Читать книгу After the Monsoon: An unputdownable thriller that will get your pulse racing! - Robert Karjel - Страница 12

When the first shot rang out, people cheered. It hit the dusty ground of the shooting range, and a little cloud rose up like an exclamation point before falling again. Without a breath of wind, the smell of gunpowder clung to the shooter. In the harsh sunlight, the only shadows were made by the men waiting to shoot and by the row of cardboard figures against the berm. And so only human-shaped shadows darkened the ground—the targets were shaped like soldiers on a rampage.

One of the Swedish soldiers had tried to give an introduction to rifle shooting, but it became a dull recitation of weapon parts, firing procedures, and which orders meant what. A necessary ritual. Some of the Djiboutians tried to follow along—this was useful information about weapons, after all—but the lesson was ruined by the others, who couldn’t stop fooling around. Even the interested ones lost track, and the Swede sped up to get it over with. He fired a shot for show, afterward explaining how to unload and how to secure the safety on a semiautomatic machine gun. After looking into the barrel and dropping the bolt back with a click, he turned the selector to lock and repeated in English: “Very important, do not forget.”

The Djiboutians were anxious, once the mandatory introduction was over. When some of the Swedes disapproved, they’d split up into several small groups. Not much was said. A few pushed cartridges into empty magazines, one stood and drank water with a hard gaze, turning away from it all.

“Okay, one of us for every weapon,” said the sergeant, Hansson, raising his voice to make something happen.

“Do we start now?”

“Yes, now we start!” Hansson pushed hard into the back of the soldier who asked, forcing him to get moving.

This got a few others going, and soon all the weapons had been picked up, and the soldiers began instructing the Djiboutians, the click-clacks sounding as the bolts slid back and forth. The magazines were pushed in with a final slap, at the end. Most of the fooling around was over. Proper shooting positions were tried out, with the rifle butt pressed fully against the shoulder. A helping hand went to the man’s other shoulder, and one to his hip, making his chest turn and lean forward. The back leg was extended to provide support behind, creating stability to absorb the recoil again and again.

“No one fires until I say,” shouted the sergeant who’d given the lesson. Lieutenant Slunga went up to Mr. Nazir and cajoled the foreman to participate, to get a feel for the weapon, fire a few shots. Wouldn’t it be harmless to try it, have a little fun? Mr. Nazir nodded and smiled, but he retained his island of self-respect and didn’t budge. Slunga clucked, but Mr. Nazir pretended not to notice.

“Damn it, keep after that one!” someone shouted when a muzzle was pointing every which way.

“Please, only point forward.”

A shot rang out and everyone jumped. The shooter laughed.

“Goddammit!”

“What did I say?!”

Glances were exchanged among the Swedes, both among those who were worried and those feeling they maintained a sliver of control. Hansson stretched and grinned with a glance toward Slunga. He thought for a moment and then said: “Let them shoot it off.”

And so the shooting began. First with a furious volley that whipped across the shooting range, and the shell casings flew among the shooters. Those not holding a gun clapped their hands over their ears. A thin haze spread around them, carrying the acrid and almost arousing smell of burnt gunpowder, airborne dust, and a hint of something metallic.

The intensity dropped a notch, to a persistent ta-ta-ta of firing. Some wanted to learn something, others just to shoot. Although they stood at only thirty meters, many shots landed in the dirt in front of the targets.

“Did I hit?”

“Not even close.”

Then things grew calmer. The most enthusiastic had emptied their magazines, pressing their triggers in disbelief a few extra times before lowering their weapons. The sergeant who’d volunteered to lead the shooting was trying to say something, but he was constantly interrupted by those who had bullets left. A few still flinched with every shot they fired.

There was silence for a while. In some of the paper soldiers, light shone through the holes of the hits.

“Should we check the targets?” asked one soldier.

“Of course,” said Hansson.

“There isn’t a single hole in the one mine shot at,” said another soldier. “Can you believe it?”

“I bet your barrel is warped,” the man next to him joked. He got no answer.

“Well then,” said the sergeant, “all weapons down, while we check the targets.”

Most went to see how they’d done, though a few lacked the energy to walk the thirty meters.

In the next round, the pace was slower. Most of the Djiboutians were still anxious, but the khat and the heat had their effect. There was a kind of low-key disorder: scattered shots and then suddenly one shooter managed to switch to automatic fire and get off a good round. One Swede winced and covered his head; others just looked at their watches.

They could have stopped right there.

But the sergeant was feeling ambitious. “We’ll mark again, and then a final round. Don’t we have a little ammunition left?” He got no response. Mr. Nazir looked at Slunga, silently asking to end things. But now it was Slunga who pretended not to see.

“Well then,” said Hansson. “One more time.”

“All weapons down,” the sergeant reminded them.

Half the men went up to the cardboard figures. One of the Africans smiled broadly and pointed to his sweet spot. All his shots were clustered in the chest of the paper soldier. He shouted to the others in Somali. “Rambo-man,” someone said back.

“It’s always like this,” said a Swede. “They can, if they want to.”

“Sure, one by one,” replied someone.

“Put the tape on.”

“I don’t want to do this, I want a beer.”

“Tape!”

They spread out to put black patches over the holes.

A bang.

Everyone at the shooting range jumped, looking around in fear, even those who’d stayed lazily in the back with their weapons. It took several seconds before they realized that a shot had been fired.

“No!”

One man’s shadow missing in the afternoon sun.

Lieutenant Per-Erik Slunga lay flat and motionless on his stomach. The dry sand soaked up the blood that streamed from his head.