Place of Bones (8 page)

There had been no desertions so far, but now that we were pushing deeper and deeper into the forests, the critical time was fast approaching.

Bjoran loped back to the surging crowd of men. Here was a time when his reputation paid for itself. If the men feared Bjoran and his penchant for the bayonet more than they feared the invisible
dawa
, the combined forces of evil, then it was all well and good.

I had purposely had Bjoran ride in my jeep, though it had only taken a short time to realize that the man was basically a sadist, that he enjoyed the sensation of drawing cold steel through human flesh. I had mentioned the Brazzaville incident and had been marginally surprised when he had recounted the whole thing with something approaching lust in his eyes. Since it had happened before my arrival on the scene I saw little point in taking him to task over it, so I said nothing. I guess he took my apparent lack of interest as a sign of tacit approval. He had, of course, gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick entirely. But, for the moment, it suited me to have him on my side willingly.

I turned to our driver, one of the Kangatzi who smelt of stale sweat and gun oil. “Go get some food, Tahagi.” The man was sitting there, hands still gripping the wheel, seemingly mesmerized by a particularly voluminous and repetitive drip from the leaves way up in the dark vermillion canopy overhead, that was hitting the bonnet over the radiator. It made a sound like someone tapping out a boring rhythm on a loose-snared drum. “Tahagi!”

“Nkosi?” Unwillingly, he dragged his attention to me.

“Go get some food.”

“Yes, Nkosi.” He glanced upward once, shook his head, then heaved himself out of the seat and plodded back to where Augarde and the other white, Brook, were issuing ration tins. I switched on the goose-neck map light and calculated how far we had moved since dawn. The result was disappointing. And it would not have helped had there been sufficient transport for all the men; because the speed we made, or the lack of it, depended
not
upon how fast a man could march, or trot. It depended upon how many times, and to what degree of difficulty, the wildly over-laden truck and trailer had to be manhandled out of potholes and bogs; the latter perfectly firm enough to take the weight of a man, or even the jeeps - the weedy crust being several inches thick - but not the weight of the truck unit.

“Rations, sir.”

I looked up. It was Brook. He was holding out a tin. “Pulled, sir,” he added as I reached for it. I nodded and took it by its lower section. The ten-in-one tins had been invented back in WW1, and I cannot remember a time when I would have survived without them. You pulled a tab which broke a seal and allowed two chemicals to interact, producing a fair amount of heat which transferred itself to the food in the upper section. Brook also handed me a spoon.

Brook was a strange character for a mercenary. He always managed to look “Regimental”, right down to keeping his hair neatly trimmed. Luang had fitted us out with unmarked fatigue uniforms, ex British S.A.S., I guessed. He had also given Brook, Augarde and Bjoran sergeant’s chevrons, which they had sewn into place. Brook had added the flashes of a regiment of Marines. And where I was already mud-spattered from top to bottom, and soaked through from the incessant rain of dew, Brook looked reasonably presentable. He had an eager, intelligent face, though with an odd kind of vulnerability about his expression. He could have been no more than twenty-five or -six; a little younger perhaps than Augarde. Bjoran was older, in his mid to late thirties. Brook had no accent that I could pin down, and could have been brought up in any part of England. I had brushed with a lot of Englishmen in Africa and was getting better at pinpointing accents. Brook’s, I couldn’t fathom. He did not sound like a Londoner.

“How’s it going back there?” I asked.

Brook shrugged. “As expected, sir.” He tried to dodge a drip that had already exploded on his shoulder. “Bloody place!” he hissed, glaring uselessly up into the murk. As if in answer, a monkey screamed; a thin, echoey sound that seemed to reverberate everywhere.

I swallowed a spoonful of ten-in-one. “What is this stuff?”

“Chicken stew, it says on the carton, sir. And there’s custard and something to follow, if you want it.” He added, “I was up in this part of the world a while ago, sir.”

“Makanza?”

“No,sir. Close. Bogbonga.”

I guessed that Augarde had not mentioned Camp-One, and I did not feel like another explanation. Besides which, Brook struck me as the type who did not require explanations; he went where he was told. End of story. “Ah!” I said. Bogbonga was, or it used to be until the tungsten deposits petered out, a mining settlement. Upstream of Makanza by some fifty kays. And Makanza was upstream of Camp-One by about the same distance. “When was that?” I asked, for something to say.

“Jungle training programme, sir. With the regiment. Marines, sir. Back in eighty-three. An exchange deal, or something. Filthy place. We’re headed close to Makanza, aren’t we, sir?”

I nodded. “Close.”

“Is it a big town, sir? Makanza?”

I recognized the signs. Brook just wanted to talk for the sake of it. I did not mind that. “Not since the Simbas razed it.”

Brook frowned. “What’s up there, then, sir?”

I sighed a secret sigh. “Where? Makanza? Or where we’re going?”

His frown deepened. “I thought...” he began, and I waited to hear what he thought. He did not enlarge. We ate in silence for a while. Then he said, “I’m signed on for three months, sir. Will we be at this...where we’re going ...all that time,sir?”

I relented and ploughed through another explanation of Camp-One. “It’s the safest place in the world, Brook,” I concluded. “Probably also the dullest. But you won’t be bored, I promise you. And the place is not what you’re thinking. The last time I saw Camp-One it housed two hundred men in ten portacabins. Two of them with air-conditioning. It had latrines, a dispensary, a cookhouse, and even a parade ground. It’ll be pretty much overgrown now, but three days after we get there you’ll think you were back in Portsmouth.”

“Chatham, sir,” he corrected me, “And thanks for the explanation...”  He glared up at the dark nothingness. “Truth told, this place gives me the willies. I thought I’d seen the worst of Africa over in Bogbonga. Now I’m not so sure. The trees there are kid’s stuff compared to these.”  He again shot a glance upward. “I joke not, sir...Fair gives me the willies.”

I shrugged and tossed my empty can into the back of the jeep. “Well, if it eases your load any, you’re not alone. How long have you been in Africa - discounting the official stint?”

“Four years, sir. Off and on. Mostly over in Uganda, plus a bit down in Namib...” He looked at his feet. “You know I was DD’d from the Marines, don’t you, sir.” He seemed embarrassed by it. I thought about reminding him that he was not alone in that, either.

“Augarde told me.”

He nodded glumly. “Don’t get me wrong, sir. This is a good life. Been good to me, at any rate. But I regret the DD. I really do. Stupid, I was. In line for a staff posting, too. Pure bloody stupid!”

I said nothing. Personal confessions of that kind had no place in a mercenary outfit.

“All for fifty quid,” Brook went on bitterly, “Fifty lousy quid!”

This was no good. I was beginning to feel like a Father Confessor instead of a mercenary leader. “Brook,” I said, putting some starch in my voice, “This is neither the time nor the place. Forget all that crap. It’s past history.” The Bjorans and the Augardes of this world I understood all too well. The Brooks made me feel uneasy. I added a firm, “Let’s get moving!”

Eight hours later we saw the sun for the first time since leaving the Giri Rapids. It was a setting sun; a great blast of fire in the western sky. And morale lifted noticeably; excessively in the case of the Simbas, who took up some obscure chant I had never heard before, as they marched through the shoulder-high elephant grass - a feature of the landscape bordering the real swamps west of the Zaire River. The chant had only a single stanza, its vocabulary nonsensical to my understanding of the language, and each stanza was punctuated by an arm being flung in the air as the heads turned, tongues poked out, to glance over the shoulder. The meaning was clear:
Rain forest! We survived you!

“The word is,” said Jan Bluthen, grinding his cigarette out in the ashtray, “that the Americans are now more than superficially interested.”

The three men; Bluthen, Jean-Paul Winterhoek, and Bluthen’s assistant station commander, a man called Con Benoit, were sitting at one of the patio tables of Casa Bianca. The night was unusually calm and balmy with no clouds to create humidity. Also, it was that changeable time of year when the use of air-conditioners was questionable by day, as was the use of heaters by night; any deficiency in comfort being made up by either the addition or the subtraction of an item of clothing. Winterhoek, more at home with the climate far to the south, wore jacket and tie, whilst Bluthen and Benoit preferred open necked shirtsleeves. The time stood at 9-30, and two of the servants could be heard clearing the table in the dining room, their voices subdued, but the clattering of the dishes noisy by comparison. It was a balance, Bluthen mused, having just returned from a telephone conversation with an American source, which the staff never seemed to get quite right.

Benoit, a dour-looking man in his early forties, whose parents had raised him on a veld farm before shooing him off to a military life, said, “You can blame the Chinese for that. They have more west-bound leaks than anyone.” He turned to Winterhoek. “Let the Americans scrabble for tit-bits, sir. They have far less to gain than
we
had at their stage.”

Winterhoek stretched languidly. He was delighted at the way things were panning out. Ex-president Lumimba, informed now of the possibilities, was like a cat with ten tails, and itching to get his teeth back into Zaire; which no doubt he would promptly rename Congo. The Sudanese were willing to cooperate in a practical, if covert fashion; to the tune of a flight of helicopter gun ships plus crews. And the McCann girl was ripe for the plucking. All that remained was to contact the man Vryburg. He said, “The Americans will,
must,
content themselves in assuming the role of a possible scavenger; opportunistically rushing in at the last possible moment, rather akin to the cinema portrayals of their famous Fifth Cavalry, to save Aaron Motanga from disaster should the Brits blunder. They do
not
know that such a blunder has already happened!”

Bluthen nodded. “But I’d give a lot to know how much of their intelligence is a result of astute guesswork, and how much is fact.”

“No doubt they have a source of which we are unaware,” conceded Winterhoek, in no way grudgingly. “But I remain convinced they do not know about Brown’s little episode at the airport – which means they do not know that McCann is, if only temporarily, operating under British instruction. Indeed, if the Americans know anything concrete at all, it will be appertaining to Chi Luang’s operation; and that was the
first
venture to be upstaged.” He paused for a moment’s thought before continuing, “However, the last thing we require is for the Americans to blunder in at
this
stage of the game. And, who knows, they may just have an ear in Brown’s organization.” He turned to Bluthen. “When can you next speak to your man in Washington?”

Bluthen looked dubious. “I could get him more or less straight away, sir, if it’s desperately urgent. But he’s in a ticklish enough situation as it is. I’d prefer to wait twenty-four hours. At least!”

“Very well,” Winterhoek nodded. “Let us not compromise him needlessly.”

The head servant, dressed in his white uniform, appeared in the open doorway with the coffee tray in his hands. He hovered there until Bluthen noticed him and waved him on. “Set it down on the table, Ngani, please.” The man shuffled forward and laid the tray carefully on the table. He passed the cups around, filled them, bowed slightly at the waist, and then turned to withdraw. “Tell the boys to make less noise,” added Bluthen. It was an instruction he issued almost nightly. A moment later the man could be heard taking his charges to task.

“What I find amazing, sir,” said Benoit, “is that the Brits saw fit to utilize such a small team in Jo-burg; only Walton and this man Clancey – and
he
is only a part timer. And not even privy, I’d guess.”

“Ah!” said Winterhoek, adding milk to his cup and sipping contemplatively for a moment. “But that is –
was
– its beauty. The subject was after all a civilian. An innocent girl, and a very young girl at that. All Brown required for his purpose was a watchman. To have abducted her before it was absolutely necessary,” he shrugged,” and I’m not sure that would
ever
have been necessary, would have been to create more problems than it solved; police, civil investigations and what have you. There was no point in risking that.”

Benoit nodded. “Yes, sir. In any event, we will have no such problems.” He smiled. “I just wonder how Brown will take it – throw a blue fit, probably.”

“What about that, sir?” asked Bluthen, “How do we handle Walton and Clancey?” He was thinking specifically of an SAI directive of long standing; a directive that preached a lenient, an elastic view with regard to British agents – “Sleeping dogs,” as they were called amongst the rank and file. He knew that the sentiment behind the directive, issued long before the recent changes in South Africa, was aimed at future British cooperation and mutual goodwill.

Winterhoek grunted. “There, we have little option. To allow either man his freedom – Walton more especially – would be to hand the British a signed confession that it was we who had come between them and their aspirations in Zaire. Pretoria would not condone this. Matters at home are at a critical enough stage as things are. Stability is needed. At this time more than any in the past. Also, it would not be feasible, or practicable, to hold them in secret captivity until such a time as our involvement could be admitted. So, with regret, they must be eliminated.”

Bluthen and Benoit exchanged glances but said nothing. Each had his own view on this particular matter.

“Timing will be critical,” Winterhoek continued. “Too soon, and Brown would have time to react in some positive manner. Too late, and we would miss the opportunity of Vryburg. And
he
remains our only practical link with McCann – a link we must handle with care and precision.”

“He’s South African, isn’t he, sir,” stated Benoit. “That must count for something.”

“Yes,” agreed Winterhoek. “But he is also a mercenary. Therefore, ostensibly stateless. I consider it more beneficial to us that he and McCann are friends. Which leads me to Ryan. Is he standing by?”

Bluthen nodded. “Ready and waiting, sir.”

“Very well. He must have the girl with him when he confronts Vryburg, which
adds
to the problem of timing.”

Bluthen said, “Well, sir, he will not leave Uganda for some days, perhaps as long as a week. Or so he informed the Chinese.”

“But he has accepted the commission?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Was delighted to do so, apparently.”

Winterhoek nodded as if this were a forgone conclusion, and his mind slipped back to the Americans. “What
is
the US presence in Brazzaville?”

“There is a trade mission, sir,” answered Bluthen. “At least two of its personnel are CIA. And the AMEX office has a couple more, which we know of.” He pulled a mildly impressed face. “Fairly strong, sir.”

“Keep your eyes on them, major.”

“In hand, sir. Brown and associates, too. They are fairly scattered at the moment; some in the Hilton, some at a private address.”

“And Brown himself?”

“The Hilton, sir.”

“And Luang?”

Bluthen smiled. “Funny thing about that man, sir. Do you know that with all his resources he can only come up with one helicopter pilot.”

“Reynolds?”

Bluthen nodded. “Just so, sir.”

Winterhoek returned the smile, but weakly. “Let us hope his luck holds, major. Eh?”

*

Only a quirk of the mercator projection prevents us from understanding the full enormity of the African continent. Whether Henry Morton Stanley believed this when in 1874 he set out on what was to prove his epic voyage of discovery, is a matter for debate. He would most certainly have subscribed to it upon his return some four years later.

Stanley’s adventures and discoveries are well documented. What is not so well documented, perhaps due to contemporary prejudice, is that the greater part of the territory through which he traveled remains to this day “undiscovered”: that there are huge tracts of land, thousands of square miles of Mother Earth – as opposed to treetops which are today easily photographed at height from an aircraft or satellite – upon which no man, let alone no white man, has ever trodden; has ever looked!  Even in the field of remote sensing the rain forests of the Great Rift Valley – the Congo basin – have proved frustrating, presenting to even the most sophisticated lens, the most perfect electronic “eye”, an impenetrable canopy of vegetation which effectively conceals whatever lies beneath; even large features such as a wide river!

The world of the rain forest is a world of enormous, imagination-staggering trees, widely spaced for the most part, with trunks 40 feet in diameter and rising two hundred feet into the dense, perpetually dripping leafy canopy – monoliths of some gigantic, reverberant cathedral.

Very few people indeed, if any, would describe the rain forests as a good place to be. In all its
million and a half
square miles it is only inhabited at all – aside from reptiles and small monkeys – along the banks of the greater, wider and slow-moving rivers.

On the maps of Stanley’s era a single phrase would have repeated itself over and over again;
TERRA INCOGNITO
. Unknown land. Modern-day maps have been arbitrarily wiped clean of this entry. Yet there remains in Central Africa Terra Incognito in abundance, as there has for over sixty million years.

Some small idea of the vastness concealed beneath the foliage of the rain forests can be gleaned from a map belonging to the mercenary Robert McCann, who fought first in the Congo in 1963. On it, marked in ink, are several addenda:

“Fifty foot cliff with gorge.” This entry is a single line, one and a half inches long. The scale of the map is twenty miles to the inch!

“Clarence Well.”

“Hill. (Volcano?)”

And, “La Guardia.”

The latter is an oblique reference to what is now JFK airport, New York. And the reason behind it is the 727 jetliner of what used to be called CONGAIR; an aircraft which was lost in a not-so-freak electrical storm, and which now lies, or
hangs
, some sixty feet above the floor of the forest, securely wedged between and among five of these giant tree trunks – only one wing and an engine having made it to the ground. There is no reference on the map as to whether the wreck was examined or left in peace. Certainly there were no long-term survivors to tell its tale, though some of the skeletons periodically found in that general area may well be of some of the passengers or crew. A later official expedition, armed with an anonymously supplied map reference, and with the close cooperation of three radar-equipped helicopters, failed utterly to locate the wreck. The telephone “tip-off” was finally put down as a crank call. Yet “La Guardia” remains an important landmark on most current mercenary maps:

“We’ll regroup at La Guardia and cut south…”

There is a saying amongst most Kikuyu tribes-people to the effect that: Since mercenaries originated in Hell, they ought to find their way about that place better than most!

*

There was an air of orderly, energetic confusion about the entire scene. The sun, almost directly overhead though mostly unseen because of the foliage, cast its threadbare light over groups of sweating men, tearing and hacking at the vines which hung in tangles around the aluminum portacabins and huts, vintage 1963, arranged neatly around an area of moisture-gleaming, huge fern, that was once a parade ground. Several men were at work with bayonets and pangas, prising the parasitic orchid plants from the smooth surfaces to which, leech-like, they had attached themselves. The truck, stripped of its canvas cover, and the huge four-wheeled trailer, swarmed men; grunting, heaving and pushing, their naked torsos glistening sweat, as they off-loaded the heavy equipment and stores, piling it in the tall grass.

At intervals, clouds of dirt and dust and weeds billowed from the mostly glassless window apertures of the huts, adding to a scene of apparent confusion. But the main impression was one of swinging pangas. There were men actually up in the branches of the trees, hacking the prolific vines off at source. Snakelike, these leaf-smothered ropes of vegetation would come twisting down. There were men all around the perimeter, like sword fighters, slashing and parrying at the jungle; forcing it back into temporary submission, whilst small hordes of others cleaned up the mess, carrying it in armfuls out to the dumping ground. The Mylar tents were going up, their skins inflating like square, silvered balloons, tethered to the ground. Men were digging latrine pits. There were men out beyond the perimeter, relocating and marking the extent of the firm ground. Everyone was doing something, and Camp-One was again beginning to live and breathe.