Recoil - Andy McNab [9]
Another black guy ran out of the house and started screaming at them. It didn’t take a genius to spot that he was the main man around here – tribal scars were slashed across both his cheeks, and he had enough decorations on his chest to cover a Christmas tree.
Standish shot out a hand and they shook as the boys slunk back to their positions.
Sam’s man put another couple of quick bursts into the clouds of dust on the valley floor. More vehicles were on the move. Three or four small figures jumped from one about 250 away. Two hefted RPG launchers that seemed almost taller than they were; the others each had an armful of grenades. They disappeared behind some moth-eaten bushes, which wasn’t the most tactical move they could have made. The stupid fuckers obviously didn’t know the difference between cover from fire – a nice five-foot-thick lump of concrete that’ll stop most things short of a nuclear attack – and cover from view.
A cloud of grey smoke erupted from behind the foliage.
‘Incoming!’
The sustainer motor kicked in and the RPG round screamed towards us.
We all hit the slabs, though we needn’t have bothered. The round went as high as the guy who’d fired it probably was, and self-detonated way past the house.
Every man and his dog chewed on ghat leaves round here; even the goats got fucked up on the stuff. They could sometimes take five or six rounds pumped into them before the message finally got to their brain that they weren’t Superman. On the plus side, nine out of ten times they were so out of it rounds flew everywhere but at the target.
With the sights at 300, I aimed low at the bushes, still shrouded in grey smoke.
I gave a double-tap, then again, and again.
I didn’t see sand kick up from weapon strike around the scrub. That was good: it meant the rounds had gone where they were supposed to.
Sure enough, only one body made a run for it. I followed him. I wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light or the rebels were recruiting pygmies, but he didn’t cast much of a shadow. My foresight slowly passed his feet from behind, and as it got about three body widths ahead, I fired a longer, six-round burst. Rounds plucked at the sand around him, and he went down.
More shouting. I looked down into the compound again. Frankenstein was getting Davy and some others to relieve the government troops of their RPG launchers and rounds.
Standish exited the building, followed closely by the youngest of the women I’d seen by the crates. Her shiny brown hair was drawn back from her face in a ponytail, and you didn’t have to be on the ghat to spot that she was very attractive; it wasn’t difficult to see why Standish was interested.
Frankenstein turned, covered with sweat, his hair plastered to his head. ‘Change of plan. Get on to the fleet. Tell them there’s too many oiks out there. We need support – now!’
‘But they can’t make it, Gary. We’re too far away.’
‘Tell them I want some fast jets up there covering our arses, and I want some of those refuelling Sea Knights up in the fucking air too. Like I said – now!’
Standish nodded as he caught Gary’s drift. The marines had the Sea Knight, a heli that looked like a baby Chinook. Its insides could be filled with a rubber fuel bladder to make it a mobile filling station. If they could make it to the coast, why not position a couple for the Seahawks and Cobra gunships to fill up at en route?
It was a good idea. I wondered how long it would take Standish to claim it as his own.
8
The three-quarter moon would be up soon.
Gary and Davy came to relieve us. We exchanged weapons; Sam and I now both had an AK and three spare mags. We staggered down the spiral staircase and out into the courtyard.
Sam fetched some water and we got it down us. The purification tablets gave it a chlorine taint and it was lukewarm, but after a month I’d got used to the taste.
Four RPGs were loosed off at us in one salvo, and one landed just the other side of the wall. Sand showered down on us after