sitting back, Mitchell read Barclay’s six-page resume of what he thought was going on down in the Congo, with more about the Chinese connection, the British connection, the South African connection, and the Zaire short-stop.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Mitchell said to the flag, “Abe? If you’re listening, old buddy, have a word in the right ear and let me know what the blue blazes is happening in deepest Africa.”
Lastly, Mitchell read Barclay’s hand-written addendum:
“Sir, I respectfully submit that Central African operations must hold the highest priority. To allow matters to proceed as they are would be to open the flood gates to catastrophe.” Cryptic stuff, thought Mitchell, reading on: “I will call in the morning and arrange an extended personal meeting.”
Mitchell carefully shuffled the pages together and replaced them in the folder, which he left there in front of him. To the flag, he said, “Well?”
*
The rain forests are like a land bewitched. The moisture-laden air is a drug of languidity, of disorientation. It’s an illusion, of course, but no less real for that. Most natives do not know the meaning of the word illusion. To them, especially the Simba; a tribe steeped in superstition and taboo, illusion means witchcraft: unknown and unspeakable. I have been a skeptical for as long as I can remember, but when the drivers switched off their engines and doused the lights, and the claustrophobic silence of that gloomy monastery of perpetual silence crashed in around us, I felt the urge to duck. To hide. It was a feeling that had been building inside me ever since we had hacked our way through the swamp growth and into the rain forests proper. I called back to Augarde.
“Close them up! Tight around the transports!”
Augarde waved an acknowledgement and I turned to the wiry Swede, who had ridden shotgun in the lead jeep. “Lay on a picket, Bjoran. The Kenyans. You know what to do.”
Bjoran nodded. He lifted his AK and vaulted out over the jeep’s side. “Ya, zur,” he said, the sing-song lilt of his accent oddly out of step with the cold blue steel of his eyes and the grim set of his scarred jaw. “I know yus fine. We keep the li’l babies fra scampering off, ya?”
There had been no desertions so far, but now that we were pushing deeper and deeper into the forests, the critical time was fast approaching.
Bjoran loped back to the surging crowd of men. Here was a time when his reputation paid for itself. If the men feared Bjoran and his penchant for the bayonet more than they feared the invisible dawa , the combined forces of evil, then it was all well and good.
I had purposely had Bjoran ride in my jeep, though it had only taken a short time to realize that the man was basically a sadist, that he enjoyed the sensation of drawing cold steel through human flesh. I had mentioned the Brazzaville incident and had been marginally surprised when he had recounted the whole thing with something approaching lust in his eyes. Since it had happened before my arrival on the scene I saw little point in taking him to task over it, so I said nothing. I guess he took my apparent lack of interest as a sign of tacit approval. He had, of course, gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick entirely. But, for the moment, it suited me to have him on my side willingly.
I turned to our driver, one of the Kangatzi who smelt of stale sweat and gun oil. “Go get some food, Tahagi.” The man was sitting there, hands still gripping the wheel, seemingly mesmerized by a particularly voluminous and repetitive drip from the leaves way up in the dark vermillion canopy overhead, that was hitting the bonnet over the radiator. It made a sound like someone tapping out a boring rhythm on a loose-snared drum. “Tahagi!”
“Nkosi?” Unwillingly, he dragged his attention to me.
“Go get some food.”
“Yes, Nkosi.” He glanced upward once, shook his head, then heaved himself out of the seat and plodded back to
“Jesus H. Christ!” Mitchell said to the flag, “Abe? If you’re listening, old buddy, have a word in the right ear and let me know what the blue blazes is happening in deepest Africa.”
Lastly, Mitchell read Barclay’s hand-written addendum:
“Sir, I respectfully submit that Central African operations must hold the highest priority. To allow matters to proceed as they are would be to open the flood gates to catastrophe.” Cryptic stuff, thought Mitchell, reading on: “I will call in the morning and arrange an extended personal meeting.”
Mitchell carefully shuffled the pages together and replaced them in the folder, which he left there in front of him. To the flag, he said, “Well?”
*
The rain forests are like a land bewitched. The moisture-laden air is a drug of languidity, of disorientation. It’s an illusion, of course, but no less real for that. Most natives do not know the meaning of the word illusion. To them, especially the Simba; a tribe steeped in superstition and taboo, illusion means witchcraft: unknown and unspeakable. I have been a skeptical for as long as I can remember, but when the drivers switched off their engines and doused the lights, and the claustrophobic silence of that gloomy monastery of perpetual silence crashed in around us, I felt the urge to duck. To hide. It was a feeling that had been building inside me ever since we had hacked our way through the swamp growth and into the rain forests proper. I called back to Augarde.
“Close them up! Tight around the transports!”
Augarde waved an acknowledgement and I turned to the wiry Swede, who had ridden shotgun in the lead jeep. “Lay on a picket, Bjoran. The Kenyans. You know what to do.”
Bjoran nodded. He lifted his AK and vaulted out over the jeep’s side. “Ya, zur,” he said, the sing-song lilt of his accent oddly out of step with the cold blue steel of his eyes and the grim set of his scarred jaw. “I know yus fine. We keep the li’l babies fra scampering off, ya?”
There had been no desertions so far, but now that we were pushing deeper and deeper into the forests, the critical time was fast approaching.
Bjoran loped back to the surging crowd of men. Here was a time when his reputation paid for itself. If the men feared Bjoran and his penchant for the bayonet more than they feared the invisible dawa , the combined forces of evil, then it was all well and good.
I had purposely had Bjoran ride in my jeep, though it had only taken a short time to realize that the man was basically a sadist, that he enjoyed the sensation of drawing cold steel through human flesh. I had mentioned the Brazzaville incident and had been marginally surprised when he had recounted the whole thing with something approaching lust in his eyes. Since it had happened before my arrival on the scene I saw little point in taking him to task over it, so I said nothing. I guess he took my apparent lack of interest as a sign of tacit approval. He had, of course, gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick entirely. But, for the moment, it suited me to have him on my side willingly.
I turned to our driver, one of the Kangatzi who smelt of stale sweat and gun oil. “Go get some food, Tahagi.” The man was sitting there, hands still gripping the wheel, seemingly mesmerized by a particularly voluminous and repetitive drip from the leaves way up in the dark vermillion canopy overhead, that was hitting the bonnet over the radiator. It made a sound like someone tapping out a boring rhythm on a loose-snared drum. “Tahagi!”
“Nkosi?” Unwillingly, he dragged his attention to me.
“Go get some food.”
“Yes, Nkosi.” He glanced upward once, shook his head, then heaved himself out of the seat and plodded back to
Similar Books
