Recoil Page 4

  I might have been the new boy, but I knew who was now the real boss around here. ‘Sam?’

  By now everybody had their weapon ready to go, and everybody waited.

  Standish wasn’t impressed. I’d just been crossed off his Christmas-card list. ‘I’m giving an order. I want bodies out there. Get some rounds down!’

  ‘No – leave ’em.’ Sam took control. ‘We won’t get them all now, anyway. Hold fire.’

  The last of the bodies disappeared into the darkness, heading towards the wagon lights that were scattered around the building, just out of our range, and the fires that flickered near them.

  As Standish stomped off towards the stairs, a couple of shots cracked off here and there but they weren’t aimed at us or the mutineers. The rebels out there had probably chewed so much ghat, they were shooting each other to see if it hurt or not.

  10

  01:28 hours

  Most of us were on the roof, staring at the vehicle lights and fires out there in the darkness. It was only a question of time before they attacked again.

  Standish was down on the Renault, talking to the High Commission and the Third Fleet, and anyone else who’d listen, by the sound of it. Annabel stuck to him like glue.

  As far as we knew – or could gather from what Standish was saying – the Americans were still steaming towards the Zaïre coast. There was still no clearance for fighter jets, and still no word on the helis. I got the feeling that a little backtracking was the order of the day.

  This job had been going on once a month and the cargo hadn’t been a problem as long as nobody knew about it. Even after the attack, everything was OK because we were going to nip this little bit of drama in the bud. But now that fast jets and heli support were being requested, things had gone a little quiet.

  Sam was taking the silence in his stride. ‘So what’s new?’

  The general wasn’t so patient. He yelled into the darkness from time to time and, judging by his body language, if he ever got his hands on the guys who’d run away tonight, he’d rip their hearts out with his bare hands.

  Davy was on stag next to Gary, who was still lying where he’d dropped. His face was covered with a sheet of blood-soaked gingham.

  Sam had been staring at the dark pool that had leaked from under his head, and still glistened in the moonlight. He finally tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Come with me.’

  We crossed the roof and headed down the spiral staircase.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Don’t you want to know why Gary’s history?’

  It was pitch black. The further we went down the stairs, the stronger the smell from the bodies. It wasn’t the usual butcher’s-shop smell. It was too hot and sticky for that. It reminded me of dog food.

  The small wooden crates in the middle of the hall were split but still intact. ‘Grab one, Nick. I’ll get the door.’

  I did as I was told and carried it out into the moonlight. The box was about half the weight of the link I’d been carrying earlier – surprisingly heavy for its size.

  A small zinc plate on the side read: London Good Delivery.

  I didn’t know what to make of that. It wasn’t in London yet, and there certainly wasn’t anything good about this delivery. But Sam knew. ‘It’s gold. London Good Delivery bars are the world trading standard. That’s what those guys out there are here for.’ He picked up one of the brick-sized bars. ‘Twenty-seven pounds each, these boys weigh. That’s a big wad we got here, in anybody’s language.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit. Gary and the others in the house died for this?’

  Sam saw the expression on my face. ‘Let’s go ask her, shall we?’

  I followed him over to the Renault. Sam held the gold bar almost under Annabel’s nose. ‘All this, just so Uncle Mo ships a few more million to Switzerland? Politically sensitive? I must tell that to the mother of Gary’s kids. And what about your two friends? Do they have husbands? Brothers? Sisters? I’m sure it’ll be a comfort.’

  ‘Sam, I—’

  ‘Giving aid with one hand and taking back with the other, that’s all this is.’ He gave her the sort of look he’d given me when I’d used ‘fuck’ and ‘New Testament’ in the same sentence. ‘How do you people sleep at night?’

  She didn’t reply. Tears were rolling down her face. She was young; this job was just a little rung on a big career ladder. What was she supposed to do? Refuse on moral grounds or something?

  Standish had been silent up to now, but he’d obviously heard enough. Good: she needed defending. ‘Shut up and stop crying. I can’t stand whinging women. And you, Sergeant –’ he glared at Sam ‘– just get on with your job. Do you think this didn’t come right from the top? It’s important.’

  Sam clenched his jaw. ‘Important for you, maybe, but not for me. I’m a soldier.’

  For a moment, it looked like Sam was going to deck him, but he never got the chance. Davy was screaming from the roof: ‘Stand to!’

  11

  Sam and I ran towards the house as Davy got everyone sparked up. ‘Here we go, stand to, stand to!’

  Sam paused to shout back at Standish. ‘Get the comms inside and keep out of my way!’

  We raced up the stairs and on to the roof. I could see four sets of headlamps coming our way, then five, six, maybe more.

  I took control of my gun and rested it on the parapet, jerking back instinctively on the cocking handle to check that the working parts were still to the rear and made ready. As the steel parts of the cocking slide rubbed against each other I heard the rasp of sand. I pushed in the safety bar that ran through the pistol grip from right to left before punching down on the top cover to make sure.

  The clunks and clicks of two RPGs being loaded came from just behind me, but the guys held their fire. To get in a decent shot, the vehicles needed to be within spitting distance at night. The launchers only had iron sights.

  Yet more sets of lights appeared and peeled off to the right. The fuckers were going to try to surround us. Still we waited for Sam’s order.

  The headlights closed to 300 metres and I could hear faint shouts and hoots. The boys must have been having a good old night on the ghat.

  Sam ducked and weaved like a boxer as he tried to get a better view, then a finger poked at my shoulder. ‘Take the lead vehicle.’

  I shifted position until my foresight rested on the closest set of lights. He designated other vehicles until everyone had a target. When mine was about two hundred away, he said, ‘Stand by, stand by, fire!’

  The noise of eight weapons opening simultaneously was deafening. I was buffeted by shockwaves from the RPGs, then the hot back-blast washed over me. Gravel splattered me. My nose filled with the acrid smell of cordite and spent propellant. My eardrums zinged.

  I put another double-tap into the lead vehicle as one of the grenades hit home about three back. Its headlights swerved and the dustcloud it threw up obscured the set I was aiming for.

  Next thing I saw, my vehicle, too, was swerving. It went into a complete roll not more than twenty metres from the wall.

  Bodies kept advancing, firing wildly, their screams and shouts getting louder by the minute.

  The first vehicle made it to the wall and into dead ground. It had to be heading for the gate. Sam ran along the parapet. ‘Take the wagon! Take the wagon!’

  I made a grab for the carry handle but missed. My fingers closed around the red-hot gun metal and nearly stuck to it. My hand sprang open and the gun dropped. I made sure I got the handle this time.

  Sam’s rounds stitched holes in the light sheet steel of the gates. ‘Right of the gate,’ he screamed. ‘Get some rounds through the wall!’

  I stood with the weapon in my shoulder, hands on the pistol grip and butt with the barrel on the parapet to allow me elevation down. I could smell my own burned flesh as I squeezed off a long burst.

  A few inches of breezeblock were no match for 7.62mm of steel travelling at 800 metres a second.

&n
bsp; The section of wall disintegrated.

  Instead of scattering, the ghat-fuelled bodies behind it fired back through the hole.

  Others still rushed the main gate, so high they didn’t even realize they were leaking blood.

  12

  04:20 hours

  They came at us in waves, maybe fifteen to twenty bodies at a time. The flash eliminator at the end of my gun barrel glowed red from the sheer number of rounds that had rattled through. Standish was certainly getting his body count now.

  When the lull came, I opened the top cover in an attempt to cool the working parts.

  Sam called round for ammo states. The shouts that came back from all of us were exactly the same: ‘Low.’

  ‘All right, listen in. First light’s in two hours. Davy and Nick, get Gary and the rest of them on the back of our wagon.’

  I left the gun on the terrace with the top cover up, and went over to Frankenstein’s body.

  Davy looked up. ‘He’s stiffening.’ He was trying to get Gary’s arms down by his side. ‘Another hour or so and we won’t get him down the stairs.’

  I grabbed under his armpits and Davy took his legs. He looked shaken.

  ‘You all right, mate?’

  ‘It’s just . . . Well, I know his girlfriend. They have a couple of kids together.’ Davy grunted with the effort. ‘But she’s going to get fuck-all. She didn’t want to marry this fucker.’ He nodded at Frankenstein’s head, lolling from side to side as we moved along the landing.

  We got to the top of the stairs and the stench of shit and death hit my nostrils.

  We carried Frankenstein down the staircase the best way we could, got him past the other bodies and the gold and on to the back of our wagon.

  Standish and Annabel were sitting against a wheel of the Renault. He was setting up the comms, and clearly brooding. We’d fucked him off big-time, but so what? He could do all the talking and organizing he liked, but he most definitely wasn’t one of us.

  ‘So what will she do?’

  ‘Fuck knows. The army’s not going to do anything – she’s not “wife of”.’

  There was a shout from Sam, up on the parapet. ‘Davy, Nick – stay there.’

  A minute later he materialized out of the gloom. ‘Get out and scavenge some mags. We’ll cover.’

  I looked through the gap I’d shot in the wall. More than a dozen bodies lay scattered in the moonlight. If Davy thought Gary’s girl had pension problems, what about the girlfriends of this lot?

  We scrambled over the rubble into no man’s land.

  13

  Davy knelt at my side, weapon in the shoulder. I lifted an AK from the sand, pressed the release lever behind its mag and pushed the mag forward until it came away from the weapon. Then I frisked the body lying a metre or so from it. There was another mag jammed in the waistband of his jeans, and one in his back pocket. I tucked in my football shirt and threw them all down the front.

  The body was covered with blood and sand, and it was still tacky. I tried to avoid it as best I could. We’d talked about the AIDS thing ever since the scare first hit the papers three or four years earlier, but none of us knew much about it. Was it transferred through blood, gay sex or kissing Rock Hudson? He had died of it last year and all his acting partners were flapping big-time after sharing so much mouth action on screen.

  I moved on. AIDS was one thing, but running out of ammo was far more life-threatening.

  The next guy had been wearing a canvas ammunition vest. Six more mags.

  The one after was on his back, eyes wide open. And he was whimpering.

  ‘We got a live one!’

  Standish shouted back, from the gap in the wall, ‘Leave him and move on.’

  ‘Sam, it’s a kid. He’s in shit state.’

  Standish repeated his order, but Sam had the last word from the parapet. ‘Bring him in.’

  I looked down. The little fucker couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. Moonlight glistened in the dark liquid pooling beneath him. Lumps of rubble lay all around him. I picked up the bundle of skin and bones, leaving my AK for Davy to bring into the compound. Fuck the AIDS – I might be dead by morning anyway.

  Sam was already on the back of our truck, pulling on a pair of surgical gloves from the trauma pack. ‘Dear God.’ He laid his hand on the boy’s head. ‘Sssh, hey, OK . . . You’re going to be fine.’

  I went to his other side. The kid’s clothes were in shreds and it was easy to see the huge slit down his left thigh. It looked like a sausage that had split in a frying-pan. Most of his flesh was peppered with fragments of broken stone. His hair and face were caked with blood, sweat and sand.

  We didn’t have any fluids to get into him. There was nothing we could do but plug up the holes and try to stop him losing any more blood. He was going to be in a lot of pain and he’d probably get badly infected, but if we could stabilize him and get him to a hospital, all that would be sorted out later on.

  Sam had his hands on either side of the gash, squashing it back together. Pressure was the only thing that would stop the blood.

  I ripped open a dressing with my teeth and unwrapped the cotton tape that was supposed to keep it in place. The moment you applied pressure it always behaved more like a ligature. There was no way the fucking things would do what it said on the tin. I handed the dressing to Sam, who jammed it into the oozing cavity carved by the wound.

  The child screamed.

  Sam murmured soothingly, ‘Sssh, we’ve got to pack you out.’ As if he understood a word.

  A second field dressing followed the first, then a third packed down on top. I handed Sam a four-inch crêpe bandage and he began to bind up the dressings, applying constant pressure all the way down the wound.

  He took a second bandage from my outstretched hand. ‘What have we done? What have we done?’

  I thought he was talking to me, and looked up. He wasn’t. His gaze was pointing at the sky. ‘Dear God, forgive us . . .’

  14

  05:23 hours

  Standish was still sitting against the wheel, sat comms glued to his head, as he talked to a US Marine colonel bobbing up and down somewhere on the South Atlantic. Sam stood over him, working out the payload the helis would be lifting.

  The US Navy might have had helis coming out of their ears, but they weren’t going to send more than they had to into a hot zone. At least they were coming: Gary’s idea of using the Sea Knight to refuel was in train at last.

  None of the team was dancing jigs about it. We knew what was in the boxes now, and what Gary and the royal sisters had died for – everything from Mobutu’s string of houses on the French Riviera to a new private 747.

  The Saviour of the People was going to do quite well out of this little job, which no one would remember in a month’s time. Meanwhile, Gary’s kids would get fucked over by our government, as surely as this one slowly dying on the wagon had got fucked over by his. And Princess Margaret’s granddaughters would wonder why Nanny had never made it home for Christmas.

  Each of the fourteen wooden boxes weighed 162 pounds. And there were eleven of us, including Annabel, the general, Gary and the kid. The total payload was about 4200 pounds, easy in weight terms for a helicopter to lift, but not when it came to bulk.

  The carrier fleet’s UH-60 Seahawks, the Navy’s version of the Blackhawk, were designed to take eight combat troops and their gear, so a two-ship had been scrambled. Their escort was a two-ship Cobra attack force, armed with three-barrel 20mm cannon. The plan was for them to provide top cover as we screamed out of the gates to the open ground the Seahawks needed for landing. We’d load Mobutu’s gear on to one, and ourselves on to the other. Then all four aircraft would fuck off back to the coast, via one of the Sea Knights parked up somewhere in the desert.

  I did what I could to comfort the wounded boy, but it wasn’t easy. We didn’t share a language and I wouldn’t exactly get a job as Ronald McDonald. Besides, I wasn’t even sure he could hear me. The fiel
d dressings on his leg and head were so bulky he looked like a mummy.

  Sam – just below us – was more withdrawn than I’d ever seen him. His conscience was giving him hell, and I didn’t feel too good about what we’d done either. We hadn’t had much option, but that didn’t help.

  I’d killed people before, but this was different. Kids like this one should have been too young to be anybody’s enemy. The guys who’d forced these poor fuckers to carry weapons should be the ones lying out there in the sand.

  Standish finished with the fleet. ‘OK, they’ll be here just after first light. We move out the moment we hear them. We’ll have two minutes to get everything aboard.’

  Sam looked up. ‘Well, we’d better get your blood money on a wagon then, hadn’t we?’

  15

  05:47 hours

  The crates were loaded. Davy and the guys were up top on stag. There was nothing to do but wait. Even the general was quiet.

  I studied my burned hand in the moonlight, and watched Sam try his best for the kid. There wasn’t a lot more he could do: the wounds were plugged up and probably infected, but at least he was alive.

  Sam was deep in thought. There was a lot more going on in there right now than commanding this job. I felt bad enough, and that was without worrying about an afterlife and a Big Guy with a white beard I had to answer to.

  Standish broke the silence: ‘They’re over the coast and inbound. Let’s get on the wagons.’ He punched numbers into the pad; Sam called the guys and we started to board.

  ‘Commissioner, I’m preparing the team now. I’ll contact you as soon as I’ve made visual contact with the aircraft.’ He passed the handset to Annabel and went to look through the hole in the wall.

  The rebels were still out and about, even this close to first light. Fires burned, vehicle lights bounced around in the distance. The boys were still partying hard. But come first light, I wasn’t sure which was going to be more dangerous – that lot out there, or the Cobra two-ship escort piloted by trigger-happy Americans.