Hard Rain

Forty-four

‘I’ll hit the brakes and it’ll fly right by?’ Masters yelled — pissed — climbing down.

‘Worked in the movie.’

‘That was a movie, Vin! Jesus, you could’ve killed us.’

‘We’re still breathing, aren’t we?’ I hopped across to the nearest bulldozer, jumped onto the ground beyond it and picked up a couple of empty plastic water bottles. ‘Hey,’ I called out, ‘if you see another one of these, I need it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because a couple of Berettas up against three Brownings, and who knows what else, won’t cut it. The odds require a little evening up.’

We didn’t have much time, not enough to explain. Tawal’s chopper was close; from the hard grind of its turbines and the dirt-filled wind blast from the main rotor blades filling the cave, it was hovering just outside, no doubt covering the entrance, attempting to keep us bottled up inside. In a minute, two at the most, the Humvees would arrive, the cave would be stormed, and no corny lines from Top Gun would save us.

I handed Masters my M9, exchanging it for an old Evian bottle. ‘Might be worth taking a few shots at the bird, just to show them we’re not completely toothless.’

Masters nodded. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To make a few surprises. You got spare mags?’ I asked.

‘Two,’ she called out at my back, as I ran for the room with the red door busted off the wall. I cut up one of the bottles with my knife, made a funnel, and used it to fill the other bottle with ammonium nitrate prills, almost to the top. From memory, the ideal ratio of prills to fuel oil was around fifteen to one. I tipped in about the right amount of fuel oil. Outside, I heard Masters firing off the handguns.

‘Vin!’ I heard her call out. ‘Need help here!’

The box containing the fuses was open. Damn: most were of the ISFE variety — igniter safety electric fuses. I lifted out the tray. Beneath it was a roll of Primacord plus a few non-electric delay detonators.

‘Smokin’,’ I said aloud, and went to work quickly. Carefully.

The big backhoe went out first, heading west, still spraying water, bucket raised high in defiance. The vehicle had hit twenty miles an hour by the time it reached the sloping sides of the wadi and turned, veering back and heading in the direction of the pit. The weight I’d attached to the bottom of its steering wheel was doing its job, keeping the vehicle behaving in a generally controlled fashion so it appeared that the dummy made up of drums and wearing my ABU was in control.

One of the Humvees accelerated off to run it down, the roof-mounted CROWS Browning hurling several hundred rounds at it. The helo took the bait too and hovered off to one side to join the Humvee in pumping as much copper-sheathed lead as possible into the dummy propped up behind the wheel. I kept my eyes glued to my watch and prayed that those non-electric delay detonators were as accurate as the explosives folks I knew said they were.

My heart raced. ‘In three… two… one…’

Masters stood on the gas pedal and the tyres on the small John Deere squealed and spun momentarily on the concrete floor. We shot out of the cave and into the sunlight, heading to the right. Masters hit the brakes almost immediately, broadsiding into the second Humvee before it could get out of the way. We skidded around and the trenching bucket smashed into its windshield.

‘Go, go, go!’ I said.

As we separated from the Humvee, I pitched one of the water bottles through the hole in its windshield, throwing it hard. Five seconds, four, three…

A hand appeared through the hole, clutching the bottle, about to throw it. And then, BOOOM! Bits of Humvee and human clanked and thudded into the Deere, the tremendous blast wave blowing us sideways.

We were both groggy from the concussion. I tapped Masters on the shoulder and shouted, ‘Let’s go!’ My ears rang from the explosion. I turned to see how the big John Deere was faring. How long was it going to take before a hot .50-calibre round hit the Primacord and detonated the ANFO dummy?

Answering my question, the backhoe suddenly and completely blew apart on the edge of the pit. A massive fireball engulfed it as it rolled in and was swallowed by the hole in the wadi floor. More explosions followed, sending black smoke rings into the sky. I noticed that the Humvee following it was slowing, turning away. Its roofline had a deep gouge through it. A large piece of backhoe shrapnel had ripped into the CROWS, tearing through the roof and probably disabling or killing the driver. The vehicle straightened again and kept going until it too disappeared from sight, tipping over the edge of the pit.

The white helo carved a wide circle around the smoking carnage.

Time to move. I jumped from the cabin and clambered up the side of the wadi, the undersize chemical suit grabbing at my crotch. After a few moments of disorientation, I found what I was looking for and shoved the bottle in the fissure, leaving most of it exposed. I hoped for its sake that the shiny black snake living here was off visiting a buddy somewhere.

I scrambled back down the wadi and ran for the backhoe. The Eurocopter had climbed well out of harm’s way. Maybe the pilot, or whoever was in command — Tawal, perhaps — was having second thoughts about trying to corner us. Or more likely it had gained some altitude to get a better tactical overview of the situation.

I squeezed Masters’ shoulder and nodded towards the rear of the wadi where the walls were steep. She crunched through the gears and reversed us into the shadows. The chopper descended, moving from side to side, looking for the safest approach. Those steep walls of the wadi were providing us with protection on three sides.

There was only one approach available. The helo hovered sideways, cautiously edging towards us and no doubt using the CROWS sensors to check for surprises. And then it stopped and suddenly backed away. The pilot must have seen me scramble up to the snake hole and figured some kind of trick was in store.

The Eurocopter came towards us again, this time from the opposite side. I felt sweat breaking out in places it had never broke out in before. That flying gun was lining us up good and proper, and this time the pilot was making no mistakes. Except for maybe one.

Just behind him, the whole side of the wadi suddenly burst towards the sky in a massive geyser of rock, dust and flame. Masters and I dived beneath the John Deere for what little cover it afforded. I glanced up in time to see the helo’s tail rotor destroy itself amongst a shower of rock. The aircraft started to spin, slowly at first, and then it picked up speed. I watched it climb before turning on its side and descending in an uncontrolled death spiral. It hit the ground with a whump, the main rotor blades whirling and shattering against the floor of the wadi, causing the wreckage to spin, twist and writhe. And then its fuel tanks exploded, a final defiance, flinging shards of metal across a 200-yard range.

We stayed under the backhoe until well after the secondary explosions stopped. Eventually we crawled out, stood and brushed the dirt out of our clothes. My throat was dry. Grit crunched between my teeth. I checked that the bladder was still tucked under the backhoe’s seat, then picked my way up the side of the wadi, taking it slow, no longer in a hurry. The bottle was easy to find. It caught the sunlight and flashed like a navigation strobe, as I’d hoped it would. I bent down, plucked it from the fissure, and drank the warm water inside.

Four columns of black smoke rose into the sky, accounting for three Humvees and one Eurocopter. The shock waves from the main explosion had caused the hole in the ground to collapse, burying the HEX storage cylinder beneath thousands of tons of rubble. Hanging over everything was a mushroom cloud of dirt and dust from the destroyed cave, the larger particles blown skywards now sprinkling down in a sand shower. ANFO sure had a kick to it.

‘So, Special Agent Cooper. You’ve been busy.’

I looked over my shoulder. It was Lieutenant Christie. With the ringing still in my ears, I hadn’t heard his unit approach. Six or so vehicles were lined up behind him, his men already moving out to reconnoitre the area.

‘So, Lieutenant Christie. You’re late. Got a shower in one of those trucks?’

The steel gate protecting Kawthar al Deen from truck and car bombs swung open to admit the convoy, a wise decision given that a Warrior, the British equivalent of our Bradley Fighting Vehicle, headed it. Not quite a main battle tank, but not to be argued with nonetheless. Lynx gunships hovered overhead. Christie’s CO, a lieutenant colonel, headed the op. There was no resistance to our show of force, which made everyone feel a little overdressed for the occasion.

Tawal had apparently left the country that morning, as soon as the storm lifted. His security force had been reduced to five personnel. The Brits disarmed and detained them. No authority had been granted to us to search and occupy the facility, and the Iraqi parliament was indignant on Tawal’s behalf. There was nothing to do but withdraw. Masters and I withdrew all the way to Istanbul.