Recoil - Andy McNab [53]
Bateman nodded in approval, and Standish chuckled politely. Bad news, as far as I was concerned. Tooley warmed to his theme, swinging the meat from hand to hand to emphasize each of his words of wisdom.
‘Back in Rhodesia, Nick, the black boys knew their place. Now they’ve got diamond studs in their fucking teeth and the light of fucking redemption in their wide, staring eyes.’
They seemed to have mistaken a nod and a bit of a smile for a like mind. I raised an open palm. This kind of stuff had to be nipped in the bud. ‘Hey, I don’t care whether people are red, green or blue, rich or poor, Muslim or Christian, you know what I mean? I’m not into all that shit.’
They looked at me, and then at each other, not really understanding what the fuck I was talking about. Standish remained unmoved. I had no doubt what he’d have been doing down on the plantation in another life.
I went and helped myself to some large lumps of whatever it was that was sizzling on the brai, and an iced tea from the fridge, then headed for Sam’s tent. A beer would have been nice, but not just before a patrol, and in charge of a weapon. Old habits die hard.
7
I spent the next twenty minutes sorting out kit in Sam’s tent, the first ten trying to get the fan to work. I pressed everything; I pulled the plug out, checked the fuse, then followed the lead all the way out to make sure it was plugged into the genny. I even spun the blade, thinking it might spark up like a First World War fighter, but eventually gave up.
I checked what Sam was taking with him to make sure I duplicated. As I went through his stuff, I listened to Standish and the RLI boys muttering again. Sam’s and Crucial’s names were definitely in the mix. Mine was there too, but only when it came to bringing back the ‘slops’. It was hard to tell what that was, given their accents. They sounded like bullies in a schoolyard.
This kind of work always seemed to encourage this kind of behaviour, and I could never work out why. There isn’t a professional soldier alive who doesn’t think his way is best – but as long as you’re being paid, why not just get on with it? Not for the first time I felt pretty fucking pleased I’d never got involved in any of that shit, and always done my own thing. If it turned out right, fantastic; if not, I was in the shit – but at least I felt like I was in charge of my own destiny.
It wasn’t long before I heard Crucial’s high-pitched laugh from over by the runway. He really needed to chew a few pounds of gravel.
Sam burst into the tent, clutching an AK and chest harness. ‘We leave in fifteen.’
‘You got any Deet?’
Sam thumbed behind him. ‘Anything like that, see Jan, the guy doing the brai.’
I couldn’t do without the stuff, the stronger the better. Some commercial brands contain only fifteen per cent, which is crap. One hundred per cent is more the mark; the problem is, as well as keeping the mozzies away, it can melt plastic. It could probably even detonate high explosive, if you got the mixture right. I’d seen contact lenses melt when Deet-fuelled sweat ran into some poor bastard’s eyes.
He handed me the AK. ‘It’s unloaded.’
The weapon was soaked in gun oil and had blanket hairs all over it. By the look of the almost-white wood furniture and lack of Parkerization, it had already spent quite a few years out in the sun.
Sam turned back to his bed and pushed the fan blades up on their axle – and of course it started working immediately.
I carried out NSPs (normal safety precautions). I pushed down the safety lever and pulled back on the cocking handle to bring the working parts to the rear so I could check inside the chamber. He wasn’t wrong: unloaded. I let go of the cocking handle and the working parts shot forward. My face got a light sprinkling of gun oil as they slammed home. I squeezed off the action.
Sam was still close by, so I nodded