Andy McNab - Recoil

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.

I waited until the last four or five bags had been hauled up the bank and deposited in the cave. There must have been a total of forty or more in the stack by now, enough to bring down the House of Commons. The ANFO boys were busy making another batch for the other side so maybe we had enough to take down Westminster Abbey while we were at it.

I opened the box of HE. That wasn't what the Chinese were calling it, but it sent a message everyone could understand. The moment the lid was lifted, the pungent smell of marzipan filled the air and made my head swim even more.

British PE4, or the American equivalent C4, was non-toxic and odour-free, but this stuff, churned out by Chinese or Eastern European factories, didn't piss around: it gave the user the mother of all headaches. It was also vulnerable to shock, and could be detonated if just a stray high-velocity round slammed into it. Even an RPG round detonating within a foot or two would send out enough of a shockwave to kick it off. Not good if you were trying to drop a suicide-bomber and were no good at head shots – but it went bang, and that was all I needed.

I lifted out the first of three greenish, one-kilo slabs. The moment it made contact with the nicks and cuts in my hands it stung like a swarm of bees.

I kneaded the green lump to get it warm and pliable, and after a minute or so it was the consistency of Playdoh. I rolled it into a rough ball and chopped my stiff fingers into it until it looked a bit like a freshly opened Terry's chocolate orange.

I reached for the reel of det cord. It was filled with a different kind of high explosive. I didn't know what it was, or who had made it. I just hoped it would initiate the ball of HE I was going to shove into the ANFO. Western det cord came in rolls of 150-200 metres, but I didn't have a clue how much I had here. It looked like more.

I tied a whole load of knots in the free end until I'd built up a nice big chunky lump to jam into the middle of the HE. Then I squeezed the ball of HE round it and put it to one side. I worked my hand between the bags and wedged it into the back layer. Gathering some slack from the reel, I wrapped a loop of det cord round one of the bags at the front of the pile to anchor it. I didn't want a tug on the cord to dislodge the knotted end from the ball. I checked the loop carefully. Like water down a garden hose, if the initiation travelled along the det cord and hit a kink, it sometimes decided not to carry on. The energy of the detonation had to flow freely throughout.

I walked backwards out of the dugout, unreeling cord behind me until I reached my AK. I added it to the box of HE under my arm and stumbled back across the valley entrance.

I spotted Crucial and gave him a shout. 'I need guys with shovels, mate.' I tried to mime a gravedigger with all the shit still in my arms. 'Get them up here!'

I unreeled more cord and checked for kinks as I went to find another claymore position.

There were a couple of bursts of gunfire in the middle distance as Crucial turned up, bringing half a dozen miners with shovels, hammers and pissed-off expressions. They weren't too excited about the idea of losing their tools, but I explained what I wanted and left him to it.

The sangars had been stood down now that Sam had carried out his checks. You can't maintain maximum awareness for ever. They had to stay in position, but not in ready-to-fire. That didn't stop me shouting up to the high ground ahead, though, to make sure they knew I was coming their way.

I closed my grit-coated eyes for a few seconds as I unreeled more det cord. It felt great. I could have kept them like that for hours.

When I opened them again, I saw Tim striding towards the valley entrance. Where the fuck did he think he was going?

'Tim! Tim!'

He didn't stop, just looked across at me and pointed beyond the newly dumped ANFO bags.

'Stop! Don't go there. Stop!'

He kept going, and shouted, 'Nuka.'

He passed the ANFO, reached the track and turned left along the river. The guys in the sangars watched him as if he was mad – which he probably was.

'Tim, wait! Wait, wait, wait! '

I dropped the reel and box and broke into a run. As if to underline my point, there was a rattle of automatic fire from the other side of the river. It was distant, but not distant enough for my liking.

I screamed his name.

Finally he stopped. His shirt was drenched in sweat and his chest heaved with the exertion.

I crashed my way towards him.

'I have to go back, Nick. I have to fetch more supplies. I know what's going to happen. I'll need my bag.'

I shook my head. 'They're too close. They're going to hit us soon. Last light, it'll all kick off.'

'I'll have to take that chance.' He wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand, then moved off.

I kept up with him, and had to shout over the roar of the river. 'Listen, mate, sorry about fronting you earlier on. It was stupid. I shouldn't have done it.'

He slipped and landed on his knees. 'Fronting? What do you mean?'

'Nothing. Don't worry about it.' I went down with him, making myself a smaller target.

He nodded his thanks. 'How is she? The diamond-toothed guy said you were back.'

'She's fine, twisted her ankle.'

Relief showed on his face. 'I told her she should have stayed in Lugano, sorted things out with you before coming here. I hope it works out between you two.' He smiled at me, got back on his feet and walked on.

I followed. 'What about you?'

He stopped and faced me. Gunfire rattled the far side of the river. 'Nick, I wouldn't do anything to harm her. Anything.' He looked along the path. 'I must get my bag. You should go back and do whatever you've got to do. I'll be fine.'

I put out a hand before he could leave. 'One last thing, mate… Stefan. He the middle man for this mine?'

He seemed amazed that I didn't know. 'When it comes to death, corruption and suffering, Stefan has never been far away.'

I turned back. Fucking hell. It wasn't only Silky I knew so little about. Had Stefan been phoning Standish? And what about the Chinese? Did they let Stefan control the mine and not worry what the fuck happened here as long as they were getting casseritite by the shipload?