Recoil

4

Behind me, a human train was forming, each truck loaded with plastic fertilizer sacks of ANFO.

I shouted up at the guys in the sangars as I made my way to the valley mouth. I wanted them to know exactly who was moving into their arcs. ‘I’m going there, over there!’ I gave them a thumbs-up and a couple waved.

I wanted two holes, not too deep, one on each side. The theory was that when the claymores were detonated, a shallow pit would contain the majority of the main force of the explosion, and send the shrapnel that had been packed in front scything into the advancing enemy.

Problem was, ANFO is low explosive. The combustion rate is slow, under six thousand metres per second, which is why it is used in mines and to make craters. High explosives, like the stuff in the box I had under my arm, has almost instantaneous combustion, with a shockwave that can be directed at the enemy.

With more HE, I could have built the claymores with oil drums – placed the HE at the bottom, packed the metal on top, and pointed them towards the killing area. But with low explosive, I had to try to contain the detonation and focus it in one direction. It would still take a huge lump out of the hill, but with luck I could direct most of the blast forward – smack into the LRA.

I had never made one of these things with low explosives before – it had always been HE. But it seemed logical that there still had to be a buffer between the explosive and the metal I hoped to be piling in front of it – in this case a mud wall at least a foot thick. Without one, the high detonation temperatures would just melt the metal in front of it, producing a big blob of white-hot molten alloy – great if you wanted to penetrate a tank, but not if you wanted to devastate an area.

My hope was that a buffer would give the claymore’s gases a nanosecond to build pressure before they broke through and blasted bits of metal into LRA flesh and bone across the killing ground. Of course, some of the energy would be converted into a fucking big crater as well, but I hoped I’d direct at least 60–70 per cent of the pressure wave outwards, towards the targets.

Fuck it, there was only one way to find out.

I scrambled up and down the high ground on the right side of the entrance. The ideal hole would be at least three metres above the valley floor for a better spread of blast over the killing ground.

I was also looking for the perfect angle: when the thing was detonated, I wanted the shrapnel to blast the two hundred or so metres across the front of the valley, but also along the riverbank towards Nuka, and over the river into the trees.

I aimed to do exactly the same on the opposite side, which would cover the way Silky and I had left earlier, upstream. Just as the beaten zones of the GPMGs lay over each other like circles in a Venn diagram, when these things kicked off nothing in the killing ground would survive.

I found a dugout rather than a shaft, which couldn’t have been better. It looked like they’d stopped digging when they’d encountered a different, grey-coloured rock, or maybe just got bored. Whatever, the shallow cave would contain and direct the explosion perfectly. Had it been a shaft, a lot of the force would have been dissipated into the ground.

It looked like someone’s home. There were the embers of a cooking fire inside a small ring of rocks, and the usual aluminium pot. A couple of blankets lay on the ground. Whoever they were, they’d have to visit an estate agent after I’d finished today’s makeover.

The cave was about three metres wide and a couple high at the entrance, sloping down two metres towards the back. I lay down at its centre and checked what arcs I’d achieve with the explosive. As the combustion looked for the easiest way out, it would initially go forward, then spread left and right, up and down – a bit like shotgun pellets do so that men in tweed can bring down pheasants and think themselves excellent shots.

Sweat poured down my face, and all my joints were aching as if I had flu. To top it all, I had a stinging lump on my left forearm that I kept scratching through the material. I was tempted to keep lying there and tune right out.

I needed a piss. I didn’t want to lose any more fluid, but it had to be done. I unzipped and sprayed the mud. Dark yellow and stinking; not good. I was still badly dehydrated.

I wanted one row of bags right along the back wall, then another on top of that. I wanted a chain reaction. They needed to be packed tight so they had contact with each other – but not too tight. Compress the mix too much and it won’t detonate.

Crucial turned up with two gunners as the first of the bags were laid. There was so much link dangling round their necks, it probably weighed more than they did. They carried the guns by the handle and their shoulders drooped under the weight.

There was no longer a smile on Crucial’s face, just lots and lots of sweat. He had a coating of white froth round his mouth. I wasn’t the only one in need of fluid. ‘They’ll cover both ways on the approach routes,’ he said, in his high-pitched voice. ‘If they start firing, you get straight back into the valley and leave them to it. That OK? I’ll take over.’

‘What about metal? We need shed-loads.’

He turned away and rattled off a set of instructions in French at the departing gunners. ‘Don’t worry. It’s coming. I’ll be with you. Just sort things out here, man, and I’ll do the rest.’

The air was thick with grunts and groans from the beetles as they humped and sited their heavy loads. I’d arranged a row of eight bags along the bottom, then another of eight on top, and finally one of six. It looked like I was going to be able to pack in another three rows in front.

Fair one. Crucial was right: I should worry about my patch, and let him worry about his.