World War Moo: An Apocalypse Cow Novel

by Michael Logan

  He’d come late to marriage and to fatherhood. He’d always focused on his career, first as a barrister and then as an MP, and had never thought he would meet somebody he could commit to. Then, at a party, a woman with black hair down to her waist and eyes you could lose yourself in came up to him. By way of introduction, she rubbed the top of his scalp and said she loved a man with a high forehead. They married within the year and she was pregnant instantly. Vanessa was born when he was forty-four and Margot was forty-two. It was a difficult birth—twenty-four hours in hospital that culminated in an emergency C-section—and at one point he thought they would both die. He’d almost lost them then; five years later he would have lost them again had it not been for the intervention of Spock. He had no intention of letting it be third time unlucky.

  He imagined Vanessa waking in her cot as jets roared overhead and the ground shook. He saw fire billow in the window, roaring up to the ceiling and engulfing the bed as his daughter screamed for him to save her. He clenched his fists, but this time he did not search for Spock. This wasn’t unfocused viral rage looking for an excuse. It was the justified anger of a parent whose child was threatened. Amira believed the world could be convinced of their humanity. He doubted that. The soldiers who killed the refugees in boats were close enough to see they were still people. It didn’t stop them. As for the civilian population, any shrinking violet could watch a thousand people killed in Batman or Die Hard so long as the deaths weren’t graphically portrayed. If they didn’t put close-ups of the burning bodies on television, everybody could accept the death of millions of infected as the price that had to be paid for their safety. They would all just be statistics, even his innocent little daughter.

  Last year, during a drunken conversation in the MPs’ bar, somebody had asked him a question about his opposition to the drone strikes on terrorists that often caused civilian casualties. The question was, “If somebody held a knife to your daughter’s throat and said they would cut it unless you pressed a button that would kill one hundred strangers, people whose pain you will never see or feel, would you do it?” He’d prevaricated at the time, saying it was an impossible choice. Now he realized that if it really came down to choosing between the lives of faceless strangers and the lives of Vanessa and Margot, he wouldn’t hesitate.

  Putting off the call to Glen he knew he must make, Tony went back through to the other room and wrapped his arms around Margot. He squeezed her so tightly she let out a little gasp.

  “Are you okay?” she said.

  “I’m fine,” he said, laying his head on her lap so she couldn’t see his face. He couldn’t tell her what he was thinking about doing. She would try to talk him out of it. Glen had said it would take around two weeks to get everything ready, and then it would be down to Tony to give him the nod. If he said yes to Glen, he would still have time to find another way. If the others failed to deliver on the slim hopes they offered, the missile would be ready should they have to use it.

  He was still holding Margot tightly and felt her breathing quicken. Her hand reached under his shirt and stroked his back.

  “There is one other positive you didn’t mention,” she said.

  “And what’s that?”

  “More shagging,” she said, and bit his neck.

  Even though his head was not remotely in a place to have sex, his body responded—as it always had since the virus took over. Soon they were naked and on the floor. Tony entered his wife; they both gasped. His balls contracted and he felt that telling preorgasm tingle. He withdrew slightly and held his breath until the feeling passed. Unbidden, the image of another phallic object rose in his mind, and he grasped the obvious fact that had been staring him in the face all day as he agonized over whether to give Glen the go-ahead.

  “Just because you have a payload, it doesn’t mean you have to fire it,” he said.

  “Seriously, are you okay?” Margot said. “You’re acting really weird tonight.”

  “Oh, I’m totally fine,” Tony said.

  Viral missiles would be the ultimate deterrent. The world’s armies might risk a nuke or two for the sake of eradicating the virus, but there would be no point in dropping bombs if the consequence was the definite release of the virus the attack was aimed at neutralizing. Those missiles would guarantee their safety. He would call Glen and tell him to start preparing, although initially he wouldn’t reveal he had no intention of firing the missile. That would only piss him off. Nor could he tell Piers the good news, for Britain at least, until the submarine was out at sea—it was likely their satellites would spot activity at Faslane and figure out the submarines were being refitted, which would risk the missiles being targeted. He would have to keep pursuing the other avenues offered by Tim and Amira to mollify the international community until the missile was ready. For the first time, he began to believe he really could save this country.

  He began to move again, gently this time. Margot responded in kind.

  FIFTEEN DAYS TO EXCISION

  12

  Half asleep in the heat blasting through the rolled-down window of the Land Rover, Geldof didn’t notice the cows until they were upon him. When the first large head loomed by the side of the car—long tongue lasciviously exploring a nostril, one stubby horn tapping off the bodywork—he scrambled across his seat and knocked the hand of his driver, Mwangi, as he shifted gear. The engine stalled just as the long line of cars ahead lurched forward, prompting an instantaneous blaring chorus of horns.

  Heart thudding, Geldof scrabbled for the button to raise the window. The cow regarded him with watery, incurious eyes as the window snicked shut. A tall man with stretched lobes looped over the tops of his ears flicked at its behind with a thin stick. The cow walked off at the head of a ragged line of scrawny compatriots and bent down to munch on wild grass growing from a roadside ditch. Now awake enough to remember that the virus had not spread to this part of the world, Geldof let out a shaky breath.

  “Sorry,” he said to Mwangi, who’d got the engine going and was fending off the cars trying to squeeze into the gap his momentary panic had created.

  “You are afraid of cows?”

  “Just the horny ones,” Geldof said.

  Mwangi laughed, his round face splitting to display yellow teeth. “They all have horns.”

  Too jittery to correct the misunderstanding, Geldof kept silent. He’d caught an overnight Kenya Airways flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi, and his reaction was largely down to sitting up all night reading the copy of Lesley’s book he’d purchased in Schiphol Airport. The threat of the cows was fresh in his mind once more. At least now he knew why Jelena had thought him brave. Lesley’s tale, while built around true events, portrayed all of them in an unrealistically positive light. There was much stoic gritting of teeth and heroic taking of tough decisions as they fought their way through the country to bring the truth to the world. He supposed it made for a better story; all the same he felt a little icky at the manipulation of facts.

  He put the book out of his mind and concentrated on the exotic city they were travelling through. Mwangi, a fixer hired by his grandfather, had picked him up in the shiny new Land Rover and driven them down a long highway past the wide-open plains of Nairobi National Park. The park, Mwangi had informed him, was full of lions, hippos, crocodiles, giraffes, wildebeest, and other hulking animals. It was just as well the virus hadn’t come to Kenya: there were far too many dangerous beasts on the loose already.

  They gathered speed once Mwangi cleared a four-car prang, around which the drivers huddled, chatting into their phones and making no attempt to sort out the blockage. The campaigning of his namesake, Bob Geldof, had prepared him for a montage of poverty: ruined shacks, snotty-nosed kids in rags, fly-blown faces, and swollen bellies. Contrary to his expectations, they were cutting through factories, shiny hotels, shopping malls, and the tower blocks of the city center. Sure, the traffic was chaotic, old buses pooted out large plumes of black smoke, massive hunch-backed birds brooded on
acacia trees by the roadside, and people streamed everywhere on foot. But he got no sense of a city defined by desperation. Nor, despite all of the media stories about the terrorism threat in the East African nation, did anybody try to lob a grenade into his car.

  Once they reached the hotel, his media- and Bob Geldof–driven expectations were confounded further. The Sankara was an ultramodern, ultraposh slice of glass and steel stuffed with spas, bars, and restaurants that overlooked a shopping mall. He checked in and handed Mwangi a thick packet containing background documents on the mission he was in Nairobi to set in motion. Mwangi, promising to return for him at ten that evening, set off to deliver the package to the mercenary to allow him time to gather his thoughts. In an era of instantaneous global communication, it felt strange to be using such an old-fashioned method of passing on information, but this was the way the mercenary preferred to do business.

  Up in his sleek, minimalist room, Geldof lay down on his bed and tried to catch up on the sleep he’d missed. He couldn’t quiet his whirring mind. Provided the mercenaries were insane enough to agree to enter a country in which every man, woman, child, and animal would want to kill them, Geldof would soon be with his mum again.

  * * *

  The dance floor in Black Diamond, a bar on a busy strip jammed with neon lights and nightclubs, was a gyrating tangle of young women with sweat-slicked black skin and achingly beautiful faces. Geldof was having some difficulty figuring out why so many of them had chosen as their dance partners old white men with beer guts, bright-red faces, and saggy necks like turkey wattles. Some of the men even danced like turkeys, unsure on their skinny little legs and pecking their chins forward with their hands on their hips. The old turkeys and young chicks were moving to a live band flying through some rock number Geldof faintly recognized. Those not dancing were knocking back drinks in the dimly lit bar, talking and laughing or tapping away on their smartphones without a care in the world. Again, this was not the Africa of Bob Geldof: sure, no rain or rivers were flowing here, but the booze certainly was.

  He nodded at the dance floor. “Why are those girls dancing with those men? They’re a bit old.”

  “They’re working.”

  “You mean they’re barmaids?”

  Mwangi let out a hoot of laughter, which he did often and with little provocation. “Prostitutes. Or girls looking to find a sugar daddy.”

  Geldof gaped at the revelry anew. The only time he’d seen a prostitute was in Glasgow, when a snaggletoothed old crone had pounced out of a doorway to bray “Business!” at him as he walked through the city center one early evening. This was about as far from such seediness, both in terms of furtiveness and physical attractiveness, as it was possible to be.

  “But it’s so open,” he said.

  “Karibu Kenya,” Mwangi said, grasping Geldof’s wrist. “Come, let’s get a drink.”

  Geldof settled at a table on the balcony. He peered down at the cars jostling for parking spaces amid groups of baton-wielding security guards as Mwangi waved over a waitress. Geldof got busy digging out the fake ID he’d had made in Dubrovnik. She didn’t even look twice at him and returned a few minutes later with two Tuskers. Geldof took a tiny sip of the sweet beer. Mwangi nudged him and pointed at the door leading between balcony and dance floor. The man who stood there was so broad his shoulders almost brushed either side of the doorway. A black, short-sleeved shirt revealed forearms corded with muscle, although his jeans were cinched beneath a protruding belly. He looked like he could crumple up Geldof and toss him aside like a piece of paper. Strong body aside, his face betrayed no sign of his profession. He had a weak chin, feminine lips, and eyes crinkled with laughter lines. It was as if he’d undergone a head transplant; somewhere out there would be a thin, weak-bodied man—a clerk or traffic warden—with a grizzled, battle-scarred face. Adding to the incongruity was the girly drink, pink in hue and slopping around in an ornate glass, clutched in his right hand.

  Geldof knew the face was misleading. His grandfather had told him all about the man he would be hiring. His name was Andy Scholz, a South African who’d served in 32 Battalion—a group of soldiers who earned the nickname “The Terrible Ones” during South Africa’s border wars with Namibian and Angolan forces. Scholz had excelled, gaining medals and promotion to captain for his planning skills and cool under fire. Once the force was disbanded in 1993, many of the soldiers went on to form mercenary groups. Scholz set up on his own, fighting in dozens of conflicts and carrying out one shady gig for the coffee magnate. In 1998, when South Africa banned mercenaries from operating from its soil, Scholz shifted to Nairobi: according to Grandfather Carstairs, officials were easier to bribe there, and Kenya was closer to the action now that southern Africa was quieter. He was not a man to be trifled with.

  As Geldof battled to slow his quickened pulse, Mwangi got up and met the mercenary halfway to the table. After a quick conversation Geldof couldn’t hear above the blaring racket of the band, Mwangi wandered off to start chatting to one of the prostitutes. Scholz sat down across from Geldof.

  “So you’re the progeny, heh?” he said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re that old bastard’s grandson. You don’t look like him.”

  Unsure how to respond to such an opening, Geldof held out his hand. “I’m Geldof.”

  “Like the wizard?”

  “No, Geldof. Like the scraggly old Irishman.”

  “Jesus Christ. That’s worse,” the mercenary said, taking the offered palm and giving it a firm squeeze that indicated there was a lot more power lurking in those fingers. “I’m Andy Scholz. You can call me Scholzy. Tell me, how are you enjoying the delights of Nairobi?”

  Geldof shot another glance at the girls and tried to paint a worldly look upon his face. “I’ve not been here long enough to enjoy them properly.”

  “Well, let’s get business out of the way first and maybe you’ll get the chance.”

  Geldof took a deep breath. Even though no other mercenaries were in the frame, his grandfather had been very clear that he shouldn’t seem too keen. He’d been instructed to ask some probing questions, so he stuck to the only script he knew: that taken from his unsuccessful interview for a part-time job in a small newsagents’ booth in Partick train station.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” he said. “We’ve got a few people to talk to about this. Perhaps you can start by telling me why you want this job.”

  Scholzy crossed his arms. “I didn’t say I wanted it. You came to me.”

  Geldof shifted in his seat. “Okay. What’s your greatest strength?”

  “Doing bad things for money.”

  Already this wasn’t going terribly well, which wasn’t surprising considering he was looking to employ a man to stage a raid in the world’s most dangerous country, not stock shelves with Mars Bars. In the absence of another plan, he ploughed on with his questions. “Perhaps you could outline your relevant experience?”

  “Your grandfather knows what we can do.”

  “I’m not my grandfather,” Geldof said, narrowing his eyes into what he hoped was a mean squint.

  “I can see that,” Scholzy said. “Let me put it this way: Simon Mann and Nick du Toit are babes in the woods compared to us.”

  Geldof’s research on mercenaries had largely involved downloading Frederick Forsyth’s The Dogs of War and watching a DVD of The Wild Geese, both of which Google alerted him to when he was searching for appropriate literature. However, he’d also read some old articles about real-life cases and recognized the names as the men caught planning the botched Equatorial Guinea coup Mark Thatcher was involved in. “I’ve heard of them. How come I’ve never heard of you?”

  Scholzy leaned across the table. Geldof flinched as the hard gaze met his. “We’ve overthrown dictators and democratically elected presidents; we’ve put down rebel uprisings; we’ve rescued hostages from Somali pirates; we’ve done just about every dirty and downright dangerous operation you can thin
k of. Nobody knows who we are because we never get caught. If you want something done, we’re your men.”

  As it often did when he was nervous, Geldof’s mouth merrily skipped out of reach of his brain, shot him the finger, and blurted out something utterly stupid in an attempt to introduce some levity it idiotically thought was needed. “I suppose you’re better than the A-Team as well.”

  Amazingly, instead of plucking out Geldof’s Adam’s apple to use as a grisly cocktail cherry in his drink, Scholzy let out a snort of laughter. “You’re damn right. The A stands for amateurs.”

  Encouraged by the response, Geldof pushed a little further in an attempt to build up some rapport. “So you can make an armored car in half an hour with just a blowtorch, a beat-up old truck, some scrap iron, and a couple of bolts?”

  “No. But we do manage to kill people every now and then,” Scholzy said, no longer smiling. “You’ve had your little joke. Time to stop dicking around. I’ve looked at your briefing. I’ll need a team of four. One week to prepare. We’ll be in and out in three days.”

  “Really?” Geldof said, unable to hide how impressed he was with the deadpan response. “You’re not concerned about the whole infection thing?”

  “We’ll have guns. Anybody tries to bite me, I’ll shoot his bloody teeth out through the back of his head.”

  “And it’ll really just take one week to prepare? I thought it would be a few months. Don’t you need to buy weapons, forge certificates, move money through Swiss bank accounts, all that kind of thing?”

  “You’ve been reading The Dogs of War, heh?”