Place of Bones

by Larry Johns

  “The aerial balloon,” I said, more brusquely than I wished to. “It’ll still be unwound out through the trees. We’ll see it.”

  Char Abbas stepped forward, a sad, lost look on his face. “Sir...” was all he said.

  “I’m going in by myself,” I said. I waved a hand at the bodies. “Bury them if you feel like it. Come on, pilot!”

  Three minutes later we were in the air and streaking in over the jungles of the swampland.

  I stood there in the middle of some two hundred and fifty men and was quite alone.

  Piet lay sprawled on the steps of the portacabin. I looked down at his body for some moments and was surprised at my own detachment from my surroundings; surroundings that seemed to have lost all traces of familiarity. The body at my feet might have been that of a stranger, for that inert form, that fly-covered face, bore no resemblance at all to the living, breathing, talking Piet Vryburg I had last seen only that morning. I looked in the door and saw Augarde; or something that I used to call Augarde. I lifted the W/T to my head. “Same story here,” I said, in a voice that did not belong to me.

  Tinnily, Mahindru’s voice came over the set. “I’m sorry, colonel.” He added, “Harness taken up. Pulling away. Call when you need me. We’ll be close by.”

  The whacking of the rotor blades faded, then steadied to a muted throb as the helicopter circled the balloon. I heard the genny then, chugging away. But that sound served only to heighten the other silence. I stepped away from the portacabin and wandered around. I did not bother to check for signs of life. There was no life here, except for the flies and the bluebottles. And for them it was a feast. I ambled through that open graveyard emotionless, yet sick through to my soul. I knew that what I was seeing was the result of some kind of a gas attack, but beyond that my mind would not, could not, proceed.

  I walked over the open space and had a quiet, odd kind of laugh to myself. There had been a football game in progress...there was the “ball”.

  Football...football...football.

  Everything in Africa revolves around football, I thought. Where there’s football, there’s death. Was someone trying to tell me something? I found myself back at the portacabin. I stepped over Piet’s body and lifted the microphone of the RCA which, also, was still switched to receive.

  “Gemini...Gemini...Gemini.”

  The loudspeaker replied immediately. “This is Gemini. Stand by, colonel...”

  No blips now, I mused. No codes. And that voice had been lazily slow. I looked at Piet and said, “Now you can join “Cat”, old buddy. You too, sergeant Augarde. How’s the leg, by the way?”

  The ‘speaker blurted again. “This is Gemini.”

  I recognized that voice. I said, “Camp-One no longer exists, Gemini.”

  The voice said, “We have recently received Intelligence to that effect, colonel. What can I say? We are very sorry. Truly.”

  I pressed the button. “Right.”

  The voice went on, “Briefly, you did a magnificent job today. If you are interested in a continuation, one is open to you. You have but to report back to Kinshasa. And on the matter of our unfinished business, I will meet you at your convenience. Contact me in the usual manner.”

  I ignored that. “We have wounded, Gemini,” I said.

  “Mbandaka hospital has been alerted and is ready to receive your casualties, colonel. Your current transport remains at your disposal for as long as needs be. I will close now. Good-bye, colonel. And thank you again.”

  I placed the microphone on the table. To Piet’s body, I said, “I’ll leave the RCA on for you, Piet. Something to listen to. The genny’ll keep going until the gas runs out, so you’ll have light, too. But I don’t guess you’ll be throwing any parties, eh?” Then I had a thought. “No, perhaps not, old buddy. That balloon is a dead giveaway.” I lifted the W/T. “Pilot?”

  “Here, colonel.”

  “Have you marked the spot?”

  A pause. “I’ve got it, Charlie-One...I mean...colonel.”

  I smiled. Then I snapped the aerial wire and let it go. “Sorry, Piet. But you’ll still have the light.” I stepped outside and pressed the transmit button on the W/T.

  “Come get me, Baker-One.”

  *

  Karen McCann looked at Ryan and could have cried. The adventure was over, and he seemed glad!

  He smiled down at her. “Where do you want to go? Back to Jo-burg? Or to see your father?”

  She felt hurt, betrayed. All her visions, all the feelings, and he seemed to know nothing of them. She wanted desperately for him to know, to realize what he had meant to her, if only in her fantasies. She heard herself say, “I might tell” It was a wild grab at the first thing to come into her mind.

  Ryan grinned that worldly grin of his, the one that unleashed that new feeling of abandon within her. “Tell who what, kid?” He always called her that. She had come to believe - made herself believe - that he meant it affectionately.

  “I’ll tell my father that you tried to rape me. That you did rape me!” It was ridiculous, childish, she knew. But she could not help herself, the words simply flooded out.

  Ryan nodded patiently, seeing right through her deception - and that was the worst of it. “And?”

  It was to remain a puzzle to her that she had not broken out crying at that moment. She had wanted to, passionately, more than at any other time in her life. She felt utterly destroyed.

  Ryan placed an arm around her shoulders and walked her out towards the waiting aircraft. “Look, kid, go back to your discos and your pop records and your boyfriends. Try and forget about all this. You’ll learn soon enough that this world is not about peace, love and ban the bloody bomb. It’s about something else entirely.”

  She shook his arm away petulantly. “I’m not a child, you know!”

  He replaced his arm. “Of course you’re not a child; you’re a growing woman. And if it help any, I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. But this is the way things are out in the world...ugly. Everything else is cosmetic, and you’ve been touched by it before you were due. And here’s a tip from a pal, the trick is not to let it sour you too much. When your time comes, try to get along with it, accept it for what it is. Because, by God! you scratch any surface and you’ll find dirt. So don’t scratch unless you have to, until you have to. It’s an act, sure. But it’s the only way to get through it. But not yet, eh? Later. Much later. For the time being...just live. So now, where shall I tell the pilot to take you? Jo-burg, or Kinshasa?”

  Now, as the jet in which, this time, she was the only passenger, circled above Kinshasa International Airport, she knew that discos and pop music and panting, groping boyfriends were no longer important. She knew also that she would tell no-one about her experience, not even her diary - in fact she would burn the damn thing the instant she had it in her hand. It never told the truth anyway. And the truth had to be faced, and now, despite Ryan’s wise words. She had grown up. It was a somehow frightening thought, but she had grown up. And grown people accept life as it is, not as they would like it to be. Ryan had been right about that.

  And Karen McCann’s life was about having a father, no matter how hard she had tried to ignore that fact in the past. And - very well! - if the father refused to accept his responsibilities, then it was up to the daughter to make the first advance. Life could go on from there, in maturity. And Karen’s heart began to beat a little faster as the world, and life itself, opened up before her...

  *

  I stood on the grass at the end of the south-west runway, feeling stupid in neat, clean civilian clothes, all bought that morning in a very subdued Kinshasa, and I watched the jet settle into its landing pattern.

  I had not yet decided upon Lumimba’s offer. My feeling was that I would eventually refuse, though what the hell I would do with my life instead of that, was a puzzle. One thing was not a puzzle, however, and that was Jean-Paul Winterhoek’s current state of mind. Despite all his fine words he, like everyone else
involved in the events of the past few days, would be looking to cover his tracks. I had no doubts that he would honor his pledge to the others, but mine was a different case altogether. He would want me out of the picture on a permanent basis, since I was the only one of my command still alive who knew anything of his existence. I had to be silenced!

  Oddly enough, that problem scared me not at all, compared to the one that was about to land.

  I wondered what Karen would have to say for herself, and how I would answer her. I also wondered why she had chosen to come here, rather than Jo-burg. In her shoes I would not have had two words to say to me. Well, perhaps just the two!

  I realized that I was trembling.

  For chrissakes! I told myself. It’s your daughter, not a horde of screaming Simbas! That line of reasoning did not help. I gripped my hands tighter. Was I crazy, or what? I was trembling because I was about to come face to face with my daughter. Jesus H.Christ!

  The plane touched down with a brief yelp of scorched rubber, slowed, then turned onto the perimeter track. It rocked to a halt some fifty yards ahead of me and the door opened. She stepped out into the sunshine.

  I could not believe it. She was beautiful! A woman. She wore a flowered dress which flared when she walked. And high heels. Her long auburn hair fluttered in the gentle breeze...and she was smiling!

  No, she wasn’t; she was laughing!

  “Daddy!” she called, and suddenly I was crying.

  I stepped forward and she ran into my arms. She was crying too, but laughing at the same time. I grabbed her and spun her around, her feet off the grass, one shoe flying away.

  And then she was dead in my arms, a limp rag-doll with blood streaming down the side of her beautiful face.

  *

  Felix Truly was not totally dissatisfied with his performance. Long-shots of that nature were notoriously difficult to get right. So, okay, he had missed his target, but only by a whisker. And he certainly could not wait around for another try. The damned man should not have turned when he had. It could have happened to anyone. He whipped up the rifle, with its powerful ‘scope, and ran to the waiting car. There was already someone charging over the grass towards him. Two or three of them. Airport police. But then he was in his car and, in two minutes, he would be lost in the stream of traffic.

  Felix Truly cursed. And he wondered whether Jean-Paul Winterhoek would be so understanding over a matter of a mere few inches!

  The End

  Other Books by the same author:

  Espionage (In chronological order):

  Power Play

  Czechmate

  The Dongola Script

  I, said the Spyder

  Mercenary Warfare (Martin Palmer):

  A Warrior’s Code

  Dirty Money

  The Devil’s Breath (Out later in 2015)

  Mercenary Warfare (General):

  A Place of Bones

  World War Two:

  The Silent War

  A Time to Die.

  Crime:

  Thunder Island

  Following is the first chapter of “Dirty Money”

  DIRTY MONEY

  ONE:

  Komo blew a bead of sweat from the tip of his nose and swung the hammer again.

  CRACK!

  Stone chipping flew everywhere.

  I said,“Forty-one.”

  It was hotter than yesterday. The sun blasted a fiery hole out of a brassy sky and the valley, way below us, shimmered and danced like a steaming cauldron. There were no cold places left in the world.

  CRACK!

  I said,“Forty-two,” and lifted the water bottle from beside me on the anthill. I took a deep swallow. Komo eyed me malevolently. I smirked and waved him back to work. The hammer blurred in its arc.

  CRACK!

  I said,“Forty-three,” and sighed. I took another swallow from the bottle. Komo glanced over at me. His craggy, angular black face reminded me of a statue that had been rained on. He stood there, hefting the hammer in his massive hands. I returned his gaze and smiled.“Forty-three,” I reminded him, not unkindly.

  He sucked in a breath then let it out again. The hammer swished through the suffering air.

  CRACK!

  I nodded.“Forty-four.”

  Komo took another pause. Things always slowed down in the forties. He said,“Throw me the bottle, boss.”

  I looked at his outstretched hand. Then I looked at his sweat-streaked face. I said,“Stuff you! Get hammering!”

  He muttered something I didn’t catch and swung again.

  CRACK!

  A sliver of rock the size of a silver dollar hissed through the air and near scalped me.“For chrissakes!” I spat,“Watch it!”

  Komo groaned and shook his head, like he thought I was being unreasonable. He was a six-four mountain of drumhead skin stretched over a complex weave of steel-hawser muscles. Most men gave him a wide berth. Most women did the opposite. He lifted the hammer.

  CRACK!

  I said,“Forty-five,” and screwed home the cap of the water bottle. Komo groaned again. He pursed his lips and blew upwards at his nose. The droplets of sweat glinted in the sunlight. The handle of the hammer creaked, reminding me of my bones.

  CRACK!

  That damned rock seemed to grin over at me, smug and self-righteous. Pathetic!, it said to itself. I hated it. I said,“Forty-six,” and lay back on the anthill, closing my eyes tightly against the sun. All the same it seemed to drill right through to my brain.

  CRACK!

  I said,“Forty-seven,” from the prone position.

  Silence.

  I sat up and looked over at Komo and the rock. Both were still there.“What?” I inquired.

  Komo raised his eyebrows, pulled a face and shook his head. Nothing. Just resting. Fine. I lay back down and waited. I smelt of stale sweat and worse.

  CRACK!

  I tried to say Forty-eight, but it wouldn’t come out. I sat up again and spun the cap off the water bottle. I took a lubricating sip. The water was near as hot as the air. Then I said,“Forty-eight,” and this time it came out.

  Komo nodded at me, as if satisfied that I was paying attention. He glared at the hammer in his hands, then down at the rock under his feet. I waited for him to glare over at me. He didn’t. He swung the hammer.

  CRACK!

  I said,“Forty-eight” again, and had a quiet chuckle to myself.

  Komo said,“Forty-nine!” and he settled his bare feet firmer of the rock.

  I shrugged.“Okay, if you must be exact. Forty-nine.” I took another swallow from the bottle to stock up on a reserve and I slid down off the anthill. I cursed that rock to hell and back. I also cursed Freddy Garrant and his defective detonators.

  Not just one.

  Not just two or three.

  But two whole boxes of the damned things!

  Three weeks wasted time and effort.

  And now the goddam rock!

  CRACK!

  Komo, hardly breathing heavy, said“Fifty” himself and the hammer came sailing over at me. I almost caught it. It buried its twenty-pound head in the dirt and I near took a hernia getting it free. Komo relieved me off the water bottle and took my place on the anthill. He had this smug look on his face as he sucked at the bottle. I tried to ignore it.

  One of the blisters on my left hand had burst and there was pus and gunge all over, and pain in all the most inconvenient places. Sod’s Law. Under my breath I called Komo a smug bastard and tried to look intimidating for the rock, which now seemed to be laying there sun-bathing. I put what I had into the swing.

  CRACK!

  The shock-waves zapped up through my arms and shivered down to my toes. My teeth sang like a buzz saw. There’s this feeling you have when you know damned well something is useless. I experienced it then.

  Komo, smiling that superior smile of his, said,“That’s one.”

  I said,“That’s one...bwana!”

  He treated me to an old-fashioned look
.“That don’t make it any more’n one...bwana. An’ you got forty-nine to go.” He lay back on the anthill as if he, like the rock, was taking the sun. Neither of them needed to take the sun.

  The hammer felt like a ton weight in my hands. The sun sent its needle rays into my head and shoulders and I was reasonably certain I did not have another fifty swings in me. I tried number two. It ought to be impossible to miss a damned great rock that you are actually standing on. But miss it I did. The hammer swished in the wrong direction entirely and took me with it. The red dust billowed up around me and I coughed my lungs up trying to get sorted out. I blinked over at Komo, daring him to laugh. He just looked at me. Then he shook his head sagely.

  “That one don’t count, boss.” Pure matter of fact

  I said,“It freekin’ does!”

  Komo shook his head again.“No, it do’n.”

  Through gritted teeth I hissed,“It counts, for chrissakes!” and climbed back on the rock.

  Komo lay back down and rested the water bottle on his chest. He sighed gently.“One.”

  I stood there, glaring at him.

  He raised an idle hand, second finger extended. He’d learned that gesture from me. Komo was learning most of his bad habits from me.

  I spat some dirt from my mouth.“You just wait, you bastard!”

  The hand flopped down beside him. He sighed again.“One.”

  You couldn’t win with Komo. It was in his genes. I said,“Okay, dammit. One!” I tried number two again and made it.

  CRACK!

  Komo muttered,“That’stwo, boss!”

  Boss! I could not persuade Komo to call me anything else. Pal would have been a vast improvement. Or Buddy. He had never once called me by name, and I never got to find out what it would have taken to have him do that. Telling him to call me Martin just didn't work.

  I glared over at him. My head was already swimming. I was sweating like a pig and covered in a layer of soggy red dust. I lifted the hammer.