Deep Black

49

We swerved and everybody ducked. I hoped Davers wasn’t ducking as much as the rest of us when he hit the gas.

Frankenmeyer fumbled about, getting his helmet on. ‘Get to the checkpoint!’

Seconds later the wagon screeched to a halt by the sangar. I opened the door and pushed myself out on to the hot tarmac, checking for Jerry. ‘Get inside!’

The fire was coming in from the other side of the river. Soldiers poured out of the sangar, heading for the bank. Jerry slowed up and tried to pull the camera out of his bumbag.

‘For fuck’s sake, come on!’

The Americans opened up from behind a three-foot-thick wall as more rounds poured in from across the water, maybe three hundred metres away; long, sustained bursts, then individual shots. I could make out the distinctive heavy crack of the AKs’ 7.62, but couldn’t see any muzzle flashes coming from the jumble of six- or seven-storey tower blocks and concrete squares.

Jerry was still fucking about behind me, trying to get his camera working. I ran back, grabbed him and dragged him into the sangar. I saw immediately why the boys had needed to get out into the open: unbelievably, the place had been built without firing ports overlooking the water. They only covered the road to the bridge with a .50 cal.

For some reason, the floor was sandbagged. We threw ourselves flat as a couple of rounds thumped into the ones around the entrance. I looked out at the chaos along our side of the riverbank. The squaddie who’d been at the top of the watchtower was dropping down like a submariner from a conning tower. If there’d been a fireman’s pole they’d have been on it.

Frankenmeyer was trying to take control. ‘Can you see ’em? Can you see ’em?’

It didn’t matter: everybody seemed to be cabbying away regardless. The squaddie reached the bottom of the ladder. Frankenmeyer shouted, pointing to the sangar, ‘Get the fifty! Get the fifty!’

Jerry had his bumbag open. ‘Bastards! They’ve taken my memory cards!’ He scrabbled in his jeans for replacements as more rounds thwacked into the sandbags. The .50 cal was above him, its barrel facing the main, with the legs of the tripod straddling the firing port. It would have been useless even if it had been pointing the right way. The tripod was unsupported; it should have been weighted down with sandbags. If they started firing it, it would bounce all over the place and fall off the sill.

The soldier from the watchtower was coming full pelt towards the sangar, head down, M16 in hand. Her brown hair was long and had been up in a bun, but had now mostly fallen across her face and neck. There was a guy, a zit-faced nineteen-year-old, hot on her heels. I moved out of their way as they plunged through the entrance, pouring sweat, kicking Jerry’s camera out of his hands, as more bursts hit the sangar and the Hummer. She yelled at Zit-face as they tried to lift the .50 cal at the same time as shouldering their own weapons. It wasn’t going to happen: the slings weren’t slack enough to fit over their helmets.

I wanted these two out of here. They were flapping; their barrels banged together as they fucked about and there were too many made-ready weapons flying about in this tight space for my liking. ‘Cradle your weapons, hold the fifty by the tripod. Get the fucking thing out there!’

More rounds thudded into the sandbags and they flinched as they dragged out the heavy weapon, one holding the barrel, the other the tripod. They half ran, half stumbled with it towards the riverbank, the belt of thirty or so rounds on the weapon dragging behind them in the sand.

The command radio in the sangar was going apeshit. Everybody was being stood to. Jerry was still reloading, cursing the guys who’d dared to confiscate his precious cards.

I watched them rigging the .50 cal. Hadn’t they ever fired one of these things? They’d done their usual trick with the tripod legs straddling the wall.

I turned to Jerry as another barrage of rounds headed our way. He was lying on his side, camera pointing across the river like a weapon.

‘Keep an eye on the .50. When that fucker starts firing you’re going to get a great picture!’