We carried Frankenstein down the staircase the best way we could, got him past the other bodies and the gold and on to the back of our wagon.
Standish and Annabel were sitting against a wheel of the Renault. He was setting up the comms, and clearly brooding. We’d fucked him off big-time, but so what? He could do all the talking and organizing he liked, but he most definitely wasn’t one of us.
‘So what will she do?’
‘Fuck knows. The army’s not going to do anything – she’s not “wife of”.’
There was a shout from Sam, up on the parapet. ‘Davy, Nick – stay there.’
A minute later he materialized out of the gloom. ‘Get out and scavenge some mags. We’ll cover.’
I looked through the gap I’d shot in the wall. More than a dozen bodies lay scattered in the moonlight. If Davy thought Gary’s girl had pension problems, what about the girlfriends of this lot?
We scrambled over the rubble into no man’s land.
13
Davy knelt at my side, weapon in the shoulder. I lifted an AK from the sand, pressed the release lever behind its mag and pushed the mag forward until it came away from the weapon. Then I frisked the body lying a metre or so from it. There was another mag jammed in the waistband of his jeans, and one in his back pocket. I tucked in my football shirt and threw them all down the front.
The body was covered with blood and sand, and it was still tacky. I tried to avoid it as best I could. We’d talked about the AIDS thing ever since the scare first hit the papers three or four years earlier, but none of us knew much about it. Was it transferred through blood, gay sex or kissing Rock Hudson? He had died of it last year and all his acting partners were flapping big-time after sharing so much mouth action on screen.
I moved on. AIDS was one thing, but running out of ammo was far more life-threatening.
The next guy had been wearing a canvas ammunition vest. Six more mags.
The one after was on his back, eyes wide open. And he was whimpering.
‘We got a live one!’
Standish shouted back, from the gap in the wall, ‘Leave him and move on.’
‘Sam, it’s a kid. He’s in shit state.’
Standish repeated his order, but Sam had the last word from the parapet. ‘Bring him in.’
I looked down. The little fucker couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. Moonlight glistened in the dark liquid pooling beneath him. Lumps of rubble lay all around him. I picked up the bundle of skin and bones, leaving my AK for Davy to bring into the compound. Fuck the AIDS – I might be dead by morning anyway.
Sam was already on the back of our truck, pulling on a pair of surgical gloves from the trauma pack. ‘Dear God.’ He laid his hand on the boy’s head. ‘Sssh, hey, OK . . . You’re going to be fine.’
I went to his other side. The kid’s clothes were in shreds and it was easy to see the huge slit down his left thigh. It looked like a sausage that had split in a frying-pan. Most of his flesh was peppered with fragments of broken stone. His hair and face were caked with blood, sweat and sand.
We didn’t have any fluids to get into him. There was nothing we could do but plug up the holes and try to stop him losing any more blood. He was going to be in a lot of pain and he’d probably get badly infected, but if we could stabilize him and get him to a hospital, all that would be sorted out later on.
Sam had his hands on either side of the gash, squashing it back together. Pressure was the only thing that would stop the blood.
I ripped open a dressing with my teeth and unwrapped the cotton tape that was supposed to keep it in place. The moment you applied pressure it always behaved more like a ligature. There was no way the fucking things would do what it said on the tin. I handed the dressing to Sam, who jammed it into the oozing cavity carved by the wound.
The child screamed.
Sam murmured soothingly, ‘Sssh, we’ve got to pack you out.’ As if he understood a word.
A second field dressing followed the first, then a third packed down on top. I handed Sam a four-inch crêpe bandage and he began to bind up the dressings, applying constant pressure all the way down the wound.
He took a second bandage from my outstretched hand. ‘What have we done? What have we done?’
I thought he was talking to me, and looked up. He wasn’t. His gaze was pointing at the sky. ‘Dear God, forgive us . . .’
14
05:23 hours
Standish was still sitting against the wheel, sat comms glued to his head, as he talked to a US Marine colonel bobbing up and down somewhere on the South Atlantic. Sam stood over him, working out the payload the helis would be lifting.
The US Navy might have had helis coming out of their ears, but they weren’t going to send more than they had to into a hot zone. At least they were coming: Gary’s idea of using the Sea Knight to refuel was in train at last.
None of the team was dancing jigs about it. We knew what was in the boxes now, and what Gary and the royal sisters had died for – everything from Mobutu’s string of houses on the French Riviera to a new private 747.
The Saviour of the People was going to do quite well out of this little job, which no one would remember in a month’s time. Meanwhile, Gary’s kids would get fucked over by our government, as surely as this one slowly dying on the wagon had got fucked over by his. And Princess Margaret’s granddaughters would wonder why Nanny had never made it home for Christmas.
Each of the fourteen wooden boxes weighed 162 pounds. And there were eleven of us, including Annabel, the general, Gary and the kid. The total payload was about 4200 pounds, easy in weight terms for a helicopter to lift, but not when it came to bulk.
The carrier fleet’s UH-60 Seahawks, the Navy’s version of the Blackhawk, were designed to take eight combat troops and their gear, so a two-ship had been scrambled. Their escort was a two-ship Cobra attack force, armed with three-barrel 20mm cannon. The plan was for them to provide top cover as we screamed out of the gates to the open ground the Seahawks needed for landing. We’d load Mobutu’s gear on to one, and ourselves on to the other. Then all four aircraft would fuck off back to the coast, via one of the Sea Knights parked up somewhere in the desert.
I did what I could to comfort the wounded boy, but it wasn’t easy. We didn’t share a language and I wouldn’t exactly get a job as Ronald McDonald. Besides, I wasn’t even sure he could hear me. The field dressings on his leg and head were so bulky he looked like a mummy.
Sam – just below us – was more withdrawn than I’d ever seen him. His conscience was giving him hell, and I didn’t feel too good about what we’d done either. We hadn’t had much option, but that didn’t help.
I’d killed people before, but this was different. Kids like this one should have been too young to be anybody’s enemy. The guys who’d forced these poor fuckers to carry weapons should be the ones lying out there in the sand.
Standish finished with the fleet. ‘OK, they’ll be here just after first light. We move out the moment we hear them. We’ll have two minutes to get everything aboard.’
Sam looked up. ‘Well, we’d better get your blood money on a wagon then, hadn’t we?’
15
05:47 hours
The crates were loaded. Davy and the guys were up top on stag. There was nothing to do but wait. Even the general was quiet.
I studied my burned hand in the moonlight, and watched Sam try his best for the kid. There wasn’t a lot more he could do: the wounds were plugged up and probably infected, but at least he was alive.
Sam was deep in thought. There was a lot more going on in there right now than commanding this job. I felt bad enough, and that was without worrying about an afterlife and a Big Guy with a white beard I had to answer to.