by Danny King
It takes a lot to blow up a volcano. Volcanoes by their very nature, can withstand mind-boggling amounts of pressure, so building an impenetrable base in one is a smart move if you’re setting out to annoy countries with enormous air forces. However, you encounter a whole different set of problems when you attach a dozen blocks of plastique to pretty much everything that’s combustible inside and light the blue touch paper. Because once you’ve filled your impenetrable underground bunker with a colossal store of energy, that same energy has to find a way out. And if it can’t escape through the walls, because they’ve been forged out of Mother Nature’s hottest furnaces, it will look elsewhere to escape.
Any nook.
Any cranny.
Any pipe.
These are places you don’t want to be lingering when your impenetrable underground base blows up.
The sheer force of waste welled up on me from behind and shot me along the pipe like a bullet. The walls scraped my shoulders, the joints ripped my knees and the chilli almost drowned me, but nothing could slow my plunge into the onrushing blackness.
For twenty terrifying seconds I lost all control of my senses as I was propelled towards the unknown. I think I even peed myself with fear – I’m not certain, I think some of it was mine – but providence took pity on me and together with a thousand recycled dinners I burst into daylight and flew fifty feet into a great septic lake of waste at the bottom of the eastern slopes.
The cool waters were dark and cloudy, but I managed to thrash in them enough until I popped to the surface and sucked in a lungful of pungent air. This did little to help the situation and I continued to gasp, splutter and drown until I noticed my presence had shaken the local inhabitants to action.
On the far banks of the lakes, watching me with raised eyebrows were a dozen freshwater crocs. If I’d been one of them, I would’ve sued and possibly eaten the estate agent, because their home waters were anything but fresh, but the crocs didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they seemed to have grown fat on whatever Soliman had ejected from his pipes and judging from the looks on their craggy faces, they weren’t quite full yet.
I struck out for the nearest bank as the waters across the lake churned against the force of eager swimmers.
“Come on, give me a break!” I implored, kicking and clawing for the rocks just twenty feet beyond the brown geyser.
I fought the urge to suck in my limbs and instead beat them with all of my might until my fingers struck mud. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see a rake of jaws flash by the back of my neck and tumbled clear to snatch my Colt from its holster. A blur of pink exploded into red as I punched two bullets into its epicentre and then emptied the clip into the rest of his colleagues. By the time I was done there was more than enough fresh meat to go around and only two crocodiles left to squabble over it, so I scrambled away to leave them to their bounty and sought a vantage point from which to get my bearings.
The summit of the volcano was billowing smoke and a dozen vents and pipes along the eastern ridge were spewing flames. Dunbar hadn’t been messing about when he’d set the charges. Nothing could’ve survived that inferno. Nothing. Not a computer chip, a lens refractor, not even a man hiding near a Coke machine. At least with any luck this was what Dunbar thought, though I’d probably used up my quota of luck for the day, if not the decade, so I took nothing for granted.
Instead, I emptied my shoes, threw away my handkerchief and started walking for home.
Whichever way that was.
6.
LUCK IS NOT ENOUGH
After only a mile or two of parched scrubland, the remorseless African sun had baked me – and whatever had left the pipe with me – to a golden crust. I couldn’t decide if this was better or worse, but either way I wasn’t getting in the Ritz any time soon.
I trundled on for a couple of miles choking on the dust of my former colleagues’ dinners until I found what passed for a road in these parts. It was wide, dusty and rutted with gaping potholes, but a road nonetheless. But a road to where? I didn’t know. That was the thing about this job. It took me to far-flung and exotic locations, but I never actually got to see them. Most bases were self-contained: bed, board, recreation time and work, but as far as the surrounding countryside was concerned, I could have been anywhere.
One of the guys had told me that the local people around this way were Nguni, like my friend stick boy, but I didn’t know where the Nguni were from. Nguniland would’ve been my best guess so I flipped a coin, ignored how it came down and headed south whatever.
At first, I ducked off the road and hid whenever a car came along but after four hours of murdering my feet, I decided to risk it and see if I could hitch a ride. After a few more minutes a shimmer of dust appeared on the horizon so I tucked my Colt into the back of my trousers and stuck out my thumb.
The shimmer neared.
My thirst was my most pressing concern. If I didn’t manage to negotiate a lift, or at least wangle a bottle of water, I’d be dead by nightfall. Of course I could always hijack whoever was coming along. A quick shot to the temple and thanks very much, but that sort of Karma always caught a man up in the end. No good ever came of no-good deeds. If a lifetime of Affiliating had taught me anything, it had taught me that.
Within the shimmer, a windscreen caught the sun and glinted with solastic brilliance. Victor would’ve been very happy.
The glinting flickered and grew until I realised the windscreen was too large for a simple car. It was a truck that was coming my way. This changed things for the stickier but it was too late to slide off the road. Whoever was driving had already seen me and was hooting his horn with excitement. I clenched my teeth, clicked off my Colt’s safety and waved back.
A surprisingly spruce Zil131 roared up and threw a cloud of red dust in my face as it juddered to a halt in front of me. I barely had time to clear my eyes before the driver, his passenger and about fifteen militia all started pouring out of various exit points and swarming around me in an excited scrum. I could tell at first glance they weren’t regular military. The togs were Russian Army and Navy surplus, Spetsnaz cast-offs that had been given to Oxfam when their new strip had come in circa 1978, so I figured someone local had their own little private army.
Some Johnny in a second-hand Admiral’s uniform seemed to be in charge of these boys, judging from the surplus of stars and paraphernalia across his shoulders, so I came to attention and gave him my best Private Benjamin salute. This took the Admiral back a step or two but then he broke into a broad toothy smile and rebounded a couple of fingers off his eyebrows in response.
“You a soldier?” he asked when he’d stopped grinning.
“Yes sir,” I confirmed, pandering to his ego to save us wasting ammunition.
“And whose army are you in?” he asked.
“I’m currently between armies, sir,” I told him.
“You are between armies?” he laughed. His men looked at each other and shrugged before a tall ebony lad off to the left translated for them and suddenly they were all doubling up theatrically as if I’d just told the best Knock-Knock joke in the world.
The Admiral continued to cackle too, milking it for all he was worth, while the ebony translator just stared at me with ice in his eyes. He would be the first one I’d put down when the laughing stopped, but the Admiral was enjoying himself way too much at the moment to let things descend to that.
“So tell me,” he continued, his English good, but African-taught, “how are you here? And what is that on your clothes?”
“It’s shit, sir,” I told him.
No translation necessary this time, the boys all took to their sides once more.
“Shit?” the Admiral chortled. “And why are you covered in shit?”
It was a good question. I just wished I had a good answer. In the event I told him; “I’ve had a bad day, sir.”
This did the trick and it made him boom like kiddies’ entertainer until his ebony C3PO reminded him th
at this wasn’t the Comedy Store and business was pressing, calling time on the day’s entertainment. The Admiral wound down to a thoughtful smirk, then asked me where I was going.
“I don’t rightly know,” I told him then played my Joker. “Perhaps you’re looking for soldiers at the moment, sir?”
“Looking for soldiers?” he blinked.
“To serve in your army, sir,” I elaborated.
“To serve in my army?” he repeated, giving me some insight into how he’d learn English in the first place.
“Yes sir. A very good soldier I am sir,” I told him, saluting once more to demonstrate my pedigree. “I can help train your men, sir.”
“Train my men? Train them to do what? Get covered in shit?” he asked, not unreasonably under the circumstances.
“Yes sir, when necessary.”
“Ness-sess-sary? And when is it ness-sess-sary to get covered in shit?” he grinned.
“When all else fails,” I told him. “Sir.”
The Admiral’s expression changed from amusement to one of genuine bewilderment and he obviously came to the conclusion that I was far too interesting to shoot for the moment because he had a quick word with his number two then invited me to join them in the truck.
“Er, no. In the back, if you please,” he clarified, when the man covered in shit started towards the passenger side door.
Now, there was one of two ways this day could unfold for me. Actually, there were dozens, but if we lumped most of them under the umbrella of “nastily” then we were left with just two. But when you’re in the company of a 23-year-old African Russian Naval Admiral, there’s simply no way of telling which it’ll be. See, I was a soldier. At least I was from the moment I’d stood to attention and saluted Teen Amin, though between you and me I’ve never served so much as a day in any army the UN would recognise. I’d tried of course, when I was younger. I’d had a go at joining up. I’d caught a bus to Aldershot, stood around in my pants with a load of other spotty Herbert’s waiting to be sexually assaulted by whichever Sergeant fancied wearing a white coat that day and passed with flying colours, only to get sent packing when they found out about my conviction for aggravated burglary. Seriously. It seemed a bit like double-standards to me, but I was denied the chance to burst in and out of Paddy’s house and push him around simply because I’d taken the initiative and got in a bit of practice before I’d reached the age. The Foreign Legion weren’t much friendlier. I had always thought they’d take anyone but they wouldn’t touch me either. I don’t think it helped my cause when I’d turned up at their recruitment centre in a stolen Renault, but then how else was I meant to get down to Aubagne with empty pockets?
I wondered if the Admiral was as pernickety about his troops as the Legion. From the looks of the evil looking thug with one eye, seven fingers and the PK bi-pod machine-gun slung across his shoulders it was a possibility.
Of course the best possible outcome from today’s meeting would be an invitation to throw my lot in with theirs and join their crusade. I wasn’t sure who or what they were crusading against. Anyone who didn’t have a gun usually qualified in traditional African warfare, but these chaps looked a cut above the box-standard bush militia. They were older, better dressed, better equipped and better disciplined, in that they hadn’t tried to shoot me into little pieces or burn me alive the moment they’d seen me, so presumably they had a few proper objectives and everything. Then, when I was fed, watered and knew where I was in the world, I could nick one of their jeeps and an A-Z and make for the nearest airport. It wasn’t a perfect plan by any means but it seemed to tick all the right boxes.
There was however one problem. Playing the lowly soldier card as I had was a risky strategy because on the one hand I was saying, “look, you’ve no reason to kill me, I’m not a threat to you” but this often translated as “look, you’ve no reason NOT to kill me, I’m not a threat to you”.
My only hope was the Admiral’s ego. Because if there was one thing African bush Admirals liked better than mindlessly killing lost westerners it was being saluted by white soldiers – particularly white soldiers from proper armies. Nothing authenticated their rank quite like it.
7.
ON HIS MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY’S MOST SPECIAL SECRET SERVICE
After a couple of hours touring the nation’s potholes we pulled up outside a large, freshly painted former colonial farm. The order was given to dismount so we all piled out of the back of the truck and stood around in an informal line jangling our change. I for one couldn’t have been happier that we’d finally arrived at our destination. The big ebony translator had made a point of sitting directly opposite me for the whole journey and despite the road doing its best to get us all ready for space, his eyes hadn’t left mine for a second.
The Admiral breezed by to send the boys to dinner then ordered me to follow him up to the house. His translator came too, despite the fact that we didn’t need a translator, walking in my shadow and burning his eyes into the back of my neck as we passed through a set of double doors and into a dizzyingly cool hallway. The Admiral glanced my way to see if I was impressed with the air conditioning and I duly shivered my appreciation.
An adjutant in crisp white duds rushed up with a pitcher on a tray and poured the Admiral a glass of iced water. The Admiral quenched his thirst with a smack of his lips then replaced the glass on the tray and sent the adjutant away. Once again, he glanced my way, though this time my appreciation was somewhat less than forthcoming.
“Commander Dembo, how was your reconnaissance mission?” a new crisp white adjutant asked as he waltzed by to greet us.
“Excellent,” the Admiral confirmed, checking his breast apparel to make sure he had enough room for a few new medals. “Is His Most Excellent Majesty in? I wish to see him at once.”
The adjutant eyed me as if I’d just dropped out of Commander Dembo’s nose and deduced I was the reason for the urgency. The adjutant frowned.
“I’m afraid His Most Excellent Majesty is attending to some very important business at the moment, he cannot be disturbed.”
It was now my turn to glance the Admiral’s way and he liked this about as much as I’d liked passively drinking a glass of ice water, but His Most Excellent Majesty had better things to do and there was nothing to be done. Rank had spoken.
“Very well, we’ll wait,” the Admiral conceded. “But would you tell His Most Excellent Majesty that I’d like to see him at his earliest opportunity? I have something to give him.”
“Is it this?” the adjutant guessed, pointing at me.
“Well, yes but…” the Admiral started, but the adjutant cut him off.
“Then might I suggest you wash it while you wait. His Most Excellent Majesty prefers not to receive gifts that make the eyes water so.” And with that he swept away, leaving the Admiral and I to get better acquainted over a bar of soap.
A couple of the Admiral’s men showed me to a water barrel out back and I was dunked and scrubbed until I was as clean as the water would allow, then pulled out and stuck in some Russian infantry desert fatigues, with boots and cap to match – only minus the insignia. His Most Excellent Majesty’s designers were no doubt still working on their own motifs, but I suspected they’d probably plump for a scorpion crawling over a dagger or something like that. Private insignia, if nothing else, served to reflect just what sort of dangerous bad asses the men who’d ironed these patches on were.
The downside of my bath was the fact that I lost my gun. With an armed escort on hand there was simply no way of hiding it. The moment it dropped from my belt the big ebony translator went spare at me for carrying a concealed weapon and ordered me to be frisked for further concealments to within an inch of my dignity. Happy I was finally harmless, both to life and nose, the Admiral took me back to the house and presented me to His Most Excellent Majesty, who pushed the peak of his oversized cap out of his eyes and looked up at me with suspicion from behind an enormous mahogany desk.
It
was a kid. It was a ten-year-old kid!
The whole of the room awaited my reaction but I’d worked for screwier outfits than this one in the past and would’ve happily saluted the coat stand had they’d introduced me to it, so I quickly snapped to attention and gave His Majesty a bit of the old King’s Own.
The kid’s eyes narrowed further.
“Your Most Excellent Majesty,” the Admiral lip-smacked, “I bring you this man. A soldier. I captured him for you personally.”
A few eyebrows went up around the room but on the whole we let him have that one. The kid, or His Most Excellent Majesty, as he preferred to be called, nodded thoughtfully then congratulated the Admiral on a job well done and told him to consider himself promoted to the new rank of Colonel-General. I was tempted to ask if all the Admiral’s promotions had been this hard won and if so, suggest they either reset him back to Private once a year or sew a few more arms onto his jacket before the base’s Spring clean. In the event, I just carried on saluting until my arm turned numb and my knees started to knock. The adjutant behind His Most Excellent Majesty’s left shoulder whispered something into his ear and His Most Excellent Majesty suddenly remembered what was expected of him and returned my salute with a flick of the wrist.
I snapped this way and that and then stood at ease.
The kid began to grin.
He saluted me again, so I went through the whole pantomime once more, although not having ever having practiced close order drill, I couldn’t help but spot a few inconsistencies in my own routine. Nobody else seemed to notice though, which was surprising seeing as they had every opportunity when the kid started saluting me again and again and again for fun, forcing me through my ill-rehearsed moves until the adjutant asked His Most Excellent Majesty if he’d like to question the prisoner any yet.
