The Network - Jason Elliot [141]
‘Please don’t make me laugh,’ I say.
‘Case of beer would go down well after this.’
‘I’ll take the juice of a Kandahari pomegranate,’ I say, savouring the thought.
Then, as final back-up, we attach time pencils to the detcord. If the blasting fuse fails, the pencils will fire after thirty minutes. All that remains is to attach the two final detonators, one for each circuit, and the time fuse.
‘Time to get the vehicles out,’ says H, and begins unwinding the reel of fuse.
I start up the G and drive it out of the gates, and the others follow with the pickup. Our engines are running. The two guards clamber into the bed of the pickup and cling a little anxiously to the sides. Then I walk back to H as he lays out the fuse in a long trail around the deserted courtyard.
We calculate the length required by multiplying by sixty and dividing by the burning rate per foot. Twenty minutes of burning time will need forty feet of fuse. We check and double-check its length, make sure it doesn’t overlap, verify the position of the circuits and the plastic, and agree that everything looks ready.
‘Pencils,’ he says. ‘Pull them.’
I remove the safety clips and pull the rings in turn. We look at our watches. Then H holds up the end of the time fuse.
‘Got a light?’ he asks, running his hands absent-mindedly over his pockets. I know he doesn’t need one, because there’s already an igniter attached to the end of the fuse. We look at each other for a moment.
‘I insist,’ I say.
‘Allahu akbar,’ he replies, and pulls the ring. There’s a spluttering sound and the fuse bursts into flame. We resist the urge to run, heave on the gates, run the chain through the iron loops and fasten the padlock.
I’m wondering what to do with the key.
‘Keep it,’ says H. ‘Souvenir.’
I wave to Aref, who gives a thumbs up from the cab of the pickup. We climb into the G and lead the way at a good but restrained pace. Then we follow the track to the valley floor, and turn against the slope along the way we came. H is looking ahead and behind us.
‘Let’s get up to that ridge and stop,’ he says, pointing to the spot from which we made our final recce of the fort. We get there ten minutes later. Keeping the engines running we stop and wait for the explosion.
‘Thirteen minutes,’ I say. The other men get out and, taking their cue from us, look back in the direction of the fort.
‘Fifteen minutes.’
‘Wait for it,’ says H, quietly now.
It’s agony. I want to keep my eyes fixed on the fort, but they stray to the surrounding slopes and the valley beyond and then back again, but the explosion doesn’t come. I look at my watch and back to the fort again.
‘That’s twenty minutes,’ I tell H.
He’s running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Another minute passes.
‘Might be a kink in the fuse cable. Give it a while. The time pencils will kick in in a few minutes.’
We wait. Half an hour passes. The other men begin to talk in whispers. We take the Kite sight and look over the fort in turn. There’s no sign of life. No one can have tampered with the charges. I ask the guards whether there could have been anyone else hiding inside the fort. They shake their heads.
Forty-five minutes has passed. Then an hour.
‘Misfire,’ says H quietly. ‘Fuck it. Let’s go back.’
It’s a depressing feeling to be returning. None of us is very happy about it. The unexpected delay is acting like a silent poison on our nerves. We know we can’t give up on the task, but it’s as if fate itself has suddenly and personally turned against us. I know I mustn’t give in to this feeling, but as we drive up once again under the looming walls of the fort it seems a wounded place, resentful at our having abandoned it to destruction and planning sullenly to punish us in turn.
I retrieve the key to the padlock, pull out the chain, and we heave the gates open. There’s a long scorch mark on the ground where the time fuse has burned. Gently we pull open the second door onto the missiles. Everything is intact.
Carefully, H unties the primary detonator from the detcord and examines it. He hands it to me.