Legacy - James Steel

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but you are telling me forever that they are the best team in the world.’ Yamba rolled his eyes and chuckled, pleased to get one over on his friend.

      Yamba was sitting in the passenger seat of the Land Cruiser and Alex was driving. Col had been leaning forwards in between the seats when Yamba had seen the tattoo on his arm and decided to break the monotony of the journey.

      After their uplift, Arkady had flown them east to Gbadolite, just across the border in the Democratic Republic of Congo, where Patrice had arranged a meeting with the local militia group on a crucial part of the plan. They had then flown on to Rafaï, the nearest town to the mine, about a hundred kilometres south of it. Patrice had supplied the car and then waited in the town as the others set off north to complete the recce mission. They could have flown up there but Alex wanted to be careful not to create any disturbances in the vicinity of the mine. He guessed that helicopters were unusual in such a remote area and could set off alarm bells.

      They were now thirty kilometres away from the mine but it had taken nearly two days to force their way along the appalling jungle road, a line of rutted red earth that made its way through the tunnel of green vegetation that was trying to overwhelm it. They were not expecting any contact with the mine forces this far out but were in combat gear and had their MP5 machine pistols within easy reach.

      ‘Now, look ‘ere, you cheeky booger,’ Col wagged his finger at Yamba, ‘they’re still better than bloody Soweto United, Joburg whatever …’ He waved his hands, trying to think of an insult.

      But Yamba was cackling, rocking over away from him with laughter, his hands clasped together: he had him on another point.

      ‘Ah, but you see, my friend, I am not a South African, you know that! I am from Angola.’

      ‘Yeah, well, you know, whatever.’

      Yamba was a former sergeant-major from 32 Battalion — The Buffalo Squadron — in the South African Defence Force. He had been born in Angola and as the brightest boy in his village had been sent to a strict Jesuit mission school run by Portuguese colonialists. Despite the beatings, he had done well and became head boy. Academically gifted, he had been dead set on becoming a surgeon and using his talents to save the lives of his countrymen.

      It didn’t work out like that.

      The country fell to the communists and his family were massacred. He was forced to flee into exile in the South African dependency of Namibia. Aged sixteen, he followed many other black Angolan refugees into the South African Army to fight for his adopted homeland.

      He was now in his forties but still very lean and muscular; his bony head was shaved bald and his face had the hawk-like look of a disciplinarian. He had worked with Alex’s team for years.

      Yamba was scarred by his experience in the crucial battle at Cuito Cuanavale, the largest battle in Africa since the Second World War. His unit had fought a combined force of tough East German, Cuban and Angolan troops. Neither side won, but by simply staying operational Yamba’s unit prevented the fall of neighbouring Namibia. The action took its toll on him, and his men often regarded him as a narrow-minded stickler. He could not care less; he understood that military victory required obsessive attention to detail in planning. He was never going to be in such a desperate position again in his life.

      Alex grinned at the exchange going on next to him, but his mind was busy turning over their mission. He was responsible for making an accurate survey of the target and Kalil’s initial briefing had worried him. Whoever was running the mine seemed very concerned to keep people out. Given its isolated position he couldn’t understand the heavy security precautions; he had never seen such measures in all his time in Africa.

      ‘Whoa, third gear!’ he called jokingly to the others as the road suddenly became less rutted and they actually stopped bumping along in second for the first time that day,

      ‘Bout time too — bloody Africans can’t build a road for love nor money …’

      ‘Ah, my friend! Now suppose we are in the United Kingdom, and I am a guest! A guest in your house, am I going to be going about saying things like, ah … you know, “Ah, this queen of yours, you know, she is getting a bit, er …’ he fished for the right idiom, ‘“long in the tooth”? Am I going to be—’

      ‘Shit!’

      Alex hit the brakes as they turned a corner and the Toyota skidded over the dust. He managed to stop them from crashing into the bushes but the engine cut out and they stalled in the middle of the road. A cloud of red dust blew out from under them and everything became very quiet as the noise of the engine died away.

      As the dust cleared Yamba and Col could see what the problem was. A large log had been laid across the track to stop traffic. If that was not enough physical impediment, a psychological one had been added: a naked body was hung by the neck from a tree on the right-hand side, its intestines strung out and hooked into a bush on the other side. Flies swarmed inside the man’s abdominal cavity and along the purple strands, making them into a living barrier.

      Figures emerged from the bushes ahead of them like predators stirring as they sensed blood. They were teenagers and wore an assortment of T-shirts, outsize combat fatigues and wigs. Alex took in six assault rifles pointed at him. They were still thirty yards off and moved slowly forwards; hesitating at the unusual sight of whites in such a remote region.

      Alex’s experience and training kicked in. He stared at the slowly advancing child soldiers and thought fast. He couldn’t restart the truck and reverse in time without being riddled with bullets. He sat still but spoke quickly and quietly out of the side of his mouth to the other two: ‘Don’t move. Wait until they’ve all come out of cover. When we’re ready, Yamba take the two on your side, Col take the middle two, I’ll take my side.’

      Col and Yamba slipped their hands onto the grips of their machine pistols, thumbed the safeties off and clicked them to automatic. Alex slowly put his hand up out of the window. The boys’ eyes flicked onto the movement and they halted in their gradual advance to the truck. Alex slowly leaned himself out of the window, trying to make eye contact with them. They stood still, watching intently. He gently pulled the door lever, swung it open and got out so that the door shielded him. The MP5 that had been tucked down the side of his seat was in his hands. He stood for a second looking at them; estimating distances and angles.

      ‘Now,’ he said calmly and fired a long burst through the door panel. He dived to the side of the road, rolled and came up on one knee firing again on auto.

      Col and Yamba opened up from inside the car; bullets punched out through the windscreen. Then they were out as well, diving into the dense bush.

      The gunfire crashed against the silence, birds erupted out of the trees. Short aimed bursts snapped out from the mercenaries against wild chattering salvos from the boys that veered off overhead as their oversized guns kicked up. Bodies jerked and spun in the road; arms flung rifles haphazardly away from them and then it was over.

      The mercenaries moved forwards quickly and purposefully through the bush at the side of the road; hunched over the sights of their weapons, scanning ahead of them. The sound of the shots died away into the forest and the smell of cordite drifted past. No other fighters emerged from cover and there was no sound of any panicked flight into the jungle. Alex nodded across the road at Col, who ran out to check the bodies as the others covered him. Their marksmanship had been accurate, the shots were tightly grouped around the chest; none of them was alive.

      They quickly moved on and searched the area around the roadblock. There was a crude shelter of banana leaves set back from the road. The earth floor was littered with screwed-up blankets, plastic bowls of cassava bread, bundles of dagga — the powerful local marijuana — and a lot of plastic bottles of home brew.

      With the immediate danger over, Alex’s brain switched to figuring out the next problem. Were these child soldiers linked to the mine? Had the contact just blown the recce mission?

      Overall, he figured they were still too far from the target, and it was hard to believe that a normal

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