it 's the smell of saws going cyclic ; of spent brass cascading over rock ; of a gun barrel so hot it jams and he has to spit into the breech as he works , desperately , to clear his weapon ; and there are voices , always the voices , streaming out of the merciless sun and through the speaker in his helmet : `` jesus christ , cut the wire , cut the f**king wire and grab the kid or you 're dead , you 're dead , you're- '' `` tom . ''