Mosquitoes materialized from nowhere, whirring and whining around my head. They landed on my face and must have known that I couldn't do anything about it.
There was noise, and I froze. Another clunk of metal on metal then a faint, fast murmur above the noise of the crickets. I closed my eyes, leant my ear towards the source, opened my mouth to cut out internal noises and concentrated.
The inflection in the voices wasn't Spanish. I strained to listen, but just couldn't work it out. They seemed to be talking at warp speed, accompanied now by the rhythmic thud of full jerry-cans.
It was 9.29.
I had to get closer and not worry about the noise, not worry about the people making it. I needed to see what was happening so I could work out what I had to do within the next twenty minutes.
FORTY-ONE
I lifted my chest from the mud and slithered forward. Very soon I began to make out a small clearing beyond the wall of green. Sunlight penetrated the canopy in thick shafts, dazzling me as it bounced off the wet ground and perimeter foliage.
Movement.
The black-shirted guy who'd been on the veranda crossed left to right in the clearing before disappearing as quickly as he'd arrived, carrying two black bin liners half full and shiny in the sunlight. He wore a US Army webbing belt with two mag pouches hanging down from it.
I took some slow, deep breaths to re oxygenate myself. The thud of my pulse kicked in my neck.
I made another two slow advances, not bothering to lift my head to look forward through the foliage. I'd know soon enough if they'd seen me.
The voices came again from my right, a lot clearer, and faster, but still in control. I could understand them now, sort of... They were Eastern European, maybe Bosnians. The doss-house had been full of them.
The small cleared area in the trees was about the size of half a tennis court. I couldn't see anything, but heard the unmistakable hiss of fuel under pressure being released in the vicinity of the voices.
One more slow, deliberate bound and now I heard the fuel splash. Not daring even to rub my lips together to wipe off the mud, I strained my eyes to the top of their sockets, my mouth open. I felt dribble run down from the corners.
Black Shirt was to my half right, maybe six, seven metres away, standing with the little fat guy who'd been with him that night. He was still wearing the same checked shirt. The jerry-cans were being emptied over the assembled contents of their camp: camouflage netting, American Army cots, a generator turned on its side, plastic bin-liners full and tied. All were piled into a heap. It was nearly time to leave, so they were destroying any evidence linking them to the site.
I remained perfectly still, my throat dry and sore as I tried to listen to the two Bosnians above the din of crickets and bird calls. Their voices still came from my right, but we were separated by foliage.
Holding my breath, straining my muscles to keep total control of them to cut down on noise, I edged forward another few inches, my eyes glued to the two at the rubbish dump just a few metres away as the last of the fuel was poured and the cans thrown on top. I was so close I could smell the fumes.
As the area to my right opened up a bit I saw the backs of the two Bosnians, dressed in green fatigue tops and jeans, bathed in a shaft of sunlight. They were bent over a fold-down table, one twisting the hair on his beard as they both studied two screens inside a green metal console. There were two integrated keyboards below each screen. That had to be the guidance system; I'd wondered what it looked like. To the right of it was an opened laptop, but the sunlight was too bright for me to make out what was on any of the screens. Beside them on the ground were five civilian rucksacks, two M-16s with mags on, and another jerry-can probably to deal with the electronic equipment after the launch.
I wanted to check the time but Baby-G was covered in mud. I couldn't risk movement so close on target. I watched the two Bosnians talk and point at the console screens, then look over at the laptop as one hit the keyboard. Beyond them I could see cables running down from the rear of the console and into the jungle. The Sunburn had to be at the river's mouth. As I'd have expected, the guidance system was separated from the missile itself. They wouldn't have wanted to be right on top of shed loads of rocket fuel when it went off. There was no generator noise, so I guessed the power supply must be part of the missile platform.
The Bosnians were still gob bing off as the fifth member came out of the canopy from behind the console. He, too, was dressed in a green fatigue top, but had black baggy trousers, an M-16 over his shoulder and belt kit. He lit a cigarette with a Zippo and watched the Bosnians hovering over the screens. Sucking in deeply on his nicotine hit, he used his free hand to wave the bottom of his shirt to circulate some air around his torso. Even if I hadn't recognized his face, I would have known that pizza scar anywhere.
The two fuel pourers moved away from the rubbish dump as Black Shirt lit up as well. They were totally uninterested in what was going on at the table just behind them and mumbled to each other as they checked the time.
All of a sudden the Bosnians began to jabber and their voices went up an octave as Pizza Man sucked on his filter and bent in towards the screens.
Stuff was happening. There must be only minutes left. I had to make my move.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed up on to my knees, my mud-caked thumb shifting the safety to Auto as the weapon came into the shoulder. I squeezed with both eyes open, short, sharp bursts into the mud by the dump. There was a rapid thud, thud, thud, thud as the rounds penetrated the first layer of mud and slammed into the harder ground.
Unintelligible screams mixed with the sound of rounds on auto as the Bosnians panicked and the other two went for their weapons. The fifth just seemed to vanish.
My shoulder rocked back with another short burst as I held the weapon tight to stop the muzzle rising. I didn't want to hit the Bosnians: if they could fly the thing, they could stop it. The sounds of automatic gunfire and panic echoed round the canopy and a cloud of cordite hung in front of me, held by the foliage.
The mag emptied as I kept on squeezing. The working parts stayed to the rear.
I got to my feet and moved position before they reacted to where the fire had come from. I ran to the right, towards the table, using the cover, the mud heavy on my clothes, pressing the magazine-release catch with my forefinger, shaking the weapon, trying to remove the mud-clogged magI felt the mag hit my thigh as I fumbled at the lower harness and pulled out a fresh one. I smacked it on and hit the release catch. The working parts screamed forward as long bursts of automatic fire came from my left, from the clearing.
I dropped instinctively. Mud splattered my face and the air was forced out of my lungs. Gasping for breath, I crawled like a madman, pushing to the edge of the clearing. If they saw me they would fire where I'd dropped for cover.
I was in time to see the Bosnians disappearing down the track, their terrified voices filling the gaps between bursts of gunfire. I also saw Pizza Man, the other side of the clearing, in cover, shouting at them to come back.
'It's just one man, one weapon! Get back!'
It wasn't happening, the other two were following the Bosnians, firing long bursts into the jungle.
'Fucking assholes!'
Weapon in the shoulder, he took single shots at them. Fuck that, I wanted them alive.
Flicking safety to single rounds, I gulped in air, closed my left eye and took aim centre mass of what little I could see of him, stopped breathing and fired.
He dropped like a stone, disappearing into the foliage without a sound.
The other two were still firing into shadows as they moved down the track.
A cordite mist hung about the clearing as I let off another magazine at them.
Steam oozed out of the cooling vents on the mud-covered stock and around my left hand. Shit, shit, shit... I wanted to create noise, I wanted to create confusion, I wanted to get everyone sparked up, not lose them in the jungle. But I wasn't going to chase them. It was pointless, there wasn't enough time.
I changed mags and crossed the clearing towards Pizza Man, weapon in the shoulder, moving fast but cautiously. The others might still come back, and I still couldn't see him.
He was alive, panting for breath and holding his chest, eyes open but helpless.
Blood flowed gently between his fingers.
