Recoil - Andy McNab [101]
Standish was already making damn sure he presented as small a target as possible, but that didn’t make him any less angry. ‘More? Who the fuck are that lot?’
I jumped in before Sam had a chance to: ‘We’re that coffee shop for the stupid you were talking about. We’ve even got the villagers down there in the valley, Sam’s kids too. And you know what? It makes your half-arsed little gangfuck suddenly seem worthwhile.’
We kept shuffling. Fuck him, what was he going to do? Give me the sack?
7
We lowered Tim down beside the backblast channel. Crucial followed. He passed up the RPG gear, and we shifted Tim gently to a point where I could jump in too. Then we lifted him in.
The cot would be important for him. It would support his legs, and when the rain came, the trench would turn into a swamp, logs or no logs. We needed to keep him as uncontaminated as possible, or that leg of his would get infected and fester.
There were lots of groans and much gritting of teeth, but he was eventually settled. There was only a foot or so of room to play with at each end of the cot.
Crucial went back to his own trench and I told Silky to get the RPG rounds down alongside his legs. I looked down and fixed on Tim. ‘Sorry, mate, I can’t leave them out there,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Put them wherever you want.’
From the look on her face, Silky wasn’t thrilled to be handling HE. I banged two rounds together to show they were safe. ‘It’s OK, they won’t bite. You can throw them about. And once you’ve moved that lot, get yourself down by Tim’s head, and shove the bag in too. Both of you, make sure your heads stay below the parapet.’
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