Recoil

6

I could see patches of grey and decayed Tarmac under the drifting sand half a K ahead. My head jerked all over the shop as Sam gunned the Renault towards it.

Then we saw that the guys we were following weren’t the only vehicles in the valley. Just over a K to our left, a serious dustcloud was making its way along the road towards the plantation.

We had to get there before they did.

As we lurched and bucked towards the house, the dustcloud closed in. I started to make out a series of distinct vehicle shapes, stretched out on either side of the road like a convoy from Mad Max.

A grey smoke trail detached itself from the dustcloud as the sustainer motor of an RPG (rocket-propelled grenade) kicked in. The round was heading our way, but climbing steeply.

‘Lousy shot.’ Sam shook his head, as if them firing from out of range and aiming poorly was up there with singing out of tune in church. The smoke trail stopped after about five hundred metres when the propellant ran out. The grenade then exploded high and well short. RPGs ‘soft-detonate’if they don’t hit anything within about five seconds of firing.

Sam turned the wheel to keep the diamond formation as Frankenstein headed for the gates in the perimeter wall. The mansion behind it was all shutters and fancy brickwork; the sort of thing you see on a posh wine label.

We still had three hundred metres or so to go when the wagon on the left flank came to a halt and put down covering fire with their GPMG.

The rest of us drove hard and fast towards the opening gates.

I screamed to Sam, over the protesting engine, ‘We’ll cover them in!’

He cut left as the other two wagons thundered through the gates and into the safety of the compound. He stopped level with the corner of the wall, facing the threat further down the road, and threw the gearstick into neutral. The wagon that had been giving covering fire took its cue and charged towards the gate.

Sam leaned over the sat-comms case and supported the link as I loosed off a slow double-tap into each of the vehicles, aiming at the driver’s side of the windscreen. Each time I squeezed the trigger, rounds disappeared into the left of the feed tray, empty cases tumbled out underneath and disintegrated link was spat out from the right. The whole lot rattled as it bounced off my Reeboks into the footwell.

Soon I wasn’t the only one firing. Empty cases from Standish’s AK bounced off my back. Then there was a whole lot more from the compound. The pickups stopped in their tracks.

Frankenstein and Davy were just visible above the perimeter wall. Fuck knows what they were standing on, but they were getting the rounds down and that was all that mattered. Just in time, too. The gun oil in my GPMG was so hot it was smoking. What little was left of the black Parkerization coating the metalwork was starting to peel off the barrel.

Sam had already dropped the link and I’d put the safety catch on when Standish yelled, ‘Come on, let’s go! Let’s go! They’re covering us,’ as if we didn’t know what to do.

Return fire from the pickups blasted chunks of rendering out of the compound wall. Bending low in his seat, Sam pulled hard to turn and get us heading towards the gate. Standish lay flat behind us now, clutching wherever he could to stop himself bouncing off the back, not a single hair out of place.

The guys on the wall took the incoming rounds to try to give us cover. As we neared the gates I could finally see what was left of the hacked-apart body. The wagons had run over a severed arm and leg, both still partly wrapped in green uniform, and they now lay crushed in the dark, blood-soaked sand.

The wagon screamed through the gates and jerked to a stop, just feet from the building. The gates were slammed behind us by a couple of scared black faces in green fatigues.

Frankenstein was on the back of his Renault, firing over the eight-foot wall.

The moment our wagon stopped, he took control.

‘Davy!’ He pointed at the pair of soldiers who’d closed the gates and were now jabbering at each other in fright. ‘Give those fuckers a big mug of shut-the-fuck-up and check the Mercs for fuel.’ He pointed at the other gunner. ‘Take that fucking thing and get up on the roof. Sam – you run the shop up there.’ He turned to Standish. ‘You –’ he indicated the house ’– get in there and find whoever’s running this gangfuck. Make sure the stuff is OK.’

Then it was my turn. ‘What are you standing around for? Get that fucking gun on the roof! Go! Go!’

I heaved the GPMG from the cab by the carry handle, grabbed all the link I had, and ran.

Davy had already gone to the Mercs to check their fuel levels. ‘Oi, Gary! No good, they’re diesel!’