“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.
59
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.
60
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.