Ivory Nation Andy Maslen (best short novels of all time TXT) 📖

he used to go into battle with this tomahawk. He won it in a bet with a US Marine Corps gunnery sergeant. He did two of them with it. Split their heads open like fucking melons. Then we—’

Frank stopped mid-sentence. He frowned, and scratched his bald dome. Gabriel saw his Adam’s apple bob up and down in his throat, picked up on the increased muscle tone in his facial muscles, caught the minute flicker of his eyes.

‘You OK, Frank?’ Gabriel asked.

‘Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine. Sorry, you shouldn’t get me started on old war stories.’ He inhaled. ‘Right. What say we go and look at the real toys?’

He led them to a section of the building protected by a further set of locked steel-reinforced doors. Beyond lay the heart of the armoury: the firearms.

Racks of assault rifles: a United Nations of models. Russian AK-47s with their antiquated wooden stocks and fore-ends, and more modern guns, from American M4s to British SA80s and German G3Ks.

Beyond the assault rifles, submachine guns and compact carbines more suited to firing from within vehicles or in confined combat situations.

Finally Frank pointed to rows of pistols and knives.

‘Take your pick,’ he said, simply.

For Gabriel, the rifle was a simple decision. If he’d had backup from a battalion armourer, or a supply line, the SA80 would be his choice any day of the week, in any situation. But he didn’t know how long he and Eli would be in the bush, alone, with only their personal weapons and limited ability to clear jams.

‘I’ll take an AK with a folding stock,’ he said.

‘Good choice,’ Frank said, lifting down one of the gleaming rifles, fitted with a telescopic sight. ‘Old as the hills and just as reliable. Drive a tank over one of these and you’d still be able to shoot it.’

‘No IWI ACEs?’ Eli asked.

Gabriel smiled. Eli was loyal as always, to products of Israel Weapon Industries.

‘Sorry, no. It was based on the AK originally, you know that?’

‘Yeah, but I’m an IWI fangirl. OK, I guess I’ll have an AK too.’

‘Smart. You can share magazines that way. We use mags from the AK-103.’

‘What’s the ammunition load?’

‘You get three hundred and ninety rounds in thirteen mags. The most you can get with a twenty-two-pound carry weight.’

‘We’ll have more in the truck, yes?’

Frank nodded. Then ducked under the racking and came out with two leather scabbards. He drew the blade from one, a fifteen-inch, spear-pointed bayonet with a blood-channel grooved along each side.

‘For when the rounds run out,’ he said.

Gabriel and Eli nodded silently. They’d both been in contacts that outlasted the ammunition. Then, fire fights turned into knife fights, fist fights or whatever-you-can-lay-your-hands-on fights.

They spent another ten minutes selecting pistols – a SIG Sauer P226 for Gabriel and a Glock 17 for Eli – plus rucksacks, a tent and sundry survival equipment, and they were done.

As they were leaving, Gabriel drew Frank to one side. He called out to Eli, ‘Go ahead and find Taylor. I won’t be long.’

Once the door had closed on silent hinges behind Eli, Gabriel turned to Frank.

‘Earlier, when you were telling us about you and Major Taylor taking out the machine gun nest, you stopped.’

Frank ran a hand over his shining scalp.

‘Yeah, I was running off at the mouth with me old war stories. I mean, we’ve all got ’em, right?’

‘We do. Look, please don’t take this the wrong way, but are you OK?’

Frank’s brow crinkled.

‘What do you mean?’

Was he about to step into a minefield and risk upsetting the armourer? Gabriel ploughed on.

‘I mean, in your head. Listen,’ he continued, holding up a hand as Frank’s mouth opened, ‘I left the army after my last mission went badly wrong. That guy I mentioned, the one with the same accent as you? He was killed. We had to leave him behind. I struggled with PTSD for years afterwards. I’m still not out of the tunnel. I’m just saying, if you needed someone to talk to…’

He left the words hanging in the air between them like gun smoke drifting across a battlefield.

‘You got all that from me tailing off mid-story?’ Frank asked after a long pause.

Gabriel shrugged.

‘You get to recognise the signs.’

‘PTSD,’ Frank said.

‘Yes. I still see a shrink from time to time. I do yoga, all kinds of weird shit to keep myself sane.’

Frank’s shoulders, which Gabriel had watched creep towards his ears as they were talking, suddenly dropped. He sighed out a breath and ran a hand over his skull again.

‘Lot of my mates are suffering. You know, back home. Couple topped themselves. Divorced. Drinking problems, nightmares, anger issues, all of it.’

‘Are you? Suffering, I mean?’

Frank blew out a whistling breath through narrowed lips. He shook his head.

‘I was. Drink, mainly. But other stuff. Then I hit my wife, didn’t I? Broke her jaw. She asked for a divorce. I didn’t stand in her way. How could I? I might have killed her in my sleep.’

‘Kids?’

‘Two. Scott and Zara.’

Frank reached into an inside pocket and took out a worn, brown leather credit card wallet. Extracted two photos. A girl and a boy, both smiling from beneath comically oversized Santa hats. Behind them a Christmas tree was swathed in decorations. Tinsel and fairy lights spread protective branches over mounds of brightly wrapped presents.

Gabriel took the photos and studied the children’s faces. So happy. So untroubled. The girl had a gap where an incisor had yet to come through. He handed them back.

‘Nice-looking kids.’

‘Yeah. They’re older than that, now.’

‘Do you see them much?’

Frank shook his head.

‘I came out here to try and save myself. I had to get away. I love them so much but I was worried I might hurt them, too. Sometimes it gets too much. Then I just grab a Jeep and go off into the bush with a rifle and a box of ammo and shoot until I’m calm again.’

Gabriel pulled out his wallet and took out a card, which he handed to Frank.

‘That’s my personal number,’ he said. ‘If you ever