Recoil

7

There was more than fifty pounds of link pulling down on my neck and banging against my legs as I ran through the front door; four long belts of about a hundred rounds each.

Straight from the blinding sunlight, and with the mansion’s shutters closed, it was almost pitch black inside. I ripped off my sun-gigs and clenched one of the arms between my teeth. I’d need them again before too long.

It took my eyes several seconds to adjust. Eventually I made out Standish with several black soldiers, standing like bouncers around a waist-high pile of small wooden crates. Three white women were in a huddle behind, one in her twenties, two with grey hair. They were all dressed like extras from Out of Africa, in the uniform of khaki shirt and trousers that all British civil servants seemed to wear out here. The youngest one appeared to be trying to reassure the other two, who looked up at me like a pair of pleading Labradors.

Fuck ’em, they weren’t my concern for now.

Ahead of me was a wide, sweeping staircase, bare wood, no carpet. I took the stairs two at a time, the link rattling against my legs. I reached a landing and turned left. A cast-iron spiral staircase in the far corner led to an open doorway a floor up, through which sunlight streamed. I could hear the other gun firing from the roof. The spiral was tight and narrow and it was almost impossible to keep the scalding gun metal off my skin as I climbed. The stairs rose slightly proud of the roof terrace, and the doorway was covered with a canopy. I pushed the gun out on to the concrete slab floor, shielding my eyes from the glare.

Sam was spotting for the gunner.

‘On!’

There was a burst of GPMG fire. Sam and his gunner had positioned themselves to face the threat from the road.

‘Go left!’

Then another.

‘On!’

I tightened my grip on my gun and held the link against my body. I kept low, dragging the gun across the terrace to the corner on their left, above where we’d given covering fire from the wagon.

My throat was as dry as the rest of me was wet with sweat.

The parapet was only a metre high. It was probably designed to do no more than stop the Belgian plantation owners sliding off the edge when they took time to enjoy the sight of their indentured labour bent double in the heat as they slaved across the valley below.

I folded down the bipod, clicked it into position, and rested it on the brick ridge. I dropped on to both knees behind it – I’d worry about the pain later.

Sam’s gunner loosed off another short burst. Cordite caught in the back of my throat as smoke curled from his muzzle and the sides of the feed tray.

There were shouts in the compound below. Standish was going ape-shit at the government soldiers who’d deserted the boxes and seemed to want to get out of the gates and run. They’d definitely had enough of this gig, and had failed to realize that leaving here wouldn’t make their lives any easier.

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 the explosion, but no one was hurt.

Standish still manned the sat comms with the girl beside him.

I could just see Frankenstein’s silhouette in the gloom as he leaned over the parapet. ‘Anything from that fucking fleet, or what?’