Tenth Man Down

FOUR

Bakunda’s chopper was due in to base camp at 1645. Our guys there could welcome him and bring him out to the cache on foot, but protocol demanded that I should go back to meet him there, give him a briefing, and escort him personally to the ambush location.

I spent a good deal of the day at the cache, chatting with Genesis in person and with Stringer over the Kamangan radio circuit.

‘I don’t know who he’ll have with him,’ I said. ‘There’s bound to be some aides and/or BGs. But the point is, we don’t want a shower of hangers-on up front. Tell the guy only one other can go forward with him. Okay?’

I knew I was sounding edgy — the result of too little sleep — but Stringer got the message and didn’t argue.

Once he’d told Mulongwe the score, and details were settled, I went forward again and sneaked up the back of the Kopje, taking Whinger and Mart a three-litre container of water to top up their bottles. I found them in good shape, comfortably ensconced in a tent of mozzie netting which they’d slung from some of the boulders.

‘Cushy bastards!’ I said softly. ‘It’s all right for you.’

‘And you.’ Whinger opened a flap of netting to admit me to the sanctum. ‘I’m sorry for those poor sods out there. The tsetses are fucking horrendous. Pavarotti and Andy reckon they’re being eaten alive.’

‘I expect they are. I knocked off a good few on my way in. Look at the bastards on the netting, too.’

The big grey flies were dotted all over the outside of our fragile canopy, crawling about, trying to get through, as they scented prey below.

‘How are the guys doing?’

‘Pretty well. There’s been practically no disturbance. Discipline’s good. The thing is, they’ve got a great cabaret to watch.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You know that outbreak of firing? Somebody killed a hyena. Now every vulture in Kamanga’s homing in on the body. Look through the gap in the rocks.’

I peered out through our observation channel and saw an amazing sight: on the far bank of the sand river a mass of feathered bodies was writhing and struggling, apparently all piled on top of each other in a heap. Binoculars revealed that the naked heads and necks of the vultures were shiny with blood and slime. As I watched, more heavy bodies came plummeting in to land on the outskirts of the group and hopped inwards to join the feast.

‘Jesus!’ I went. ‘Nightmare birds.’

‘Can’t be much left of the hyena,’ said Mart, matter-of-factly. ‘They only found it about an hour ago. Just two of them at first. We saw them circling, way up. Then they dropped down, and all the rest came bombing in.’

‘Sure it’s only a hyena?’ I asked. ‘Not one of the poachers?’

‘Nar,’ went Mart. ‘Before the birds arrived we could see it laid on its back with all four feet in the air, like a spotted dog, its stomach blown up like a balloon.’

‘At least it means some of the silvery spoons can shoot,’ said Whinger.

‘Even you might have hit the poor bastard at that range,’ I told him. ‘Listen. The President’s on his way. His Puma’s due into camp at 1645. They asked if we couldn’t clear an LZ for it to land nearer the ambush location, but I refused. I’m not having the exercise buggered up by some darkie rupert.’

‘How are you going to get him here, then?’ Whinger asked.

‘Stringer’ll bring him forward to the Bergen cache, which I’ve downgraded to a transit post. I’ll go back, meet him, brief him and bring him on.’

‘What time will we crack off the action?’

‘No point in keeping everyone hanging about longer than we need. The guys will have had a bellyfull of waiting by then. It’s fully dark by 1800. If old Back-Under’s here by 1830 or so, we’ll go for 1900.’

As I waited with Genesis at the cache, I didn’t know what to feel. On the one hand, it was irritating that Bakunda should muscle in on our exercise, and that I should have to make these special arrangements to deal with him. At the same time, it was flattering that he cared enough about our training task to come out and see some action. So in a way I was looking forward to his visit; after all, a president’s a president, even if his country’s third world and third rate.

The air was so still we thought we might hear the Puma coming into base camp, even though we were several kilometres away. In fact we never heard a thing, and, as dusk was falling, I’d begun to wonder whether there’d been a last-minute cancellation. Then we saw the party approaching across the low ground that fell away behind the grove. Stringer was in the lead, with five black guys following in single file. The one immediately behind him barely reached to his shoulder. That can’t be him, I thought, but a moment later I realised it was.

I slipped forward and stationed myself behind a thick trunk at the edge of the grove. When Stringer was about four feet off, I called, ‘Stringer — over here!’ As he stopped, the last guy in the file reacted so violently that he rose clear of the ground.

I stepped out into the open, and said, ‘Welcome to Mantrap.’

‘Hi, Geordie!’ Stringer grinned. ‘Can I introduce the President, General Bakunda? Mr President, this is Sergeant-Major Geordie Sharp.’

‘How d’you do, sir?’ I stepped forward and shook hands.

‘Pleased to meet you.’

In the last of the light, I couldn’t see much except a big white smile, and touches of grey or silver in a clipped moustache. There was more grey in the sideburns that came down below a dark beret, and the broad face put me in mind of that monster from the distant past, Idi Amin. Bakunda hadn’t got the height — he was knee-high to a pisspot — but he was pretty much the same width. I’d feared he might turn up in some Mickey Mouse uniform with rows of phony gongs across his chest. In fact he was wearing plain DPMs, without any insignia, and carrying no weapon except a pistol in a belt-holster. Slung round his neck was a pair of useful-looking binoculars.

‘Good journey?’ I ventured.

‘No problem. We had a nice, smooth flight!’ The accent was very much Sandhurst officer, not bush at all.

‘Well, I can’t offer you any hospitality, I’m afraid. But before we move off I’ll brief you on what we’ve arranged. Then we’ll head on to the location.’

I led the way to a patch of sand in which I’d scratched a map of the ambush, switched on a torch and introduced Genesis. As the President pulled off his beret, revealing short, tight curls of iron-grey hair, the light glinted off beads of perspiration on his forehead. At close quarters he smelt of lavender overlying acrid sweat.

‘We’re now in the Bergen cache, two ks from the location,’ I explained. ‘Those are your guys’ packs, over there.’ I flashed the beam on to them. ‘They’ve left them here so that they can vacate the area at speed as soon as the ambush has gone down. They’ll come back here, recover their kit, and disappear into the bush. That’s all part of the exercise. Normally, this site would be a tactical one as well. That is, it would be under guard, and nobody would show a light like I’m doing now. But with your visit…’

Bakunda gave a high-pitched giggle. ‘You mean, I’ve wrecked your plans! That’s what they call me — the wrecker!’

‘No, no. But just imagine this place as dark and quiet as everywhere else, with guys deployed in allround defence. Anway, the plan is this.’

I took him quickly through the scenario, indicating the positions of the targets and the various groups, and telling him that I’d initiate proceedings by firing a flare. As I talked, I was eyeballing his followers. Two of them were really big young lads, well-built and athletic looking — bodyguards, for sure. The other two were older — some kind of staff officers, I guessed — and they looked hellishly uncomfortable.

‘How long will you give them?’ the boss asked.

‘What — to shoot?’

‘Yes.’

‘The centre targets will be up for fifteen seconds, initially. Then a couple more exposures, but shorter. We’ve also got one target way out here, on the right, and one on the left, to simulate people doing runners. Then there are the claymore targets in the central killing ground.’

‘Quite difficult for the chaps, having to react fast after so long a wait.’

‘That’s the whole point of the exercise: to get the feel of what a real ambush is like. Way back in the fifties, when our Regiment was in the jungle in Malaya, the guys sometimes maintained ambushes for five or six days on end.’

He nodded, looking impressed. ‘And who’s giving the orders?’

‘I’ll fire the Shamouli, but after that it’s all Kamangans in command — Major Mvula and his subordinates. Our guys are only there as back-up.’

‘Good, good.’ Bakunda nodded again.

‘There’s only been one hiccup so far.’ I told him about the hyena, and added, ‘Okay, then — if you’re ready, we’ll go. There’s just one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t want all these people with us.’ I gestured at the entourage. ‘If it’s all right by you, they can stay here, and us two will go on together.’

Bakunda glanced up quickly. ‘Are you giving me orders?’

‘No, sir.’ I looked straight at him. ‘I just said what I’d prefer. I thought it had been arranged over the radio, in any case.’

He sidestepped my remark and said, ‘What’s the objection to them coming?’

‘There’d be too much noise. Don’t get me wrong, but your soldiers aren’t totally reliable. We’ve seen that in training. We saw it again with the hyena. There’s supposed to be no firing until a flare goes up — but somebody freaked on that animal. If they hear a party crashing through the bush, they could easily open up on us.’

‘By Jove, they’d better not!’ he said.

‘If they did, it might be too late to worry. Besides, space in our OP’s constricted. These other guys of yours wouldn’t be able to see anything, even if they reached it safely.’

‘Well…’ Bakunda looked round at his men. ‘I make it a rule: never move without my big fellers around me.’

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘There’s nobody going to touch you. Half your special force is lying in ambush out there. It’s up to you.’

For a few seconds he stared at me — not that he could see much in the starlight. Then he suddenly gave me a playful punch on the shoulder and said, ‘Hey! Your name’s Sharp. You are sharp! I like it.’ Turning away he said, ‘All right, chaps. Wait for us here.’

In the starlight it wasn’t easy to navigate accurately. I was walking on a bearing of 84 mils, and several times I recognised the lie of the land. But similar features kept recurring — open areas, patches of scrub, stands of trees, one after the other — and I needed the way-marks I’d memorised during my earlier trips.

About halfway to the location, lions started calling from the same quarter as the night before. I stopped to listen, not sure how my companion would react. I was amazed when he whispered, ‘An old male.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘The depth of the voice.’

‘You’re a lion expert, then?’

‘I wouldn’t say that. But I grew up in the bush. When I was a boy, we saw lions every day.’

‘Where was that?’

‘Here, man, right here!’ He gave his high-pitched giggle again and pointed behind us. ‘I was born in a hut in Mbiya, the village where the camp is.’

‘So that’s why you opted to come out on this exercise?’

‘Partly, yes. I wanted to see you fellows in action, but it’s always nice to come home.’

The lions had gone quiet, and I started forward again, wondering how the hell a ragamuffin boy raised in one of those grass huts could have climbed to the top of the tree. This guy must have both brains and guts, I decided.

In a few more minutes we reached a single big rock which stood in the open about 200 metres short of the Kopje. I stopped beside it and gave the pressel on my radio two jabs.

‘Green One?’ Whinger’s voice came low but clear in my earpiece.

‘At the rock,’ I told him. ‘Our visitor’s with me. Everything okay?’

‘One ND.’

‘I thought I heard something. Nobody injured, is there?’

‘No, no.’

‘When was it?’

‘About an hour ago. Otherwise, no problem. Come on in.’

‘Roger. With you in a couple of minutes.’

‘What happened?’ Bakunda asked.

‘They had an ND — a negligent discharge. Somebody let off a round by mistake. Come on — let’s get in there.’

Over that last stretch I moved with extreme care, partly to impress my companion, partly from a sense of self-preservation. When I warned him about the danger of getting fired at, I hadn’t been bullshitting. I knew that by now the Kamangans must be well on edge, expecting action any moment: after the fiasco with the hyena, it wouldn’t have surprised me if one of them loosed off at any noise he heard, and bugger the pre-set arcs of fire. The news of the ND only strengthened my suspicions.

As we crawled the last few yards up the ridge of the Kopje, I saw Whinger’s head appear above a rock. I’d already told Bakunda who we’d be meeting, so I just whispered introductions and moved him up to the good vantage point, in the gully between two rocks. The starlight was bright enough for all the main features to show clearly.

‘There you are,’ I whispered. ‘The River Congo. The killer group’s straight down below us. Right-hand cut-off group over there, left-hand there. See the baobab? That’s the divider between the arcs of fire on that side.’

‘How do the groups communicate?’ Bakunda whispered. ‘Radios?’ He gestured at my earpiece.

I shook my head. ‘No. The guys are lying very close to each other — only three or four feet apart. The commander of each group has a comms cord. At this stage, one pull will mean “enemy coming in”, two, “enemy on target”.’

It took only a minute to show him our dispositions. Then I pulled back to make final checks with my own guys out front. When Phil, Andy and Pavarotti all reported satisfactorily, there seemed no point in waiting any longer, so I said, ‘Green One to all stations. Action in figures two minutes from now. Wait out.’

I’d already got five shamoulis laid out on a flat patch of grass among the rocks. Now I pulled out the safety pins on their white cords, so that the brass triggers dropped down, ready for firing. I handed the first of them to Whinger, who stood it on the ground and held it at an angle, like a mortar.

‘Green One. Thirty seconds…’ My own heart was going faster than usual, even though I’d been through this many times before. ‘Twenty… ten… five… stand by, stand by.’

I raised a thumb at Whinger. WHOOSH! went the rocket, racing up over the killing ground. The para-flare burst with a soft pop, and suddenly the whole area was bathed in harsh white light. Whinger waited a second, then, as soon as he saw the chute starting to float left-handed, put up another rocket to the right.

BRRRRRPPPP! A burst of automatic fire ripped out from below us. Tracer rounds skimmed away high over the bush ahead, way above any possible target on the ground.

‘CUNT!’ roared a voice which I recognised as Andy’s. ‘Wait for the fucking targets!’

‘Ground targets,’ I said quietly over the radio.

With a faint rattle in the distance, eight figure targets sprang into view. At the same moment Pav switched on the battery-powered ambush lights, flooding the scene with light.

From in front and below us a high African voice screamed out the order ‘Rapid fire!’

As one, the killer group opened up. After the night silence, the noise seemed phenomenal. I could hear the AK47s firing short bursts of three or four rounds, with the gympis putting in longer bursts among them. Somebody’s rounds were going very low. Dust exploded in front of the targets and boiled up in the lights, obscuring the figures. Tracer showed that many rounds were flying way over the trees.

I counted to fifteen, then ordered, ‘Ground targets down.’

The figures vanished, but the firing continued for several seconds. As soon as it ceased, I called, ‘Tree targets up.’

This time the response was much slower. Whinger and I could see the new targets, which had swung into view round the trunks of trees, but through the dust haze nobody else spotted them. At last the Kamangan commander yelled out, ‘Engage single targets!’ and another fusillade began.

Again we gave them fifteen seconds, then a pause with nothing in sight. Next I got Pav to bring up four of the ground targets for five or six seconds only, and in the middle of that barrage I got Andy to fire the claymores.

Ba-boom! With blinding flashes the two heavy explosions went off almost simultaneously. Seething dust blotted out the entire killing ground.

‘Runner targets,’ I ordered.

Up they went, single figures way out to right and left. The right-hand cut-off group opened up instantaneously, but the guys on the left were slow. I heard Pavarotti roar, ‘Fucking fire!’ but they only got five or six rounds off before their target vanished again.

The claymores had set fire to the bush beyond the killing ground. Red flames began to run along the ground and surge up into clumps of grass. Loud crackling noises reached us. I heard the commander of the killer group shout, ‘Watch and shoot!’

‘Ground targets up,’ I ordered.

Now the figures were just visible through the swirling smoke, showing up as silhouettes against the flames behind them. Again there was rapid fire.

‘Down! I called. Then, ‘Runners again.’

This time Pavarotti’s guys pulled themselves together and blazed away like lunatics. Finally I ordered, ‘All targets down. Search parties out.’

I heard our guys pass on the instruction, and the Kamangan commanders repeat them. Then suddenly the bush was full of running figures as dark, camouflaged shapes sprinted forward to the river bank. Most of them were shouting and screaming with the release of tension. Pavarotti had doused the ambush lights, and the last of Whinger’s Shamoulis was burning out some distance off to the left, so that the main illumination was a red glow from the fire.

‘How was that?’ I said, standing up behind the President.

‘Fantastic! Splendid show! Some wild shooting, but who wouldn’t? What are they doing now?’

‘Clearing the area. In a real ambush, they’d be making certain there was no one left alive in the box. Now, we’ve told them to count the hits on the targets and get back in fast. As soon as—’

My words were cut short by a new burst of firing from our left. I heard Pavarotti yell ‘Stop!’ but several more rounds cracked off, and to my consternation I saw tracer streak towards the killing ground. We already had guys out there. Something was badly wrong.

There was more yelling, another burst of rounds, tracer hurtling vertically into the sky. When the firing ceased, the commotion continued, with several voices shouting and the sound of a struggle.

‘Pav,’ I went on the radio, ‘what the fuck was that?’

There was a pause before he answered, and when he did, he was panting. ‘Little local difficulty,’ he gasped. ‘One of the bastards flipped.’

‘Anybody hurt?’

‘I wouldn’t call it that. Let’s say he lost his head.’

I swallowed an exclamation. Knowing Pav, I was pretty sure what he meant. All I said was, ‘Can you handle it?’

‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you shortly.’

The extra shooting put the fear of God into the guys round the targets. The search parties came flying back, the cut-offs first, then the killer group, each commander calling out, ‘Last man… in.’ Then suddenly everybody had gone. We heard footsteps crashing away towards the north, and soon the only noise was the crackling of the flames beyond the river.

When the disturbance broke out, Bakunda had still been lying on the ground between the boulders, so that he hadn’t appreciated the full extent of the fuck-up occurring out to his left. But now he was on his feet and asking, ‘What happened over there?’

‘Not sure,’ I said non-committally. ‘Sounded like somebody dropped his rifle and it started firing automatically. We’ll hear when we get back.’

That seemed to satisfy him, and he asked, ‘What next, then?’

‘Your lads are already on their way back to the Bergen cache, fast as they can go. They’ll grab their packs, and then our guys will beest them about fifteen ks to the east.’

‘Beest?’

‘Hustle them on. Your commanders have to navigate, find their way to an RV. Our guys just keep the pace up. The point is to simulate a fast evacuation from the ambush location. That’s what we’d do in a live situation — get the hell out. Tonight we’ve arranged for a truck to go round and wait at the RV, to bring everyone back to camp.’

I was still struggling to get my mind round the dust-up in Pavarotti’s group. From his laconic answer, I felt certain the silveries were going to arrive back at base one man deficient.

To take my mind off that worry, I said, ‘How about a quick look at the targets?’

‘Sure.’

The fire had already retreated from the killing ground as it ate into the bush beyond, and we needed our torches to get a clear look at the figure eights, most of which once again were flat on the deck. All the ground-mounted group in the centre had been well riddled, but the tree targets had taken only a couple of rounds apiece. The right-hand runner had one bullet through the shoulder, and the left-hand target was untouched. So, too, were the two edge-on figures, set for the claymores.

‘Look at these,’ I said. ‘I told them they’d got their mines too far apart,’ I said. ‘This’ll be a good lesson to them.’

‘What about the fire?’ Bakunda asked.

‘Nothing we can do about it. But it’ll burn out when it comes to the next sand river.’

The President didn’t say much as we trekked back to camp. I thought he was maybe worried or annoyed by the lack of discipline his guys had shown. We passed straight through the Bergen cache, pausing only to pick up his escort of heavies. I was afraid we’d see one pack still sitting on the ground, but the whole lot had gone, and nothing was said.

Once we reached base, Bakunda became very matey. He started calling me ‘Old Boy’ and chattering away about his time at Sandhurst. He’d done two years there as an officer cadet, he told me: No. 1 Company in Victory College. He was quite disappointed when he found I hadn’t been there too and couldn’t swap reminiscences.

The cooks had prepared a special supper table for the presidential party, but he insisted that we all got together, so the tables were pushed up into one, and we ate in a single group — spiced meat balls, rice, tinned pineapple. The heavy bodyguards looked ill-at-ease using knives and forks; I reckoned it was normally fingers. Then, after the meal, Bakunda said to one of them, ‘Hey, Basil, where’s that beer?’

Out came cans of King Lion lager, brewed in Mulongwe, and soon we were swapping stories round our fire. Normally, I wouldn’t have started drinking until the exercise was well and truly finished, but I knew that with Pavarotti and Genesis in charge the last phase of it was in good hands, and in any case I felt I had a duty to entertain our visitor. At first I was on edge, but when a radio call confirmed that the party had reached their transport and was on its way in, I was able to relax.

‘In my day,’ the President was saying, ‘we didn’t have anything like the equipment you chaps have. Satellite communications, for instance — unheard of. Spy satellites — ditto. GPS — nothing like it existed. We had to find our own way around.’

‘In my day’. That was one of his favourite phrases. It came out again and again. It was clear he’d enjoyed his time at Sandhurst, and he had nostalgic feelings about England. Apart from anything else, he’d managed to lay some white woman there during a passing-out dance. He’d got her into some attic room, and banged the back of his head on the sloping roof when he stood up after the performance. But at the same time he genuinely admired our modern equipment and methods.

By the time we were on our third round of beers the atmosphere had grown quite mellow. Chalky White was well away, trying out his few, newly acquired words of Nyanja on the President.

Bakunda himself was becoming indiscreet, and I felt the moment had come to ask a few pertinent questions. I turned to Whinger, and said quietly, ‘Crack out a bottle of rum — see if we can get this guy going.’ Then I turned back to our guest, and said, ‘I don’t want to seem rude, but can you explain why we’re here?’

‘Because I asked for you!’ he exclaimed with his bark of a laugh. ‘I asked Her Majesty’s Government for assistance in fighting the Afundi rebels, and here you are!’

‘Yeah, but HMG get a lot more requests than the SAS can fulfil. Again, no offence, but what’s special about Kamanga?’

‘My dear fellow, the well-being of our country is critical to the stability of the whole region. If we come apart at the seams, the rot will spread very fast. Zaire, Angola, Namibia, Botswana, Zambia, Malawi — every country will be in danger. They could go down like dominoes.’

He lit off into a political tirade, talking angrily, denouncing Marxists and revolutionaries in general. I couldn’t help smiling at the thought of him, personally, coming apart at the seams. He looked as though he might do that at any moment, so tight was his tunic stretched over his stocky torso, and his out-of-date colonial expressions gave his speech a wonderful period flavour.

The only thing that broke his flow was Whinger looming up at his elbow and offering him a plastic cup, with the words, ‘Try this, General.’

Bakunda sniffed it, and rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘Rum! I thought rum was reserved for the British navy. Splicing the mainbrace, and all that.’

‘It is,’ Whinger agreed. ‘But we get it too when we’re on arduous duties.’

‘You call this arduous?’ Bakunda beamed round at us. ‘I call it a holiday! A busman’s holiday — when you do what you normally do, but for fun!’

‘Cheers, anyway,’ I said, raising the cup that Whinger had given me. ‘Sod the rebels.’

‘Agreed!’ He took a mouthful, rolled his eyes again, grimaced, swallowed, smacked his lips, and said, ‘Hey! This is the real McCoy!’ Then he cleared his throat and went on: ‘You want to know why you’re here? I’ll tell you. Uranium. Don’t pass it on, but that’s the secret.’

‘Yeah?’ I replied, deliberately casual. ‘I know you’ve got uranium mines, but what about them?’

‘I’ve had overtures,’ he said darkly. ‘People wanting to buy the stuff. People your government doesn’t approve of.’

‘Such as?’

‘You can guess. That crazy fellow in Libya, for one. Another madman in Baghdad. Both have made serious offers.’

‘I bet. But you aren’t playing ball?’

‘Of course not. How could I? If we moved an inch in that direction, we’d be hit by international sanctions. The UK, US — everybody would clamp down on us.’

‘But I thought the uranium mines were in the north.’ I pointed over my shoulder.

‘That’s right.’

‘So what’s the worry?’

‘The Afundis. They’re the worry. And in particular, Muende. Why don’t you use your special skills to go and, say, take him out?’

‘Who’s Muende?’

‘Gus Muende, the Afundi leader. He should damn well know better. But he’s another lunatic. He’s a friend of Gadaffi. I ask you! Worse than him, even. Last year he went to Tripoli and got practically a royal welcome.’

Bakunda was working himself up, talking louder and louder. He downed the rest of his rum in one swallow and waved the empty cup around.

‘Treacherous bastard!’ he cried.

‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘You tell me! His mother was a Scottish voluntary worker in Kamanga in the sixties. She abandoned him when he was only five, and I helped him. I got him into the military academy at Mulongwe, then I got him sent to America. I got him his place at West Point. I got him his military education. Without me, he’d be nothing. This is his way of saying thank you.’

Whinger circled round to Bakunda’s elbow and skilfully refilled his cup. The President took a big swig, and shouted, ‘Get him! Make the sun shine through him! That’s what you chaps need to do. That’s what you’re here for.’

‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Our brief is to train Alpha Commando, not to go assassinating people.’

‘That’s what HMG say. But what they’d like is for you to put Muende underground. Their fear is the same as mine: that he’ll take over the whole of Kamanga. If that happens, God help us. God help you. Gadaffi and Saddam Hussein will get all the uranium they ask for. What about that, hey? How’s that for a scenario?’

It was hardly for me to tell the President to take it easy, but that was what I felt like doing. The veins in his neck were bulging; beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead, even though the night air was cool. A change of subject seemed in order.

‘These guys we’re training,’ I said, gesturing round about. ‘I gather they’re Kaswiris. Different from the Afundis, obviously.’

‘Different! By George! Different language, different customs, different everything. We hate the Afundis’ guts.’

‘We — you — you’re a Kaswiri?’

‘Of course. What else?’ He drew himself upright on his ammunition box and thrust out his chest. ‘We Kaswiris know how to behave.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, Mr President, but discipline isn’t the force’s strongest point yet.’

‘Are you criticising Alpha Commando?’

‘Not at all.’ I held up a hand in token appeasement. ‘Just pointing out the need for good control. You saw how high some of them were firing — all that tracer into the stratosphere.’

‘Okay, okay,’ he went. Then he leaned his grizzled head closer to me, and said confidentially, ‘As you know, some of these chaps are not long down from the trees. So of course they need training. That’s why you’re here!’

‘What about Bididis?’ I asked. ‘Where do they come in?’

‘Bididis?’ He seemed surprised. ‘They’re okay. They don’t cause trouble. Why?’

‘There’s one at least in the commando, and he seems a useful fellow.’

‘Well, that’s a turn-up.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we have jokes about the Bididis. Like you and the Irish. They’re the thick men of Africa — not a brain in their heads.’

‘How about this Muende?’

‘Muende!’ The President gave a snort. ‘He’s the Afundi of Afundis, the worst. The fundamental orifice of the Afundis. Ha ha!’

‘What age is he?’

‘Thirty? Thirty-two? I don’t know. What does it matter?’ He turned and scowled at me, his jokiness veering towards irritation. ‘Why don’t you do me a favour: get down there and put some bullets through him?’

It wasn’t the moment for a serious argument about the extent of our commitment. Bakunda was too far gone for that. So I just said casually, ‘Well, of course we’ll do anything we can to help.’

‘Good man!’ Bakunda leant over to slap me on the shoulder, missed because his arm was so short, and nearly swung himself off his perch. ‘In the morning, we’ll settle details. But in any case you’ll go as far as Gutu.’

It was more a statement than a question.

‘The mine there,’ I said, stalling. ‘Is it that important to you?’

‘Of course! Gutu means diamonds. Muende’s smuggling the diamonds out over the border, into South Africa, Namibia, everywhere. He’s getting so much revenue that his strength is increasing all the time. He’s buying all the weapons he wants. Look here! Only yesterday we heard that he’s brought in foreign mercenaries to fight for him.’

‘Mercenaries?’ said Whinger, sharply. ‘Where from?’

‘How do I know?’ Bakunda waved his cup about, slopping rum. ‘Somebody said America.’

‘Americans!’ I went. ‘Jesus. If we don’t watch out, we’ll find ourselves fighting former SEALs.’

‘Seals?’ barked Bakunda. ‘What are they? Fish, are they not? How can you be fighting fish?’

‘US special forces — sea, army and land. Like the SAS. When American guys finish their service, they often take mercenary jobs.’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Bakunda. ‘I was only trying to be funny.’

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of an engine: the truck coming back in.

‘Excuse me a minute,’ I said. ‘I’ll just check everyone’s okay.’

I got up and moved off quickly, afraid that Bakunda would try to come with me. Luckily the troops were debussing some distance off, out of earshot, and I picked out the tall, bulky figure of Pavarotti. As soon as he’d squared things away with Joss, I drew him aside.

‘Everything all right?’

‘One silvery down.’

‘I thought so. What happened?’

‘This guy opened up on the search party as it went forward. Apparently he’d been feuding with one of the lads in it — tried to take him out as he ran towards the targets.’

‘But he missed.’

‘Yeah. His mates didn’t miss him, though. One of them snatched his AK47 off him, and another whacked him with a panga. One swing, head off, clunk.’

‘Christ! What did the rest of them do?’

‘Nothing. They left him where he dropped. I told them to bring the body in, but Manny, the group commander, just said, “Food for hyenas. Let’s go.”’

‘These people!’ I said. ‘Like I was saying the other night: Kaswiris, Afundis — one lot are as bad as the other.’

‘Yeah,’ went Pav. ‘They need watching. It wouldn’t take much to make some of them turn on us. They got really pissed off with us for forcing them to lie out all day.’

‘Nobody threatened you?’ I said.

‘No, but they came pretty close. I just think everyone ought to be aware they’re pretty volatile. Maybe we’d better slack off a bit.’

‘Screw that, Pav. We’re here to train the bastards, not entertain them.’

I looked back to the fire and went on. ‘Listen. We’ve been chatting up Bakunda. We’ve got him well pissed already. He’s spouted quite a bit. Get some food down your neck and join us. But for fuck’s sake don’t mention this business. I don’t think he realised what happened — or at least, if he did, he doesn’t want to know.’

Whatever the President suspected, no further mention was made of the incident that evening. We continued to hammer the rum, and after a while Joss joined the party, along with Pavarotti, Andy and Genesis. I hadn’t seen Joss drinking before, and now he began to worry me a bit. It may have been that alcohol started to bring out his true character, or it may have been that he was trying to impress the President, or both. In any case, he started saying that the time when Kamanga needed the services of the West was coming to an end.

‘The whole of Africa’s independent now,’ he shouted. ‘We’re in charge of our own destiny.’

‘But you still need blokes like us to help with your military training,’ Phil told him.

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ said Joss, louder than he need have. ‘This could be the last assignment the SAS gets in Kamanga.’

‘Now then,’ said Bakunda, and he quickly followed up with some remark in his own language. Joss looked abashed and took a big gulp from his mug.

I shot a glance at Whinger and saw he was thinking what I was thinking. Time to change the subject.

I turned to Bakunda, and asked, ‘Ever bought a ticket in our national lottery?’

‘No!’ he shouted merrily. ‘How much can I win?’

‘Millions,’ I told him. ‘Up to ten million, anyway.’

‘Pounds or kwatchas?’

‘Pounds, of course.’

Luckily, the conversation became totally frivolous. We began talking about what we’d do, back home, if we won the main prize. Whinger said he’d buy a pub, Pavarotti that he’d hire Concorde for a private trip round the world and have it stop off in Polynesia while he put in a couple of weeks’ shagging. Genesis that he’d buy an island off the Welsh coast and set up a foundation for religious instruction. Chalky fancied buying a luxury yacht and cruising in the West Indies, and Danny reckoned he’d set himself up in business as an international arms dealer.

‘And what about you, Geordie?’ burped Bakunda. ‘What would you do?’

‘I’d hire one really good guy to go and take out Saddam, and another to sort Gadaffi.’

‘Good!’ Bakunda roared. ‘I like it!’

‘General,’ said Phil, always a bit of a joker, ‘what does choka mean?’

‘Choka!’ Bakunda raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s quite a rude word. Who said that?’

‘I dunno,’ said Phil innocently. ‘I heard it somewhere.’

‘Well, it means “piss off’, to put it politely.’

‘Thanks,’ went Phil, who’d known that all along. ‘It might be useful, sometimes. And General, can I ask why you’re called Rhino?’

‘Hey!’ Bakunda stuck out a mock-accusing finger. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘Since we’re all friends, I’ll tell you. Partly it’s this.’ He held out his hands to indicate the width of his torso. ‘Partly it’s because when I was at Sandhurst, I took up rugby. I can see you smiling, but I did. I thought it was wonderful, how all these white wogs were murdering one another on the field. I reckoned that if I joined in I could maybe smash one or two of them. Nothing personal, you understand. Anyway, once I ran into someone — poom!’ He smacked one fist into his other open palm to illustrate the impact. ‘The opposing centre three-quarter. He went straight up in the air, and was laid out cold. When he came round, he said, “Christ! That was like being charged by a bloody rhino!”’

At around 2300 I decided I’d had enough. It was clear no serious discussion would take place until we held a wash-up on our own in the morning. I knew the President’s aides had sorted out somewhere for him to sleep, so I had no compunction about making my excuses. Then, just as I was leaving the fire, a thought struck me.

‘If you come from this village, General,’ I said, ‘you must know the witch doctor.’

‘The sin’ganga? Old Chilukole? Of course. What about him?’

It seemed too late to start on the saga of the dead boy, so I just asked, ‘What d’you think of his spells?’

‘Why, has he witched somebody?’

‘Not that I know of, but I wondered if he can foretell the future. Doesn’t he do something with bones?’

The President’s manner changed. It was as if my question had let the wind out of him. His boisterous good humour vanished, and all at once he looked serious, even alarmed. ‘Did he make a prophecy, some forecast?’

‘No, no.’ Suddenly feeling bad vibrations, I decided to turn the enquiry into a joke. ‘I just thought he might tell us how to win the lottery.’

‘Steer clear of him,’ said Bakunda heavily. ‘You never know what trouble that old devil might stir up.’

I said nothing else, but secretly felt glad that I’d binned the dose formulated to ward off evil. I’d sent the witch doctor five dollars, as agreed, but next morning, instead of taking the medicine, I threw it into the fire, where it went off with a miniature explosion and a spurt of bright green flame.