Exit wound

Hands over my head, chin tucked in, I launched myself sideways. All I could do was curl up, fly, and accept the landing.

I hit the tarmac hard. The air was punched from my lungs. I skidded across the ground. All that lay between me and a severe cheese-grating was the set of 1980s waxies. My elbows and hands took the pain as I rolled and tumbled.

I flipped over onto my back and my head met the cheese-grater. The asphalt ground through hair and skin down to the bone. I was slowing down. I spread my arms and legs to create more friction.

When I finally came to a stop I couldn’t seem to function. I tried to get to my feet. I couldn’t. My vision was blurred. The back of my head felt like a blowtorch was trained on it.

I could see the blurry shape of the van. I saw the door open. The body behind the wheel began to get out.

All I could do was stagger towards it.

113

I hurled myself at the driver’s door and rammed it as it opened. There was a pistol in his left hand. His arm was extended. The metal frame banged against it. I held it there, slapping him like a drunk.

It wasn’t working. He screamed at me through the window as I pulled the door open and he started to launch himself out. I slammed my weight against it and rammed his head back against the trim. His arm came down. I tried to kick the pistol away. He screamed as I held him there, kicking again and again at his hand, sometimes hitting, sometimes missing.

The pistol finally dropped. I yanked open the door again and slammed it hard into the side of his head. He collapsed into his seat. His head crashed into the steering-wheel, then slumped towards the footwell. His jaw came to rest on the door-sill. I raised my foot and kicked down. There was a loud crunch as his jaw gave way and the top of his head carried on four or five inches more towards the tarmac.

The rest of him poured out of the wagon and hit the deck. He wasn’t going anywhere. My head was still spinning. I tried to take deep breaths.

The whine of jet engines sparked up on the other side of the firs.

I stumbled over to the weapon and picked it up. It was a Makarov. I slipped it into what was left of my jacket pocket as the Falcon’s engines got louder. It was still the other side of the tree-line but definitely on the move.

I looked through the windows of the wagon. The seats were down and there was a stack of long green plastic containers in the back. I pulled up the tail hatch and grabbed the handles of the top two. They were light. They’d already been fired. I pulled them out and chucked them down beside their owner.

The next two were heavy.

The nose of the Falcon emerged from the far corner of the tree-line, about four hundred away, turning slightly left, then right again as it positioned itself for take-off.

I spun back to the container and took a long, deep breath. I had to be in control.

My heart-rate slowed, and so did everything around me.

I knew what I wanted to do. I knew how to do it.

I mustn’t rush. If I rushed, I’d fuck up.

The four catches along the side of the tube flipped open easily. I lifted the lid. The 16 and its two-kilogram warhead nestled in a solid-foam cut-out.

The engines screamed as the Falcon developed the thrust to rattle down the runway and take off.

I pulled the weapon from its housing and hefted it onto my shoulder.

I was calm. I was in control.

The sun glinted on the clean white fuselage, still wet from the rain. I just hoped they were looking out of their windows and could see what was about to happen.

I turned on the power pack and heard the gentle whine of the electrics sparking up.

Everything was self-testing. It completed in seconds. As the Falcon’s engines reached take-off power, I took my final deep breath.

114

The aircraft rolled, and was soon roaring down the tarmac, piercing the heat haze and throwing up a huge plume of mist.

I positioned the range ring of the sight on my target. I’d need to keep it there throughout the engagement sequence. Like Paul (not Pavel) had said, the SA-16 was an all-aspect missile. You could engage the target from any angle.

There was no IFF on this one. The Taliban didn’t need it. Neither did I. I felt with my forefinger for the arming switch on the right of the grip stock. The Falcon was halfway down the runway. I pushed the switch forward from safety to armed. The weapon readied itself for firing, super-cooling the seeker to allow it to lock onto the target’s primary heat-source, those three engines on the back. When enough infrared energy was detected, I would hear a high-pitched signal.

It was too easy. The electronics buzzed loud into my ear as it locked on.

The front wheel lifted from the tarmac.

My right ear filled with a high-pitched whine.

The seeker had a firm lock and was tracking the heat-source. We were ready to rock and roll.

I pulled the trigger just as the rest of the aircraft left the tarmac and tried to gain height.