Fire Force(73)

Chris and Dan started to collect some mopane worms from the trees. Mopane wood is so hard even termites can’t live in it, but the worms - one-inch-long caterpillars - swarm over its branches. Across Southern Africa, the worms were standard fare. Usually, they are dried and sold in the markets: they have a woody flavour, and make a useful snack in countries where food is often scarce. But you can also cook them fresh from the trees, grilling them alive: they taste something like the not-so-nice bits of a chicken. Chris had suggested catching one of the impala - the bush was thronging with them - but Steve told him not to be crazy. SAS survival drill was to eat worms and grubs, and was right to do so, he reminded himself. A man could waste a couple of hours and use up 500 calories tracking down and killing an animal. Then you had to roast it for another couple of hours, and you’d end up throwing most of the meat away because you couldn’t carry it. It was a waste of time and energy when you could just collect a handful of grubs and eat those. ‘We’ll have a slap-up meal in Johannesburg when we’re done,’ he reminded the unit. ‘Until then, the worms will do just fine.’

Within twenty minutes, a small fire had been built from wood collected on the ground, and the food cooked.

‘Not bad,’ said Nick, tucking into the plateful of worms. ‘Not as good as McDonald’s, obviously. But a step up from the curry and lager for a fiver Monday Night Special down at JD Wetherspoon in Swansea.’

‘Lager, that’s what we need,’ said Maksim.

‘In your dreams, Maksie,’ said Steve. ‘We’re staying off the booze until this job is done.’

The men were sitting around the small fire. It was dark and they knew the embers and smoke were signals that anyone tracking them could pick up on. But they needed the warmth and they needed some hot food inside them. It was already past dusk, and in the distance, they could see the black thunderclouds gathering in the distance. The chances were they’d get another soaking before the night was finished.

Newton put a cupful of the roasted worms in front of Tshaka along with a cupful of water.

‘I can’t eat them with my hands bound, can I?’ said Tshaka.

‘Feed him with a spoon,’ said Ollie sharply. ‘We’re not undoing him.’

Newton shovelled some food to his lips. Tshaka ate hungrily, then took a swig of the water he was offered. ‘You’re a black man,’ he said, looking straight at Newton when he’d finished. ‘Why are you working with these white mercenary pigs?’

‘I’m a Batotean.’ It was said in the same quiet tone of determination that Newton always used, noted Steve, listening quietly by the fire.

‘That makes it worse,’ said Tshaka. His voice was filled with a righteous anger. ‘Kapembwa is the tool of the white man, always has been.’

‘Really?’ asked Newton. ‘He fought against them long enough. Some of us were already soldiers when his guerrilla army was driving the colonialists out of this country.’

‘He was fighting for the Russians, and they were white men last time I checked,’ said Tshaka. ‘Kapembwa was a tool of the Cold War, a Marxist trained in Moscow, and used by the West. Imperialists, Communists - it makes no difference. The problem for Africa has been the white man trying to tell us how to run our affairs. It’s time we started looking after ourselves.’

‘We don’t need any political lectures, thank you,’ said Ollie.

‘Every man needs political lectures,’ snarled Tshaka. ‘Let me ask you just one question. Do you call yourself a soldier?’

‘Of course,’ snapped Ollie.

‘Then a soldier fights for something he believes in - he fights for his people,’ said Tshaka. ‘Look at this country, it’s a ruin. The land has been pillaged, the people are going hungry. A third of the population has fled, the rest are starving. And you just fly into the country to kill the one man who is fighting against all that . . .’

Tshaka spat on the ground. ‘You’re just dogs.’

Steve chewed on his worms. They weren’t so bad once you got used to them. Better than the grubs he’d eaten on his survival course back in the Regiment. If you didn’t look too closely, the meal could be from any kebab shop on Bromley High Street. Tshaka was an impressive man, he thought to himself. And he was making a solid enough point. If they were just here to assassinate him, the way Wallace wanted them to, then they would in truth be nothing more than attack dogs. But we’re not, he reminded himself. We’re here to eliminate Kapembwa. If Tshaka knew that, then maybe he’d even be working with us.