Andy McNab - Recoil

His voice vibrated with anger. 'He's just told me you're all dead.'

'Well, you can hear me talking, mate.'

'I was coming in to kill you all at first light, then… He's killing his own fucking people!'

'Lex, we need you to give us fire support with those twenty-three-millimetres of yours, soon as you can. What's left of the LRA are going to hit us again, most probably at first light.'

'Who's paying for the fuel and ammunition now?'

'For fuck's sake! I will. Or have another game of crazy golf with Sam. Whatever, are you going to come or not?'

'I'll be there. I'll need a marker to get me on line and for fire control.'

'Done. I'll give the fire-control orders when you're overhead.'

Lex sounded very calm now, the sort of calm that's one step away from dangerous. 'I'm going to call that fucking shit right now and tell him he can rot in the jungle. You never desert men in the field.'

'Mate, do you use caller ID?'

'Of course not, man.'

'So he'll answer when I call?'

There was a short silence, then he started to laugh.

Standish answered within one and a half rings. 'Get straight in there and rake the area. Kill those fuckers who killed the team.'

I took a breath. 'Don't worry, he's going to – but I don't think he'll be picking you up. In fact, he wants you to rot in the jungle, you fucking shit. And the only reason I'm hoping you don't is that I want to give you a little something from Bateman.'

The phone went dead.

I rolled the Prudence over the sat phone again. 'Silky, got any surgical gloves?'

'None sterile, only discarded.' She pointed at a small heap of bloodstained swabs and latex.

'I'll be back for them in a minute.'

I left the tent. The kids were lined up in four lots of two, all facing down the valley. One of each pair stood trembling next to an RPG launcher; his equally scared number two cradled a round. Crucial screamed down at them, pushing a couple on to their arses to hammer home a point. His voice was choked, but it had nothing to do with him being hoarse from all the shouting.

Sam was still on stag, his face like granite.

'You all right, mate?'

'Just tell me what's happened.'

'I got Lex.' I cut all the Crazy Dave shit; it did-n't matter. 'He's just over two and a half hours away.' I didn't cut the Standish shit; he needed to know. 'I told him if I see him again, I'm going to kill him. And this time I want to see him again.'

'You might need to join a queue.'

'I'm going to make a marker down there. Hold on to this.' I handed him the sat phone. 'If I'm not back, Lex is expecting fire control orders.'

Sam checked the watch round his neck. 'We're cutting it fine. First light's just before six.'

I picked up four belts of link and dumped them inside the tent. 'I need you to take off all the bullet heads. Bend them sideways on something hard until they come out. Empty all the propellant into two of those gloves.' I didn't give Silky and Tim a chance to ask why. I needed to get to Crucial.

He had the four skinny, pot-bellied teams doing loading drills. Sunday was nearest me, and number one on his launcher. He held it upright so his number two could put the stabilizer pipe down the weapon, making sure the percussion cap was aligned with the hammer.

These kids were coming to life, but not in a good way. Crucial was really playing the part, being aggressive, throwing the switch that turned them back into automatons.

Sunday struggled to get the weapon on to his right shoulder. He didn't hold it the way I was used to, left hand on the rear grip. He used his right, and had his left on the trigger. The other little one stood immediately behind him so the launcher rested on his shoulder too. He brought his right arm, skinny as a stick, round to Sunday's front, and the other one went to his left shoulder in an effort to make a stable platform. Even loaded, these launchers weighed less than a GPMG and 200 link, but to these fuckers it probably felt like a ton.

Crucial wiped a sleeve across his face. He wanted me to think it was sweat, but I could see it was tears. I filled him in on what had happened on the sat phone, and what I was going to do.

'Hurry back, man. I need to get them into the trenches and drilled. I need your help.'

'Soon as I can.'

I grabbed the plunger and the firing cable.

'Nick! Nick!' Crucial shouted and waved. 'I need you now! I need you!'

I picked up my AK and started heading his way. Two cots were being carried out of the second tent by four little people. Sam still stagged motionlessly on his gun.

'OK, here's the drill, Nick.' Crucial looked like an air steward pointing out the emergency exits. 'Two launchers in each trench. The first trench, both of them fire on my command. Then the next trench does the same while the other one reloads. Got it?'

I wondered if he'd been watching Zulu. It was like Michael Caine's boys at Rorke's Drift, one rank firing while the other loaded. I nodded.

'Good. I want you to stay in the second trench. Make sure they're doing their drills right. They keep forgetting to cock the weapon.'

I ran over to Bateman's trench. One of the cots was on the floor; four boys were standing on it, with two launchers. Twelve rounds were jammed between the cot and the front of the trench.

Sunday and his number two were one team, the Chuckle Brothers the other. I hesitated: the Chuckle Brothers were crying. I realized I wanted to hug the little fuckers and say it was all right; I wanted them not to have to do this. I wanted a lot of things to be different, but it wasn't going to happen.

I stood between the two teams and squatted down against the front of the trench. 'All right, mate?' The Chuckle Brothers' fear-filled eyes did everything they could to avoid mine.

I tried Sunday. 'All right, Sunday?'

Crucial harangued the boys from the next trench. The number twos went through the drill of putting a round in.

I watched Sunday and the number one Chuckle Brother get their weapon on the shoulder, and wait for their number twos to come round behind them and create the platform. Sunday cocked the weapon once he was in position, and waited.

The Chuckle Brothers were wobbling. I raised my hand up and supported the front of the launcher while they sorted their feet out. They begged and implored me; they must have thought I was about to kick the shit out of them.

I tapped the forward pistol grip. 'Cock it – cock it.' I had to take a leaf out of Crucial's book. I wasn't helping them otherwise. 'COCK IT!' In the end, I resorted to sign language.

He cocked the weapon as best he could.

Crucial jumped into the backblast channel and grabbed hold of both launchers from the rear, pushing them down to get the right elevation and aim. Once he was satisfied with the angle, he bellowed at them and they gripped the weapons as if their lives depended on it.

He screamed the order to fire.

Both weapons clicked. The crews knelt down automatically and started the reload.

My teams resumed the fire position, and cocked both weapons this time.

Fuck it. I didn't have time to drill them over and over. I left them to it.

I ran across the back of Sam's fire trench. 'I'm going down now, mate. Marker time.'

I picked up the end of the cable and the wooden crate top, and ran back into the tent. I was starting to feel dehydrated again. Everything was getting heavy.

I took big gulps from the jerry-can as I inspected their handiwork. Both the gloves were on Tim's lap. The boy was still lying next to him. The floor was littered with discarded link, cases and bullet heads.

Silky handed me the first glove. 'What's it for, Nick? What's going on?'

'I need to ignite a drum of diesel down in the valley. The pilot needs something to use as a reference point so I can aim the guns for him.'