Recoil - Andy McNab [8]
The wagon screamed through the gates and jerked to a stop, just feet from the building. The gates were slammed behind us by a couple of scared black faces in green fatigues.
Frankenstein was on the back of his Renault, firing over the eight-foot wall.
The moment our wagon stopped, he took control.
‘Davy!’ He pointed at the pair of soldiers who’d closed the gates and were now jabbering at each other in fright. ‘Give those fuckers a big mug of shut-the-fuck-up and check the Mercs for fuel.’ He pointed at the other gunner. ‘Take that fucking thing and get up on the roof. Sam – you run the shop up there.’ He turned to Standish. ‘You –’ he indicated the house ’– get in there and find whoever’s running this gangfuck. Make sure the stuff is OK.’
Then it was my turn. ‘What are you standing around for? Get that fucking gun on the roof! Go! Go!’
I heaved the GPMG from the cab by the carry handle, grabbed all the link I had, and ran.
Davy had already gone to the Mercs to check their fuel levels. ‘Oi, Gary! No good, they’re diesel!’
7
There was more than fifty pounds of link pulling down on my neck and banging against my legs as I ran through the front door; four long belts of about a hundred rounds each.
Straight from the blinding sunlight, and with the mansion’s shutters closed, it was almost pitch black inside. I ripped off my sun-gigs and clenched one of the arms between my teeth. I’d need them again before too long.
It took my eyes several seconds to adjust. Eventually I made out Standish with several black soldiers, standing like bouncers around a waist-high pile of small wooden crates. Three white women were in a huddle behind, one in her twenties, two with grey hair. They were all dressed like extras from Out of Africa, in the uniform of khaki shirt and trousers that all British civil servants seemed to wear out here. The youngest one appeared to be trying to reassure the other two, who looked up at me like a pair of pleading Labradors.
Fuck ’em, they weren’t my concern for now.
Ahead of me was a wide, sweeping staircase, bare wood, no carpet. I took the stairs two at a time, the link rattling against my legs. I reached a landing and turned left. A cast-iron spiral staircase in the far corner led to an open doorway a floor up, through which sunlight streamed. I could hear the other gun firing from the roof. The spiral was tight and narrow and it was almost impossible to keep the scalding gun metal off my skin as I climbed. The stairs rose slightly proud of the roof terrace, and the doorway was covered with a canopy. I pushed the gun out on to the concrete slab floor, shielding my eyes from the glare.
Sam was spotting for the gunner.
‘On!’
There was a burst of GPMG fire. Sam and his gunner had positioned themselves to face the threat from the road.
‘Go left!’
Then another.
‘On!’
I tightened my grip on my gun and held the link against my body. I kept low, dragging the gun across the terrace to the corner on their left, above where we’d given covering fire from the wagon.
My throat was as dry as the rest of me was wet with sweat.
The parapet was only a metre high. It was probably designed to do no more than stop the Belgian plantation owners sliding off the edge when they took time to enjoy the sight of their indentured labour bent double in the heat as they slaved across the valley below.
I folded down the bipod, clicked it into position, and rested it on the brick ridge. I dropped on to both knees behind it – I’d worry about the pain later.
Sam’s gunner loosed off another short burst. Cordite caught in the back of my throat as smoke curled from his muzzle and the sides of the feed tray.
There were shouts in the compound below. Standish was going ape-shit at the government soldiers who’d deserted the boxes and seemed to want to get out of the gates and run. They’d definitely had enough