Recoil (33 page)

She started to sort herself out, hobbling around on her damaged ankle.

I went back and collected the four mags and some damp Russian factory-packed cardboard boxes that each contained twenty rounds of 7.62 short.

Back into the trench with my jerry-can, I wedged the RPG upright in the corner, then five rounds on each side of the cot. The line stretched from his feet to his armpits.

The stabilizer pipe that stuck out of the back of the round contained more than just the booster charge to kick it out of the launcher and the sustainer motor that carried it on its way. It also housed the two sets of fins that deployed inflight. There were as many variations of this little fucker as countries that made them, but basically there would be two large stabilizer fins about halfway along the pipe to maintain direction, and a smaller set behind to induce rotation, making the round rifle through the air like an American football.

There was a logical order governing this sort of situation: my weapon, my kit, myself. Seeing as there was no kit, and no time, only the first mattered.

The lid of the crate of RPG rounds had been ripped off and placed on the parapet to protect resting weapons from the mud. I took off the AK mag and put it down on it. I unchambered the round, and used my cuff to clean the working parts. My shirt was like wire wool on my raw skin, but a shower and a shave wasn’t on offer right now. Most weapons will still fire if they’re covered with crap, but dirty and contaminated working parts inside will give you a stoppage every time.

Silky was scrunched up in a ball by Tim’s head. Their faces were almost touching, and I had to admit to myself that neither looked out of place. She watched me as I pushed down on each mag to check it was full of rounds, and cleared any mud, then shoved a few of the loose ones in to fill them up. I could tell she wasn’t thinking about the here and now. Her face was too calm for that. She had other things on her mind, and they didn’t include weapons, injuries or the LRA.

And that was OK, because my mind was elsewhere too.

The thunder was getting closer. There was just a sliver of light left over the lip of the valley behind us. I capitalized on it to load a mag, recock the weapon and apply safe before lining up the magazines next to the boxed rounds at Tim’s feet.

‘Look after them, will you?’ I was trying to raise another smile. I don’t know whether I succeeded. It was all but dark down there.

I got into the fire position and followed Bateman’s example. I checked how far I could move the AK, especially in the confined space. I couldn’t move along the fire trench, so would have to keep to one end. The trick was to keep as low as possible, to present a smaller target, yet still have good muzzle clearance. It was easier said than done.

A breeze brushed my face, and it felt great. The wind was picking up. Rain was on its way.

Next to be checked was the RPG, basically a simple steel tube, 40mm in diameter and just under a metre long. The middle was wrapped in wood to keep the heat off the firer. At the front end, you stick in the stabilizer pipe until the round head is locked into position. The back end is flared to help shield the blast, which it does very badly, and reduce the recoil, which it does very well.

On top two iron sights flicked up, one in front and the other about a third of the way down. There were meant to be optic ones, but maybe Lex had sold them to the guy with the fragmentation rounds.

There were two pistol grips underneath. The forward one housed the trigger, safety bar – which was the same design as the GPMG’s – and the cocking lever at the rear. The ignition was mechanical, nothing fancy, the same principle as a firing pin on a revolver’s hammer striking the percussion cap on a bullet. The rear grip was just for support, to help aim the thing. All in all, very simple, very cheap, and it weighed less than a GPMG, even when it was loaded. No wonder that, in tests, nine out of ten rebels preferred them.

I put a round into the launcher, got the weapon on the shoulder and checked out the backblast channel, making sure that when I fired it I wouldn’t be making Tim and Silky’s lives any worse by killing them. I never bothered using the safety on these things; I didn’t trust them. When I needed to fire, I just cocked the lever at the back and squeezed the trigger.

I was ready.

I had one last look at the valley in front of me, to set the mental picture before it went pitch black. The high ground at the top of the horseshoe was behind us; we were on the knoll below it, but still on higher ground than the valley floor. We had about four hundred metres of valley between us and the claymores. The Nuka mob were about two hundred metres down on our left. The valley was a couple of hundred metres wide.

The high ground to the left had four sangars on it, roughly fifty metres apart and at varying heights to maximize arcs of fire. Same on the right; another four sangars.

From my elevated position, I covered not only down into the valley, but also on to the left flank.

Sam and Standish were about five metres away, with Sunday somewhere out of sight. They were covering forwards, but could come round and fire on to the left flank quite easily and, to a lesser extent, the right.

The trench beyond them, another five metres to their right, was Crucial’s manor. I watched as he set up his RPG, plunging a grenade into the launcher. He, too, was covering forwards, but could also aim right.

Bateman was further away still, AK already in a fire position. He covered the right flank. We could all fire up at the high ground behind. There weren’t any sangars. And with all the arcs covered, we didn’t need arc stakes. We knew what the fuck we were doing.

All we had left to do for now was watch the moody light-show ahead, as the storm crept closer.

‘When will they come?’ Silky sparked up, to no one in particular.

I answered anyway: ‘Soon. Maybe fifteen, thirty, an hour . . . Who knows?’

PART NINE

1

19:46 hours

The sky emptied on us. Rain hammered at my head and shoulders, but it was a relief not a hardship. Water cascaded down my face and into my open mouth. I sucked it in greedily.

I needed to piss, and just let it happen: it wasn’t as if I was going to stain my OGs. I bent down to check it didn’t smell as bad as it had at the claymore dugout, then brought the jerry-can back up to my mouth to replace what I’d lost.

I passed it over so Silky and Tim could get some down them too. We’d been in position for nearly twenty minutes and there was nothing to do but keep our eyes open and wait, or watch our fingers go wrinkly in the rain.

We’d soon know when they were on their way. They were going to do one of two things: burst through the front door with weapons blazing, or infiltrate until they hit a contact. Either way, it was just a question of the sangars firing at everything and anything that could be seen in the arcs.

Sam would decide the right time to kick off the claymores. We wanted as many of them as possible to be taken out by the explosions, and the rest to be running around dazed and confused in the killing ground. In the darkness, it would be a tough call.

Tim had somehow pushed himself up on to his arse to stop his face being pelleted by the rain. He leaned against Silky and reached for the bag. He fiddled about in the dark for a moment and eventually pulled out some painkillers. She cupped water in the palm of her hand for him to drink.

Lightning cracked and sizzled, filling the valley with brilliant blue shafts of light. I looked across at the other fire trenches. Heads, shoulders and weapon barrels were silhouetted all down the line. They were doing the same as I was, watching and waiting.

Two of the forward sangars opened up in unison.

Seconds later, nearer the river, muzzle flashes sparked like giant fireflies.

Screams and wails of panic drifted up the valley from the re-entrant.

Another couple of sangars joined in as the LRA came within their arcs – or maybe they could see fuck-all and were just going for it.

Sam screamed: ‘Stand by, stand by.’

We had nothing to aim at yet, and didn’t want them to know we were there in reserve, so we stayed as we were.

The rattle of gunfire echoed round the valley as everyone in the front third opened up. Tracer from our guys floated down towards the entrance. Some of it hit rock and bounced straight up into the air before burning out or disappearing into the low cloud.

There was a huge rumble of thunder, and lightning strobe-lit the whole valley. A swarm of figures jerked into view. They were starting to pour in. I couldn’t tell if they were adults or kids, but I knew there were a hundred plus, and that was just for openers.

Below me, Tim talked calmly to Silky: ‘We’ll be OK, we’ll be OK . . .’

To my right, Sam’s hands were on the plunger handle.

‘Not yet! Not yet!’

I realized he was screaming at himself.

A couple of rounds thudded into our position. I ducked and shouted down at Silky. ‘Overshoots! Not aiming at us – they don’t know we’re here. It’s OK, just keep down.’

Sam was still at it. ‘Not yet! Not yet!’

Then he yelled, ‘Here we go! Here we go!’

I watched his hands push down, his eyes fixed dead ahead.

2

Nothing happened.

‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’

I’d already launched myself halfway out of the trench.

‘What, Nick? What?’ Silky was losing it.

‘Wait here. Don’t move.’ As if.

I clambered out in time to see Sam give the plunger another seeing-to.

Still no detonation. We were going to lose the firefight.

I ran across and jumped into the backblast channel behind him. ‘I’ll sort it! I’m going to go high left, OK? High left.’

Standish swung round in his trench, shouting shit: ‘What’s happened? What’s gone wrong? You fucking moron! Make it work!’

I ignored him and waited for Sam to give me the nod, then jumped up and ran back to my trench. Muzzles flashed and cracked below me. I lay in the mud of the backblast channel and yelled, over the din, ‘Silky, get up here! Help me, help me!’

I reached down and grabbed the RPG with the first round still in it. ‘Hurry up! Get out of there!’ I laid the launcher in the mud and pulled out another three rounds. I turned my back to her. ‘Shove them down my shirt. Right the way down to the waistband.’

She knelt behind me, fumbling with the rounds.

‘Fucking hell! Hurry up, hurry up! Shove the fucking things in!’

The stabilizer pipes scraped down the raw flesh where my rash had once been. It felt like my skin was on fire. She could only get two down. The shirt was starting to give way.

‘Give me your belt! Quick! Quick!’

Trying to go too fast, she was all fingers and thumbs. Tim helped the only way he could. ‘It’s OK, Silky, take your time. Look at what you’re doing. You can do it.’

Eventually her webbing belt came off. I grabbed it from her, wrapped it round my chest and did it up. The two rounds behind me were secure.

I pushed her back towards the fire trench.

And then I was gone. A combination of adrenalin and guilt drove me across the ground like Superman. I legged it down into the valley, following the track, slipping, sliding, a couple of times sprawling headlong in the mud. I wasn’t worried about the launcher. The rain would wash off the mud and, anyway, these things were soldier-proof.

I made it down to the valley and worked my way past the dugout and the oil drums, then headed up to the higher ground. I wanted to get behind that rear sangar so I didn’t get zapped. RPGs kicked off from the knoll behind me with a whoosh, aimed to drop and soft-detonate in the valley entrance.

I didn’t give a shit what was in front of me. I just wanted to make distance. Gripping the RPG with both hands, I scrambled up the hill like a mountain goat on speed.

I caught glimpses of the chaos on the valley floor as I went. It was all shapes and shadows. Miners, the Nuka mob, LRA, or a mixture? I couldn’t tell.

I got closer and saw they were miners. What the fuck were they doing? Everyone was going to get killed.

3

‘Coming through! Coming through!’

I was closing fast on the rear sangar, and I was stopping for no man. I kept shouting the warning and running. ‘
Coming through!
’

They heard me and didn’t know what the fuck was going on. They jumped up and turned to fire; I had to hold the RPG at arm’s length and hope they recognized the signal. If they shot me, I couldn’t do much about it.

I got through, and managed maybe another hundred and fifty metres unchallenged and unscathed. The lightning was less frequent now, but still highlighted the gang-fuck as it moved deeper into the valley. Bodies swarmed up the hillsides, overrunning the front sangars.

A couple more RPGs whooshed down from the knoll and exploded over the valley entrance. The fire echoing round the horseshoe was deafening. One burst whizzed past so close to me I could feel its vortex.

I was above the Nuka mob’s re-entrant. LRA were down there. Women screamed. A man howled like a dog.