Decoy (20 page)

Archie pushed his hand firmly against the helicopter window, anything to steady him as it bucked and rolled in the stormy air. The pilot had demanded double the fee for flying in these conditions and still looked disappointed when Archie agreed.

The weather was interfering with the tracking device too, the screen disrupted by static. But they were heading in the right direction. In the distance, what sounded like thunder was really echoing loud explosions over the treetops. Archie knew better, but he didn't tell the pilot. One hour's flying through the heavy rain and the dull yellow blip was flashing close to the centre of the screen. He didn't get his hopes up. If Jack was even wearing the watch he might still be several miles from where the tracking device said he was.

“What's that?” He asked, tugging at the pilot's sleeve, pointing below him. It looked like a section of jungle had been cleared by an explosion, a small army of ant-sized people crawling all over it. The pilot shrugged, too busy keeping the helicopter horizontal to get a proper look.

“A lot of trouble down there, in this region. Warlords, a lot of fighting. For diamonds, coltan. Whatever they can get their hands on. Crazy people,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Archie peered through the rain-spattered window. The explosion had happened recently. The dust and debris still scattered over the surrounding area. He did a double take, certain he had seen half a grand piano wedged in a tree.

“Lower, take us lower.” He said. The pilot bit his lip and circled the camp. “Not a good idea to stick around for long here.” He said quickly.

Archie took it all in, a tiled roof collapsed to ground level, a courtyard that looked like an army camp, and children firing guns into the air. He checked the tracking device. The yellow dot almost at the centre of the screen. What the hell was this world they had dragged Jack into?

“North east pilot. First available clearing you set me down. If there isn't one I'll use a rope and swing out.”

“Up to you man, it's your funeral.” the pilot said with a shake of his head, he'd already been paid, made no difference to him if his passenger wanted to go walk about in a war zone.

Sir Clive had returned to his London office, promising to keep the ever-demanding Harvey up to date on the progress of the Special Forces team. He'd told him repeatedly the time scale for the mission was two days, and there would be no radio contact until the outcome was assured.

“Two days?! What the fuck am I supposed to do here for two days?” Harvey had replied. Sir Clive had shrugged, waved vaguely at the stag heads mounted on the wall and suggested he try a little hunting.

“Failing that, I believe there are some sites of historical significance nearby, the village church has a very rare stained-glass window. Might be worth a visit.”

The man had boundless energy matched by unlimited impatience. Possibly the reason he was so successful in business. Certainly the reason he so irritated those around him. Sir Clive had left for London soon after. His mind already sifting through the countless other tasks he knew would be piled up in his in-tray. He'd been working through the briefing papers, downing his third espresso of the day when the LMS message buzzed onto his phone.

Target's death unverified
.

Shit. He watched to see if any further information came through. It didn't. He picked up his phone and called Dr. Calder. It was a break with protocol but it had to be done. On a mission labelled ‘dark,' no contact was allowed with the operational officers, but judging by the message he'd just received the mission was all but over.

“James, I need you to patch me through on a secure line to this number.” He read out the digits displayed on his phone. “Use a three point triangulation and route it through another department. I don't want a record of the call.” He heard James's fingers tapping away. He didn't question the order, just got on with the task. One of the reasons Sir Clive had kept him close as he was promoted through the Service.

“Done.” James replied. “You'll hear a series of pips as the connections are made. Then you're on. Longer you talk the easier it'll be to work out who made the call.” The line went dead. Nothing but static, then something that sounded like an old modem buzzing away.

A split second later he was there. The unmistakable rattle of machine gun fire, tinny in the earpiece, the heavy breaths of the officer, the rustle and scrape of material against the mic.

“This is your commanding officer. LMS received. Status report please.”

“Officer Denbigh. Team one down. Possibly team two. Unclear whether objective reached.” He struggled to make himself heard over the gunfire. “Camp destroyed. Secondary troops deployed by target. Under fire.”

Sir Clive thought quickly, if the troops were still in position it had to mean Nbotou had some degree of control. Likely he was still alive. Close enough to be in range of the camp.

“What's your position, can you get to cover?” He asked.

“Unlikely. In the treetops. Under fire from four hostiles below.” Sir Clive mulled it over.

“What kind of tree is it?” He asked. There was a brief pause, the officer confused by the randomness of the question.

“Don't know. A big fucking tree. That's all.”

“You fastened to it?”

“Of course, strapped to the trunk.” More bullets zinging past, splintering wood.

“Ok, listen carefully. You're going to drop two grenades to the ground. Same side. Take out the hostiles. The force of the explosion will send the tree in the opposite direction, into the jungle. Hold tight then climb to another tree. I'll call again in ten and give you new instructions. Over.” Sir Clive put the phone down without waiting for an answer. He'd find out soon enough if his suggestion saved the man's life.

Jack looked for animal tracks, a path cleared through the undergrowth, anything to make his journey through the forest faster. There was nothing. Should he take Monsieur Blanc's advice and head east or should he follow the track further up the hill? He decided to climb to the treetops and get a bird's eye view. It would use his energy reserves but from there he should be able to identify the best route through the uncompromising jungle.

He strained his neck upwards, selected a tree and tested his weight against the jungle vines that dangled from it. They held. He pulled himself towards the canopy, vine twisted between his legs, feet gripping as his arms reached over each other. An arduous task that sapped his upper body strength, each stretch pulling at the wound in his side. He hoped Monsieur Blanc's stitches would hold.

Once he reached a branch big enough to take his weight he swung onto it, shaking down his limbs, getting the blood flowing into his cramping muscles. It was an easier climb from this point, lots of branches, he wouldn't have to rely so much on upper body strength. He pulled himself upwards. Hands rubbed raw, he was heaving, standing, stretching. The leaves thinned out towards the top of the tree. He paused, breathless, arms gripped around the tree trunk. Landscape revealing itself through the patchwork of leaves.

The sight took away what little breath he had left. Steam rising from the thick foliage, the dawn sun parting the heavy curtain of grey rain cloud. Sky filled with a strange and wonderful luminosity. Birds close to the treetops, sailing past him, calling out. It was another world. Perfectly balanced. Independent of man. To see it was to feel both empowered and insignificant at the same time.

Jack breathed deeply, taking in lungfuls of the morning air. He wondered idly if this was the type of thing the posh kids at Cambridge saw on their gap years. Somehow he doubted it. The thought of his student life brought Amanda to the front of his mind. A deep longing inside of him. An intensity of feeling that took him by surprise. The thought he wouldn't see her again, wouldn't be able to hold her, was more terrifying than anything the jungle could throw at him.

In the distance a thin plume of smoke rose from the trees, the tell-tale sign of an encampment, of human life. Early morning fires to get breakfast underway, try and dry out after the night's rainfall. No way of knowing if it belonged to Congolese villagers or a military encampment. How many miles to get there? Wherever the hell ‘there' was. Looked like there might be a path towards it, the jungle less dense in certain areas, a faint break in the relentless green of the canopy. He decided that would be his best bet.

A day's walk at the most. That's if the ground was reasonably easy to negotiate. If it was a village he'd get some food and a guide, someone who could lead him out the jungle to safety. He would promise them payment. If it was a military camp he'd see what he could steal, guns, food, anything.

Jack straddled the branch, gripping tightly with his legs, took off his shirt and carefully ripped two strips from it. His hands had been rubbed raw by the climb up the vine, tiny spikes embedded in them. He sucked at them with his teeth. The humidity and heat of the jungle offered the perfect environment for infections to flourish, had to get them out. He wrapped the cloth around them. Better than nothing, and began his descent.

Nbotou's guard cleared a path through the jungle. Machetes hacking away at the vegetation. The track they followed was reasonably well-used. Supplies of coltan, both mined and stolen were carried up it twice a month by his troops, but it only took a couple of days before the jungle began to reclaim it.

He could hear the chants long before he arrived back at the camp. The chorus of voices rang out through the treetops, a victory cry, the general's name chanted over and over. He walked slowly down the road towards them, basking in their adulation, acknowledging their praise, the guns held aloft.

Denbigh watched the mock victory parade. His commanding officer's instructions had proved remarkably effective. The two grenades he'd dropped had shredded the people below, split the base of the tree trunk and sent it sailing with an ear-splitting screech into the trees behind. Denbigh had held tight as it lurched backwards, a sinking ship crashing through the vines and branches of the jungle. It settled against the broad trunk of blue gum tree, an angle of 70 degrees from the ground. Denbigh had scrambled up into its branches, taking what little kit he could carry and attempting to find cover that gave him a view of the camp. He heard a voice in his headphones.

“You made it then?” Sir Clive's tone was matter of fact, as if he hadn't expected any other outcome.

“Correct.” Denbigh said tersely, somewhat out of breath.

“And you're out of sight? Got a good spot from which to keep an eye on the camp?” Denbigh wiped the sweat from his forehead before replying. As commanding officers go this one had pretty high expectations. “In my sights now sir,” he replied, detaching the scope from his rifle and using it to watch the camp.

“What can you see?” Denbigh surveyed the scene. An ugly sight. The house flattened, the ground around it stained a rich red brown, as if the building, collapsed in on itself, had bled itself dry into the earth around it.

Two of his teammates had been pulled from the rubble, their bodies crushed. Soldiers danced around them, beating out rhythms on empty oil drums, passing plastic jerry cans of jungle brew to one another. The panic and fear they'd felt during the battle transformed into a wild euphoria.

“Some kind of victory celebration,” was all he reported back to Sir Clive. Didn't have the will or the words to describe the scene he was witnessing in detail. “And they're shouting something, unclear what it is. Sounds like Nbotou's name. They're chanting. More of them have joined in.”

Two boys ran into the camp from the road, they were laughing and pointing excitedly, calling out to their friends. Behind them, spiked on a length of bamboo, was the head of one of Denbigh's teammates, still in its black Kevlar helmet, tendons trailing from the base of the neck. They'd attached his jacket with a cross piece, a morbid scarecrow. He couldn't see who it was. The boy carrying it looked proud, held it high for his friends to see his handiwork. Carnival time. They cheered when they saw him, some of them firing at it.

“Denbigh. Are you there? Denbigh? Stay with me. What's happening?” Denbigh wasn't sure how long Sir Clive had been talking, his voice insignificant against the clamouring, wretched detail that assaulted his eyes.

“Yes. Here Sir. All present and correct.” He looked closely at the expression that clung to the face on the pole, the mouth twisted in a contortion of pain that death could not remove. Was it Adam? Mike? Gavin McCallister? The urge to open fire, to disrupt their celebrations and fling himself at the soldiers, swoop down from the treetops in a frenzy of revenge was almost irresistible.

“Denbigh I need you with me. Do you hear? I need. You. With. Me.” Sir Clive spoke slowly and clearly. He had seen this happen before. Even the best men were not immune to shock, to the trauma of witnessing death all around them. Had to be a hell of a sight for an experienced SAS officer to be slipping away from him, from reality into the comforting cocoon that shock wove around the brain. If he couldn't snap the man out of it he would just have to work with it. Try and keep him safe and operational in spite of himself.

“What else, what else can you see?” he asked. Denbigh's gaze drifted along the track. A group of ten men marching, well-ordered, disciplined. Nbotou in the middle, hands held high, acknowledging the adulation he received.

“The General. The General approaches.” Sir Clive sat up sharply, gripping the receiver. A second chance to get a shot at the man. He had to keep Denbigh focused.

“Ok Denbigh. It's time, time for you to make all of this better. To stop everything you can see going on before you. Do you understand?” His tone was reassuring, as if he was addressing a confused child. The officer nodded but didn't reply. For some reason it made perfect sense to hear someone else's voice inside his head.

“Attach the scope to the rifle. Point it at the man in the centre of the group.” Denbigh screwed the attachment into place, looked through it, the General's head appeared in the cross hairs, a broad grin stapled to his face, arms held high above his head, punching the air.

“Soon as you get a clear shot, press the trigger, take him out and all of it will disappear. All will be better.” He was almost whispering into the receiver, cajoling.

The dull thud of a silenced rifle. Twice more. Sir Clive tensed.

“What is it Denbigh, did you get him?” Denbigh watched as the scene below him, the jubilation, the drunkenness, the rhythms beaten out on the oil drums, fell slowly to pieces. Beats tripping over themselves, winding down to a gradual stop. Nbotou lay on the ground. Head split, lifeless. Only his left hand still moved, a twitching memory within the muscles.

“Dead. General's dead.” Denbigh replied. His voice sounding as if it belonged to someone else.

“Excellent. Excellent work. Stay in position till nightfall then proceed to pick-up point.” Sir Clive put down the phone. Up to the soldier to pull himself together now. You could only hold a man's hand so long. He dialled Harvey's number.

“Harve,” he said amiably, as he knew the man liked to be addressed. “Good news. You can begin phase two. Nbotou's been taken out, his camp destroyed, half his army deserted or dead. You can send in your friendly Ugandan warlord to take over the camp and start shipping out your precious coltan.”

Denbigh looked at the people below him, their arms outstretched, pointing in his direction. Guns aimed. He could hear the rattle of bullets but it didn't matter, he was invincible. The bullets would bounce off. The ghastly grinning head in the Kevlar helmet had told him so. He stood up on the branch, leant forward. Pulled his knife from its sheath and clasped it between his teeth. Dive amongst them and cut them to pieces. The voice inside his head still speaking, echoing Sir Clive's imperious tones, giving him clear instructions. He let himself go, wind rushing past his ears, didn't feel the bullets, didn't feel any pain as they tore through his airborne body.