Dead Centre (Nick Stone 14) by McNab Andy

Author:McNab, Andy [McNab, Andy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781409011910
Publisher: Transworld Digital
Published: 2011-09-15T07:00:00+00:00

3

THERE WERE SIX or seven bodies on the back of each wagon, their legs dangling over the sides. A couple of them stood up, manning the machine-guns. The equivalent of our .50 Browning, they could penetrate light armour or the engine block of a truck and punch a hole the size of a man’s head in a wall at a thousand metres.

These things were the stock weapon for Africa, South East Asia, Iraq and Afghanistan. The Russians started building them in the 1930s to take Vickers’ machine-gun ammo. We’d donated millions of rounds to them during the Second World War to hammer the Germans. They’d carried on making them until the 1980s. Some donations you live to regret.

The sun burnt through my long-sleeved T-shirt and roasted the back of my neck. The Cessna’s engine exhaust turned the oven up a few more degrees, as well as filling my nostrils with the stench of Jet A1.

I retrieved my day sack. There was nothing in it but a toothbrush, a solar Power Monkey I’d bought in Millets, and a plug-in mobile charger. All I had on me was my passport and two thousand dollars in fifties, my goodwill and escape money. I’d taken to wearing my passport and cash like an American tourist in Mexico, in a waterproof pouch around my neck. It made sense. I could always feel it, and never had to worry if my sweat was going to make it soggy.

Joe was still worried. He leant over and shouted, ‘You sure you don’t want an AK, man?’

I shook my head.

‘I’ll be standing by for your call. But, fella, be quick making that deal if you want to stay breathing.’ He pointed down at the weapon. ‘Last chance …’

This time I just raised an eyebrow.

‘Fucking crazy, man. Good luck!’

I closed the Cargomaster door and he taxied away towards the fuel truck. The driver was beckoning him urgently, like a shopkeeper in a souk – as if Joe had anywhere else to fill up.

Now the smell of engine fuel had gone, another took its place: the sulphurous odour of rotting garbage and burnt rubber. Combined with the heat, it was so minging I could almost taste it.

The technicals were black or maybe blue. It was hard to see under the layers of rust and dust. Arabic music moaned and shrieked out of the two wagons packing the 12.7s.

Most of the heads bobbing around in the back were swathed in multicoloured headscarves, LA-gang style. Some of the legs hanging over the sides were jeaned, some trousered. Others were just bare, with white-chapped knees and scabs. The footwear ranged from trainers to plastic shoes and flip-flops. A mixture of T-shirts, football shirts and charity hand-outs from the disco era completed the cutting-edge Mogadishu look. Some wore canvas chest harnesses over their AC Milan or Newcastle colours; others had just shoved a spare mag into a shirt pocket. Backpacks bristled with RPG rounds.

These lads seemed keener to give each other a hard time than to give me one.

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