Andy McNab - Recoil

I could make out a cluster of breezeblock buildings, topped by a couple of antennas and a sat dish. The rest of the skyline was dominated by the massive silhouettes of two four-prop Antonov An12s.

The Russian version of our C130 Hercules, the An12 had the same shape as most tactical transport aircraft, essentially a huge tube with a ramp at the back. The only real differences were the amount of glass in the nose, which made it look like a Second World War Heinkel bomber, and the pair of 23mm cannon protruding from the rear of the fuselage – it looked like Donald Duck's bill had been stuck on the aircraft's arse.

The rear ramp was down on the nearest. Three or four trucks milled around, loading up what I assumed was the cargo Lex had been waiting for.

The ageing Antonovs were relics from the bad old Cold War days. They were now dotted around every ex-Communist African country you could name, and a good few you probably couldn't. As we got closer it was clear that this faded dark green monster had come from Mother Russia: it still had a big red star on the tail fin.

Sam knew what my next question was going to be and laughed. 'They look weird, don't they? Lex got the pair on the cheap. One working,' he pointed to the second aircraft, at the side of the strip, 'and that one for spares. Low mileage, one careful lady owner. You know the sort of thing.'

We drove to the rear of the building and pulled up alongside a black 4x4 Porsche. Sam shook his head. 'Lex's penis extension. A bit too flash for me.' He jumped out. The sun hadn't cleared the treeline yet and it was still a bit chilly.

I followed him to the back of the BMW. He lifted the tailgate and pulled out his green daysack with a blue, hard-plastic wheelie suitcase, the sort that fits into overhead lockers. It was so new it still had the sale tag on the handle.

I threw my holdall over my shoulder. 'Does he charge for excess luggage as well?'

Donald's bill jutted out over a truck that was backed up to the ramp. The 23mms were still in place. The early-morning sun glinted off the scratched Perspex canopy and the oversized belts of brass link inside.

Lex jumped down to greet us. He shoved a sat phone into its belt carrier, rubbed his hands and inspected the sky. 'Turned out nice again, eh?' For people working in hot climates, it was the oldest cliche in the book, but it still made me smile.

I glanced beyond him at the long aluminium containers being stowed in the belly of the aircraft. They were offloaded on to pallet trolleys then hauled up the ramp. By the looks of it, each one weighed a ton. 'What's the cargo, Lex?'

'Just food, water, that sort of stuff. General shit. It's a fresh day for the lads. I tell you, I've got enough steak in the back there to open a restaurant chain.'

'How many people work for this mining company, then?'

He turned away. 'Don't bore me with that stuff, man. Me, I just play with the joystick. No names, no pack drill.'

He jumped back on the ramp and disappeared. I wanted to ask Sam what was really in the containers, but thought better of it. They weren't full of prime fillet, that was for sure.

The BMW and the Porsche were being driven away. 'Doesn't Lex come back here after he drops off?'

'He's got to go elsewhere.' One of the engines began to whine. 'And I'm not due back for a few weeks myself.'

The stench of aviation fuel filled my nostrils and a flock of startled birds lifted from the trees as the other three engines sparked up. The truck moved away and I followed Sam up the ramp. My trainers crunched on the layer of dark red grit that covered the floor. It looked as if the other place Lex had been going to was Mars.

The interior was stripped of all essentials, not that it would have left the showroom with too many in the first place. There were no seats and no padding over the alloy skin of the fuselage. It was stacked to head height with aluminium containers and plastic iceboxes.

I pointed at a big blue one. 'Don't tell me. Steaks?'

'Yeah. Steaks, eggs – and it's a dry job, but on a fresh day we have a few beers.'

I spotted several cases of Castle. Sam grinned. 'Aye, I've done the PRI shop.'

The engines coughed and all four props spun. The PRI was a shopping system we used in the Regiment, but I'd never had a clue what the initials stood for. All I knew was that every garrison had one, and if you were in the field and it was a fresh day, people would go off to the PRI and come back with half a supermarket. Normally you'd get a fresh day in every seven or ten; you could ask for your Colgate and Ambre Solaire on top, and the bill would be raised at the end of the trip.

A loadmaster squeezed between us and the containers, a big pair of cans over his ears and a boom mike in front of his mouth. He yanked on all the webbing straps to check.

'How many guys working, Sam?'

'Not enough, Nick. Not yet.'

The ramp lifted with an electric whine. The loadmaster plugged his cable into a socket in the fuselage and spoke rapidly into his mike. I guessed Lex was at the other end.

The four props came up to speed.

Through one of the round portholes I could see a cloud of dirt getting kicked up behind. No wonder they'd had their shiny new vehicles taken away.

Sam threw me a bundle of green parachute silk and para cord and unwound one of his own. It was like being back in the Regiment, in the back of a C130, except that, with only two of us, there wasn't going to be a fight for prime position. This was normally anywhere over the ramp, because there was nothing stacked on the floor there, and you had enough room for the hammock to sag and swing.

The props screamed and the aircraft shuddered. We rumbled down the airstrip.

I leaned close to Sam's ear. 'How long's it going to take?'

'Seven hours.' He had to shout. 'Might as well get your head down.'

Tactical aircraft like these things only required about seven hundred metres of runway. Within seconds the rumbling eased as the undercarriage lifted off the ground.

Sam's hammock rocked gently with the motion of the aircraft. The parachute silk was wrapped around him so tightly he looked like a suspended green cocoon. He'd been lying there an hour and was probably snoring, but I couldn't hear anything over the roar of the props.

The loadie was up front with Lex in the drivers' seats, so all I had for company was a shed-load of alloy containers and maybe twice as many insulated hampers and cardboard boxes of food. And Silky's sleeping-bag – I'd been using it as a blanket. It was always cold at the back of these things at 12,000 feet. We couldn't be any higher than that, otherwise with an unpressurized aircraft we'd all get hypoxia and soon be dead.

The drone of the engines drowned any other noise. I looked out of the window, raised the bag to my nose and breathed in deeply. Her faded lemony perfume still lingered in the nylon and the rainforest canopy skimmed along below. From this height, we seemed to be flying over a field of broccoli.

I needed a dump. I turned over in my hammock until I fell out of it, and Silky's sleeping-bag came with me. I wiped the red grit off my palms and on to my jeans as I made my way to the sawn-off oil drum where the ramp met the fuselage. I pulled down my jeans and settled on to the two slats of wood suspended over it.

I was facing my big aluminium companions. I'd been wondering more and more about what was inside them, and it wasn't just idle curiosity. I wanted to know what I'd got myself involved in if the shit hit the fan when we landed. I'd heard guys were running surplus weapons from the Balkans into central Africa. If this plane was full of old AKs and anti-personnel mines, telling the Rwandans I'd just hitched a lift wouldn't cut much mustard.

When I'd finished, I poured bleach into the oil drum from a five-litre can, more to kill the smell than the germs, and edged my way along a stack of boxes of condensed milk. I ripped the top off one and helped myself to a can. I gave it a few whacks on the corner of one of the containers and sucked down the sweet, warm liquid. The army had made a huge mistake when it had removed this stuff from ration packs. Running down the centre of the aircraft there were maybe twenty light-blue fifty-gallon drums of aviation fuel, like the spine that supported all the other gear piled round and on top of them.