Recoil - Andy McNab [87]
I opened the box of HE. That wasn’t what the Chinese were calling it, but it sent a message everyone could understand. The moment the lid was lifted, the pungent smell of marzipan filled the air and made my head swim even more.
British PE4, or the American equivalent C4, was non-toxic and odour-free, but this stuff, churned out by Chinese or Eastern European factories, didn’t piss around: it gave the user the mother of all headaches. It was also vulnerable to shock, and could be detonated if just a stray high-velocity round slammed into it. Even an RPG round detonating within a foot or two would send out enough of a shockwave to kick it off. Not good if you were trying to drop a suicide-bomber and were no good at head shots – but it went bang, and that was all I needed.
I lifted out the first of three greenish, one-kilo slabs. The moment it made contact with the nicks and cuts in my hands it stung like a swarm of bees.
I kneaded the green lump to get it warm and pliable, and after a minute or so it was the consistency of Playdoh. I rolled it into a rough ball and chopped my stiff fingers into it until it looked a bit like a freshly opened Terry’s chocolate orange.
I reached for the reel of det cord. It was filled with a different kind of high explosive. I didn’t know what it was, or who had made it. I just hoped it would initiate the ball of HE I was going to shove into the ANFO. Western det cord came in rolls of 150–200 metres, but I didn’t have a clue how much I had here. It looked like more.
I tied a whole load of knots in the free end until I’d built up a nice big chunky lump to jam into the middle of the HE. Then I squeezed the ball of HE round it and put it to one side. I worked my hand between the bags and wedged it into the back layer. Gathering some slack from the reel, I wrapped a loop of det cord round one of the bags at the front of the pile to anchor it. I didn’t want a tug on the cord to dislodge the knotted end from the ball. I checked the loop carefully. Like water down a garden hose, if the initiation travelled along the det cord and hit a kink, it sometimes decided not to carry on. The energy of the detonation had to flow freely throughout.
I walked backwards out of the dugout, unreeling cord behind me until I reached my AK. I added it to the box of HE under my arm and stumbled back across the valley entrance.
I spotted Crucial and gave him a shout. ‘I need guys with shovels, mate.’ I tried to mime a gravedigger with all the shit still in my arms. ‘Get them up here!’
I unreeled more cord and checked for kinks as I went to find another claymore position.
6
There were a couple of bursts of gunfire in the middle distance as Crucial turned up, bringing half a dozen miners with shovels, hammers and pissed-off expressions. They weren’t too excited about the idea of losing their tools, but I explained what I wanted and left him to it.
The sangars had been stood down now that Sam had carried out his checks. You can’t maintain maximum awareness for ever. They had to stay in position, but not in ready-to-fire. That didn’t stop me shouting up to the high ground ahead, though, to make sure they knew I was coming their way.
I closed my grit-coated eyes for a few seconds as I unreeled more det cord. It felt great. I could have kept them like that for hours.
When I opened them again, I saw Tim striding towards the valley entrance. Where the fuck did he think he was going?
‘Tim! Tim!’
He didn’t stop, just looked across at me and pointed beyond the newly dumped ANFO bags.
‘Stop! Don’t go there. Stop!’
He kept going, and shouted, ‘Nuka.’
He passed the ANFO, reached the track and turned left along the river. The guys in the sangars watched him as if he was mad – which he probably was.
‘Tim, wait! Wait, wait, wait!’
I dropped the reel and box and broke into a run. As if to underline my point, there was a rattle of automatic fire from the other side of the river. It was distant, but not distant enough for my liking.
I screamed his name.
Finally he stopped. His shirt was drenched in sweat