Fire Force(56)

Each man knew his role for the assault. Chris would man the KPV, because he was the strongest among them, and the heavy machine gun had such a brutal kick-back on it, it took the strength of an ox to keep it under control and on target. Ollie and Newton would take the two RPGs and put shell after shell into the wall of the fort. They already knew the position of the water pipes and would aim the shells straight at them: with any luck, the wall would be weak enough at that point for the explosives to bring it down. Ganju would stay at the wheel of the boat, and Nick would handle the MAG at the stern to shoot up anything coming at them from behind. If any of Tshaka’s troops started to rush them, it would be his job to mow them down with the machine gun before they got anywhere close to the vessel.

Ollie was looking straight ahead, as the vessel ploughed steadily on. The diesel engines were rumbling and he was in no doubt that they could be heard from the banks. There was no way of moving without being detected. But they were keeping 100 yards from the shore, and with the thick clouds filling the sky, they should remain invisible if not inaudible.

Let’s hope so anyway, he thought grimly. If we have to fight our way through to Elephant’s Foot we’re as good as done for.

His head was starting to clear. Last night, he had stayed up until eleven drinking the best part of a bottle of rum with Maksim and playing cards with Nick and Dan. The game had drifted into a stalemate, and by the end of it, they’d all been too drunk to remember what they’d been betting anyway. He got his head down for a couple of hours’ kip, then woke up at one, had a final shave, packed his kit and his webbing with everything he’d need for the battle, and led the men down to the boat. Maybe Wallace was right, he thought with a thin smile. Maybe you did need to be made of the right stuff to lead the unit - and although Steve might be one of the bravest, most resourceful soldiers he’d ever met, when the crunch came he didn’t have it. In the end, he wasn’t an officer. And that made a difference.

Newton caught Ollie’s eye. His finger was pointing to the map. ‘We’ve passed into Tshaka’s territory,’ he said quietly.

Ollie nodded, his face determined. ‘Then it’s begun.’

Steve threw the remains of the coffee down the back of his throat. It tasted like filth, but he wasn’t going to let that bother him now. Another forty-eight hours at most, he decided, looking into the dark clouds swirling overhead, then I’ll be sitting back in a five-star suite in a Johannesburg hotel getting Samantha to wash bubbles over my back, sipping champagne, and watching Batota choose a new President on CNN. She’d be plenty grateful for seeing Kapembwa dead, thought Steve. And offhand, he could think of a dozen different ways she could demonstrate it.

We just need to get through the next couple of hours, he told himself. And keep our wits about us.

It was three-thirty in the morning, and he was sitting on the porch of the officer’s mess. Ollie had led out his guys a couple of hours ago. The men going in on the chopper could get a bit more kip. The attack was scheduled for six, and the flight should only take half an hour, which meant nobody needed to get up before five. The better rested they were, the better they’d fight, but Steve could never sleep before a battle. He preferred to sit on the porch feeling the night breeze on his skin than lie around tossing and turning in bed.

Across in the field hospital, a man was groaning. The bloke who’d had his leg amputated had died in the night, his body put down to the side of the medical tent for burial in the morning. From the sound of the other guy, it didn’t look as if he’d make it to the morning either. Kapembwa is losing this war, decided Steve. You could see it in the beating his troops were taking. It wasn’t hard to understand why he wanted Tshaka dead. If the rebel commander lived, pretty soon he’d be strong enough to march on the capital.

For the next half an hour, Steve stripped down his AK-47, wiping each part clean, and reassembling it. Taking care of your weapon was basic drill and he never forgot it. He made sure the mag was full, and so was the spare. Once that was done, he carefully ran through the kit he’d be carrying with him. Every man had his own selection, and sometimes it had to be varied for the local conditions, but Steve had carried the same tools since his first live contact back in the Regiment. He always put his Kevlar body armour on first, and his webbing over that: if he needed something, he wanted to be able to get to it quickly without taking off the armour.

Inside, there were two pouches for maps, in case they got lost. There were two grenade pouches, both filled, and four long thin pouches for rifle magazines. The South-African-made AKs had thirty-round mags, which meant he had 150 rounds on him, including the rounds in his clip. But the first rule of any assault was also the simplest: you could never have too much ammo on you. Next to those were the field dressings: if you went down, you weren’t going to be in any fit state to fix yourself, so you put those on the outside so one of your mates could rip them off and patch you up. Steve always carried at least two. One bandage would hold in about a pint of blood, but if you took a nasty hit, you were going to need two, minimum. He stuffed in enough food and water to last twenty-four hours: if you couldn’t eat or drink, you were no use to anyone. Finally, he packed in a knife and a compass, whilst around his neck he clipped into place an old Army dog tag, plus a vial of morphine. At his side, he had a hard hat: it wouldn’t stop a high-velocity bullet, but it would deal with shrapnel, and any glancing rounds. He checked and double-checked that everything was in place, not because he was likely to find anything missing, but because it stopped him from dwelling on the battle ahead.