“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.
55
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.
56
Ed Garner sailed down the abseil rope and landed nimbly on the ground, the three other soldiers followed, crouching in the undergrowth. The front gates of the camp had opened and a stream of soldiers was pouring out. Some on foot and some in Jeeps, they ran quickly down the track in the direction of the runway.
Ed watched, trying to keep a rough check on the numbers. He spoke into his headpiece: “Gavin, soldiers are on their way. Close to 1000, some on foot, some in Jeeps, over.” No reply. “Gavin can you hear me? Over.” An ominous silence. Shit, Ed thought. “Gavin, troops coming your way. Do you copy? Over.” Nothing. Technical problems. Had to be. No chance someone as experienced as Gavin had wandered into an ambush, not while there was still cover of darkness.
“No response from Gavin?” It was Denbigh’s voice from up in the treetops, patched into the same frequency. “Not yet. Keep trying him. What are you seeing on the thermal imaging?” Denbigh checked the screen. Red groups glowed around the inside the wall that encircled the perimeter of the camp. Nothing inside the house. “Looks like they’re organised into four main groups in the courtyard. Covering the open ground. You’re going to need to get in there quickly if you want to use what’s left of the darkness.”
“What’s our best entrance point?”
“Rear wall and front left. Mid points.”
“We’ll take the left wall. Once we’re over let the RPGs fly. We’ll add our grenades to the mix. Just make sure you don’t hit us.”