by Andy McNab
Sitting in the still humid shade of the hut, I tore off the top and bottom flaps of the Campbell's box, scrunched them up in the bottom of the tub, and was left with the main carcass, a four-sided cube, which I ripped apart at a seam and opened out so that I had one long, flat section of cardboard. I started fitting it into the tub, running it round the edges then twisting it until I'd made a cone with its apex about a third of the way up from the bottom, with all the scrunched-up flaps beneath. If I let it go now the cone shape would spring apart, so I started to pack HE, still in its wrappers, around the base to keep it in place. Then, with the cone held fast, I peeled open the other boxes, unwrapped more HE and played with the putty-like substance, packing it into the tub and around the cone.
I was trying to make a copy of the French off-route mine. These are the same shape as the tub, but a little smaller, and designed so that, unlike a conventional mine, they don't have to be directly beneath the target when detonated to destroy it. It can be concealed off to one side of a road or track, hidden in the bushes or, as I was planning, up a tree. It's a handy device if you're trying to mine a metal road, say, without having your goodies laid out for everyone to see.
One version of the mine is initiated by a cable as thin as a strand of silk that's laid over the tarmac and crushed. I was going to detonate it with a round from the Mosin Nagant.
Once triggered, the manufactured ones instantly turn a cone of copper into a hot, molten slug, the shaped charge, propelling it at such speed and power that it penetrates the target's armour and rips its insides apart. I didn't have any copper; in its place,
and shaped very much the same way, was the cardboard cone, but there should be enough force in the HE alone to do the job required of it.
I continued squashing down the HE, trying to make it one solid mass over the cone. My hands stung as the glycerine got into my cuts, and my headache was back, really giving me the good news.
Thinking about the old German guy who'd given me the bayonet gave me the idea of using the explosive this way. He'd told me a story about the Second World War.
German Paras had taken a bridge, stopping the Brits from demolishing it as they withdrew. The charges were still in position, but the Germans disconnected the detonators so that a Panzer column could cross and kick the shit out of the Brits. A young British squaddie took one shot with his bog standard Lee Enfield 3O3 rifle at the placed charges. Because it was old-style explosive, just like this stuff, it detonated, and set off all the other charges that were connected by the det (detonation) cord. The whole bridge dropped, stopping the Panzers ever getting through.
As I packed the last of the HE, I was hoping that the squaddie had at least got a couple of weeks' leave as a reward, but I very much doubted it. Probably just a tap on the tin hat with a riding crop and a "Jolly well done, that man', before getting killed a few weeks later.
When I'd finished, I sealed the top on the tub, left the device in the shed, and started back to the house, thinking about what else I had to prepare for a possible four nights on the ground.
The sky had turned metallic, the clouds every shade of grey. A gentle breeze was the only consolation.
There was a loud rumble of thunder in the distance as I crested the slope. Aaron and Carrie were standing by the sinks, and I could see they were arguing again.
Carrie's arms were flying about and Aaron was standing with his head jutting forward like a rooster.
I couldn't just stop and go back: I was in no-man's land here. Besides, my hands were stinging badly with the nitro and I needed to wash it off, and to get some aspirin down my neck. Dihydrocodeine would do the job better, but I needed to be awake later tonight.
I slowed down, lowered my head, and hoped they'd see me soon.
They must have spotted me out here in the open ground, looking everywhere and anywhere apart from the washing area, because the arms stopped windmilling.
Carrie went to the storeroom door and disappeared as Aaron dried himself.
I got to him as he retied his hair, clearly embarrassed.
"Sorry you had to see that."
"None of my business," I said.
"Besides, I'll be gone tonight."
"Carrie told me you'll need dropping off ten, right?"
Nodding, I released the water pressure and soaked my hands before cutting the supply and soaping up to get all the nitro off me.
"You said you had a map? Is it on the bookshelf?"
"Help yourself, and I'll get you a real compass."
He passed me to hang the green towel next to mine on the line.
"You feeling better now? We were worried."
I started to rinse off.
"Fine, fine, must have picked something up yesterday.
How's the jaguar?"
"They promised they're going to do something this time, maybe the 700, but I'll believe it when I see it." He hovered awkwardly for a moment, then said, "Well, Nick, I'm heading to go catch up on some work here. It's been sort of backing up on me this week."
"See you later, mate."
I pulled my towel off the line as he headed for the storeroom door.
TWENTY-SIX
Now that the sky had greyed over completely the storeroom was almost dark. I eventually found the string-pull for the light and a single fluorescent strip flickered on, dangling precariously from wires about six feet from the high ceiling.
The first thing I saw was that the weapon and ammunition had been placed on a shelf for me, along with a Silva compass and map.
I needed to make some 'ready rounds', so ripped about six inches off a roll of one-inch gaffa tape, placed a round on the sticky side, and rolled. As soon as the round was covered I placed another, rolled a little, then another, until four rounds were in a noiseless bundle, easy to fit into my pocket. I folded over the last two inches of tape to make it easier to pull apart, then started on another. A box of twenty was still going into the bergen; you never know how these jobs are going to end up.
I rummaged around in the medical case for the aspirin and threw two down my neck. They were helped on their way with a litre bottle of Evian I broke from a new case of twelve, and I lobbed three on to the cot for later.
My leg was starting to hurt again but I really couldn't be bothered to change the dressing. I'd be wet and covered with mud later tonight anyway, and the aspirin would help.
I had to prepare for as much as four nights in the field up to two on target and two in the jungle before popping out once the dust had settled and making my own way to the airport. Come what may, I needed to make Josh's by Tuesday.
I found an old A-frame bergen in the storeroom, its green canvas patchy with white haze after years of exposure to the elements. Joining the bergen and water on the cot went nine cans of tuna and an assortment of honey sesame bars that looked as if they'd get me through daylight hours.
Judging by what was on the shelves, they had certainly got their hands on enough of that military give-away. I grabbed a poncho and some dark green mozzie nets.
I could make a shelter from a poncho with the hood tied up and a couple of metres of string through the holes at each corner, and the mosquito nets would not only keep the beasties off me at night, but also act as camouflage netting.
I took three one for protection, and the other two for camouflaging me and the tub once we were in position. A large white plastic cylinder in a tree, tilted down at the road the other side of the gate, just might arouse suspicion.
Most importantly, I found a gollock, an absolute necessity for the jungle because it can provide protection, food and shelter. No one worth their salt is ever without one attached to their body once under the canopy. This one was US Army issue and much sturdier than the one Diego had been swinging at me. It was maybe six inches shorter, with a solid wooden handle and a canvas sheath with a light alloy lip.
I climbed up the angle-iron framework of the shelves and, holding on to one of the struts, checked out the goodies higher up. Next d
oor, Luz suddenly sounded very pleased with herself.
"Yesss!" Baby-G told me it was 3.46 probably her schoolwork ending for the day. I wondered if she was aware of the arguments Aaron and Carrie had had about her. What did she know about what was happening now? If they thought she didn't know what was going on, they were probably kidding themselves if she was anything like Kelly she never missed a trick.
For a second or two my thoughts wandered to Maryland: we were in the same time zone, and right now Kelly would probably be doing the same as Luz, packing up her books. It was private, individual, and expensive, but the only way forward until she had adapted between the one-on-one attention she'd been receiving in the clinic and the push and shove of mainstream education alongside Josh's kids. I had a flash of worry about what would happen now that I wasn't going to make the second half of the money then remembered that that was the last thing to be concerned about.
I realized what I was doing and made the cut. I had to force myself to get on with the job wrong, the mission.
I knew what kit I wanted, which wasn't very much. I'd learnt the lesson the hard way, just like so many holiday makers who take five suitcases with them, only to discover they only use the contents of one. Besides food and water, all I needed was the wet clothes I'd be standing up in, plus a dry set, mozzie net, lightweight blanket and hammock. All this would be kept scrupulously dry in plastic in the bergen, and by the poncho at night. I already had my eye on the string hammock on the veranda if I didn't find anything better.
None of these things was absolutely essential, but it's madness to choose to go without. I'd spent enough time in the jungle on hard routine in places like Colombia, so close to the DMP that no hammock or poncho could be put up, sitting all night in the shit, back to back with the rest of the patrol, getting eaten alive by whatever's flying around or mooching over you from out of the leaf litter, not eating hot food or drink for fear of compromise due to flame and smell, while waiting for the right day to attack. It doesn't help if you're spending night after night like that with all your new insect mates, snatching no more than a few minutes' sleep at a time. Come first light, bitten to death and knackered, the patrol still has to get on with its task of watching and waiting.
Some patrols lasted for weeks like that, until trucks or helicopters eventually arrived to pick up the cocaine and we hit them. It's a fact that these conditions degrade the effectiveness of a patrol as time goes on. It isn't soft to sleep under shelter, a few inches above the shit rather than rolling around in it, it's pure common sense. I wanted to be alert and capable of taking that shot as easily on the second day as on the first, not with my eyes swollen up even more because I'd been trying to hardcore it in the shit the night before. Sometimes that has to happen, but not this time.
I carried on rooting around, climbing up and down the shelves like a howler monkey, and was so happy to find the one thing I was desperate for, its clear thick liquid contained in rows of baby-oil-style plastic bottles. I felt like the thirsty Arlington Road winos must feel when they find a half-full bottle in the bin, especially when the label said it was 95 per cent proof. Diethyl-mtoluamide - I just knew it as Deet was magical stuff that would keep the little mozzies and creepy-craw lies away from me. Some commercial stuff contains only 15 per cent, and is crap. The more Deet the better, but the problem is it can melt some plastics -hence the thickness of these bottles. If you get it into your eyes it hurts; I'd known people have their contact lenses melt when it had been brought into contact with them by sweat. I threw three bottles on to the cot.
After another ten minutes of digging in boxes and bags, I started to pack the bergen. Having removed the noisy wrappers from the sesame bars and put them all into a plastic bag, they got stuffed into the large left-hand side pouch for easy access during the day. I shoved a bottle of Evian into the right-hand one for the same reason. The rest of the water and the tuna went into the bottom of the pack, wrapped in dishcloths to muffle any noise. I'd only pull that food out at night when I wasn't in my fire position.
I put a large plastic laundry bag into the long centre pouch at the front of the bergen. It would be taking any dumps I did whilst I was in the jungle: I'd have preferred individual bags, but couldn't find any, so one big one would have to take the lot. It was important not to have any smell or waste around me because that would attract animals and might compromise my position, and I didn't want to leave anything behind that could be DNA'd.
Into a similar clear plastic bag went the mozzie net I was going to use for protection at night, and one of the blankets that was out of its wrapping. The hammock would join the contents of this bag once I'd nicked it from the veranda later on. All the stuff in this bag needed to be dry at all times. Into it also would go my dry clothes for sleeping in, the same ones I'd wear once out of the canopy and heading for the airport. I'd get those from Aaron at the same time I got the hammock.
I laid the other two mozzie nets beside the bergen, together with some four-inch wide, multicoloured nylon luggage straps. Black, brown, in fact any colour but this collection would have been better to blend into a world of green. I placed them inside the top flap, ready to make a sniper seat. The design originated in India during the days of the Raj, when the old sahibs could sit up in a tree in them for days with their Lee Enfields, waiting for tigers below. It was a simple device, but effective. The two straps were fixed between two branches to form a seat and you rested your back against the trunk. A high viewpoint looking down on to the killing area makes for a great field of view because you can look over the top of any obstructions, and it would also be good for concealment as long as I tucked the mozzie net under it, to hide the rainbow holding up my arse.
I sat on the cot, and thought about other stuff I might need. First up was a shade for the front of the optic sight, so that sunlight didn't reflect off the objective (front) lens and give away my position.
I got a container of antifungal powder, again US Army issue, in a small olive green plastic cylinder. Emptying the contents, I cut off the top and bottom, then split it down the side. After wiping away all the powder on the inside, I put it over the front of the sight. It naturally hugged the metal cylinder as I moved it back and forth until the section protruding in front of the lens was just slightly longer than the lens's width. The sunlight would now only reflect off the lens if the sun itself was visible within my field of view.
Next I needed to protect the muzzle and working parts from the rain, and that was going to be just as easy. I fed a plastic bag over the muzzle and taped it to the furniture, then loaded up with rounds, pushed the bolt action forward to make ready the weapon, and applied the safety.
I ripped open the bottom of one of the clear plastic bags that had held the blankets, so only the two sides were still sealed, then worked it over the weapon like a hand muff until it was covering the sight, magazine and working parts, using the gaffa tape to fix each open end to the furniture. Then, making a small slit in the plastic above the sight, I pushed it down so that the sight was now clear, and gaffa-taped the plastic together underneath to keep the seal. Everything in that area, bar the sight, was now encased in plastic. The weapon looked stupid, but that didn't matter, so did I. The safety could still be taken off, and when the time came I could still get my finger into the trigger by breaking the plastic. If I needed to fire more than one round, I'd just quickly rip the bag to reload. This had to be done because wet ammunition and a wet barrel will affect the round's trajectory -not a lot, but it all counts. I'd zeroed this weapon with a dry, cold barrel and dry ammunition, so it had to stay like that to optimize my chances of a one-round kill.
Next, I used the clear plastic from the last of the blankets on the shelf to protect the map, which said it had been compiled by the US Army's 551st Engineer Company for the Panamanian government in 1964. A lot would have changed on the ground since then Charlie's house and the loop road being just two of them.
That didn't concern me too much; I was interested in th
e topographical features, the high ground and water features. That was the stuff that would get me out of there when I needed to head towards the city.
The compass still had its cord on, so I could just put it over my head and under the T-shirt. What it didn't have was any of its roamers for measuring off scale:
mozzie repellent had already been on this one and the plastic base was just a frosted mess. I didn't care, as long as the red needle pointed north.
The map, compass, gollock and docs would stay on my body at all times once under the canopy. I couldn't afford to lose them.
The last thing I did before getting my head down was thread the end of a ball of twine through the slit drilled into the butt designed to take a webbing or leather sling, and wrap about four foot of it round the butt, cut it and tie it secure. The weapon would never be over my shoulder unless I was climbing a tree.
Only then would I tie the string into the slit in the stock and sling it.
I pushed everything that was left off the bed, and gave the light cord a tug. I didn't want to see the others; it wasn't that I was feeling antisocial, just that when there's a lull before the battle, you get your head down.
Lying on my back, my hands behind my head, I thought about what had happened with Carrie today. I shouldn't have done it. It was unprofessional and stupid, but at the same time, it felt OK. Dr. Hughes had never managed to make me feel like that.
I was woken suddenly. I snapped my wrist in front of my face to check Baby-G, and calmed down: it was just after a quarter past eight. I didn't need to get up until about nine.
The rain played a low, constant drumroll that accompanied the low thud of the fans next door as I rubbed my greasy, clammy head and face, pleased that there hadn't been any more dreams.