my head swim even more.

British PE4, or the American equivalent C4, was non-toxic and odour-free, but this stuff, churned out by Chinese or Eastern European factories, didn’t piss around: it gave the user the mother of all headaches. It was also vulnerable to shock, and could be detonated if just a stray high-velocity round slammed into it. Even an RPG round detonating within a foot or two would send out enough of a shockwave to kick it off. Not good if you were trying to drop a suicide-bomber and were no good at head shots – but it went bang, and that was all I needed.

I lifted out the first of three greenish, one-kilo slabs. The moment it made contact with the nicks and cuts in my hands it stung like a swarm of bees.

I kneaded the green lump to get it warm and pliable, and after a minute or so it was the consistency of Playdoh. I rolled it into a rough ball and chopped my stiff fingers into it until it looked a bit like a freshly opened Terry’s chocolate orange.

I reached for the reel of det cord. It was filled with a different kind of high explosive. I didn’t know what it was, or who had made it. I just hoped it would initiate the ball of HE I was going to shove into the ANFO. Western det cord came in rolls of 150–200 metres, but I didn’t have a clue how much I had here. It looked like more.

I tied a whole load of knots in the free end until I’d built up a nice big chunky lump to jam into the middle of the HE. Then I squeezed the ball of HE round it and put it to one side. I worked my hand between the bags and wedged it into the back layer. Gathering some slack from the reel, I wrapped a loop of det cord round one of the bags at the front of the pile to anchor it. I didn’t want a tug on the cord to dislodge the knotted end from the ball. I checked the loop carefully. Like water down a garden hose, if the initiation travelled along the det cord and hit a kink, it sometimes decided not to carry on. The energy of the detonation had to flow freely throughout.

I walked backwards out of the dugout, unreeling cord behind me until I reached my AK. I added it to the box of HE under my arm and stumbled back across the valley entrance.

I spotted Crucial and gave him a shout. ‘I need guys with shovels, mate.’ I tried to mime a gravedigger with all the shit still in my arms. ‘Get them up here!’

I unreeled more cord and checked for kinks as I went to find another claymore position.

6

There were a couple of bursts of gunfire in the middle distance as Crucial turned up, bringing half a dozen miners with shovels, hammers and pissed-off expressions. They weren’t too excited about the idea of losing their tools, but I explained what I wanted and left him to it.

The sangars had been stood down now that Sam had carried out his checks. You can’t maintain maximum awareness for ever. They had to stay in position, but not in ready-to-fire. That didn’t stop me shouting up to the high ground ahead, though, to make sure they knew I was coming their way.

I closed my grit-coated eyes for a few seconds as I unreeled more det cord. It felt great. I could have kept them like that for hours.

When I opened them again, I saw Tim striding towards the valley entrance. Where the fuck did he think he was going?

‘Tim! Tim!’

He didn’t stop, just looked across at me and pointed beyond the newly dumped ANFO bags.

‘Stop! Don’t go there. Stop!’

He kept going, and shouted, ‘Nuka.’

He passed the ANFO, reached the track and turned left along the river. The guys in the sangars watched him as if he was mad – which he probably was.

‘Tim, wait! Wait, wait,
wait!
’

I dropped the reel and box and broke into a run. As if to underline my point, there was a rattle of automatic fire from the other side of the river. It was distant, but not distant enough for my liking.

I screamed his name.

Finally he stopped. His shirt was drenched in sweat and his chest heaved with the exertion.

I crashed my way towards him.

‘I have to go back, Nick. I have to fetch more supplies. I know what’s going to happen. I’ll need my bag.’

I shook my head. ‘They’re too close. They’re going to hit us soon. Last light, it’ll all kick off.’

‘I’ll have to take that chance.’ He wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand, then moved off.

I kept up with him, and had to shout over the roar of the river. ‘Listen, mate, sorry about fronting you earlier on. It was stupid. I shouldn’t have done it.’

He slipped and landed on his knees. ‘Fronting? What do you mean?’

‘Nothing. Don’t worry about it.’ I went down with him, making myself a smaller target.

He nodded his thanks. ‘How is she? The diamond-toothed guy said you were back.’

‘She’s fine, twisted her ankle.’

Relief showed on his face. ‘I told her she should have stayed in Lugano, sorted things out with you before coming here. I hope it works out between you two.’ He smiled at me, got back on his feet and walked on.

I followed. ‘What about you?’

He stopped and faced me. Gunfire rattled the far side of the river. ‘Nick, I wouldn’t do anything to harm her. Anything.’ He looked along the path. ‘I must get my bag. You should go back and do whatever you’ve got to do. I’ll be fine.’

I put out a hand before he could leave. ‘One last thing, mate . . . Stefan. He the middle man for this mine?’

He seemed amazed that I didn’t know. ‘When it comes to death, corruption and suffering, Stefan has never been far away.’

I turned back. Fucking hell. It wasn’t only Silky I knew so little about. Had Stefan been phoning Standish? And what about the Chinese? Did they let Stefan control the mine and not worry what the fuck happened here as long as they were getting casseritite by the shipload?

And if Tim knew, so did Silky.

It looked like I’d have the opportunity to talk to her about it sooner rather than later. As I turned into the valley, there she was, hobbling round a mound a few metres in front of the bags of ANFO, nursing her foot, her face tight with anxiety. ‘Tim! Where is he going?’

7

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Get down!’