‘Stop!’ Sam pointed at the one with the firing cable going into it. ‘You’re in there with me. Nick, you take the left flank.’ He swung round and pointed at Bateman. ‘You’ve got the right. Crucial, you know where you’re going.’
A rumble of thunder rolled up the valley, followed this time by a crackle of lightning on the horizon. The storm would be with us soon. It was like last night’s deluge had decided to come back and give us a second helping.
Standish and Bateman headed to their designated fire trenches. I wasn’t surprised that Bateman went so obediently. He might be an arsehole, but he was still a professional. He knew that Sam knew what he was doing, so he didn’t need to question his orders. And that was also why he hadn’t liked Standish zapping his own men. It had nothing to do with morality: what Standish had done was bad drills, pure and simple.
Sam started towards Sunday’s tent and I got level with him. ‘What about Silky and Tim?’
‘They’re in with you. I’ll take Sunday.’
His tone was very straight, very clear-cut. We could have been back in the team job all those years ago. He held out his hand for the firing device. I took it off my shoulder. ‘I had to get a second reel. The two cables together haven’t been tested.’
He nodded. ‘I guess I’ll be doing that soon enough.’ He put the strap over his shoulder and walked away.
‘Sam, I need mags. Just got the one.’
He gestured towards the tent nearest the cooking pot. ‘There’ll be a few in there. I’ll get Crucial to help you with Tim.’
I ducked through the flaps. It was dark inside. She was sitting in a canvas director’s chair by his head. They both looked up expectantly. His legs were still bound together, and blood leaked from the dressings. It was about to get worse.
I smiled at him. ‘Got any painkillers in that bag of yours?’
He nodded.
‘Well, you’ll need them, mate. I’m going to move you into the trenches. You’ll be safer there.’
Tim wasn’t stupid. ‘They’ll be coming soon, won’t they?’
‘Yep.’
‘I’ve seen it before. What about the villagers and my guys down there?’
‘They’re all right. They’re still in cover. That’s the best we can do.’
A few metres away on the other side of the canvas, Standish exploded. ‘What the fuck’s going on? Get him out of here!’
Silky turned her head. ‘Who’s that?’
‘No one.’ I explained about the other patrol getting into a contact, and that there were just two survivors. I left out the arsehole bit.
Silky massaged her temples with the tips of her fingers. ‘Those poor men . . .’
Tim gripped her arm to comfort her, but looked at me. ‘Nick, I’m sorry I was such a tosser when we first met. I didn’t realize the full extent of the situation. You were absolutely right – it was best to get everyone in here. I’m sorry.’
Tosser? It was the first time I’d heard anyone use the word since the time I should have been at school. It sounded strange hearing it again, especially here, now. ‘Not a problem . . .’
‘They’re going to hit the mine hard, aren’t they?’
‘That’s what they’re here for.’
He writhed with frustration. ‘I feel useless. I want to do something. Anything . . .’
Crucial came into the tent. He stood right alongside me, and he stank. We probably all did. ‘The best thing you can do to help us is grab hold of that cot of yours.’
Crucial and I moved either side of him.
‘One, two, three – up!’
We lifted, and he did as he’d been told.
We started to shuffle out, and he had to fight the pain.
I looked down. ‘I told you to keep taking those pills, didn’t I?’
At least I got a smile out of him.
Silky followed, carrying the sail bag. By the time we got out of the tent, Standish was in his trench. Sam was still standing in the fan-shaped backblast channel, holding Sunday by the rope.
The next trench was manned by Crucial, then Bateman to the far right. He was already setting up. He had his weapon in the shoulder, checking his arcs and different fire positions, making sure he had good muzzle clearance.
Standish was already making damn sure he presented as small a target as possible, but that didn’t make him any less angry. ‘More? Who the fuck are that lot?’
I jumped in before Sam had a chance to: ‘We’re that coffee shop for the stupid you were talking about. We’ve even got the villagers down there in the valley, Sam’s kids too. And you know what? It makes your half-arsed little gangfuck suddenly seem worthwhile.’
We kept shuffling. Fuck him, what was he going to do? Give me the sack?
7
We lowered Tim down beside the backblast channel. Crucial followed. He passed up the RPG gear, and we shifted Tim gently to a point where I could jump in too. Then we lifted him in.
The cot would be important for him. It would support his legs, and when the rain came, the trench would turn into a swamp, logs or no logs. We needed to keep him as uncontaminated as possible, or that leg of his would get infected and fester.
There were lots of groans and much gritting of teeth, but he was eventually settled. There was only a foot or so of room to play with at each end of the cot.
Crucial went back to his own trench and I told Silky to get the RPG rounds down alongside his legs. I looked down and fixed on Tim. ‘Sorry, mate, I can’t leave them out there,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Put them wherever you want.’
From the look on her face, Silky wasn’t thrilled to be handling HE. I banged two rounds together to show they were safe. ‘It’s OK, they won’t bite. You can throw them about. And once you’ve moved that lot, get yourself down by Tim’s head, and shove the bag in too. Both of you, make sure your heads stay below the parapet.’
She started to sort herself out, hobbling around on her damaged ankle.
I went back and collected the four mags and some damp Russian factory-packed cardboard boxes that each contained twenty rounds of 7.62 short.
Back into the trench with my jerry-can, I wedged the RPG upright in the corner, then five rounds on each side of the cot. The line stretched from his feet to his armpits.
The stabilizer pipe that stuck out of the back of the round contained more than just the booster charge to kick it out of the launcher and the sustainer motor that carried it on its way. It also housed the two sets of fins that deployed inflight. There were as many variations of this little fucker as countries that made them, but basically there would be two large stabilizer fins about halfway along the pipe to maintain direction, and a smaller set behind to induce rotation, making the round rifle through the air like an American football.
There was a logical order governing this sort of situation: my weapon, my kit, myself. Seeing as there was no kit, and no time, only the first mattered.
The lid of the crate of RPG rounds had been ripped off and placed on the parapet to protect resting weapons from the mud. I took off the AK mag and put it down on it. I unchambered the round, and used my cuff to clean the working parts. My shirt was like wire wool on my raw skin, but a shower and a shave wasn’t on offer right now. Most weapons will still fire if they’re covered with crap, but dirty and contaminated working parts inside will give you a stoppage every time.
Silky was scrunched up in a ball by Tim’s head. Their faces were almost touching, and I had to admit to myself that neither looked out of place. She watched me as I pushed down on each mag to check it was full of rounds, and cleared any mud, then shoved a few of the loose ones in to fill them up. I could tell she wasn’t thinking about the here and now. Her face was too calm for that. She had other things on her mind, and they didn’t include weapons, injuries or the LRA.