We crested the hill in a rough diamond formation, Frankenstein at point, us to the right. The other two were to the left and rear.
Sam was worried about the sat comms getting damaged. ‘You’d better close that thing down now, boss. We might need a hand on another weapon soon.’
There were eight of us bayonets, two in each wagon, and the boss made nine. We had just two GPMGs, one on each flank, so the more hands to the pump the better when this thing kicked off.
Standish started to pack the set away as if it was his own idea.
The valley opened out below us. It was maybe six or seven kilometres wide, a huge swathe of sand, scrub and dust that shimmered in the heat haze. A track snaked along the bottom from left to right. A large grey building stood to our half left, surrounded by a perimeter wall to keep out the lowlife. There was stuff going on, vehicles on the move round it. Sunlight glinted off windscreens. At this distance I couldn’t see if they were the Mercs. I certainly couldn’t see the row of body parts.
Standish finished packing the sat comms into its case and wedged it between the front seats, then stood up on the flatbed behind us, one hand gripping a section of frame, the other his AK. He was clearly going for the Lawrence of Arabia look.
We reached the lower ground, about a K from the target, when a light-coloured vehicle detached itself from the buildings. Its dust trail flew high into the air as it headed out to give us the once-over.
I checked that the rear leaf sight was on its battle setting of 300 metres and glanced across to see what the other GPMG was up to. One of us would have to stop and provide a stable fire base if this wagon needed to be dealt with.
It was now no more than 200 metres from Frankenstein: a white pickup, bodies and weapons in the back, though it was hard to tell how many in the dust-shimmering heat.
Sam swung the wheel half left to face them. ‘There you go, get on with it.’
I got the gun in the shoulder, pushed the safety bar from left to right through the pistol grip and rested the pad of my forefinger on the trigger, ready to take up first pressure.
As the pickup got ever nearer, I closed my left eye and looked through the circle of the rear sight, adjusting the weapon until the foresight rested on the driver’s side of the windscreen. The GPMG was an area weapon, which meant it was designed to fire bursts, but I’d adjusted the gas regulator so the rate of fire was slow enough that I could get off decent double-taps instead. We didn’t have ammunition to spare, and needed to make every round count.
Standish leaned forward between us, as if being a foot closer would give him a better view.
My foresight kept pace with the pickup.
Sam muttered, ‘If they open up, it kicks off.’
By the time the pickup had closed to within a hundred metres, I could clearly make it out: a Mazda, with two bodies in the back, both wearing red football shirts and brandishing AKs.
Even over our engine noise, I heard hollering as one of the red shirts banged on the roof of the cab. They’d seen as much as they needed to. The pickup slewed hard to the left and sped back towards the buildings, horn blaring.
Frankenstein’s wagon surged forward. Sam floored the throttle and I pushed the safety from right to left.
6
I could see patches of grey and decayed Tarmac under the drifting sand half a K ahead. My head jerked all over the shop as Sam gunned the Renault towards it.
Then we saw that the guys we were following weren’t the only vehicles in the valley. Just over a K to our left, a serious dustcloud was making its way along the road towards the plantation.
We had to get there before they did.
As we lurched and bucked towards the house, the dustcloud closed in. I started to make out a series of distinct vehicle shapes, stretched out on either side of the road like a convoy from
A grey smoke trail detached itself from the dustcloud as the sustainer motor of an RPG (rocket-propelled grenade) kicked in. The round was heading our way, but climbing steeply.
‘Lousy shot.’ Sam shook his head, as if them firing from out of range and aiming poorly was up there with singing out of tune in church. The smoke trail stopped after about five hundred metres when the propellant ran out. The grenade then exploded high and well short. RPGs ‘soft-detonate’if they don’t hit anything within about five seconds of firing.
Sam turned the wheel to keep the diamond formation as Frankenstein headed for the gates in the perimeter wall. The mansion behind it was all shutters and fancy brickwork; the sort of thing you see on a posh wine label.
We still had three hundred metres or so to go when the wagon on the left flank came to a halt and put down covering fire with their GPMG.
The rest of us drove hard and fast towards the opening gates.
I screamed to Sam, over the protesting engine, ‘We’ll cover them in!’
He cut left as the other two wagons thundered through the gates and into the safety of the compound. He stopped level with the corner of the wall, facing the threat further down the road, and threw the gearstick into neutral. The wagon that had been giving covering fire took its cue and charged towards the gate.
Sam leaned over the sat-comms case and supported the link as I loosed off a slow double-tap into each of the vehicles, aiming at the driver’s side of the windscreen. Each time I squeezed the trigger, rounds disappeared into the left of the feed tray, empty cases tumbled out underneath and disintegrated link was spat out from the right. The whole lot rattled as it bounced off my Reeboks into the footwell.
Soon I wasn’t the only one firing. Empty cases from Standish’s AK bounced off my back. Then there was a whole lot more from the compound. The pickups stopped in their tracks.
Frankenstein and Davy were just visible above the perimeter wall. Fuck knows what they were standing on, but they were getting the rounds down and that was all that mattered. Just in time, too. The gun oil in my GPMG was so hot it was smoking. What little was left of the black Parkerization coating the metalwork was starting to peel off the barrel.
Sam had already dropped the link and I’d put the safety catch on when Standish yelled, ‘Come on, let’s go! Let’s go! They’re covering us,’ as if we didn’t know what to do.
Return fire from the pickups blasted chunks of rendering out of the compound wall. Bending low in his seat, Sam pulled hard to turn and get us heading towards the gate. Standish lay flat behind us now, clutching wherever he could to stop himself bouncing off the back, not a single hair out of place.
The guys on the wall took the incoming rounds to try to give us cover. As we neared the gates I could finally see what was left of the hacked-apart body. The wagons had run over a severed arm and leg, both still partly wrapped in green uniform, and they now lay crushed in the dark, blood-soaked sand.
The wagon screamed through the gates and jerked to a stop, just feet from the building. The gates were slammed behind us by a couple of scared black faces in green fatigues.
Frankenstein was on the back of his Renault, firing over the eight-foot wall.
The moment our wagon stopped, he took control.
‘Davy!’ He pointed at the pair of soldiers who’d closed the gates and were now jabbering at each other in fright. ‘Give those fuckers a big mug of shut-the-fuck-up and check the Mercs for fuel.’ He pointed at the other gunner. ‘Take that fucking thing and get up on the roof. Sam – you run the shop up there.’ He turned to Standish. ‘You –’ he indicated the house ’– get in there and find whoever’s running this gangfuck. Make sure the stuff is OK.’
Then it was my turn. ‘What are you standing around for? Get that fucking gun on the roof! Go! Go!’
I heaved the GPMG from the cab by the carry handle, grabbed all the link I had, and ran.
Davy had already gone to the Mercs to check their fuel levels. ‘Oi, Gary! No good, they’re diesel!’
