Fire Force(69)

Chris stepped up to both men and frisked them for weapons. They were clean. He ordered them to put their hands behind their backs, then snapped Plasti-Cuffs, the cheap plastic handcuffs that were standard issue in armies around the world, to their wrists.

‘Who sent you, white man?’ growled Tshaka.

‘No questions,’ snapped Chris.

‘Who is your leader?’

Ollie looked straight at the man. ‘You can talk to me.’

Tshaka started to walk towards Ollie, his eyes looking straight into the man. ‘I saw your helicopter come down,’ he said. ‘My men control this territory for a hundred miles in every direction. It doesn’t matter how you try and break out . . . you’ll never make it.’





Twenty-Five

THE BOAT WASN’T BUILT TO take eleven men. Chris pushed Tshaka into the back of the vessel, then clipped an extra pair of Plasti-Cuffs into place to make sure he was securely fastened to the deck. The Camp Commander had been shot through the head, and left next to the jetty. They’d left the boy next to his body, with a warning that if he tried to get help, they’d hunt him down and shoot him. From the expression of fear on his face, it looked as if he believed them.

‘OK, let’s get the hell out of here,’ said Steve when they had got everyone on board.

Ganju had fired up the engine on the patrol boat, and Dan had unhooked its mooring from the jetty. As they looked back at the fort, it was a scene of devastation. A hole had been punched in its main walls and there were corpses lying everywhere. Once the rain cleared, the vultures would start to descend, picking the flesh from the dead, and after that, the forest would start to move back in, reclaiming the fort for the wild.

Steve looked out into the lake. It was turning seven in the morning, and in another hour or two he reckoned the storm would start to abate. Ganju was already steering the boat out into the choppy waters. With the helicopter destroyed, they had no choice but to get back to their base via the lake.

As they started to head upstream, the visibility was improving. The rain was easing off, and the low-lying mist was beginning to clear. Ganju had been trying to contact Wallace on the radio, but its short-wave transmitter wasn’t going to get through to the base from this low-level. There was nothing for it, decided Steve. They’d just have to make their way back on this boat, and hope that none of Tshaka’s men saw them.

They were all exhausted from the battle - wet through and bruised. Down in the hold, Chris had brewed up some tea. There were only four tin mugs, but by passing them around they made do. Steve gulped on the hot liquid, letting it warm him up. Once the sun came up he knew they’d start to dry out, but for now he could feel the dampness in every part of his body.

With Ganju at the wheel, Chris was manning the heavy KPV at the front of the boat, and Nick and Dan were guarding the pair of MAGs at its stern. Newton was reading the charts, but having done the journey one way in the morning, and in the dark as well, getting back wasn’t going to be a problem.

The rebel leader, even though he was strapped to the metal frame of the boat, looked strangely calm, Steve reckoned. None of them had said a word to him about who they were or why they’d captured him, but the man didn’t look like a fool and it wasn’t hard to figure out. The President relied on foreign mercenaries. If a bunch of them dropped out of the sky to take you prisoner, then they were taking you to see Kapembwa. And when you got there, you were going to be shot.

So why’s he so damned cheerful? Steve asked himself, then followed his question with the answer: Because he knows this lake is crawling with his men and it’s going to be hard for us to break through.

And he’s probably right.

Ganju had steered out to the centre of the lake, but as the stormclouds blew over them and the visibility got steadily better, anyone out on the lake could see them easily. Steve was keeping his eyes peeled on the waters in every direction, but it was not until just after eight that he saw the first signs of life. A fishing vessel, with a two-man crew, it steered well clear of the patrol boat. By nine, Steve was starting to feel more confident. There was still no sign of the enemy. In total, the journey was going to take four to five hours. Ganju was squeezing as much life as he could from the engine, but they were going upstream, there was no current to help them, and the boat was carrying a lot more weight than it should do - all of which meant that progress was a lot slower than it had been on the way down.

Still, we’re getting towards halfway, thought Steve. Maybe we’re going to get through OK.

Then he saw it.

It was just a ripple on the surface of the lake to start with. Then slowly, you could see it take shape on the horizon. It was probably originally built as a fishing boat, decided Steve. It measured forty feet, made from hulking steel, starting to rust around the edges, and still with the big winch on its deck that would once have been used to haul in the fishing nets. But there was no mistaking the lump of metal on its prow: a Russian-built AK-630 naval cannon, originally designed for the Soviet Navy in the early 1980s and then sold to sympathetic forces around the world. The AK-630 was a six-barrelled Gatling-style weapon, able to fire both conventional shells and incendiary devices up to a range of 4,000 yards. It wasn’t particularly accurate but it could lay down so much fire over such a wide range that it effectively protected a relatively small boat from attack by anything other than a submarine. Certainly, nothing from the air or the sea could touch it.