Recoil - Andy McNab [86]
Fuck it, there was only one way to find out.
I scrambled up and down the high ground on the right side of the entrance. The ideal hole would be at least three metres above the valley floor for a better spread of blast over the killing ground.
I was also looking for the perfect angle: when the thing was detonated, I wanted the shrapnel to blast the two hundred or so metres across the front of the valley, but also along the riverbank towards Nuka, and over the river into the trees.
I aimed to do exactly the same on the opposite side, which would cover the way Silky and I had left earlier, upstream. Just as the beaten zones of the GPMGs lay over each other like circles in a Venn diagram, when these things kicked off nothing in the killing ground would survive.
I found a dugout rather than a shaft, which couldn’t have been better. It looked like they’d stopped digging when they’d encountered a different, grey-coloured rock, or maybe just got bored. Whatever, the shallow cave would contain and direct the explosion perfectly. Had it been a shaft, a lot of the force would have been dissipated into the ground.
It looked like someone’s home. There were the embers of a cooking fire inside a small ring of rocks, and the usual aluminium pot. A couple of blankets lay on the ground. Whoever they were, they’d have to visit an estate agent after I’d finished today’s makeover.
The cave was about three metres wide and a couple high at the entrance, sloping down two metres towards the back. I lay down at its centre and checked what arcs I’d achieve with the explosive. As the combustion looked for the easiest way out, it would initially go forward, then spread left and right, up and down – a bit like shotgun pellets do so that men in tweed can bring down pheasants and think themselves excellent shots.
Sweat poured down my face, and all my joints were aching as if I had flu. To top it all, I had a stinging lump on my left forearm that I kept scratching through the material. I was tempted to keep lying there and tune right out.
I needed a piss. I didn’t want to lose any more fluid, but it had to be done. I unzipped and sprayed the mud. Dark yellow and stinking; not good. I was still badly dehydrated.
I wanted one row of bags right along the back wall, then another on top of that. I wanted a chain reaction. They needed to be packed tight so they had contact with each other – but not too tight. Compress the mix too much and it won’t detonate.
Crucial turned up with two gunners as the first of the bags were laid. There was so much link dangling round their necks, it probably weighed more than they did. They carried the guns by the handle and their shoulders drooped under the weight.
There was no longer a smile on Crucial’s face, just lots and lots of sweat. He had a coating of white froth round his mouth. I wasn’t the only one in need of fluid. ‘They’ll cover both ways on the approach routes,’ he said, in his high-pitched voice. ‘If they start firing, you get straight back into the valley and leave them to it. That OK? I’ll take over.’
‘What about metal? We need shed-loads.’
He turned away and rattled off a set of instructions in French at the departing gunners. ‘Don’t worry. It’s coming. I’ll be with you. Just sort things out here, man, and I’ll do the rest.’
The air was thick with grunts and groans from the beetles as they humped and sited their heavy loads. I’d arranged a row of eight bags along the bottom, then another of eight on top, and finally one of six. It looked like I was going to be able to pack in another three rows in front.
Fair one. Crucial was right: I should worry about my patch, and let him worry about his.
5
I waited until the last four or five bags had been hauled up the bank and deposited in the cave. There must have been a total of forty or more in the stack by now, enough to bring down the House of Commons. The ANFO boys were busy making another batch for the other side so maybe we had enough to take down Westminster Abbey while we