The Henchmen's Book Club Page 7

  “I gave it four and it scored four point four overall. Went down very well with the chaps,” Mr Smith beamed, letting me know whose nomination that had been. “Easily our best scorer. And you know what, that’s for a book that’s almost forty years old,” he added.

  “Perhaps we’ll do that one next, because my choices don’t seem to be going down at all well,” I said, as the door of the bunker swung open and the white-coated scientists emerged, rubbing their necks with handkerchiefs and checking their watches.

  We whipped our hands out of our pockets and snapped to attention but the scientists were too preoccupied with their own cleverness to notice. The lead scientist, who I recognised as having also been on Thalassocrat’s island with us, radioed in that they were all done and a minute later the Euro players were stepping out of the house and walking back to the bird, matching His Most Excellent Majesty salute-for-salute.

  Mr Smith looked at me and gave me a formal nod. I returned his nod and said I’d catch him in the bookshop some time. Mr Smith held his retreat for just one moment and fixed me in the eye.

  “Don’t bother with Papillon. Try The Fourth Protocol instead. You’ll like it, particularly the ending,” he said, ladling on as much emphasis as he dared.

  “But…” I started, but Mr Smith repeated his recommendation before sprinting away to catch up with the others as they climbed into the helicopter.

  The whipping blades kicked up His Most Excellent Majesty’s yard all over again and most of the guards ducked into doorways and behind buildings to shelter from the stinging hot dust.

  But not me.

  I stayed right where I was, staring up at the ascending helicopter in silent alarm.

  Because I’d already read The Fourth Protocol.

  And so had Mr Smith.

  It had been one of the first books we’d all read together on the island.

  It had scored four point one.

  And I remembered only too well what had happened to Valeri Petrofsky at the end of it.

  9.

  DIAMOND CUTTERS

  The compound vibrated against the roar of engines. Hum-Vees, Armoured Personnel Carriers, jeeps, light armour and even a couple of big guns – mobile artillery. American, Russian, French, South African. The Special Army was kitted out from all four corners of the continent with whatever our benevolent European backers could lay their hands on. Most of the vehicles were in good working order, while others were just about serviceable for one last suicide mission. My own Land Rover had clearly seen more action than me, but my MG 3 machine-gun that was fixed to a swivel just above the driver’s head was as clean as a whistle, if slightly noisier.

  Savimbi looked up at me from the driver’s seat and asked me if I could hear what His Most Excellent Majesty was saying. I glanced forward to the little podium out front and saw His Most Excellent Majesty gesticulating and saluting away like the Duracell Bunny. I shrugged. I could’ve guessed the theme but I couldn’t make out any of the small print. This was probably no bad thing though. Last minute instructions to carefully laid plans by ten-year-old megalomaniacs rarely led to victory parades for anyone other than the other side.

  Of course, before this day had come along, I’d finally found out why the Special Army had structured itself along the same lines as Musical Youth. Apparently, the European backers, dripping with money and eager to back a side (any side) had found themselves a Howdy Doody in the form of a local prophet boy who’d won friends and influenced people by tossing chicken bones about. He’d been quite revered in his local scrub but only to the extent that he was never short of pineapples. But then, all of a sudden, some chaps with heavy pockets and questionable judgement descended from the heavens to herald him as a living deity who’d been sent to bring order to his people and unite the tribes. They’d even backed up this rather ambitious declaration with money, guns, armour and men. Now, as odd as this seemed to many of the locals, they figured there must’ve been something to it. After all rich Westerners didn’t stay rich for very long throwing their money around for giggles and despite being asked several times if they were sure there wasn’t someone more qualified or taller they’d rather have lead their army the Westerners were adamant. His Most Excellent Majesty was their man – or rather boy.

  Any further doubts were assuaged with a consignment of the latest shoulder-fired Czech rocket launchers.

  It seemed to work as well at first, because a number of warring tribes soon put their differences aside to take His Most Excellent Majesty’s shilling. Local skirmishes fell off and the Special Army’s ranks swelled. The prophecy, it seemed, was true. God had surely sent this boy. And guided by the voices of their ancestors and advised by his loyal adjutant, his people would come again. Hallelujah!

  And of course, let’s not forget those benevolent Westerners who’d made it all possible and who’d never asked for a single thing in return...

  What?

  They wanted what?

  Actually, it wasn’t so much something they wanted, more something they suggested. A target; a target that would galvanise His Most Excellent Majesty’s position and free his people from the bondage of economics.

  Diamonds.

  More specifically, the diamond mines around the Zambezi basin.

  And more specifically still, the new excavation just outside Caia.

  Belgian prospectors had sent ripples around the world with a series of stunning finds at Caia and were now pulling diamonds out of the ground the size of grapes with conveyor belt frequency; diamonds that would be fought for and argued over for years to come; diamonds that would lead to the rape and ruin of his people; diamonds that would corrupt the very fabric of his culture.

  Diamonds that should be His Most Excellent Majesty’s.

  The plan didn’t take much selling.

  And so this became the Special Army’s most secret mission. This was what we’d all been trained for.

  And this was what we’d be doing today.

  I was still a little sketchy on some of the finer points, like what were we meant to do once we’d seized the mine and how we were meant to hold out against the inevitable government assault when the Special Army numbered only three hundred men and a few Cold War APCs, but the Admiral assured us during our individual unit briefings that His Most Excellent Majesty had a bargaining chip up his sleeve that would dissuade any retaliation.

  The chrome lock-box, I hedged.

  The one we’d loaded onto the eight-wheeler at the rear of our raiding party. A cluster of APCs and mobile guns protected it on all sides and the Admiral took personal charge of the vehicle.

  I had a really horrible inkling about what was inside it.

  His Most Excellent Majesty emptied an M16’s clip into the air to decorate the end of his speech with a few fireworks then signalled his forces to move out with a regal swirl of the wrist. The roar of the cavalcade increased and several of the gunners theatrically locked & loaded their fixed machine-guns, despite the fact that we were a good fifty miles from anyone to shoot. The scouts at the front of the column moved off and the rest of us duly followed.

  Me and Savimbi were somewhere towards the middle of the fray and it was our job to protect the right flank of the convoy on our way to our objective, then break off and take out the foot traffic once we’d got there. The big guns would see to the fixed targets.

  I pulled my goggles over my eyes and tied a bandana around my face. My gun was also covered, protected from the dust by a cotton sheet, but as we veered away from the main force to take up our position on the flank, I whipped it back to at least look operational.

  Look operational?

  Yes well, to be perfectly honest, my heart wasn’t in this job at all. I’d bided my time while I’d been on the base because I’d found myself earning surprisingly good money, but Mr Smith’s covert warning had just reminded me of my desire to desert. The Special Army could stick its secret mission up its collective arse. And the urgency with which I wished to abscond was crank
ed up even further when I saw that His Most Excellent Majesty wasn’t coming with us. Something that always got my alarm bells ringing for me. Very inspiring.

  No one else seemed to question his absence from the convoy but then I guess most of them were tribal guys; locals who’d been in on this deity stunt from the ground floor. They were all going to the promised land, but it’s different for mercenaries like myself. I couldn’t give two figs about His Most Excellent Majesty, his people or his prophecies. The only land I was interested in was the couple of acres around my house in Petworth. Any and all other dirt I was happy to let the rest of the world fight over.

  Time to leave.

  I think Captain Bolaji suspected I’d try to make my exit during the mission because he took up a mobile position right on my tail, his MG 3 locked & loaded and just looking for an excuse to chew me and Savimbi to bits. Not that Savimbi had done anything to upset the good Captain, or earn his suspicion, but that was just too bad. You can’t make an omelette without killing Savimbi, as they say around these parts.

  I glanced to my rear. Captain Bolaji had his dust cover off too. I was going nowhere for the moment. Well, nowhere except the diamond fields of Caia with a three hundred strong rolling battle group of the chosen few.

  Hail hail! And watch your cross fire.

  Overhead two Alouette attack helicopters buzzed us, spraying the convoy with even more red dust. They were our air cover, and our first weapon of assault. They’d hit the mine’s defences five minutes before us with rockets and 20mm cannons, then circle and hold back any reinforcements while we filled the place with bodies.

  No prisoners. That was the standing order. No one was to be spared.

  I wondered if that included us.

  The Fourth Protocol by Frederick Forsyth. The plot revolves around an undercover KGB agent called Valeri Petrofsky. He’s selected by his General to travel to England to collect various packages smuggled in by KGB mules. The pieces look innocuous enough in themselves (metal discs, odd looking pipes, etc) but once fitted together they make a nuclear bomb. This bomb is assembled in a little suburban house in Ipswich next to a USAF base and prepared for detonation. The idea is that the public would think the explosion was one of the USAF’s unpopular cruise missiles blowing up, prompting a wave of anti-Americanism that would sweep the Yanks and their nukes from the UK and the socialist-infiltrated Labour Party into government. On the other side is an M15 officer called John Preston, who’s investigating the infiltration of the Labour Party by the hard (and evil) left and who follows events to a little cul-de-sac in Ipswich. It’s a good and exciting book, like all of Forsyth’s, and believable and thought-provoking. But the bit that always stood out for me, and the point we discussed at length in book club, was when Petrofsky went to start the timer he found it had been reset to zero by nuclear boffin, Irina Vassilievna robbing him of his getaway in order to erase his (and the KGB’s) involvement. I won’t say any more in case you want to read it for yourself, but me, Smith, Cooper and Chang all spent hours going to town on this particular point because we all sympathised with Petrofsky. The foot soldier’s lot is not a happy one. And we’re so often in danger from our own side as much as from the enemy.

  Expendable. That’s how me, Mr Smith, Savimbi and Petrofsky were seen more often than not. Mere assets, to be rolled out and used like so much toilet paper. And when we’d done what we’d been asked to do, and our chiefs had the moon on a stick, our rewards were invariably the flushing of the chain.

  Well that wasn’t going to happen to me.

  Not again.

  Not today.

  I had no intention of being anywhere near that chrome lock box when His Most Excellent Majesty phoned up the Admiral from the safety of a concrete bunker some fifty miles away and told him to look inside it now.

  Smoke rose on the horizon after an hour on the road. Smoke and rolling balls of fire.

  As we got closer, I saw our helicopters dancing backwards and forwards over the target like mating bluebottles, firing their rockets and emptying their cannons into whatever ran, walked or crawled below.

  Radio silence was finally broken and the Admiral told us to break convoy and assume our attack formation. Savimbi immediately swung off the road and took to a dirt track that swept towards the mine’s right flank. I shouldered the MG 3 and locked home the first round of a very long and heavy belt.

  By now, we were travelling through populated areas: townships and makeshift dwellings that had sprung up around the mine to house its workers and their families. Dozens of confused faces looked out as we rolled through their camps. The cleverer ones ran. The silly ones lingered to watch what was going on. It was on a cross roads of one of these settlements that me and Savimbi encountered our first target – a police car. Not national police but the mine’s own private security.

  I swung the heavy machinegun around and opened up on it, blasting it with a fifty round burst and reducing it to twisted scrap in a matter of seconds. The occupant inside fared little better, losing his life before he even knew he was in danger.

  We rolled on by.

  It’s a terrible thing to take a life. I’ve killed quite a few people in my time (and a couple of crocodiles) and I’m sure if I were able to turn back the clock and meet them in different circumstances I’d find very few who’d deserved it. But I couldn’t. And for that I was grateful. But let’s not fool ourselves here. This was what I did. This was what the job entailed. It wasn’t nice, it wasn’t justifiable and it wasn’t right.

  It was crime.

  Crime on an enormous scale.

  A lot of people were going to die today.

  I just had to make sure I wasn’t one of them.

  A small police station approached on the left. I swung my gun and peppered the doors and windows as we sped by but we didn’t slow to finish the job. There was no need. The long line of vehicles behind us all chipped in and did their bit as they ploughed on past, ripping the station apart and blasting it with 7.62mm and RPGs until a burning shell was all that remained.

  More and more security ran out in front of us as we got closer to the mine. Some took pot shots but most were caught with their pants down and overwhelmed by the sudden appearance of such a heavily armed force. They had no chance. We attacked over a half-mile front with a hundred armoured vehicles. And as much as I wasn’t silly enough to assume it was going to be a cake walk, I did recognise a one-sided victory when I was gunning down fleeing security guards in the back.

  The big guns opened up behind us, lobbing 152mm shells over our heads so that death and destruction awaited us around every corner. We hosed down the wreckage with machinegun fire and continued on to our objective:

  The mine itself.

  It rolled into view over the next rise. A long wire fence peeled off in both directions, straddled by gun turrets and security stations. All hell was breaking loose at one end of the line. Elements of our column had reached the front and were smashing their way through the defences around the main gate. The front office was bright with flames and I saw several figures struggling to escape the windows. Gunfire picked them off as they tumbled out and the Caia mine sécurité burned where they fell.

  One of the gun turrets started firing on our part of the column as we emerged from the rat-run of shanty streets. Me and Captain Bolaji returned fire, spraying the position until we were past it and out of range before turning into the mine’s works through holes in the wire.

  Captain Bolaji stayed right on my tail, his sights fixed on me as much as the enemy. We pushed on through, firing left and right alternately, mowing down green uniforms where we found them.

  Before we made much headway though, bullets started pinging off our Land Rover’s armour. I couldn’t tell where the fire was coming from and neither could Savimbi but we’d turned straight into a cluster of small arms. I tried bringing the gun to bear, but their force of fire was too much and I had to drop out of sight behind the armour while Savimbi tried to extricate us from the
ambush.

  A grinding of gears and a desperate screeching of the tyres did little to put any distance between us and our persecutors and after a few more seconds a thump of blood from the driver’s side told me Savimbi had left the building. The Land Rover was left to careen into the back of a beast of a mining truck before beat bopping about on the spot as its tyres and hydraulics were shot to pieces.

  It was at that moment, after a sustained ten or twelve seconds under fire that I realised no one was coming to my aid – most notably Captain Bolaji. That son of a bitch! He’d been with us all the way, right through the settlement and past the mine’s defences, blasting what we’d blasted and shadowing us slug-for-slug. Now suddenly we – or rather I – actually needed him and the bastard had his feet up, obviously hoping I’d cop one to save himself the trouble.

  I opened the steel ammo case against the rear of the cab and started bowling grenades in the direction of the enemy. I wasn’t close enough to take any of their sunglasses off, but if I could just get their heads down for a few seconds I had a plan.

  Explosions started splintering between us, one after the other as a dozen grenades patiently waited their turn to rip the air apart.

  I grabbed the M4 Carbine off the brackets just behind the passenger seat and scrambled across what was left of Savimbi and the windscreen, leaping over the bonnet and landing on the runner boards of the giant Earth Mover we’d crashed into.

  As more explosions echoed behind me, I pulled myself up into the driver’s seat and hit the ignition button. The diesel engine roared to life first time and belched a huge black cloud of smoke over the cab.

  I threw the gears into reverse and floored the accelerator, launching the titan back to smash through the enemy’s makeshift defences and fill its enormous treads with security guards. Several men attempted to board me but a couple of bursts from the Carbine soon put paid to them and moments later I was rumbling through the middle of a war zone, oblivious to fence posts, gate posts and guard posts. I also flattened several portacabins and a couple of vehicles (which may or may not have been ours) with my immense twenty-foot high tyres before I got the monster motoring in the right direction. And that was when I saw it – the Admiral’s eight-wheeler, rolling through the gates and towards the mine with an unstoppable inevitability.