Decoy

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Decoy Page 19

by Simon Mockler

“The runway,” one of them shouted, “that came from the runway. We must defend it,” he rose quickly from his seat. The others stood up too, uncertain what to do, but convinced the situation required them to be decisive and courageous.

  Nbotou heard the panic in the man’s voice, the last thing he wanted was for a half-scared captain to lead his soldiers into a firestorm.

  “Wait, all of you. Nobody moves without my command.” He held up his hand for silence, listening to the explosions, trying to hear if there were aircraft overhead. Whatever was happening to the runway, it was too late to save it.

  “Otope, lead your men down the track to the airfield, but after a kilometre turn back, send only two or three soldiers ahead to find out what is happening. Tell the rest of your men to encircle the camp. We will hold it from the inside, but I want you to keep watch from outside, see who enters. Do not join the fight until you receive my signal.” He grinned at Otope, “you will be our little secret. The surprise we unleash on our enemy.” He turned to the other soldiers.

  “Each of you will secure a different section of the perimeter of the house.” Another explosion, much louder this time, the walls vibrating. Nbotou didn’t even blink. “I will remain at the centre with my personal body guard, close to the tunnel.” He clapped his hands together and smiled at his men, “long time since we have had ourselves a worthy adversary eh boys?” He slapped the two soldiers nearest to him heavily on the shoulders. “Let’s show these bastards how we fight in Africa.”

  Nbotou gathered his personal guard around him and headed to the pantry, a small room, but well-protected. It had thick stone walls lined with lead. The latest in 19th century refrigeration technology. It was also the point from which he could make his escape. Under the floorboards was a tunnel that led out in to the jungle. Just over a mile long, it would take him away safely away from the camp if the fighting became too much. No way of following him either, if need be he could set off an explosion at the entrance that would collapse the first few metres of the tunnel.

  55

  Florence shuddered as another explosion shook the jungle.

  “A close call, eh Gustav?” Monsieur Blanc inquired. Gustav didn’t reply. Driving the jeep required his full attention, water streaming down the road, wheels spinning in the mud, sliding across the surface of the tack. He flinched with each explosion, but somehow managed to keep the car on the road. Jack didn’t think they’d be able to use the jeep for much longer. The rain was unrelenting, the grey dawn held at bay by the heavy clouds overhead.

  The track turned a corner, up a shallow incline. Steep enough to set the rear wheels spinning, digging themselves into the mud.

  “Slow down or we’ll end up stranded here.” Monsieur Blanc said irritably. Gustav ignored him, putting his foot on the gas, accelerating harder, sending out a spray of mud behind them. The wheels dug in deeper. Gustav turned off the ignition. The jeep slid back then settled. Jack jumped out, looked at the rear tyres, sunk almost to the axle in the dull brown mud. They weren’t going anywhere, not in this weather.

  “We can either dig the car out and wait for the rains to stop or ditch it and head off on foot.” He said. Monsieur Blanc shifted his bulk out of the jeep and looked at the rear wheels.

  “He’s right.” He reached in and grabbed his rucksack, hefting it onto his back, then took out a GPS. “We’re 15 kilometres from the landing sight. I suggest we walk it, we should be there by nightfall.”

  Gustav didn’t look convinced. “We’re on the edge of Nbotou’s territory boss. From here on in it’s under the control of the Uganda Liberation Army.” He looked around him nervously. Monsieur Blanc shrugged, “then I suggest you check the rain hasn’t affected your gun.”

  “How far to the border from here?” Jack asked.

  “Which border? Rwanda and Uganda are both close, but I would recommend Burundi as your safest option. Quite a trek ahead of you.” He signalled to Gustav, “ensure the boy has a knife, give him that one of yours with the compass in the hilt. Tell me Jack, were you a Scout in your youth?” Jack shook his head.

  “No.”

  “Shame, the skills they teach would have come in very handy for the journey you are about to undertake. Here,” he reached in his pocket. Jack wondered what he was about to give him. A phone, a box of matches, something useful? No, a business card with a Paris address.

  “The P.O. box number is how people get in contact with me. If you make it out alive do drop me a line. I could use somebody with your resilience,” Jack took the card, eyes wide. The man had some gall.

  “Don’t look so disappointed, think of this as an adventure, a trial.” He turned to Gustav, still sulking because he’d been asked to hand over his knife.

  “Time to move out,” he said, setting off up the path. “Due east for you Jack, due east. And thanks once again.” He called over his shoulder, one hand pointing in the direction of the jungle.

  Jack watched them head off up the road. Monsieur Blanc, soaked to the skin in his linen suit, the young black girl he’d rescued skipping along beside him, the towering figure of Gustav behind them. They resembled a bizarre circus troop, fat clown, lithe young acrobat, and a grumpy bear glumly following orders, never quite understanding why his strength was subject to the whim of those weaker than himself.

  A dull grey light was beginning to filter through the clouds, the rain-filled air around him starting to warm. They disappeared round a bend in the road, into the gloom, a background symphony of thudding explosions their exit music. Despite himself Jack laughed, the scene was comic, the relief he felt at finding himself alone, the immediate threat to his existence suddenly gone, dizzying, hysterical almost. He had never quite believed Monsieur Blanc would leave him unharmed, had always been ready in the back of his mind to take flight.

  He turned towards the tree line, using the compass to head due east. Now it was just him and the jungle. A trek of God knew how many miles through dangerous territory. He didn’t feel fear at that though, he didn’t feel dread. Instead he found himself thinking of his father. Of the camping trips he had taken him on as a boy, in the French Alps, the New Forest. That was before he grew into a truculent and resentful teenager, more interested in girls and beer than spending a weekend with his father in a mosquito-filled forest. Out here, the line of trees at the edge of the jungle both forbidding and challenging, Jack suddenly felt closer to him, to the life he had lived, the solitude he had endured and the challenges he had faced, than he ever had at home. If he made it back, he resolved to call him more often, make time to listen to his crazy stories. If he made it back.

  56

  Ed Garner sailed down the abseil rope and landed nimbly on the ground, the three other soldiers followed, crouching in the undergrowth. The front gates of the camp had opened and a stream of soldiers was pouring out. Some on foot and some in Jeeps, they ran quickly down the track in the direction of the runway.

  Ed watched, trying to keep a rough check on the numbers. He spoke into his headpiece: “Gavin, soldiers are on their way. Close to 1000, some on foot, some in Jeeps, over.” No reply. “Gavin can you hear me? Over.” An ominous silence. Shit, Ed thought. “Gavin, troops coming your way. Do you copy? Over.” Nothing. Technical problems. Had to be. No chance someone as experienced as Gavin had wandered into an ambush, not while there was still cover of darkness.

  “No response from Gavin?” It was Denbigh’s voice from up in the treetops, patched into the same frequency. “Not yet. Keep trying him. What are you seeing on the thermal imaging?” Denbigh checked the screen. Red groups glowed around the inside the wall that encircled the perimeter of the camp. Nothing inside the house. “Looks like they’re organised into four main groups in the courtyard. Covering the open ground. You’re going to need to get in there quickly if you want to use what’s left of the darkness.”

  “What’s our best entrance point?”

  “Rear
wall and front left. Mid points.”

  “We’ll take the left wall. Once we’re over let the RPGs fly. We’ll add our grenades to the mix. Just make sure you don’t hit us.”

  Ed ran forwards, quickly over the open ground, ducking behind a stack of oil drums near the entrance to the camp. The three other soldiers followed. He made a quick check no one was about to emerge and a sprint to the left wall, looking for the best place to clamber over. Plenty of jungle vines on the crumbling surface, so it was easy to get a grip. He reached up, pulled himself onto the top of the wall and lay flat, head sideways. Checked the ground below. Ammo crates and a tarpaulin. Perfect. He slid over the wall and took up position behind the tarpaulin. His team followed. Movements swift, well practised and precise.

  “We’re in, Denbigh.” He said quietly into his mouthpiece.

  “RPGs firing to right-hand sector.” He replied. A rushing sound, then the roar of an explosion. Ferocious yellow flames leapt upwards from a corner of the courtyard. Two more rockets in quick succession. Blue flames from a fuel tank. Bodies screaming, figures on fire, human torches running around the courtyard, flinging themselves on the ground. Ed and his men threw volley after volley of grenades into the groups of soldiers, machine gun fire in response, directionless, intermittent, panicked.

  “Give me some intel on their position, Denbigh.” Ed said into his mic, ducking back behind the tarpaulin. Denbigh checked his screen, the fire blazing a bright white light, red figures running away from it.

  “Two units have dispersed, inside the house mostly. Others are holding steady. One in front of the main building, one by the gate.” Ed signalled to his team.

  “Two of you start picking off the group nearest the house. I’m going to sprint between the two units, draw fire, then duck into the fountain. With any luck they’ll start shooting each other in the confusion. Stay in position till I give the signal.”

  He sprinted forwards over the flag-stoned courtyard, dancing flames casting a flickering light over the scene, jagged shadows that wouldn’t stay still. He turned to the group of soldiers by the gate, sprayed several rounds of bullets at them, then turned to the house, another burst of fire. Figures fell, collapsing to the ground. A chorus of high-pitched cries. Children screaming with pain. Not something Ed had been prepared for. Men didn’t make the same noise when they were hit. It curdled his blood, made him pause. A fraction of a second delay before he dived into the fountain. The bullet caught him on the left shoulder. Spun him as he fell. No pain, just heat. The adrenalin anaesthetising the wound. He clenched and unclenched his left hand. Still movement. Nothing more than a surface wound.

  Gunfire rattled over his head, the two units letting off round after round, returning fire with a vengeance. Ear-splitting confusion, bullets thudding into the house, into the walls that surrounded the camp, ricocheting indiscriminately, tearing through the skin and bones of the soldiers. The captains who commanded each group realised what was happening, tried desperately to make them stop, shouting as loud as they could, but their voices were drowned under waves of machine gun fire.

  “More grenades, team. Into the two units,” Ed said into the mic, hardly daring to raise his head above the stone wall of the fountain. It was too much for the ill-trained and ill-equipped soldiers, they ran for the gates, trampling over one another in their effort to get out of the camp, like rats streaming out of a sewer. Denbigh was merciless, firing rocket after rocket from his position in the treetop. A sudden circle of bare earth cleared by each explosion, bodies flung outwards, then the force of the numbers crushing the soldiers back together again, enclosing the space. Fluid and unstoppable, a deathly river.

  From his position in the treetops, Denbigh noticed two figures who stood apart from the crowd, bigger than the other soldiers, attempting to catch them by the scruff of the neck. Instil some order in their ragged troops. Senior officers, or whatever the equivalent was in this army. He switched weapons, picked up his rifle. Sent a bullet into each of them. Head shots. They fell to the ground. The last remaining troops sprinted into the jungle.

  Ed raised his head above the fountain wall. The encroaching daylight only added to the horror of the scene that greeted him. The courtyard was littered with bodies, some intact, some shredded limb from limb. The flagstones and dirt were stained a red-brown. And all the while the constant background noise of groans and cries from the wounded soldiers.

  “Ready to take the house, over.” He said into his mouthpiece. His team sprinted towards the mansion, up the steps to the veranda, taking position either side of the door. Ed jumped over the fountain wall and joined them.

  “What have you got Denbigh, where are they?” Denbigh checked the screen.

  “Even spread. All rooms occupied. Going to be a hell of firefight. Maybe wait for McCallister, over?”

  “No time.” Ed replied. They had to do this before the sun was up. Otherwise they might as well run now. He turned to his team.

  “Face masks on. We’re going chemical. Only way to clear a building this size. Move in pairs, one providing covering fire, the other releasing the nerve gas. We have 12 canisters. More than enough. We’ll ID the boss from the pile of bodies.”

  57

  “They have taken the courtyard, General. The soldiers panicked and fled. They do not know how to fight like this. Not when they cannot see their enemy.” The General listened to his second in command, anger welling up inside him.

  “They will attempt to take the house next. How many men did you bring inside?” he asked.

  “Two divisions sir. Maybe 200 soldiers.” Clement shook his head and bit his lip.

  “Two hundred? Are you crazy? A couple of mortars and some grenades and half the force will be wiped out. Listen,” he placed a finger over his lips. Outside an ominous silence.

  “The shelling of the runway has stopped. They are getting ready to attack.” Nbotou reached under the table and hefted open the trap door. Before he climbed down he turned and placed a hand on his comrade’s shoulder.

  “You must stay here, defend the camp. I will leave with my personal guard, meet up with Otope in the jungle. Hold them off for as long as you can. We will encircle the camp and take them from the outside.” He saluted his comrade before disappearing through the trap door, the ten highly experienced soldiers that made up his personal guard following close behind.

  He knew it would only be a matter of seconds before the soldiers entered the house, and he knew there would be little point waiting for them to come to him. There was only one way to defeat a guerrilla attack and that was by stealth. The foundations of the house were mined with explosive. Once he was a suitable distance away he would set the detonators. A shame to demolish the old pile, it had stood him well, and he had a grudging respect for the place. But the men attacking him were not regular soldiers. They were not the sort of army that lined up in neat rows and fired well-disciplined bullets at you. They were the sort who hid in the treetops for days on end, crept into your room at night to slit your throat, so quiet even your body guard wouldn’t turn round. No, the way to deal with men like that was not to stand and fight, it was to trick them into entering the house, let them think they had won, then once their guard had dropped bring the building down on top of them. A shame it would cost the lives of his own men too, but that was a price he was willing to pay. A soldier was soon replaced in the eastern Congo.

  Gavin McCallister knew it was over the minute he rounded the bend in the track. An entire division of soldiers running towards them. His fault for suggesting they follow the track instead of making their way through the jungle. Speed over caution, the need to join the rest of the company as soon as possible. A calculated risk that hadn’t paid off.

  Nbotou’s soldiers paused for a split second, then let rip a hail of bullets, and two of Gavin’s men dropped instantaneously. No point in attempting to return fire, too many of them. He dived into the undergrowth, feeling the
burning sting of bullet through flesh as he did so, hot and cold at the same time. Twenty metres between him and the advancing soldiers, they closed down the gap in a matter of seconds. Footsteps charged past the area where he’d been standing. He pulled himself deeper into the jungle, through the thick vegetation, glanced over his shoulder. He could still see the road, could see the bullets fired into the backs of his prostrate colleagues. Two soldiers unsheathing their machetes, cutting into the bodies, disembowelling them, mutilating them. They wiped the fresh blood on their faces, their movements mechanical, ritualised. One of them pointed at the road, the marks that led into the undergrowth, the red-brown trail Gavin had left in his wake.

  He heard a rustling as they approached, gun in one hand, machete in the other. Gavin had always hated knifes. He knew they would take their time, cut him before they killed him, show him the contents of his own body. He pulled a grenade from his belt, felt its reassuring weight in his hand, strangely comforting. He’d always hated knives but he’d always loved explosions. Might as well go out with a fucking big bang, he thought, releasing the pin.

  Nbotou hurried down the tunnel, showers of earth falling down the back of his neck with the explosions above him. The tunnel was narrow, but well-built. Put together by the miners he had digging out the coltan ore. Over a mile in length, it led to a clearing that held four large containers. The sort used on cargo ships. He’d had them flown in from Kinshasa and dropped in place by helicopter. They stored his coltan reserves. Each one was covered with camouflage netting and the jungle had grown up quickly around them, hiding them from the satellites that orbited high overhead.

  The detonators were placed at the end of the tunnel. Clement was running now, keen to get to them as quickly as possible, release the charges, bring the house in on itself and whoever was left inside.

 

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