Recoil

18

There was an instant sandstorm and the stench of aviation fuel as the Cobra two-ship swooped overhead. The gunships swivelled to face the wave of pickups and a set of 20mm cannons got on with their job.

The rapid thud of rounds was joined a second later by an endless metallic rattle as big, empty cases rained on to our wagon.

They moved forward and the sandstorm moved with them. I could see the Seahawks coming in low ahead of us, a gunner hanging out at either side.

RPGs piled in from our right and exploded in mid-air. The gunships turned and responded with short sharp bursts.

We had just a couple of hundred metres to go. The first Seahawk disappeared into its own sand-cloud as it settled on the ground. The second was hovering, looking for a landing site between the outcrops of brush.

Two more RPGs came in from our right, but this time well forward of us, and lower. The sustainer motors on both fizzled out.

When I realized what they were aimed at, the next couple of seconds passed in slow motion.

There was a dull thud as the hovering Seahawk took a hit. There were no flames, no explosions, but it tipped drunkenly, nose almost vertical, and dropped the last fifteen or twenty feet to the ground. The fuselage crumpled.

Sam rocked backwards and forwards in the driver’s seat, as if that was going to find us some more speed. He wouldn’t have been thinking about helping survivors. He was trying to get to the remaining Seahawk before an RPG did.

One of the Cobras roared overhead. Empty cases kept raining down. Whoever had fired that RPG was probably already shaking hands with the guy with the white beard.

There were still no flames from the wreckage: these things are designed to take hits. The two gunners from the other Seahawk came running out of their sandstorm as survivors tumbled from the stricken aircraft.

We halted short of the downwash. Sand and aviation fuel filled my nostrils as I followed Sam and the other wagons caught up.

The gunners’ only thoughts were to sort out their four mates, who were in a bad way. Their faces were bloody and shocked, but they were alive.

My only thought was that there was just one aircraft now, and four places already taken.

Sam yelled to get the gunner’s attention, then Standish was at his shoulder. ‘Boxes! Boxes! Boxes!’

The gunner turned, dark helmet visor covering his face. Standish mimed a rectangle with his hands. The gunner gave a curt nod. They knew what they were here for.

We shouldered the boxes from the wagon to the Seahawk, running, bent double under the weight, our sweat-soaked bodies caked with sand.

That was it then, fuck it, we were going to be leaving here cross-country. At least we wouldn’t be chased. The Cobras hit them with a few more long bursts, and flatbeds were scattered and burning like targets in a computer game. The 20mms even took on the bodies spilling out of the wrecked vehicles. They had an aircraft down: they wanted to kill each and every one of them now, kids or not.

Sam and I lugged the last two boxes, and as I reached the aircraft I could see Standish and the general already on board. As soon as our load had been transferred he thumbed the pilot to get airborne.

Sam grabbed Standish’s leg. Over the roar of the quickening rotors he yelled, ‘Annabel and the boy! Annabel and the boy!’ He spun round to me. ‘I’ll go get ’em!’

He disappeared into the dustcloud as I attacked the legs of one of the gunners, trying to signal to him that there were two more coming. In the end, I had to climb on board to make my point. Standish glared at me, trying to work out what was happening. Why weren’t they just lifting off?

I showed the gunner and Standish two fingers. They got the message.

There was a yell from below. Sam was at the door. He held up the boy like a begging bowl. Behind them, Annabel materialized out of the choking dust.

Standish looked around him at the payload and fucked the pair of them off with the back of his hand. He yelled at the gunner and jerked his thumb skywards.

The gunner’s helmet and visor swivelled, and there was another jerk of the thumb.

The aircraft shuddered and started to lift.

Dropping on to the London Delivery boxes, I held out my hands.

Sam lifted the boy towards me as he kicked Annabel up on to the skid. She gripped the sill, ready to climb.

Standish went ballistic. He yelled, then stamped on Annabel’s fingers.

I grabbed the boy’s skinny wrists and he hung for a moment like a slab of dead meat as the heli lifted higher and he slid from Sam’s arms.

I was leaving the team. This was wrong – I should be with them.

The heli turned and dust swirled round us. I lost sight of Sam. I wanted him to know this wasn’t the way I wanted it to be; it wasn’t my fault I was on board.

Annabel held on grimly but her fingers were slipping. Then Standish kicked again and the force of the turning heli was too much for her. She was flung away from the sill and the skid, and swallowed instantly by the blizzard of sand.

I held the dangling boy, trying desperately to keep a grip and drag him inside. His eyes were glued to mine. It was pointless shouting at him over the scream of the rotors; I just stared back, trying to give him some hope as his legs flailed about, searching for the skid.

I gave one final pull, but his wrists and my hands were too slippery with blood and sweat. It was like trying to grip a couple of wet eels.

He slipped away from me. His eyes, wide and petrified, stayed fixed on mine as he fell and disappeared into the blizzard, just like Annabel.

The Seahawk soared out of the rotors’ sandstorm. Within seconds it was a hundred feet off the ground.

It was far too late for me to jump. I saw Sam, far below us, on his knees beside the boy. Annabel lay motionless, face down in the scrub.

As we climbed, I saw Davy running towards them from his wagon. Beyond, burning wrecks sent plumes of black smoke into the sky. Bodies lay scattered below the Cobra two-ship that hovered to cover our withdrawal. Grey smoke puffed from their 20mms and the rounds bounced off the ground like hard rain hitting a pond.

I turned towards Standish.

He wasn’t interested in anything on the ground. He was already giving the general a slap on the shoulder and a big victory grin.