Recoil (34 page)

For three or four seconds, lightning turned night into day. The howling man was curled in a ball. Two figures stood over him and slashed him apart with their gollocks. One woman after another was dragged away.

I had to carry on; I had to kick off the claymores.

It was another ten metres before I could get a good view of the valley entrance.

I fell to my knees. My chest heaved as I flipped up the iron sights on top of the launcher. It was impossible to get a sight picture through the little aperture in the dark, but easier to get a line using the mass of the two sights. The sky went dark.

Staying on my knees, I threw the RPG up on to my shoulder, right hand on the forward pistol grip, thumb pushing down on the cocking lever.

More screams from the nightmare below. I didn’t look down.

I felt for the rear pistol grip with my left hand. Both eyes still fixed on the mound, I lined up the sights so they were covering my target.

Right index finger into the trigger-guard, I took deep breaths as I waited for the next flash of lightning.

Fuck everything around me. All this shit and confusion was beyond me. If I worried about it, I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on what I had to do next.

I focused completely on the mound, picturing the HE box and the slab inside it, picturing exactly where I’d left it as I tightened my grip on the launcher.

I fixed the line of fire in my head and waited for the next burst of light. I checked the cocking lever was down and, finger on the trigger, controlled my breathing, not wanting to move the launcher an inch.

There was another blinding blue flash and I saw what I needed to see.

I squeezed the trigger.

The weapon shuddered and so did I. The sustainer motor kicked in as I dropped into the mud.

The round hit the box of HE and exploded. A split second later, so did the claymores.

The ground rumbled beneath me. The shockwave reverberated round the valley and probably for miles beyond.

The stunned silence that followed lasted two, three, maybe five seconds. And then the screams began again.

4

I pulled another round from my shirt, slammed it into the launcher, cocked the weapon, aimed towards the valley mouth, raised it almost vertically, and fired.

The backblast went straight down into the reentrant. I hadn’t checked if anybody was below me – whatever, there was no one there now.

I reached back, loaded the final round, and kicked it off too.

The storm raged overhead. I lay in the mud, looking down at the mayhem on the valley floor. The claymores had inflicted a lot of casualties and the survivors were definitely moving back. We had won the first round.

The LRA fired on the move as they retreated towards the river, some still dragging captive women.

Dumping the launcher, I started to stumble to the next sangar. It had a gun in it: I’d seen the tracer.

The mass of rainwater hitting the hillside had carved out a series of fast-flowing streams. I lost my footing in one and was carried downhill several metres before I could claw myself out. I had to climb again to regain the high ground, and kept shouting to the sangar to let them know I was coming.

I could no longer see any muzzle flashes on the other side of the valley. There was no firing at all from either flank.

The sangar had been abandoned. There were two dead, slumped over the GPMG; the others must have legged it.

I prised the gun free and picked it up by the carry handle, still with about twenty link dangling from the feed tray, then gathered as much link as I could carry round my neck. Four, five belts, I wasn’t sure. They were slipping on my sweat as soon as I moved; I had to clamp my left arm over them to hold them to my chest.

On the way back I lost my footing several times, more out of desperation to get back now than from the treacherous conditions.

Things had sparked up again on the valley floor. They were firing into the air and even at each other in their confusion. They didn’t know what was happening and nor, really, did I. It was just fucking chaos.

Flicking down the gun’s bipods, I collapsed into the mud, barrel pointing down into the mêlée. Rain pummelled me. The link dug into the back of my head, making it almost impossible to look up and take aim. I dragged the weapon into my shoulder and kept it there.

I pulled back the cocking handle, to make sure the working parts were to the rear, then shoved it back in place. I grabbed the pistol grip, checked that the safety was off and, with my left hand holding the link almost horizontal to the feed tray and both eyes open at this close range, took aim at the bodies less than fifty metres below me.

I squeezed the trigger.

Three rounds, then again, and again.

The rounds were slow, which was good. I saved ammo and got better shots in.

Three more . . .

I dropped every adult who had a weapon.

They started moving back, but I followed them with the barrel, still using the lightning flashes to ID targets. I saw another woman being punched into submission and dragged away.

Fuck it. I couldn’t do anything about that without killing her as well.

All I could do, I was doing.

5

People crashed into each other as they fled in blind panic. A couple of kids ran with their arms outstretched, hands flapping, no tension in the wrists. I didn’t know if they were LRA, Sam’s kids or the Nuka mob. They trampled over the bodies piling up across the killing ground and kept running.

I fired another burst. The barrel sizzled in the rain.

I squeezed again. Nothing.

Stoppage!

Still holding the belt of link in my left hand, butt in the shoulder, I pulled back on the cocking handle. There was no time for proper stoppage drills. I just squeezed the trigger again and the working parts travelled forward, taking the handle with them, spraying out the mud that had been drawn into the feed tray by the dirty link.

I only got off another couple of rounds before it happened again.

I pulled back the working parts once more and fired, my target still anything that moved and carried.

My ears were ringing, but I could hear the clink of empty cases as they tumbled on to each other in the mud.

The LRA were definitely moving back, but I carried on firing. The last of the link disappeared into the gun, then the working parts went forward and stayed there.

Out of ammo.

I pulled back to recock, dropped the weapon off the shoulder, squeezed the two lugs on the sides of the top cover with my right thumb and forefinger and pushed it up. It was second nature: I’d been doing these drills since I was sixteen.

I pulled one of the lengths of mud-drenched link from round my neck. Gripping it about five rounds down from the end, with the link showing on top, I flicked it over the back of my hand, then over and on to the feed tray. I shoved it just a couple of millimetres to the right until it stopped against the steel lip, slammed down the top cover and hammered it with a clenched fist to make sure the lugs were locked.

I got back into the fire position and fired another burst or two at the last few retreating figures.

Targets were moving out of my arc. Time to move. Thirty seconds and as many paces later, back in the mud and slamming the weapon into my shoulder, I fired a long burst. Tracer arced lazily into the beaten zone.

Fucking hell, I couldn’t believe it.

Another stoppage.

I brought the weapon down, cleared the shit once more as best I could, and used up the rest of the link. As I reloaded, I watched and listened as the last of the LRA left the valley. Their firing stopped abruptly, and seconds later they were in the dead ground at either side of the valley mouth, probably regrouping to work out what the fuck had happened.

I sank on to my chest and lay there, arms draped over the butt, chin on my hands, gasping for breath as the barrel hissed and steamed.

My ears still rang, but I could hear the cries and groans of the injured and dying.

Then there was a loud gasp of collective panic and bodies were running towards the river; miners, women, even some of the old men from Nuka, flapping so much they’d turned into headless chickens. All they wanted to do was flee, and they didn’t stop to work out that they were just seconds behind the LRA.

There was nothing I could do about it.

If they got through, good for them.

But I didn’t give much for their chances.

6

The firing had stopped, and so, at last, had the rain. The runners had run; the dying were dead. The valley was silent, and bathed in a ghostly, blue-grey light as the clouds retreated.

I got up and, bracing the link with my left arm, headed back towards the launcher.

I saw small figures gathered in the re-entrant. From this distance, they looked like hobbits, waiting for the talking trees to come and get them out of the shit. The four of them stood stock still; a couple had blankets draped over their heads and shoulders. Around them, the dead lay where they had fallen – men, women, Sam’s kids, LRA, you name it – half submerged in the mud, limbs splayed at impossible angles.

I left the launcher where it was and slid down the hill. The nearest child gawped at me, his skinny little legs shaking.

I grinned. ‘Hello, mate.’

I held my weapon up on the hip, facing forward, about fifteen link dangling over my wrist.

I looked around. One of the Mercy Flight guys had collapsed not far behind them. His head looked like a boiled egg with the top sliced off.

More were staring at me.

I passed them and headed along the re-entrant, checking to see if there were any more of the little fuckers.

Two had been zapped. They’d virtually fallen on top of each other just outside the dugout, as they’d tried to run. They weren’t alone. More bodies lay inside. I moved forward, weapon still on the hip.

Three heads peeped out at me from under blankets.

I smiled. ‘Mr Sam?’ I nodded towards the knoll. ‘Mr Sam? Mr Crucial? Mr Sam?’ They gazed at me blankly, eyes like saucers. ‘Mr Sam? Uncle Tom Cobbley? For fuck’s sake, get out here.’

Nothing.

Beckoning to them, I stepped over their two mates at the entrance.

‘Mr Sam and Mr Crucial, yeah?’

I pulled one of the blankets. The kid got up and another followed.

‘All right, mate? Come on, outside. Mr Sam, yeah?’

I used the side of the GPMG to coax them into the re-entrant to join the others. ‘Mr Sam? Monsieur Sam? Monsieur Sam?’

I now had seven, and not one was responding to my Mr Sam routine. I lifted the blanket from a head. ‘Listen, Mr Sam . . . We’ve got to see Monsieur Sam, yeah?’

I grasped a wrist, skinny as a broom handle, and felt a huge jolt go through my system. It was like I’d been taken back twenty-odd years and Crucial was dangling below me. I grabbed the kid’s bony hand and encouraged him to hold one corner of the blanket across his shoulders. I lifted it, gave it a twirl, and managed to persuade his mates to hang on to it at intervals. Before long, we had ourselves a seven-truck convoy.

I tightened my grip on the far end. ‘Mr Sam, yeah? We’re going to see Mr Sam, Mr Crucial.’ With the GPMG in my right hand and the launcher under my left arm, I led my little band up to the knoll. I felt like Julie Andrews in
The Sound of Music
and wondered if I should sing a song to keep their spirits up. Only I didn’t know any.

7

The track was a river of mud, and they struggled to keep a grip on the blanket with their bony little hands, but it seemed the best way to keep them together, and allowed me at times to virtually haul them up the hill. They weighed so little, I could probably have dragged them up if they’d all lost their footing at the same time.

‘Mr Sam, we’re off to see Mr Sam.’ I kept shouting his name to enthuse them, but I couldn’t tell if it was working. Every now and again I glimpsed a face in the moonlight when there was a break in the cloud, but its owner was never exactly jumping for joy.

We reached the top and headed for the tents.

Sam was with us in seconds, AK in hand. ‘How many?’

‘Only seven, mate.’

Crucial prised their fingers gently off the blanket, waffling away in happy, favourite-uncle French.

I gripped Sam’s arm as we steered the kids into the first tent. ‘Listen, I don’t know what the fuck happened, mate. I checked everything apart from that second cable, but there were no kinks, everything was OK. It had to be the plunger.’

‘Don’t worry, you tried. Good job on the claymores, anyway. Well done. Sort yourself out and get to my fire trench. Time for Plan B.’ He managed a smile. ‘Whatever Plan B is . . .’

I left them to it, not sure if he’d made me feel any better about the fuck-up.

Back at the position, I kept above ground as I pushed the GPMG’s bipods and pistol grip into the mud, rested the link on the wooden crate top, then lowered the launcher into the corner of the trench.