Decoy

by Simon Mockler

  49

  Monsieur Blanc threw his cards down on the table. “Enough Clement, you have taken enough money from me for one night. Please, I need some rest,” he protested. He had allowed his losing streak to continue into the early hours of the morning. Asking to twist when it was likely he’d go bust, letting his debt pile up in hard cash, fifty-dollar bills. 15 or 20 thousand dollars worth. He wasn’t concerned about the money, it represented a tiny fraction of what Clement was paying him for devices, but it was an important gesture, a way of maintaining their business relationship, showing his gratitude.

  Clement looked at him slyly, “Rest? Are you sure Monsieur Blanc, with that young girl in your room? She is a wild thing, I can tell you. You won’t be getting any rest.” He smiled a crooked smile and nodded his head slowly. Monsieur Blanc did his best to smile a lascivious smile back, hiding his disgust at the General’s insinuation. Clement had been perfectly happy to let him take the girl. I bet that little jungle cat was about to escape, he’d said when Monsieur Blanc told him he’d found her wandering the corridor.

  “You know me too well, Clement,” he replied, and stood up from the table. Gustav had passed out in a wicker chair, he let him be and headed up the marble staircase.

  Outside the camp, the four boys raced each other into the jungle, all of them wanting to be the first to discover something important to tell the general. They had only a rough idea where they were going; they set their path by the moon. It was an adventure, and they didn’t even have to carry those stupid heavy guns with them.

  At night the jungle was alive in a very different way. Sounds magnified, frogs croaking. They followed a well-worn path, no idea what they were looking for and they didn’t really care. It was a break from the routine of camp life. They swiped at the undergrowth with their sticks, pushed past each other, raced to see who could run fastest. They knew the area well, knew the stretch of forest where the ground had been cleared for mines, knew the areas where the canopy receded to let in more light so they could save the batteries in their torches. On and on they marched, legs getting heavier.

  It wasn’t until they’d been walking for nearly two hours that the boy in front declared they should rest. He was the oldest, already thirteen, and the biggest, so the rest of the group went along with his suggestion. They formed a small circle, leaning back against trees or squatting on the ground. The older boy took out a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, no more than a stub, something he had picked up off the ground in the camp, and tried to light it. The other boys watched, impressed at this display of sophistication. He puffed hard, managing to get a thin trail of smoke out of it, the red tip glowing briefly against the darkness.

  “This is a foolish trip, Jumo. Why did you tell the General you saw something? If you had lied we could have stayed at the camp. Got ourselves some jungle brew,” he said, a cough catching at the back of his throat. “I don’t believe you saw anything. You are always trying to show off to the General.”

  “ Shut up,” Jumo replied. “Just because you are lazy . . .” the boy with the cigarette stood tall, hands hanging threateningly by his side.

  “Say that one more time and I will beat you so hard you shit your teeth.” Jumo backed away wearily, he was only ten, no match for a boy already on the cusp of adolescence.

  “Listen, all of you, stop talking.” Another member of the group hissed. The urgency in his voice made them pay attention. Over the background noise of the jungle, the incessant chattering of the cicadas and crickets, the belly croaks from the frogs, the wind through the canopy, there was something else. An uneven sound. A noise that shouldn’t be there. A swoosh that started and stopped. Twigs snapped. The sound started again, then stopped. A heavy trampling through the undergrowth trying to make itself quieter.

  “What is it? A gorilla?” The boy with the cigarette suggested. Jumo’s ears strained, “there are no gorillas left here. And listen,” he strained his ears, “whatever it is there’s more than one, into the trees quick.” Jumo scrambled to find a foot hold on the nearest trunk. He heaved himself up using the jungle vines, pulling himself high into the branches, huffing and puffing with the effort. Beneath him the sound of laughter, the older boy had stayed at ground level, still puffing on his cigarette, unaware it had gone out.

  “Look at him run, little jungle mouse, afraid of a gorilla,” he called out, shaking his head, “I will stay here, maybe catch some bush meat. And I won’t be sharing any of it with you.” The other boys had gathered round the older boy and were looking up at Jumo, they wanted to join him in the treetops but were afraid Toma would poke fun at them.

  Toma was still chuckling as he turned to where the noise was coming from, “come here gorilla, come and give me some nice bush meat, here boy.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue, pulled something from his pocket. He held it out in front of him. It glinted in the darkness. My God, he actually brought a gun, Jumo shook his head, amazed Toma was prepared to disobey the General. Either he is very afraid or very stupid, he thought.

  The sound was closer now. “Here boy, come and see the nice little surprise the soldiers have for you, good boy, you’ll make a tasty meal for the camp.” In his mind he was already imagining the other soldiers’ faces when he returned with such a prize. A gorilla would keep them in meat for the rest of the week. And ensure he finally got some respect from the older boys who didn’t let him join in their games of football. “Here boy, don’t be shy,” he said.

  The sound had stopped. The boys looked at one another uncertainly, then at Toma. They turned in the direction his weapon was pointing. The menacing darkness of the jungle, were unknown and unknowable. On Toma’s forehead a tiny red dot, a pin-prick of crimson light. He couldn’t see it, wasn’t aware of it. The other boys saw it. Moved away from him, quietly as they could, towards the undergrowth. “Hey, where you all going, what are you . . . ” he didn’t finish his sentence.

  A strange hissing sound, then a whoosh and a crackle. Toma exploded into a ball of bright white light before their eyes, his scream engulfed in the flames, echoing in the night sky even after his body had been incinerated. The other boys watched, horrified, stunned. They had seen weapons, seen war wounds, seen limbs hacked from corpses, but they had also seen their enemy. Knew his face before he went on the attack. The thin hissing sound began again, the build up. This time the boys’ only reaction was panic, running for their lives into the trees. Too late. Ed Garner had decided to experiment with the settings on the new weapon. He broadened the width of the plasma pulse. A diameter of 25 metres, a wider flash, this time it lit up the jungle around him, a frozen moment of bright white light, like a still from a black and white film, the bodies of young boys caught mid-flight. Then darkness.

  There was whimpering to his left, two voices. He switched to night vision. Two forms cowering behind the trunk of a tree. Children, he thought in disgust, raising his side arm and emptying three bullets into each of them. He made a mental note of the distance they were from him when he fired. Something for Centurion to work on, apparent ineffectiveness on the left-hand parabola. He scanned the jungle to the left and to the right. No other living forms. Just corpses.

  He turned to his troops and signalled for them to move out. Didn’t say a word. No time. Their stop-start march through the jungle was beginning again.

  High in the treetops Jumo breathed deeply. The hands he used to hold onto the branches were shaking uncontrollably, causing the leaves to rustle, the sound of a gentle breeze. He watched the shadowy forms below moving stealthily along the path. They didn’t look like any soldiers he had seen before. They were bigger, each one bulked out by a large pack on his back, the equipment he carried with him. And the way they moved, the stop-start motion, always wary, scanning the path ahead for trip wires, mines, enemy soldiers.

  Jumo shimmied down the tree. He knew another way back to the camp. A different path that would enable him to overtake them. These were his forests and he could find his
way faster than any other soldier, through the undergrowth and back to the camp, warn the general what was coming his way.

  50

  It was still dark when Jack awoke. The dawn was still a distant sliver of pale grey on the horizon, an idea taking shape, silent and unborn, not yet the clamouring chorus that greeted first light. Two hundred miles to the east, his father was already awake, inspecting the helicopter Spike had organised for him. He didn’t much like the look of it, if it had been made out of Lego it would have inspired more confidence. He had checked the tracking device twice in the night, an imprecise machine, almost out of range, the signal fluctuating and fading, hardly there at all, but he had nothing else to go on. Once they were in the air he should be able to home in on it, get closer to it, find his son.

  Jack shifted on the table, back aching, side aching, throat parched. The table creaked. He let his eyes get used to the dim light. A shadowy form nearby, the boy guarding the door. He had no way of knowing what time it was. If there was a moment to escape, this was it. The boy stirred, the sound of the table creaking, interrupting his sleep.

  “You wouldn’t mind getting me a glass of water would you old chap?” Jack said.

  “Huh?” the boy replied, still half asleep.

  “Never mind.” Jack said.

  Further down the corridor, Jumo banged heavily on the General’s door. Any fear he would normally have felt at disturbing the man in his sleep had been swamped by the adrenaline rushing through his blood. The door opened a crack. One of his Clement’s personal bodyguards peered warily through.

  “What do you want boy?” He hissed through stained yellow teeth.

  “Please sah, the General, I must report back.” The bodyguard took in the wild-eyed expression, the dilated pupils, the way the boy was out of breath and shaking.

  “What have you taken, been on the jungle brew? Chewing cocoa leaves? Whatever prank this is, it is not worth it. You should not always do what the older boys tell you to do. Nobody disturbs the General’s sleep.” He closed the door, disappeared from view.

  Jumo tapped at the door again, more insistently. “Sah, please sah, very important.”

  The guard opened the door, took a swipe at him.

  “I tell you once, I will not tell you again. Get out of here. You cannot disturb the general’s sleep.” Jumo ducked his punch and backed away towards the wall. The bodyguard stepped into the corridor, shaking his fist angrily and pulling a baton from his belt.

  “Get out of here, before I give you a proper beating.”

  The last time he had allowed someone to interrupt Clement’s sleep it was him that had received the beating. He watched in satisfaction as Jumo scuttled off down the corridor.

  Jumo shook his head at the man’s stupidity. The guard was as stupid at Toma, waving his gun at what he thought was a gorilla in the night. Why did the General employ such stupid people? He stood outside, looking up at the night sky, the first glimmer of grey dawn now visible above the canopy. This was a time to stand up for himself, not to run away. His mind made up he charged back into the house, up the stairs and flung himself at the General’s door. Hammered his fists as hard as could, called out “Emergency! Emergency!” He was sick of other people deciding what was and wasn’t the right thing to do.

  Gavin McCallister had reached the General’s runway, the broad strip of grey cut through the jungle like a concrete river. Over a mile long, it was an impressive and somehow ominous sight. The effort and expense required to construct and maintain it was a supreme act of will. For one brief moment, Gavin wondered whether the bosses at MI6 had underestimated their man. Anyone who could organise a building project on this scale in the heart of the jungle was likely to be able to organise an army.

  He signalled to the men to stay down. There would be some kind of surveillance. Even if it was just a pair of sleepy soldiers in the ramshackle wooden hut at the far end.

  “Right boys, I want these charges evenly spaced. We can stay on this side of the runway. The main purpose of these explosions is to simulate a sustained rocket attack, so we need them the last as long as possible. According to the GPS, the camp is only a couple of miles away and there’s a track to it. If you’re quick and we finish this before first light we can take the track. If not, we’ll be cutting a path through the undergrowth. Questions?”

  His men shook their heads, already unhitching the rucksacks that contained the explosives, checking the remote detonators.

  “Good, we’ll do this in pairs. One person to set the charges and another to keep look out.”

  Six kilometres away, close to the camp, Ed Garner wiped his brow with his sleeve. It was a hot and humid night, the backpacks heavy and unwieldy. The sweat that formed on his forehead kept running into his eyes, catching the end of his lashes. It was an arduous trek, slow going, the constant threat of landmines at the back of his mind and dawn not far off.

  There were two tall trees directly overlooking the camp. Good places from which to watch and listen. They needed to get in position while it was still dark, ensure they were well-covered.

  The banging on the door took its time to filter through Clement’s thick skull, through the whisky fumes and cigar smoke.

  “What is all this, what is going on?” He asked irritably, his eyes focusing on the unruly vision at the end of his bed. One of his bodyguards appeared to be holding a young boy by the scruff of his neck.

  “Sorry Sir, this boy has been trying to wake you all night. He rushed past me into your room but I caught him. I will be happy to beat him for you sir, if you wish to return to sleep.” The guard attempted to execute an untidy salute but was still holding onto Jumo, who was attempting to wriggle out of his grasp. Clement flicked the light switch, and the dull yellow bulb above the bed flickered to life, painting everything a sickly green. He scratched his head, frowned.

  “I know this boy. Sent him out earlier tonight into the jungle.” He said impatiently. “Let him go.” He turned to Jumo. “Now tell me boy, what is so important that it cannot wait till morning?” Jumo shook himself free from the guard’s grip.

  “Soldiers sir, heading to camp.” Clement sat upright smartly. Looked deep in the boy’s eyes. “How many?” He asked.

  “Five. Maybe more.” He thought back, ran through the scene in his mind, the dark figures passing below the tree. “No, five Sir, definitely.”

  “Did you see the uniform? Were they Ugandans?” Clement hacked up a heavy gob of phlegm as he said the word, spitting it smartly into an elephant’s foot umbrella stand, a relic of the previous owners. He had been expecting a raid from Ugandan forces for over a month now, their helicopters had been seen hovering over his camp and didn’t leave until he sent a volley of ground-to-air missiles in their direction. A waste of ammo as far as he was concerned.

  “Not Ugandans. Not like any jungle army Sir. More weapons. Big packs. Rich army.” Clement patted the boy on the head. Five soldiers, well-equipped, heading towards his camp. Didn’t make any sense. Only an elite division would be confident enough to walk through enemy territory in such small numbers. He knew the British and Americans liked to send in a small force, specialist troops using guerrilla tactics to spread panic through the enemy, but what the hell were they doing here? Was it even him they were after? There were plenty of other armed militias that might be the target.

  “Well done, you were right to wake me. I assume the other boys are keeping track of them?” Jumo swallowed hard, his large eyes blinked quickly.

  “No sir, I am afraid they did not make it. Dead Sir.” He tried to keep his voice from cracking but failed. Now he really had the General’s attention.

  “How?” He asked, getting up from the bed and pulling on his combat fatigues. Jumo hesitated. “How!” Clement shouted.

  “Burnt Sir. White fire. All of them. First Toma, then the rest. All at once.”

  “Flame thrower?” He asked, whipping his belt around his waist, buckling it tight unde
r his belly.

  “No. Just light. No petrol. And a noise like an insect in the fire. Crackling.” Clement frowned. The boy must be in shock. Blocking out details of the attack. Nothing else it could be other than a flame thrower.

  “And all of them dead?”

  “Yes sir, one shot. All of them dead.” Clement shook his head and turned to the guard. “Bring Uko here. And rouse the soldiers, tell them to ready themselves.”

  51

  Jack had heard the commotion in the corridor, wondered what was going on, he got up to have a look but the boy waved his gun at him. He looked nervous enough to use it. Gustav burst through the door, barely cast a glance at the guard, pushing him to one side.

  “Come with me. Monsieur Blanc’s orders. I’m taking you away from the camp.” Jack took in his dishevelled appearance, the dark rings round his eyes, heavy from whiskey consumed the night before.

  “Now Jack, now!” He said impatiently, pulling him by the shoulder and off the bed. Jack ducked out of his grasp. “Why, what’s happening?” He asked, backing away from Gustav, suddenly suspicious.

  “Something’s going on. A disturbance in the camp.” Jack ran to the window. Outside the soldiers were moving, darting across the camp, dark figures at the edge of dawn. Checking equipment, shifting supplies across the courtyard.

  “Most of them don’t normally get up before midday, so something must be up.” Gustav said, “and I am leaving now whether you are coming or not, it was not my idea to take you with us.” Jack frowned, something in the man’s bearing made him more believable, an urgency to his movements.