Decoy (18 page)

“Charges set. On our way Ed, over.” Gavin McCallister spoke into his radio. The explosives were hidden along one side of the runway, smoke bombs and phosphorous, enough fireworks to make it look like World War III had begun in the eastern Congo. “Good work. We're in the treetops. Lot of movement at the camp. Early risers. Unusual for this type of army,” Ed replied. He was watching the camp through night vision binoculars, surprised that the soldiers were up and about already, cleaning and preparing their weapons, checking their equipment.

“How long till you . . . ” he stopped talking, his attention distracted by the two men who had appeared on the veranda. Impossible to see from this distance but he was certain one of them was Nbotou.

He signalled to the rest of his team, “who's that, on the steps in front of the house?” He hissed. “Anyone have a positive ID?” They'd been shown pictures of the militia leader before they set off, but in the greenish glow of the night vision it was hard to be certain.

“Got to be the General,” Ian Cleaver replied. “I'd stake my rifle on it.” He was the best marksman on the team, his weapon already sighted on the imposing figure of Nbotou as he marched up and down the veranda. A clear night, no wind. Not more than 500 metres to the target.

“He's in my sights Ed. Say the word and he's a dead man.” Ed bit his lip, he would dearly love to give the order, drop the evil bastard right there on his own front porch. But he couldn't, they'd need the back-up of Gavin's team for the follow through. And Clement's second-in-command might be an effective leader, might prevent them from taking control of the camp.

“Hold off Ian. We need to wait for Gavin's team. Let's watch a while, sight the mic and the thermal imaging cameras on them, see what they're up to.” The General disappeared inside the house.

Gustav pulled over, stopping at the side of the track. They hadn't been driving long, not more than twenty minutes. Ahead of them a torchlight flashed on and off. A thin pencil beam of light.

“That him?” Jack asked. Gustav nodded but didn't reply. Went through his little routine with his pistol instead, turning off the safety, setting it on his lap. He let the jeep crawl slowly forwards.

“You know, it might be easier if you gave the gun to me. Let you focus on the driving.” Jack suggested. Gustav shook his head, “don't worry, I can drive and shoot.” The dull beam from the headlights pulled Monsieur Blanc into their yellow pool. He was sweating, breathing heavily. His linen suit was soaked through and clinging to his skin. On his back was a large rucksack, and he had a gun slung over each shoulder. Jack was impressed he'd made it this far, didn't realise the man was capable of walking without the support of a desert trolley.

“Gustav, mon dieu, thank God you are here. I was worried you might not get away.” The girl from the camp was beside him, ammunition draped over her shoulders. She appeared calm and composed, not a bead of sweat on her. The walk had evidently been less of an effort for her.

“Come along Florence. We'll travel by car as far as we can. Till the road gets too rough.” He held out his hand to help the girl but she jumped past him, clambered in without taking it, then turned and offered him her hand with a shy smile. Monsieur Blanc wasn't too proud to take it.

“Incredible. She can walk half the night, pull someone twice her size into the car and still she doesn't break into a sweat,” he said, moping his brow with an already wet handkerchief and squeezing his bulk into the seat beside her.

“Get going Gustav, this area is not safe.” He hefted his rucksack off his back. “Once we leave Nbotou's territory we're in the north Kivu district. The militia there is every bit as cruel and ruthless,” he paused for a moment, looking for something in his pack, “but fortunately for us not quite as well organised.”

He handed Jack a gun. “I trust you know how to use it? If not just point and shoot but for goodness sake don't hit any of us.” Jack turned the Beretta over in his hand. A long time since he'd held one, a sudden memory of a trip to the firing range with his father. Shortly after his mother left. Both of them unable to articulate their feelings, shooting the hearts out of paper targets at a distance of 50m.

“I know how to use it Monsieur Blanc, but why the change of plan? I thought a helicopter was picking you up from the runway this evening,” Jack said, leaning over his shoulder. The car caught a heavy bump in the road, he worried for a moment the axle had cracked, but somehow it kept going.

Monsieur Blanc raised an eyebrow, “I believed you, Jack, that is all. About the setup. Not when you first suggested it to me, no, then I thought you were just trying your luck. But once I cut the device out, saw it wasn't attached to anything, that there was no reason for it to be inside you other than for effect. Then I had my doubts. And like you I am perfectly capable of recognising the sound of an RAF Hercules, even from a distance of several miles.” He wiped his forehead again. “A man can ignore his suspicions once, but only a fool would ignore them twice.” Rain had started to fall, heavy splashes that cooled the warm air.

“So you've sorted out a new pick-up?” Jack asked. Monsieur Blanc nodded.

“There is a clearing not far from here, 40 kilometres or so. We will drive and then hike. You are welcome to stay with us or make your own way out of the jungle, but I should warn you now there is no room for you in the helicopter.”

Jack nodded, he had suspected as much, he was just surprised Monsieur Blanc had sent Gustav to collect him at all.

“Why not just leave me at the camp?” He asked somewhat reluctantly, afraid Monsieur Blanc might now decide that was a much better idea than taking him with them. Monsieur Blanc frowned, and then smiled a smile that seemed almost embarrassed.

“You gave me information which I believe may have saved my life. So I must do my best to save yours. As far as I can. Otherwise,” he paused and laughed quietly laugh to himself. “You may think me superstitious, but in my experience the universe does not look kindly on that sort of unpaid debt.”

Not so much superstitious as positively certifiable, Jack thought. He turned and looked away, into the jungle, the dull light of dawn bringing the world around them slowly to life, the dark grey trees of the forest taking on more distinct forms. The jeep suddenly skidded across the mud track.

“If the rain keeps up we'll be on foot, boss.” Gustav said, skilfully spinning the wheel so the car caught the skid, accelerating out of it. Water was splashing up on either side, the tyres working hard to keep a grip on the slippery surface.

“Slow down. We need to stay in the car as far as possible. Otherwise it will be a very long walk.” Monsieur Blanc replied.

Nbotou sat at the head of the table, waiting impatiently for his captains to take their seats. They could see his anger, the coiled spring inside of him. Fit to burst.

“There is someone out there, heading this way. Might even already be here. From the report given to me it is most likely to be Special Forces. I do not know what they want, who they are after. I have my suspicions they are here because of a deal I did with that fat Chinaman.” He paused, breathing deeply, lighting a cigar. He found the rich smoke from the Monte Cristo helped focus his mind.

“But who can predict what the army of a so-called western democracy will do next.” He cleared his throat and spat on the floor. “Whatever the reason, I need not remind you how dangerous these soldiers can be. You are all aware of the tactics they employ, when they raided the Uganda Liberation Army's camp last year to free those hostages, they used lethal force. So lethal they killed two of the hostages.” He shook his head, the men around the table chuckled, a useful release of tension. Clement drew heavily on the cigar, letting the smoke flow out of his broad nostrils.

“Their main weapon is surprise, the confusion they cause. That is what they need in order to overpower a superior army, like ours.” His men nodded their heads, murmuring their assent. “But we have taken that advantage from them, we have taken their most powerful weapon. This time the surprise will be for them.” A chorus of “yes sirs” echoed round the table.

Ed had the parabolic mic focused on the camp, but the rain was falling so heavily it was hard to pick anything up, just the background noise of drops hitting the broad leaves of the jungle trees. Finally he got it, centre of the main building, a strident voice, a language he couldn't understand. He adjusted the amplifier, isolating and heightening the frequency. A sophisticated bit of kit. He signalled to their linguistics expert, carefully passing him the headphones. The officer leant forwards gingerly to take them. Although the treetop provided good cover it was difficult to manoeuvre. Each man was secured to the thick branches with climbing rope, but with the rain they were becoming treacherous. One slip and you might find yourself dangling like a hapless bungee jumper in front of the camp.

The linguistics expert, Oliver Denbigh, placed the headphones over his ears. A crackle of static as Ed repositioned the mic. The officer identified the language immediately, a Bantu dialect, similar in tone and inflection to Swahili. He couldn't follow every word but he could get the gist.

“Soldiers killed last night, four of them . . . on guard . . . in position . . . ready ourselves,” fragments of what sounded like a speech. Although the precise meaning was beyond his grasp the significance of the words he had just said was clear. He turned to face Ed, the same thought occurring to them at that moment.
They know we're here, they're onto us.

“Shit,” Ed said as he picked up his radio mic and called Gavin. “Where are you, over?” he asked.

“Two kilometres from you, according to the GPS.” Gavin replied.

“Look, you're going to have to be careful. We think they might be expecting us. I need you get here as fast as you can.

“Fuck,” was all Gavin said in reply.

“We're going to move in as soon as possible. While there's still some cover from the darkness. Dawn will break in the next half hour, so it has to be now.”

“You're going in without us?” Gav asked.

“No other option. I need you to set off the fireworks.”

“When?” Gav replied.

“Now,” Ed said tersely. He turned to his men. “In about 20 seconds there's going to be a hell of a firework display over at the runway. We expect to see a significant number of soldiers heading out the camp to try and defend it. Once they've gone we'll launch a rocket attack on the house,” a loud explosion to his left, the vibrations shaking the tree, interrupted him. “Denbigh, you stay here, get the thermal imaging camera on the house. You're going to be our eyes and ears on this one. You'll also be providing covering fire.” Another explosion, even louder, the sky lit up in flash of bright white light. For one moment all their faces visible, grimly determined, ready to do what was needed. Then darkness. “Check headsets.” The four of them checked the earpieces and mics were working.

“I want the camp in darkness, so make sure you get an RPG off at their generator,” Ed said as he leant backwards, letting the climbing rope take the weight. The forest shook with another explosion, almost sending him straight to the ground, face first. He held on, grinning at this team, “just my luck to break my bloody neck before the battle begins.”

The walls of the old Colonial mansion shook with the force of the first explosion. A shower of white dust from the cracks in the plasterwork. The men around the table were startled.

“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.

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.