“Quite an achievement,” Sir Clive replied. Bob smiled modestly. “I have a very good team,” he replied.
“What’s the range?”
“Up to half a kilometre. But you can get a wide angle on it. The lower settings will send out a divergent beam. Instead of incinerating someone, you’ll just fry their pain receptors. Freeze them to the spot.” Bob replied.
“You want to get some of your troops to try it out, get a handle on it?” Harvey said, pleased he’d gotten Sir Clive’s interest. Sir Clive rubbed his chin. “Have you run a range of environment tests? Heat, humidity, dust, extreme cold?”
“Of course. Stress tests were carried out over a year ago,” Bob said. “It’s at production stage. All we need is a steady supply of coltan.”
“And the battery?”
“Five hundred pulses on max strength from a pack. And remember, you set it to divergent mode and one pulse will immobilise a crowd of 50 people at a hundred metres.”
Sir Clive nodded. “What do you think Ed, willing to give it a go? Ed Garner checked the weapon. Lightweight, no heavier than a small submachine gun, carbon fibre body. Simple to use too. He liked the feel of it.
“As long as the damn thing doesn’t jam it’s fine by me. Might fire off a few more rounds before we ship out. And I’m packing all the usual kit too. How much does one of these retail for?”
“For you Ed, $450,000,” Harvey replied, switching easily to salesman mode.
“No shit!” Ed replied, laughing. “That’s a hell of a price to pay for a gun.”
“It’s a hell of a gun. Switch to divergent mode. Point at the cattle in that field.” Ed looked a little uncertainly at the cows in the field. He had no desire to turn them into beef burgers before their time. “Switch to the lowest setting. All you’ll do is give them a little fright.” Harvey said encouragingly. Ed pointed the gun at the cattle, it fizzed then cracked. A burst of light. The animals panicked, running at one another, turning circles, heads swaying, mouths foaming.
“You do that to a crowd of people and it’ll have the same effect. It’s an odd sensation, a burning pain under the skin. Liable to induce panic, but not fatal. Guaranteed to stop a group of soldiers in their tracks,” Bob explained confidently.
“Come on. I think we’ve curdled enough milk for one day,” Sir Clive said. “Ed, I want to go over the op with you once more. The details for the drop and the pick-up point. Make sure you’re clear.”
“Fine,” Ed said, “We’ll go through it with the team. What time are we shipping out?”
“You’ll flying out from Brize Norton tonight, 8 pm. The Chinook will take you there. Should be parachuted over the Congo in the early hours of tomorrow morning. I don’t want you spending more than a day on reconnaissance. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary. Time is everything.”
Ed nodded grimly. Preparation was everything, Sir Clive’s plans were hurried and he hoped he hadn’t missed a trick. He wasn’t quite so convinced Clement Nbotou’s soldiers would be as ill-prepared and undertrained as Sir Clive suggested.
42
Archie Hartman walked quickly down the steps and onto the runway, the tarmac reflecting the last of the afternoon heat into his pasty face. It had been a quiet flight but he hadn’t slept. Too busy reading. Too busy worrying. He picked up the holdall with the tracking device from the carousel and hoped it hadn’t been knocked about too much.
A row of taxis waited hopefully outside the airport, each one with a smiling driver promising him the best price in town. Archie picked the nearest one; he wasn’t too concerned about safety. If the driver was foolish enough to try anything he’d come off worse. A lot worse.
“Take me to the best hotel in the city, not some shit house run by your friend’s cousin or your brother-in-law’s uncle.” He announced with an easy-going grin and a wave of a $100 bill. “And I’ll need you to stick around, you’ll get another one of these tomorrow.”
That was the chauffeur sorted. $100 was more than he would earn in a month. “Oh, and I’d like to borrow your mobile,” he said. “Don’t worry, local call.”
Later that evening, having finally persuaded the owner of the hotel to give him a room with a lock on the door and a mosquito net that wasn’t full of large holes, Archie Hartman headed into town. He’d managed to make contact with Spike Van de Weye. One-time soldier, one-time mercenary, now a small-time arms dealer, bar owner and all-round fixer.
He handed the address to the taxi-driver who drove quickly through the downtown traffic, past the bustling cafes and hotels and on to the outskirts.
“You sure this is the right way?” Archie asked, as the streetlights dropped away and the surface of the road grew more and more uneven. More holes than road, he thought grimly, head bumping against the roof of the cab.
“Bar Terese you say?” The driver asked. Archie nodded. “This way. Very popular place.” Archie looked out the window, the houses close together, compacted, one-storey tall, flimsy constructions of wood and corrugated metal. Some had electricity, others small fires outside. Ahead the sound of music, bass-heavy rumba and shimmering Congolese guitars in the darkness. The cab pulled over.
“We are there sir. Just follow the music,” the driver said. He climbed out the cab, whistled a greeting to some friends by the bar. Archie followed. It looked more like a concrete bunker with the front wall sliced off than a bar. Electric lanterns were strung up between faded plastic tables and chairs and a pair of heavy-looking speakers pounded out the music. In the background, not quite drowned out by the thumping bass, was the disgruntled chug of the diesel generator that powered the place.
Spike was sitting at the bar. He had a ruddy complexion and sandy blond hair that rose in uncontrollable tufts from his pink scalp. Archie had first assumed he got the nickname from the hair and only discovered later it was because of his skill with a trench knife, the spiked blade he used to favour in close-quarter fighting. They’d worked together twice before, Spike providing ground level intel on two ops the SAS had run in Nigeria.
He was reliable but expensive, trustworthy as long as you paid on time. Similar age to Archie, but he’d grown fat over the years, his stomach hanging low over his belt, his neck rolling over the top of his short-sleeved safari shirt. He had his back to Archie, cigarette dangling from one hand, his other draped over a young black woman. He turned before Archie could call out his name, stepped forward and into the darkness.
“Archie you old bastard, that you?” He said, a broad grin spreading across his face. “You look pale as hell man, here for the weather?” A deep belly laugh rose from within him as he embraced Archie in a mighty bear hug. He might have put on a few pounds, but Archie could tell the muscle was still sound underneath the fat.
“I take it you’re here for business, not pleasure? Hell of a long way to come for a drink,” Archie tried to pull his face into a smile. It wasn’t very convincing.
“Business it is. You’re looking well Spike.”
“You mean I’m looking fat hey? Don’t worry. I know. Too much meat. Here man, come into my office,” he led Archie past the bar and through a door that looked stronger than it needed to be.
“Nice place,” Archie said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say and he had never been much good at small talk. Spike laughed, “it might be a shit hole but it’s my shit hole. And it’s good for business, people know where to find me and no one can be bothered to rob the place.” He flicked the light switch and shut the door behind Archie. The room was cool, air-conditioned.
“Take a seat. Been a long time Archie man, what can I do for you?” Two whiskey glasses appeared on the desk and Spike pulled a bottle out of one of the drawers.