Magestic

Copyright © Geoff Wolak

www.geoffwolak-writing.com

Part 13
A new baby

New Year’s Day, 2012, I woke to find Helen’s head on my chest,

her arm over me, and I wondered about the future. Our future. I also
wondered why my clothes were on the floor. We had both agreed we
wanted the baby, and we both reassured the other that no thoughts
had entered our minds about getting rid of it. Yet we both felt we
had to mention it.
I lay there listening to her breathing, thinking about another baby,
and even if there was anything to think about. We were not short of
money, we could afford full-time nannies, and we had done it all
before. Twice. Not only that, but our daughters where now old
enough to baby-sit for us. And as Jimmy often pointed out, Shelly
was more practical and sensible than her dad.
No, I couldn’t see any problems, other than a few wars, terror
attacks, assassination attempts, being exposed, the plagues to come
and the rise of The Brotherhood. But besides all that, I was happy to
bring a new life into the world. My daughters were now too big to
hug their dad very often, and I would love to have a dependent child
again; one that didn’t answer back with a smart comment in five
languages. Or Latin.
Helen stirred, lifting her gaze to me. ‘Awake?’
‘Just thinking that it would be nice to have a kid that doesn’t
answer back.’
‘That would be nice. I caught Lucy looking at porn the other
week.’
‘What kind of porn?’
‘Gay men giving blowjobs.’ She eased up and dropped her legs.
‘She likes men with cut abs.’
‘Could be worse,’ I said as I eased out, heading to the balcony
and stepping over my clothes. I peeked through the curtains. ‘Rained
in the night.’
Before breakfast, we knocked on Jimmy’s door. He let is in, and
we grabbed chairs whilst being curiously observed.
‘If you’ve damaged something in your room, you can pay for it,’
he dryly stated.
‘We have some news,’ I said. Jimmy grabbed a chair, and waited.
‘I’m pregnant,’ Helen admitted after a moment.
‘I’ve told you before about sharing the bath water,’ Jimmy
quipped. ‘And in answer to your question: no, this was not supposed
to happen, I have no idea if it’ll be a boy or a girl, and yes I’m very
happy about it - since your daughters are too big to fall asleep on me
and they swear at me in Latin.’
‘Not … a good time to be bringing a new life into the world,’ I
tentatively suggested.
‘When was?’ Jimmy asked. ‘If we thought that … we’d never
have any kids. It’ll be fine. So, when do you announce it to the
world?’
‘May as well get it over with,’ Helen suggested, a glance toward
me.
‘Announce it at the casino tonight,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘Give the
tabloids something to print.’
That day we dumped the girls on Jimmy – whether he wanted
them or not, and went for a drive to a safari lodge, enjoying a long
walk. Hand in hand, we strolled through the heat, the bodyguards
keeping their distance. Back at the hotel, that evening, the girls were
curious about our strange behaviour.
‘I’m thinking of trading you in for a younger model,’ I told
Shelly. ‘One that doesn’t answer back.’
Shelly put her fists on her hips, her mouth hanging open. ‘Mum!
Are you pregnant?’
‘Pregnant?’ Lucy repeated.
‘Yes,’ Helen said. ‘We’ve sold you to a local chief for two goats,
and they are nice goats, so it’ll be just me and your father from now
on.’
‘They’ll paint your faces red for the marriage ceremony,’ I told
the girls.
‘That’s great, mum,’ Shelly offered, ignoring me. ‘I can’t wait to
have a baby.’
‘What?’ I barked.
‘I want one at sixteen,’ Shelly informed us.
We stood shocked. ‘Don’t you think you should find the right
husband first?’ I barked.
‘Oh, dad, you are sooo ancient. A man would just interfere with
my plans.’
‘Kids cost a lot of money to raise,’ Helen pointed out to our
daughter.
‘Oh, like we’re short of money,’ Shelly scoffed. ‘Jimmy has
created a trust fund for us, we won’t starve.’ She headed off to her
room.
I glanced at Helen, and we set off to confront Jimmy, finding him
in the rooftop bar. His guests excused themselves, and we sat.
‘You’ve set-up a trust fund for the girls?’
 ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I?’
‘You might have told us,’ Helen complained.
Jimmy sipped his beer, taking a moment. ‘By time Shelly is
sixteen she’ll have moved out, studying abroad at eighteen.’
‘What?’ Helen gasped. ‘Moved out?’
‘She’ll be … a very independent young lady.’
‘She’ll be that difficult?’ I challenged, shocked by this revelation.
‘Not difficult, she’ll be just about the most sensible and practical
woman on the planet. But she’ll also want to do her own thing. If
you try and rope her in she’ll just go anyway, you’ll only end up
hurting yourselves. Once she’s made up her mind there’ll be no
stopping her.’
‘Move out at sixteen?’ Helen repeated. ‘Where?’
‘To the main house; be illegal otherwise.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Why does any teenager want space?’ Jimmy posed. ‘You can’t
apply logic to it, you just need to be there for her when she needs
you … which will be just about never. She’s tough as old boots is
our Shelly.’
Helen and I exchanged looks. ‘And Lucy?’ I asked.
‘She’s the one you’ll be trying to marry off and kick out the
door,’ Jimmy emphasised. ‘And you have a new kid on the way.’
‘You’re saying that we won’t be able to rein-in Shelly?’ I
pressed.
‘The more you try … the more she’ll move away.’
I sighed, facing Helen. ‘I think we could get two camels for her.’
‘She’ll take after her mum,’ Jimmy added.
‘I was just like that,’ Helen admitted.
That evening, at the casino, we informed the gang, getting many
rude comments, offers of condoms or suitable books to read. I
informed the African Times so that our paper could claim an
exclusive.
The following day, trying to relax on the golf course, I received
dozens of congratulation texts and emails, the phone eventually
turned off. Fortunately, the next day would see a return to business
meetings, a respite from the baby talk. Jimmy had called a meeting
of everyone involved in the new city, Po and the Russians keen to
get going.
In a large room at the convention centre, we stood about a map as
Jimmy took charge, some fifty people now in attendance. ‘OK, our
corporation will, first of all, create a worker’s village here.’ He
tapped the map. ‘Two miles south of the proposed city centre. That
workers village should have two hundred wooden huts, canteens,
shower blocks, a fence and a few guards.
‘Next to it, our corporation will create a vehicle park for
bulldozers and diggers. They’ll start clearing the land and digging
the future drains. The eight-lane highway will pass straight through
the main city centre, dipping under the centre in a small tunnel. That
highway will continue on south another thirty miles. From the city
centre, two other highways will reach outwards, northwest and
southwest - towards the nearest towns. That … is the priority; we
need good roads to bring in cranes and heavy loads.
‘Next, each contractor involved in the project will build its own
workers village next to ours in the south. Each contractor is
responsible for its workers and equipment, and everyone will carry
ID cards.’ He pointed at a local man. ‘Yours is the largest concrete
producer. I want your quarry turnout to be increased six fold.’
The man look shocked. Pleasantly shocked.
‘In addition to greatly increasing concrete output, I want to start a
factory that will create pre-cast concrete blocks of given sizes, some
with metal mesh inside, some with metal girders inside. They’ll be
moved afterwards, many being utilised as pre-cast sections for
covers over sewers. And don’t worry, you’ll get a loan from us to
expand your operations. Yuri, we’ll want as much steel as you can
produce, at least a twenty fold increase in your current capacity.’
‘We are already expanding as fast as we can,’ Yuri put in.
Jimmy pointed a local man. ‘I want as much wood as you can get.
Don’t chop down the rainforest, buy it from existing wood mills.
Start bringing it in and stockpiling it under cover.
‘OK, next we’ll build the power station southwest of the city, and
we’ll start today. That will be both oil-fired, and coal-fired. My aim
is that the sewers will be dug first, the pipes laid, the sewerage plant
working. Then we need to think about water mains, electrical cables,
phone cables. Those pipes and cables will run through concrete
tunnels high enough for a man to stand up in. The roof sections will
be pre-cast concrete, and will form the pavements of the city, access
being via hatches and control points. Our aim is to have the utilities
infrastructure for a million people in place before we even have a
single person living in the city.
‘Next, we’ll build an estate of standard four-storey apartment
blocks in the south, just north of the workers compounds. Those
apartments will be available for workers, engineers and visitors. I
want forty apartments built straight away, but keep in mind that
they’ll not be temporary - they’ll be there for decades. So make them
nice enough, parks and gardens nearby, shops and facilities.
‘But what I don’t want … is for workers to be travelling up to
here unnecessarily, creating traffic and walking around in their
muddy boots. So everything that the workers need must be provided
south of the city centre.’ He wagged a warning finger.
‘Now, the first building to be constructed will be the corporation
building, to house the corporation staff involved with building
control. That building should be a quarter mile from the city centre,
and started straight away, as soon as the highway reaches it. We’ll
then work on the following aspects, and in this sequence: roads,
mono-rail, bus depot and bus routes. That will allow everyone to
move around.
‘We’ll then have the unusual situation of building a city with
many buildings – but no people. Because of that, we’ll build
apartments along both sides of the road southwest; nice apartments
near the city centre, standard apartments further down. They’ll have
shops, bars, and restaurants. There’ll be a clinic, a police station, and
other utilities. That community will support those moving into the
area, who’ll need to buy things on day one.
‘The foundations, and lower levels, of the marina and shopping
centre will be built - but not used. That will be followed by the first
government building, with nice apartments nearby for their staff to
live in. Those buildings and apartments will be ready a good six
months before anyone moves in.
‘The local council office will be built next to the corporation
building, more apartments nearby. When that building is finished,
you can start work on the nice housing estates to the north and
northwest, but in stages.
‘Then, when the first government officials have moved in, the
marina and shopping centre will be finished, plus the first tall
apartment blocks - quality apartments, shops on the lower levels.
Next to them will sit office blocks. There’s no point in building
office blocks without apartments; they need to be ready at about the
same time. We’ll then look at additional government offices step by
step.
‘What I have just described … will be under the direct control of
the corporation. Other contractors may build on land allocated to
them whenever they like, but do so at the risk of having no one to
use those buildings for six months. It’s up to you.’
He tapped the map. ‘Here, south of the city, is a piece of land
jutting out into the lake. I want a golf course built here, a nice hotel,
and a small marina. That golf course will be thirty miles away from
the existing course, so it won’t take business away.’
He placed a finger on the map. ‘The university will be here, in the
west, a large industrial park here in the southwest. In the south, near
the golf course, will be a small airport for regional aircraft, Dash-
7s.’ He stretched across the map. ‘There will a train line here, with a
passenger station, and that line will transport people all around
Africa. Inside the city … there’ll be no train track, but it is my aim
to make buses free for everyone. Buses and taxis will be electric,
and either free … or very cheap.’
He pointed at a Nigerian. ‘We’ll be offering you contracts for
steel girders and pipes.’ He repeated that to a South African. ‘Every
neighbouring country will get a contract. OK, questions?’
We spoke for forty minutes, promising loans and grants to
numerous factories, the nice people from Caterpillar receiving major
contracts. Basically, our entire cash surplus would be used up, as
well as the investment money. But never one to miss a good deal,
Jimmy had reserved the best lakeside land for the corporation to
build on and to sell afterwards. We’d make a quid or two.
The tax position was odd, in that this was still our region. Half of
all of the taxes would still come to us – all of the taxes for the next
four years, which we would then spend on the region as if they had
gone to Kinshasa in the first place. The only difference was one of
control. I had to wonder what would happen when Kimballa, or his
successor, was in power here.
We broke for lunch, eating with the Caterpillar directors and
some of Senator Pedersen’s buddies. After lunch, people bid for
patches of land, a few plots sold, some kept back, a few plots given
away. I then met with Steffan Silo, Jimmy showing little interest in
seeing his brother.
I met Steffan in the restaurant atop Spiral II, Steffan keeping a
house below. Settled at a table, I asked, ‘How’s the track through
Angola?’
‘We’ve improved the worst sections. Why?’
‘I’d like to put a lot more ore out that way.’
‘It’s single track in many places, so we’re laying additional track
and marshalling areas. Then it will simply be a case of inland on the
left, heading to the coast on the right.’
‘Timescale?’
‘Nine months.’
‘And if you had more money and more people?’ I pressed.
‘Three months. But why the rush?’
 ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, New Kinshasa will need heavy goods
brought in.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll review it, award contracts to Angolans and
Zambians.’
‘What about a road along that route?’ I asked.
‘There is one, good enough in some places.’
‘Could you improve it, send lorries back and forth?’
He made a face and shrugged. ‘We can award the contracts.’
‘It’ll have priority over the northern train line, now that New
Kinshasa is under way.’
‘I can fix the worst parts of road, create a few bypasses; that’ll
speed up the route.’
‘It may end up being the main artery for the new city, all one
thousand miles of it.’
‘I’m working on the city roads as well,’ Steffan mentioned.
‘A man of many talents,’ I quipped.
He made a face and shrugged.
We left Goma hub having started a new city in the heart of
Africa. The first coal mine was under way, a South African company
running the project for us, and the first coal-oil refinery was under
construction. All in, I figured that the new city would keep fifty
thousand builders gainfully occupied, and that the city would then
house up to a million people in time. It solved my inability to spend
money and create jobs in one stroke.

Warfare of the future

Big Paul stood at a foldaway table in front of a shooting range,

sunglasses on. Stood in front of him were four groups of ten men
keenly observing, interpreters ready, a few Rifles NCOs to hand.
He raised a grenade. ‘This … is a standard NATO grenade.’ He
tossed it to a Rifles NCO, who then walked into the range, pulled the
pin and dropped the grenade into a barrel of water. Three seconds
later the water reached up ten feet, moistening the parched sand as it
came back down.
‘If that grenade went off here, chances are many of you would be
injured, but no one killed.’ He tossed a Chinese grenade to the NCO.
‘That’s a Chinese pineapple grenade. When it explodes it sends out
larger pieces of metal, and they kill.’
The water again reached up around ten feet. Big Paul lifted up a
grenade the size of a lipstick. ‘This is a new grenade, weighing less
than one sixth of a regular grenade, so you can carry more of them.’
He tossed it to the waiting NCO. You turn the cap at the top so that
the red line is exposed. You then press down against something
hard, your finger won’t do it.’
The NCO checked the setting, banged it against the rusted oil
drum, and dropped the grenade inside.
‘You have five seconds, longer than the NATO grenade,’ Big
Paul added, the water reaching up as high as the previous grenades.
‘A bandolier of these grenades weighs very little, yet they have the
same basic effect. You can, however, throw these further. There’s
also an adapter for most rifles, especially the AK47, and you can fire
them two hundred yards out. If you aim right they’ll detonate above
an enemy position.’
He lifted a square grenade, the size of an old nine-volt battery,
and weighing almost two pounds. ‘This … is known as the square
grenade, or battery grenade. It has three settings: five seconds, ten
seconds, or one minute. Such a long setting is necessary for
demolishing bridges and buildings.’
He held the grenade up. ‘This would not only kill everyone here,
but they would not find any body part big enough to identify us by.’
He pointed to the desert, to a jeep with two Rifles NCOs, some three
hundred yards away. Lifting a radio, he said, ‘Standard grenade.’
They threw a grenade and ducked down. It detonated with a puff
of smoke and sand, a dull thud registering a few seconds later.
Big Paul lifted his radio again. ‘Battery grenade.’
The distant NCOs checked settings, dropped the square grenade
into a hole, jumped into their jeep and sped away in a burst of sand.
Big Paul put his hands over his ears, others copying. The battery
grenade blew, the sand cloud blocking out the sun as the blast
washed over them, small rocks raining down. It was ten seconds
before Big Paul could see his audience again, the men coughing.
‘That, gentlemen, is one mother of a grenade. They’re useful for
blowing up small bridges, houses, and compounds. But never think
that you could pull the pin and throw it. If you’re up a mountain,
then throwing it down is fine. If you want to demolish a building, set
it to one minute – and run like hell!’
 The nearest NCO attended a mortar, an 81mm. He checked his
front, the desert clear, readied a shell and fired. It landed a thousand
yards away and blew up a dust cloud.
‘That’s a standard 81mm shell,’ Big Paul informed his students.
‘This … is an improved model.’
The NCO fired the second shell. Four seconds later an angry dust
cloud rose up, four times higher than the previous, the blast washing
over the men.
Turning back to the table, Big Paul lifted a standard Russian
7.62mm cartridge. ‘This is a standard Russian 7.62mm. We now
have them in Teflon; they’ll do a lot of damage to a car engine, and
pass right through a civilian vehicle.’ He raised a larger cartridge.
‘This is a fifty calibre round, also now in Teflon, good for hitting a
vehicle engine. It will even damage lightly armoured vehicles.’ He
selected another fifty-calibre cartridge. ‘This is an exploding shell. If
your enemy is hiding behind a rock, you aim at the rocks left or right
for a ricochet shot, and it explodes like a grenade. It’s also good for
houses with thin walls, because it explodes inside the house. It won’t
kill the people inside, but it’ll wound them all.’
Big Paul lifted a final grenade, similar to the battery grenade.
‘This is the Good Morning grenade. It has an eight-hour fuse, or
thereabouts. It may be six hours, maybe ten; it’s random. The
minimum fuse time is four hours, the maximum time being twelve
hours. You bury them where you know your enemy will return to
collect their dead or wounded, and bang! You can also sneak in to a
place at night, spread them around, and sneak out. You’ll be long
gone when they go off, and they’ll go off at random – scaring the
crap out the enemy. It’s a good way of making people think that
you’re still around - when you’re not.’

A long way off, Lobster sat waiting some trade in the shade of
pleasant orchard in Southern Lebanon. He had dug a shallow trench
into a dirt road and planted a long strip of specialist explosives,
covering it over. Near the explosives, he left a reason for an
approaching driver to stop, a rusted old AK47 lying in the road.
The sun slowly said goodbye and hid itself, the chill coming on
quickly in the olive orchard, the location a favourite of mortar crews
trying to hit the Somalia UN base.
An hour later he noticed lights. He grabbed his radio and clicked
three times, repeating the signal. Readying his detonator, he waited
dispassionately, death not a concern to him, just a consequence. The
job was everything. The objective was everything.
 The target vehicle slowed, but kept its lights on, soon
illuminating the AK47 and squeaking to a halt. A door opened after
some debate, a man checking around carefully. The car was in the
right position, so Lobster threw the switch.
The blast was not much, it was not designed to be, hence the use
of a special explosive. But the car lifted up and rolled, landing on its
roof after reaching an apogee of some six feet. It landed in a ditch
and crumpled, the man who had eased out blown off his feet, but not
killed.
Lobster walked silently forwards, dart pistol ready. The dazed
gunman offered little challenge, killed with a dart made of wood, a
throat shot. Groans emanated from the car. Lobster twisted off the
petrol gap, gas dripping to the sandy floor. He dropped in a pencil
thin incendiary stick and walked away, the fuel ablaze a few seconds
later.
His colleagues had been kicking dirt back into the hole made by
the explosives, but soon running through the orchard to a vantage
point. A full six minutes later, a slow roasted mortar shell blew the
car in half.
The net effect of the earnest labours of Lobster and his associates,
was a great deal of unrest in the south of Lebanon, many fingers
pointed at the Israelis and Somalis, but not so much evidence
revealed. Bodies were being found, chemicals blamed, UN doctors
proving otherwise. And the number of men disappearing was
increasing.
Unfortunately for Hezbollah, a great many mortars and weapons
had been found by UN inspectors. And there always seemed to be a
picture in the Beirut press of a burnt out car, a rocket tube in the
back. All told, it appeared as if a great many accidents had taken
place by mortar crews and bomb makers. To be helpful, the Israelis
suggested that Lebanon introduce a health and safety code for bomb
makers; perhaps a certificate of competence for rocket crews.

Rahman had been observing, thinking, and waiting. Now he was

ready to strike, sending out his minions in a carefully thought out
attack.
A Pakistani registered ship set off from Karachi, taking on board
its crew of fighters a few miles off shore, its supply of explosives
from a second ship. It sailed south. Through the Yemen Straits it
passed without problem, passing under the radar and the watchful
gaze of the Somalis, and US Navy ships patrolling close by.
 At the town of Suez it took its turn in the queue, accepted aboard
a pilot, and progressed north into the canal, heading toward Little
Bitter Lake. As soon as the ship was inside the canal, the pilot and
his mate were killed, their bodies dumped over the side. The ship’s
lifeboat was lowered, a deadly cargo of explosives and gunmen
inside. That lifeboat powered to the side of the canal as its parent
ship headed on.
A second lifeboat was lowered a mile further on, the gunmen
inside all prepared to give their lives for their chosen cause. The first
lifeboat spotted its target, a huge container ship. It motored to the
rear of the ship, turned in its wake and caught up with the slow
moving giant. The giant’s gangplank was hooked with a grapple, the
first fighter climbing up. That fighter stepped up the gangplank,
shooting dead the two surprised men staring down at him. Operating
the gangplank controls, the gunmen lowered it for his comrades,
shots fired at the ship’s bridge.
The alert was given, but it was too late. The container ship slowly
passed the second lifeboat, that boat’s crew destined for a third ship.
The container ship’s crew were soon overpowered, the Philippine
crew all shot. Cutting the engines, the momentum of the great ship
carried it forwards as it was coaxed closer to the sandy banks of the
canal. Judging the decaying speed, the gunmen turned the nose
sharply and jammed it into the bank, blocking a third of the canal.
Down below, explosives were being placed against the hull, more
than enough to cause a suitable hole. When ready, the timer was
duly set, the gunmen retreating to their lifeboat, a further ship in
mind. As they motored north, looking for a suitable ship heading
south, the container ship took on water, its stern lowering.
From behind, a second ship dug its nose into the sandy banks of
the canal, directly opposite the stricken container ship. With a hole
blown into its hull, it also slipped lower at the stern, the Egyptian
authorities now alerted and rushing to the scene. The news services
around the world had also picked up on the story.
Jimmy received a call from Sykes. ‘Two or more ships have been
hijacked inside the Suez Canal.’
‘Rahman.’
‘You thought this would happen?’
‘It was one of his ideas, not implemented before. I’ve changed
my plans, and he’s changed his. If he’s true to form … then he’s
wired the ships to blow when the authorities try and board them. Let
the Egyptians know your concerns, and keep me updated, please.’
 A third ship had been snared, and sunk in the middle of the canal.
The Suez Canal was now plugged. Not listening to the advice from
Sykes, the Egyptians boarded the partially sunken vessels and tried
to move them, the controls smashed, engines damaged. The crew
bodies were removed, recovery barges sent for.
The recovery barges were just about the widest vessels allowed
into the canal, not least because of their shallow drafts. One moved
in from Suez town, another moving down from Great Bitter Lake.
The plan was simple: when in place, drag the ships clear if possible,
sterns lifted first. Divers would be used to plug holes, watertight
doors sealed, air blown in. That would take several days, followed
by an additional few days to get the barges into place, for them to
grapple their prey, and to start the operation. In the meantime,
additional ships were now alongside the stricken vessels, containers
being offloaded.
Rahman had anticipated just such an operation. Noon, the day
after the attack, his men on the canal banks transmitted the correct
radio signals. Those first few containers to be removed, the obvious
ones stacked at the top, blew. The blasts killed crews, damaged
cranes, and cracked the sides of ships. At the same time, the main
target of this exercise, the two rescue barges, blew, soon heading to
the bottom.
Rahman had plugged the canal for what should have been at least
six weeks, and Jimmy uttered a few rude words.
After a walk around the grounds, Jimmy made a few calls, quite a
few calls. Some of those calls were to do with the Suez Canal, now
known as the Suez Bottleneck. Tugs had been hired by the British
Government, tugs from all around the eastern Mediterranean, as well
as from Somali, Jordan, Israel, Kenya, and even Pakistan. They were
all headed towards the Suez bottleneck, small enough to squeeze
past the wrecks.
The following morning, some twelve tugs tied off ropes and
chains to the partly sunken ship blocking the centre of the canal.
They put the pedal to the metal, and pulled for all their worth,
scraping the ship along the sandy bottom at a very slow pace. Not to
be disheartened, and working on double the normal rates, six other
tugs turned up and fixed ropes of varying lengths. Eighteen tugs now
powered up, creating a hell of a backwash, and dragged the stricken
ship along at a modest pace.
Nine hours later, the lumbering cargo container reached the
mouth of the canal, the lights of Suez town a backdrop to a thousand
spectators. A further two hours allowed the tugs to turn left, and to
drag the ship half a mile away from the mouth of the canal. A cheer
went up around the world.
The recovery barges, the ones that sunk before they could recover
anything, were less of a problem, and were duly dragged clear the
next day. Five days after the attack the canal stood clear, loose
containers now being recovered from the depths.
When Jimmy saw a picture of the ships graveyard, east of Suez
town, he said, ‘They’ll still be there in ten years, rusting away.’
In a palatial Dubai apartment, Rahman walked to his window and
stared down at the bustling modern city below. Thinking.

Calm before the storm

The next “M” Group meeting was due, and due to be held in
Washington, whilst difficult questions were now being asked about
Rahman. Jimmy had few answers to offer them, and a few plans
would have to be altered.
We stayed the night in the usual Washington hotel, meeting US
investors interested in New Kinshasa, travelling around to the White
House the next morning. A room normally used for state dinners had
been moved around, and I was reasonably sure that we’d not be
bugged. Not here. Everyone had arrived at the front door, being
filmed, and even the President now openly referred to these
meetings as “M” Group, offering no denial about our role. The
public were not suspicious, they were keenly awaiting whatever
tricks, gadgets or magic potions we came up with next.
I had heard about a Manson Drug Users Club in California, a
group of people who got together to discuss the effects of the drug
on their bodies, the drugs characteristics - instead of its side effects.
They shared recipes for maximum health and strength - whilst
allowing minimum weight gain, posed for photographs, and seemed
to be caught with prostitutes a lot.
I had not met with either of the new Republican or Democratic
candidates, but Jimmy suggested that he was comfortable with
either. He saw no major problems with them, but was not a hundred
percent sure of the Republic candidate.
In Rome, the numbers of both electric cars and electric scooters
were increasing, as was the death toll amongst young riders. We
pointed towards Italian driving. The Italians had, however,
introduced speakers to the scooters, speakers that gave off traditional
scooter sounds, warning slow moving Italian housewives that there
was a teenage Italian driver on an electric scooter approaching at
high speed, but with no training, no helmet and little care.
In Nairobi, the scooters had also been popular. Unfortunately,
they were just as popular with irate lorry drivers, who seemed to
delight in knocking scooters out of the way. The death toll was high,
the Kenyan lorry drivers motoring like Italians with attitude.
The people who had claimed the super-drug to be some sort of
magic, or alien technology, were now being shot down by
researchers working on stem cell projects, those researchers
claiming that they would have come up with it in a few years. Yeah,
right. We also now enjoyed the Japanese claiming that their
scientists were within five years of creating the electric car batteries.
That led to a TV programme that described us a “leeches”, grabbing
cutting-edge research and finishing it off with the brute force of
money. There was also the suggestion of industrial espionage, that
we had stolen the plans and profited by them. But even our harshest
critics had to agree that the profits had been ploughed into Africa,
and to feed the poor.
Jimmy and I now worked the room, greeting leaders and aides in
a variety of languages, making everyone feel welcome and needed,
but also making everyone feel that we preferred them to the others.
Jimmy eventually called order.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, politicians, hard-working aides.’
Everyone smiled. ‘Our first order of business is the Suez Canal. But
first, we need to discuss a terrorist with the codename of Rahman –
since I’m sure he was behind the attack. If … I had not altered the
way things go, then this gentleman would have appeared around
2015, caused problems for three years, and disappeared forever
more. We have altered things, and for some reason he has appeared
early.
‘And, as if not fully awake, he could have done a better job of it
in Suez, sinking those ships in the centre of the canal, not the mouth.
His next target should be the Bosphorous Straits, Turkey, and with
little effect other than a huge oil spill for Turkey to deal with. That’s
assuming that he is true to form. He was behind the plane hijackings
in Mogadishu, in Chad, and again in Yemen – the aircraft that was
shot down.
‘He will continue to try and hijack aircraft, hoping to crash them
into populated western cities. Everyone … must be vigilant. If
contact is lost with an approaching aircraft, put a jet fighter on its
wing and have a look. Now, I can tell by some of your looks that
you’re struggling with that concept. Your countries … are your
choice, but consider what a 747 crashing in your capitals may do.
‘Now, other than what I have already described, I know very little
about Rahman. I have little else to offer, so don’t ask. But, since he’s
out of school early, I have taken a few steps of my own. Yesterday,
Kenyan and Somali forces re-took Kandahar airfield in
Afghanistan.’
Many of the leaders glanced at each other, shocked.
‘They flew in on scheduled UN flights; we did a little hijacking
of our own. The difference, this time, is that they will stay for
several years.’
‘How does this affect the plan to invade?’ Chase asked, clearly
concerned.
‘It makes it easier,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘Because the Taliban and
al-Qa’eda fighters will think it a Somali issue, and will try and
unseat the Africans from Kandahar airfield. That movement of
fighters will help us to gauge their numbers and positions, radio
traffic, leadership structures, the works.’
‘And thin them out a bit,’ I added.
‘Will the African soldiers attack civilians as before?’ the
Germans asked.
‘They have specific orders not to, and to stay put, fending off
attacks. The previous civilian deaths came from Somalis who took a
wrong turn into a town, and most of the soldiers on the ground are
Kenyan. Still, there will be civilian casualties, as there were in
Mogadishu when al-Qa’eda attacked. An … eye for an eye is an
important part of Somali culture.’
‘Is their aim simply revenge?’ the Germans asked.
‘No, their aim – my aim – is to draw out al-Qa’eda fighters, and
to keep them busy in Afghanistan instead of busy hijacking planes. I
fully expect that all Islamic fighters, terrorists or would-be fighters,
will travel to Afghanistan to join the fight, the more the better.’
‘Keep them off the streets elsewhere,’ Chase noted.
Jimmy told him, ‘I would appreciate you monitoring any
movements into Afghanistan, but without intercepting any of them.
We want as many as we can to be bottled up there.’
‘How many Africans have landed?’ the French asked.
‘Four hundred.’
‘It is not many. There a thousands of fighters and Taliban.’
‘It’s more than enough. The Rifles have taken receipt of the next
generation of advanced weaponry.’
 ‘How … advanced?’ the Germans asked.
‘Enough to worry you; you would not wish these weapons to be
on the streets of Europe. Now, since we’re discussing Afghanistan,
some of you are already aware of the American desire to invade
Afghanistan and to root out al-Qa’eda. I have, for the past decade,
spoken out against such a move, not because it would have been a
bad idea, but because conventional warfare would have been used.
‘American soldiers, training in Somalia, are being specifically
trained to fight the Taliban, and the techniques are similar to those
that would be necessary to fight The Brotherhood. All of the nations
assembled here should be aware that I’m training the foreign
soldiers in Kenya and Somali in this fashion, but I’m also training
them to invade Afghanistan.
‘Those soldiers, who may later become instructors, will learn
techniques that will be directly employed against The Brotherhood,
and will also allow those instructors to train their own proxy armies.
When the invasion of Afghanistan draws near, it will be spearheaded
by American and British soldiers, with Africans in support. The
Chinese will supply aircraft and logistics, but I do not ask nor
encourage Chinese soldiers to participate … unless they wish to do
so.’
‘We wish to do so,’ Han immediately announced. ‘Since we
consider the techniques valid for own forces in the future – if need
be.’
Jimmy faced the French. ‘You have some very excellent soldiers
from the Foreign Legion being trained in Africa. They would be
most welcome, and a great benefit to us.’
‘We are willing to commit five hundred men,’ the French offered.
Jimmy faced the Russians. ‘What say the Russians?’
‘Our people will not be happy for our soldiers to return to
Afghanistan, but we wish to find certain terrorist leaders. So we
have created an expeditionary force of five hundred men, all
volunteers. Most are in Africa now.’
‘Thank you. Moving on –’
‘Do you not ask us?’ the Germans posed.
‘Your soldiers are only fit for barrack duty.’
I hid a grin, and Chase looked away.
The German Chancellor composed herself. ‘Then maybe we
should change that – if they will be needed for counter-terrorist
operations in the future.’
‘To be ready for May, your soldiers would need to be in Africa
next week,’ Jimmy pointed out.
 ‘We have considered a volunteer unit, and discussed it with our
French counterparts. We can have four hundred men ready.’
I asked, ‘And they’ll work under black African instructors?’
‘They have volunteered for the work, so either they know – or
they don’t know where Africa is!’
‘We will be glad to have them,’ Jimmy offered the Germans, a
quick glance my way. ‘And afterwards, it is my intention to create a
dedicated multi-national force, a desert, jungle and mountain
warfare brigade. All of your soldiers will then be able train with that
unit, to give them experience of what might be required in the
future.’
‘And us?’ Ben Ares asked.
‘There is no way … that I want Israeli soldiers in Afghanistan,’
Jimmy firmly told him. ‘But you are welcome to join the desert
training brigade in Kenya.’
The Germans asked, ‘The soldiers in Afghanistan, now and
during the invasion, they will breach the Geneva Convention?’
‘If you have thoughts and concerns along those lines, then don’t
send your soldiers, and don’t attend these meetings.’ He held his
stare on her. ‘We’re now in 2012, and 2015 will see the start of
world coming to the end. You’d best wake up and realise what faces
you, because what comes next … I can’t stop. Millions of Germans
will die. If you’re worried about sticking to the rules, then maybe
Germany needs a stronger leader.’
Well, if looks could kill, I thought. Leaders collectively checked
their nails.
‘Moving on,’ Jimmy finally said. ‘The Somalis are in Southern
Lebanon, and have killed a great many Hezzbollah fighters, and
disrupted al-Qa’eda cells, people that would have ended up turning
their attentions to the west.’
Chase faced the German leader. ‘Good people sleep safe at night,
because bad people patrol the borders.’
‘Very true,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘And a few years from now … none
of you will care about the Geneva Convention.’ Jimmy took a
moment. ‘You’ve had it easy up to now. I’ve removed terrorists and
other threats, I’ve averted wars, and I’ve averted financial crashes
and other problems. What comes next cannot be prevented. The
years between 2013 and 2019 will be the worse six years any of you
will ever encounter. If … you survive them at all. The goods times
are almost at an end, and those good times may not return till 2019.’
I glanced at Helen, thought of our unborn child.
 ‘As an aside, I hereby request that you all increase your research
into SARS, Swine Flu, and the flu family of viruses. A combined
research facility in France might be nice. OK, at this juncture I’ll
open the floor to questions and suggestions.’
‘Can you explain the super-drug, and its interaction with the flu
virus?’ Chase asked.
‘The basic super-drug will assist seventy-five percent of people to
resist the flu virus family. The Manson drug will assist ninety-five
percent of people to survive the flu viruses. Unfortunately, a person
with the basic super-drug will become susceptible to the flu viruses
after they have recovered. Some will die. Not many people with the
Manson drug will die, but it is not one hundred percent. The flu
virus family is adaptive, and no – there is nothing I can do to help.
Your only hope is that you come up with something new and
different to treat the viruses.’
‘Given that you know the future, we obviously don’t find a cure,’
the British PM put in.
‘There’s always a chance that some bright young scientist will
stumble across something,’ Jimmy responded. ‘After all, there’s no
point in knowing the future just to repeat it.’
‘The Suez incident was not seen?’ The French asked.
‘It was seen … to be an idea for an attack in 2016, not now.’
‘Then maybe such future threats should be planned for now,’ the
French suggested.
‘I’ve altered my approach, and I’ll warn you of such things.
Unfortunately, you can’t stop and search every ship in the canal, or
elsewhere. The best bet is to find the people responsible, and read
them the Geneva Convention … as you slowly hang them.’
The Germans still looked peeved.
‘The city in the Congo,’ the French asked. ‘What are your aims
there?’
‘To build up the region, adopt the dollar, to increase GDP and to
buy western goods when your own economies have gone to shit.’
‘With foresight … we cannot avoid such a financial fate?’ the
French pressed.
‘You … are not the problem. The nice man who lives here, or his
successors, are the problem. When the petrol-dollar crashes, you’ll
go with it – because you’re too closely linked. And no, there’s
nothing you can do about it. That fork in the road was taken a long
time ago, and we all now live in a very integrated and inter-
dependent world. But, if there is something you think this group
could tackle – concerning the petrol-dollar – then by all means
present it. I would, however, caution you about suggesting that
OPEC switches to the Euro, since some mistakes should not be
repeated. If OPEC comes calling, send them away.’
The French looked as if they were now hesitant about making
additional suggestions. At least openly.
We spoke about electric cars, nuclear technology, and New
Kinshasa for an hour before breaking for lunch, time for the aides to
scurry about with ideas.
Chase led us to the Oval Office. At the window, he turned. ‘Will
Europe nudge OPEC their way?’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ Jimmy offered. ‘Besides,
OPEC may look at the Yuan in 2017. But, that was before I altered a
few things; Africa may alter the playing field a bit. If Kimballa
adopts the dollar, and we grow the GDP by 2017 – OPEC won’t
have a choice.’
‘Is that achievable?’
‘It’ll be close,’ Jimmy cautioned. ‘I’d need to grow the region,
and the only way to do that is the internal market. Any increase in
exports … and we lower prices.’
Chase walked around and sat against the desk, folding his arms.
‘So how do we increase the size of the internal market?’
‘Use the products internally. Make things and sell them locally,’ I
said. ‘Africans making things to sell to the next town, not the west.’
‘But the money to pay for those goods,’ Jimmy began, ‘comes
from export revenue. So it’s finite.’
‘We could print a few dollars, boost local wages,’ Chase risked.
‘You’d be spending a great deal now … in the hope that we hit
the target GDP, and there’re no guarantees,’ Jimmy pointed out.
‘As I said, we print them; they slosh around Africa, some used to
buy American goods.’
Jimmy shrugged. ‘Get someone to work out of our corporation,
allocate a few building contracts to companies around Africa, the
kind of building projects that use up a lot of manual labour. Make it
look like us.’ Jimmy faced me. ‘Spend some time on the internal
markets; factories full of cheap goods.’
‘Po is on that one. I can ask him to produce household goods, and
subsidize his materials.’
‘Ramp it up,’ Jimmy said. ‘Big time.’ He faced Chase. ‘Get your
people to think about what we can make – what American products
can be assembled or made locally, under American parent company
control. We have plastic, rubber, steel, aluminium, tin, wood, glass.’
‘That covers most things,’ Chase noted.
 ‘TVs, radios, computers,’ I suggested. ‘Basic household goods;
light fittings, lamps, furniture. Anything that an African housewife
might desire.’
In the afternoon session, we started with coal-oil, a few leaders
unaware of the breakthrough.
Jimmy began, ‘For those of you who are not aware, and those not
spying on our every move, we have developed the technology to
convert coal to oil at a reasonable price. Germany: you have no oil,
but you do have coal, as well as access to cheap Polish coal. Within
six months we’ll be able to show you the technology, and you can
make some of your own oil. That will, unfortunately, not impress
our good Russian friends, who would like to sell their oil to Europe,
even more than they do now.
‘We cannot hold back the relentless advance of technology, and
the coal-oil converters would have appeared soon enough. After
2025, those converters will be essential, and Russian oil will be
insufficient in quantity to serve the needs of Europe and elsewhere. I
would like to point out at this juncture that Russia itself also has a
great deal of coal, and to balance things out a little I’ll be installing a
conversion plant there very quickly. That will give our Russian
friends the opportunity to reach a point – in say four or five years –
where its production cost of coal-oil matches that of extracted oil.
All they need do then – is find buyers, and that is not my concern.’
‘And China?’ Chase asked, getting a look from the Chinese.
‘Will start to produce some of their own oil from coal, but are
conscious of the effects of over-production and over-use internally.
The Chinese approach will be … measured, in that I have asked
them to sell oil to Japan at a suitably friendly rate.’
The Japanese were all ears.
Chase was a little surprised. ‘Our Chinese friends … will export
oil?’
‘As part of an agreed deal,’ Jimmy emphasised. ‘Not globally. At
least not globally till that deal ends in 2017. Five years.’
‘And we get the technology … when?’ Chase unhappily asked.
‘If you were to produce a great many barrels internally, what
would it do to dollar oil prices externally?’ Jimmy posed.
‘Well, it could lower them,’ Chase admitted.
‘So a measured approach … may be prudent. Yes?’
‘Always,’ Chase said with a false smile.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. I could, very easily, lower oil prices. I
won’t … because of the effect that it would have on the dollar, and
on over-heated economies. We have a route-map between now and
2025, the aim being to get there without being out of breath. That
means that I will try and hold oil at sixty-five dollars a barrel for a
few years more, and then manage the price rise – with your kind
assistance. We need to get to 2025, and getting there rich will not
help; we need to get there united to have any chance of survival.
‘In 2025, and the years that follow, a few thousand well-trained
soldiers will make more of a difference than large piles of cash. And
for those of you that are interested, the technology being deployed in
Afghanistan now … is the forerunner of technology that will be used
to fight The Brotherhood. For most of you, the final report into the
conduct of the Afghan campaign will probably be the most
important document you’ll ever read.’
They were all listening intently.
‘That document, will give you what you can expect when your
expeditionary forces tackle The Brotherhood. Keep a copy next to
your beds.’
An hour later we broke for the day, meetings organised between
the various leaders. At our evening meal, in the same room at the
White House, I asked an innocuous question. ‘Does Rahman know
that we’re onto him?’
Jimmy took a long moment, raised a finger, then grabbed his
phone. He called Sykes. ‘Leak the basic details of what we know
about Rahman. Straight away please.’
By 10pm, US news channels were questioning who Rahman was,
listing him as a terrorist mastermind residing in Dubai. In his
expensive apartment in Dubai, Rahman was suddenly terrified by
this turn of events. He was out of his apartment inside thirty
minutes.
In our hotel in Washington, at the bar, Jimmy said, ‘If he’s
foolish – and if there is a God – Rahman will run to Pakistan, to
personally oversee the fight against the Somalis. And, if we’re very
lucky – or he’s very stupid, he’ll enter Afghanistan.’
‘Good move then, naming him,’ I realised.
‘Could have been the most significant move of the fight against
him,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘You know, during the Second World War,
Hitler refused to believe that the British had broken the Enigma
codes. Rahman doesn’t know that he’s up against a time traveller. I
… have broken his code, to some degree.’
‘Spook him then,’ Helen suggested.
‘Spook him?’ I repeated.
‘You know what he has planned, so reveal it. It’ll make him think
that some of his own people leaked it.’
 ‘Helen, you’re wasted as a PA,’ Jimmy told my wife. ‘You
should have been a spy.’
Helen cocked an eyebrow and exchanged a look with me.
Jimmy lifted his phone. ‘Sykes, Jimmy. Leak to the press that
Rahman is planning to block the Bosphorous Straits with an oil
tanker. Thanks.’
What we didn’t know at the time, was how wrong we were, or
who Rahman really wanted to target.

Kandahar

A day prior to our “M” Group meeting, Lobster had stepped off a
UN plane that had been borrowed by the Rifles. The Russian pilots
had been paid off, and would deny all knowledge of the trip, even of
an ability to fly. Plane? What plane?
‘Back again,’ Lobster muttered. Being blasted by the turbo-prop
back draft, he lugged his kit forwards, dumping it alongside other
rucksacks whilst taking in the familiar terminal building. It had not
changed at all. Back at the rear of the aircraft, he helped his
colleagues push a pallet off, the consignment clearly labelled as
“Lobster toys”. With the pallet pushed all the way inside the
terminal building, Lobster reclaimed his rucksack, finding a wooden
bench to call a home for the next few months.
The initial battle had not lasted long, the first aircraft landing
twenty minutes before Lobster’s. This time around, however, many
of the airport employees were allowed to walk out unharmed, their
purpose being to send a message to the Taliban leadership: the black
soldiers were back. Lobster pulled out a knife and set about his
pallet, his team nearby.
Command on the ground had been allocated to Major Nlobo,
known as Mister Lobo by his team. He was an eighteen-year
veteran, having started as a regular soldier and worked his way up,
and was a Lieutenant the first time he had landed here. He now drew
alongside Lobster. ‘They in one piece?’
‘We find out now, sir. But they’re pretty tough.’
‘Give the men in the city an hour to report our presence, then cut
all the communications.’
‘Yes, sir. No Baywatch tonight.’
 Lobo lifted his eyebrows. ‘I don’t think the Taliban allow people
to watch Baywatch, Sergeant.’ Outside, he walked across to the
mortar section. ‘Ready, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir. All set up.’
‘Wake up the town with six rounds.’ He turned and walked back
to the terminal, accepting a fresh tea. A dull rumble caused him to
lower his tea and exchange a look with his adjutant. With heavy
frowns, they returned to the mortar section.
‘What the fuck was that?’ he barked.
The NCOs had their noses in the mortar crate. ‘They be labelled
wrong, sir. They be earthquake shells,’ a Somali reported.
‘I know, I could hear it. So could people in Angola!’
‘They all say regular, sir.’
Lobo inspected the crate. ‘Who packed these?’
‘They come from China, sir. We no see them before.’
‘I wanted to wake up the town, not demolish it!’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Try and hit the crossroads to the northeast with them,’ Lobo said
as he turned, cursing under his breath and shaking his head.
With little to do at the moment, Lobster offered to help the mortar
crews, perching himself on the wall with binoculars and compass.
‘Bearing zero-four-seven. Laser rangefinder says two thousand two
hundred yards. Fire one.’
A shell was lobbed outward.
Lobster watched as a cloud of dust enveloped a large area, several
cars in the wrong place at the wrong time and now rolled away like
toys. When the dust settled, a large crater was discernable a few
yards off the east road. He lifted the radio. ‘Close. Fire another.’
This mortar round hit the edge of the road, leaving a crater that
cut into the tarmac.
‘West one degree. Fire one.’
The local traffic had an odd reaction to the blasts: they speeded
up, as if speed was a safety factor during a mortar attack. Three
Toyota pickups were on the crossroads when it was hit, all
destroyed, a suitable crater left behind.
‘OK, it’s zeroed on the crossroads, leave that tube.’ He swivelled
around, facing southwest. ‘Bearing one-one-three. Range one
thousand two hundred. Fire one.’
With traffic still on the road, the junction blew, a pleasingly large
crater left behind, a few Toyota pickups destroyed. Lobster was
certain that their presence was now known. Walking back, he
approached trucks being examined, and enquired about the contents.
 ‘It say conc-re-etee.’
‘Concrete,’ Lobster corrected the man. He turned and faced a
digger. It had seen better days, but was obviously still in use, and it
gave Lobster an idea. He went and found Lobo. ‘Sir, there’s a
digger, and a lorry full of concrete.’
‘Really?’ Lobo asked, pleased at the find.
‘We can make a bunker or two, some sleeping quarters at the far
end, and repair the walls,’ Lobster suggested.
‘Definitely.’ Lobo pointed at a Captain. ‘You’re assigned to dig
slit trenches, to make concrete roofs, and a few bunkers.’
‘And don’t be forgetting the central heating, sir,’ Lobster offered
the captain as he left.
An hour later, Lobster lugged a heavy EMP to the north wall, his
colleague lugging an even heavier battery pack. They moved the
other soldiers back, and struggled up to the top of the wall, Lobster
sitting straddle and facing the town, a few kids visible across the
stream.
‘No one leaves Baby in the bag,’ Lobster offered his colleague.
‘Baby? This ain’t no baby, it’s the ugly fat sister.’
With the device plugged in, Lobster diligently checked the
settings, re-checked the aim, and fired. The green lights turned red.
All done.
In Kandahar, radios and phones stopped working. ‘No Baywatch
tonight!’ Lobster said as he jumped down.
Collecting two battery grenades, Lobster and his colleague
lugged their heavy bits of kit all the way to the south wall, through a
hole, and to a flat and open expanse. A well-worn path showed the
way, mines still scattered about from the previous incursion. Two
hundred yards out, covered by the snipers on the wall, Lobster found
a dry streambed. He turned one way, his buddy the other. A hundred
paces along they dumped their heavy bits of kit, set the battery
grenades for one minute, placed them right inside the devices, pulled
the pins – and ran.
They both made it to the wall as the grenades blew, little but
scrap metal left of the two secret devices, and that metal was spread
far and wide, pieces now raining down on the airfield.
Nightfall saw the intermittent use of a distant DSHK, rounds
falling inside the perimeter. On the roof of the terminal building, a
captain sat behind a laptop screen, radio in hand, as the software
displayed the streaks of incoming rounds and, more importantly,
their origins. Mortars were directed, but did not need be accurate;
anyone within sixty yards was killed as earthquake shells flew out
after the DHSK.
Five yards from the captain – the man now chilled in a freezing
wind, a type of radar detector spun around. Below, in a warm office,
another captain sat behind a laptop, keenly observing a map of the
area to a distance of twenty miles. On it, coloured markers denoted
radio usage, mobile phones or satellite phones. Blips were left on the
screen after brief conversations, moving blips tracked, and priority
targets could be selected.
Kandahar was quiet, hit with an EMP, but the screen now showed
two or more satellite phones and a dozen radios in a convoy. And
two separate groups. He twisted his head over his shoulder. ‘Stand
to! Stand to!’
Lobo appeared a few seconds later. ‘Are we popular tonight?’
‘Sat phones and radios, two sizeable convoys. First is moving
along the main road through Kandahar, west to east, second is
southeast of us and approaching.’
‘Introduce them to some mortar fire.’
The captain lifted his radio, changed the settings, and called.
‘Mortar crew?’
‘Here, sir.’
‘Ready all tubes. Target will be both crossroads, wait my signal.
Standby … standby … north crossroads, fire three rounds only.
Standby … south crossroads, fire three rounds only – wait out.’ He
checked his screen, finding little radio chatter or sat phone use. A sat
phone came to life near the north crossroads, then nothing.
Lobo returned. ‘Upload the sat phone numbers to the CIA. They
may have them logged.’ He turned away.
‘Mister Lobo,’ the captain called. When Lobo turned back, the
captain tapped a box on the edge of the screen. ‘That’s an encrypted
sat phone, to western intelligence agency standards.’
‘That’s naughty. They didn’t buy that down the local carpet
shop.’

Rahman lowered his phone onto a solid marble coffee table and
stepped to the window, staring out at the bright lights of Dubai.
Jimmy received a call, his interest peaked in that sat phone.

The captain was also interested, because although not in use, that sat
phone was giving away its position, now moving northeast at vehicle
speed.
 Up on the roof, the chilled captain sat observing as his software
burst into life, bleeps given and coloured flashes displayed. He
grabbed his radio. ‘Incoming! Rockets incoming!’
A small rocket hit the runway; no damage and no injuries. He
pinpointed its launch position as the Taliban fighters made ready a
second rocket under the cover of darkness, and lobbed a mortar onto
it, killing the unsuspecting crew.

In the morning, Jimmy called an early household “M” Group

meeting, before we left for Washington. ‘Last night, an encrypted
satellite phone was used in Afghanistan, cheekily bounced off a
NATO satellite. It was a stolen handset that had never been
disconnected. It is disconnected now, but the interesting fact is that
the recipient’s sat phone, also stolen, was tracked to Dubai.’
‘Can’t send in the marines,’ I quipped.
‘No,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘Which is something not lost on Rahman.’
‘Do we have a fix on his house?’ Jack asked.
‘No,’ Keely reported, the originator of this particular information.
‘Just central Dubai.’
‘It’s confirmed something that I’ve always believed about
Rahman,’ Jimmy stated. ‘That he’s an Arab, and that he’s worth a
few quid. We also know now that the two convoys that moved to
attack Kandahar last night were operating under his direct
instructions.’
‘What happened to them?’ I asked.
‘Wiped out.’
‘So he’ll send more,’ I suggested.
‘He’s not stupid, and he won’t repeat a mistake. The Taliban are a
bit thick, but al-Qa’eda are switched on, so too the Pakistani
fighters, and Rahman is better again. He’s a thinker.’
‘So are you,’ I quipped. ‘So out-think him.’
‘That’s easy, since he has objectives – and not much patience.
And he has no idea of the advanced technology at Kandahar. For all
he knows, the airfield is full of Somali grunts – an insult to his
superior Arab brain.’
‘So what’s his next move?’ I asked.
‘You tell me,’ Jimmy countered.
‘What’s his M.O?’ I asked.
‘Planes and boats…’ Jimmy trailed off. ‘If I was him, I’d hijack
or steal a plane, and ram it into that airport terminal at Kandahar.
But where … would he get one?’
‘Do they have any in Afghanistan?’ Jack asked.
 ‘Yes, in Kabul, but just a few UN flights. I’ll order as many as I
can out, the pilots to be armed. Other than UN and NGO flights,
nothing else lands there.’
‘Could he obtain one from a neighbouring state?’ Han asked.
‘Pakistani regional airports may be a choice, or somewhere north,
the old soviet satellite states.’ Jimmy lifted his own satellite phone
and selected a previously used number. ‘It’s me. Warn the team in
Kandahar to expect an airliner attack, like Mogadishu. Disperse
them. Thanks.’
‘That wouldn’t kill many,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen the layout of that
place. Those soldiers are a mile apart!’
‘Command post is in the main terminal,’ Jimmy said, his hands
wide.
‘Could he get surface to air missiles?’ Keely asked.
‘Probably,’ Jimmy answered. ‘And yes – he would try and shoot
down our re-supply aircraft. So I’ve varied the routes. To see them
coming he’d need a localised radar, which we’d detect.’
‘If I was him,’ I began, ‘I’d do the unexpected, and hit
Mogadishu again!’
‘And we know he likes to blow up boats. I’ll send Abdi a
message to watch the port. Anyway, tomorrow we’ll try a new
weapon on Iran.’
‘Iran!’ I challenged, sitting up.
‘Internet weapon,’ Jimmy said with a smile.
The following afternoon, as we were at the “M” Group meeting,
we got confirmation from Mossad agents inside Iran that most
internet servers were down, even the corner-shop internet cafes were
closing up. It had been a successful test, a full denial of internet use
for almost six hours achieved.
The Iranians immediately blamed the west, unaware that the re-
start of their servers coincided with tens of thousands of software
robots trawling for information based on keywords, and emailing the
detail out. It took the Iranians three days to discover that, which led
to all computers being ordered off, nationally, whilst a few clever
young men found a way to remove the robots.
Details of their continuing weapons programme was now out:
names, dates, figures - enough information for the Chinese and
Russians to know that their earnest diplomatic efforts had achieved
little. The UN received the detail, information that the Iranians
would find very hard to deny. When I asked Jimmy if the Americans
would attack, he simply shrugged. What he did say was, ‘Always
release a bad story on a good story day. Or on a very bad story day.’
Cuba

As we landed back in Cuba, it brought back a few bad memories for

me, vivid images of Karl’s death a contrast to the fine weather and
lush green vegetation.
We were booked into three different hotels – just in case, and had
made those bookings some three weeks earlier. Cuban agents stood
ready at each hotel, and several of Jimmy’s gadgets were pulsing
away, interfering with bomb timers and oven timers alike. Alarm
clocks went crazy and staff slept in.
The hotel we actually chose was a new-build, and owned by Po. I
found that fact odd, since it appeared typically Cuban, not typically
crazy. Turned out that the Cubans had used a few harsh words
towards Po, and then forced a design upon him. I was certain the
drawings had no kangaroos in them.
Despite the hotel being Chinese owned, the staff were all locals,
polite and friendly. And the notice board declared that tonight was
Salsa dancing night. I had to wonder what the hell they did on the
other six evenings of the week. That first evening was relaxing,
bomb and sniper free, the next day spent with Rescue Force, the
camp here now as big as Mawlini, with recruits emanating from all
of the South America countries. Hacker was still putting them
through their paces, and Hueys buzzed around, the Cuban people
now used to them.
On the third day we toured our well-run orphanage in the
morning, meeting with the government in the late afternoon. There
Jimmy broke the bad news.
‘We believe that an earthquake will strike Cuba soon. In four
weeks.’
They were mortified, thoughts of Haiti coming to mind. ‘How
serious an earthquake?’
‘Not like Haiti,’ Jimmy was keen to emphasise. ‘But still quite
bad. It will strike in the south east, so we’d like Rescue Force to be
ready.’
‘Of course, there are many of your people here.’
‘We’d like to use additional French and British doctors if that is
OK. Some from Africa.’
‘You will need many?’
 ‘Better to have too many, than too few,’ Jimmy told our hosts.
It took a while to reassure the officials, and we moved onto oil,
the Cubans allocating us extra concessions. Jimmy then surprised
me with a request to open a few factories on the island. The factories
would employ local people and be owned and run by CAR, and
would make household items. Like washing machines.
Leaving the meeting, Jimmy simply suggested that Cuba needed
a boost. Cuba’s relations with the US were now amicable, albeit a
frosty kind of amicable, and trade was increasing. What Jimmy now
desired was a rapid increase in Cuban GDP, and he handed me the
task. As if I didn’t have enough to do already.

An12

In Kabul, Taliban fighters had seized two UN aircraft after gun

battles. One aircraft was too badly damaged to take off, the second
now pulling away from Kabul and heading southwest. The news
reached us in time, a warning given to Kandahar airfield. Lobster
took Baby out of the bag and jogged to the north wall.
Meanwhile, a fortuitous turn of events was about to benefit us,
not Rahman. With complaints of large-scale civilian deaths already
made, TV crews had arrived in Kandahar, even a western crew
hoping to get an exclusive, a team of Italians who had been based in
Islamabad.
An hour after the alert had been given, with Lobster stood waiting
patiently, all eyes now on the dull grey cloud base, a plane could be
heard approaching. The An12 broke through the clouds at three
thousand feet, turned east and then west, finally figuring out where
the airfield was. It nosed down towards Lobster, coming at him head
on a mile out.
The EMP had a crude aiming slide, but Lobster waited, just to be
sure. Judging the aircraft to now be within a mile, his colleague held
the EMP whilst Lobster peered through the slide’s groove. He
delicately moved his finger to the release button, just registering its
surface texture, and took a half-breath. Exhaling slowly, Lobster
took a final aim and pressed gently – so as to not move the EMP.
He lifted up and breathed normally again. Nothing. They waited.
Then the peace of the morning registered with them, a distinct
lack of aircraft engines on the breeze. The pilot of the An12,
whoever he was, lost power and momentum quickly, but did the
wrong thing by trying to keep the nose up. His airspeed dropped
rapidly and he stalled, the aircraft soon nosing down and entering a
spiral, unrecoverable without its engines working.
As the soldiers, and the residents of Kandahar observed, the An12
spiralled down into the town’s main crossroads, the accidental aim
being just about perfect. The blast was huge.
‘That was no normal crash,’ Lobster realised. ‘That plane, it had
explosives in the back!’
The TV crews had caught it all, but with no idea that an EMP
device had been discharged. It looked, for all intents, that the pilots
had deliberately targeted the city centre, the damage extensive,
dozens of buildings now on fire. The Taliban leadership had been
promised a victory by Rahman, the destruction of the terminal
building at the airfield. Now, all the world saw his attack kill
innocent civilians through their TV sets.
I watched the images silently, stood in front of the TV in the
diner. Turning to Jack, I said, ‘He won’t try that again.’
Shelly stepped in with a girlfriend from school, and two boys,
both of whom were a few years older than her. I headed towards the
door, offering polite – yet forced smiles at the lads.
‘Good to meet you, Mister Holton,’ the first lad offered. ‘I read
all the books.’ The second lad was equally as pleased to meet me. I
shook their hands.
‘Any chance of a helicopter ride?’ the second lad risked.
‘I’ll leave that to my daughter to arrange,’ I said as I left. In the
house, I reported the foursome in the diner to Helen.
She made a face. ‘At least she brings them back here, where we
know where they are. At this age you just need to give them space.’
‘Maybe if we injected them again they’d age backwards,’ I
quipped.
The following Friday evening we flew down to Goma hub,
arriving at dawn, soon being whisked toward our new home, Shelly
keen to see her designs come to life. Turning south from the airport,
we passed the conference centre, the towers of the stock exchange
visible in the distance. Beyond them, tall cranes attended new bank
headquarters, eight structures being built at once.
Leaving the city, we passed Spiral IV on the right, and turned
onto a new road heading towards the lake, its verges being carefully
tended by dozens of landscape gardeners. Half a mile along this new
road we noticed signs advertising properties for sale off-plan.
 Jimmy said, ‘We’re building these to sell, and Po and Yuri have
land at the end of this road.’
The lake came into view, that view soon blocked by a row of tall
hedges that had obviously been transplanted from elsewhere; they
had not grown to the height that they now reached in this location.
Our coach slowed, halting outside large iron gates, affording us our
first glimpse of the new house, a pink finish to the walls. It was
definitely Miami style. Guards manned the gates, and our coach
slowly navigated around a large fountain, space enough for the
coach to halt on a gravel forecourt.
Stepping down, I looked up at the mansion, very pleased with it,
Shelly and Lucy running forwards. Enclosed on three sides, we
stepped towards the main entrance, its grand old wooden doors ajar,
a housemaid stood ready. Inside the main door I found a small desk,
a bodyguard stood near it. He would be there to police visitors. The
main hallway was huge, four sofas facing out from a centre feature
of tall green plants. Not rubber, I tested their leaves.
Corridors led off ahead, left and right, the girls running up the
marble stairs to find their rooms, our luggage now being brought in.
I turned right, finding a large dinning room, then a kind of staff
room and cloakroom opposite it. Beyond that I found a lounge as big
as those in the UK. Turning left, towards the lake, I noticed a series
of offices; high long windows, desks and computers, one of our
corporation staff sat behind one.
At the end of that corridor a guard opened a door and I stepped
out to a view of the gardens and pool. To the left, in the shelter of
the house, sat a huge fountain, colourful goldfish moving sluggishly
through the water. Separating the fountain and pond from the pool
ran a hedge some five feet tall and neatly trimmed, the other side of
which I found neatly mown grass. The grass led to a pool some
twenty metres long and ten metres wide, invitingly blue. I ran my
fingers though its cool water, checking for crocs.
Beyond the pool I found a large area of grass dotted with round
bushes, the view of the lake interrupted. I walked on, noticing a sign:
no swimming in lake! It seemed like good advice. I reached the end
of our garden and joined a concrete jetty, walking along it some
thirty yards into the shallow lake. At the end, I halted next to a red
and white buoyancy ring for swimmers in trouble. I had to wonder
what use it would be during a croc attack.
The lake was dead calm and quite inviting, despite the sign, the
other side of the lake shrouded in haze. I could not see Rwanda.
Turning around, I got the full effect; the pool, the garden and the
house. As I stood there, I could not decide if it was more French
chateau, or Miami drug dealer’s pad. It was, however, utterly
stunning, and put Jimmy’s house to shame.
Ambling back along the jetty, two bodyguards waiting off to one
side, I could see the neighbouring houses under construction. It
would be a nice neighbourhood when finished. Re-entering the
house, across the pond from where I had joined the garden, I found
the indoor pool. Upstairs, I found my room labelled, Helen
inspecting wardrobes.
‘Palatial,’ I said as I entered.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ Helen agreed. ‘It’ll make going home seem a bit
odd.’
I had to wonder what was going through her mind regarding the
house in Wales. I stepped into the bathroom, finding a large bathtub,
Jacuzzi, walk in shower and large cabinets. Back in the bedroom, I
peered through the windows at the garden and pool before
unpacking. And those items I now unpacked would be staying here,
ready for when we were in attendance.
Later, I poked my head into the girls rooms, loudly asked to “go
away”, then checked out some of the guest quarters. Upstairs, in the
attic section, I met some of the ten permanent staff, discovering the
staff kitchen and bar, the small room offering a view of both the
gardens, and the front forecourt. I made a point of greeting each
member of staff, making them feel welcome, but telling them to get
plenty of books to read for when we were not visiting.
That evening we ate in the dinning room, practise for the staff at
creating and serving formal meals, five of us around a table big
enough for twenty. The following morning I sat next to the pool with
a cold beer, laptop under a sunshade, and checked emails as the girls
swam, Helen sunning herself. It was just about perfect.
Around noon a speedboat shot past, turned around and tied off on
the jetty, Yuri and his latest squeeze walking down to us under the
careful eye of the bodyguards. A maid brought them drinks as
Jimmy joined us.
‘Your boat is not here?’ Yuri asked.
‘Boat?’ I repeated.
‘I ordered two speedboats for us, plus two for the bodyguards,’
Jimmy explained.
‘For us – ours?’ I asked, getting back a nod.
Thirty minutes later our peace was disturbed by a speedboat on
steroids.
‘Now we’re definitely Miami drug lords,’ I quipped.
 We grabbed hats and sunglasses, and the girls, and inspected the
speedboats, soon pushing off. I took charge of one, Helen left seat,
with Yuri and his lady in the back. Jimmy and the girls took the
second speedboat, Shelly driving, our bodyguards in the two chase
boats. I was suddenly glad that we didn’t have any neighbours yet.
Shelly closed the throttle with a roar, the front of her craft lifting
up and flying across the water. I decided not to copy and pulled
away gently, soon turning left and heading slowly for the marina as
we chatted. Shelly passed us once, roaring past at speed, the
bodyguards not trying to follow her.
Approaching the marina entrance we noticed a few other
speedboats, plus a handful of sailboats. Unfortunately for them,
there was little wind in their sails today. The large sign in the water
gave the speed limit, and a severe warning for those who broke the
limit, a police officer with binoculars at the end of the marina’s long
jetty. I steered us inside at a sedate three miles per hour.
Arriving at the main marina I turned left, halting at a quiet spot, a
handful of tourists out walking. ‘This is the way to get to work,’ I
said.
Noticing a quiet café, we grabbed seats, the local police soon
arriving, but keeping a discrete distance. Half an hour later, Lucy
motored slowly towards us, tying off alongside our speedboat and
joining us.
When Jimmy sat, I commented, ‘These boats will piss off the
neighbours.’
‘Only if driven like an idiot close to shore,’ Jimmy pointed out.
‘There was no one on the lake,’ Shelly protested.
‘There’re police patrols now,’ Jimmy informed us. ‘And
gunboats.’
‘Gunboats?’ I repeated.
‘Protect this place from attack across the lake,’ Jimmy said.
After a bite to eat we reclaimed the speedboats, chugging along at
three miles per hour till beyond the jetty, then opening up. Back at
the new mansion, now officially the Governor’s Residence, we made
ready for our first formal meal, President Errol, the head of the
corporation, and a few senior staff invited over. They had admitted
to taking a peek at the place before it was completed.
The girls were not due back in school till Wednesday, so on the
Monday morning we drove down the new highway, open only for us
and the builders, and to the heart of New Kinshasa. Halting at a
portakin, we stepped down to find an area devoid of features, flat for
at least three miles in all directions. The highway cut through the
wasteland, heading south, branches forking off and heading east, and
what looked like a million yellow bulldozers now roared slowly
about, flattening the land and digging trenches.
I put a hand over my eyes and scanned the horizon, not seeing
any buildings yet standing, a few wooden cabins dotted about. When
a man in a yellow hard hat approached, I said, ‘You haven’t done
much yet. When’ll it be ready?’
He gave me an exasperated look. ‘We have three shifts of eight
hours. It’s round the clock, sir.’
We examined his drawings, Shelly keen to see the layout, and I
tried to imagine what it might look like some day. Back at the house,
Yuri brought around a small twenty-foot sailboat, the girls keen to
have lessons. That left me by the pool with a cold beer, emails being
answered. Jimmy and Helen used the office to catch up, soon ahead
enough to warrant a swim.
When the household staff set-up two massage tables I took
notice, Helen and Jimmy lying face down and being attended by
Chinese ladies. I guess they had caught up on their work. That or
they just didn’t care. When the girls returned we ate around the pool.
‘Sooo much better than Wales,’ Shelly suggested.
‘In the summer, the flies will be a problem,’ Jimmy idly
commented. ‘Windows and doors will need to kept shut, flytraps
used. It’s not all great down here.’
‘I had an email from Jordan,’ I mentioned. ‘They’re asking for
more desalination, another plant.’
Jimmy thought about that. ‘It’ll lead to tension with Israel. The
West Bank will run low on water soon, and between them and the
ocean sits Israel.’
‘Anything we can do?’
‘No much, not without going head to head with the Israelis -
who’ll be happy to see the West Bank dry out! Build a desalination
plant north of Tel Aviv. If the Israelis have more water, it’s less
pressure on the Palestinians.’
‘Yemen is falling apart,’ I ventured.
‘That’s a Saudi problem - they can pay for it if they want. My
next big spend will be North Korea, dragging them from the Stone
Age and into a modern era. They have a good chance at developing
their GDP and helping the world economy.’ He took a breath. ‘And,
next year, we’ll start building properties in Greece, everywhere apart
from Athens.’
Helen and I exchanged looks, the girls not following.
‘How many … houses?’ I probed.
 ‘As many as we can afford. If we can build a million, we’ll build
a million.’

Sudan

With Helen flying back with the girls, Jimmy and I set off to meet a
high-ranking delegation from the Sudanese Government in Nairobi.
Travelling out from Nairobi airport in a coach I could see a few
electric scooters, our electric taxis everywhere, and just about every
bus seemed to be one of ours. We had commissioned an extra oil-
fired power station north of the city, and that cheap electricity now
translated into cheap transport for the population. That gave low
earners a little extra cash to spend on improving their lives, and it
gave the better off money for luxury goods, inevitably imports from
the west.
Arriving at the government buildings, we paid our respects to the
President, a quick chat before meeting the Sudanese delegation. The
Kenyans were happy with the new marina north of River View,
Mombassa, and the effect it was having on tourism and property
prices. They were even happier with the new F15s and the RAF
training squadrons, making me wonder what was truly important to
them.
We found the Sudanese sat waiting, a six-man team with
translators. After a minute of suitably false diplomatic greetings,
with suitably false smiles, we settled opposite each other in a large
and quite dark room. At least the air-conditioning worked.
Jimmy began with, ‘Ethiopia has agreed to join our economic
cooperation group, and we’ll be test drilling for our own oil there
very soon. But that closer association with Ethiopia should not be
seen as a worry to anyone in the region, not to Sudan. But we are
interested in inviting Southern Sudan into our group.’
That pissed them off greatly, but they controlled it. It also seemed
to worry them.
Jimmy continued, ‘We have no intention of taking Southern
Sudan by force, and have no intention of creating conflict in the
region. We would like to invite Southern Sudan to join our group,
but only so long as the rights of North Sudanese businesses and
citizens are respected.’
That surprised them.
 Jimmy added, ‘We would be certain to protect the interests of
your citizens, and more than that – we would wish your cooperation
on new projects, transport and oil pipelines. We would not move
into Southern Sudan unless it’s done so with your blessing.’
‘What … type of arrangement are you interested in?’ they asked.
‘We would develop Southern Sudan as an independent state, but
would do so whilst awarding contracts to Sudanese companies.
When we improve the roads, and the rail links, your businessmen
will benefit from it. We’ll build airports, and we’ll provide cheap
fuel and new power stations in the region. You can be sure that any
profit we make would be spent in the region, as we have done here
in Kenya, and in the Congo. Our record speaks for itself.’
‘And the police and army of Southern Sudan?’
‘Would be the same as everywhere else, and under our influence.
We would supply them to keep the peace, not to impose a Christian
dominance on the region.’
‘And the government?’
‘After the citizens see what idiots the SLA are, and how inept
they are, we’ll help to elect a few better politicians.’
That stopped them dead. ‘You don’t want to see the SLA in
power?’
‘Former guerrilla fighters do not make for good politicians.’
‘The SLA would not be running the region, you would?’ they
queried.
‘The cooperation group of African nations would be running the
region,’ Jimmy emphasised.
‘You could influence the SLA now – and move in now,’ they
posed.
‘We could, but we won’t. We wish to only move in with your
assistance and cooperation, because that way we could develop the
region the fastest. It is about money and development – not politics.’
‘We are in agreement,’ they stated, and I had to blink, not least
because they could not have said that without prior permission.
Jimmy opened his case and handed over documents. ‘There is no
hidden small print, and we could not hold you to it anyway. These
documents detail the military, police and civil structures that you
agree with us operating. The SLA have already signed such a
document.’
That was news to me; the bugger had kept that quiet. Our guests
signed, the Kenyans coming in to witness the signing, photographers
and reporters from the African Times allowed in. We stepped
outside as a group, TV cameras waiting, and issued a lengthy
statement.
With that done, we thanked the Sudanese, chatting with the
Kenyan President again for ten minutes, plans for train links and
roads north through Ethiopia. We handed the documents to a senior
executive from CAR, telling him to get oil derricks ready. Next
came a meeting with Ngomo.
‘Are they keeping you busy?’ I asked.
‘Shuffling the papers, smiling for the cameras,’ he said as we sat.
‘A year from now, step down and run for office,’ Jimmy flatly
told him.
Ngomo stared back. ‘A year?’ he finally asked.
‘A year, and destiny calls to a son of Kenya.’
Ngomo nodded his head reluctantly.
‘How’s Kandahar?’ I asked.
‘Surprisingly quiet,’ Ngomo replied. ‘No major attacks.’
‘It’s winter there,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘They don’t like the cold
weather. But spring is coming. Anyway, we have a deal with the
Sudanese. So I want four thousand Rifles up there on peacekeeping
and disarmament patrols. Then I want you to find Rifles near
retirement, even if they’re a year or two short, and recruit them to
the police for that area. We then want to create a Southern Sudan
Rifles, but based in the far south to start with, training in the Congo.
Let’s not worry the Sudanese.’
‘I think we could find four hundred police straight away,’ Ngomo
put in.
‘They must be willing to travel, and to live up there,’ Jimmy
emphasised. ‘Oh, and I want poaching stamped out. I’m going to re-
introduce a few animals and open safari tours in the Rift Valley.’
‘I’ll get some men on it. When do we break out of Kandahar?’
‘If no one attacks … then in four weeks they can go hunting, but
the main force will land in May.’
‘How are the western boys doing?’ I asked.
‘They learn very quickly, more than us poor Africa boys,’ Ngomo
said with a smile. ‘Now they are fit and strong, and good at the
technical exams. They pass quickly.’
‘Do they argue and fight?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but with their own countrymen, not the others. When you
see groups going off-duty for a drink, they are mixed. Some stick
together, but others are trained in mixed groups – and they drink
together.’
‘Will they be ready in time?’ I asked.
 ‘For the Taliban, yes,’ Ngomo was sure of. ‘The white boys, they
only needed to learn to look death in the face and laugh. And they
talk like Rifles now.’ He put on a false voice. ‘What do you need a
helmet for? Are you planning on letting someone shoot you in the
head? Why dig a trench, unless you are planning on being buried in
it!’
‘Won’t be easy for them to re-integrate,’ I noted.
‘No,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘But most will stay with the desert brigade,
or go into bodyguard work.’
On the way down to Mombassa we enjoyed the benefits of a
greatly improved highway, even taking the time to stop at a dodgy
burger bar en route. We made record time, pulling into Ebede with
the sun still well above the horizon. Anna’s daughter greeted us,
leading us inside to her mum and dad.
‘You don’t work together do you?’ I asked Anna and Cosy. ‘You
know what they say about husband and wife teams that work
together.’
‘She’s the boss,’ Cosy said, shaking my hand. ‘That makes life
easier.’
Anna gave us both hugs before making tea.
‘You trying to do my job for me?’ I asked Anna. ‘You sorted my
skills shortage before I did.’
‘It’s all part of the education process,’ Anna said as she sat. ‘If
we know what Africa is short of we can teach it at age twelve
onwards.’
‘More computer programmers,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘We seriously
lack good computer people. More than enough nurses and soldiers.’
‘Should those programmes be scaled back?’ Anna asked.
‘A little, because we should be trying to go high-tech - where we
can. Anyway, we have the Southern Sudan deal, so I want three
large regional orphanages opened up. I’ll leave the detail to you.
Then, in a few years, colleges bolted on.’
‘You’ll develop that region,’ Cosy asked.
Jimmy nodded. ‘It needs it. Badly.’
‘Have you been enjoying the marina?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Anna enthused. ‘It’s lovely. We go down there for meals
of an evening; it’s closer than Mombassa town. And better, really.’
‘Meet us there tomorrow afternoon at 3pm, I have something you
can enjoy of a weekend,’ Jimmy told them.
We booked into the golf hotel, soon in the rooftop bar and
enjoying a cold beer, joined by the manager to go through business.
Seems that the golf tournaments were well attended, the nearby
hotels all booked solid for those particular weeks, the marina
jammed during golf tournaments. Still, it was good for the local
community.
We dived off the beach early, the first guests of the scuba centre
at 7am, a hearty breakfast enjoyed afterwards at the beach bar. We
lazed around for a few hours, cleaning up to head off to the new
marina, its facilities completed just six weeks ago and in time for the
last golf tournament.
Carrying our jackets over our shoulders, we walked along the
back of the beach, across to where I first found the turtle of
indeterminate sex, and to the fence. Guards let our party through,
and we ambled across a car park to a grassy area the size of a
football pitch. At the other side of the park I noticed the backs of
bars and cafes.
Reaching those bars and cafes, we entered the marina at the
southern end, our field of view blocked by what seemed like a
thousand sailboats. This marina was again a horseshoe design, but
on a grand scale compared to Gotham City. I figured the water basin
to be a third of a mile across.
Turning left, we followed the quayside, slowly navigating
through the tourists, many stopping to snap us. The ground level
seemed to offer mostly cafes, seats in the sun for their patrons.
Above them ran a walkway, backed by what appeared to be mostly
restaurants and bars, and above them sat two storeys of apartments.
Jimmy pointed up at the apartments. ‘Most of those apartments
are short-term rentals for boat crews. This is the best marina for …
well, it’s the only decent fucking marina between Suez and Cape
Town.’
‘Popular then.’
‘And it’s perfectly suited to reach the Seychelles.’
Jimmy stopped, recognising a boat name. ‘Hallo?’ he shouted,
followed by a sentence in German.
A face peered out from the galley. It became a body, that of an
elderly man. ‘Mein Gott! Silo.’
‘Can we come aboard?’
‘Yah, yah.’
We stepped across, two women emerging, and I suddenly had a
chill. Jimmy had met these people before, on the Long Voyage to
Canada. They had stayed on the Seychelles together, and he had
slept with both ladies – as did our IT guy Gareth – only it would
never happen now.
‘Warmer than Baden Baden,’ Jimmy said.
 The man stared back. ‘I was born there!’
‘Good guess,’ Jimmy quipped, a glance at me. ‘Schnapps?’
‘Why not,’ the old man replied with a shrug. They fetched glasses
and Schnapps, soon telling us of their voyages around the region.
We couldn’t invite them to our other marina, we explained, since it
was bit landlocked. Jimmy did, however, give them permission to
drop anchor inside our breakwater at River View instead of paying
mooring fees here. They were most grateful, and most surprised.
At 3pm we found Anna, after exchanging positions by phone.
Jimmy led us all along a central pontoon and to a yacht, a ninety-
foot yacht. The crew welcomed us aboard, cold drinks ready.
In a sumptuous lounge, looking like it was used for filming porn
movies, Jimmy said, ‘You can use this whenever you like, sleep in
it, entertain guests. But the Rescue Force senior staff will also want
to use it. There’s scuba gear, jet skis, all sorts on it.’
‘Could do with this in Goma,’ I complained.
‘A bit big to transport,’ Jimmy sarcastically stated.
‘We don’t have a lot of free time,’ Anna put in.
‘Make time,’ Jimmy told her. ‘Be a director, not a worker.’
‘I’ve said that once of twice,’ Cosy echoed, a look exchanged
with Anna.
We slipped our moorings and powered slowly out through the
breakwaters, turning right and heading south, four bodyguards on
the quarterdeck. At River View, we eased through the hook of our
own curved breakwaters and into the shallow lagoon, dropping
anchor little more than ten yards from swimmers in the surf. Having
explored the boat I stripped off and dived in, trunks found in a cabin.
Swimming back I could see the bubbles of divers below us.
Climbing aboard, a diver surfaced close by, tearing off his mark and
spitting out his regulator. It was Heinz from the dive centre.
‘Paul, there’s a bomb on your hull!’
I grabbed Anna’s daughter, stood close, and threw her
unceremoniously over the side. Lifting my head the bodyguards,
now curious, I shouted, ‘There’s a bomb! Jump into the water!’
I could hear several splashes as I ran through the boat. ‘Get off
the boat! There’s a bomb. On the second deck I could see Anna,
Cosy, and the crew jumping over the side. Jimmy started the engine.
‘Jump off!’ I shouted as I neared him.
‘Too many people close by,’ he said, starting the engine.
Scraping the anchor as we turned, he powered up. I had to hang on;
this damn thing had more power than our speedboat. At speed, we
curved through the breakwater, missing the sides by inches, and out
to sea. I could then see what Jimmy was aiming at, a sailboat a
hundred yards ahead. He increased the acceleration, aimed to pass
the sailboat, and nudged me towards the side. ‘On my mark.’
We passed the sailboat.
‘Now!’
I hit the water at thirty miles per hour, a little disorientated under
the water, soon treading water as the sailboat appeared alongside
me. Jimmy appeared behind me as inflatable rings were thrown out
attached to ropes, the boat’s mainsail dropped.
‘What the hell did you in jump for?’ a British man in his fifties
asked.
‘Bomb on the boat,’ I told him.
He stared at me. ‘Oh.’
We all stared after the yacht as it powered out to sea.
‘Well, if the bomb doesn’t go off,’ Jimmy began. ‘Someone in
India will get themselves a nice new yacht.’ He checked his watch.
‘Five to four.’
‘A timer?’ I asked.
‘Someone knew we’d board it at 3pm, so maybe they allowed an
hour for us to be out at sea.’
A Huey passed overhead, an RF Huey heading after the yacht.
‘Stupid fucks,’ I said. I grabbed the boat’s radio and altered the
settings to those that I knew were RF Kenya. ‘Paul Holton to dozy
Huey pilot?’
‘Paul, this is Romeo-Tango twelve. We’re closing in on you.’
‘No you’re not, dumb fuck. We’re on the sailboat you just
passed!’
The Huey turned around. And so did our yacht. I pointed. ‘It’s
turning.’
Jimmy checked his watch. ‘One minute to four. That would be a
good time to blow it.’
Our yacht was now heading down the coast as the boat crew
offered us bottled water, the Huey circling. At two minutes past four
the bomb went off, smoke belching from the rear of the yacht as it
continued down the coast.
‘That wouldn’t have killed us,’ Jimmy scoffed. ‘Aim must have
been to sink us at sea. Fucking half arse terrorists. Can’t the
terrorists these days get anything right?’
The boat’s crew were a bit bemused by it all, especially Jimmy’s
attitude. They set a course for the marina, and I used the radio,
asking the Huey to follow our sinking yacht. It wasn’t a difficult
task, the damn thing had a smoke stack a mile high already. And my
clothes were on board. Bugger.
The marina had been evacuated, flashing blue lights everywhere,
soldiers and police officers on the quayside, two Army Hueys
overhead. Coastguard boats, heading out, noticed us heading in and
followed us. I walked barefoot up onto the quayside in a
windcheater that the boat crew had loaned me, and we accepted a lift
back to the hotel, finding a damp Anna and family, four damp
bodyguards – their suits ruined.
After checking that Anna and her daughter were OK, we led Cosy
away. ‘Someone knew I’d be on that boat at 3pm. They set the timer
for 4pm, thinking we’d be at sea. It was small device, limpet, and a
bit amateurish.’
‘Sudan?’ Cosy asked.
‘I seriously doubt it,’ Jimmy told him. ‘Their delegation came
ready to make a deal.’
‘Al-Qa’eda?’ I asked.
‘If it is, then they’re being a bit personal, which is not like them -
at all. Plus I think they’d have gone for a better bomb. Cosy, check
on divers in the area who are short of cash. Ex-military divers. Make
that your top priority.’
A few hours later, the police informed us that they had recovered
our yacht. I blinked. Then they explained that it had taken on water,
which put out the fire, and hit a beach just a mile away. There it now
sat, high and dry, being examined. Another officer appeared with my
clothes, and I have to say I was surprised, smiling widely. My wallet
was as I left it, my iPhone listing a couple of hundred missed calls.
I walked straight down to reception, drew twenty thousand
dollars from the manager, and found Heinz in the beach bar, handing
it over. ‘You saved us. Well done.’
‘An honour, sir.’ He offered the money back.
‘Spend it as you see fit, look after the staff.’ I left him to his beer.
Back at the golf hotel I found Jimmy stood in front of a TV crew. I
joined him.
‘You are OK, Mister Holton?’
‘Yes, fine. I even got my clothes off the yacht, my wallet and
phone. No harm done. Now, I would like to apologise to the tourists
at the marina who were inconvenienced. When the marina re-opens
we’ll be arranging free drinks, so I urge everyone to return
tomorrow. We’ll also promise to visit less often, so it’ll be safer in
the future. Thank you.’
 As we walked off, Jimmy gave me an odd look. ‘You’re starting
to sound like me.’
‘So long as I don’t start looking like you.’
Anna and her family appeared an hour later, fresh clothes on.
They joined us at our table. Cosy said, ‘A diver was found dead an
hour hours ago.’
Jimmy took a moment. ‘Are PACT on it?’
‘All over it, fifty men here,’ Cosy reported.
Jimmy nodded. ‘And this … individual?’
‘Former French military diver, retired down here ten years ago.’
‘So, he needed a little money. But there’s no way in hell he’d talk
to al-Qa’eda.’
‘Could this be about Southern Sudan?’ I asked.
‘That was my first thought,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘There’re many
international companies in Southern Sudan, any one of which could
be fearful of us moving in. And the Sudanese had this meeting
pencilled in two weeks ago.’ He faced Anna, and paused. ‘Anna, I’m
horrified, and mortified, that you and your family were in danger.’
‘It would have been more of a loss if you left us,’ Anna countered
with quickly, her daughter as seemingly devout in her belief in
Jimmy, and not reacting to that odd statement from her mother.
‘Then we shall all have to be more careful in future.
Unfortunately, there are some very difficult years ahead for the
world. We will all be tested.’
With Anna and her family gone, I called home a second time,
Helen awake. And concerned. After the call I noticed a text
message, from NASA of all people. They wished to meet, and
invited us over. I found Jimmy in the bar.
‘NASA have invited us over,’ I puzzled.
‘NASA?’ Jimmy repeated. ‘Wonder who rattled their cage.’
‘Not trying to blow us up, are they?’ I quipped.
‘No, they’d have taken several years to design an elaborate bomb,
blown themselves up a few times, but finally perfected it a few years
after we had left the yacht. Having missed us, they would have then
borrowed a good old fashioned Russian bomb to try and do the job
properly.’
‘You don’t sound at all bitter towards NASA,’ I dryly stated.
‘We’ll pop in the next time we’re over there.’
‘Do we need to tighten security?’ I asked.
‘No, because we keep inventing new enemies. Can’t stop them
all. We’ll just have to be … lucky.’
 We drove out at 1am, arriving at Nairobi for an early morning
flight back. Was a time when we used to drive ourselves along this
route, I reflected. Back then no one knew us, but the mission was
just as important. Now we had a small army around us, and
everyone knew us.
Lucy was waiting for us at Heathrow, a big hug for her dad,
which was nice. I kissed Helen and took a seat, a thoughtful
sandwich waiting for me. The two-hour journey gave me time to
catch-up on emails, and to gossip with Lucy about Shelly’s
boyfriends. My elder daughter did, apparently, play the field a bit.
In the weeks that followed, a French oil company was linked to
the dead French diver, which was very cheeky given our relationship
with the French Government. Jimmy summoned the French Security
Minister and offered to EMP Paris – just for starters – if they did not
investigate thoroughly.
The DGSE took a quiet and stealthy approach, bugging the
phones of those they suspected, and handing the evidence to the
French President. He handed it to us, and suggested that the men
would be arrested and questioned upon their return to France. Jimmy
had other ideas. The men disappeared from Southern Sudan and
woke up in Somalia, where they faced unspecified terrorist charges.
A military tribunal was hastily arranged, the men hanged in public,
much to the consternation of the French Government and the French
public, the bodies incinerated instead of returning them to their
families. When pressed on the issue by the media, the French
Government admitted that the men were under investigation for
terrorist offences in Africa.
The Sudanese revoked the company’s license to operate in
Southern Sudan, and the remaining workers were escorted out, their
derricks and equipment bought by CAR at a fair price. In Paris, the
chairman resigned, two executives being arrested, the chairman
dying from unknown causes the next day.
How many more, I wondered. How many more would try and
stop us before they knew who Jimmy was, and what the mission
was. I figured there’d be a few.

Cave warfare
In the weeks that followed, the Pathfinders in Kandahar sent out
patrols and killed a number of Taliban fighters, but in small groups,
being careful to hide the bodies where they could. They would
sometimes venture out on three-day patrols, setting ambushes on
roads. But so far, no large force was moving their way.
The body count was good, but nothing like the previous
incursion. Jimmy upped the stakes, and sent four Mi24s to
Kandahar. Their purpose was not to pound the enemy, not yet, but to
insert small groups many miles away, up to a hundred miles away.
Lobster joined a few missions, using EMPs on nearby towns, few
phones or radios now working within a fifty-mile radius. And still
no counter-attack.
Lobo then planned an attack on a known training camp, but
Jimmy modified the plan before we set off for the States.
Four Mi24s flew out after dark a few days later, landing within
ten miles of the training camp that the CIA satellite had highlighted.
Without Baby in the bag, Lobster hiked with the twenty-four-man
patrol through the night, hiding on a ridge at daylight. The next
evening they pushed on, moving to within two miles of the camp.
To this particular north of the camp ran a high ridge that
overlooked the valley, a perfect spot from which to observe the
camp, or to launch an attack. Ignoring it, the patrol turned south
across the valley floor and to a smaller ridge. Hidden away in natural
caves, Lobster took out his radio scanner and set-up an observation
point. After six hours of scanning the ridge, and rubbing his cold
hands, he had detected nothing. He employed a thermal imager, but
again found nothing of interest, some movement in the camp in the
valley.
But two hours later he picked up a live radio or two, oddly
positioned halfway up the ridge. Using his thermal imager at
maximum magnification, he could see warm air billowing from a
cave. The camp was a trap, the main body of fighters waiting in the
caves above. This camp sat only ten miles from the Taliban lines
against the Northern Alliance, but who had the trap been set for?
As dusk fell the following evening, a patrol of four men moved
out slowly, carrying very little. They took three hours to slowly
move towards the camp, placing Good Morning grenades against
walls, or under bridges crossing culverts, and withdrew just as
stealthily.
At 9am, with fighters going about their business, the first grenade
blew, demolishing a building. Fighters in the camp ran about,
looking for enemies to shoot at, and eyes peered out from the caves
above. Radio chatter went off the scale, the thermal imager used to
pinpoint the caves, Lobster and his colleagues finding no less than
twelve of them. His fellow sergeant operated a laptop that scanned
the airways and recorded messages for later analysis.
An hour later, the second grenade blew, taking out a bridge over a
culvert, the explosion echoing around the ridge several times.
Fighters ran about searching, but found nothing. Twenty minutes
later, a third grenade took out a building, the fighters now taking
heavy casualties.
Lobster’s colleague with the laptop reported, ‘They think its
artillery.’
Six more grenades detonated, the camp devastated, many fighters
killed or wounded. But the men in the caves stood firm, figuring the
action below a prelude to an attack. And there was no easy way to
approach the caves from above or below that was clear to the
Pathfinders. As night fell, Pathfinders dropped into the valley and
killed goats with silenced pistols, carrying them back to their own
deep caves, where they now cooked the animals. Munching on fresh
goat meat, Lobster sat staring across at his adversaries. And waited.
Two days later, a patrol of men dropped from a cave, possibly
needing supplies, possibly believing that holding out in the caves
was folly. The camp below had been evacuated by its survivors, a
dozen bodies left lying around, plus body parts. The patrol stepped
slowly through the rubble, appearing to look for supplies. Lobster
checked his chart, lifted his radio and punched in a four-digit
number, pressing the green button.
A battery grenade, fitted with a remote detonator and left behind
for this very purpose, exploded, killing the patrol, the blast
something of overkill. Faces peeked out from above, but no further
patrols dropped to the valley floor. Lobster again waited, a tin of
Spam opened.
At noon the next day, the entire force holed up in the caves came
out, some sixty men, and moved east whilst avoiding the camp. The
Pathfinders packed up quickly and followed behind, locating the
patrol through its radio signals, and its thermal image as the sun
dropped behind the hills. The patrol of fighters reached a large
compound situated on a valley floor, and moved inside.
A single Pathfinder was sent up the ridge with a satellite phone
and binoculars, soon reporting that the men were sat about fires and
cooking. With the lookout still positioned on the ridge, a single man
moved forwards, taking an hour to reach the edge of the valley floor.
He took another hour to reach the compound, killing two guards
quietly with dart guns at close range. He placed his bag on the wall,
and quietly pulled back. At the road he simply ran, observed from
above. The required radio signal was sent, the equivalent of twenty
battery grenades detonating simultaneously. The compound
disappeared for a full two minutes, shrouded in dust.
When the dust cleared, no one was seen moving around. The
pathfinders withdrew, a long walk through the night to the nearest
helicopter pickup point, their tally being a good hundred fighters
killed. En route they re-visited the caves, finding sounds coming
from deep within, as well as cooking smoke. In a coordinated move,
ten battery grenades were thrown inside with ten-second timers,
giving the occupants a headache at least.
Ten minutes later, and with most of the caves having failed to
collapse, dazed fighters were killed silently as they exited, the
fighters stunned and deafened, their middle ear balance gone.
Back at Kandahar, Lobster gave a verbal report of the mission,
and of the tactics employed.
‘The fighters, they played the spider,’ Lobo pondered. ‘But why
would they think we would attack out?’ He put four man teams in
the helicopters, and placed them near known training camps, two
weeks of passive observations begun.
On the way to the airport, Jimmy took a call. Facing me, he
relayed the story of the caves and the camp.
‘Do we have a leak?’ I ventured.
‘First, I only told the “M” Group after the force went in, but the
Chinese and Russians knew – and they’re not about to talk to al-
Qa’eda. And second, the teams at Kandahar had no intention of
attacking outwards, they were ordered to wait and defend, expecting
attacks at the airfield.’
‘Rahman?’ I asked.
‘He knows nothing other than a small Somali force landed at
Kandahar, expecting them to behave as they did the last time.’
‘So why were they setting traps?’
‘I don’t think they expected the Northern Alliance to attack south,
especially not in winter. And the Northern Alliance have been losing
ground lately.’
‘Could they know about the invasion?’
‘They could suspect it, since both America and Somali have been
threatening to invade. But such an invasion would be high profile,
and highly visible; Rahman will be expecting conventional US
forces, not Rifles. And he’d have time after they land to organise
traps. Besides, he’d figure on American airpower, the camps getting
bombed from the air, so which poor sods would play at being bait
for that, their mates snug and cosy in the caves?’
‘Does Rahman know about the Rifles?’
‘Of course, he had a hand in Yemen when the Somalis were
there, so he knows their tactics and abilities.’
‘That’s it then. He expected a similar operation.’
‘Why? There’s a handful of Somalis at Kandahar, they had no
helicopters to start with, and that camp was sixty miles away. Did he
expect the Rifles to walk that far, attack and return? No, never.’
‘Coming back to a leak then?’ I posed.
‘A leak … telling al-Qa’eda what? About the invasion? That’s
due in May, a few cold months in a freezing rock of a cave? If there
is a leak, it’s a partial leak. Besides, by time the invasion comes
around the fighters will be pissed off with living in the caves and
move out. This is premature.’
‘When did you order the attack out?’ I asked.
‘A day before they attacked out!’
‘So if there is a leak, it would be in Kandahar,’ I suggested.
‘If there was a leak in Kandahar, they would have given the plan
away and our people would have fallen into a trap, or been attacked
at the helicopter landing zone.’
‘Someone watching the airfield?’
‘Lots of people watching the airfield, for all the good it would do
them. No, my thoughts come back to Rahman, and how he thinks.
He saw the Somalis in Yemen, and he may well believe that this
time there’ll be a larger incursion – a second wave, and he advised
his buddies accordingly.’
‘Do you think he’s made his way there?’
‘Fingers crossed, but I doubt it. From what I know of him he likes
his creature comforts, like Dubai. A cave in a mountain is not his
style, unless he’s either running scared, or feels that he needs to
show how tough he is to the frontline troops.’
‘He lost face with the Kabul plane hijacks,’ I pointed out, my
eyebrows raised.
‘Hopefully, he now thinks that he has something to prove.’
‘I can’t see any of the Rifles leaking info to al-Qa’eda,’ I said,
sighing. ‘Or anyone in the “M” Group, not that they knew. Have the
Rifles changed tactics?’
‘I told them to throw the manual out the window and to make
random moves. Not even they know what they’ll do next. And
there’s no way that Rahman could know about the advanced
weaponry. Some of the gadgets – I haven’t even told the “M” Group
about. He’s up against the Rifles, twenty years in the making with a
training programme from the future, armed with weapons from
2025.’
‘What would have happened … if the Rifles had approached that
camp and attacked?’
‘They would have still won, but may have taken casualties with
some close-up fighting. But the men in the caves were beyond seven
hundred metres, they had no sniper rifles or fifty calibres. The Rifles
would have set charges and decoys, then picked off the fighters, but
might have been surprised from the rear and above.’
‘God help whoever gets close up to the Rifles,’ I said, and opened
my laptop.
The next day, a pleasantly warm day in Houston, Texas, we were
transported from the airport to NASA’s Johnson Space Centre, a
large FBI protection detail. I remembered the film, Armageddon,
with Bruce Willis; he arrived with an FBI escort, and he was trying
to save the world. But I couldn’t remember if he survived or not.
Stepping down, an official shook my hand and led us inside.
‘The Bruce Willis film –’ I began.
‘Armageddon, I was an extra,’ the man excitedly explained.
‘Did he die?’
‘He did, yes.’
‘Bummer. That’s the thing about trying to save the world, you get
killed for your efforts,’ I quipped. That earned a very odd look from
our guide as we progressed, almost a saddened look.
Without any prompting, and with me wondering why, they
showed us the huge swimming pool for weightless training, a G-
force trainer and a few other toys.
I said to Jimmy, ‘Are they trying to impress us with all this?’
‘They spent a lot of taxpayers dollars on it, so they like to try and
justify it. It’s in their blood.’
We finally arrived at a guarded room, the title giving it away. It
read, ‘The Silo silo.’
I stopped and looked up at it. ‘You need to get out more often,
guys,’ I told our keen guide. He lowered his head sheepishly and led
us inside. We found a large room full of desks and computers, white
boards and slide screens six feet high, charts everywhere, pictures of
us two, even of the girls. ‘Yep, definitely need to get out more.’
They introduced us to a long line of experts in something or other
– I was lost after the first few titles, but at least it was a keen crowd.
I had no idea what to expect, but Jimmy seemed to be at ease with
our hosts.
 The main man, our guide, began with, ‘I would like to point out
that everyone here is security cleared, and that we know as much as
the President knows.’
‘Not much them,’ I quipped, getting some odd looks and a few
smiles. ‘And you’ve already made one mistake.’ They seemed
collectively mortified. ‘Where the fuck’s my cup of tea?’
They looked at each other as if each other was to blame for that
oversight.
‘That’s the thing about experts,’ Jimmy loudly stated. ‘They get
the clever stuff right - yet miss the simple stuff. And … don’t worry
about the tea, we’ll rough it.’
They sat at their desks, a panel of six senior men at the front.
‘We’d like to ask some questions and - since you are here – we’re
guessing that you may answer some of them. Oh, and we thank you
for your time. It’s a great honour.’
‘Fire away,’ I said, sitting on a desk.
‘The drug. Was it developed for long distance space flight?’
‘No,’ Jimmy answered, disappointing them.
They decided to be clever. ‘Was it developed to withstand the
rigours of any type … of journey?’
‘No. It was developed to withstand the rigours of decades of
warfare after World War Three,’ Jimmy told them. ‘And, if I was to
hazard a guess, I’d say that many people were experimented upon –
quite cruelly – to develop it.’
‘Not developed for a long distance Chinese space programme?’
‘The Chinese … now have very little interest in long distance
space flight,’ Jimmy answered.
‘Some argue that you favour the Chinese over others?’
Jimmy made a face. ‘They accept my advice and act upon it in a
refreshingly timely manner. Americans fold their arms, decide if
they believe the advice, then think about how they could use it to
their own advantage.’
‘Do the Chinese use it to their own advantage?’ they risked.
‘The Chinese have stuck to every agreement I have ever made
with them. If they broke any of those agreements they would not get
the same assistance. I like to see things in black and white, in a grey
world.’
‘Any of you driving electric cars?’ I asked. Only two raised their
arms. ‘Pathetic,’ I offered, not pleasing my crowd. ‘Are you not
interested in saving the planet?’
They shifted in their seats.
‘May we ask … a few direct questions?’
 ‘You can ask,’ I said. ‘But that doesn’t mean you’ll get an
answer.’
‘Then my first question is – is there a great deal more that you
know, that the “M” Group doesn’t?’
‘Yes,’ Jimmy answered. ‘A great deal more.’
‘And if something were to happen to you?’ they posed. ‘Like a
bomb on a yacht?’
‘Certain documents would be handed over,’ Jimmy told them.
‘And those documents would cover … everything?’
‘No, they would give you an outline. After that, you’re on your
own,’ Jimmy replied.
‘You take a great many risks,’ they posed.
‘What … like dodging your CIA?’ I snarled. ‘If you want to see
us stay alive, ask the other branches of your fucking government to
stop screwing with us.’
‘Well, we have no suitable response to that,’ they admitted.
‘The answer to your question,’ Jimmy began, ‘is that we have
developed a great many projects in secret over the years, and rightly
so, and that secrecy has caused both suspicion … and interest in us,
to the point of people shooting at us. It could not have been done any
other way.’
‘You are familiar with Colonel Thad Pointer?’
‘He still alive?’ I asked.
‘No, he died a while back. But he more or less proved that key
phrases of the Magestic letters were created by him … for the
specific purpose of time travel, and communication between such
travellers.’
‘Then why don’t you fully believe him?’ I pointed out.
‘Because if there were time travellers, NASA or Air Force, we
don’t think they would behave … as you do.’
I smiled. ‘What’s wrong with our behaviour?’
‘Well, you take risks for one, and … enjoy the highlife.’
‘And how would a NASA time traveller behave?’ I pressed, still
smiling.
‘They would come in from the cold and debrief.’
Jimmy nodded slowly. ‘And if they had … debriefed and outlined
the future, then that information would be available to American
Presidents. And, if an incumbent was flagging in the polls he may
wish to use that information – on say future gold or stock prices – to
boost the economy. And if that incumbent saw a report that stated he
was due to leave office with the lowest approval rating of any idiot
since records began, he might want to change that. Since he’s the
President, he’d have the right to do so. And, if in the future, a real
arsehole gets into power, and sees what the future holds for the
planet, he might just consider that the best bet is to fire the nukes
now and get it over with, whilst you have an advantage. Bang, we
lost the planet.’
They could all see the flaw in their argument.
‘What would Nixon have done?’ Jimmy asked. ‘What would
Reagan have done if he knew about the end of the Cold War? Maybe
Reagan would not have bothered to make friends with Gorbachev,
and maybe the Cold War did not end as it was supposed to. That’s
the thing about altering a time line, there’s an excellent chance of
completely fucking screwing it up. If I was a NASA chief, about to
send someone back through time, I’d want that person to alter the
timeline from the shadows.’
They could now see the logic.
Jimmy added, ‘But what do you think would happen if you
admitted to be interested in creating a time machine? Surely the
Russians and Chinese would want to get there first, because whoever
gets there first could alter history. The Russians could go back to
1941 and give the Japanese nuclear weapons. And what would
happen at the UN when you admit to wanting to create a time
machine? It would be chaos, and global war would be a certainty - to
try and stop you. Because if NASA developed a time machine first
you’d go back and alter things, sure, but from an American
perspective. And, in case you haven’t read the newspapers in the last
forty years, most other countries don’t agree with an American
perspective. They would try and stop you.
‘By believing that we’re some sort of time travellers, you’re
spurred on to believe that you could not only develop a time
machine, but that you should – in order to complete the circle and
avoid a paradox. But by starting to make a time machine you’d open
the doors to World War Three. And after World War Three had
destroyed the planet, you’d have an increased urgency to finish your
time machine – to go back and fix it, to stop World War Three.’
‘And then just start the war all over again,’ I added.
They were a bit stunned.
‘If you want to save this planet, put all ideas about time machines
away. If you care about your own children, and the billions that will
die, work to debunk time travel,’ Jimmy told them. ‘Before it’s too
late.’
They were silent for many seconds.
‘How … how could you break that circle?’
 ‘You could look at my record to date, and have faith,’ Jimmy told
the man. ‘When you step aboard an airliner … the pilot has your life
in his hands, so too the heart surgeon. This, is no different.’
A man raised his hand. ‘What more could we be doing to help
you?’
‘Finally, an intelligent question,’ Jimmy stated, pointing at the
man. ‘There are areas of research that I could direct you towards,
areas that will help various problems this side of 2025 and, assuming
the world survives beyond 2025, would help the planet afterwards.
Other than that, anyone here who wants to see the blue planet go on
– should refuse to work on theoretical time travel, and work on
projects to save mankind.’
That caused a few odd looks. We were telling them to give up
their favourite pastimes, one that consumed their every waking
moment.
‘So,’ I asked. ‘Any other questions? No? Then why don’t we call
it a day? I’m sure that you have some proper problems to solve with
your expensive NASA slide rules. I hear that the next generation of
plasma screens are exciting.’
Jimmy gave me a look, but did so grinning, and we headed to the
door, soon being shown out. I would have liked to hear the debate
going on after we left. Our escort drove us around to Senator
Pedersen’s ranch, he and his wife greeting us. Both had been
injected, and looked fit and well. Very well. We chatted for an hour,
Pedersen asked to attack any NASA projects that might involve
theoretical time travel. That caused him and his wife to stop dead,
and to stare.
‘Jimmy, is there something I should know?’
‘No more than you already do. Just fight any wasted NASA
budgets on time travel. And quietly.’
‘I sure hope you know what the heck you’re doing, Jimmy.’
‘Me too,’ I quipped.
Pedersen took a moment. ‘That new city coming along?’
‘Yes,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘And your property will be worth ten times
what you paid for it. Or more.’
‘Good opportunities in this new place?’
‘Very good, but the original Goma hub will be a rich suburb.
Grab some houses off Spiral IV or V.’
‘You gunna float CAR someday?’
‘It was always my intention, and maybe in a year,’ Jimmy
revealed. ‘But there are some advantages to keeping a tight control.
Anyway, keep beating up the banks, and I know you’re a Texan and
an oil man, but help with the electric cars before your competitors
outpace you.’
‘Chinese going for this new coal-oil idea?’
‘In a big way; if you fall behind you’ll never catch up.’
‘Interested in that myself, and my associates from Kentucky and
Virginia.’
‘It’s the future,’ Jimmy told our host.
With iced teas downed, we rejoined our vans and headed to the
airport, to a flight to New York and a TV interview. Make-up on,
ties tightened, we stepped out to applause, claiming a sofa at an
angle to our host.
‘Welcome again, Jimmy and Paul. No Helen?’
‘Looking after the kids,’ I said.
‘And another on the way we hear.’
‘Yes, another on the way.’
‘Are you happy, or nervous?’
‘I’m very happy, because my daughters are a bit too independent
these days. They have their friends and their hobbies, and their dad
is not cool.’
‘So, Jimmy. No plans to marry and have kids?’
‘I’m still practising. I have the book and the video, but just can’t
seem to get it right.’
The audience laughed.
‘And yet, a few of our better known models and actresses have
helped you to … practise.’
‘They did, and I learnt a thing or two.’
‘So, what the hell happened to your new yacht?’
‘The yacht was intended for my staff in Kenya, for them to enjoy.
We built a new marina, but apparently the mooring fees were too
high, disgruntled sailors putting a bomb on our boat.’
‘And who was behind it?’
‘The counter-terrorism boys say that a French oil company was
behind it, a company with interests in Southern Sudan, where we’re
now active.’
‘And why were they mad at you?’
‘Because they thought we might grab their business in the region.
They thought we might leave the oil profits for the starving millions
in Southern Sudan, which we will do, but not to the disadvantage of
any oil company or western mining company – their rights will be
protected.’
‘So you hope to do for that country what you’ve done elsewhere
in Africa?’
 ‘Yes, we’ll feed the poor, building roads, hospitals and schools.
All very subversive ideas to French oil companies.’
‘And you’ve just started to build an entire city – from scratch.’
‘Yes, we aim to move a million people from west Congo to east
Congo, where the resources are.’
‘We have a picture here –’ The backing screen came to life. ‘- of
the new marina in Goma. Looks great. And this is the golf course,
and this is your new house.’
‘My new house,’ I put in. ‘Designed by my daughter, Shelly.’
‘There’ll be many of those built in the near future,’ Jimmy put in.
‘And nice apartment blocks. The area is nicer than most westerners
believe, worth a visit, or a new place to live and work, to open a
business.’
‘Business conditions are good?’
‘Every factory is at capacity, turning away orders,’ I said. ‘We
offer land free to new factories, give grants towards buildings, tax
breaks. If you have a factory that makes household goods you can’t
go wrong.’
‘A lot of American investment there?’
‘Some, yes, led by Hardon Chase,’ I replied. ‘And a great deal of
work now for American companies building the new city. Once it’s
finished - or even now, any American can open a business there or
work in the region. If you have a job that makes you fifty thousand
dollars a year you can live like a king, mansions like mine very
cheap. You could buy a five bedroom house for fifty thousand
dollars.’
‘And your house?’
‘Cost me less than two hundred thousand dollars to build. Forty
bedrooms.’
‘I can build a house like that – for two hundred grand?’
‘Might cost you a bit more - I know the builders. But still cheap.’
‘I’d have valued that house at closer to twenty million.’
‘Over here you would,’ I agreed.
‘So you guys were also caught up in Mogadishu when the terror
attacks took place?’
‘Yes,’ Jimmy answered. ‘They were al-Qa’eda attacks, the group
from Afghanistan.’
‘And right now there’s some fighting going on over there.’
‘Yes, the Somalis re-took the airfield in Kandahar, intent on
fighting back at the terrorist training camps in Afghanistan.’
‘And Hardon Chase is in favour of sending a force to root out
those camps.’
 ‘Well, you can fight them over there, or wait till they arrive over
here,’ Jimmy said. ‘They hijack planes, set-off car bombs, and make
a happy home in Afghanistan because it’s a lawless country. The
terrorist leaders seem to be in Afghanistan, plotting their attacks on
the west, and on Africa and the Middle East.’
‘And who is the leader of this bunch of nuts?’
‘Their leader is supposed to be someone called Rahman, a rich
Arab,’ Jimmy replied, and I wondered why, because Rahman was
not their leader.
‘And what’s his gripe?’
‘No one knows much about him, other than he funds terror
attacks against Africa and the west.’
‘Are the Somalis going to invade Afghanistan?’
‘No, definitely not, and I’m doing what I can to try and persuade
them against any escalation in the fighting.’
‘Do you think America should be involved over there?’
‘I think it’s probably inevitable, because as time goes on al-
Qa’eda will launch more and more attacks, all the time sheltering
with the Taliban. If their base of operations was destroyed then they
wouldn’t be able to function as well. And I know your own CIA has
stopped numerous attacks against American targets in the region.
It’s only a matter of time before they bring down an American
plane.’
‘You’ll be pleased to know that I have an electric car; they’re
now available over here.’
‘About time,’ I said.
‘I’ve charged it once, and had it a month, still on seventy-five
percent power. For what I do around New York, I reckon I could go
six months between charges.’
‘China, India and Europe are way ahead of you,’ Jimmy pointed
out. ‘Most of their buses are electric, and our electric buses are often
free to ride on. If you’re not careful, those other countries will reap
the benefits for their economies and leave you behind.’
‘Any electric aircraft planned?’
The audience laughed.
‘No, but we are working on a new fuel,’ Jimmy offered. ‘We’ve
also developed a converter that turns coal into oil quiet cheaply. It’s
being rolled out in Africa, Russia and China.’
‘Why not here?’
‘How long did it take to get the damn electric cars imported!’ I
pointed out. ‘Your oil lobby is keeping our toys out of America!’
That wasn’t strictly accurate, but I enjoyed the dig at them.
 Jimmy then dropped a bomb. ‘I intend to buy up all the old coal
seams in Great Britain and re-open them, converting the coal to oil.’
‘Is there much coal there?’
‘Enough to keep Britain going for a hundred years,’ Jimmy
answered, and I hid my grin, wondering what the British PM would
make of it. But the one thing the British PM could not do now would
be to ignore the matter, the British public would not let him.
‘They could stop importing oil?’
‘They could, although they have some oil in the North Sea.’
‘So what are going to invent next?’
‘We don’t invent things, we find cutting-edge technologies and
ideas - and fund them when others wouldn’t,’ I pointed out.
‘So, any new projects?’
‘We’ll be looking at an aircraft fuel that is safer and more
efficient, one that doesn’t create any pollutants,’ Jimmy suggested.
‘We look forward to that. Ladies and gentlemen, Jimmy Silo and
Paul Holton.’
Leaving the studio, Jimmy said, ‘I had an idea about the bomb on
our boat, and the strange tactics employed in Afghanistan. Coal oil
may have awoken a potential adversary early.’
‘Who?’
‘North of Yemen.’
‘Ah. They have a lot to lose. More than most.’
Jimmy called Ngomo, and spoke in a native dialect for a few
minutes. Lowering his phone, he said, ‘We’ll play a few games, and
see who comes out to play.’
‘How could they know about Afghanistan?’
‘They have money, lots of money, and that kind of money can
buy ex-CIA staff, senior staff, electronics experts, and others. They
may have tapped the satellite phones we use somehow.’
‘Do they know about the EMPs?’
‘Obviously not. So maybe they don’t know about the other
gadgets. But the one good thing in our favour, is that Rahman hates
the Royal House of Saud.’
‘Why did you label him as the head of al-Qa’eda?’
‘Piss off the real leadership, who might just blow his nuts off.’

Back in London, Sykes met us at the airport. Jimmy told him,

‘Assume that the secure satellite phones are not as secure as we may
like, that ex-CIA agents may be helping the Saudis, and that the
Saudis would rather I not develop oil, and coal-oil technology.’
‘Oh dear,’ Sykes let out.
 ‘Go back over the detail of that French oil company, find me a
link to the Saudis, and put the Saudis here under surveillance, just in
case.’
‘That’ll please the PM no end!’
On the coach, we plotted and schemed against the house of Saud,
set a few traps, and planned a few tricks.

Sangin, south central Afghanistan

Lobster dumped the body of an al-Qa’eda fighter, the fourth one.

Under cover of darkness he walked to the edge of the poppy field,
ducking behind a compound, and remotely detonated a napalm
grenade. Jogging along a hard-worn dirt path, he left the compounds
behind and entered a dried riverbed, soon two hundred yards away,
the locals stirring. Turning, he led his team south at the double, and
to the helicopter RV point.
A hundred miles to the east, his colleagues had been busy. As
dawn broke on a fine day - after a few days of rain, fighters emerged
from their compounds, mounted their Toyota pickups and making
the short journey to the Pakistan border. In a line of traffic, the
fighters convoy was ripped apart by a Good Morning grenade. Two
vehicles, ten miles apart and already across the border, disintegrated
in border towns, the death toll high.
Inside Afghanistan, the jeeps of fighters blew up in several places
in the eastern valleys.
In the house, in a basement command room, I studied the map.
‘We waking them up?’
‘Hopefully, Rahman will get the message: sit and take it, or fight
back. He must know that it’s the Pathfinders, and his policy of sit
and wait will be sorely tested by the fighters and the Taliban.’
‘He can’t openly blame the Africans, when there’s no frigging
evidence,’ I said. ‘They’ll think it an accident with explosives.’
‘The Pathfinders sent a message about an attack, but did so a full
day after they had placed a team on a mountaintop. The local
fighters were then seen to set traps for them.’
‘So that seals it, they have hacked the sat phones. Do we tell
anyone?’
 ‘No, we make use of it. My sat phone calls to Ngomo are on a
Chinese satellite – fortunately – but most are routed through an
American satellite. Ngomo is now using native dialects to send
important messages and get updates, so that’ll fuck over anyone
listening in. But, we want them listening in for the moment. A few
hours from now a flight of UN aircraft from Djibouti and Cyprus
will land reinforcements at Kandahar, at least those listening in will
think so. Hopefully, they persuaded their political paymasters.’
All that day I had a Reuters window open on my computer
screen, scanning the latest news stories. Finally I noticed a story
about a UN flight, forced down over Saudi Arabia, little more detail
than that. I rang Jimmy and told him.
‘In some ways it’s good news,’ Jimmy said. ‘But in other ways
it’ll be bad all round. I don’t want to do anything to rock the Saudis,
and they have a strong influence with America. It’ll need some
careful dancing and fancy footwork.’
A second plane was forced down, this one a 737 with UN
diplomatic staff on board, and met by Saudi soldiers at the airport. A
hell of a row was just about to kick off. Unfortunately for the Saudis,
they stated that they believed Somali reinforcements to be on board
the aircraft. When he found out, Abdi issued a few words for the
Saudis.
I sat with Jimmy later, beers in hand, Jack joining us in a lounge.
‘It’s a mess,’ Jimmy said with sigh. ‘I had expected the Saudis to
be difficult, but not quite yet, and not in this fashion. But, since
we’ve altered so much, it’s just one more new variable.’
‘Surely the Saudis will lose faith in the intercepts now,’ Jack
ventured.
‘Hopefully,’ I agreed.
‘The truth is, coal-oil and electric cars will have an effect, but not
that much of an effect,’ Jimmy explained. ‘Emerging markets and a
growing global economy will still keep pressure on oil production.
And, as people save money from petrol, they’ll spend it on other
things that use oil or plastics, or air travel. Someone in Saudi Arabia
has his sums wrong, but I doubt we could convince them of it.’
‘Will they try and kill you again?’ Jack asked, clearly concerned.
‘Probably, but next time they’ll be a bit more professional about
it. That French oil company had a nudge, and an incentive if they
cooperated. They were played, and the bomb was amateur time.
Fortunately, the Saudis are not very good at overseas intelligence,
they’ve never considered it necessary. Unfortunately, they have a
shit load of money to hire good help with.’
 Shelly stepped in with her boyfriend, the lad two years older. For
a change, they came and sat with us.
‘Hello Mister Silo,’ the lad offered. ‘Mister Holton.’
‘I’m Jack the gardener,’ Jack offered.
‘Your some sort of British agent,’ the lad countered with a smile.
‘You flatter me, young man,’ Jack responded. ‘I’m old and
married, with a cat. And Shelly will confirm that I’ve never climbed
up the walls, or shot anyone.’
‘That’s true,’ Shelly admitted. ‘Jack is an old pair of slippers.’
‘I prefer your young man’s label,’ Jack told Shelly.
‘Drink?’ Shelly asked her boyfriend.
‘What am I allowed to drink?’ the boy asked Jimmy.
‘You can have a beer,’ Jimmy responded. ‘Better than glue
sniffing round the back of the bike shed.’
Shelly fetched two beers, putting me on the spot. Her stems
prevented the beer from having much of an effect, but still … I was
dad.
‘Shelly has been injected with the super-drug. Alcohol doesn’t
have much of an effect,’ I said defensively. ‘Still, if I see her
drinking too often…’
‘A drop of wine at night is good for her,’ Jimmy cut in with. ‘So
long as it’s not too much, just the half glass.’
‘What are you planning on doing for your ‘O’ Levels?’ I asked
the lad.
‘They’re called GCSEs these days,’ he corrected me, but without
trying to be rude. ‘I’ll be studying Russian, French and Economics,
hopefully a degree in economics afterwards.’
I was impressed. ‘What does your father do?’
‘He’s a boring old bank manager. Can I try one of your electric
cars?’
‘Not with a beer in your hand,’ I said.
‘You can try the cars with supervision,’ Jimmy said. ‘And with
Shelly sat next to you. But if you crash - and hurt Shelly, there’ll be
nowhere on this planet you could hide from me.’
The lad swallowed, and stared back. ‘Yes, sir.’
I glanced at Jimmy from under my eyebrows, not sure if I
approved or not. ‘There are fast electric golf carts if you want race
around the grounds. They’re non-lethal.’
‘Can I meet the SAS soldiers here?’ the lad asked.
‘Shelly can introduce you,’ I said. ‘You’ll find some up on the
roof. And no, you can’t shoot the squirrels with sniper rifles. If you
want to shoot, come out to Africa with us.’
 ‘I’d love to.’
‘If you behave,’ Shelly told him, holding her look on him, the
little bossy-boots dominating the poor lad.
‘Do you ... help Shelly with her homework?’ I idly enquired.
‘Hah!’ Shelly let out, giggling.
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘She helps me. Shells sat the exam for
university entrance the other week - and passed!’
‘She takes after me,’ I said.
‘No I don’t,’ Shelly insisted.
‘Who do you take after then?’ Jack asked.
‘I’m a genetic aberration,’ Shelly said, poking her tongue out at
Jack. ‘I’m unique. I have mum’s good looks and figure, and
someone else’s brains.’
I gave Jimmy a peeved look. ‘There’s gratitude.’
‘She’ll appreciate you more when she has her own children,’
Jimmy suggested.
‘When I’m sixteen,’ Shelly joked, the lad now looking worried.
I focused on him. ‘You want to have kids when you’re older?’
‘No way. Maybe … like, when I’m thirty or forty. I want to get
injected at twenty-five, and stay twenty-five forever.’
‘Not a bad plan,’ Jimmy reflected, staring into his beer. ‘And
people will have kids later in life now that the drug is out there.’ He
faced Shelly. ‘You’ll live to be around a hundred and fifty at least,
and you’ll be able to have kids up to age one hundred. But if you
have kids, and they don’t get injected, they’ll end up older than you,
going grey when you don’t. And when your first kid is starting
university, your dad will look just like he does now.’
‘That’s so cool,’ the lad put in, Shelly deep in thought. To Jimmy
he said, ‘You were shot three times and it didn’t kill you.’
‘I was lucky, I’m not immortal.’
‘Most people think your immortal, Mister Silo,’ the lad
suggested. ‘And an alien.’
Shelly seemed to have come to a conclusion. ‘I could follow a
career till I’m forty, sit another degree, then follow a second and
third career.’
‘Yuk,’ her young man said. He lifted up and peered into the large
fish tank, now populated with fish instead of jellyfish.
‘My first degree,’ Shelly added, ‘would be just the first.’ She
seemed happy with her conclusion.
‘I’m hoping that you’ll help me invent a few things,’ Jimmy told
her.
 ‘The school will let me sit my GCSEs next year,’ Shelly informed
me, and for the first time.
‘They will?’
‘Yes. I can then pass a single higher level before I start sixth
form, leaving with four, or five maybe – instead of the usual three.
And I want to go to university at seventeen.’
‘Good brains should never be slowed down,’ Jimmy said,
stopping me from saying what I was about to.
Shelly grabbed her young man and led him out, beers in hand.
‘University at seventeen?’ I softly repeated.
‘I think she’ll take a year out first,’ Jimmy suggested.
‘Concentrate on your baby, not that one; she’s a free spirit.’

Afghan war drums

Three weeks later, lookouts posted on various mountains reported

groups of fighters gathering for a chat around the campfire, a few
groups moving west, the various movements being keenly collated
at Kandahar. There also appeared to be Pakistani fighters amongst
the groups.
Lobo looked at his battle board, and said, ‘War drums. They are
coming.’
That evening, an AN12 from China touched down, disgorging
supplies and a dozen men, Big Paul at the head of the group of
British soldiers. Jimmy had altered his plans, and war had been
declared.
Big Paul gave Lobo a lazy salute. ‘How’s the weather, sir?’
Lobo returned the salute. ‘Cold and miserable. Have you brought
some nice food?’
‘Yep, and some extra ammunition, and earthquake mortar
upgrades.’
‘Upgrades?’
‘Greater range; they’ll top out at five miles instead of three,’ Big
Paul explained as Lobo led him inside. ‘I’ve got new sat phones for
you, boss, and these are secure. Use the others when you want to
fuck over the Saudis.’
‘Good. And how is Mister Jimmy?’
‘Haven’t seen him for a month or so.’
 An hour later, Lobster sat on the perimeter wall, a small crowd
gathered below as the new mortars were tested. Using the tube
zeroed on the crossroads, a round was lobbed out. Everyone waited,
a distance rumble reaching them eight seconds later.
Lobster shouted, ‘My laser says seven thousand yards!’ He
jumped down and approached the senior staff and Big Paul.
‘Nowhere near the crossroads, sir. A mile or more beyond it!’
Lobo said, ‘Have two tubes set aside, zeroed on the approach
roads to the east. And let’s label these up properly this time, or we’ll
miss by a mile. Literally!’
‘We’ve got airburst shells as well,’ Big Paul put in. ‘They have a
white strip around the heads, four second fixed timers unfortunately,
maximum range of two thousand yards.’
‘Put them to one side,’ Lobo asked. His sat phone trilled.
Finishing his call, he said, ‘We’ll have company late tomorrow, so
we’ll disperse tonight.’
‘Jimmy says to expect a clever attack,’ Big Paul put in as he
followed Lobo to the terminal building.
‘What exactly is … a clever attack?’
‘Something other than just driving down that road, as they did
last time.’
‘Last time, they marshalled within mortar reach, and we hid
explosives at the best marshalling areas.’
‘So they won’t his time.’
In the command centre, Lobo stood over the map, pointing at it.
‘Those are the marshalling areas they used before. We haven’t
mined them yet.’
‘Might be worth a few mines, just in case, but they’ll expect that.’
Lobo lifted his head to Big Paul. ‘If you were them, how would
you attack?’
‘First off all, I wouldn’t. I’d cut you off and cut your supplies.’
‘Fair enough. So they surround us and spread out. But to stop
aircraft they need Dushka –’
‘Or missiles.’
‘There is food in the town that we can steal, goats and sheep
nearby,’ Lobo thought aloud.
‘That’s good, but we’ll still need ammunition in time. That’s their
strength … and our weakness. I’d say we can’t afford to just sit here.
If they have surface to air missiles, then maybe they have short-
range rockets to hit this place with, to wear us down. Those, and the
Dushka, will keep our heads down and inflict a casualty or two a
day.’
 Lobo’s phone went. ‘Sorry.’ He took the call. When done, he
said, ‘Curious. Fighters bring large lorries, metal overs the
windscreens.’
Big Paul smiled widely. ‘Lorries full of explosives, suicide driver
at the wheel. They’ll ram the main entrance.’
Lobo turned to an officer, ‘Dig small holes three hundred yards
along the access road, and blow a very big hole.’ The man ran out.
Another officer said, ‘The land to the south is flat and hard, a
lorry can cross it.’
‘There are mines,’ Lobo stated.
‘May not stop a lorry,’ Big Paul cautioned.
‘So, they will be clever in their attack after all.’ Lobo faced an
officer. ‘Walk out there, figure out the best route a lorry will take.
Tonight, dig holes and place charges along it, eight or ten.’ The man
stepped out.
‘We’ll have to hit those lorries with mortars before they get
inside a thousand yards.’
‘I’ve fired a mortar side on,’ Lobo said with a grin.
‘You have? Jesus. Well, that’ll do … if you can hit the lorries.’
Lobo faced a sergeant. ‘Take one tube and fix it to the arse of that
digger, elevation of fifteen degrees.’ The NCO stepped out. ‘So,
what else will they try?’
‘Their best bet is to cut our supplies,’ Big Paul insisted.
‘Attacking this place is suicide, but they don’t know about the
special weapons, so their attack will be better than last time - but
still not good enough.’
‘I do like a confident man,’ Lobo quipped.
After dark, teams formed up, heavy backpacks loaded with
supplies, extra bags strung between teams of two men. Walking to
the east, groups of eight moved out at intervals, a total of a hundred
and twenty men. Sixty men were dispatched to the west, two
hundred remaining at the airfield. The perimeter walls had been
repaired, trenches dug, concrete used to line the trenches and make
rocket-proof covers. The men assumed they’d face incoming rounds
and rockets, and made ready.
Sat in his room, the officer scanning radio frequencies peered at a
large blip to the south. He altered parameters, and expanded the
signal. ‘Mister Lobo! Sir!’ Lobo stepped in. ‘Sir, we have a body of
at least four hundred due south, twenty miles out.’
‘That land is flat,’ Lobo pondered. ‘They’re wide open.’
‘We have no spotters there, because … the land is wide open,
sir.’
 ‘Maybe they know that.’ Lobo stepped back into the command
centre. ‘Captain, send a patrol of ten men due south, lightly armed
and moving fast. Give them a good supply of battery grenades and
Good Morning grenades. There’s a large force to the south, but I
don’t want them engaged, just harassed and observed.’
‘South?’ Big Paul questioned. ‘It’s wide open.’
‘They are, I believe, doing the exact opposite of what a sane
person would do.’
‘They’re being clever. We should pull a patrol off the east and
send them to mine that road, stop vehicles where they can.’
Lobo ordered the change, an additional twelve-man patrol turning
south. He stared at the map. ‘Twenty miles? They could be here in
the morning.’
‘If they drive along that road they’ll be hit by our mortars, and
they know we have mortars. So they’ll walk across country in small
groups.’
‘Which will waste a great many mortars. When a force is behind
you, there is only one thing you want.’
‘A force behind them,’ Big Paul realised.
Lobo faced a captain. ‘I want ten of our best snipers made ready,
plenty of ammunition, supplies for two days, camouflage nets.’ He
tapped the map. ‘Have them walk out southwest five miles, turning
south for ten miles. Then they come back to the east and up behind
this force after it has moved. At dawn they should be hidden.’
The patrol was put together.
‘Could hit them now with the Mi24s,’ a man said.
‘They may have missiles,’ Lobo said with a sigh. ‘And they
expect just such an attack. They will not bunch-up for us, not this
time. Contact our spotters in the east, ask how the fighters are
travelling.’
The report was not good. ‘They travel with each jeep a hundred
yards apart, sir.’
Lobo exchanged a look with Big Paul, ‘Bad sports,’ Lobo
quipped. He faced the man. ‘But that’s a mistake on their part. Have
them attacked with lasers, darts and silenced pistols. Blow the
roads.’
‘Now who’s being a spoil-sport?’ Big Paul asked.
‘When your enemy makes a mistake … use it! They spread out to
avoid the helicopters, but make themselves vulnerable to small
group attacks. Besides, I think tomorrow will be … interesting
enough, without letting them all arrive in good order.’
 By dawn, the map had been annotated with dozens of red marks
denoting planted grenades, all on varying frequencies. Big Paul sat
with Lobster, eating Spam and chatting about marinas and boats.
Lobo stepped out to them. ‘Radio jammers are in use north of us,
and east.’
‘That’s naughty,’ Big Paul said. ‘Are we vulnerable?’
‘It is a varying frequency disruptor, so radios will be subject to
interference, yes. At the moment they’re just out of range, but
getting closer.’
‘Can we pinpoint them for a mortar breakfast?’ Big Paul asked.
‘We are trying that now, but we cannot pin them down to an area.
They are mounted on jeeps, and moving!’ Lobo stepped outside and
peered up, the dawn crisp and chill, the clouds broken. At the mortar
section, he ordered, ‘Try and hit the main road through the town
with six rounds.’
Back inside, he collected Big Paul and Lobster, a command
meeting called, many officers in attendance. ‘OK, overnight we saw
some action. Convoys of approaching fighters - to the east of here,
were attacked in several places, a few dozen jeeps stopped, their
fighters killed. Tally was maybe forty killed on the road northeast.
East of us, a force of a hundred men were engaged, most killed,
some retreating. We picked up a few casualties when random mortar
rounds were fired towards our men.
‘Mortars?’ Big Paul questioned.
‘Fitted to the backs of jeeps,’ Lobo informed him.
‘If they make it here, they’ll be hard to hit,’ Big Paul warned.
Lobo nodded. ‘I have recalled forty men to a position just three
miles east, where I think the fighters may marshal. To the west, a
large convoy was hit with grenades and dispersed. That convoy has
continued towards us this morning - with reinforcements, now
northwest of Kandahar.
‘To the south, we blew the road in several places and destroyed a
dozen jeeps. We placed a patrol close to the main force, but found
them very well spread out, fifty yards between jeeps. Good Morning
grenades have been used, but not very effectively. And we have a
sniper unit moving behind the main force as we speak. They report
that the main force is close to a thousand men, and that jeeps have
metal armour on them. That main force is moving north slowly.’
‘Then they’ll attack after dark,’ Big Paul suggested. ‘And from
several directions at once. How many in total are around us?’
‘An estimated two thousand.’
‘Be a long night then.’
At the house, Jimmy studied the map, and the enemy dispositions.
‘Good attack plan,’ he commended.
‘They’re spread out,’ I realised. ‘Too spread out for mortars and
the helicopters.’
‘Yes. But being spread out means a low concentration of fire
being brought to bear at any one point. Anyway, I’ve got a surprise
for them. Or two. Maybe three. We’ll see if Rahman can outwit me.’

In Kandahar, the communications officer stepped into the command

meeting. ‘Sir, a problem. They’re using a device to try and set-off
our charges outside. It’s stepping through the frequencies.’
‘That’s naughty,’ Big Paul quipped. ‘How many digits on your
devices?’
‘Five,’ the communications officer stated. ‘They are using four.’
‘Take them a while then,’ Big Paul noted.
‘If they switch to five digits, we’ll lose our charges now,’ Lobo
realised. ‘Can you pin down the location of that device?’
‘In the houses across the stream, sir.’
Lobo lifted his radio. ‘Mortar section: level the houses across the
stream. Quickly!’ Lobo pointed at the communications officer. ‘I
want updates every ten minutes.’
A minute later, the rumble could be felt both through the air, and
through their feet.
Lobo ordered, ‘Ready a squad of ten men to clear that area if the
mortars don’t work.’
‘Try the new anti-personnel rounds,’ Big Paul suggested, Lobo
ordering them used.
The radio device fell silent ten minutes later, but the
communications officer indicated another to the south, and moving
closer. Big Paul stepped out to the mortar section, ordering the new
rounds selected. He relayed the bearings and range from the
communications officer, and fired. Three rounds took the second
device off air. Back inside, he said, ‘That main force will have more,
and maybe five digit.’
‘There is nothing we can do,’ Lobo admitted. ‘Even if we retrieve
the charges, they’re no good just sat here.’
‘Then put out a few other charges on old four digit codes, but
further away. When they blow they’ll convince the bad guys they
have the right frequencies.’
‘A splendidly mischievous idea, Mister Paul. You are indeed a
sneaky bastard.’
 The men laughed, Lobo ordering charges moved further out and
reset.
With a grin, Big Paul said, ‘I’ll dish out the ammo I brought.’
At dusk, the communications officer gave up, putting down his
laptop. Finding Lobo, he said, ‘Hundreds of signals from all
directions. Main force is three miles south and east, moving at
walking pace.’
Lobo clambered up to the roof. ‘You’ll have to go below soon,’
he said to the men there.
‘We made a hole in the roof, sir. We can drop down.’
‘Ah, good. So, what do we have?’
‘They’re spread out, each ten yards apart - at least. And they
seem to be carrying things.’
‘What things?’
‘Can’t make it out, sir.’
A blast caught their attention, on the road south, about two miles
distant.
‘That’ll be a Good Morning grenade, sir,’ a man said. ‘They go
off every now and then.’
A round cracked the air overhead.
‘Duska at maximum range, sir.’
‘Keep your heads down,’ Lobo told them. ‘Use your bolt hole
when you need to.’
Below, reports of intermittent engagements came in; harassing
actions, distant echoes of battery grenades registering in the
command post as dull thuds.
Half an hour later, the communications officer reported, ‘Main
body is two miles, some fighters within five hundred yards.’
Lobo lifted his radio, finding it crackling. Jammed. He called a
runner. ‘Tell the mortar section to fire south at random, two miles,
thirty rounds.’
On the roof, the spotters could see the distant flashes in the south,
but then heard outgoing small-arms rifle fire from the north wall.
They focused their thermal sights on the compounds across the
stream, finding them alive with orange dots that represented the
faces of fighters. They sent a man down with the report.
Big Paul heard the report. ‘Let me have a crack at them, sir.’ He
stepped out.
Five minutes later, at the north wall, Big Paul set-up a belt-fed
GPMG in the midst of a growing exchange of fire. But this belt of
ammo came with yellow tips. ‘Cease fire!’ he shouted, surprising the
men near him. The outgoing fire ceased. He took aim, and fired in
bursts of two or three seconds over a wide arc, soon through a two
hundred round belt.
He stopped and waited, the men at the wall now hearing odd
“popping” sounds on the breeze as miniature exploding rounds with
delayed actions detonated, each deadly for anyone within a few feet,
causing injury up to twenty feet away. The incoming fire had also
ceased.
He handed the weapon over, directing a soldier to use the belt
boxes he had brought over. As he turned away, he could here
intermittent “pops” from across the stream.
‘What was that?’ Lobo enquired.
‘Exploding rounds, timed with delays up to fifteen minutes; they
catch people from behind and from the side. They’re light rounds,
only good for two hundred yards, and tend to bounce and spin when
they hit the ground. It’s a bit like a shower of grenades, but when
you stop firing the enemy moves forwards, getting splinters.’
‘How much ammo did you bring?’
‘Thirty boxes of two-hundred-round belts; they’ll be useful on the
south wall later if the visitors are spread out.’
A man stepped in. ‘Dushkas have our range from the north, sir.’
‘Warn the men, dig in.’
A rocket slammed into the roof, dust falling.
‘Check the men up there!’ Lobo barked.
‘You’re well dug in here,’ Big Paul noted, not too concerned.
‘But the Rifles don’t like to sit and be shot at,’ Lobo reminded
Big Paul.
A face appeared around the door. ‘Mortars coming in from the
north, just out of range at the moment, sir.’
‘Mobile launchers,’ Big Paul noted. ‘Clever little puppies.’
An officer lowered his sat phone. ‘Large explosions a few miles
south, sir.’
The communications officer stepped in, tapping marks on the
map. ‘They have reached here.’
Lobo selected the correct code for a radio detonator, handed it to
a runner and sent the man to the roof, the resultant blasts registering
thirty seconds later. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he sighed. He ordered
mortars onto that position, as well as random mortar fire at the town
and the crossroads.
‘Two men wounded by incoming, sir,’ an NCO reported.
Lobo said, ‘Get me the southern-most patrol of snipers.’ He was
handed a sat phone. ‘Report.’
 ‘We are behind them, sir. They have lorries with metal grills,
jeeps with metal on. A second group is forming at the previous
marshalling area, maybe two hundred men.’
‘Move north and attack the rear of the main force. That will
confuse both groups. Leave Good Morning grenades behind. Out.’
He faced an officer. ‘The larger patrol we sent south with grenades?’
‘Sergeant Keti’s troop.’ The officer reset the codes and called,
handing over the phone.
‘Keti, Lobo. Report.’
‘We are west of the main body, leaving grenades and sniping at
them, sir.’
‘Try and split the force, draw them to you. Hit them hard. Out.’
An officer approached the map, the map now being lit by paraffin
lamps found in the terminal. He tapped the map. ‘We have three
groups to the east of the main force, attacking from the side. East of
us we have halted all approaching groups, heavy fighting, some
casualties.’
‘North?’ Lobo asked.
‘No eyes-on, sir. And the west is a mess; they circled us.’
‘Bring the team in the west back in at the double.’
‘Lorries approaching!’
‘Battle wagons,’ Big Paul noted.
One of the Mi24 crews stepped in. ‘We’re sitting and taking it,
boss,’ a man said in British accent.
‘They have surface to air missiles,’ Lobo answered the man.
‘Maybe many of them. I want you when I can see a bottleneck.’
The pilot shrugged, slapped his thighs and stepped out.
‘Lorries on the main road!’
Lobo ordered the horizontal mortar tube readied, positioned to be
facing the main approach road outside the front gate. As soldiers on
the wall observed, the lorry – taking fire, trundled on, turning onto
the main airport road. It could have done with working headlights,
clipping the sides and correcting many times as it progressed,
picking up speed.
It hit the first hole, dropping into it and smashing its cab,
exploding prematurely at the three hundred yard mark. Ears were
ringing, heads shaken at the wall, as the second lorry approached, its
engine sounds accurately relaying its position in the dark night as its
driver scraped gears. It turned onto the main airport road, benefiting
now from the amber glow of what was left of its predecessor. It
slowed and eased around the hole, setting off a mine. But it kept
coming.
 At the gate, the mortar tube’s firing pin was pulled back via a
wire, a round placed inside and pushed down with a broom handle.
Gently. When aligned with the lorry, the mortar sergeant let go the
wire, the striker hitting the base of the mortar shell and sending it
off. The cabin of the lorry disintegrated, a secondary explosion
knocking the mortar crew off their feet, briefly illuminating the
fields along the access road.
A Toyota pickup now approached, metal plates welded onto it.
On the roof, Big Paul took charge of an M82 fifty calibre, loading a
fresh magazine. He turned on the thermal sight, got comfortable, and
fired at the engine grill, penetrating it with a Teflon round. The
Toyota halted. Big Paul raised his aim, hitting the metal plate across
the windscreen, this time with a round that exploded like a grenade
inside the vehicle.
Whoever was left alive detonated his own explosives, tearing the
white Toyota pickup apart, pieces landing on the terminal building
roof. Big Paul slid left, focusing on the south road, three vehicles
discernable as orange heat blobs on a green screen, the vehicle’s
bonnets red hot. Literally. He hit all three in turn, halting the
vehicles progress. But none exploded. Deflated, he handed the
weapon to a soldier and headed down through the hole.
‘Took out the reinforced Toyotas,’ he reported. ‘Looks like men
on foot within five hundred yards.’
‘Our snipers report that the men carry shields.’
‘Shields? Do they have Salladin with them?’ Big Paul asked.
‘And siege towers?’
‘Metal shields with poles between then, carried by two men,’
Lobo explained. ‘They resist small arms fire.’
‘Clever. Heavy, simplistic, stupid – but clever!’
‘Our south wall is now within small-arms range,’ Lobo informed
Big Paul. ‘We’re taking fire.’
‘Get me your best snipers with M82s up on the roof, I’ll grab the
rest of Teflon rounds.’
‘Do we have a thousand?’ Lobo dryly enquired, thumbs in his
green webbing belt.
Big Paul let his broad shoulders drop. ‘About two hundred, boss.’
Back on the roof, unseen rounds cracked the air overhead. Big
Paul handed over magazines, directing fire south. ‘Hit the closest
targets first.’
Below, he searched through his pallet, dodging incoming rounds,
and organised four men to lug ammo boxes. They jumped into one
of the buses captured at the airfield, and made the hazardous journey
to the south wall, a window shattering. At the wall, they zeroed in on
a GPMG now firing out.
‘Stop!’ Big Paul shouted. ‘Unload!’ He opened a tin, handing up
a belt. ‘Aim low, at their feet, spread it around.’ He slammed his
back to the wall as the gunner opened up, firing into the dark night.
‘Feels strange, sir.’
‘Lighter rounds, exploding rounds.’
The gunner stood observing a sprinkling of tiny flashes
penetrating the darkness, like fireflies in the jungle. He fired left and
right, soon a slice of his forward vision filled with small flashes.
‘Aim high,’ Big Paul shouted over the clatter of outgoing fire.
‘Spread it around.’ With his head down, he led his men back onto
the bus, and back to the terminal, the bus’s roof punctured twice.
Inside, Lobo commented, ‘They have halted, four hundred yards
beyond the south wall.’
‘Picking up small injuries.’
‘As they get close to the wall, we can hit them from the side,’
Lobo mentioned.
‘Sir! The convoys to the east are withdrawing.’
‘Which convoys?’
‘Those ten miles out.’
‘Sir, a strange report. The patrol furthest south, they report
fighting further south than they are.’
‘Who do we have down there?’
‘No one, sir.’
‘Are they shooting at shadows?’ Lobo wondered.
‘When the Good Morning grenades go off, they fire at random,
that’s all,’ Big Paul suggested.
‘Sir, the front ranks have halted, taking many casualties. They are
bunching up at five hundred yards.’
‘Mortar them,’ Lobo ordered. ‘Anti-personnel shells. And put
some starburst up there, let’s see them.’
‘Sizeable force in the north, across the stream, sir.’
‘Send twenty men across, try and flank them.’ He attended the
map. ‘Blow the remaining charges before they think to do it.’
Ten seconds later, the ground shook, a rumble reverberating
through the terminal hall for many seconds, dust falling through the
gloomy light.
‘That main force can’t have more than four or five hundred men
facing toward us,’ Big Paul thought out loud. ‘They’re engaged on
all sides.’ Two of his SAS troopers carried a third in, hit in the leg.
‘How’s he doing?’
 ‘Stray round over the wall. He’ll live. He won’t be any better
looking, but he’ll live.’
Big Paul faced Lobo. ‘If they’re in disarray, then a baby EMP
will help.’
Lobo nodded. ‘Lobster?’
Lobster stepped in. ‘Use a baby EMP to the south.’
After an hour of intermittent outgoing mortar fire, the main force
in the south began pulling back, the force across the river engaged
close up and wiped out. The Rifles across the stream now moved
north through the town, street by street.
‘Sir! Report from the south patrol, heavy fighting south of them.
They are attacking north, taking ammo off the dead fighters.’
‘Who the fuck … are the bad guys firing at?’ Big Paul asked. He
accepted a coffee and sat with his team. Ten minutes later his sat
phone trilled. ‘Yeah, boss?’
‘I landed some Rifles south of you, they’re pushing north.’
‘Ah, fucking wondered what was happening. How many south of
us?’
‘Six hundred. Landed another six hundred in the east, and I’ll re-
supply you when you’ve secured the area. How’s it going?’
‘We held our own, dealt with the tricks. Could have taken then at
dawn I reckon.’
‘Don’t take any prisoners, bury the bastards. Out.’
Big Paul stepped into the command centre. ‘That fighting to the
south … Jimmy landed six hundred Rifles, more in the east.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Lobo let out. He faced his men. ‘Radio our people
in the south, tell them to exit to the west and get the hell out of the
way. Warn everyone. And drop as many mortars as we can on that
group bunched up to the south.’
Lobo’s sat phone trilled. ‘Yes?’
‘Got the kettle on, Samuel?’
‘Joshua?’
‘Who else would rescue your arse?’
‘We’re holding our own, old friend.’
‘Well stop playing with yourself, and expect us around dawn.
And don’t shoot at us. Out.’
Lobo smiled. ‘Major Samuel Obantou is here.’
His fellow officers all smiled widely.
At dawn, Big Paul and Lobo stood on the roof in a chill wind, no
incoming fire having disturbed their peace for an hour or so. Lifting
binoculars, they could see a line of men half a mile across, moving
forwards and firing at bodies. An hour later, with the sun high, the
first patrol walked in.
A captain saluted Lobo. ‘This where the action is, sir?
‘Good to see you, Captain.’ They shook.
‘We need your bus, sir. Our packs are twenty miles away.’
Lobo ordered the main road cleared, the bus sent out. As that was
being organised, a patrol of French soldiers walked in, led by a
Rifles NCO, the track through the mines now well defined. Other
patrols walked down the main road, past the remains of the lorries
and Toyotas.
‘Go and steal as many goats as you can from the town,’ Lobo told
an NCO. ‘We have extra mouths to feed.’ He faced his adjutant.
‘Send men north, find any Duska or missiles within three miles.’
An hour later, Major Obantou walked in, flanked by six men, a
handshake for Lobo. ‘Nice place you have here.’
‘It catches the sun in the mornings,’ Lobo commented.
Big Paul asked, ‘Any Dushka, Major?’
‘Three, that I saw.’
‘Missiles?’
‘We captured one. Why, are there more?’
‘We think they have more,’ Lobo explained. ‘We kept the
helicopters down. Patrols going out now.’
Fresh teas and coffees were issued, the arriving officers handed
tinned meat. After all, they had dropped their packs and walked
north at the double.
‘How did you get here?’ Lobo asked.
‘Hercules aircraft, from Russia. We circled around you and
landed on a road, lighting the road for the next plane. We walked
five miles and found the first group of al-Qa’eda sat about campfires
eating. Twenty miles to get here, fighting all the way.’ He raised a
finger. ‘And none got away. I think maybe eight hundred dead.’
‘Casualties?’ Lobo asked.
‘Ten dead from stray rounds, twenty wounded. We left them out
there and pushed on. Couple of Toyotas have gone back for them.’
‘Open field attack,’ Lobo reflected. ‘Large numbers.’
‘We fought like western soldiers,’ Obantou noted.
‘How many westerners did you bring?’
‘Two hundred; French and British. There are Americans in the
east and a Russian helicopter squadron, a small Chinese unit moving
south from their border, some Rifles with them.’
‘So much for a May invasion,’ Lobo said.
‘We had a leak,’ Big Paul put in.
 ‘A leak?’ Obantou repeated, horrified.
‘Sat phones were intercepted,’ Lobo informed his friend.
‘Intelligence agents working for the Saudis.’
‘Saudis? What’s their interest here?’
‘Their interest,’ Big Paul explained, ‘is in hurting Jimmy, because
he’s keeping oil prices down.’
‘Ah.’
Big Paul added, ‘The Saudis wanted this mission to fail, and to
expose Jimmy as backing it, which will be impossible now that there
are American soldiers here.’
Obantou explained, ‘We have digital cameras and special
machines for fingerprints. We are asked to check all the dead to see
who they are, and where they came from. Maybe we killed a big fish
in the night.’
In Karachi, Rahman lowered his phone, his hand shaking.

In Wales, Jimmy said, ‘Full English breakfast, Cookie. C’mon, get

the lead out.’ Lucy eased down opposite, her blue school uniform
on. ‘You’re up early babes.’
‘I have a test to study for.’
‘Did you not study last night?’ Jimmy teased.
‘I remember more if I study in the morning.’
‘Then it’s a good job you’re an early riser.’
‘Usual, Luce?’ Cookie asked.
‘Yes, please.’ She faced Jimmy, and took a breath. ‘Uncle
Jimmy, I worry about people trying to hurt us.’
‘Don’t, let me do the worrying for you. You’ll get wrinkles.’
‘But many people try and hurt us.’
‘They try and hurt me, not you.’
‘I don’t want anything to happen to you.’
‘I should hope so too, I’m your mostest favourite uncle.’
‘Why do they want to hurt you?’
Jimmy took a moment. ‘Many different people in the world want
different things, and … they all think that they’re right, and that
they’re doing what’s best. Others don’t agree, so we see problems.
But if I stand up to people, then countries like Africa do better, and
the children get fed. And … it’s a nice feeling, to put yourself in
harms way to help others. Its called … being public spirited.
‘And what you’re a bit too young to understand, is why someone
might give their life for what they believe in. Now, if someone
pulled a gun on you, your father would jump in the way to save you.
So would I. But, we could just think of ourselves, run away, have a
good life, even have more kids. So why give ourselves for someone
else?’
Lucy considered the concept. ‘To do good?’
‘That’s the act, but what’s the reasoning? Well, the reason … is
that good people are willing to give everything to fight the bad
people, even if they’re killed. It’s called … a sacrifice. To your
father, your life is more valuable than his, and to stand by and watch
you be hurt is too much to bear.’
Suddenly serious, Jimmy sipped his tea, staring into it. ‘But,
sometimes … sometimes we don’t act fast enough, we don’t stand in
the way, and we spend a very long time hating ourselves afterwards
… for not doing it.’ He lifted his gaze. ‘You see, sometimes, living
with yourself is worse than if you had been killed. And if you have
to live with yourself, and feel like a coward, then you’re keen to
throw yourself in the way. To … make amends.’
‘What did daddy do that he is ashamed of?’ Lucy puzzled.
Softly, Jimmy said, ‘It wasn’t your father I was talking about, it
was me.’
‘But you’re never afraid,’ Lucy puzzled.
Jimmy ran a finger over an eyebrow. ‘Once, a long time ago, I
didn’t do what I should have. And, every day since then I’ve being
trying to make up for that.’ He forced a big breath. ‘So, young lady,
it doesn’t matter if I die doing good work, because I’m happy to die
if it helps to do the good work. So if I’m killed doing this work,
don’t be sad for me, OK?’
Lucy reluctantly nodded.
‘Promise?’
‘I’ll try, but I’d miss you.’
‘I should hope so. Who else puts up with you?’
Lucy poked out her tongue as Cookie placed down her toast. ‘I’m
the nice daughter.’
‘That you are, Luce,’ Cookie agreed.
‘You called Michelle a Stinky Frog,’ Jimmy pointed out.
‘She’s bossy.’
‘She’s not bossy, she just … needs my time when you also want
my time.’
‘She calls me “child”,’ Lucy complained. ‘Go away child.’
‘You are a child,’ Jimmy gently insisted. ‘And don’t be in a hurry
to grow up. You’ll be a grown-up a long, long time, so have fun
while you can.’
Two hours later, and with the kids off to school – although
Jimmy suggested we refer to them as “young adults” now, Sykes
turned up with a British Army officer and an American Colonel, the
Colonel looking familiar. Jimmy called me down to the house and
we settled our guests in the diner, drinks made, pancakes offered.
Sykes began with, ‘These good gentlemen are interested in the
night’s action in Afghanistan.’
‘And quite some action it seems to have been,’ the British officer
noted.
Jimmy explained, ‘Close to two thousand five hundred fighters
approached the airfield, and with a good plan of attack. First, they
moved under cover of darkness, and well spread out. Unfortunately,
they were so spread out – fearing attack by Mi24 and mortars, that
they were easier to attack by small groups. That was a mistake on
their part.
‘Next, they had Dushka and rockets hitting the airfield, keeping
the defenders heads down. They employed sophisticated radio
jammers – western issue, but their operators were hit with mortars.’
‘Earthquake mortars?’ the Colonel nudged, Jimmy nodding.
‘We then saw lorries packed with explosives and covered in
metal plates being used by suicide drivers, an attempt to demolish
the front gate and wall. The lorries were hit by earthquake mortars
being fired horizontally – a novel approach. We then saw the main
advance of fighters, spread out and carrying metal plates between
two men as crude body armour. And they worked, 7.62mm rounds
bouncing off them.
The Rifles got around them with machinegun-fired exploding
rounds, rounds with timers. They lay around under the dirt for
anything from ten seconds to five minutes, exploding like a mini
grenade and catching people from the side or the rear; not enough to
kill, but enough to wound - and to piss off attackers. They’re low on
momentum and kinetic energy, hardly enough to kill someone.’
The Colonel said, ‘The aim being to deny an area to the enemy
for fifteen minutes, and wound large numbers.’
Jimmy nodded. ‘Effective against people dug in. You simply fire
off at thirty degrees and let them gently rain down, some exploding
overhead. A jam in the breach can be fun though.’
The Colonel’s eyes widened. ‘You’d blow yourself up!’
‘They tend to explode down the barrel, but you could blow your
face off, yes,’ Jimmy said with a smile. ‘And with the main
attacking force all spread out, they were attacked from the rear by a
second force that I landed, caught out in the open.’
‘And the casualties?’ the British officer enquired.
 ‘On their side there were few survivors, probably two thousand
dead.’
‘Jesus,’ Sykes let out.
‘On our side: fourteen dead and thirty-five wounded. They should
be flown out today, and no westerners killed yet. And those
casualties would have been lower if they hadn’t gone at the enemy
the way they did.’
‘Can’t slow down the Rifles,’ I put in.
‘What would have happened without landing the second force?’
the Colonel asked.
‘The airfield would have been surrounded and probed for days,
but they would have won out in the end. The front rank of the
fighters with metal shields just about reached the minefield as they
started to get hit from the sides; they were stopped dead. If they had
advanced they would have been massacred.’
‘So why the second force?’ the Colonel asked.
‘Two reasons. First, I wanted the main group of fighters wiped
out. Thoroughly … wiped out. And second, there were western
experts helping the fighters attack.’
‘What?’ the Colonel barked. ‘Western soldiers?’
‘No, not on the battlefield, but at the end of a sat phone, working
with the Saudis.’
‘Saudis?’ the Colonel repeated. ‘What the fuck have the Saudis
got to do with this?’
‘I’ll explain,’ I said. ‘I’ll even go slow.’ The Colonel cocked an
indignant eyebrow. ‘We produce a lot of oil, we won’t join OPEC,
and now we’re producing coal-oil converters, all hurting the Saudis
in the pocket. They wanted the mission in Afghanistan to fail badly,
and for us to get the blame.’
Sykes was worried. ‘What will you do?’
‘Nothing,’ Jimmy insisted. ‘Now that there are American forces
on the ground the Saudis will have no choice but to back off – and to
keep quiet. And for the record, I’m sure that ex-CIA figures were
assisting the Saudis to assist al-Qa’eda; our sat phones using
American satellites were hacked and intercepted.’
I explained, ‘We planned dummy missions and they took the
bait.’
‘Jesus,’ the Colonel blew out. ‘I’ll leave you to report that. So
what about the action in the east?’
‘Your main body, three hundred men, went in with two hundred
Brits and two hundred French, fifty Russians. They landed on a nice
straight road, then split into four groups. One created a command
centre, three attacked out at training camps – which were low on
men because of the attack at the airfield. They killed some three
hundred - for zero casualties on our side, demolished the camps,
blew up some hidden weapons stores, and are now walking back to
the command post.
‘That command post is easy to defend, it has some water, and it’ll
act like bait for the fighter groups of the east. From it we’ll launch
attacks at the fighter’s training camps, but mostly they’ll set traps
and sit and wait. The aim is to kill the al-Qa’eda fighters, Taliban
fighters that want a go, and Pakistani Taliban fighters. If the force is
seen as being too strong or too capable, it’ll be less use as bait.’
‘They’ll just sit there?’ the Colonel questioned.
‘The objective, Colonel, is to attract Arab fighters to Afghanistan,
now - and two years from now - and then to kill them. Better do it
there than in populated areas. And this year’s young fighters on a
pilgrimage to Afghanistan to attack us, are next year’s potential
airliner hijackers.’
‘A giant magnet,’ Sykes suggested. ‘As with the Somalis in
Lebanon; they draw in the volunteers … and we shoot them full of
holes.’
‘And a Chinese unit, with Rifles and some British, are moving
south along the eastern border with Pakistan, killing silently as they
go,’ Jimmy added.
The Colonel mentioned, ‘A lot of generals jumping up and down,
wanting to get into Afghanistan.’
‘Getting in … is not the problem. Getting out … is the problem.
If you put a conventional army in you’ll push the fighters over the
border, and when you leave they’ll come back. This operation is like
drawing puss from an infected wound; you keep drawing till the
puss has gone, you don’t just change the dressing to a bigger one.
Afghanistan is for Special Forces only, mountain goats and sore
feet.’
I kept an eye on Reuters that day, but no news emerged from
Afghanistan, some mention of car bombs in the Pakistani tribal
areas. Mister Lobo policed up the area, fingerprinting and
photographing the dead fighters – some not quite so dead, before
burying them. That took all day, and gainfully employed four
hundred men. Kandahar town was duly searched, stragglers shot,
many residents deciding to leave. Again.
Sniper positions were taken in the taller buildings in the town,
patrols set-up around the outskirts. Lobo was still in charge of the
airfield, Obantou in charge of mounting attacks in outlying areas, the
airfield now buzzing. Four An12’s had landed, free from
interference by missiles, and stores were plentiful. Pallets brought
large tents, camp beds and stoves. From the town, Lobo liberated
concrete, plus a large amount of wood and tools. Small huts were
soon being knocked together, concrete bunkers constructed, local
carpets used to line damp walls.
Several large animal pens were organised across the airfield,
goats and chickens placed in them, now being tended by soldiers
who knew a thing or two about animal husbandry from their
childhood. A water pipe was laid to the stream and hidden, fresh
water pumped, the airfield soon habitable.
Additional aircraft brought more tents, and the first few jeeps,
four monster IL76s landing. Long distance patrols would now be
easier. Across the stream, the nearest compounds were demolished,
a good field of fire created.
The first modest attack came a week after the initial battle,
mounted DHSK approaching from the northwest; halting at
maximum range, firing and withdrawing. Snipers were duly hidden
in the region, picking off the Toyota drivers. Meanwhile, most of the
serious fighting was centred in the east, Obantou sending men that
way for joint operations.
Eastern units of al-Qa’eda fighters, and the local Taliban,
launched well thought out attacks against “Duckland”, so named by
the American soldiers because they were sitting ducks. The
defenders even kept their lights on at night. Their field of fire was
little over six hundred yards, but their colleagues were hidden up to
three miles out. Columns of determined fighters would approach
Duckland along goat trails, attacked silently where possible, often
allowed to fire on the base first. That firing allowed those of our
troops positioned behind them to pick them off quietly.
Numerous columns of Taliban fighters ventured out through cold
nights, but none returned from the spider’s web. Supplies for
Duckland came in by Mi24 or parachute drop, analogies to Vietnam
being made, suitable signs erected: “Kansas: 12,000 miles that way.
Keep clicking them heels.” One significant difference with the
Vietnam operation, was that the soldiers here were all volunteers,
and could apply to leave whenever they wished.
Jimmy took a particular interest in Duckland, and often involved
himself in the make-up of their supplies, making sure that the men
on the ground enjoyed treats, even beer. A selected group of British,
American and African officers had been placed at Duckland, their
aim to keep the moral high and the teams integrated, whilst dissent
was stamped out. Soldiers who took a dislike to foreign nationals
were rotated out, those that integrated well were rewarded with
patrols to lead, units to command.
Two British SAS troopers were removed, three Americans, all
just a little too rude to either the Somalis or the Chinese. Our own
little command centre, in the basement, was now manned by six
officers, all of whom were made to wear casual civilian clothes and
referred to as “landscape gardeners”. Two extra satellite dishes
appeared on the roof, and I stayed in touch with Big Paul by
videophone, our part-time bodyguard now at Duckland and
organising things for Jimmy. He was, however, now Major Paul
O’Brien, British Army; his cover story. Soldiers from Duckland
were rotated to Kandahar for a change of scene every few weeks,
flown out of Afghanistan by IL76, Pakistani airspace avoided.
The Iranians could not decide if the incursion was a good thing or
not, since they were at odds with the Taliban themselves. They
didn’t like American soldiers close by, and their media reporting
was mixed and contradictory.
Day by day I read reports, glanced at digital images, and read
“score cards”, the reports of unit kills to casualties. Our International
Rifles were sniping from a distance and killing thirty fighters for
every wound received, few fatalities on our side. Duckland, was
becoming a duck shoot, strict orders from Jimmy not to take risks or
engage enemy fighters close-up.

Olympics

As the summer approached, the London 2012 Olympics drew near, a

mad dash to finish off buildings and facilities that should have been
completed a year ago. Jimmy had thrown some money at the project
in frustration, keen to see London ready.
The biggest single problem was the rail link from central London.
It was modern, clean, fast, but could never have handled the size of
crowds expected. We brought in thirty electric coaches and painted
them in London Olympic Logo colours, aiming to run them free
from London to the venue. For the duration, certain speed cameras,
round humps and roundabouts had been altered, or they would have
been very slow bus journeys. We also provided free coaches from
other cities direct to the venue to ease traffic chaos.
When the PM asked about terror attacks, Jimmy replied, ‘Yes,
and no.’
‘Meaning?’ the PM pressed.
‘Yes, there were meant to be some, but I dealt with the people
years ago. Then Rahman appeared early, and so I think he’s a threat.
Then we moved into Afghanistan early, and so that drew fighters
over there. So, I have no idea other than to say that there were
supposed to be a few small attacks, and that there may well be.’
‘Great.’
‘The attacks will all be on the tube and rail link, bombs in bags
left behind. The bombs will have timers, so simply open them when
you find them and turn off the timers.’
Having briefed the PM about the minor nature of the threat, all
hell broke loose. Rahman made his move, and did what Jimmy
expected, but not what anyone else in the world had expected.
No more than an hour after we left the PM, news came in of
hijackings in Oman, Yemen and Pakistan – an obviously
coordinated move. An attempted hijacking in Djibouti was thwarted.
Kenyan F15s took off ready, screaming north over Somali. But the
hijacked planes turned towards Afghanistan, at least that was my
initial thought. The Planes from Oman and Yemen moved north, and
I suggested we evacuate Kandahar airfield. Jimmy said that he
doubted Kandahar the target, and that the airfield was currently
fogged in. The hijacked planes would never find it.
The Pakistani plane flew west, not on a course for Kandahar, but
not far off, all three planes converging over the Straits of Hormuz,
the Iranians launching fighters. The hijackers then radioed to say
that they would land in Kuwait and release the hostages, and the
three aircraft, each flying at no more than ten thousand feet, headed
west.
With the aircraft locations being tracked in the basement
command centre, I suddenly held my breath. They all turned south,
now on a course for Dubai. And it was too late to do anything about
it. The first aircraft, an old TU154, flew straight for the tallest
building in Dubai, the world’s tallest building, and missed, clipping
a wing. It spiralled down to earth and demolished a residential
apartment block, few injuries on the ground.
The second aircraft nosed down into the business district, hitting
an office block at ground level and setting it ablaze, the third aircraft
hitting the famous Burj al Arab hotel squarely and demolishing it.
 Hardon Chase was on the phone. ‘Christ, Jimmy, they just
wrecked Dubai!’
‘Rahman used to live there, so I guess he had a few issues, a few
disputed parking fines. Anyway, Mister President, I think you
should be very loud in your condemnation of al-Qa’eda, of Rahman,
and their training camps in Afghanistan – whilst you’re still in
office.’
‘I think I should threaten to send more soldiers!’
‘I think you should.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. Move the rest of the force in, four thousand of the men
we’ve been training.’
‘On the back of a wave of support,’ Chase realised.
‘It’s been done before,’ Jimmy noted. ‘Just keep the conventional
forces out, because if we screw this up the planet will regret it. This
is a pivotal moment for planet earth, Mister Chase, so keep it on a
tight leash, stay clam, and pay attention. This is a crossroads; we
turn left or right. Make a mistake here and 2025 will be a certainty.’
‘Will there be more hijackings?’
‘A few, but nothing on this scale. And I’m figuring that our
programme to install scanners will get a boost. Right now, I’d love
to see the looks on the faces of the Saudis!’
‘Jesus, yes. I think they just switched sides!’
‘Some lessons come with a price, often a heavy price.’
‘You knew?’ Chase nudged.
‘We needed the popular support for our soldiers.’
In the days that followed, al-Qa’eda claimed responsibility for the
hijackings, detailing Dubai decadence and western ways as the
reason for the attack, Rahman fingered as the mastermind. Chase
met with his Saudi friends and threatened to send soldiers to
Afghanistan as part of a multi-national force, those soldiers filmed
arriving at Kandahar airfield a day later, also filmed giving food to
local kids.
Six hundred men moved west to create a camp, three thousand
east. Duckland II and Duckland III were created, fifty miles apart,
Hueys now transported to Kandahar to be utilised for supply runs,
and to be filmed dropping food for locals. The PR machine had
arrived. Bob Davies asked about sending Rescue Force in, and was
threatened with being fired if he ever mentioned that again.
Looking back, I’d say that the Olympics went off OK, but not
great, and certainly not as good as the Chinese Olympics. Two small
bombs were found and diffused, and our electric buses saved the day
for frustrated tourists. All the visitors had to do was to suffer shit
London hotels and expensive restaurants; food served by waiters that
spoke little English. Hell, it was cosmopolitan for the visitors, many
finding waiters from their home towns for a bit of a chat as they
argued over the bill.
During the games, tourists had wandered into the wrong estates in
East London, and had been attacked or robbed. People complained
about the costs, the bad service and the serious lack of white English
people in London. The waiters were all foreign, the hotel workers all
Polish, the late night unlicensed minicabs all run by Senegalese who
spoke very little English and carried knives. Tourists returning home
after the games suggested that London change its name to Nairobi,
or Warsaw.
By trying to shove a great many tourists into London for the
Olympics, the organisers had accentuated the worst features and
characteristics of the city, and then displayed them for all the
world’s media to see. London was tolerable much of the time, but
not when the cramped tubes became even more cramped, when you
couldn’t get a seat in a restaurant, or even navigate the pavements
safely.

All the leaves are brown, and the sky is grey

Autumn brought a change of scenery from my office window, and a

change of attitude. The baby was due to be born soon, and we had
been spending more and more time in Goma, at our delightful new
mansion. Even Jimmy preferred it to Wales, and we would
sometimes relocate the entire household “M” Group down there for
weeks on end, household “M” Group meetings held around the pool.
The mansions next door to us had been finished, and the owners
and occupiers had opted for no high fences, residents sometimes just
wandering into each other’s gardens for a chat. The road outside had
been finished with nice wide pavements either side, and we would
often stroll along them after our evening meal. A gate had been
placed at the start of the estate, security good, and we made friends
with many of the residents.
After our evening meal, we would often walk the four hundred
yards down to Po’s house, whether he was in or not, and peer at his
imported Koi Carp. His garden was larger than ours, and typically
Chinese; quiet areas to sit and contemplate. Next door sat Yuri’s
house, nice on the outside - drug lair and porn set on the inside,
beyond him a house owned by the head of our corporation. That man
wasn’t a rich individual, but he had split the house building costs
with three others, all now enjoying a twenty-bedroom house.
I had commissioned a park at the end of the road, a deep canal
from the lake cutting into it and crossed by ornate wooden bridges,
many fish available to be studied as they rested in the shade of the
bridges. We would often sit on benches as the sun lowered, ambling
back as the streetlights began attracting moths.
The girls now had their rooms the way they wanted them, and we
dare not even poke our heads in. They kept clothes and possession
down here, computers, and often travelled down with just hand
luggage. Most of their summer school holidays had been spent in
Goma, giving the grown-ups time to tackle the mountain of work
that revolved around the new city.
That city was now coming along. The workers camps had
evolved into small towns in themselves, restaurants and brothels
popping up. The sewer system had been completed, but was yet to
carry human effluent to the nearby sewage plant. The roads had all
been pegged out, many completed, making the city appear like the
drawing of a street map when viewed from the air. I actually had a
large aerial photo of the city that I used to plan things on.
Straddling the road leading southwest, twenty apartment blocks
had been raised, workers claiming temporary abodes, but many
would stay on. Shops had been occupied on the ground floor of the
apartments and were kept busy, a clinic and a police station built
nearby.
At the heart of the city, massive concrete foundations and walls
grew upwards where the main shopping centre would someday
stand, the basic outline of the marina complete. The first government
building was finished but unoccupied, apartments being finished off
nearby. That first building would house the city council, and they’d
have a hand in the ongoing construction plans.
The one feature that had been fully completed was the second
golf course, and we would often drive down our new – and empty -
eight-line highway, passing underneath the concrete monster that
was the city centre, progressing another six miles of lonely highway
to the course. This new course was now being frequented by those
golfers seeking a new challenge, or by those wishing to play a round
when a tournament clogged the first golf club. The courses’ hotel
was just about complete, and would probably see some early trade
from golfers, certainly being used as an overflow hotel when
tournaments were on.
The Radisson SAS hotel had been completed in Gotham City,
near the exhibition centre, and would be typically rammed during
Expo week. Three other hotels had popped up, and each received the
same warning from me about filling the rooms – that was their
concern, not mine. Spiral III and IV were complete - and all sold off-
plan, Spiral V in progress, Hilltops mostly complete and again all
sold off-plan. Yuri owned a nice house in Hilltops and we visited
often, the property offering a great view over Gotham City, our
Russian friend now owning some twenty houses and sixty
apartments. Still, with all the steel we were buying off him he had a
few quid to spend.
The banking quarter was mostly complete, and from Hilltops it
reminded me of Canary Wharf in London, the tall glass office blocks
backed by the lake and canals. Casino Row had been completed -
and occupied in a millisecond, its apartment balconies facing south
to the marina, and I could imagine living in Gotham City full time.
Unfortunately, the world would not let me, the future creeping
closer, the days being struck off the calendar.
Sat in my office in the UK, I scanned reports of food production,
finding them up dramatically across the board, food prices being
kept low; we now exported more than half of what we produced. Oil
production in the region was up, cheap fuel being sold to those of
our neighbours without their own oil, their economies booming. We
had even started shipping oil through Angola and selling it on the
open market, mostly to South America. Long trains would snake
south, some of them seemingly a mile long. They would pass other
trains coming in, those trains loaded with materials for the new city,
but more often they’d bring in luxury imports for the region; cars
and jeeps, the odd boat, TV’s, household goods, stereos, even
furniture. Our African middle classes were growing, our GDP rising.
Po had constructed a textiles factory, police and army uniforms
now being produced in quantity and sent all around Africa. His
plastic household goods sold well to Africa housewives, and wood
furniture sales were growing. He’d import large batches of unwanted
and outdated electronics, build radios and TVs, and sell them easily
enough in the region. For people who had never viewed a TV
before, an older model was not an issue, not even a black and white
set.
Central African TV now enjoyed a regular audience of a hundred
million people, and our six o’clock news service was an institution,
not to be missed by African families as they sat down to their
evening meal. We even saw our first few white newsreaders
appearing. Advertising revenue was high, more than covering the
basic running costs, and production of new programmes was cheap
enough. Combined with the African Times, we had the media sewn
up, opinions influenced, scandals highlighted, dodgy practises put
under the spotlight. If a minister’s brother had a scam going, then an
hour-long programme on it was enough to not only stop the scam,
but to remove the minister. Citizens often reacted badly to these
programmes, in that they would try and take the law into their own
hands, stoning the said minister’s house.
Sat checking reports, I noticed the building plans for the various
embassies. I called Jimmy as the house. ‘Jimmy, the Chinese
embassy in New Kinshasa, will it have a pond?’
‘Probably.’
‘Be a big pond?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Be twenty-six thousand acres of pond?’
‘They’re building a … Chinese quarter. It’s officially their land,
subject to the same rules as an embassy, but like a mini Hong Kong
inside the city.’
‘Is that … wise?’
‘They want to try and counterbalance the excesses of Hardon
Chase, who thinks he owns New Kinshasa.’
‘Again, is this … wise?’ I pressed.
‘Let them knock themselves out and compete, it all helps us.’
‘Does Chase know?’ I teased.
‘He has reconnaissance satellites, and a large number of warm
bodies in the CIA. So if he doesn’t know … it’s his fault.’
I found Helen at home at 5pm, her feet up. ‘Suffering, dear?’
‘A little. My feet hurt more than the first two times.’
I sat and rubbed her feet. ‘Not long now.’
‘Could have a “C” Section anytime.’
‘Well, whatever you prefer, it’s kicking enough. It woke me last
night, your bulge in my back.’
‘Could be a boy then.’ She heaved a breath. ‘I’ll talk to the doctor
today, get him to pencil me in for Saturday Morning. Are your
parents coming down?’
‘Getting a bit too old to be bothered with such trips. Mum is
seventy-two, dad is eighty-four, and they don’t like their routines
interrupted.’
‘Jimmy’s mum went into hospital today.’
 ‘Oh?’
‘She’s seventy-eight and looking frail. Still won’t have the drug,
not that Jimmy wants her to.’
‘Long story,’ I sighed.
‘I think I understand some of it,’ Helen mentioned.
‘Saturday then; a new baby to play with. We could give the girls
a few rooms in the main house, and wind back the clock a bit.’
‘Should we get Cat back?’ Helen wondered.
‘She has a kid of her own now. Must be … two years old by now,
so she can’t watch ours.’
‘Sharon knows someone, and Jimmy said the woman was OK.
And Trish will help out.’
‘Your dear assistant … does not strike me as the family type,’ I
pointed out.
‘I think she made a play for Jimmy a while back, but I haven’t
mentioned it.’
‘If he wanted to – he would have – and not cared about hiding it.
So he must have told her no.’
‘She had a brief fling with one of the bodyguards.’
‘Yeah, which one?’ I pried.
‘Mark,’ I think. ‘Always see him with Ricky. Doesn’t get on with
Rob.’
‘I know him. And she can do better.’
Shelly stepped in, blue school uniform, dumping down her bag.
‘How is it today, mum?’
‘Twins, I think,’ Helen said.
‘I’ve got a book on baby care,’ Shelly informed us. ‘I know it
all.’
‘A keen volunteer,’ I noted. ‘Excellent. And good practise for
when you have your own … at sixteen.’ I exchanged a look with
Helen as I stood.
Jimmy keenly accompanied us to the private hospital Saturday
morning, he and Shelly arguing over who would look after the baby
the most. And so far, we had not finalised a name, or even discussed
it much, no hints coming from Jimmy.
Two hours later a little pink girl arrived, third in a row, and I held
my new daughter for Shelly to study, tiny fingers gripped. I spent
the night in Helen’s room, our new arrival a screamer, being picked
up at noon the next day.
Everyone at the house had a peek at the new arrival, gifts offered,
our new nanny waiting. Ruth, a friend of Sharon’s, and a forty-year-
old with two grown daughters, took our bundle as we took a nap.
When I came down later, Ruth was watching Shelly change the
nappy. I cracked open a beer and sat watching with an amused grin,
turning the TV news on.
When Helen came down, walking slowly, she found our new
daughter asleep on the lap of our eldest daughter. Ruth made Helen a
tea, and we sat quietly observing Shelly’s maternal instincts.
Lucy was interested, but not that interested, and plonked down
next me. ‘What’ll you name her?’
‘How about Liz,’ Shelly suggested.
‘Funny,’ Helen said, ‘but I was thinking about Liz.’
‘It has my vote,’ I added. ‘Elizabeth Holton.’
Elizabeth Jane Holton was welcomed to the world, and Shelly
surprised us all with how good she was with Liz. Boyfriends would
be told that she was busy, because it was her turn to watch or feed
the baby, and those young men invited around to baby-sit seemed a
little put off by both the presence of the baby - and Shelly’s fondness
for babies. Poor acne-faced lads would flee in the face of early
parenting, making me smile. At that age, I would have run as well.
Things were looking good, till Jimmy suggested that next year we
may need to voluntarily expose ourselves. I knew it was on the
cards, but I was not looking forward to it.
Little more than a week later, the former British Chancellor, a
man who had wanted to be Prime Minister before his heart attack,
went public. He labelled the existing PM as a puppet controlled by
Jimmy, he detailed our ability to predict the future – cleverly not
mentioning anyone called Magestic, and that we were preparing the
world for a number of future disasters. I sat with the girls, and Ruth
the babysitter, and watched the whole interview, all twenty minutes
of it.
Ruth finally said, ‘If Jimmy was running the bloody country …
he’d do a better job of it!’
The girls asked a few odd questions, so I told them to ask Jimmy,
playing the employee card well. We avoided interviews that
evening, only to find that the former French President had gone
public as well, but specifically mentioning Magestic. The tabloids
favourite horoscope reader claimed that he was predicting the future,
and the papers that sponsored him made a big deal of it to boost their
circulation.
Jimmy was not that bothered, suggesting that he was ready. He
admitted to worrying for us and the baby, but did not see any major
problems ahead. It was business as usual.
 That evening, we invited in a BBC crew, setting up in a lounge.
Before the interview, which I figured would be for the both of us, I
went for a walk around the grounds. Jimmy had the same idea, and
we bumped into each other at Jack’s rose garden.
‘Nice day for it,’ I quipped, the sky overcast.
‘You know how long you’ve been at this? Twenty six years.’
‘Jesus, that sounds like a long time. But it doesn’t feel like a long
time.’
‘It never does. We sleep, we wake, and we start the good fight
again.’
‘Do you know what you’ll say?’ I asked.
‘Why, are you worried?’
‘A bit. Back at the start of 2010 I was terrified, less so now; the
idiots on this planet can’t even join the dots.’
‘They got the drug, the electric cars, and people are easily
dazzled by shiny trinkets. And those very same people have been
wondering about UFOs for fifty years. Some believe, most don’t.
It’s similar; plausible, yet unproven.’
‘Can you drag it out?’
He took a moment to study me. ‘Do you want me to try?’
‘Well, feeling a bit vulnerable now,’ I admitted as I pulled leaves
off a long-dead rose head.
‘Next year, we’ll have to make a decision. There’re a few nasty
earthquakes coming up, plus pandemics. We can either fight those
from the shadows, or get the people behind us.’
‘You obviously know what happens after exposure, hence this
house.’ I waited.
‘It won’t be so different, just that everything you do or say will be
reported and scrutinised. If baby Liz does a poo, it’ll make the
tabloids. Some will think us gods, others will want us dead. Africa
will still like us, the Chinese and the Russians will be OK, America
mixed – with the Bible belt wanting to belt us. At least we’ve had
six good years of President Chase, that has helped a lot, and he’ll
look after us.’
‘And his replacement?’
‘Unknown at the moment, but I do have a candidate or two in the
wings. Besides, after exposure we’ll get more power and the world
leaders get less. People power.’
‘Sounds like we should have done it before now.’
‘No, I needed to work behind the scenes.’ We turned, heading
back. ‘Grab your family, all of them, dress nice, and we’ll do the
interview together.’
 ‘I may have said this before, once or twice, but is that wise?’
‘They’d find out quickly if I revealed anything, so why hide it.’
‘Are you … going to reveal anything?’
‘Not voluntarily, but the interviewer may tickle me.’
I led the four ladies in my life across to the house, into the lounge
and to Jimmy, the interviewer looking a bit put out. Camera angles
were altered, microphones made ready. As I made ready, I figured
that the interviewer would have no choice but to avoid shitty
questions.
We were finally ready, and I heaved a big breath.
‘Thank you all for being here today, and congratulations Paul and
Helen.’
So far, baby Liz was behaving, being cradled by Jimmy, but I
was kind of hoping she’d burp, or puke on Jimmy’s trouser legs.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘But Helen did all the work.’
The interview faced Shelly. ‘And now you have a baby sister.
Will you be helping out?’
‘I already change and feed the baby,’ Shelly proudly stated. ‘I
want one of my own as soon as I can.’
Jimmy turned his head to her. ‘Don’t you think you should meet a
nice guy … and get married first?’
‘Oh, Jimmy, you’re such an old fuddy-duddy.’
Jimmy gave the camera a peeved look. ‘I think, Shelly, that you
should avoid telling nice young men your desire for kids on the first
date.’
‘Boys are sooo easy to control.’
Jimmy faced Helen.
‘Don’t look at me, she doesn’t get it from me. I always wanted to
be happily married first,’ Helen pointed out. ‘And preferably a rich
man that could look after me.’
‘What about you Luce, do you want to have kids?’ Jimmy asked,
and I could see the interviewer wanting to jump in.
‘Not till I’m old like mum,’ Lucy said.
‘Thank you, darling,’ Helen quipped.
‘Your mum is not old,’ I told Lucy. ‘And she still looks great.
Even after ten kids.’
‘You only have the three,’ Jimmy pointed out.
‘It feels like ten some days,’ I replied, ignoring the interviewer.
‘If you want to give up Lucy - I’ll adopt her,’ Jimmy offered.
‘Save having one of my own.’
‘You’re still practising,’ Lucy told Jimmy.
 Jimmy looked into the camera and wiggled his eyebrows.
‘Practise is important in many areas of life, but especially when it
comes to making a relationship work. I’m not very good with the
ladies, so I have to keep practising.’
‘The French Finance Minister likes you,’ Lucy put in. ‘She said
you have a good head and figure.’
Helen and I exchanged looks, grins suppressed.
Jimmy explained, ‘She said … that I had a good head for figures,
Luce. That’s not quite the same.’
The interviewer could wait no longer. ‘Mister Silo, the recent
comments about the influence you have over the Prime Minister -’
‘He never brings us anything,’ Luce complained. ‘Not even on
our birthdays.’
Jimmy wagged a finger at the camera. ‘Bad Prime Minister, bring
some gifts next time, huh.’
‘He looks taller on the TV,’ Shelly mentioned. ‘I’m almost as tall
as him.’
Jimmy wagged a finger at the camera. ‘Bad Prime Minister, don’t
be so short. The voters of this country expect you to be taller. Get
yourself an inch or two where it matters.’
‘On his baldy head,’ Luce added, and I was waiting to see just
how the hell the interviewer got this back on track, the girls’
presence another brilliant move by Jimmy.
‘The comments that the former Chancellor made, what do you
say in reply?’ the interviewer squeezed in before any semblance of
his professional pride disappeared.
‘What comments were they?’ I asked, just to be awkward.
‘The former Chancellor claimed that you, Mister Silo, were
heavily influencing the Prime Minister.’
‘It’s never been my policy to interfere in UK domestic politics,
which is why I get so many people complaining that all my time and
energy is spent on Africa. I have no particular interest in local
politics, and I’m hardly ever in this country. I think the former
Chancellor is just mad that he never became Prime Minister – and
I’m sure that he would have made a very poor Prime Minister.’
‘Which one is he?’ Lucy asked.
I turned my head. ‘He’s the fat one who looks like he’s had a
stroke on both sides of his face.’
Helen bit her lip.
‘And the allegations of the ability to predict the future?’ the
interviewer got in.
 Jimmy began with, ‘I predict … that British Rail will still be crap
in twenty years, that air travel will still be a chore, that the computer
industry will still be led by the gaming industry, that politicians will
still be corrupt, and that I’ll still be practising.’
‘The former French president backed-up the claims –’
‘I don’t like the French,’ Luce put in.
‘You like French Brie,’ Jimmy reminded her.
‘That’s nice,’ Lucy agreed, the interviewer still frustrated.
‘And you liked Paris, the Eiffel Tower,’ Jimmy added.
‘But not French people,’ Lucy complained. ‘They wave their
arms around a lot.’
‘French men are nice,’ Shelly put in. ‘The French Military
Attache was nice.’
Helen turned her head. ‘A think he was a little old for you,
darling. But he was very charming in his uniform.’
‘He was?’ I asked my wife. ‘May I remind you that you’re
happily married … with ten kids.’
She shrugged. ‘Men in uniforms.’
‘Coming back to the French Military Attache – why was he
here?’ our interviewer asked.
‘I bought coastal patrol craft for Kenya, off the French Navy,’
Jimmy explained. ‘And afterwards we sat down to plan the
domination of the world from a cave in Switzerland.’
Helen said, ‘If we carve up the world, I want Switzerland;
beautiful country, great people.’
‘I want to ban adverts between programmes,’ I added, figuring
the interviewer would either explode, or give up.
‘Mister Silo, what do you say to the charge that you – or the “M”
group – are secretly running the world?’
‘First, the “M” Group are running the world. They represent more
than half of the GDP, and more than half the world’s population.
And second, if I was running the world, there would be hope for a
better future.’
Liz burped, making me smile widely. She had been saving it, and
her timing was great. Jimmy handed her over to Helen. Facing the
interviewer, he said, ‘No more silly question, we have some
important family-time things to attend to.’
‘We’re off air,’ a man said a few second later, and only then did I
realise we had been live.
Jimmy thanked the poor interviewer and shook his hand, leading
us out and around to our house, getting the kettle on.
 ‘I saw it on the TV,’ Ruth said with a huge smile. ‘That poor
interviewer. But the baby came across great, they zoomed on her a
few times.’
We settled about the coffee table, Shelly holding the baby.
‘You did well, girls,’ Jimmy told my daughters. ‘That nice man
wanted to ask a few difficult questions, but we spoke about
nonsense.’
‘Will that deflect them?’ Helen asked, causing me to glance at
Ruth.
‘They can think what they like for now,’ Jimmy replied. ‘And, at
the end of the day, people just don’t care.’
‘You should be running the world,’ Ruth said. ‘Couldn’t do a
worse job of it.’
‘There speaks a member of the public,’ Jimmy pointed out to
Helen and me. ‘The public … crave a better path, a different way.’
Ruth said, ‘Yeah, but the ones in power will never give it up
without a fight.’
‘A good point,’ Jimmy noted. ‘So we won’t be trying to take it
off them. Not yet.’
‘Well, you got my vote.’ She checked her watch and stood. ‘Best
check in on my own brood. See you in the morning, Helen. Bye all.’
‘They’ll keep pressing,’ I suggested.
‘They have no legal right to force us to talk,’ Jimmy reminded
me. ‘All we need do is keep reminding everyone how nice we are,
how nice we look, and how useful our gadgets are to the world. And
you heard Ruth; the people want hope in a difficult world. You’ll be
fine.’
‘And the timescale? I asked.
‘Not long. Probably months.’

2013

Lobster had rotated out of Kandahar after three months, four weeks
spent with his family, which was about three weeks and a few days
too long. He was relieved when he returned. Big Paul was in his
element, and sometimes attended patrols out of Duckland. But he
also rotated back, providing Jimmy with detailed verbal reports that
lasted into the small hours some days. They were plotting and
scheming, but very little of it was to do with defeating al-Qa’eda.
 Our favourite Rescue Force writer had been allowed into both
Kandahar and Duckland, to collect information for a book. That
book was actually destined to be five books in four languages as it
charted the training and deployment of chosen individuals; British,
American, French, Russian and Chinese. A film was also planned, a
great amount of detail put on paper by Big Paul and Jimmy. As with
the exploits of Rescue Force, Jimmy knew exactly how to reach our
target audience.
One day in October, when I wandered down into the basement
command room, Jimmy showed me a set of images taken at
Duckland. Under a sign that labelled far off cities, their compass
bearings and their distances listed, groups of men posed for the
photographer.
‘It’s on track, and going well,’ Jimmy enthused, handing me the
photograph with a smile.
‘The campaign?’
‘No, dope - the integration.’
I studied the image, that of soldiers from several nations, all
happily posing together, a mascot of a rubber duck.
‘That’s Section 112,’ Jimmy said. ‘Russians, Chinese,
Americans, Brits and a Frenchman. They’re a distance sniper
section; they eat, live and breathe sniper rifles, and they compete for
the best kills.’
He handed me a second photograph. ‘Big Paul organised a
weekly rotation of cooking duties. That’s the Chinese cooking for
the whole camp, special ingredients flown in. They’re the most
popular amateur chefs, Chinese night keenly awaited. The Brits do a
curry night, which is passable apparently, the French cook the local
goats, and the Yanks fly in burgers and hotdogs.
‘The soldiers took over a compound and house, made it as
pleasant as they could, put up a large white screen and show films
most nights, beer issued. I’m flying in a lot of beer, but the Rifles
don’t normally drink unless back at Kandahar. But the African boys
love the movies, most of which they’ve never seen – like E.T., or
Star Wars!’
‘All the creature comforts,’ I noted. ‘And the success rate?’
‘Slow attrition; we set traps, and they walk into them. Very low
casualty rate, but that’s not the point. The bonding between soldiers
is working well, and you can hear them criticising their political
paymasters. It’s changing attitudes at the lowest level; grunts sharing
blood, sweat and tears. I’ll have books written about it and sent
everywhere, we’ll fund films about it.’
 ‘It’s a dry run for 2025,’ I realised.
‘And more than just that, it’s a dry run for future politics.’ He
tapped a photograph. ‘That’s Sev, a Russian who carried a wounded
Chinese soldier twelve miles. And these two Chinese, they carried
an American six miles across a mountain, keeping him alive. The
material is great, and I aim to get a dozen books and movies out of
it.’
‘It’s not going to stop political attitudes, they’re just grunts.’
‘I told you before: ignore the politicians and deal with the people,
especially Hollywood. A few years of movies about Duckland and
national attitudes will change a great deal. When you started that
combined college you opened the door, and set the politicians
thinking. They wanted to be involved for their own selfish reasons,
to try and influence the next generation of African leaders. What
they didn’t realise … was that they’d put their instructors in the
same room, and then their soldiers. Once that process starts it very
difficult to stop. In Duckland, Americans and Russians are eating,
living and fighting together.
‘After these soldiers leave the army they’ll meet up, a few
working in private security together. You set in motion … a disease
that will infect the world, and one that builds on the student
exchanges we started in 1986, and the mixed safaris in Africa; one
world, one threat, one cause. Of everything we’ve done, this is the
most important part, building that integration up – but not at the
political level, at the lowest level; grunts in the field. The “M”
Group of leaders are fine, but those faces change – and they can
change their minds!’
I took more of an interest in Duckland after that, peering at faces
frozen in time in photographs, imagining what they were doing,
what they’d be eating tonight. I bought a number of laptops with
video cameras and shipped them out, opened up a special account
with Skype, and bought some satellite time. Soldiers in Duckland
could each have five minutes a day to talk to family, or they could
barter their airtime. I even took to chatting to a few, calling at
random and asking about conditions.
Shelly joined me once, but that was a mistake, because she got
flirty with the soldiers - and I got irate with my little tramp.
As Christmas approached, I organised a lady Santa with large
breasts to chat to the boys, and to wiggle her best assets. I sent gifts
and booze, silly hats, a few soldiers reprimanded for fighting the
Taliban in red Santa hats. My own Christmas was a delight because I
had the baby to hold, and I never got fed up with just staring at her.
We enjoyed a traditional Christmas at home, big tree, lots of
decorations, Queen’s Speech on the TV, then flew down to Goma on
the 27th, baby Liz injected by Jimmy just in case.
For the second year running we stayed in Goma for New Year,
senior staff invited over, rooms provided for many RF rescuers. We
again found ourselves in the Chinese restaurant and watching the
fireworks on the lake, the next day spent at Yuri’s place in Hilltops.
I simply sat in the sun with a cold beer and watched the city, planes
coming and going, a dip in the pool when I warmed up.
It was the calm before the storm, and 2013 would change
everything, not just US Presidents. I knew that, Jimmy had told me,
but I kept it from Helen, hoping to drag out every minute.

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