Tenth Man Down gs-4

by Chris Ryan

  From close beside me, on my right, Phil uttered a strangled curse. I sensed he was on the point of erupting. With his temper, he might thump the Kamangan commander any second.

  I turned towards him, silently mouthed ‘For fuck’s sake!’, and then said out loud, ‘I’m not giving orders. I’m talking about common courtesy.’

  ‘Courtesy!’ yelled Joss, struggling to his feet again. ‘The best courtesy you could show would be to get back to UK, pronto.’

  Still I held my cool. ‘If that’s what you want, fine. We’ll start tomorrow. But I don’t think President Bakunda will be very chuffed if our assignment ends prematurely just because you can’t keep your temper.’

  The hands on the table top were clenching and unclenching. Beads of sweat were standing out all over the man’s forehead. I stared at him, amazed that he could have changed so completely in such a short time.

  He took a deep breath, sat down again, and asked, ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘Like I said, to speak to Boisset.’

  ‘All right. We’ll get him. But only in my presence. No private spying conversations.’ Over his left shoulder he gave a rapid order in Nyanja, and the corporal departed for the inner machine sheds.

  I almost added, ‘I’ll talk to him anywhere I bloody well like,’ but I bit it back, and asked, ‘While we’re waiting, how many men did the rebels lose in the attack?’

  ‘Twenty-seven,’ came the prompt answer.

  ‘All black?’

  ‘Twenty-five black, two white.’

  ‘Including the man shot just now?’

  He nodded.

  ‘No other prisoners?’

  A shake of the head.

  ‘What about the other whites?’

  ‘They got away. But we found where they’d been living. Over there.’ He gestured towards the bungalow.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Seven or eight.’

  ‘South Africans?’

  He nodded.

  Suddenly, going over details of the battle, he had become reasonable again. But when I asked, ‘How many casualties on our side?’ he took offence once more.

  ‘What business is that of yours?’

  ‘I need a figure for my report.’

  ‘Damn your report! Anybody would think you were writing a history of Kamanga.’ His tone was humourless, bitter. I said nothing, waiting for him to continue. He glared at me a couple of times, and eventually said, ‘Four dead, and one flesh wound.’

  ‘Pretty good,’ I suggested. ‘What have you done with the bodies?’

  ‘Buried them.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘You have to, in this heat.’

  ‘With the bulldozer?’

  He nodded.

  On our way in I’d noticed that the bulldozer was in exactly the same position as when the assault started, but I said nothing. Instead I asked, ‘When’s the plane from Mulongwe due?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with you?’

  ‘I wondered if we could put the South African woman on it, to go back? We need to get rid of her somehow.’

  ‘Why can’t she stay here with us? We can look after her.’

  ‘She’s wanting out, and her ankle needs treatment. The plane would be best.’

  ‘It depends on the pilot. He may not want to take her.’

  ‘Can’t you order him to?’

  ‘Hey, I said it already!’ Suddenly he was screaming again. ‘Stop telling me what to do!’

  ‘I asked a question, that was all. What time’s the plane?’

  ‘Ten in the morning.’

  ‘What aircraft?’

  ‘C-130.’

  I nodded. A big plane. An idea came to me. If Joss really wanted us out, our whole team could take passage and be back in Mulongwe by evening. If necessary we could bin our vehicles and go. Get Whinger to hospital that way. But I reckoned that such a suggestion might send the Kamangan ballistic, so instead I asked, ‘Any clue about the involvement of the South Africans?’

  ‘That fellow wouldn’t talk. Only this.’ He riffled through the pile of paper on his desk and slid one A4-size white sheet towards me. ‘We found this in their kit.’ The sheet was blank, except for a name and address printed discreetly in grey lettering across the bottom: INTERACTION, PO BOX 1189, JOHANNESBURG, S.A.

  The name gave me a jolt. I knew the firm was one of the biggest private military contractors operating in Africa; it had contacts at the highest level in many countries, and in terms of international law it often sailed dangerously close to the wind. I remembered furious rows about its activities in Sierra Leone, Angola and other places. Was it being supported by the Foreign Office in Whitehall, or was it not? The issue had never been clear. Although nominally based in South Africa, Interaction was run from an office in London by a former army officer called Mackenzie. When one of the papers reported that he’d been a member of the Regiment, he never bothered to deny it, but in fact he’d no more been in the SAS than he’d visited the moon.

  Glancing sideways, I saw Phil grappling with the same thought as me, that if Muende had hired guys from Interaction to bolster the rebels, it confirmed what I already suspected: there was something bigger going on than either Joss or President Bakunda realised. And if the firm was involved, we might find ourselves up against former American SEALs or even old and bold ex-SAS, because Interaction was exactly the sort of company guys of that calibre would work for after they’d left the forces.

  What I should have said was that if Alpha Commando was about to run into opposition of this calibre, they were going to need us more than ever. But because the atmosphere had become so scary, I was thinking, well, if Joss wants to fight Interaction on his own, fucking good luck to him. I’d rather not get involved against people from our own background. All I said, casually, was, ‘Oh yeah, I’ve heard of these people. They supply private armies — weapons and stuff.’

  My train of thought was broken by the reappearance of Boisset, who came shuffling out from the back at quite a lively pace. In the few hours since I’d seen him his face seemed to have filled out and coloured up slightly. He looked less like a living skeleton, more likely to survive.

  I tried to sound relaxed as I asked him, ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Not bad. We make some progress. One big emergency generator is running, at least.’

  ‘Great! I wanted to ask something. Have you heard of a place called Msisi?’

  ‘Certainement. It is a Catholic mission, run by the Poor Clares.’

  ‘And where is it?’

  ‘Down river, about sixty kilometres.’

  ‘You’ve been there?’

  ‘Once, yes.’

  ‘What sort of a place?’

  ‘Quite small. A few buildings above the river.’

  ‘On a cliff?’

  ‘C’est ça.’

  I glanced at Joss to see how he was enjoying this private conversation. In the state he was, I thought he might take offence at the fact that I was ignoring him. Luckily, he seemed bored by my questions, and had started talking to his corporal again. Better still, when one of his junior officers appeared in the open doorway and called him, he got up and walked out.

  I waited till he was clear, then asked, ‘This mission, is it a hospital?’

  ‘A small one, yes. It is funded by the Red Cross.’

  ‘Which side of the river?’

  ‘The north side. Opposite of here.’

  ‘Is there any bridge, any means of crossing?’

  Boisset shook his head. ‘Not for many kilometres.’

  ‘So how would we reach it from here?’

  ‘First, you cross over here to the north bank, by the pontoon. Then there is a road… there was a road, a track. You have a map?’

  ‘Here.’ I pulled our good map out of the thigh pocket of my DPMs and spread it on Joss’s table.

  It took the Belgian a minute to find his bearings; then he pointed with a long, black fingernail, and said, ‘We are here, above the
big bend in the river. Non?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Yes. Here is Gutu. And Msisi must be here.’ Again he pointed to a spot on the river. ‘You go along the north side of the river, past the so-called Zebra Pans. Yes, here.’ He indicated two small oblongs coloured light green, in the middle of brown surroundings. ‘Areas of flood in the rains, but dry now.’

  ‘And the road?’

  ‘Only a bush track. It leads round the south side of the pans, between them and the bank of the river. Perhaps it is grown over by now. But once you have found it, you need only follow it. In the end you will see a hill, with the mission on top. White buildings, with big mahogany trees growing round them.’

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You go to Msisi now?’

  ‘We may try tomorrow. One of our guys has got burnt and needs treatment.’

  ‘Ah yes, the Poor Clares will treat him.’

  Joss had reappeared in the doorway, still talking.

  ‘François,’ I said, in a low voice. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  Boisset gave another shrug. ‘He is very angry.’

  ‘You’ve said it. But why? Is he on drugs or something? He’s behaving like a lunatic.’

  ‘Maybe he does not like Gutu, the mine. He prefers to be somewhere else.’

  Who wouldn’t? I thought. I just had time to ask, ‘The bulldozer. Is it working?’

  Boisset shook his head. ‘Mais non. Ça ne marche pas. It will not go for many days. The fuel pipes are all shot through with bullets.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  Joss was back, swaying, no less aggressive. ‘Finished your private conversation yet?’

  ‘Sure.’ I nodded. ‘If there’s nothing we can do here, we’ll be getting back to camp.’

  ‘Get back to camp. Stay in camp. I don’t want to see you here any more.’

  Did he mean today, or any day? I wasn’t going to ask. I shot Boisset a glance and saw consternation on his face. He, too, was baffled by this head-on hostility.

  ‘Come on,’ I said to Phil, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘We’ll have another chat in the morning, when the temperature’s lower.’ Turning to Boisset, I said, ‘Thanks for your help. Be seeing you.’

  With that I swung round and walked out. No thank you to Joss, no goodbye. If I’d had FUCK YOU written across my back in big white capitals, my message couldn’t have been clearer. As we headed for the gate I tensed myself, half expecting somebody to open fire on us from behind. Going through the strongpoint I muttered to Phil, ‘The bastards never buried anybody. They must have thrown the bodies in the river.’

  Even when we were in dead ground behind the hummocks, I was uncomfortable. Only when the surly boatmen had landed us on the north bank of the river did I start to feel safe.

  Reading my thoughts, Phil said, ‘If we sank the pontoon or cut it loose, at least we’d confine the buggers to the far side.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I went. ‘That might delay them, but it would really strop them up. I can imagine a couple of kamikaze swimmers braving the crocs to come over with special orders to take us out.’

  We’d been expecting the resupply that evening; now it wasn’t due until the morning. If a fresh infantry unit had come in, I’d have felt a lot safer: reinforcements might have calmed Joss down and made him feel more secure. As things stood, the situation looked so threatening that I changed our plans. It certainly wasn’t safe to remain where we were: we might easily end up getting our throats cut by our nominal allies. So, instead of staying in camp with the Kamangans, we used the last hour of daylight to hive off our own vehicles and equipment and shift to a new site a kilometre away, higher up the hill. There we set up a defensive position and staked out the approaches with trip-wires.

  Ever since our showdown with Joss, my mind had been on the witch doctor and his bones. The death of the South African mercenary brought the score of white casualties to four. I didn’t bring the subject up with any of my mates, because I knew they’d think I was becoming obsessed. All the same, it wouldn’t go away.

  With Whinger out of action, we were down to eight fit men. By the time dark fell, I wasn’t the only one feeling apprehensive. We’d put three guys out on stag, watching possible routes to our location, in touch by covert radio to give us early warning of anyone approaching. That left only five to hold a Chinese parliament on what we should do.

  Once we’d got some food down our necks, we gathered round Whinger’s cot so that he could join the discussion. With a big piece of gauze stuck over the right side of his face, and his arm and leg swathed in bandages, he showed up well in the dark. He was cursing steadily with the pain, but it chuffed everyone to have him with us.

  Pavarotti, Chalky and Mart were on the first stag, so round the prostrate Whinger were Phil, Genesis, Stringer and Danny. The woman had eaten in the back of the seven-tonner, and I’d told her on no account to leave it. The arrangement suited all parties. Without quite putting it into words, she’d managed to give the impression that she didn’t like being at close quarters with a group of dirty, sweaty soldiers. As for us, we were chuffed to have her out of earshot.

  ‘All right,’ I kicked off. ‘How does anyone feel about binning the task and going home?’

  ‘Won’t the shit hit the fan if we do?’ Stringer asked.

  ‘Well, we’re supposed to give Alpha Commando six weeks. We haven’t completed three yet. But because Joss has gone bananas, there’s a strong case for pulling out right away.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the guy?’ asked Danny.

  ‘You tell me. He’s on something powerful, for sure.’

  ‘He’s gone round the fucking bend,’ said Phil. ‘You should have heard him yelling insults.’

  ‘What did you do to annoy him?’

  ‘Nothing. That was it.’ Phil was full of indignation. ‘We didn’t give him the slightest hassle. It was as if the battle had got to him. The sight and scent of blood put him right over the edge.’

  ‘You really think he might send guys to top us?’ Danny sounded incredulous.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ I went. ‘Like Phil says, he wasn’t making sense. He was just mouthing off. But even if he was still on-side, I reckon we’re too bloody close to the war zone to carry on as we have been. In fact, we’re in the war zone. If we carry on any further, we won’t be training the silveries any more, we’ll be fighting their campaign for them.’

  ‘You’ve got a point,’ Stringer agreed. ‘After today, training’ll be too fucking dangerous. While our attention’s tied up trying to get some discipline into these bastards, we could get attacked.’

  ‘Yeah,’ went Genesis. ‘Caught with our pants down.’

  ‘Christ!’ exclaimed Phil. ‘Just as we’re getting to grips with these arseholes of rebels. Why don’t we whack a few more of them?’

  ‘Come on!’ Gen needled him. ‘You’ve had a good blast-off today. Won’t that satisfy your blood lust for a bit?’

  There was silence except for the crickets and the odd shot from the direction of the mine. Then Whinger croaked, ‘It’s unlike you, Geordie, wanting to chicken out.’

  ‘You didn’t hear Joss carrying on,’ I told him. ‘It was horrific. I’m not chicken. I’m just trying to be realistic.’

  ‘All right,’ he persisted. ‘So what are we going to do? Tell the Kremlin we don’t like it?’

  ‘I’m not doing anything unless everyone agrees.’ I looked round the darkened faces. ‘Usual drill. We need a majority verdict. It’s just our silvery friends are starting to behave like fucking apes. If you’d seen them shoot that guy…’

  ‘Let’s all of us go down in the morning and give Joss a right bollocking,’ Phil suggested.

  ‘That’d send him totally ballistic.’

  ‘What if we do carry on?’ Stringer asked. ‘What’s next on the agenda?’

  ‘When the aircraft comes in with the relief garrison, Joss’s guys are supposed to hand the mine over to
them,’ I said. ‘Then, in theory, they’ll be free to move on, and we’re supposed to go with them.’

  ‘To?’

  ‘Good question. The next enemy base is reported to be at Kapani. That’s a town about three days south of here. On another river. The objective is the bridge bringing the main road in from the south. If Alpha can capture that, or cut it, they’ll have a stranglehold on the rebels’ main supply route. I was planning to carry on with them at least as far as that.’

  ‘Help them plan that attack, too,’ went Phil.

  ‘That’s the obvious option.’

  ‘And what if we quit?’ Stringer persisted.

  ‘We piss off back to Mulongwe under our own steam.’

  ‘HMG wouldn’t like that,’ went Whinger. ‘What if Muende gets the upper hand, takes over the uranium mines and starts shipping the stuff to Gadaffi? Then we’d look a right bunch of pricks.’

  ‘Too bad,’ I said. ‘What does anyone think?’

  Stringer began to say something, but before he got it out Genesis asked, ‘What about the woman? She’s hell-bent on getting to the convent at Msisi.’

  ‘Don’t I fucking know it,’ I told him. ‘But we can’t head that way. If we’re splitting with Alpha, we need to get our arses away to the north pronto.’

  ‘Don’t you think we ought to go and check things?’ Gen persisted. ‘I mean, if there’s twelve holy sisters there, they could be in trouble.’

  I looked at our walking bible and saw him staring into the darkness. Obviously he was fancying the chance of visiting a religious retreat and helping the nuns out. That’d give him a bigger kick than shagging them.

  ‘What are Poor Clares, anyway?’ I asked, playing for time.

  ‘They’re Franciscan nuns,’ he replied, immediately. ‘Named after St Clare of Assisi, who was a disciple of St Francis. They lead a life of prayer and spend most of their days in silence.’

  Phil was fanning himself with one hand in sarcastic appreciation of such great knowledge. ‘What the fuck do we do when we get there?’ he demanded. ‘Sing a few hymns, dig in, and spend the next six months defending the holy sisters, without talking to anybody?’

  ‘They may be wanting out,’ said Gen. ‘We might need to organise an airlift.’