shooter’s face. The body fell back and down on the fl at deck with no fanfare. It wasn’t like in the movies.
Another man tried to get to the machine gun. Sawtell shouted,
‘Alley oop!’ and the would-be machine gun operator got a bullet in his lower leg, then his hip. That stopped him on the fl at deck. Manz moved out and along the wall to get a better shot. Aimed up, put a three-shot in the guy’s chest.
The last of the shooters turned and ran. Manz took three strides forward, took up the standing marksman and yelled, ‘Halt!’
The guy continued and Manz dropped him. It was a small conceit in the military that soldiers never conceded that they had shot someone in the back. It was the fl oating ribs or the kidneys. That’s where Manz hit him. Three times.
Sawtell got them in. Fitzy had a small line torn in his calf muscle.
Only fl esh, but very painful and bleeding. Manz was the medic on this mission and when he put his medic pack on the ground, Spikey reached in, pulled out saline solution and squirted it into his dusted-up eyes.
Manz pulled Fitzy’s legging up, wiped the blood with an iodine pad. Then he squirted grain spirit straight into the bullet-hole. Fitzy gasped, lips peeling back making him look like a werewolf. He kept it tight. Grain spirit was the best thing you could do for a fl esh wound in the fi eld, but God, it was agonising. Like you were being cauterised.
Manz bandaged the wound and the unit pushed the F100 out of the way, dragged bodies off the drive, changed mags and checked weapons.
Sawtell got Gordie on the radio, said, ‘Open up the tunnel and sweep back through to our position.’
‘Copy that,’ said Gordie.
Fitzy rose. Tested the leg, gave thumbs-up.
Sawtell pointed at Spikey. ‘You drive.’
CHAPTER 51
Sawtell’s group split at the Y-junction. The main tunnel kept going straight and the other road veered off to the left. Mac and Paul were led out by Fitzy, who asked Mac to sweep.
They walked down the bulb-lit tunnel at a medium pace. Water was coming down in torrents at intervals. Mac’s ill-fi tting helmet was becoming a distraction so he took it off, left it on the ground.
A straight section appeared where Mac could see for a hundred metres. There were fi ve or six doorways along the right wall. They got to the fi rst. No door. They peeked around the corner, then walked into a smaller space populated with cot beds. Mac followed Fitzy’s Maglite to another door at the back. He’d bet these rooms linked with the main tunnel.
They advanced through the barracks. Mac didn’t like the lights being out. It felt like a trap.
Mac caught up with Paul and Fitzy and they paused well short of the internal doorway. Fitzy held his fi ngers over the Maglite, giving them better sight into the dark of the next room. They edged to the door, Fitzy going fi rst. Mac and Paul shouldered their M4s.
Fitzy did head-out, head-in twice, then left his face there and looked for what seemed about thirty seconds. Taking his fi ngers off the Maglite, he shone it into the room. Boxes and sacks. Another door on the far side.
It was turning into a rabbit warren. Mac didn’t like it. His breathing was irregular and ragged, his instincts on full alert. Paul followed Fitzy into the room, leaving Mac alone.
Shit – I’m the sweep! thought Mac, panicked.
As he turned to check over his shoulder, he heard the fi rst shots whistling through the darkness followed by cracks from the tunnel door. Mac fell to the ground to create the lowest profi le for the shooters, then turned and tried to shoulder the M4. Fitzy and Paul yelled at him to get down and get in the door. One of them returned fi re. Their shots pinged steel.
Mac looked up at the far door. The shooters had shut them in.
‘Sorry fellas,’ whispered Mac. He’d been way too focused on what was in front of him to make a good sweep. When Fitzy had his face in that next room, Mac should have been facing the other way, weapon shouldered, covering their arses. Literally.
He’d screwed it up.
They stood, terrifi ed, in the small room as the bolts were slid home on the main door. The small steel door on the other side of this room was now the only way out. Felt like an ambush, Mac couldn’t breathe properly.
Fitzy keyed the mic and told Sawtell where they were, what they needed. Sawtell said to hold tight, Gordie’s boys were on their way.
Paul looked at Fitzy. ‘You wanna wait?’
Fitzy shook his head and they moved to the door. Fitzy knelt, put his hand on the handle. Paul stood straight over the top of him, M4 shouldered, then they counted in: three, two, one… Fitzy pulled the lever down, pushed the door in. The corridor on the other side was lit with a bulb. It ran for thirty metres and then turned at right angles to the left. Fitzy pushed the door all the way open, to see who was behind it.
Mac turned, looked behind him. Turned back.
A head peeked out from a turn in the corridor. It looked around, aimed up. Paul shot at the head, concrete sprayed and the head pulled back. Fitzy walked into the corridor, turned right, horror on his face as he threw himself to the ground. Shots rattled over him. He returned fi re.
The head down the corridor poked out again, sent lead into the room Paul and Mac were standing in. They ducked behind the doorframe. But Fitzy was still fi ring down his corridor, stuck in a classic crossfi re.
Paul saw it happening. Laid some bursts at the shooter on the corner, then stepped into the corridor, with the open door as cover, turned to his right and tried to shoot from his left shoulder.
Mac tried to look past Paul to keep the corner shooter at bay. But Paul wouldn’t get out of the way. The corner shooter came out, Mac yelled and the shooter aimed up and caught Paul in the side. Paul went down.
More rounds came in, tearing up the concrete. Mac pulled back behind the door, then looked out. Fitzy was on his feet and going down the corridor to the right.
Mac ran into the corridor, M4 shouldered, keeping his eye on where the corner shooter had been. He advanced, popping two three-shot bursts into the corner, waited for the shooter’s head to come out, waited to blow the thing off.
It didn’t come.
Mac got to the corner, heaving, panting. Head-out, head-in. Did it three times. Trying to eat air. Stuck his head round. Slow.
No one.
Heard a voice behind him, spun. Fitzy, with Paul.
Mac’s heart roared in his ears, like a 747 taking off, as he jogged back to Paul. It wasn’t good. He’d been shot in the side of the chest again, between the kevlar plates. Blood was coming out of his mouth and he was shallow breathing. Usually when a man was shot, hyperventilation set in. Not when you were whacked in the chest. No suction.
Mac knelt beside Fitzy. There was nothing they could do. Mac held Paul’s head up. Fitzy pushed his hips back towards the wall. He was limp in the body.
Paul smiled at Mac. He was a good-looking bloke, despite having a busted nose and being covered in concrete dust.
‘I’m so sorry, mate – sweep was never my thing,’ said Mac.
Paul slurred, blood dribbled out of the side of his mouth. ‘Fair’s fair, mate. You saved me once.’
Mac thought of how their three-day intense friendship had grown since their fi rst conversation in a hangar at Hasanuddin. Thought that nothing except shit like this could make two people so thick so fast.
Paul reached for the thumb handshake, pulled Mac down, whispered through blood. ‘There was someone in Sulawesi.’
‘Garvey?’ asked Mac.
Paul’s eyes rolled back and he slurred, his London accent getting thicker as he tired. ‘Then I’d ‘ave t’ kill
