61
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.
62
The path Jack followed was well-used. Made him fear whom he might bump into as he pressed his way through the jungle. The wound in his side itched and was beginning to ooze a dull yellow puss. Bad news. His body felt hot too, even taking into account the temperature of the air around him. There were vicious spiked plants that veered dangerously close, venomous snakes rustling through the undergrowth. Jack was beginning to wonder if he should have taken his chances on the main road.
He stopped to tap a bamboo stem. The sound hollow but muted. A sign there was water within. He dug the knife into the stem, breaking through the course fibres. Water flowed out, last night’s rainfall. He moved his face close to it and drank deeply, let it run over his head. Better. The water, though warm, had a cooling effect on his skin. He grabbed a cricket from a nearby branch, bit into it. The taste was bitter and unpleasant but he needed whatever protein he could get his hands on. A column of army ants made their way up tree trunk, each one almost an inch in length. He picked them one at a time off the bark, biting into them, crunching and swallowing through gritted teeth. One advantage to having a father in the SAS, he had been raised on survival stories.
The jungle grew heavier around him, foliage thick overhead, enveloping him in a perpetual twilight. He had done his best to calculate the distance to the camp, breaking it down into lengths of twenty trees. Knew it would be hard to keep track of time once he was enveloped in the semi-darkness of the forest.