The Devil’s Kingdom

Chapter 13

A quarter of a mile beyond the edge of the construction zone, the APC juddered to a halt. Xulu ordered everyone out.

They’d stopped at a wide open area of what had once been forest and was now stripped to bare earth, running along the eastern edge of the inner perimeter fence. Another armoured personnel carrier was parked beside them. Next to that was a line of trucks, and beyond the trucks was assembled the biggest crowd Ben had yet seen of Khosa’s militia troops. There had to be at least four or five hundred of them, standing around smoking cigarettes and chatting and joking among themselves and waving their weapons around and kicking up clouds of dust from the loose, dry earth of the denuded wasteland.

Captain Xulu strutted towards them, waving his arms and screaming a furious order that seemed to have no effect whatsoever. Colonel Dizolele watched from a distance, leaning against the side of one of the trucks, apparently uninvolved in the proceedings.

‘So this is our army,’ Tuesday said. ‘What a hopeless rabble. And they’re only kids, for Christ’s sake. The average age must be about sixteen.’

‘The more hopeless, the better,’ Jeff grunted. ‘For us, that is.’

Ben ran his eye across the crowd. They lacked discipline, for sure, and their appearance was a mess of mismatched, cursory nods to military dress with an emphasis on wearing as many bandoliers of ammunition as could be draped around the human body, along with whatever kinds of machetes, knives, and hatchets they’d been able to scavenge along the way. They were the kind of motley crew that gave motley crews a bad name. But appearances were often deceptive. There would be many battle-hardened fighters in their midst, even among the youngest. Kids who had grown up in the most unstable and constantly war-torn region of the globe, who had seen everything, known nothing but conflict and death throughout all their formative years, and in many cases probably killed their first man by the age of twelve. Such kids, when they grew up to be strong and fierce warriors in the sway of a leader they believed in, weren’t to be underestimated.

As Ben watched, a large, boxy black SUV came roaring up like a twenty-one-gun salute and pulled to a dramatic halt nearby. The top-model Range Rover Sport was an incongruous sight among all the scuffed and dusty military vehicles. Its vanity plate read khosa1 and its waxed bodywork and black-tinted glass reflected dozens of dazzling little suns. This would be the General’s personal ride, then, Ben thought. Every self-respecting tyrannical warlord should have one, or at least until they could afford the bulletproof Rolls Royce.

Jean-Pierre Khosa stepped out of the front passenger seat. He was wearing the crisp uniform that Ben had seen hanging in his wardrobe, his eyes hidden behind mirrored aviator shades. He showed no trace of inebriation, let alone alcohol poisoning. Either he must have the constitution of a rhino, or the witch doctor’s elixir had done its work.

Xulu and Dizolele hustled across to their leader’s side. Khosa barely acknowledged them, spotting Ben and striding towards him. ‘I call them the Leopards,’ he said, motioning grandly in the direction of his assembled troops. ‘They are the most elite regiment of my forces. As they are to be the spearhead of the offensive against our enemies, they are to receive the most rigorous training. We will meet here every afternoon for three hours of drill.’ He looked at Ben expectantly. ‘How do you wish to proceed, soldier?’

The last thing Ben wanted to do was impart any martial ability to Khosa’s fighters. He’d already had a taster of how they’d go on to deploy those skills. He couldn’t have that on his conscience.

‘We need to start by working on their physical conditioning,’ he told Khosa.

‘They are not in good condition?’

‘Frankly? They’re an embarrassment to you, General. We wouldn’t have allowed such a lack of basic fitness in the regular British army, let alone Special Forces.’ Ben pointed. ‘Look at that one over there, in the blue T-shirt. He can barely hold up his weapon. He’s so out of shape it’s a wonder he hasn’t died of a heart attack already.’

It wasn’t true. The guy Ben had singled out for criticism had fabulous muscle definition and looked as if he could probably run ten miles in full kit and fight a battle at the end of it. But the appeal to Khosa’s ego worked like a charm. The General scratched his chin pensively, reflected for a few moments and then declared, ‘I see what you mean, soldier. This is very bad. Then it is decided. From now on all my fighters will be subject to the full fitness training that British SAS soldiers receive.’

And so, with Khosa’s full endorsement, as the first and only order of the day, Ben and his co-military advisors got the troops running. Weapons were stacked in the trucks, where they could do no harm for the moment. There were grumbles as the men reluctantly removed the ammo belts they loved to drape around themselves. No image-conscious militia fighter could be seen in public without his necklace of shiny Russian 7.62x39mm rifle rounds to show everyone what a big man he was.

‘We’ll start with a jog around the city,’ Ben ordered. ‘Let’s take it nice and easy to break them in. Say, six miles, nine minutes a mile, back here in just under an hour. The APC can lead the circuit. I’ll head up the runners. Jeff?’

‘Could do with blowing out the cobwebs,’ Jeff said.

‘And me,’ Tuesday said.

‘Think the leg will hold up okay?’ Ben asked.

‘Don’t you worry about my leg,’ Tuesday said defensively.

Ben turned to Xulu. ‘Care to join us, Captain? Look like you could run off a little weight.’

Xulu sucked in his paunch and replied with a scornful scowl. He clearly had better things to do. Or else perhaps he didn’t want to show himself up in front of his men. Rather than risk collapsing in a wheezing heap for all to see, he insisted on riding up front in the armoured personnel carrier.

The APC rumbled off at a pace somewhere between a jog and a run, Xulu glowering back at them from the rear window. Ben and Jeff set off behind it in easy strides and the long column of men followed, with Tuesday acting as drill sergeant to giddy-up any slackers. Ben had always enjoyed running, and took in a ten-miler whenever he could. It felt good to get the heart working and open the airways. Running helped him focus, and at this moment he had a lot of thinking to do.

‘You don’t really want to whip this lot into shape,’ Jeff said, jogging along at his side.

Ben glanced back over his shoulder at the long, winding tail of the column. He could see Tuesday keeping pace at their flank, with no sign of a limp. The reason Tuesday had never made it into the SAS was the serious leg fracture he’d suffered during pre-selection training in the Brecon Beacons, causing him to be invalided out of the forces. He tended to be a little reactive when asked about it. Ben admired the younger man for his toughness and pride, but he sometimes worried that the leg still hurt Tuesday more than he would admit.

‘Not in a million years,’ Ben replied to Jeff’s question.

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘Play for time, play it cool for the moment, let Khosa think we’re cooperating, and hope we can figure something out.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s the best I’ve come up with so far.’

Ben’s other purpose for the six-mile run was to scope out the city, get to know the lay of the land, and start creating a map in his mind. Their route took them back past the huge construction zone and the legion of Chinese workers toiling to knock up streets and buildings as if there were no tomorrow.

‘I don’t get it,’ Jeff said. ‘What are they doing here?’

‘Nor me,’ Ben said. ‘Not yet.’

As the troops ran, they spontaneously broke into song. Loud and proud, like US Marines in drill training, but surprisingly melodic and tuneful compared to the macho braying of a hundred beefy Americans.

When they got back to the training ground, Khosa and his gleaming Range Rover had gone. So had Colonel Dizolele; and Captain Xulu grasped the opportunity to assume command.

‘We are preparing for war,’ he told Ben angrily. ‘Not training for the Olympics. Enough of this stupid running. It is a waste of time and resources. These men must be taught to kill. This is meant to be your job.’

‘Perhaps they’d like a demonstration,’ Ben said, looking him in the eye.

Xulu cleared his throat nervously and stepped away, but if he was scared he recovered fast. ‘Yes. A demonstration. That is a good idea.’ He snapped his fingers, and one of his junior officers hurried to his side. Without taking his eyes off Ben, Xulu barked ‘Lieutenant Umutese! How many prisoners do we have in the jail?’

The lieutenant replied instantly, ‘Seven deserters that we caught this month, two men who were heard plotting against General Khosa, four Tutsi spies who infiltrated the army, and one man who stole sugar from the food store.’

Xulu nodded. ‘Good. Lieutenant, take five men and ride back into town in a truck. Go to the jail and bring me the two traitors and two of the cockroaches. Be quick.’ The lieutenant snapped a salute and ran for one of the trucks, waving and yelling at five of the men to come with him.

‘He’d better not be doing what I think he is,’ Jeff muttered.

Ben said nothing. The sun beat implacably down on his head. He was tired, not from the run. Just tired. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted a drink. He wanted to see Jude again and get him out of this mess and go home.

Twenty minutes later, they found out exactly what Xulu’s intentions were, and it was no surprise. The returning truck rolled to a halt in a dust cloud. The lieutenant and his five troopers marched the four miserable prisoners out of the back, fresh from whatever jail they’d been locked up in, and they were paraded in front of Xulu. Their heads were hanging. They knew what was coming. So did Ben, but he was powerless to stop it.

The five hundred troops had reassembled into a milling crowd on the training ground, some weary from the six-mile run, others fresh and ready for another. Their skin was gleaming and their clothes patched with sweat. The buzz of chatter died down as they caught sight of the prisoners being lined up, and anticipation began to mount.

Xulu addressed the men with his chest pouted and his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Leopards! You are privileged to fight for General Khosa, our father and the saviour of our beloved country. Many of you have served in battle and killed our enemies. But some of you have not had this honour, like a boy who has not yet been with a woman. If there are fighters here who have not tasted the blood of our enemies for themselves, do not be ashamed. Put up your hands and step forward!’

After a few moments’ hesitation and murmur, some fifty men shuffled bashfully from the crowd with their arms raised. Most of them were under twenty, some barely in their teens.

Xulu beamed at them. ‘Today, young warriors, is the first day of your advanced military training. You have already shown courage and loyalty. Now you learn to kill.’

At a wave from his captain, Lieutenant Umutese had the prisoners marched across the training ground to the perimeter fence. One of them tried to break away, and made it a few stumbling steps before he was tackled by two soldiers and dragged, kicking and screaming, to join the other condemned men. They flung him against the wire mesh and stepped back.

‘These men are your enemies!’ Xulu yelled in a voice hoarse with excitement, pointing an accusing finger at the four. ‘They have been disloyal to General Khosa! They have plotted against him and planned his assassination! They must die!’ He turned his pointing hand towards the fifty or so fighters who had stepped forward, and picked out four of them at random. ‘You, you, you and you! Come here. Lieutenant Umutese, give them weapons.’

None of the chosen four members of Khosa’s elite regiment could have been more than fifteen years of age. Two of them, one in particular, seemed eager to participate in their blooding. The other two looked much less sure of themselves as AK-47s from the stack of weapons were pressed into their hands.

Xulu thrust his pointing finger back towards the terrified prisoners. His gold teeth glinted in the sun. ‘Aim your weapons and kill them!’

Ben had seen enough.