Tenth Man Down

by Chris Ryan

  Danny – a compact little Yorkshireman with fine, sandy hair – had a funny habit of dropping his chin and rotating his head through half a circle, as if he were trying to peel his neck away from his collar, whenever he came up with a commentary on anything interesting that happened. Now he did just that as he said, ‘It’s quietened the buggers, anyway, the old gun.’

  ‘Aye,’ Pavarotti agreed. ‘From the way the commotion’s died down, I reckon the bird’s got away. If they’d dropped it, they’d be screeching something horrible.’

  We settled back round the fire and started talking about our tour. Looking at the faces again, I realised that Chalky had gone almost as dark as some of the Africans. It’s standard practice for anyone with the surname White to be called Chalky, but with this one there was some point, because he had jet black hair and a swarthy complexion. What with his tan, and the fact he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, you could hardly see him in the firelight.

  Stringer looked like the butcher’s boy he’d been: rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed, big, powerful, a fitness freak. In the UK he spent hours in the gym, and here in the bush he was constantly skipping or doing press-ups or dips between two boxes set out a couple of feet apart. Also, he couldn’t resist the long tendrils of creeper trailing from big trees in the forest; whenever he found some good ones, he was up them in a flash, earning derisive shouts of ‘Fucking Tarzan!’ He was also our best linguist, with reasonably fluent Arabic and Russian. Neither of those was any cop here, but he’d already picked up a useful amount of Nyanja, the language common to the various native tribes in the area.

  Pavarotti, the biggest guy in the team, always fighting his weight, was pretty dark as well. His rubbery face – typically Welsh – seemed to have grown larger, its tan emphasising his heavy features and thick eyebrows. Apart from Whinger and myself, Pav was the oldest of the lads, at around thirty-one or thirty-two. Among many other hairy tasks, he’d taken part in our Kremlin job a year earlier, and his strength had saved the day when we were struggling to hoist a suitcase bomb into position in the tunnel under the Moscow river. That episode had finally cured his phobia about being caught in confined spaces.

  As for Whinger, he and I had survived numerous dodgy situations together, in Belfast, Libya, Colombia and Grozny, not to mention England itself, and I’d come to rely on his coolness and efficiency, whatever the threat. We’d worked together for so long that I took his presence, and his bastard rhyming slang, for granted. The guys who knew him less well had been puzzled at first when he started talking about ‘silveries’, and I had to explain the derivation of the term: silver spoon – coon. The moment they got it, everyone took it up.

  Aside from Whinger and Pav, the lads were all around the twenty-seven, twenty-eight mark, and although I’d never worked with any of them, I felt solidly confident about their capabilities. They were well tried and tested, and so far on this trip they’d been a hundred per cent. Mart Stanning, for instance, was an excellent operator. Slim and wiry, and so fair that people often mistook him for a Dane or a Dutchman, he stood out even among our own lads. Unlike Genesis, he tanned easily, and while the sun was bleaching his hair, it was darkening his skin, so that he looked as though he was wearing a straw-coloured cap. To the Africans he was a phenomenon, and they referred to him by a native name that meant ‘Yellow Doctor’. They quickly saw that he was a good practitioner, and every morning he had to conduct a regular surgery, treating sores and septic wounds by the dozen, and doling out harmless aspirin for things like cancerous growths which he couldn’t deal with.

  The one guy I had reservations about was Andy Dean, who was away on the supply run. That May he’d got married to Penny, a farmer’s daughter from Shropshire, and most of the team had been to his wedding near Ludlow. I’m afraid we behaved in typical SAS fashion, collaring a table in a corner of the big tent and getting stuck into the champagne without bothering to make polite conversation to the other guests. Then, before we left the UK, Andy had bought a cottage in Kilpeck, a village near Hereford. The house was more than a hundred years old, and tiny. It needed a hell of a lot doing to it to make it habitable, and I knew the mortgage payments were going to stretch him to the limit. Once or twice in Kamanga I’d found him looking preoccupied. His heart didn’t seem to be in the job, and it was obvious financial worries were preying on his mind.

  Except for myself, married and widowed, and Whinger, who’d been married for a couple of years, but then divorced, without any kids, Andy was the only one who’d got spliced, and with the dire record of the Regiment in this area, everyone was waiting to see how long it would last. Several of the others had woman problems, but nothing that wouldn’t wait the six weeks until we were home again. Looking round the circle again, I reckoned we were a pretty typical SAS team: all fit, all well built, all fairly undemonstrative, all quick on our feet, both physically and mentally, all able to do each other’s jobs, should the need arise.

  Before we’d come out, Stringer had got quite excited about the trip, his first to Africa. He thought it was going to be a great adventure: the Dark Continent and all that. Now, by the fire, Whinger said cynically, ‘Didn’t I tell you? It’s like I said. Where’s the action? Here we are, miles from anywhere. No bar for a thousand miles. Bugger all entertainment. HIV wherever you look.’

  ‘Come on!’ said Pav. ‘We’re gonna have a ball!’

  ‘Have your motor flown out, Pav,’ Danny told him. ‘Take it for a drive on the Chiwembe highway.’

  ‘Thanks, mate. As long as you stump up for the repair bills.’

  Just before we went to Russia, Pav had bought a second-hand XJ 120 Jaguar, flame red, and the wretched thing had become the love of his life. No matter that it had already put six points on his licence, at the slightest opportunity he was away down to Ross and the M50 for what he called a pipe-opener. The idea of driving it out here, on the dirt roads, made him groan.

  ‘Whinger’s right, up to a point,’ said Mart, scratching at his blond scrub. ‘That briefing I got at the med centre about not touching anybody wounded unless I’m wearing rubber gloves – they reckon one in three of the population are carrying the HIV virus.’

  ‘Don’t touch ’em, then,’ said Pav. ‘Just let ’em carry on.’

  There was a pause, and then Stringer said, ‘I reckon they’re all right.’

  ‘Who?’ Pav demanded.

  ‘The Alpha guys.’

  ‘Listen,’ I told him. ‘They’ve been all right so far, but these people are volatile as hell. They can turn in a flash. When I was in Zaire in ninety-one, the whole population went fucking berserk. In Kinshasa, the capital, they started looting shops and houses like savages, trashing everything. They were even nicking amputated limbs from the skips at the back of the hospital.’

  ‘What for?’ Stringer looked a bit sick.

  ‘To eat, of course.’

  ‘Christ!’

  There was another silence while everyone took that in. Then Chalky said, ‘At least we can’t spend any money. There’s that.’

  ‘You wait,’ said Whinger. ‘If we get that week of R and R they promised us at the end, and end up in Sun City, you’ll spend everything you’ve got.’

  Presently, through the bush in the opposite direction, we spotted headlights flaring and swinging in the distance as our supply truck came lurching back towards base. We got up, walking towards it, and within a minute it was pulling up on the open ground in front of our tents. The whole area was pretty dark, with no illumination except the flicker of cooking fires in the distance, but from the speed at which the lorry slid to a halt, I got the impression that something was wrong.

  A cloud of dust rolled forward from behind it, boiling up into the headlights, and a figure I recognised as Andy jumped down off the tailboard.

  ‘Eh, Andy,’ I called. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Geordie!’ he went, in a strange, tight voice. ‘There’s been an accident.’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Fine.’
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br />   ‘What about Phil?’

  ‘He’s okay. It wasn’t us. We ran into a group of kids.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus! Anyone killed?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But two of them are quite bad. We brought them with us – in the back.’

  Immediately I yelled for Mart.

  ‘Right here, Geordie.’ His voice came from close behind me.

  ‘Hear what Andy said?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Get your kit, then.’

  An African came running with a hurricane lamp. Moths swirled round the light as he held it aloft. I saw Phil Foster in the back of the truck, holding something in his arms. A moment later he handed the bundle down to me – a child wrapped in a dark-coloured blanket. Instinctively, I started out towards our own tents, which were nearest to the spot. The child was warm, but limp and not moving. It felt pathetically light.

  Mart had moved with commendable speed. Under the fly-leaf of his tent a hurricane lamp was burning, and he’d got some of the contents of his medical pack spread out. I laid my burden gently on the ground and opened up the blanket. Inside was a boy of maybe eight or nine, barefoot, clad in a dirty brown T-shirt and dark-blue shorts, powdered all over with pale dust. His eyes were shut, but his little chest was lifting and falling in very short, quick breaths. The sight of him immediately made me think of Tim.

  ‘Gloves, Mart,’ I said.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘There’s no blood. His skin’s not broken.’

  He started to check the boy over, feeling carefully for broken bones. Then another blanket came to rest beside me. This one held a girl, also barefoot, wearing a simple dark-blue shift. She looked younger than the boy, perhaps only six. Blood was shining on her right temple, and down her right arm. Her eyes were open, but they were wide with fear.

  ‘You’re okay,’ I said gently. ‘Take it easy.’ I couldn’t tell if she understood English, but I hoped soft words would soothe her.

  Looking round, I found Phil crouching beside me. In the harsh lamplight the hollows in his long, lean face were full of shadows. ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Joseph was driving. We were way out in the bush, well clear of the village. Already dark. Suddenly a load of kids jumped out of the grass into the road. I reckon they were after a lift.’

  ‘These clothes.’ I pointed to the dark blue and brown. ‘They can’t have shown up in the headlights. Arms and legs the same.’

  Phil shook his head. ‘I was standing with my head out the top of the wagon. I never saw a fucking thing. It wasn’t Joseph’s fault. He stamped hell out of the brakes. Nobody could have stopped any quicker.’

  ‘Nothing broken,’ Mart reported of the boy. ‘But I don’t like the look of him. His breathing’s very shallow. He’s had a bad bang on the head. There – feel that.’

  Gingerly I ran my fingers through the soft, furry stubble on the boy’s scalp. The skin seemed to be intact, but I could feel a large swelling high up over the left ear.

  ‘Is there anything you can do?’

  ‘Not much. Keep him wrapped up, that’s all. He needs to go to hospital soonest.’

  ‘Hospital!’ I exclaimed. ‘Some hope. What about the girl?’

  Mart pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, took a swab and carefully wiped the blood off her forehead and arm. ‘Only scratches,’ he said. ‘Limbs seem okay. Looks like she was knocked into some thorns. It’s him we’ve got to worry about.’

  Hearing voices behind us, I turned, to find we were surrounded by a crowd of maybe fifty Africans. Some of the men I recognised – members of Alpha, wrapped up in khaki cotton sweaters and tracksuit trousers – but the rest were strangers, people from the village. The lamplight glinted off white teeth and flashed on shiny black skin. As they pressed forward to see what was happening, their voices rose rapidly into an aggressive chorus. In the distance drums had started beating out some message.

  I stood up, towering over most of the people, and made placatory gestures, moving my open hands gently up and down. ‘Take it easy,’ I said. ‘We’re only trying to help.’

  Most of them already knew that Mart was our medic, and respected him, but now they sounded angry, as if the accident had been our fault, and they were accusing us of trying to kidnap the children.

  ‘What are they saying?’ I asked Godfrey, one of the Kamangan soldiers.

  ‘You give boy bad spirits.’

  ‘Bollocks. He was hit by the truck – got a blow on the head.’ I was going to remonstrate more, but I knew the guy’s English was poor. ‘Where’s Major Mvula? Get the major.’

  ‘Major coming.’

  He was, too. I looked through the crowd and saw Joss hurrying towards us, dressed in the sky-blue tracksuit which he wore in the evenings. As usual he was grinning, eager to help.

  ‘Hey, Geordie,’ he went. ‘Mind if I join the party? What’s all this?’

  His face fell as I explained. ‘The girl’s okay, but the boy’s pretty bad. We need a chopper, to get him to hospital.’

  ‘Not a chance.’ Joss used a phrase he’d picked up off me. ‘Not tonight, anyway. We can get on the radio, but they won’t fly at night. Can we send him by road?’

  ‘How far is it?’

  ‘Seven hours.’

  ‘The journey’d kill him.’

  Joss nodded. Behind him the hubbub was getting louder. He turned and shouted something to quieten it. As the clamour dropped, he began to explain about the accident in a loud voice, and for a few moments his words seemed to be swaying opinion. Then a new wave of yelling started up, and the crowd opened to let a small woman through. With a screech she rushed past me and dropped beside the boy, lifting him up. His stick-like arms and legs hung down as she cradled him in her arms.

  ‘The mother,’ said Joss.

  Mart knelt beside her and tried the boy’s pulse again. In his big, square hand the little black arm looked skinny as a bone.

  ‘He’s fading,’ he announced. ‘Not going to last long.’

  The woman began screaming and shouting, repeating the word sin’ganga, sin’ganga again and again.

  ‘What’s she saying?’

  ‘Take him to the doctor,’ Joss translated.

  ‘I didn’t think there was a doctor.’

  ‘It’s the witch doctor she means.’

  ‘Jesus, that will kill him. Tell her he’s got a better chance if we just keep him quiet.’

  Joss spoke forcefully to the woman, but she kept on with her shouts. The crowd backed her. Out in the darkness the drums were getting louder. I began feeling the sheer level of noise would finish the child off.

  ‘Where is he, this doctor?’ I yelled.

  ‘Here, in the village.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Two minutes’ walk. Three minutes.’

  ‘What’ll he do?’

  Joss shrugged. ‘How do I know? Consult the spirits for a remedy.’

  I shot Mart a glance. ‘What d’you reckon?’

  ‘Better go. There’s nothing I can do for the kid. As long as we handle him gently, a short carry won’t hurt. This crowd could turn nasty any moment.’

  ‘Right, then. You carry him. Phil and me’ll come with you as escort.’

  Joss put a hand on the mother’s shoulder, restraining her, and said something to her while Mart took the boy from her. So we set off in an amazing procession, Mart leading, the mother wailing at his elbow, myself and Phil immediately behind with Joss, then half the village. Some of the people had oil lamps, and several were carrying torches of burning reed bundles. Any moment, I thought, these grass huts are going on fire, and the whole village will be up in smoke.

  Above the hubbub, I shouted, ‘Hadn’t somebody better warn the guy we’re coming?’

  ‘He knows,’ Joss called back. ‘The drums have told him.’

  As we advanced between huts huddled under mango trees, I liked the feel of things less and less. The crowd was so hostile that I was glad we had pistols on our belts. I was happy t
o have Phil with me, too. In the flickering light, with his close-cropped dark head and hollow cheeks, he looked quite dangerous. The impression wasn’t misleading, either: he was the most hawkish member of the team, always keen to get out there and top somebody.

  ‘Whatever happens,’ I shouted to Mart, ‘we’re going in with the boy. I’m not leaving him alone with the witch doctor. I want to see what gives.’

  In less than three minutes we were outside a big, circular hut with a thatched verandah running round it. The crowd dropped back and fell silent as we approached over beaten earth, leaving us alone outside the open doorway. The hut was pitch dark, but I was aware of movement and rustling noises inside, as if someone was making rapid preparations. Then a lamp flared, a curtain was drawn aside, and a voice said something in Nyanja.

  ‘Go inside,’ said Joss quietly. ‘The mother must hold the child.’

  Mart handed over his burden. I think he felt the same as I did: that we’d better do what we were told. Phil was more sceptical. Even though he said nothing, I could sense him seething with indignation just behind me. But when the woman stepped forward, we all followed.

  The air inside was full of a powerful smell, half animal, half acrid human sweat. A single, primitive oil lamp flickered on the ground to our right. Towards the back of the hut there was a kind of cubicle, walled in with hanging black material, wide enough to accommodate two standing figures. The left-hand one was ordinary: a man dressed in normal, scruffy clothes, bare-headed, bare-footed, using both hands to hold a book open in front of his chest. It was the right-hand figure that made me catch my breath: a tall man, six foot at least, dressed in a blood-red robe that reached almost to the ground, with a zebra skin slung over his left shoulder and diagonally across his chest. On his head was a hat like a big muffin, also of zebra skin. His face was dead white, covered in paint or ash, so that his mouth and eye sockets showed up black on a pale background. In his left hand he was flicking what looked like an animal tail vertically up and down, and in his right he held a curved black horn.