by Chris Allen
“Twenty-two, actually,” Cornell corrected. He swallowed loudly, and hoped that nobody had noticed.
Hargreaves and Blades both offered firm, formal handshakes to Cornell’s wet fish, as Johnson made the introductions. There were no smiles or pleasantries. Standing facing them, Cornell felt his heart race, and beads of sweat formed on his brow. Scotland Yard? MI5?
“Gregory, these gentlemen are here to discuss security arrangements for the visit by the Malfajirian president, Dr Namakobo.”
“I see. I wasn’t aware that Dr Namakobo’s visit had been confirmed, Mr. Johnson.” Cornell could scarcely conceal his annoyance. But still, he was wary. He needed to be on the offensive, but mostly, he needed information from these glorified plods. Cornell’s division should have had primacy over the visit. “Can I expect to be privy to the details now? An arrival time perhaps? A schedule?” he said pointedly.
“Well, that’s what we’re here to discuss, Mr. Cornell,” said Blades. “I’m afraid that the security precautions surrounding this particular visit have required that confirmation of the schedule and agenda be kept under wraps until the last possible moment. Other than with Mr. Johnson, it was not possible for us to discuss the matter any further. Even within the Foreign Office.”
“Of course,” answered Cornell coldly.
“And so here we are,” added Johnson, back at his desk, and clearly eager to proceed. “Gentlemen, please be seated. As we have only a matter of hours before Dr Namakobo arrives here in London, perhaps one of you would be good enough to bring Mr. Cornell up to speed?”
“Thank you, sir,” Blades replied. “Dr Namakobo will arrive at Heathrow in three hours, at approximately 2100 hours. He will be met on the tarmac by the Foreign Secretary, the Minister for Africa and, of course, the Malfajiri ambassador.”
As Blades continued with the briefing, Cornell felt as though a knife was being slowly thrust into his heart. He swallowed, and his eyes darted nervously between Johnson and the other two men. How could anything possibly be arranged in time? he thought furiously.
Then again, with Lundt involved, Cornell felt certain that Dr Namakobo would not leave the United Kingdom alive.
CHAPTER 12
The howl of the four mighty Rolls-Royce T-56 turboprop engines heralded the passage of an unyielding juggernaut. High above, the anxious gaze of a full moon cast a ghostly aura upon the flying giant’s back. And deep inside her ample belly, the paratroopers waited in silence.
For the last time, Morgan pulled his chinstrap tabs down tight, and immediately felt the comforting pressure of his para-helmet close firmly around his head, the padded chin piece biting into the flesh of his jaw. He started working through the mental checklist of his equipment: chinstrap, cape wells, chest strap, reserve hooks, reserve handle, belly band, suspension hooks, lowering device, jettison device – mirroring his thoughts by physically checking each item, his hands moving the length and breadth of his body to the dozens of separate pieces of kit that had to be checked prior to any military parachute descent.
The gear was heavy and cumbersome. His 90 pound pack, suspended from the D-rings at his chest beneath the reserve chute, felt like a bank vault hanging across his aching thighs, and grew even heavier as the minutes wore on. Gripped to his back, the ballast effect of the main chute felt as if he was shouldering a ship’s anchor, only mildly counterbalanced by the reserve on his chest. In most cases, paratroopers would leap from an aircraft carrying more weight in parachutes, equipment and weaponry than they weighed themselves. Morgan felt weary, and was sure that, if forced to linger just another minute, his knees would finally disintegrate and he would collapse under the burden of his load. Somewhere amid the chaos of equipment, weapons, ammunition and the harness strapping that cocooned him, a water bottle had twisted and was burying itself painfully into his flank like a football-sized tick.
The loadmaster stretched his right arm above his head with one finger pointing skyward. “One minute!” he bellowed down the fuselage. They had done it countless times before, always under the cover of darkness, and always with the promise of a fight to welcome them when they hit the ground: shock troops — the ones who were sent in when all else had failed. History had documented that, at Arnhem, Entebbe, the Falklands and, most recently, Iraq. That was the game they’d all volunteered for, every generation, and this time was to be no different.
“Action stations!” cried the loadmaster. Again, the outstretched arm. This time, two fingers were crossed in a tight X.
The men were on their feet. They’d already checked each other’s gear: front and back, top to toe. Morgan cast a discerning eye over the faces of his troops. There was Sean Collins, just a few men ahead, barely recognizable beneath the camouflage cream and the shadows cast under his helmet by the dim red hue of the overhead cabin lights. As usual, the cold metal floor of the aircraft was awash with vomit, still detonating in florid bursts from those who, despite their experience, had been unable to control the effect that claustrophobic conditions and hours of contour flying imposed upon the human body. And so, as always, the confined interior of the Herc hummed with retching and nervous tension. Morgan prayed for the cold comfort of exit, and the escape it would deliver from the stench and the crushing embrace of his equipment.
It was time. From the edges of both the port and starboard para doors, red jump lights blazed into life.
“Stand by!”
On either side of the aircraft, the para doors were up and clear. The deafening howl of punishing, ice-cold winds screamed into the fuselage. The men automatically packed up hard against each other, facing the door, ready for exit. They were just seconds from the drop zone — moments from the green light, an instant away from the life-and-death decision to leap into the ominous call of the night.
The lights blazed green.
“Green on!”
“Go!”
Without hesitation, the men shuffled in turn to the para doors. Stumbling under the weight of their gear in a macabre parody of waddling penguins, slipping on the vile carpet of vomit and spit, they scrambled for the freedom of the sky and the rollercoaster ride of the slipstream. Seconds later, Morgan was out, discarded from the bowels of the aircraft, grateful for that familiar instant release of weight, and relishing the sting of the cold, fresh air upon his face, sucking it deep into his lungs.
It was a perfect exit. Feet together, hands clasped firmly at the top of his pack and a good strong leap.
Already he was counting to himself.
“One thousand!”
Falling.
“Two thousand!”
Falling.
“Three thousand!”
He counted down until the reassuring tug of the parachute deployment and the billowing beauty of a full canopy would take control of his life and carry him safely back to earth.
“Four thousand!”
Still falling.
Morgan felt the tug of the static line and the parachute reluctantly deploying from his back.
“Five thousand!”
It was taking too long.
He felt the snap of the risers and the suspension lines as they were dragged violently into the air, and then nothing.
“Six thousand!”
Still nothing! Nothing but nerve-racking speed straight down, and the noise of useless silk whipping high above his head – a streamer! A totally failed canopy.
It couldn’t be worse. Morgan looked up again, praying he would gaze into the center of a full and strong canopy mushrooming overhead, only to be confronted by every paratrooper’s worst nightmare.
Falling. Speed. Wind. Noise.
A mess of twisted risers and rigging lines engulfed his tunneled view, all the way from his helmet and upward to the parachute skirts. There was no chance of a full, dark green dome billowing majestically on the slipstream. His chute was totally collapsed, struggling to catch even the slightest breath of wind.
Dropping like a rock. Speed. Wind. Noise.
W
ithout warning, the parachute began to disintegrate, shredding mercilessly in huge chunks under the relentless onslaught of his uncontrollable descent. Like rats from a sinking ship, great chunks of silk tore free, disappearing into the endless darkness of the night sky. Morgan’s blood was boiling, his body’s automatic response mechanisms trying desperately to ignite every instinct and skill hewn solely to ensure his survival.
At the height of his struggle, clawing at the last remaining seconds of his life, Morgan caught the unmistakable image of Victor Lundt, the missing SIS agent, withdrawing back inside the Hercules, his twisted face broken in a snarl as he pulled down the para-door hard, shutting it tight. Then the tail of the giant bird lumbered on into the night, free of its cargo, leaving Morgan behind to his fate.
Lundt. Missing, presumed dead.
Without a moment to spare, Morgan tore at the risers that extended uselessly from the harness at his shoulders to the rigging lines above. With all his strength, he grasped as tightly as he could, and tried to wrench the twisted lines apart, kicking his legs in a bizarre imitation of riding a bicycle, furiously attempting to propel his own body in the reverse direction to the rigging line twists.
“Come on, you bastard!” he swore through gritted teeth. The chinstrap bit into his face as he yelled, and the cruel blast of cold air stung at his eyes as the ground beneath grew closer by the microsecond.
His mind was racing, searching for solutions, for obstacles to his survival. His field pack! The bank vault strapped across the front of his thighs was hampering his efforts to kick free of the twists. He reached down for the release strap, fumbling in a blind search, before finding it and pulling hard. The pack fell away instantly, clearing his legs and swinging by the suspension line, 15 feet below him.
Still he plummeted.
Blood raced through Morgan’s temples. The rate of his pounding heart mirrored the speed of his wild descent. All around him, the wind was howling in his ears, screaming at him as he fell to earth.
In the distance, Morgan could hear someone shouting, louder and louder, as he fell into the night, the intensity of the voice stabbing at his senses from every direction. It became clear, growing stronger, more urgent, as he continued to drop. The ground was flashing toward him at breakneck speed. Now the voice was even louder, shouting, deafening in its proximity, shattering his tortured hearing.
An overwhelming ground rush surged beyond his feet.
Seconds to impact.
“Yes!” Morgan answered with a start. He pulled out his hearing protection. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, sir!” It was Julian, the Somali loadmaster. He was leaning across the seats, shaking Morgan’s shoulder, clawing him from his nightmare. “We have landed, sir. Welcome to Malfajiri!”
PART TWO
WELCOME TO MALFAJIRI
CHAPTER 13
MALFAJIRI
The drive into the hills outside Cullentown was one Maxwell Turner preferred not to take. The sealed roads bled into red gravel and carried you away, past the last of the abandoned shop fronts and old hotels, and through an endless channel of corrugated iron, cardboard and mud, home to the millions who had settled in a vast horseshoe of squalor around the city’s crumbling shoulders.
No man’s land. Certainly, no white man’s land.
There was nothing but hopelessness out here. You could feel it. Not that Turner was one for feeling anything for others. His emotions were fueled only by greed and, on a day like today, self-preservation. He averted his eyes from the deprivation and despair of the shantytown, focusing only on the long trail of red gravel.
Thousands of people lined the edges of the track, as far as the eye could see. They squatted in loosely formed groups outside their pitiful shacks, in this place where there was nothing left to do. Most were oblivious to the passing Land Rover, too weak and devoid of hope to discern any potential benefit from its passage. But there were those few who paid it much greater attention, drawn by the rattle of the approaching engine. They rushed as one to the roadside, racing toward the vehicle, forming a seething block across its path. Turner expected it, but it shocked him every time. He was forced to slow, but would not stop, not for anything. To stop would mean death. The mob engulfed him and clubbed at the flanks of the Land Rover with rocks and sticks, their hands out for food and money.
“Get there. Get it done. Get back.” He recited this mantra over and over through clenched teeth in a high-pitched squeal, ignoring the din of the mob. The Rover rocked and bounced, and the shouting crowd was deafening. A crack appeared on the windscreen with a report like a gunshot. He planted his foot to the floor and surged coldly through the gaggle of bodies. A barrage of missiles, rocks, stones and sticks, rained upon the retreating car but he was soon through. The Land Rover was battered, the windscreen a web of cracks. His foot still planted on the accelerator, he left a long trail of ocher-tinged dust in his wake. Immediately ahead were the foothills of the mountains. Therein, the rebel headquarters.
Turner felt the skin at the base of his gut crawl, and he squirmed in his seat. The bush became thicker here. More than just the occasional acacia or baobab, it grew tight and tall right up to the track’s edge. Nature had reclaimed the land where decades before man had cleared the native forest for fuel and building materials. He came upon the signposts of recent carnage – abandoned vehicle hulks, crumpled and burnt out, some lying half in and half out of the bush, the result of a rocket-propelled grenade hit or improvised road-side mine. These roads, far from the center of Cullentown, were treacherous. It was the training ground for young rebel initiates striving to impress the leadership – even the army wouldn’t come up here.
This was just too much, Turner thought. This man Lundt was exerting excessive control over him. When his work here was done, if he ever lived to see that day, he would never return to Malfajiri. And if he never saw Lundt again, it would be too bloody soon.
He made the final approach along the sweeping left-hand bend that led to the compound, crunching through the gears and coming to a stop at the gates. Two rebel soldiers, no more than teenagers, appeared from the verandah and sauntered over to open the big cyclone mesh gates. They looked at him without interest, their eyes dulled by the narcotic concoction they’d been fed by their masters to maintain their loyalty. Turner was expected and hard to miss as he eased the Land Rover through to the compound and pulled up to the building. He didn’t like to leave the vehicle when he came up here – the battered Land Rover was a lifebuoy when he was the only white face within a sea of angry black faces, far from the relative sanctuary of the mine site. On days like today, nobody at Pallarup would know where he was, and with every step Turner took from the vehicle, the weaker his already tenuous grip on self-preservation became.
A third rebel soldier, older than the others, appeared. He was huge and moved with authority. The two younger ones cowered when they saw him, 6 feet 5 inches at least, with limbs like heavy industrial equipment. He marched from the wide-open doors of the old house and stormed across the rotting boards of the verandah straight for Turner, whose pulse went into overdrive. He recoiled into the seat, fleshy knuckles white upon the steering wheel. The soldier’s eyes were locked on Turner, no emotion on his dark features, only resolve. In two strides, the man was off the verandah and tearing at the car door. Turner was unceremoniously dragged from the car and catapulted into the house.
Turner gagged at the stench of the place. Things had deteriorated since his last visit. He was thrust into a void – a rudimentary stairway, stepping amid human waste. Within seconds, there was no natural light. He knew he was on his own, completely at the mercy of the rebels.
A single bulb glowed at the far end of a long, dark space. He could vaguely make out cages along the walls and, from the smell and noise, knew they all had people inside them. Turner became faint, his legs turning to jelly, his head swimming with fear. He fell helplessly to his hands and knees, retching.
“Oh, Christ,” came a familiar voice from
the darkness. “Bring that useless git down here.”
Again, gargantuan hands came from nowhere and lifted Turner to his feet. Still gagging, he was shunted along the line of cages to the back of the long room toward the single, hanging light bulb.
“This had better be good, Turner,” snapped Lundt.
“Why have you brought me down here?” Turner began, coughing and spluttering. He wiped his face and mouth with a large bandanna. “I contacted you. Agreed to help. Why are you treating me this way?” Again, he retched.
“I need you to know what you’ve got yourself into, Turner.” The voice was cold, unsympathetic. “Sit him down.”
The soldier dropped Turner into a blood- and excrement-soaked chair in the center of the cage where Lundt had been standing, chain-smoking, waiting for him. Lundt’s features were disturbing under the half light of the globe.
“So, what have you come here to tell me? If it’s what I need to hear, you’ll get out alive.”
The soldier disappeared out of Turner’s view, but he was still close; Turner could hear him breathing and the shuffling of his combat boots against the rough cement floor.
Lundt struck a match to another cigarette and took a long draw, filling his lungs before allowing the smoke to flow through his nostrils. He didn’t give even a hint of stress, his movements languid. Turner heard a gun being cocked.
“Jesus!” Turner gasped in panic. “I’ve heard from Cornell!” he stammered. “I couldn’t speak about it on the sat phone! It’s on. It’s on!”
“When?”
“Now!” squeaked Turner. The small man nervously mopped at his brow with the bandanna. “It took me time to get away, to drive up here. President Namakobo is due to arrive in London as we speak. He’s probably there already.”
