Andy McNab - Recoil

'You got any Deet?'

Sam thumbed behind him. 'Anything like that, see Jan, the guy doing the brai.'

I couldn't do without the stuff, the stronger the better. Some commercial brands contain only fifteen per cent, which is crap. One hundred per cent is more the mark; the problem is, as well as keeping the mozzies away, it can melt plastic. It could probably even detonate high explosive, if you got the mixture right. I'd seen contact lenses melt when Deet-fuelled sweat ran into some poor bastard's eyes.

He handed me the AK. 'It's unloaded.'

The weapon was soaked in gun oil and had blanket hairs all over it. By the look of the almost-white wood furniture and lack of Parkerization, it had already spent quite a few years out in the sun.

Sam turned back to his bed and pushed the fan blades up on their axle – and of course it started working immediately.

I carried out NSPs (normal safety precautions). I pushed down the safety lever and pulled back on the cocking handle to bring the working parts to the rear so I could check inside the chamber. He wasn't wrong: unloaded. I let go of the cocking handle and the working parts shot forward. My face got a light sprinkling of gun oil as they slammed home. I squeezed off the action.

Sam was still close by, so I nodded in the direction of the muttering. 'What is it with those guys? You and Crucial aren't exactly on their hot-date list, are you? And it's not just the kids, is it?'

He sighed. 'They've been like that since I brought Crucial in on the job. It started out with just the four of us, and they don't like our cosy little white set-up being disturbed. They didn't even mind the church at first. It actually helped recruitment – a lot of the guys already have religion.

'But when Standish had to start staying back here to do the bean counting, someone else had to be brought in for the patrols and camp protection. They wanted one of their RLI cronies. I chose Crucial. He's completely professional, speaks nearly every language going – and we've got Rwandans, Congolese, Ugandans, you name it. Tooley and Bateman can barely speak English.'

'He's just the wrong shade for them, right?'

He shrugged. 'They live in the old world.'

Sam pulled out a sat phone and pushed it towards me. 'Go on, give yourself a treat…'

The offer was too good to miss, but not because I wanted to whisper sweet nothings to her; I wanted to warn her about the threat from the north, and get her to move to the mine right away.

Sam picked up his gear. 'I'll see you outside on the strip.'

I scrolled the phone's menu to find how to block the outgoing number. I didn't want Silky seeing twelve digits and wondering why I was suddenly on a sat phone instead of my cell. If she thought I was in-country, it might push her even further away.

These things had come a long way since the eighties, when Standish had had to set up a dish to make contact. This one was small enough to fit into my pocket. The sat phone's number had been written down its side with a permanent marker so the team always knew which phone was which.

I didn't have that problem with Tim's number – I'd memorized it. I tapped in the first few digits. 'Who is this?' He sounded English, middle-class and very abrupt. 'Tim? It's Nick, Silky's friend. Can I speak to her?'

'She's not here until this evening. Etienne told me you want her to call, and she will. Please don't use this phone for social calls. It's emergency use only.'

'Tim, you've got to-'

Too late. The phone was dead.

Shit. Maybe her mobile had a signal. I tried it, but got nothing. I connected with my mobile's voicemail. The automated response told me I'd received no calls.

Fuck it. I called Tim's number again.

Straight to voicemail. I told him about the LRA, and advised him to move to the mine. Then I hung up. There was nothing more I could do. I wiped both numbers off the history, picked up my party gear and headed out of the tent.

Sweat poured off me. The Deet I'd only just applied was already running into my eyes and mouth. It tasted incredibly bitter and stung like hell. I'd doused every bit of exposed skin with the stuff, as well as my hair and clothes. Malaria still killed more people than Aids around here, and even the LRA couldn't compete.

The airstrip had become a parade ground, and two squads shimmered in the heat haze. As we approached them, Crucial shouted a command in French and they roared some kind of greeting at Sam.

I'd hung a two-foot gollock from my belt with a length of para cord. I'd also anchored the old prismatic compass in my pocket. Survival in the jungle is down to cutting and navigating, and if you lose the means to do either, you're well and truly fucked. I wouldn't have minded tucking away Sam's sat nav for good measure. With the longs and lats for the strip and the mine already set, I'd be able to get to Silky on my own if the shit hit the fan.

I'd swapped my jeans for a pair of Sam's OGs (olive greens) and tucked a long-sleeved thick cotton vest well into them. I'd even tied off the bottom of both trouser legs as part of my anti-malaria campaign.

I could hear a low rumble in the distance. A storm was brewing away to the west. Invisible birds called from high up in the canopy. One sounded like a slowed-down heart monitor. I hoped it wasn't an omen.

Sam addressed the two squads in a loud, clear voice and pointed at me with an open palm. 'This is my friend, Nick.'

Crucial translated over the ambient racket of cicadas. French was the one language that everyone seemed to share.

'Just like you, he is a warrior,' Sam went on. 'We're lucky he's coming with us tonight.'

Crucial did the business again, and every man thumped his chest. I felt I should be standing to attention.

'OK,' Sam nodded to Crucial. 'Let's get them checked.'

Crucial gave the command. The twenty or so guys lifted their weapons and pulled back on the cocking handles with resounding clunks.

The sergeant-majors moved down the ranks, checking each chamber. Sometimes they just looked; sometimes they stuck in a finger if the weapon was in shadow. At the same time, each soldier had to exhale, to make sure no one had cracked into the Cutty Sark.

They were made to open their chest harnesses next, to demonstrate that no one had forgotten their comms cord, their mags had rounds in and were facing the right way. A right-hander needs to house his AK mags so the wide outside curve is to the left – then he can just grab a fresh one when he's shitting himself under fire, and stick it straight on the weapon without looking. There'd be a lot of fumbling otherwise, which really fucks the weight of fire.

I could hear the sound of steel on steel, then a series of clicks as each man got the all-clear, working parts were released and the action squeezed off.

Sam beckoned me over as he waterproofed the sat phone with a couple of Prudences.

'They like you two, don't they?' I said. 'Just as well, I suppose.'

Sam checked the flap of his Very pistol holster, which hung alongside his gollock. 'You don't get loyalty out of these guys if you don't show them respect and look after them. Money and drink are all well and good, but ultimately they've got to feel that they're part of something, that they're being thought about. That's part of the problem with the terrible twins. They don't get it.'

Crucial gave the sergeant-majors an order and the two squads spread out on the strip in single file, weapons in the shoulder. They then table-topped their contact drills. In the Regiment, we always did a walk-through, talk-through before a patrol, and a full rehearsal in slow time. Everybody needs to know exactly what to do if there's a contact, and what everybody else around them will be doing. When the shit hits the fan, those are the only things that really matter.