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Fire Force(48)

By:Matt Lynn


‘How long do you need?’ asked Wallace.

‘We’ve a day to train,’ said Ollie, ‘but we’ll get down to Gull’s Wing tomorrow. The closer we are to the target, the better.’

‘Then tonight we’ll eat . . . and toast the success of your mission.’

By six, dinner was served. Wallace and Park had set out a table on the veranda of the officer’s mess. It was a grey, dark evening, with the threat of thunder in the air. The long wooden table was piled high with food: bread, salad, fruit and rice. On a long, wood-fired barbecue, sausages, chicken breasts, pork strips, steak and fish were being grilled, creating a delicious aroma that reminded Steve how hungry he was. There were ten crates of lager and ten bottles of a locally-made rum. There might be a shortage of food across Batota, but the Sixth Brigade wasn’t going hungry, noted Steve. Or running dry. It was the first rule of any dictatorship. Keep your crack troops well-fed . Kapembwa was following it to the letter.

‘We’ve lined up a performance for you,’ said Wallace, pulling out a chair and sitting down. He offered each man a cigar, but only Maksim accepted. ‘This country used to be one of the largest tobacco exporters in the world,’ Wallace said. ‘Most of the farms have collapsed, of course, but they still make a damned fine cigar if you know where to buy them. You should try one.’

‘We’ve got a war to fight,’ said Ollie. ‘We need to stay fit.’

Wallace laughed. ‘I’ve been smoking all my life and it’s never done me any harm.’

Ollie was about to say something but he could already see Steve glancing at him and decided to stay silent. The men had all loaded their plates with food and helped themselves to a bottle of the lager. It was nothing special but it was ice cold and it was alcoholic so it would do.

‘You don’t get mercenaries in Africa like the old days, so it’s good to see you boys out here,’ said Wallace. He drank half a bottle of beer in one gulp and knocked back a rum chaser. ‘Back in the sixties and seventies, this was where soldiers of fortune could really make their mark. There was Angola, Rhodesia, the Congo, Mozambique. The Batotean Army was like the bloody Foreign Legion, there were so many different nationalities in it. Put a gun in a man’s hand and a green and gold shirt on his chest, and suddenly he was a warrior.’

‘There’s still work for soldiers,’ said Ollie.

Wallace nodded. ‘Iraq, Afghanistan - it’s all PMCs now,’ he agreed. He poured himself another generous shot of rum and knocked it back in a single gulp. ‘The business has been taken over by bloody management consultants. They’ve got flipcharts and PowerPoint presentations and contracts from the UN. It’s all a load of bollocks.’

He grabbed the bottle of rum, poured more into his glass then slammed it down onto the table.

‘There are endless bloody rules and regulations and so-called peacekeepers. But Africa . . .’ He pushed his uneaten food away and torched up his cigar, a smile spreading across his lips as the alcohol and tobacco started to calm him. ‘In Africa, they still fight like soldiers. Here, strength and determination are all that count. It’s kill or be killed - the way a man should live.’

‘And how far has it got them?’ said Ian.

Steve glanced across at the Irishman. He had been thinking exactly the same thing himself. He didn’t like Wallace or his methods. But they were here as hardened mercenaries, apparently interested in nothing apart from making themselves a few quid as quickly as possible. Let that mask slip for a single second, he reminded himself, and they were as good as dead.

‘I’ll show you how far it’s got them,’ growled Wallace. He clapped his hands together. ‘I promised you a performance. Well, you’re going to get one.’

Park had already stepped up from the table. The clouds were growing darker, and off in the distance Steve could see the first cracks of lightning starting to split open the night sky. The Korean was barking something at the Sergeant, who disappeared inside the barracks. Within moments, 100 men had formed a steady line on the parade ground, facing the officer’s mess. The bayonets on their rifles were gleaming. In front of them, the Sergeant was dragging a man in uniform, his hands manacled behind his back. The prisoner was no more than twenty-one or twenty-two, judged Steve. There was a look of fear in his big brown eyes. Behind him, two more soldiers were carrying a wooden rack, eight foot high and four wide, shaped like a crucifix. They placed it down on the parade ground, halfway between the men and the mess, so that it was thirty feet in front of where the unit were sitting. The Sergeant roared at his men, then the soldier was strapped to the wooden frame, his arms and legs bound into place with rough leather belts.