Hunter Squadron

by Robert Jackson

  The narrow streets of Kerewata were filled with Nkrombe’s African troops, lounging in groups and looking distinctly unmilitary. Nkrombe’s residence itself was guarded by white mercenaries drawn from all parts of the western hemisphere. They were tough men, almost all of them former regular soldiers in some army or other, and although there were only about a hundred of them in Kerewata the Colonel knew that they would be more than a match for ten times that number of native troops. Events elsewhere in the Congo had already proved that.

  Nkrombe’s residence was a fine, whitewashed building of stone that stood in Kerewata’s central square, impressive amid squalid surroundings. There was no wonder that it was impressive, for it had been built with foreign aid that ought to have gone to the relief of the people. The same aid, the Colonel knew, was paying for the services of the mercenaries in Nkrombe’s employ.

  The Colonel brought the jeep to a halt in the courtyard and made to enter the building, but was stopped by two heavily-armed mercenaries, who subjected him to a close scrutiny before allowing him inside. The procedure annoyed the Colonel intensely, for the men knew full well who he was. He knew, however, that it was pointless to protest, for the mercenaries were Belgians, as was their commander, and the latter had no love for anyone of the Colonel’s nationality. It was ironic, for he no longer held that nationality, except in spirit; he had been an American citizen for years.

  The conference with Nkrombe had been called for 1400 hours and the Colonel, as usual, was punctual to the second, a habit that never ceased to irritate his Belgian counterpart, who glared at him as he entered the conference room. The Colonel ignored him; it was Nkrombe who paid his wages. Nevertheless, he was conscious that the Belgian, the self-styled ‘Brigadier’ Koppejans, considered himself to be Nkrombe’s right-hand man, and therefore privy to the African’s secrets.

  Nkrombe, resplendent in a uniform that would not have been out of place in one of the more humorous works of Gilbert and Sullivan, wore a displeased expression on his shining black countenance. He flapped a hand at the new arrival, indicating that he should sit down.

  ‘I have news for you, Colonel.’ As always, Nkrombe’s speech was thick and slurred. The Colonel raised an eyebrow slightly and waited for what was coming next.

  ‘Your missing pilot,’ Nkrombe said, punctuating his sentence by tapping sharply on the table with a fly-whisk, ‘is a prisoner. Let me say that I hold you directly responsible for his flagrant breach of orders.’ For once, Koppejans showed complete satisfaction. Vaguely, the Colonel wondered how Nkrombe knew that the American had been captured. He must have an efficient spy network in Warambe.

  ‘We must assume that he has talked to the British,’ Nkrombe continued, ‘in which case our plans may be in jeopardy.’

  ‘But he does not know anything of any significance,’ the Colonel protested. Nkrombe held up a hand for silence.

  ‘He has been here long enough to know what forces we have at our disposal,’ the African said, ‘and he is therefore in a position to give the British much essential information. Once they know the strength of our forces, they will make an intelligent guess as to where, and how, we intend to employ them. They will doubtless, at this very moment, be deploying every available man along their river frontier defences.’

  Suddenly, Nkrombe threw back his head and roared with laughter, his mouth a gaping pink cavern. Both the Colonel and Koppejans looked at him, startled, as he emitted guffaw after guffaw until glistening tears streamed down his cheeks. Then, abruptly, he rose to his feet and came round the table, still chuckling, to clap the Colonel on the shoulder.

  ‘It was my little joke, my friend,’ he chortled. ‘Just my little joke. I am not angry at all. Really, I am quite pleased. Your pilot has unknowingly assisted my plan, not thwarted it.’

  Koppejans looked thunderstruck, and the Colonel was not far behind him. He waited for the African to explain. Nkrombe was like a big, jovial child who had just sprung a practical joke on an innocent bystander — which, in fact, was not far from the truth.

  Nkrombe’s mirth subsided and he became suddenly serious. ‘Come with me,’ he ordered. ‘Come with me, both of you, into the next room. I have something to show you.’

  They followed him mutely, comrades for once in their mutual bewilderment. He opened the door of an adjacent room and stood on the threshold for a moment, arm extended as though indicating a new and unexplored terrain.

  The room was empty except for a large table. On it was a relief model, meticulously constructed. The two Europeans peered at it curiously.

  ‘My eldest son built it,’ Nkrombe told them proudly. ‘It took him many hours. See — it shows the location of Warambe’s uranium mines. But it shows something else, too.’ He laughed again. ‘I can see by your faces that you are completely mystified, and perhaps a little in awe of my son’s skill, yes?’

  The Colonel and Koppejans exchanged sidelong glances which Nkrombe chose to ignore. Instead, he pointed to various details on the model.

  ‘Look, here are the mines, in this valley at the base of a cliff.’ His finger traced a path up the latter and crept over the summit until it halted at an almost circular feature, painted blue. ‘This,’ he explained, ‘is the crater of a long-extinct volcano. As you will see, its walls form part of the cliff face; the crater itself has become a lake. It is not a big lake, but it is deep, very deep indeed.’

  His face took on a triumphant expression. ‘I have been clever, gentlemen. I have, as the English say, done my homework.’ He paused for dramatic effect, then went on. ‘There is in my possession a document, a document compiled by the British colonial mining engineers who first carried out a survey of likely areas of Warambe in search of valuable mineral deposits. It deals with the volcano, and the valley below it, in great detail.’

  He turned again to the model and pointed out a thin white line which had been painted on the cliff face.

  ‘This,’ he told them, ‘represents the position of a geological fault which runs through the cliff and up into the cone of the volcano. It is a weak spot, and I know how to exploit it. I have had expert advice. A few hundred pounds of explosive, detonated in the right place, will cause the fault to crack wide open and the whole cliff to split, right up to the cone of the volcano.’

  The Colonel knew that Nkrombe was a highly educated man, but he had not bargained for this. Despite himself, he felt admiration for the way in which the African appeared to have worked things out down to the finest detail.

  ‘Where is the right place?’ he wanted to know. Nkrombe’s finger retraced its path over the summit of the cliff and halted close to the base of the old volcano.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘At this spot there is a chasm where the fault has opened out at the surface. This is where the explosive charges will be planted. When they detonate, water — thousands of tons of water — will pour down through the fissures from the volcanic crater into the valley below. The uranium mines will be completely flooded. No equipment on earth will be capable of pumping them clear. In time, the water will drain away, but it will take several years, and by that time it will be too late for Warambe. Long before, the Warambe Government will be seeking help from me, because it will not be forthcoming from the British. I will give it — but on my terms.’

  Koppejans looked extremely annoyed that he had not been let into Nkrombe’s secret. Nevertheless, he remained strictly polite.

  ‘One thing I do not understand, sir, is why this action could not have been taken sooner,’ he said. Nkrombe looked at him a little impatiently before replying.

  ‘Because, Brigadier, it is one thing to know how to carry out an operation in hostile territory, but quite another when it comes to implementing it. I have no wish to invade Warambe; that is merely a facade. It is not necessary. I already have an army in Warambe — not a large one, but reliable nevertheless. It took time to assemble it — time and a great deal of money. People will do anything for money, will they not?’ He looked directly at Koppejans,
who showed no embarrassment at all.

  ‘Then why build up a volunteer army if you have no need of it?’ the Colonel wanted to know. He carefully avoided the use of the word ‘mercenary’.

  ‘On the contrary, Colonel, I do have need of it,’ Nkrombe replied. ‘There is a twofold reason. First of all, the British have decided that I intend to invade Warambe. As I have just explained, that is not true. Nevertheless, they have seen fit to strengthen Warambe’s defences, which is a complication I had not envisaged. Therefore, in order for my plan to succeed — in other words, to enable my operatives in Warambe to carry out their task unmolested — it will be necessary to mount a diversionary assault at several points on the river frontier. The aim is not to cross the river, but merely to make the British believe that we intend to. Once the mines have been flooded, the diversionary forces can withdraw. There can be no fear that the British might pursue them across the river.’

  Nkrombe folded his arms and his eyes took on a faraway look, as though he was seeing an inner vision.

  ‘Warambe, with its mines — which will one day be workable again — represents my financial security for the future,’ he continued. ‘In the meantime, there are pickings to be had elsewhere. The whole of the Congo is in turmoil, and already several tribal leaders have asked for my help. It shall be given to them — but only, once again, on my terms.’

  He looked at Koppejans and the Colonel in turn. ‘With your help, I have made Kerewata strong, stronger than any other province in the Congo. Soon, when more of my own men are trained, it will be stronger still, strong enough to oppose the pitiful forces the United Nations are prepared to send into this part of Africa. But I do not propose to wait until the United Nations choose to confront me. I propose to act now, while they are fully occupied with the fires of revolutions that are sweeping through the land.’

  His eyes blazed like black coals, reflecting a deep fanatacism, and he pounded a fist on the table, causing the model to tremble.

  ‘This is why you are here,’ he thundered. ‘To form the spearhead of a force that will sweep west and south, rolling up the neighbouring provinces one by one and forcing their leaders to swear allegiance to me! Warambe is incidental — nothing more than a sideshow, at least for the time being. I will be to the Congo what Napoleon was to France! There will be a great empire here in central Africa, a black Empire, and I shall be its leader. I shall bring stability and peace to suffering peoples and they will remember my name for a thousand years!’

  Suddenly, he lowered his voice until it was little more than a dull rumble, barely audible to his two listeners.

  ‘Who knows?’ he mused. ‘With my empire secure in the west, who knows what the future may hold? Using Warambe as a springboard, I may even expand to the east. Uganda, Tanganyika ... perhaps even Kenya. Nothing is impossible.’

  Koppejans coughed politely. ‘I’m sure we wish you good fortune in your future ventures, sir,’ he declared, conscious that he was lying, ‘but what of the immediate plan concerning Warambe?’

  Nkrombe returned to the present with a jolt. ‘Ah yes, Warambe.’ He smiled, flashing teeth stained yellow by nicotine. ‘I almost forgot why I summoned you both here. All is now prepared, gentlemen. I have received word that the explosive charges will be laid and ready to be detonated within forty-eight hours. The diversionary attacks must be timed to start twelve hours before that. It does not give you much time, but time enough.’ He smiled again, disarmingly this time. ‘And rest assured — when my plans have reached their successful conclusion, the rewards for both of you will be greater than you imagine.’

  The Colonel and Koppejans left Nkrombe’s residence together. On the Colonel’s suggestion, the Belgian agreed to come to the airfield to discuss details of air support during the diversions. For once, the differences between the two men were forgotten.

  ‘You know something?’ Koppejans hazarded as they drove off, ‘I suddenly don’t trust that fellow. He’s a bloody lunatic.’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ the Colonel answered. ‘He’s a man with fanatical ambition, which in a way is worse. Napoleon was one such, and Hitler another. They both failed in the end, but they dragged a lot of people down with them. Nkrombe will fail, too, but God knows what will happen in the process. He’ll probably cause the whole of Africa to burst into flames.’

  Koppejans was silent for a while. Then he said: ‘What are we going to do? This whole bloody business is likely to get out of hand.’

  The Colonel shrugged. ‘He’s paying our wages. The money is good, and we haven’t been asked to risk our necks until now. I suggest we see this Warambe business through, and then make up our minds. If Nkrombe is double-dealing us for some reason, we must make sure that we are in a position to act first. We can always fight our way out, if we have to.’

  Koppejans grunted. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ he observed. Suddenly, he looked across at the Colonel, who was driving. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘just pull up for a moment, will you?’

  The Colonel obligingly pulled the jeep over to the side of the road and halted, looking enquiringly at his passenger. With only slight hesitation, Koppejans stuck out his right hand.

  ‘We’ve been at odds with each other ever since we got here,’ he said. ‘After what we’ve just heard, I don’t think we can afford to be any more. So let’s shake on it, and start afresh.’

  ‘That’s fine by me.’ The man they called the Colonel took the proffered hand briefly, feeling pleased that the tension between himself and the Belgian seemed to be at an end. As they drove on, however, Koppejans had one further comment to make.

  ‘There’s just one thing,’ he said, and the Colonel saw that he was grinning as he said it. ‘I still don’t like bloody Germans.’

  The Colonel grinned back. ‘Who said that I was German?’ was all he had to say.

  *

  A deep, oppressive darkness fell over the Congo, bringing with it more rain. It lashed down on Kerewata, saturating the cooking-fires and the figures, huddled around them, of the troops who would soon be moving up towards the frontier with Warambe. The giant drops pounded with an unholy din on the tin roof of the shack at the airfield where the Colonel and Koppejans, surrounded by their senior officers, laboured under the pale light of generator-driven electric lamps to put the finishing touches to every detail of the forthcoming operations.

  Elsewhere, the rain lashed down ferociously on the normally-placid waters of the river that divided the two territories, and here too men — British and African alike — huddled under their capes or whatever shelter they could find and cursed the sudden downpour.

  Under cover of the rain and the darkness, shadows flitted silently among the trees, unobserved by any of the patrols or look-out posts. If a superstitious African had spotted them by chance, he would have been rooted to the ground in mortal terror, thinking that the shadows were jungle spirits. But they were men, and far more deadly than any spectre.

  There were twenty of them. Like everyone else on both sides of the river they were soaked to the skin, but after three weeks in the jungle they were used to it and took it in their stride. For three weeks they had prepared for this moment, watching and waiting, and now their real task was beginning.

  The men wore tight-fitting suits camouflaged with stripes of dark green and black, and fitted with hoods that concealed all but their eyes, so that even in broad daylight they would have been invisible against a jungle background. The back-pack that each man carried was also camouflaged in the same fashion.

  Only in their weaponry did the men differ. Some carried machine-pistols, some carbines. One even carried a crossbow, a weapon as deadly as any rifle at close range and just as accurate in expert hands, with the advantage that it was silent. And the man who bore it was an expert; they all were. They all knew how to kill.

  The men belonged to an elite special forces unit whose identity would never appear in any official document. It had been born in Malaya, during the early phase of the fight against t
he communist terrorists there, and had then held the title of Ferret Force. But once its purpose had been fulfilled, Ferret Force had been disbanded, and its men dispersed to other units.

  During the years that followed, several of the men who had served with Ferret Force had mysteriously disappeared from the lists of the British Army. Some had been cashiered for various misdemeanours; others had simply vanished into obscurity. No-one, outside a certain small department in Whitehall, would ever have imagined that it was part of a carefully-orchestrated plan to form another unit composed of such men — a unit so secret that its existence was not even suspected by the British Prime Minister.

  During the years since its formation, the Special Force — it had no other designation — had operated all over the world, wherever drastic undercover measures were needed to safeguard British interests. The men who belonged to it were specialists in arctic, jungle and desert warfare, and all of them were fluent in at least one foreign language. Usually, they operated in small cells of two or three, but this time it was different.

  Soundlessly, the men filtered down towards the river, reaching its bank at a spot guarded by men of the Warambe Rifles. The Africans were singing quietly to themselves, and the embers of a cooking-fire glowed through the rain, silhouetting the hunched figures of the men themselves. If an attack had developed from the opposite bank, they would have been sitting targets.

  The soldiers certainly had no eyes for the twenty silent men who slipped by almost under their noses, and who waded out into the river until the water was up to their necks. The river was narrow at this point and the men swam across easily, their weapons strapped to the waterproof packs which they pushed ahead of them as they went. On the far side, the night and the rain swallowed them up.