Fire Force(49)

‘This guy missed parade this morning,’ said Wallace, relighting his cigar. ‘We’ll show you what kind of punishment commands respect in Africa.’

A zigzag of lightning was followed by a peal of thunder so loud and savage it was like a bomb exploding. A man was walking out into the parade ground, carrying a bamboo stick. Steve recognised him at once. Yohane.

Yohane glanced over at Wallace, nodded curtly, then took a couple of paces forward. He was standing five feet away from the soldier. Even at this distance, Steve could see the man was sobbing with fear. Like every member of the Sixth Brigade, he was an immaculate physical specimen, tall and strong and fit. But he clearly knew the kind of punishment he was about to get. And also knew that he might not live through it.

Yohane drew the bamboo cane backwards, approaching the target the way a confident footballer approaches a penalty: with a short, precise run that puts maximum power into the shot without sacrificing accuracy. He lashed the cane into the man’s back, cutting through the cotton of his tunic and slicing into the open flesh beneath it. There was a split-second delay as the man attempted to bury the agony somewhere within him, but he could no more control it than he could control the thunderstorm rolling through the night sky. A howl of pain ripped through the air, as brutal and piercing as any Steve had ever heard. Reaching forwards, he poured himself a shot of the rum and knocked the liquid into the back of his throat with one swift movement of his hand. It looks like a long night, he decided grimly. I’ll need some hard liquor running through my veins to get through it.

The rain had already started to fall, bringing howling gusts of wind with it. Yohane delivered second blow, then another. Each time the soldier cried out in pain. On the third stroke, the blood started to flow freely. The cane had cut deeply into the skin, slicing open the veins. The rain was beating into the man, soaking into his skin, washing the blood out onto the parade ground, until it was stained crimson. And still the blows kept coming, each one delivered with the same savage force.

‘Christ, man, he’s going to die,’ snapped Ian.

Wallace turned to look at him, a sneer of contempt twisted onto his lips. ‘So? He’s just a nigger.’

Nick stood up. He’d had a couple of beers, but from the look in his eyes he was stone cold sober.

‘He’s a human being, you bastard,’ he said, a steely edge to his voice. ‘He’s taken his punishment, now tell that cunt to stop.’

Wallace blew out a puff of cigar smoke. ‘Don’t give me lessons on discipline, Taffy. I tell you, he’s a nigger. This is the only language they understand.’

‘In the Spetsnaz, it’s just the same,’ shrugged Maksim, taking another swig of the rough spirits. ‘Men get beaten to death all the time.’

‘Nobody believes a word you say,’ scoffed Nick. ‘Last time out, you sodding betrayed us.’

Maksim started to stand up, swaying violently towards Nick. ‘I was tricked!’ he roared. ‘I betrayed no one!’

Nick pointed to the parade ground. ‘Then bloody stop this.’

Maksim lunged towards him, but in the same instant Dan and Chris had leaped to their feet, grabbing hold of the Russian and pushing him back into his seat.

‘Leave it, Nick,’ Steve said, his tone quiet but determined.

For a moment, he wondered if Nick was about to thump him, and he wouldn’t have blamed the boy if he had. What they were witnessing was barbaric, a ritual that had no place in any army. But they couldn’t let Wallace know that: and Nick should be mature enough to realise that for himself.

On the parade ground, Yohane had finally stopped, throwing the cane to the sodden ground.

The Sergeant stepped forwards, took a second to check the man’s pulse, then judged him dead. With a knife, he sliced open the man’s wrist, then held a water flask to the open wound, catching the blood as it emptied into the metal container. When it was full, he walked over to the first man in the line of soldiers, waited whilst the man raised the flask to his lips, took a sip of the fresh blood, then passed the flask down the line.

‘In Africa, the men still believe that if you drink the blood of another man, then his courage will be your courage,’ said Wallace.

‘Maybe they’ll let us have a drop,’ said Steve.

‘You might need it,’ granted Wallace. ‘You’re going into battle tomorrow, and so long as you come out ahead you’ll be bloody well paid. But if any of you cross me . . .’ he gestured at the parade ground, ‘. . . then you know what kind of vengeance I’ll take.’

‘Jesus,’ muttered Steve softly to himself.