Andy McNab - Recoil

Tim held up the second glove as I knotted the wrist of the first. 'Good luck, Nick.'

'You got any surgical tape in that magic bag of yours?'

Silky scouted around and came up with a small roll of narrow white tape.

Crucial was still out there, screaming and shouting as the kids repeated the drills. It felt strangely quiet and safe on this side of the canvas by comparison.

I picked up the head of a round and placed the two firing-cable wires along it so that they were less than a millimetre apart at the pointed top. I started peeling back the roll with my teeth, then taped the two wires in place. I nestled the round gently among the cordite granules in the untied glove.

I wrapped the cable tight round the wrist of the glove, then lashed it with tape to make it as waterproof as I could, then laid both gloves on top of the crate, picked up my AK and left.

I'd say my goodbyes later on.

I gave the firing cable a few feet of slack from where it disappeared into the glove, then a couple of turns round my left wrist to prevent it jerking loose, grabbed the plunger, then legged it to Sam's trench. 'Here, control this fucking thing.' I dumped the firing device with the cable still attached. 'Back soon.'

I opted for the direct route, a straight line downhill. I could just see the valley floor as a thin arc of dull light appeared above the treeline in the distance.

I skidded and slid, then fell on my arse and sledged the rest of the way, mud building up fast between my legs. I banged into a rock and fell sideways, but managed to hang on to the AK and the cable, keeping the crate top and gloves tight against my chest.

I staggered to the full oil drum and leaned against it for a few moments, fighting for breath. There was no time to hang around. I didn't want to be caught out in the open once the sun was up.

I dumped the gloves on the crate top and floated it on the surface of the diesel, then unravelled the cable and ran to the store.

No glimmers of light in here. It was still pitch black.

I switched on the torch and scanned the floor frantically for slabs of PE. I found two. That was all I needed. Plastic explosive burns. I'd often used half a stick to light a fire, or heat water or food in a mess tin. It's only dangerous if burned in quantities of more than twenty kilos. Then it generates enough heat to detonate.

Back at the drum, I sandwiched the gloves between the two slabs of PE, then secured the firing cable at the base of the drum with a rock.

When I pushed the plunger handle down, the spark from the cable wires would ignite the cordite in the gloves. It would burn like mad for five or six seconds then ignite the HE, which would burn furiously at a very high temperature, incinerating the crate top and igniting the diesel.

The resulting beacon would burn and belch smoke for hours.

The band of dull light thickened on the horizon ahead of us. It wouldn't be long before the sun began to turn the eastern sky blue and work its way towards us.

All three guns were loaded and ready to go, the spare in the middle. If either of us had a stoppage, we could still keep the rounds going. When the barrel of the malfunctioning gun had cooled, we could deal with it.

Muzzle flashes sparked up on both sides of the valley entrance. No longer drowned by last night's storm, the sound of their wild bursts of auto echoed around the hillside.

Sam got his gun into the shoulder. 'Here we go.'

Whether he was speaking to me or himself, I had no idea.

They were probing us, trying to get us to return fire and give away our positions in the first-light gloom.

We held back and watched as the eight or so flashes inched slowly but surely into our killing ground.

Four hundred metres away, and closing.

They moved, fired, and moved again, deeper into the valley. I began to see movement along with the flashes, then shapes became more distinct. Nearly every one was small.

They kept firing, kept looking for that response. Rounds from an uncontrolled burst thudded into the ground in front of us. I gave Sam a glance. He shook his head. We'd keep our position covert until we absolutely had to go noisy. Sam would give the order; it was his call.

Butt in the shoulder. Both eyes open. Finger on the trigger. Just now and again, even though I knew there was no fucking need, I moved my left hand to check the rounds were OK, the sights were at 400, the weapon cocked.

I took deep breaths, preparing myself.

Adult voices drifted up to our position, shouting orders in French.

'Like Crucial,' I muttered. 'Only deeper.'

'They're gripping the kids,' Sam said. 'Putting the fear of God into them.'

I saw his hand move, making sure the sight fairy hadn't come and interfered with them since the last time he'd checked a minute ago.

'Remember, short and sharp for now.'

A burst of rounds thumped into the knoll no more than a couple of metres from our faces.

Diminutive figures shuffled towards us in the gloom as the first sliver of orange light peeked over the edge of the valley.

A hundred and fifty away, and counting.

'OK, stand by… short and sharp… over their heads.'

Another couple of rounds pounded into the mud and Sam finally kicked off.

I squeezed my trigger in three- to five-round bursts. The single tracer round in each arced well over the muzzle flashes and on towards the valley entrance.

My bursts were a bit slow: I'd adjust the gas regulator when I had the chance.

We put down maybe twenty rounds each then stopped and looked. They'd returned fire at nothing in particular, but now ran back towards the river.

They'd found out what they needed to know. They'd be back.

The gas regulator on a GPMG is located beneath the barrel. As a round is propelled by the expanding gases, it controls the pressure with which the working parts are pushed back to load and fire its successor. The less gas that's allowed to pass through the regulator, the slower the rate of fire.

I turned the metal dial until it was fully closed, then counted back six clicks. That should give me a good 800 rounds a minute; any more and it would be hard to control. When these fuckers came back, it would be in strength. I wanted as many rounds as possible to land in the weapon's beaten zone from now on.

'Silky, Tim and the boy. We've got to get them into cover, Sam. They can take my trench.'

He nodded and scrambled towards the tent while Crucial kept covering. I grabbed my AK and spare mags and followed.

There was no argument. Silky started gathering their gear while Sam grabbed the bottom end of the cot and I took the head. 'One, two, three – up.' We lifted Tim and the boy and started to shuffle them out.

We lowered them into the backblast channel with a bump that made the boy cry out. Good, he was still breathing, still feeling pain.

'That's me back on the gun,' Sam said. 'Quick as you can.'

I shoved the AK at Tim. 'You know how to use one of these?'

He managed a smile. 'I've been here long enough.'

I lobbed the two extra mags on to the cot. 'Just in case.'

He checked the safety lever, not as fluently as one of us three would, but he knew what he was doing and that was good enough.

The injured boy wasn't happy at all. He stared at the weapon, transfixed, as terrified as if it was aimed at his head.

'What am I supposed to do with this from down here, Nick?'

'If the shit hits the fan, Silky'll have to drag you up into the backblast channel.'

Tim laid the weapon the other side of the boy. 'Nick…'

I stayed where I was for a moment. 'Yep?'

'Thanks.'

'For what?'