Dead Centre - Andy McNab [80]
‘Yes, yes.’ He was out of my grasp and running.
Great. If this all went to rat-shit, at least I’d have a wagon to take me to the meeting. Now I just wanted to get on with it, one way or another, before we were here all fucking night.
9
IT WASN’T LONG before the technical that had been firing hurtled towards me. The gunner held on for dear life as it lurched across the potholes, sending up a huge cloud of dust in its wake. I couldn’t even see the junction any more.
I waved it down just in time. It was going far too fast. By the crazed expression in the driver’s eyes he wouldn’t have stopped much before Malindi.
I opened the door. ‘Speak English?’
The guy was totally off his tits. I checked behind. The gunner was much the same. I showed them Awaale’s radio. ‘Let’s go.’
The driver’s eyes rolled. ‘Radio, radio!’ He pointed down. There was already one in the foot-well, another 1990s job, the size of a house brick. Maybe Awaale had thrown it in.
I pressed the red tab on mine. ‘Awaale, Awaale …’
Whoever was at the other end clicked on and the line went live with gunfire. Awaale shouted in the background and I heard giggling. Then it clicked off.
I tried again. ‘Awaale!’
There was a rustling sound. ‘It’s me, Mr Nick. I’m here, I’m here.’
‘Good man. Wait until I get up into the high ground. As soon as I start firing, you get your crew to move to the left of the junction and come up level with them. Once you’re there, you tell me, OK? Do you get that, Awaale?’
‘Yes, yes, Mr Nick, no problem.’
‘Good.’
‘Yes, yes. OK.’ The radio went dead.
I motioned the driver out of the way, into the passenger seat. ‘Come on mate.’ I smiled. ‘Chop-chop.’
I piled back down towards the Black Hawk monument and up the track behind it, towards the little shack on the high ground. The sun was low, casting really long shadows. Half an hour max till last light.
I slowed as I neared the top of the mound. Fuck the other technical. It was too complicated with these guys out of their skulls. I had one vehicle: let’s get on with it.
I started to crest the mound. I wanted to see just enough of the ground below us for the 12.7 to have muzzle clearance with nothing else exposed. We’d present too good a target otherwise.
I manoeuvred into position to the right of the shack, jumped out and moved forward in a crouch.
I pressed the red tab. ‘Awaale, Awaale, I’ve got them. I can see where they are.’
‘Where are they? Where are they?’
‘Whoa … Where are you?’
‘We’re at the junction. We’re waiting.’
‘OK. Can you hear me clearly, Awaale? Can you hear me?’
He was shouting over the gunfire. I could see muzzle flashes in the distance as Lucky’s gang kept giving it some in the ever-darkening gloom.
‘I hear you.’
‘OK. From the crossroads, if you go up five blocks – repeat, five blocks – you’ll come to another intersection, and that’s where they are. I can see one technical – repeat, one technical – with a heavy gun onboard. But it’s not being used, Awaale. It’s just parked up. I’m just seeing small-arms fire. Do you understand that?’
I got nothing back.
‘Awaale? Awaale?’
‘Yes, I understand, Mr Nick.’
‘OK. As soon as I start firing, you start to move on the left-hand side of the road. They’re five blocks away.’
No reply.
‘Awaale?’
No reply. Fuck it. I went to the wagon, jumped onto the back and started shouting at the gunner. I pointed down to the thin green tin boxes of ammunition. ‘You load, yeah?’ I mimed putting one onto the weapon.
The boxes held about fifty rounds each. That was what they normally came with, anyway. Fuck knew what was going on here. There were about twenty-five rounds hanging from the weapon and onto the steel floor. Empty cases were scattered all over the place. I kicked them out of the way with my Timberlands so I could get a firm, stable firing platform.
The firing mechanism was a really old one: two wooden handles on metal frames with a paddle in between. I didn’t bother to check if the safety was on. For sure it wasn’t.
The circular spider-web sight was the kind normally fitted for anti-aircraft