* * *
Lomu sucked on his cigarette moodily and stared out at the lights on the shore, watching and listening. When the first, faint sounds of gunfire came drifting across the lake he smiled broadly, as did the helmsman who shared the wheelhouse with him. The boys had gone in; they had started partying.
Even as he watched, he saw the fires on the coast grow and blossom, becoming miniature infernos as huts and bomas were put to the torch. He crushed out his cigarette and sighed. As Van Dorn’s designated first officer, he did not get to join in the fun as often as he would have liked. But he was proud of his position. When the Afrikaner was off the ship, it was Lomu who was left in command. He had responsibilities that raised him above the teenage thugs who formed most of the ship’s complement. And his share of the spoils was correspondingly larger, that was something.
He came from a lake-going race, being a native of the Ssese Islands to the south-west of Entebbe. From time immemorial his tribe, the Basese, had fished the lake and grown cassava and yams on their tiny islands. He had a wife and two children on Buggala, the largest of them. They were proud that their father had made a career in the army despite not being a member of the Baganda tribe, that he was second-in-command of a ship and rich as a king compared with the other islanders. He only wished that he could see them more often.
Was that a splash, out there on the water? Crocodile maybe, though they rarely came this far out from the coast. A bird perhaps. He stepped out of the wheelhouse.
Suddenly a dark shadow appeared out of nowhere. He had time to retreat a step, the cry frozen in his throat; then a hand was across his mouth and the knife slashed his jugular once, twice, and he was lowered twitching to the deck.
The helmsman had heard something. He leant out of the wheelhouse door, calling Lomu’s name softly. The silenced 9mm rounds, fired as a pair of ‘double-taps’, blasted him back inside again and sprayed the interior of the wheelhouse with blood and viscera. One went clear through him and smashed the window behind, the sound of breaking glass shattering the quiet night wide open.
Willan paused a second, glaring at Prentiss, whose pistol was still smoking, the silencer doubling its length.
‘I could have taken him!’
‘Does it matter?’ the Intelligence agent asked coolly.
Swearing under his breath, Willan thumbed the 349.
‘All Romeos, go now, I say again, go now.’
At once, the deck of the old steamer came alive with figures, a band of shadows that moved quietly all over her. A group of them disappeared down the companionway. The only sound was the thump of feet on wood.
Willan examined the controls inside the wheelhouse, wiping blood off his hand.
‘Can you really pilot this thing?’
Prentiss was examining them even more intently.
‘Shouldn’t be a problem. The gauges are the same as in a steam train. Pressure, temperature . . . Christ, this thing is a real antique.’
‘As soon as we’ve cleared her, I want you down in the engine-room.’
‘I’ll need some stokers.’
‘You’ll have them.’
There was a shot, then a rattle of automatic fire from the bowels of the ship. Then silence.
‘Two, this is One, send sitrep. Over.’
The reply took a moment to come. It was Geary, sounding out of breath.
‘One, this is Two. Still clearing. One enemy down, no own casualties. Moving forward to the cabins.’
‘Roger, out.’
Willan peered out of the shattered window of the wheelhouse.
‘Romeo Three, this is One. Send sitrep. Over.’
Fraser’s voice came next.
‘One, we have flames on the shore and automatic weapon fire. Nothing on the lake itself so far. Over.’
‘Roger, out.’
Fraser’s boat was patrolling the waters between the Victoria and the shore in case any of the steamer’s crew began returning early from their raid. If they did, they would have one hell of a hot reception. But Willan hoped that would not happen. He wanted this mission to be as simple and bloodless as possible.
Shouts from down below, and another series of shots. There were men all over the upper decks too; Kigoma and Okello’s soldiers taking up fire positions all around the ship’s rail. More of them were still waiting in the Rigid Raiders below also, guarding the line of retreat.
Willan heard a loud splash, and there was another rattle of gunfire. He ran out of the wheelhouse, unable to sit still any longer. Suddenly all the men at the rail were firing madly at something in the dark water. The noise was deafening, and the muzzle flashes comprehensively destroyed Willan’s night vision.
‘Fuck! Cease fire! Cease fire!’
‘A man jumped into the water!’ It was Okello, wide-eyed and breathing fast. ‘I think we got him.’
‘Good. But from now on, fire only on my orders, OK, Okello?’
‘Yes, Colonel.’
The Ugandan officer seemed put out. Too bad. There were few things more calculated to cause a ‘blue on blue’ than men firing wildly on full automatic at night. And besides, the muzzle flashes would be visible from the shore.
Geary and his team appeared out of the aft companionway.
‘All clear, Sarge. One fucker got away. I think he was a white man. But from the sound of things, Kigoma’s lot stitched him up pretty good. We now own a ship.’
‘No problems?’
‘One of Okello’s lot got hit by a ricochet, but it’s not serious. It all went like fucking clockwork.’
‘Good news. Get lines down to the boats, Willy; I want them towed behind. We haven’t the time to haul them up on deck. Get the rest of the men on board when you’ve done that, and send a detail of six down to the engine-room. We have to get this rust-bucket moving.’
‘Aye aye, captain.’ Willan could see Geary’s grin as a white flash in his camouflaged face.
He rejoined Prentiss in the wheelhouse. The MI6 agent had hauled the bodies outside and was peering closely at the gauges that were on the bulkheads.
‘They’ve banked the fires, probably trying to save fuel. We’ll need to get the boilers stoked up and build up some steam before we can move.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never driven a steamship before.’
‘Well, get to it. I’ve sent men down to the engine-room. We want to be out of here like yesterday.’
Prentiss left without another word. He seemed happy as a child at Christmas, while for Willan the familiar feeling of disappointment was beginning to slide into place now that the excitement had peaked. He pressed the switch on the 349 again.
‘Romeo Three, this is One, objective secure. Any sign of our friends? Over.’
‘One, this is Three. There’s a crowd on the beaches; we can see them backlit against the fires. I think our friends will soon be on their way back, over.’
Willan swore under his breath.
‘OK, Three. If they put to sea before you hear from me again, you know what to do.’
‘Roger, out.’ Fraser’s voice seemed to relish the prospect. His team had not yet fired their weapons in anger tonight.
It had all been very easy, Willan thought, easier than anything in that country had been so far. Well, that could change if Prentiss the steam-train enthusiast couldn’t get this damn tub moving again.
He could hear the gunfire from the shore, carrying clearly over the water. The coastline was lit by a series of huge fires that gave the sky to the west an orange glow, like an early sunrise. He looked at his watch. It would be dawn in two hours, maybe less. By the time the sun came up he wanted to be as far away from here as possible. However good it might feel to be operating on water again, to be fighting the way he had been trained to fight, the truth was that they were intensely vulnerable out here. If one of Amin’s MiGs happened by for any reason, they would be about as hard to take out as a large white, flightless duck. The thought did nothing to improve his t
emper.
Jock Fraser leaned on the bow of the Rigid Raider and trained the IWS on the brightly lit shore of the lake. Beside him, Gordon had the butt of the GPMG tucked into his shoulder and was peering intently over the sights. Kigoma was aft, his hand on the outboard control, waiting for a word. The other five soldiers had their AK47s trained on the shore as if they expected to open fire on it at any moment.
‘Aye . . . aye.’ Fraser squinted into the night-sight intently.
‘No doubt about it, laddie: they’re getting back in their wee canoes. I can see them pushing them out into the shallows. Aye . . . they’re on their way.’
‘Wish I had a night-sight for this fucker,’ Gordon said, sighting down the long barrel of the GPMG. The linked bullets that fed the weapon were lolling over the bow of the boat like a glittering brass snake.
Fraser thumbed his 349. The throat mikes were digging into his throat but he ignored the discomfort.
‘Romeo One, this is Three. Message. Over.’
‘One, send. Over.’
‘Our friends are putting out to sea. Estimate they will be at my location in figures fifteen. Over.’
‘Roger. You know what to do. Good luck. Out.’
‘So we’re off and running then?’ Gordon asked.
‘Aye. Kigoma, get that motor going, will you? We’re about to join the party.’
There was a roar as the outboard kicked in, and a moment later the bow of the boat rose as it foamed off towards the crowd of canoes that were beginning to leave the flame-lit shore.
‘Well?’ Willan asked impatiently.
‘It’s done,’ Prentiss answered him. The MI6 agent was black with soot and coal dust, and sweat had carved white runnels down his face. He studied the dials and gauges in the wheelhouse intently.
‘Yes, we’re getting up a good head of steam now; the pressure is rising by the second. Okello has his men working like Trojans down in the engine-room; it’s like a scene from Dante’s Inferno down there.’
‘So when . . . ?’
‘One moment. There.’ Prentiss straightened, smiling. ‘We can start off any time you like, Sergeant.’
‘Go to it then. Full bloody speed ahead.’
Prentiss yanked the old brass speed handle back and forward. There was the clanking of tinny-sounding bells. Then he opened up what looked to Willan like a throttle, and the ship quivered under their feet. There was the rumble of machinery, cogs turning, a thrum of power.
Willy Geary burst into the wheelhouse and yelled, ‘We’re moving!’
Prentiss took the ship’s wheel and spun it to port. The deck canted a little under their feet as the old steamer picked up speed and came round in a sharp curve.
‘Back the way we came, skipper?’ Prentiss asked Willan ironically.
‘Yes.’ A moment later came the sound of sustained automatic fire from across the lake. Willan and Geary looked at each other. At almost the same moment the radio crackled into life in Willan’s earphone.
‘Romeo One, this is Three.’ Fraser and his team, still out on the lake.
‘One, send. Over.’
‘Contact to the west of us. Our pirate buddies are out in force on the water. We’re keeping their heads down. Any word on when to bug out? Over.’
‘Romeo Three, hold them for figures ten, then make for the steamer. The masthead light is still on, and we’ve got her moving. Over.’
‘Good news. Roger, out.’
‘Things getting a little hot out on the water?’ Prentiss asked.
‘No more than we expected.’ Willan found himself disliking the smug self-assurance of the Intelligence agent intensely. But there was no denying that without him the mission could not even have been mounted, much less become the success that it was.
The steamer churned on steadily. Morgan and Hill had thrown all the bodies overboard and were now going through the Victoria’s hold. Okello was supervising the engine-room crew.
‘Dawn soon,’ Geary said, sniffing the air like a hound. They could still hear the harsh bark of the GPMG out on the lake. But Jock could take care of himself.
The radio came to life again.
‘One, this is Three. Breaking off contact now. Enemy paddling like hell back to shore. No own casualties. Over.’
‘Nice one, Three. Rendezvous with mother ship ASAP, out.’
So that was that. Willan wondered if it was something about the country they were in and the way things happened, but he could have sworn that the cowboy attitudes of people like Prentiss were rubbing off on his men – and on himself for that matter. Take their voice procedure, for instance – it was all going to shit, becoming almost conversational. Could it be, he thought, that we’re losing our edge? The success of the night’s operation seemed to indicate otherwise, but he was still uneasy. The whole thing was like a Boys’ Own adventure, complete with steamships and unruly natives. On the other side of the lake a genocidal regime was preparing to invade with tanks and jet aircraft. He mustn’t lose sight of that.
‘What are we going to do with this rustbucket now we’ve got her?’ Geary asked curiously, breaking into Willan’s thoughts.
‘Do with her?’
‘As Okello said: do unto others as they have bloody well done unto you,’ Prentiss said firmly. ‘Don’t worry, chaps, we still have lots to do. This is only the opening skirmish.’
Willan and Geary shared a look of understanding. The war, if it could be called that, had indeed only just begun.
7
Major-General Isaac Lumago, Chief of Staff of the Ugandan Army, sipped his tea and stared across his desk at the scruffily dressed Afrikaner. It had not been a good week. Amin had just survived another assassination attempt and had become even more distrustful of his own top officers and civil servants. There were rumours of rolling heads, and when heads rolled in Uganda, they often did so literally. Senior army officers who ‘retired’ did so so completely that they were never heard of again. To replace them, Amin usually promoted nonentities from the ranks. Second lieutenants became colonels overnight. Captains became brigadiers. And, inevitably, the army suffered in terms of combat efficiency.
And now this. Lumago did not care for mercenaries in general and for Loos Van Dorn in particular, but orders had come down from General Mustafa Adrisi, Defence Minister and deputy to Amin himself. This one was to be given a free rein against the Tanzanians. There were two reasons behind it, of course. One, so that he could be easily disowned if any outrage he perpetrated overstepped the mark, though in Amin’s Uganda overstepping the mark with regard to brutality was not easy. And two, it was felt that Van Dorn would be more . . . creative if left to his own devices.
His usefulness, it seemed, had just about come to an end. He knew it, which was why he was sweating in the air-conditioned office, his eyes fixed on Lumago’s face as though trying to read his own fate in the other man’s features. Lumago liked that; it was good to show this bastard Afrikaner who had the power in this country.
‘And you’re sure they were white men, speaking English?’ he demanded of Van Dorn.
‘Yes, General. I heard them myself just before I jumped ship. There were blacks too – Bagandans, I’m sure of it. I heard the accents.’
‘No names were mentioned?’
‘No. It was a well-planned operation. We were caught completely by surprise.’
‘Totally unexpected, eh?’
‘Yes, General.’
‘And yet less than a fortnight before your raiders were ambushed by what you call a similar force – well-armed, well-equipped, well-led.’
Van Dorn shifted uneasily in the chair.
‘That is true.’
‘And yet you kept this information to yourself. Why?’
‘I . . . wanted to find out more about these men for myself. I could not come to you with mere rumours alone.’
‘And yet these mere rumours have taken your ship and effectively destroyed your raiding forces. Our border patrols are picking up stragglers from the
bush day by day. They had to fight their way back into Uganda. Over fifty are still unaccounted for, however.’
‘Is there any way you can rescue them? Take a force in and get them out?’
Lumago stared at the Afrikaner coldly. ‘They have no connection with the Ugandan government or military. They are pirates only, marauders owing allegiance to no one.’
‘I see. I should have remembered.’
‘You should.’
Lumago steepled his fingers and regarded the mercenary speculatively.
‘And you have not answered my question satisfactorily. Why were we not informed that there were well-armed and well-trained white mercenaries operating out of Tanzania? That leads on to another, just as interesting, question. Why were you the only one of all your men to escape your ship?’
Van Dorn went pale under his tan.
‘I told you, I jumped from a porthole when I heard the first shots, and swam to shore. Three bloody miles almost.’
‘Have you had contacts with these soldiers of fortune?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Your excuses are somewhat thin, Van Dorn. What if I were to tell you that I believe you to be lying, that I think you were in league with these men from the start and were allowed to escape by them because you are their . . . spy? Is that the right word?’
‘If I was in league with them, then why come here? Why not stay in safety in Tanzania?’
‘A good question.’ Lumago raised his voice. ‘Kinabau!’
A neatly uniformed soldier entered the room.
‘Sir?’
‘Have Mr Van Dorn escorted to the cells. See he is well treated. I shall want to talk to him again later.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Wait, damn it!’ Van Dorn shouted, panic in his eyes now. ‘I’m your ally; I’m telling you the truth!’
Lumago nodded at the soldier who had just entered. Kinabau slipped his .45 out of its holster and without warning clubbed Van Dorn on the side of his head. The Afrikaner staggered in his seat, then half rose. Kinabau pistol-whipped him again, this time across his face. Van Dorn fell to his knees. A third blow laid him unconscious on the floor, his breathing harsh and ragged through his broken nose.
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