Dead Centre - Andy McNab [128]
‘On that fucking thing? Two Garrett turboprop engines, each driving a three-blade, variable-pitch propeller. Fuel in four tanks, in pairs on top of the fuselage between the wing roots. Each pair consisting of one 182-litre tank and one 484-litre mother. Total fuel capacity, 1332 litres. That’s a lot of fucking fuel, man.’
‘What’s its range?’
‘With maximum payload, about eleven hundred klicks. But there’s no maximum in that shed, man.’
‘Their tanks won’t be full unless they refuelled at Mog …’
‘No, man, but we didn’t either, and they might have extra tanks …’ He brought his hands down to make sure I was following all this closely,‘… in the spaces between the fuselage frames on each side, beneath the main tanks. There’s provision for another four hundred litres. But fuck it, man …’ He put his arms up as if he was firing a rifle. ‘You drill that area and you’re going to hit tanks. That’s all you need to know, man.’
I picked up the AK and tapped the mag. ‘You got tracer in this?’
‘No, but you’d better check.’
I grabbed the magazine with my right hand. I pushed the release catch forward with my thumb and released it from its housing. The selector lever, a long spring-loaded arm, was in the upper safe position. I pushed it down to the fully automatic position before pulling back on the cocking handle to check no rounds were in the chamber. I released the handle, fired off the action by pressing the trigger, and replaced the selector lever back to safe.
Tracer are built with a hollow base filled with a pyrotechnic flare material, often phosphorus. In US and NATO standard ammunition, this is usually a mixture of strontium compounds and magnesium that yields a bright red light. Russian and Chinese tracer generates red or green light, using barium salts. Whatever the colour, the point was that it burnt intensely.
I pushed the first round out and used it to start flicking the rest out by the base as the spring forced them forward. I aimed them at the right-hand seat.
I couldn’t remember the flash point or the initiation temperature of Jet A1 fuel but I wasn’t taking any chances and neither was Joe. He kept looking at the rounds as they fell onto the right-hand seat. I didn’t want a big fuck-off firework display. I wanted holes. And the AK 7.62 short would make much bigger ones than Genghis’s M4 5.56.
I got to the last round. They’d all been bog-standard plain ball.
Joe sparked up. He was suddenly in full-fight mode. Very calm. Very precise. No profanity. ‘Got him. Half right of the nose. Maybe a klick ahead. Two hundred metres below us. He’s following the coastline.’
I hit Joe on the shoulder. ‘Well, let’s go get the boy, then.’
‘Fucking right, man.’ There was no smile this time.
I started to move to the rear. Joe came back on my cans. ‘You sure this Mr Big Shot will pay for my aircraft if it gets broken? Tell him, if he doesn’t, I’ll reload that fucking mag and come looking for him.’
My cans filled with his laughter as the prop pitch changed, the aircraft banked to the right and we started to descend.
23
I KICKED ALL the shit further back to clear a space and opened the shutter. A gale rushed in. It was like standing at a station with an express train thundering past. I tried sticking my head out. My face got buffeted like I was in freefall. I couldn’t see through my streaming eyes.
I pulled my head back in. All the wrappers from the field dressings and all other bits of crap were caught in a whirlwind around me.
Mr Lover Man had taken my place between the cockpit seats. He shouted at Joe: he wanted to know what was happening. He followed Joe’s pointing finger to the Skyvan on our right. Then he looked back at Genghis working on Tracy.
I cleared more shit out of the way. I wanted a good stable platform for the weapon.
Mr Lover Man tilted his head so he didn’t bang it on the top of the fuselage and stormed towards me. Joe gave me the heads-up in my cans. ‘He doesn’t like you, man. He’s fucking mad. Those hands are massive. Be careful.’
I came forward to meet him. I wanted metal