The Network - Jason Elliot [150]
My hand scrambles for the diff-lock switches as we reach the crest of the shoulder, and as I make the turn the wheels judder against the loose surface of the ground. There’s a succession of loud thuds against the roof, and the skyline lurches up like the view from a fighter plane going into a dive, and our weapons clatter forward onto the dashboard. It’s steeper than I thought, and the G pitches down as if it’s not going to stop, and H braces his hand against the windscreen and curses.
‘La illaha ill’allah,’ cries Sher Del. There is no God but God.
And then it happens. The first thing we feel is the compression, as if our ears are being sucked into our heads. Then we hear the blast, which shakes the ground so strongly the force is transmitted to the steering wheel like a blow against the wheels. A deep rolling booming sound, followed almost instantaneously by several more, sweeps over and through us. The gunfire is silenced.
‘Hope someone’s taking pictures up there,’ says H, bracing himself against the roof and grimacing as the G yaws dangerously to one side. My thoughts seem to be taking shape in slow motion, and his comment makes no sense to me until I realise he’s talking about satellites. Then it occurs to me that we are actually still alive. Against the odds, we have completed the mission, and the missiles will never be used. I recall the Baroness’s words, I want you to succeed, and suddenly I want to laugh because we really have succeeded. Whoever was planning a catastrophe using the Stingers will now have to come up with a very different plan, and whoever was planning to let it happen will have to wait for a very different catastrophe.
The wheels are holding like glue onto the rocky slope, but our pace is agonisingly slow. Then there’s a bright flash a few yards ahead and an explosion that scatters a violent cloud of rock and shrapnel against us. Bits fly up from the front of the car, but we’re still moving.
H clambers with astonishing agility into the back, rests his AK on the rim of the rear door and fires towards the ridgeline above us where the RPG has come from. The sound of the shots is deafening and the interior is thick with cordite smoke. But the ravine is beginning to open up now and the slope is reducing so I take the gearbox out of low range and accelerate.
As we crash forward, I’m aware of a kind of moaning sound behind me. It’s Momen, chanting prayers. There are warning lights blinking on the dashboard but I can’t look at them. The ground begins to flatten out and with a final bounce we hit the dirt road. I turn towards the head of the valley. H scrambles into the seat behind me.
‘Let’s get some distance behind us,’ he says.
We race up the valley, savouring the sweetness of our escape. After half a mile the slopes steepen on both sides as we draw closer to its head. Then, just as we’re beginning to feel like we’re finally beyond the reach of our enemies, a black shape plunges across the track a hundred yards ahead of us, blocking the way. I recognise the pickup from earlier outside the fort and wonder for a moment whether it’s just an unpleasant coincidence that we’ve now run into each other. Perhaps they’re lost. But the truck’s bonnet pitches sharply downwards. The driver is braking hard, because that’s exactly where he wants to be: directly in front of us.
‘Jesus Christ,’ yells H. ‘Ambush front!’
‘I can’t turn.’ The slopes are too steep. ‘Can’t stop either.’
We see two men jump from the cab of the pickup and run into cover. Two others position themselves behind the bonnet. One has an AK and the other readies an RPG. The AK doesn’t worry me too much. We hear the crack and thump of rounds smashing into the G head on, but it’ll put up with a few more. What worries me is the RPG. If I stop or reverse, we’ll be sitting ducks.
H realises this too, and turns to me. ‘Give it all you’ve got.’
I don’t know what the minimum arming distance for an RPG round is. When a round is fired from the launcher, it won’t explode if it hits a target that