Still no detonation. We were going to lose the firefight.
I ran across and jumped into the backblast channel behind him. ‘I’ll sort it! I’m going to go high left, OK? High left.’
Standish swung round in his trench, shouting shit: ‘What’s happened? What’s gone wrong? You fucking moron! Make it work!’
I ignored him and waited for Sam to give me the nod, then jumped up and ran back to my trench. Muzzles flashed and cracked below me. I lay in the mud of the backblast channel and yelled, over the din, ‘Silky, get up here! Help me, help me!’
I reached down and grabbed the RPG with the first round still in it. ‘Hurry up! Get out of there!’ I laid the launcher in the mud and pulled out another three rounds. I turned my back to her. ‘Shove them down my shirt. Right the way down to the waistband.’
She knelt behind me, fumbling with the rounds.
‘Fucking hell! Hurry up, hurry up! Shove the fucking things in!’
The stabilizer pipes scraped down the raw flesh where my rash had once been. It felt like my skin was on fire. She could only get two down. The shirt was starting to give way.
‘Give me your belt! Quick! Quick!’
Trying to go too fast, she was all fingers and thumbs. Tim helped the only way he could. ‘It’s OK, Silky, take your time. Look at what you’re doing. You can do it.’
Eventually her webbing belt came off. I grabbed it from her, wrapped it round my chest and did it up. The two rounds behind me were secure.
I pushed her back towards the fire trench.
And then I was gone. A combination of adrenalin and guilt drove me across the ground like Superman. I legged it down into the valley, following the track, slipping, sliding, a couple of times sprawling headlong in the mud. I wasn’t worried about the launcher. The rain would wash off the mud and, anyway, these things were soldier-proof.
I made it down to the valley and worked my way past the dugout and the oil drums, then headed up to the higher ground. I wanted to get behind that rear sangar so I didn’t get zapped. RPGs kicked off from the knoll behind me with a whoosh, aimed to drop and soft-detonate in the valley entrance.
I didn’t give a shit what was in front of me. I just wanted to make distance. Gripping the RPG with both hands, I scrambled up the hill like a mountain goat on speed.
I caught glimpses of the chaos on the valley floor as I went. It was all shapes and shadows. Miners, the Nuka mob, LRA, or a mixture? I couldn’t tell.
I got closer and saw they were miners. What the fuck were they doing? Everyone was going to get killed.
3
‘Coming through! Coming through!’
I was closing fast on the rear sangar, and I was stopping for no man. I kept shouting the warning and running. ‘Coming through!’
They heard me and didn’t know what the fuck was going on. They jumped up and turned to fire; I had to hold the RPG at arm’s length and hope they recognized the signal. If they shot me, I couldn’t do much about it.
I got through, and managed maybe another hundred and fifty metres unchallenged and unscathed. The lightning was less frequent now, but still highlighted the gang-fuck as it moved deeper into the valley. Bodies swarmed up the hillsides, overrunning the front sangars.
A couple more RPGs whooshed down from the knoll and exploded over the valley entrance. The fire echoing round the horseshoe was deafening. One burst whizzed past so close to me I could feel its vortex.
I was above the Nuka mob’s re-entrant. LRA were down there. Women screamed. A man howled like a dog.
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.