by Andy McNab
I moved to the next corner of the target, toward the generator. It was another five paces, which made thirty-six in total. I was happy; there was more than enough det cord.
I turned right and walked down the small gap between the two buildings, stepping over the generator cable lying in the snow. Just as with the satellite cables, a hole had been punched through the target's brickwork and the gap refilled with handfuls of concrete.
I made my way back to the generator building and started to prepare the kit. The first thing I checked was that I still had the batteries in my inside pocket: In dems, it's the ultimate sin to lose control of the initiation device, on a par with leaving your weapon more than an arm's length away from you. I'd been keeping them close to my body to stop them getting sluggish in the cold; they needed to work first time.
I didn't need light for unrolling the det cord because I knew what I was doing, but the generator noise would drown out any human movement coming into the building, so I had to keep my eyes on the entrance while I was working. Placing the reel between my feet, I held the loose end in my right hand and stretched out my arm, pushing the det cord into my armpit with my left. I did that thirty-six times, plus an extra five to cover what I needed to do on the wall this side of the target. I added two more for luck, cutting it with my blackened Leatherman. I then laid it on the floor, next to the charges. This was now called the main line, and would be used to send the shock wave to all the charges at once via their det tails.
The next thing I had to sort out was the little brain wave I'd had for the fuel tank. What I had in mind was the most spectacular explosion this side of Hollywood. When the fuel tank blew it wouldn't be the most productive bang in the world, but the effect would be phenomenal.
I climbed the ladder of the tank with the det cord in my hand, slowly un feeding it from the reel. When I lifted the flap on the tank, the flashlight beam hit on the surface of shiny liquid that filled about three-quarters of the cylinder. After tying a double knot on the end of the cord, I pulled the gas-station shopping bag from my jacket. In it was the spare four-pound ball of PE that any dems man worth his salt always carries to plug up any holes or damage to a charge. The smell wasn't too bad out in the open as I ripped off about half and played with it to warm it up.
Once it was pliable enough, I squashed it around the double knot, ensuring it had worked its way into the gaps of the ties, and finally I taped the whole thing up to keep the PE in place.
I lowered the ball of PE into the tank by its string of det cord, stopping when it was dangling about two or three inches from the surface of the fuel. It only takes a split second for fuel to vaporize after an explosion, but when that detonates, the effect is volcanic. If I fucked up this job, it would certainly give the appearance that I'd given it my best shot. How could Val doubt my word when the fireball would probably be big enough for him to see it in Moscow?
I taped the det cord onto the side of the fuel tank, then climbed back down the ladder, carefully unreeling the rest of the cord as I moved toward the hole in the wall. I wanted to cut a long enough length so that, once laid out, it would reach the target house. Nine extra arm's lengths seemed to put me on the safe side. I made the cut, then started to push the end of the det cord through the hole in the wall.
Just then, light came bouncing down the gap from the front of the buildings. I couldn't hear anything above the generator. I quickly pulled the det cord back in and froze. The only things moving were my eyes; they flicked from the hole to the entrance, waiting for any movement from either direction.
A shiny wet pair of waders and a pair of normal outdoor boots were illuminated by the beam of light as it searched for the generator cable. What worried me was the AK wader-man had hanging down by his side, its large foresight at the end of the barrel level with his knees.
Once over it, they carried on toward the rear and moved out of sight.
There wasn't any talking, or if there was, I couldn't hear it above the generator. I didn't even hear their feet in the snow.
They must have been doing something with the dishes. I waited; there was nothing else I could do. No way was I going out there again until I knew they were safely tucked up back in the house.
I lay on the frozen mud and waited for their return, my eyes still moving between the gaps in the brickwork. The cold soon penetrated my clothing, numbing my skin. The six or seven minutes it took before I saw the flashlight flickering about on the snow again didn't pass quickly enough.
Craning my neck to get a better view, I watched their silhouettes fade as they reached the corner of the building. I waited a few more frozen minutes in case they'd forgotten something or realized they'd fucked up and had to come back to redo it.
While I waited the lightbulb went off again. When I eventually got to my feet, I went across to the vehicles and let down their tires. The fireball ought to sort out the vehicles and guarantee they couldn't be used in a follow-up, but it didn't hurt to play safe.
I grinned stupidly to myself as the air hissed out and the tire rims settled on the frozen mud. Watching the hole in the wall for flashlight, I was eight years old again, crouching by my stepfather's car.
Moving back to the kit, I pushed the det cord through the hole in the wall once more, then cut several eight-inch strips of packing tape from the roll and stuck them around both forearms. Finally I shouldered the pack of charges, gripped the coiled-up main line in my left hand and moved back out into the cold.
41
I headed for the gap between the two buildings. Ahead of me the dim light from the house still spilt onto the snow.
I cleared the gap and moved toward the rear. Stepping over the genny cable, I checked the det cord was still in the hole, ready for when I came back for it later, then continued down to the corner. The elevations of the dishes had changed dramatically.
I wanted to make one last check for Tom through the gap in the boards.
Maybe I'd be in luck; there's a first time for everything.
Angling my head, I peered through, but couldn't see any movement.
Stepping over the satellite-dish cables, I made my way to the far corner, then turned and counted three paces toward the front of the target. I crouched down at that point and placed the charges and reel of det cord onto the snow. The computer room was on the other side of this wall. It was going to be gloves on, gloves off for the next twenty minutes as I positioned the charges.
Undoing the tow rope that kept the charges together, I placed one of the foam squares against the bricks, the base of the Toblerones facing the target, so the det tail dangled in front of me. Then, ramming the end of one of the wooden pallet slats into the snow at an angle, I used it to keep the Styrofoam square in position against the wall.
When I checked the charge with the aid of the flashlight, I discovered a tiny break where aPE joint had come apart. This didn't mean to say the PE wouldn't initiate, since the gap was less than a sixteenth of an inch, but why take that chance?
Manipulating a small lump of PE between my gloved hands until it was pliable, I broke off a piece and plugged the space. After a final check, I killed the flashlight and moved over to the nearest dish. I lifted one of its ice-hard sandbags and placed it halfway along the wall, using it to weigh down the free end of the main line. I then began the process of laying out its forty-three arm's lengths back toward the charge. The weight of the sandbag enabled me to pull the cord gently to ensure there weren't any kinks or twists, so the shock wave had a free run to the det tails.
Once I reached the propped-up charge it was gloves-off time again.
Peeling one of the strips of tape from my forearm, I began to bind the det tail to the main line, taping the two sections together as tightly as possible. I did it strictly by the book, binding the main line one foot down the det tail in case some of the explosive had fallen from the exposed end. The binding was four inches, to guarantee enough contact between the two for the shock wave to transfer across from the main l
ine to the det tail. Then, of course, it would journey on down to the charge.
As I peeled off another strip of tape it dawned on me that whenever I was working on dems, I always used feet and inches rather that meters and kilos. That was the way I'd been taught, one of the main reasons being that it made life a lot easier when working with Americans, who weren't too keen on the metric system.
There was a sudden burst of loud music from an upstairs window around the back, stopping as abruptly as it had started. I instinctively ducked, and through the rear windows I could hear various voices shouting. At least another three different voices could be heard shouting back and laughing.
It brought me back to real life. The act of tactically placing charges always seems to detach you from reality. Maybe it's because there's so much concentration involved, because there are no second chances.
That's why you normally make sure that whoever is doing the technical stuff can just get on with it and concentrate. It wasn't a luxury I had tonight.
I swiped another sandbag from the base of the dish and placed it on top of the main line, on the dish side of the det tail. I didn't want to pull on it and disrupt the charge I'd already set up as I picked up the second charge. I began to unreel the main line over the satellite cable toward the gap between the two buildings.
Someone was fucking with the volume as Aerosmith's theme song "Armageddon" got louder and then suddenly died above me, prompting more shouts from the computer room. Just as I reached the next corner, the heavy Eastern European voices above bellowed out yet again and the music blared out at full volume.
I knelt between the two buildings and rigged up the second charge on the other side of the target house so that it was exactly facing the first. Once it was propped and checked, I began taping its det tail to the main line. The music hit full blast again for two seconds, then subsided. There were more shouts from downstairs. The boys in the computer room were getting ever so slightly pissed. I reckoned there was a minimum of five people in the building.
I gave the charge a final check; it was looking good. Demolitions can appear to be a dark art, but actually all you need to understand is how explosives work and then learn the hundreds of rules for using them.
I'd broken many of them today, but what the hell, I hadn't had a lot of choice.
I went over to the generator cable hole and gently pulled out the det cord that ran into the fuel tank, taping it to the main line in the same way as I'd done with the other two.
Aerosmith were still doing their best to annoy the computer room. It was a good game, and I hoped it would keep the boys occupied for a moment or two longer. I thought about Tom and hoped he wasn't standing too close to either of the walls.
Gloves back on, I pulled the main line for the last few arm's lengths toward the front of the building. Now I just had to attach the electric detonator, which was already fixed to the firing cable, then unreel the cable round the corner and get down below the MTV window before the shit, and everything else in the building, hit the fan.
I was a bit worried about the amount of extraneous electricity flying about and its possible effect on the firing cable. Once I'd untwisted the two leads that were to go on the battery, they'd be potential antennae, just like the dels in the Narva flat. The manuals would say I was either supposed to be half a mile away when the shit went up or very well protected. I didn't think hiding round the corner with a few clay bricks as cover was quite what they had in mind.
The main line stopped about six or seven paces short of the corner of the target. Great, at least the firing cable would be long enough for me to be well under the window.
As I gently pulled at the press studs holding the zip flap of my jacket to extract the firing cable, the volume of the music changed again. It was escaping outside. Then I heard the noise of the grill swinging open and the front door slamming shut.
There was no time to think, just do. Biting off my gloves, I jammed my hand into my jacket pocket for the Makharov, right thumb taking off the safety as I moved toward the corner, taking deep breaths.
I couldn't hear him them yet, but whichever it was, I had to take the fight to them.
Three more paces until the corner.
There was flashlight ahead. I stopped, pushing my thumb down on the safety catch to ensure it was off.
One more second and a body appeared, heading toward me. He was looking down at where his flashlight beam hit the snow. It glinted off his weapon barrel.
I couldn't give him time to think. I jumped onto him, wrapping my left arm around his neck and pushing the Makharov into his stomach, digging it into him hard. My legs wrapped around his waist, and as we fell together I pulled the trigger, hoping that our two bodies sandwiching the weapon would suppress its report. No chance. The job had just gone noisy.
Jumping to my feet, I sprinted round to the front of the house, focusing solely on the next corner, heading for the other end of the main line, leaving a screaming Russian writhing in the snow.
I racked back the weapon's top slide to eject whatever was in there and feed in another round, just in case we'd been so close that it had been prevented from sliding back correctly when I'd fired and hadn't reloaded.
I had the same feeling in my stomach as I used to have as a kid, running scared. As I neared the main entrance, I scrambled frantically with my left hand for the firing cable and det in my inside pocket.
The door opened, MTV still blasting, and a body, too small to be Tom, emerged. The grill was already open.
"Gory? Gory?"
I raised my weapon and fired on the move. I couldn't miss.
There was a scream and one round hit the grill with a high pitched metallic ricochet.
I carried straight on past, turned the corner and made a headlong dive toward the sandbag, dropping my weapon and desperately fishing for the main line coming from under the sandbag. I didn't look up to see if anyone was coming for me. I didn't have time.
The wounded man's screams echoed around the compound. I tried to calm myself and slow my frenzied movements. I held the det onto the main line and wrapped a strip of tape around both not as tightly as I would have liked, but fuck it.
I pulled out the battery and yanked the twisted end leads of the firing cable apart with my teeth. Then, falling to the floor, I squeezed my legs together, opened my jaw and buried my head in the snow as I pushed the two leads onto the terminals.
Less than a single heartbeat later the detonator exploded and initiated the main line. The shock wave of the explosion traveled along it, met the first det tail and then the one leading to the fuel tank. Then the second det tail got the good news.
The two wall charges exploded virtually simultaneously, and the resultant shock waves met in the middle of the room at a combined speed of 52,000 feet per second.
42
My whole world shuddered, trembled, quaked. It was like being inside a massive bell that had just been given an almighty bang.
The air was sucked from my lungs as hot air blasted over me. Around the compound snow, and ice shot upward a foot or so from the ground.
My ears rang. Brick dust, snow, and shattered glass cascaded around me. Then the shock wave rebounded off the thick concrete perimeter walls and came back for more.
Crawling forward to the corner of the target, I watched, mesmerized, as an enormous fireball whooshed from the entrance of the generator building and leaped high into the sky. Thick black smoke mixed with bright orange flames that burned like an oil-rig flare. The entire area was bathed in light and I could feel the heat scorching my face.
Chunks of brick, glass, and all kinds of other stuff that had been blown sky high started clattering around me. Scrambling to my knees, I threw my arms over my head to protect myself. You're supposed to look up to prepare for the stuff coming toward you, but fuck that, I just kept close to the wall and took my chances. I wouldn't be able to see it anyway. The sandstorm of red brick dust had arrived, blanketing the compound; it was just a
matter of hanging in there and waiting for the last of the fallout to rain down. I began coughing like a lifelong smoker.
I cleared each nostril in turn, then tried to equalize the pressure in my ears. A sharp, stinging pain seared across my buttocks. My ass must have taken some of the shock wave as it passed over me. At least it wasn't my face or balls. I checked for blood, but my fingers came back just wet with water from the snow-soaked jeans.
It was time to get to my feet and start moving back for my weapon, which was still in the snow somewhere. I felt around on my hands and knees, my ass in agony, as if I'd just been whipped. I found the Makharov by the sandbag and, checking chamber with my finger to the heavy rumbling sound of burning fuel, I stumbled toward the main door.
There was a secondary explosion in the generator building, probably a vehicle fuel tank in the path of the firestorm. For the next few moments the flames burned higher and more intensely.
The guy in the gap wasn't screaming any more, but he was still alive, coiled up and holding his stomach. I went over to where he lay trembling in the snow. I picked up his AK and threw it toward the main gate, out of his reach. I certainly wouldn't be needing it myself inside the house.
When the two shock waves from the opposing explosions had met, they would have wiped out everything in the computer room. The force would then have taken the line of least resistance to escape the confines of the building: the windows and doors. Surging along the hallways, it would have destroyed everything in its path. The MTV man wasn't looking good. Some bits of him were draped on the grill like strips of meat hanging in a smokehouse. The rest would have been scattered out in the snow. When humans burn they smell like scorched pork, but when they're blown apart like this, it's as if you've walked into a butcher's shop a week after a power outage.
The flashlight wasn't much good in the hallway; it just reflected off the wall of dust like a car's headlights in dense fog. I blundered around, stumbling over bricks and other debris, trying to find the gap to the right that would lead to the MTV room.