by Larry Johns
It would be stupid to say that I felt naked out there, because I was, or as good as. But I have always had this thing, this aversion, to and about catching a bullet in naked flesh, as opposed to flesh covered with clothes. I cannot imagine what the difference might be. But there it is. So I took time to plaster myself in mud, which not only covered the give-away whiteness of my skin, it also made me feel better in myself. I listened again. Still nothing.
Back to the problem of where I was in relation to everyone else. I began to weigh up the options, but immediately stopped myself. That was the route to nowhere. If I was not absolutely certain of my position now, and I was not, then thinking about it would only make it worse. There were no clues to be had outside my body. So I decided that I had got where I wanted to be, or as near as dammit, and I twisted around until I was facing what I thought would be the right direction. I leveled the AK, laying the spare clips within easy reach. I did not have to wait long.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
The flames lit up the jungle like a red-yellow strobe, and came from somewhere up the track. And the track turned out to be off to my right. I had been pointed in the wrong direction entirely. I slithered around. Now I knew exactly where I was. Which was something at least.
RAT-TAT-TAT!
That short burst came from over my right shoulder. Augarde, then. I pushed myself closer to the mud and waited. So far I had seen nothing but flames, and I hadn’t really gotten a good look up the track. Out in the blackness ahead of me I heard some hoarse whisperings and some scrabbling around. I held my fire because there was nothing to shoot at.
And it was then that I became conscious of the gut-wrenching fear I would always experience immediately prior to a premeditated fire fight. It is one thing to be launched into battle on the spur of unaided circumstance; it is something else entirely when you have time to consider the possibilities. I had never been successful at ignoring that fear; the almost uncontrollable urge to run and hide, to be a million miles away from where you were. I lived with it because it was part of my stock in trade, and I supposed everyone else did too. “Cat” Souchet had once asked me if I was afraid of dying. Actually, he asked if I was afraid of the possibility of death. I cannot remember exactly what my answer was, but I think I hedged. That was the first and last time the subject was ever raised, with anyone. I know now that “Cat” asked the question because he felt the same as I did. I am certain, also, that there is not a man alive who does not fear death, or, at least, the method of his dying. I cannot speak for women. But I doubt there would be any changes. Or is it the pain we’re afraid of. I don’t know.
There was the click of a bolt being drawn. It came from Augarde’s direction.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
These shots came from up ahead of me, and I had them pinpointed. I squeezed off a short burst, grabbed the spare clips from the mud, and rolled sideways, expecting my vacated position to be raked. It wasn’t. Someone up there was not paying attention. I carried on rolling and felt a branch brush my shoulder. At last! There was another burst from up ahead and the staccato TRRRRRRR of a Thompson. Of those flames I saw nothing but the reflection on the leaf canopy overhead. So far I had been desperately lucky not to draw fire. I had to make that luck count for something.
TRRRRRR!
The mud kicked up into my face and a ricochet screamed past my ear. Leaves showered down on me. That was too damned close for comfort, and I wondered if leaving the cover of the jeep had been such a good idea.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
A long, raking burst from Augarde’s direction. Someone up the track screamed. Good for you, sarge, I thought. Then there was silence. No, not silence. Someone up there was moaning. Down, then, but not out of it. Moaners, as a general rule, should not be counted as fatalities; it is the silent ones who die. Moaners can sometimes get mad and throw caution to the wind. And a man who suddenly doesn’t give a damn can get lucky. I cocked my head to one side and tried to ascertain the direction.
TRRRRRRRR!
Again the mud kicked up around me. This time I felt a sudden sharp pain in my right cheek. It stuck like hell. A splinter. I reached up and felt with my muddy fingertips. It was a splinter. Not a big one, but it felt like a monster. I yanked it out. Blood poured down my face, but it stopped stinging.
TRRR.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Another scream. I pulled my trigger and waved the AK in a short semi-circle and for several seconds it was bedlam. I caught a glimpse of a running figure and brought my weapon to bear. It was a man, but which one of them, I couldn’t tell. In the strobe-like flashes his run was disjointed, like an old movie run on a modern-day projector. I don’t know whether I hit him or not. Then there was silence again. The moaner had stopped moaning. Then a twig broke. A sharp, crisp sound. But from where? Do it again, I willed. Do it again! Where the hell was he - or was it she? Distant? Close? Left? Right? Where? And, how many?
TRRRRRRRR... Click! Click!
The Thompson had finished its clip. But I still had no idea of its position. I eased out from under the bush and my elbow toppled the small pile of spare clips. The noise, to me, was like a skyscraper coming down.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TRRRRRRRR...
I felt the wind of some of those bullets passing my face and the air around me hummed like a swarm of hornets. A few moments ago, when the fear was on me, I would have dived back to the bush under that hail of lead. But I was over that fear now, as always happened. The fire fight was now a matter of fact. I loosed off a burst and slid further out into the track.
“Colonel McCann?”
It was the girl’s voice. What the hell did she want. I wanted to fight!
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT! That lot came from Augarde. Then nothing.
“Colonel McCann!”
I held my fire because I figured I was now out in the middle of nowhere again. And I did not reply vocally for that same reason.
RAT-TAT-TAT! Another burst from Augarde.
Fine. But where was Bjoran in all this.
“Colonel McCann! I am in cover, so fire away if you have the ammunition to waste.”
I had the bearing of her voice pegged then, but was directing my attention at the other side of the track. Because that was where Bjoran would be. Him, or his buddy. I doubted the doctor would be doing anything constructive to their cause. I doubted he even knew what was happening to him. I heard Augarde call, “What?”
The girl again. “Who is that?”
I could have told her. I could also have told her why he had called - he was getting their attention, giving me space to move. I continued my slide back to the jeep. “Coming in!” I hissed.
“Come ahead,” Augarde hissed back at me. Then I felt the wheel of the jeep. I moved in behind it.
“Colonel McCann!” The girl’s voice had an irritated edge to it now.
I eased myself up and nudged the AK over the rim of the jeep. I wished I had brought one of the other walkie-talkies with us. I could have called Kimba and had him bring his detail in from the other direction. The jeep’s radios were fitted with different crystals to the W/T’s. To Augarde, I hissed, “Keep your eyes peeled. One of them’s over the other side. Probably working his way down.” Then I raised my voice. “What do you want, major?” My use of her rank was deliberate. I was telling her that if she wanted to play with the big boys, she’d have to do it on big boy terms. I have never consciously considered myself any kind of a chauvinist, but I guess that deep down, I was. In any event, that girl got right up my nose.
“Ah! At last! Colonel McCann, I am ready to concede defeat.”
Beside me, Augarde croaked, “In a pig’s ear!”
I called, “I see,” and I fed a fresh clip into the AK.
“Are you ready to listen?” Her voice came eerily through the blackness, but it was steady, with no traces of emotion. I had to give her credit for that.
“How many are left out there?”
“Of us?”
Augarde chuckled
. “Who the hell does she think you mean!”
She called again. “I think just myself, the doctor, and your sergeant’s compatriot.”
Could the moaner have been Bjoran? I yelled, “Okay, prove it.” Then to Augarde, “On the left, sarge. Watch it!” This was not a stand-off, I knew it. This was a strategic conversation. But it worked both ways.
The girl. “How?”
“Is your vehicle still operable?”
A pause. “I think so.”
“Start it up, switch on the lights, then back it out onto the track. You can drive, I assume.”
“I can drive.”
“Then do it. Aim your lights midway between us and you. If the beam shines directly on us, you’ll be dead where you sit!”
Another pause. “Very well. I will try.” Then, coming as an afterthought, “If I do this, am I guaranteed safety?”
“Do exactly what I’ve said and we will not open fire. Where’s the other gun?”
“The Simba?”
“If that’s what he is, yes.”
“Here, boss.” The man’s voice was muffled, as if he had his face turned away, and it came from over to the left.
Augarde whispered, “He wont came in tamely, sir.”
“I know it, and I’ve also got my doubts about our major of the Chinese army.” To the voice on the left, I called, “You feel the same way, soldier?”
“Ya, boss.”
Augarde spat, “Load of bollocks! He’ll come out shooting, or my name’s not Mary.”
I shouted, “If you’re in cover, come out now ! Into the open.”
“I am out, boss!”
Was he? I didn’t know. I heard Augarde mutter something. I did not have to hear it to know what it was. I called, “How about it, major?”
“I agree. I move now. Do not fire.”
Augarde said, “It’s going to happen now, sir.”
I nodded at the night. I heard the clatter of the starter motor engaging. The engine caught and the lights wound up, bathing the trees overhead a glittering grey. The jeep, taillights first, came slowly into view. I ignored it, keeping my whole concentration on the other side of the track.
RAT-TAT-TAT-Click-Click!
Shit! That burst came from the right, from the direction of the moaner. Augarde took it, loosing off a long arcing volley. There was another cry. then a soft gurgling. Nothing stirred on the Simba’s side. Augarde rammed home a fresh clip, hissing,”Cagey bastard! Almost had me fooled.”
The girl was calling, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”
Augarde again. “That was Bjoran. Had to be.”
To him, I said, “You stay with him. Just in case he’s not as dead as he wants us to think he is. I’m on the Simba.” Then to the girl, “Carry on, major. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt on that one.”
Augarde was muttering again. I ignored him. The jeep came out slowly, then eased forward, turning. The remaining headlamp beam passed over Bjoran’s still, blood-spattered body, lying in the mud, some thirty feet from us. That was one question answered. Augarde, who had seen it too, said, “One left, then.”
The Simba chose that moment to confirm that he was not about to yield to mercenary justice. He appeared out of the bushes almost exactly in front of my AK. Augarde and I fired at the same instant. Eleven shots. Eleven hits. The man sprang back into the bushes as if on a bungee rope. The girl, also, was of a like mind. But we were ready for her, too.
Whether she had planned it that way or not, we were never to find out. Perhaps she was simply reacting to events. Either way, she leapt from the jeep, Thompson blazing.
I do not know how many hits she took. But it was a lot. She ended up sprawled across Bjoran’s legs, her tiny body ripped apart. I stepped over through the smoke of our volley and looked down at her. This was the first time I had killed a woman in so personal a manner. Certainly I had never tried to kill a woman before. But grenades and bombs spread their messages far and wide. Accidents are, and will always be, inevitable. I did feel a pang of remorse at the sheer waste of womanhood here. Perhaps I really was a chauvinist.
Augarde stepped in beside me. “Gutsy little bitch, eh?”
I had no response for him. Then there was a grunt and a splash and the doctor appeared. He was just walking, his arms hanging limply at his sides.
“Don’t,” I said.
“I wasn’t going to,” said Augarde.
The man walked right past us as if we were not there, and carried on down the track. He passed out of the light of the headlamp and into the darkness. We did not try to stop him and we never saw him again.
FIFTEEN
Jean-Paul Winterhoek was not a man given easily to panic, but as he sat in front of the transceiver in the basement of Casa Bianca waiting for the carrier wave to come alive, sensing the seconds, the minutes, ticking irretrievably by, he felt the beginnings of that state inserting its icy key into the door of his self control. They were going to be too late, he grew more and more certain of it. For any number of reasons, one of which could be to do with the mysterious Arabic music that was currently flooding the frequency the Chinese used, McCann was going to miss his contact schedule. The helicopters would arrive, casting up and down the river, seeing on-one, hearing nothing over their radios. Would the mercenary leader be able to hear the jet turbines at that distance? And even if he, or anyone could, would they simply assume that it was just another FZA sortie? The next contact time would be too late. Their was a limit as to how long the Indian pilots could, or would fly their aircraft up and down a corridor of Zaire airspace, in broad daylight! How long would they give it? Fifteen minutes? Half an hour? Could Winterhoek risk calling them? Yes, he decided, he could risk that. But would it help? It might help the pilots, but would it help him?
“Come on! Come on!” he demanded of the loudspeaker.
Jan Bluthen sat at a receiver on the other side of the squat room. He wore headphones, and was searching the frequencies; always arriving back at the Chinese frequency and that damned music. What the hell did it mean? And who was transmitting? Chi Luang? No. The signal was not that strong. McCann, then. The signal strength was about right for that distance. But that was a ridiculous notion. Who, then? Was there a clue on a nearby wavelength? It had to mean something. He checked his watch. The call from McCann was already two minutes overdue.
In his mind, Bluthen tried to visualize the map; a straight line almost due south of Tambura to the Camp-One area. Where, along that line, would the aircraft be now? They would cross, have crossed, the Sudan/Zaire border south of Sourceyebo. Three hundred miles further along the imagined line they would overfly Lebo, then Matundi. Another three hundred would bring them to Binga. Would they be there now? Or were they closer, perhaps Mobeka and their first sight of the great Zaire river? From there it was only ninety miles to Camp-One, give or take. Bluthen checked his watch yet again. They had been in the air almost five hours. It seemed like years. He flicked over to the frequency Winterhoek was listening to. Still empty. Then back to the Arabic music. Except that it was no longer there! He fine-tuned the dial left and right. Could it be? Yes, that frequency was definitely clear now!
“It’s clear, sir!”
“Eh?” Winterhoek turned distractedly.
“The frequency is clear now.”
Winterhoek nodded, sighed, then shook his head. Clear or not, none of it made any sense. “I don’t know. I just don’t know,” he muttered, returning to his listening vigil.
At precisely ten minutes past the scheduled time, the ‘speaker burst into life.
“Gemini!...Gemini!...Gemini!”
Winterhoek threw his arms into the air then grabbed the microphone. “Listen carefully...Listen carefully...The message is...Grape...Sling...Yard...Shot...Tinder...”
*
“...Span...Moat...Hover...Hammer...Wave...Riddle...Class...Will repeat in thirty seconds. Out!”
I looked at Piet and he looked at me. This was potty. We had been expecting a series
of Morse codes, dotes and dashes which would confirm stable conditions at the targets. We had not expected to be actually spoken to! Piet blinked and said, “What the hell does that mean!”
“For Christ’s sake!” I said back at him, “You’re the one with the code in your hand. Did you get any of it?”
He shook his head. “They’re going to do it again.”
“It’s just as bloody well! Get ready for it. The first word was Grape, anyway.”
“You sure?”
I was sure. “Write it down, and hand me that note pad.” He did both and I looked up Grape. “It means Abort.”
Piet sighed, the pencil ready in his hand. “Well, that’s bloody charming!”
I thought so too. Five minutes ago I had come back in covered in mud from head to toe, after a chase that should have been filmed for some horror movie, with a wounded sergeant, two jeeps with bullet holes in them and one with only half a set of headlights. To have the whole thing called off now seemed...Then I remembered the second word they had sent; Sling. I looked it up. It meant Second Strike. I felt happier but said nothing to Piet. Then the ‘speaker crackled.
“Are you there?”
To no-one in particular, Piet said, “What the hell kind of radio procedure is that, for Pete’s sake! Are you there? Jesus!”
He was right. I said, “Tell him you’re there.”
Piet lifted the microphone, a twisted smile on his face. “Yes,” he said, “We’re here.”
“Will repeat now...”
“Go ahead,” said Piet, raising a half-amused, half- baffled eyebrow at me.
“Grape...Sling...Yard...Shot...Tinder...Span...Moat...Hover...Hammer...Wave…Riddle...Class...”
A brief pause. “Received?”
Piet had been scribbling furiously. I lifted the microphone myself, glanced at Piet, who nodded, still scribbling, then said, “Received...Stand by.” The carrier wave hissed at me. I handed the code book back to Piet and watched as he decoded the whole thing.