by Peter Tonkin
Ivan slept little, his head whirling with worries about his missing men, his increasingly drunken and difficult boss, and the mess he seemed to have made of his relationship with his boss’s tempestuous daughter, for whom he was rediscovering feelings he had thought long dead.
Next morning began for Ivan and his companions with a quick service for the missing man which Max chivvied along impatiently enough to alienate the popular sergeant’s friends, followed by an even quicker breakfast. Then they broke camp, went back aboard and sailed on. Ivan was aboard Stalingrad with Max and Captain Zhukov. He started the voyage on the bridge with them, watching as the vista through the clear-view windows darkened – quite literally – in spite of the brightening day. It seemed to Ivan that the trees they were approaching would never stop growing. It was an optical illusion, he knew, but the nearer the drop-off approached, the more massive the palisade of tree trunks seemed to rise – as if they were being thrust up from the ground beneath, closing off the sky ahead as they did so. Sky which, in any case, was darkened by increasingly thick clouds of smoke blown north on the southerly wind, thick enough to dull even the noonday sun. What looked like a wooden wall with foundations of freshwater mangroves from a couple of kilometres out actually looked more like a sheer brown cliff close-up. A cliff with a massive overhang jutting out, seemingly just below the thickening smoke. What really disturbed him was the fact that the fifty-metre-high monsters near the south bank they were sailing along were all too obviously the small relations of the hundred-metre giants further inland – their simple scale seemingly enhanced by the fact that they stood on rising ground.
It came as a relief when Max reminded him that Mako was waiting to give his final briefing on survival and warfare in this particular jungle – and he needed to attend with his men. Max himself attended some of Mako’s talks, but by no means all of them. On the one hand, he considered himself the leader of the band bound up the tributary to the lake. On the other he saw no reason why he should burden himself with too many details when he was paying a great deal of money to men whose primary mission might be to get to the lake and secure it for Bashnev/Sevmash, but whose secondary mission, less than a short vershok behind of it, was to get Max safely up to the lake and back.
Mako’s lecture was beamed from Volgograd via a video link in a specially prepared section of the main handling area. Ivan’s men were seated there, looking expectantly at the big screen as though awaiting a re-run of Apocalypse Now. Mako appeared on screen almost immediately after Ivan arrived. ‘This has to be just about the last of these briefings, men,’ boomed the colonel. ‘Though I’ll deliver a final pep talk when we disembark. Remember, we got enough clear feedback from Mr Asov’s original overflight in the Kamov to be certain it would be a waste of time taking the Zubrs further than the mouth of the tributary. So we go on foot from there. The river is narrow, overgrown, treacherous and increasingly precipitous. We have to prepare for a hard walk in from where we disembark.’
It was not a lecture designed to raise morale, thought Ivan as he watched and listened, his concentration absolute. Then, when it was over, he led his men in applying what Mako had talked about – prioritizing what they had to carry with them, starting with their weaponry. When they had brought it through customs, it had seemed like biggest was best. Now it seemed that lighter was better. Especially when they had to reckon on carrying all the other stuff Mako had warned them they would likely need, starting with food and water. Even the hard men – like Ivan himself – trained to exist for days on end with nothing but rainwater and iron rations, found it hard to calculate what there might be to eat out there in the realm of the big trees. As opposed to what or who might be out there wanting to eat them.
The grim preparations were brought to a halt by the Zubrs’ arrival at the mouth of the black river they were going to follow inland and upslope to the lake on the volcano’s side. Leaving his men to complete their arrangements, Ivan went back up on to the bridge, where he found Max and Captain Zhukov looking grimly across a sullen heave of black mud as the massive Zubrs settled, side by side. On a screen beside the grim captain, shots from Max’s Kamov helicopter showed their landing place from above – and also revealed how swiftly the jungle closed over the black ribbon of the river rolling down towards it. How soon a flash of grey amid the overhanging green warned of the first set of rapids that barred the way to the Zubrs as effectively as the Victoria Falls.
The bank they were sitting on stuck out in a long, curving tongue, extended westwards by the flow of the black tributary river out into the main stream. On the left, looking north, pure black water swept out into the red of the main river like a stain. The wide surface of the Gir was marked with a line of oily darkness that dominated this side of it like a tarmacked road on a broad red desert. Beyond the far band of red, the distant bank heaved mistily. Dead ahead and near at hand, the low rise of black slime fell away into the mouth of the tributary itself, as wide and dark as the Moskva River flowing behind the Grand Palace of the Kremlin. The far bank was forested with the western fringes of the impenetrable jungle cover that reached to the top of Karisoke then away into Congo Libre beyond. On the left, the black river vanished into the first great stand of nearby trees. Grey ferns rose man-high between them but seemed to be as dwarfed as a well-trimmed steppe beneath a Siberian Pine. As short, thought Ivan grimly, as the grass behind the mill, where the doomed poet Lensky duelled with Eugene Onegin; or that beneath the January snow beside the Chyornaya Reka in St Petersberg, where Lensky’s creator and alter-ego Pushkin himself duelled with the French officer D’Anthes. Tragically fatal duels for both Lensky and Pushkin, of course.
Now what on earth had put all that in his mind? Ivan wondered grimly, turning away from the depressing scene. And then he realized. Chyornaya Reka meant Black River. And from then on, no matter what the locals called the stream connecting Lac Dudo to the great River Gir, it remained Chyornaya Reka – the Black River, to Ivan.
‘Come on, boy, stop dreaming,’ growled Max. ‘Time to get moving.’
Ivan shrugged off the sense of depression that had been threatening to overwhelm him and joined Max. Side by side they ran down to their cabins and collected the kit they had prepared. Or rather, Ivan collected what he had prepared. Max collected what had been prepared for him. It looked bulky but was relatively light. It pandered to his post-Putin macho but was designed to give him an easy ride. Ivan’s was the real deal, all thirty kilos and more of it. As were the metre-long, razor-sharp blades of the matchets that went on their left hips, and the nine-millimetre Grach side arms they both strapped on their right. Then they went on to the main area and exited down the forward ramp.
The tongue of mud felt and smelt even worse than it looked, though it was unexpectedly dry underfoot. The whole atmosphere seemed impossibly humid and the men were soaked with sweat immediately. The river stank like fish left rotting. The jungle stank, as though a couple of White Sea factory ships had emptied their gutting holds into the place.
Mako kept his final briefing short, then he and Ivan led their fifty men into the jungle, with Max between them, apparently in command. Behind them, the Russians fell into their prearranged order. Communications men next in line. Point men ready to go forward on Mako’s signal. Flank men with matchets and side arms at the ready. Pack horses in the middle and the afterguard warily behind. All of them creeping forward, overcome by the sheer scale of the environment they were creeping into, moving between the massive tree trunks like ants in a cathedral.
Mako’s wise eyes spotted a makeshift track at once and he led his silent men along it, happy to take the lead himself while the awestruck Russians came to terms with the reality in which they found themselves. Ivan kept up with him, but Max for once began to fall behind, weighed down by the atmosphere more effectively than he was by the load of his Bergen. It was Mako and Ivan who walked into the clearing first, therefore. It was large enough to accommodate all of the Russians and, had anyone other than these
two been in charge it might well have done so. As it was, they were not quite quick enough to understand exactly what confronted them, and so a good deal of damage was done which might have been avoided had Anastasia or Richard been in charge.
On the far side of the clearing stood the tall trunk of a dead tree. Time and the overpowering growth of its super-competitive offspring had beheaded it so that branches and splinters of its original greatness lay scattered underfoot. But no one was really paying much attention to what they were walking on, because of what they were looking at.
There was a body crucified on the dead and rotting trunk. The body of a man, dressed from the waist down in camouflage and boots. From the waist up it was hard to tell precisely what he was wearing because he was covered in a crawling carapace of flies. Even his head was just a shapeless black mass at once hanging deathly still against his chest and at the same time busily swarming with insects, and a halo of them hovering just above, waiting to join the feast. Mako and Ivan walked forward, mesmerized by the horror, and by the time they thought to call a halt, the first fifteen or so of their troops were in the clearing behind them.
Then the crucified figure shuddered. The head came up, skull slamming back against the trunk behind it with enough force to dislodge the flies for an instant. And they saw that it was Livitov’s missing companion, Sergeant Sandor Abramovitch Brodski.
Ivan knew then. He grabbed Max by the back of his Bergen and jerked him sideways, twisting desperately to move the pair of them out of the clearing and fall on him at the same time. ‘BOMB!’ he shouted at the top of his voice, and he felt Mako also hurling sideways after him so that the pair of them landed on top of Max and the three of them were given some sort of protection by the trunk of the nearest tree.
And just in time. Brodski exploded just as Livitov had done. But he was not spun off line by an attacking leopard. The force of the explosive strapped to his chest and the shrapnel packed so carefully around it scythed precisely as it had been designed to do into the front rank of the Russians. The men carrying the portable radios were all wiped out. The leading load bearers with their heavy packs of camping equipment, food and water, soaked up the rest of the terrible power. The point men and the flank men, warned by Ivan’s shout, had hurled themselves sideways into the shelter of the bush. And the rearguard automatically spread out to watch over those who were left.
Then, for an instant, there was silence, except for the echoes of the explosion which chased each other up towards Karisoke itself. And stillness, but for the blizzard of burning leaves and branches that tumbled down from a hundred feet above their heads.
Charge
Anastasia had never seen Richard take charge of a difficult situation before. Robin had, of course, but even she was still secretly impressed. Richard’s campaign of decision-making began the instant that the bad news started to arrive. First, from the Central Police Station in Granville Harbour came the information that Colonel Kebila had been most fearful of. A general strike had been called in the city, and there were demonstrations promised – riots threatened. It was not simply industrial action. For the first time in living memory, it was literally tribal. Anyone who was not Matadi might find themselves a target, along with the leader of the opposition, who had invited the interlopers into the country to steal the peoples’ livelihoods. Kikuyu, Bantu, Masai, Hutu and Tutsi families were warned to stay indoors. Even the Pakistani and Chinese shopkeepers, the Lebanese and Saudi merchants were warned to shut their businesses for the day. And Celine Chaka was the immediate object of the peoples’ fury. Her father, the president – or rather, Minister Patience Aganga speaking on his behalf – demanded calm, deprecated the threat of violence, and warned of the financial and political damage that such actions might engender. But when all was said and done, they lived in a truly diplomatic state, she observed, where the will of the voting population was paramount, especially in this election season.
Richard, Robin and Anastasia were in the colonel’s tent when the news came through from his headquarters. Robin had seen the start of a news report on R.T.B.L.B. – Radio Television Benin La Bas, Benin La Bas’s state broadcaster, and had called Richard through. Then they had picked up Anastasia, explaining what they had learned from the bulletin to her as they all crossed to Kebila’s tent. ‘If only I knew where the Army of Christ was with any degree of certainty,’ fumed the colonel as the four of them reviewed the situation and the radio operator apparently did his best to make himself invisible. ‘It is clearly my place to be in Granville Harbour – but it is my mission and my duty to stop Odem before he does any more damage!’ He slammed his hand on the table top in frustration, making both the radio operator and his equipment jump.
‘Perhaps it would be as well,’ Richard suggested, quietly, ‘to continue the patrols upcountry with two of your Super Pumas, as the president himself has ordered, but hold the third in reserve to get you back to your Granville Harbour HQ as fast as possible, just in case …’
Even while Kebila was pondering that, Captain Sanda came through from the frigate Otobo and was passed by the nervous young communications man to his increasingly frustrated superior. ‘Minister for the Outer Delta Aganga has given me orders to come upriver,’ reported Sanda. ‘Clearly she has decided that we must protect the orphanage and everyone around it. But you are already in place, Colonel, and I am frankly worried about the situation in the harbour itself.’
Richard and Robin exchanged glances as the two men finally finished their coded conversation. Anastasia watched them, narrow-eyed, then focused all her attention on Richard. ‘Look, Colonel,’ said Richard quietly. ‘If we assume that Minister Aganga is at least partially influenced by Felix Makarov and his plans, not to say some underhanded realpolitik on the part of the president himself, then some element of her motivation might well be to remove Captain Sanda’s contingent from the city – and leave the police unsupported in the face of a general strike. But if Sanda refuses to sail now, not only will he have disobeyed her orders, he will have given our suspicions away. I suggest that that would seriously curtail your room for manoeuvre. Perhaps he could come upriver as far as the township of Malebo and make some excuse to anchor there – within equally easy reach of the orphanage here and of Granville Harbour itself, depending on where the shit hits the fan first.’
Anastasia’s eyebrows rose fractionally. Richard was not normally given to language like that. The fact that he would even consider using it showed how serious he thought the situation was becoming. But his resolution of it seemed cunning enough, which was what she was thinking when the shit really did hit the fan.
‘Colonel Kebila?’ squawked the radio.
‘Kebila here,’ said the colonel, easing back into the communications chair.
‘Kebila, this is Mako. We have been hit by an IED. Extensive casualties …’
Communication broke then into a crackling whisper. Anastasia found herself on her feet, heart pounding and cheeks burning with shock. She looked at Richard but all his attention was focused fiercely on the stricken colonel. She glanced at Robin and found a calm gray gaze meeting her own. She sat again, suddenly feeling a little faint. But then the connection was restored. ‘I say again, Senior Lieutenant Yagula, Mr Asov and I are unhurt, but it was a close thing. And we have lost ten men dead and wounded, not counting Sergeant Brodski, who had the device attached to him. Our communications have been severely curtailed. A good deal of the kit is gone. We are rearranging things as best we can and will be proceeding once again as soon as possible, working on the assumption that the Army of Christ is somewhere between us and our objective, Lac Dudo. We can use our mobile phones for contact, as long as the batteries last. Unless you have any other thoughts or advice.’
Anastasia had never heard the huge man sound so unsure of himself. What sort of a state must he be in? What sort of a state was Ivan in? she wondered, nausea burning the back of her throat severely enough to make her choke and cough.
‘Just a moment, Col
onel Mako,’ said Kebila, also shaken by the suddenness of the disaster. ‘Give me a second to consider the options.’ Apparently without thinking, Kebila glanced across at Richard, who leaned forward decisively, his lips moving almost as fast as his brain. ‘Send Stalingrad to patrol the south bank at once – keep Odem in the jungle. Then you’ll know where he is and be free to act. Volgograd will have to return with the dead and wounded; however, if Stalingrad keeps patrolling, then not only is the north bank secure, but Mako, Ivan, Max and his men have a safe haven within call if they need it – until their cell phone batteries start weakening. Then, of course …’
‘Then of course I can go back downriver in Volgograd with Caleb Maina and his crew as well as most of my men – and Mako’s wounded,’ said Kebila. ‘Medevac them to the Granville Harbour Hospital and get my own patrols out on the streets to keep the peace.’
‘You’ll have to leave some men here, though,’ inserted Robin. ‘Just in case.’
Anastasia felt herself frowning at Robin. Couldn’t they rely on her Amazons? If only she had been with Ivan, she thought, she and her girls would have seen the danger. Would have known how to avoid disaster …
‘Sergeant Tchaba and a really reliable squad. Augmented, perhaps,’ agreed Kebila. Then he continued, ‘There’ll have to be a big enough squad to mount some kind of back up in the jungle as well. The Russians are all very well, but so far all they have demonstrated any real talent for is dying.’ He sighed. Then he seemed to shake himself, and his expression lightened. ‘But let’s hope for the best. They are fit and strong. Well supplied and well armed. Colonel Mako knows the jungle, even if he is not Poro. And Senior Lieutenant Yagula seems competent enough. We’ll trust them to survive. To keep Odem occupied. And we’ll trust Stalingrad to keep the river safe. What else can we do?’