Live Fire (33 page)

The soldier saluted, then offered his hand. Shepherd shook it. Wilbur was in his late forties, his skin so dark that it was almost black, and both cheeks covered with old acne scars. He wore a thick gold chain around his right wrist and several gold rings.

‘Wilbur’s brother is the aide to one of the generals here so he makes sure we’re well looked after,’ said Mickey. ‘Anything we need, we just ask him.’ Wilbur grinned, showing a gold canine tooth.

They waited for Wilson, Yates and Black to get off the plane, then Wilbur walked them through the diplomatic channel and outside the terminal to where two white Toyota Landcruisers with military drivers were waiting for them. ‘You come with me and Mark,’ Mickey said to Shepherd. Wilson, Yates and Black climbed into the second vehicle. ‘We’ll check into the hotel later.’

‘Where are we going?’ asked Shepherd.

‘It’s a surprise,’ said Mark.

Wilbur got into the front passenger seat of the second vehicle, which pulled away from the terminal first.

‘I don’t have to shoot anyone, do I?’ asked Shepherd. Mickey and Mark burst out laughing, but they wouldn’t tell him what was so funny.

Mickey opened a window and lit a cigar. Their driver put the car in gear and they left the airport. There were far fewer vehicles on the roads than there had been in Thailand, and those that Shepherd did see were older and less cared-for than their Thai counterparts. The houses they passed were of poorer quality too, mainly wooden shacks with corrugated-iron roofs. Even the animals in the fields seemed undernourished compared to their Thai cousins.

They powered past a rusting bus, its roof piled high with boxes and suitcases, every seat taken and a dozen people standing. There was a school on their right, and most of the children in the dusty playground were barefoot. Several waved at the Landcruisers and Shepherd waved back.

After driving for just under half an hour they turned off the main road on to a potholed track that led to a wire-fenced compound where two Cambodian soldiers with assault rifles on shoulder slings saluted and pulled back a wheeled barrier. The Cambodian flag fluttered from a pole by a guardhouse where another soldier stood, idly picking his teeth. In the distance, Shepherd heard the distinctive crack-crack-crack-crack of Kalashnikovs set on automatic.

Mickey twisted in his seat. ‘Don’t get jumpy, they’re on our side,’ he said.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Shepherd. ‘What is this place?’

‘It’s a firing range run by the army. They let tourists play with guns. We’ve been over a few times and we’ve asked Wilbur to fix up something special for us.’

‘Specifically?’

‘Need-to-know, mate.’

‘You do love your secrets, don’t you?’

‘You’ll know soon enough,’ said Mark.

Shepherd saw some wooden buildings to the left and a line of human-shaped metal targets in a row in front of a stack of sandbags. The two Landcruisers left the track and drove across the grass towards a clump of coconut palms. A couple of minutes later they came to a wall made of concrete blocks. It was about thirty feet long and ten tall. The Landcruisers pulled up beside an open Jeep in military camouflage colours with two soldiers in green fatigues smoking cigarettes, which they threw away when they saw Wilbur.

‘Right, come on,’ said Mickey, opening his door. He strode to the Jeep and stuck an arm around Wilbur. ‘Nice one, mate.’

‘Two thousand dollars each,’ said Wilbur. ‘Like we agreed.’

‘Cheap at half the price,’ said Mickey. He beckoned to Shepherd. ‘Come and look at these, Ricky.’

Shepherd peered into the back of the Jeep. Two Chinese-made rocket-propelled grenade launchers lay on a piece of sacking. Next to them were four backpacks, which Shepherd assumed contained the grenades and launch charges.

‘This isn’t a team-building exercise, is it?’ Shepherd pointed at the wall. ‘This is a dress rehearsal, right?’

Mickey chortled. ‘No flies on you, are there?’

Wilson, Yates and Black were coming over to the Jeep. ‘What’s the plan, Mickey?’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re going to be shooting armoured cars? If so, you can count me out.’ He picked up one of the RPGs and hefted it onto his shoulder. ‘This would blow an armoured car into a million pieces, kill everyone in it and destroy all the cash.’

‘Give me some credit.’

‘So what’s it about? What are we doing here?’

Mickey took his cigar case out and lit a cigar. ‘Okay. You remember the building we talked about? The money depository?’

‘I’ve not got Alzheimer’s, Mickey.’

‘We’re not going in through the front. We’re going in through the back. And we’re using RPGs.’

‘No way,’ said Shepherd.

‘That’s the plan,’ said Mickey.

‘I might be stupid, but why don’t we just blow the wall with explosives? A shaped charge would do the job a treat. And we’d have more control over the shape of the hole we make. RPGs are all well and good but they can be a bit hit-and-miss.’

‘Yeah, well, if you’re the pro you say you are, you won’t bloody well miss,’ said Mickey. ‘That’s why we’re here – to check you can fire one of those things.’

‘I didn’t mean miss literally,’ said Shepherd. ‘I meant that with an RPG there’s an element of chance in the type of damage it’ll do. A controlled explosion would give you more control . . .’ He smiled thinly. ‘That’s why they call it a controlled explosion.’

‘Yeah, but using explosives means we’ll lose the element of surprise,’ said Mickey. ‘The wall is covered by CCTV and all sorts of sensors so they’d see us as soon as we got anywhere near the wall. Let’s say we rush to the wall, fix the charge, retreat to a safe distance, detonate the charge and then rush back to the hole. How long’s that going to take? Two minutes?’

‘Give or take,’ admitted Shepherd.

‘So that’s two minutes we lose,’ said Mickey. ‘And we reckon that from the moment they know we’re there to the cops turning up is a minimum of six minutes. So, if we use a shaped charge we lose a third of our time. But if we let fly with an RPG from two hundred metres, the first they’ll know we’re there is when the wall’s in bits.’

‘Okay, I get it,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re in and out in six minutes.’

‘Five,’ said Mickey. ‘One minute before the cops get there, we’re off, back across the fields. They’ll turn up at the front of the building while we’re roaring away in SUVs.’

Mark lit a cigarette. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘RPGs through the back wall,’ said Shepherd. ‘Whose idea was that?’

‘The Professor,’ said Mark.

‘And who the hell is The Professor?’

Mark shrugged. ‘He’s a guy we use to plan our jobs.’

‘He knows what he’s doing,’ said Mickey. ‘Plans everything down to the last detail. If he says an RPG will take down the wall, then it will. So, the million-dollar question, Ricky, is can you fire that thing?’

‘I can fire it,’ said Shepherd. He glanced at the concrete wall. ‘This is a test, right?’

‘A test of the equipment, and a test that you know what you’re doing.’ Mickey bowed theatrically. ‘So, let’s see you do your stuff.’

Shepherd lifted up the launcher and presented it to the brothers side on. ‘Right, for those of you who haven’t been paying attention, this is a shoulder-fired, single-shot, smooth-bore recoilless launcher. At the front is the muzzle, just behind that is the front iron sight, behind that is the trigger assembly and behind that is the optical sight.’ He pointed at the section in the middle. ‘This is a wooden heat shield, and behind it is the breech.’

He replaced the launcher on the sacking and picked up one of the backpacks. ‘The grenade that the launcher fires is carried in two parts, the warhead, which is attached to a sustainer motor, and the booster charge.’ He took a cone-shaped warhead unit from one backpack, and a cylindrical booster charge from another, then screwed them together to form one unit. ‘The booster charge kicks the warhead out of the launcher. It’s basically a small strip powder charge. Once the warhead is about eleven metres away from the launcher, the sustainer rocket kicks in. As soon as the warhead has left the launcher, small fins spring out that help keep it on target. There’s no internal guidance system so you have to make sure you’re aiming at what you want to hit. Any questions?

‘Just fire the bloody thing,’ said Mark. ‘No one likes a smart arse.’

Shepherd slid the warhead into the launcher and rested it on his shoulder. He grinned at Mark. ‘Okay, you go and stand in front of the wall. See if I can shoot that cigarette out of your mouth.’

‘Yeah, and why don’t you go screw yourself?’ said Mark. ‘Go on, let’s see what it does.’

Shepherd chuckled and turned to aim at the wall, checking first that no one was standing behind him. The backblast could be fatal. There was little in the way of wind so he centred the sight on the middle of the wall, braced himself, and gently squeezed the trigger. There was a loud whooshing sound and the warhead burst out of the launcher. A second later the sustainer rocket burst into life with a puff of white smoke and a second explosion. The warhead slammed into the wall.

Shepherd lowered the launcher. Several bricks had been destroyed but the wall was still standing.

‘Do another,’ said Mickey.

Shepherd prepared another warhead and slotted it into the launcher. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Mark behind him, lighting another cigarette. ‘Mark, mate, the backblast from this thing will fry you alive,’ he warned.

Mark waved an apology and jogged to the Jeep. ‘Fire in the hole!’ shouted Shepherd, taking aim at the hole he’d already made in the wall. He pulled the trigger and the second warhead shot through the air.

The second explosion did much more damage and left a hole big enough for a man to walk through. Shepherd put down the launcher and went to inspect it with Mark and Mickey. Yates, Black and Wilson followed. Close up, Shepherd could see that the wall was actually two walls, separated by thick steel mesh. The warheads had gone right through. Half a dozen concrete bricks had been reduced to dust and another dozen had been blown to gravel. The metal mesh had been torn apart. ‘That’ll do it,’ Mickey said. ‘We’re in business.’

‘Okay?’ Wilbur called.

Mickey gave him a thumbs-up. ‘Big okay!’ he shouted. ‘Come on, let’s get a drink.’

‘They serve booze here?’ said Shepherd, incredulously. Alcohol and guns were a dangerous mix.

‘It’s Cambodia, mate,’ said Mickey. ‘Anything goes.’

They piled back into the Landcruisers and drove across the firing range to a cluster of wooden buildings, one of which served as an office. The Cambodian flag fluttered from the roof and off to the side a camouflage awning shaded a large table and half a dozen teak planter’s chairs.

The Moores and Shepherd got out of their Landcruiser, which they had parked at the side of a long concrete block with a wooden door at one end. From inside they heard the crack of small-arms fire. Outside seven men in their thirties were standing around a Cambodian soldier who was showing them a selection of handguns. The men were all wearing T-shirts and cargo pants and had the look of former servicemen. As he walked past them, Shepherd heard two talking in Russian. ‘Who are those guys, Mickey?’ he asked.

‘Probably tourists. Anyone can come here and fire gear, providing they’ve got the cash.’

Wilbur walked over to them. ‘Do you want to fire an M60?’ he asked.

‘What’s that?’ said Mickey.

‘Machine-gun,’ said Shepherd. ‘Seven point six two calibre. Big boys’ toy.’

‘Let’s go for it,’ said Mickey.

Wilbur took them away from where the Russians were being briefed to a firing range where three water-filled oil barrels had been placed in front of a pile of sandbags, behind which was a sloping bank of earth, twice the height of a man. A hundred feet away a trestle table held three green ammunition boxes and half a dozen orange ear-protectors. On the ground next to it was an M60 with a metal stand attached to its barrel. Shepherd picked it up. It had been cleaned and oiled and appeared serviceable.

‘How much?’ asked Mickey.

‘A dollar a round,’ said Wilbur, lifting a belt loaded with rounds out of one of the boxes.

‘How many does it fire?’ asked Mickey.

‘Five hundred and fifty rounds a minute,’ said Shepherd.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Mickey.

‘You can fire single shots – you just release the trigger,’ said Shepherd. ‘Keep pressing it to fire a burst.’

‘You’ve fired one, yeah?’

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd, ‘but only in training. You could cut a man in half with a burst. It’s a hell of a weapon.’

‘You want to shoot a cow?’ asked Wilbur. ‘For a cow, one hundred dollars.’ He grinned, showing his gold canine. ‘But farmer keeps the meat, okay?’

‘There’s no way I’m shooting a cow,’ said Shepherd.

‘Up to you,’ said Wilbur. ‘We have turkeys. Ten dollars each.’

‘The barrels will be just fine,’ said Shepherd.

‘Spoilsport,’ said Mark.

The men put on ear-protectors. Wilbur fed in the belt, then showed Mickey how to hold it, with his left hand gripping the carrying handle and his right hand holding the trigger mechanism. Shepherd adjusted the nylon sling to take some of the weight of the gun. ‘Just do single shots until you get the feel of it,’ said Shepherd. ‘If at any time you feel it getting away from you, just let go of the trigger. Ready?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mickey.

Shepherd pushed the safety lever forward and up so that it was in the fire position and cocked the weapon. ‘Let her rip,’ he said.

Mickey took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. Even through the ear-protectors the noise was deafening, and they could feel the thud-thud-thud of the shots vibrating through their stomachs. ‘Bloody hell!’ yelled Mickey. He squinted at the barrels. ‘Did I hit anything?’

‘Sand,’ said Shepherd. ‘You were ten feet to the left.’

Mickey corrected his aim and let loose another short burst. The first three shots hit the barrel on the right and water spurted out, but the rest ripped into the sandbags. The recoil of the M60 took some handling, Shepherd knew, but it was fun watching Mickey trying to cope with it. ‘Die, you motherfucker!’ screamed Mickey, as he pulled the trigger and sent a dozen rounds into the earth bank behind the sandbags. He grinned at Shepherd. ‘Wanna go?’