PEACE PIPE - CHAPTER ONE

PEACE PIPE
by David Armstrong-Jones
November 2011
***************************
“YES WE CAN”
**************Barack Obama***

That cruelty has been imposed upon us does not justify the cruelty we impose upon others.
‘An eye for an eye’ is the language of defeat.

MOHAMMED
JESUS CHRIST
MAHATMA GHANDI
MARTIN LUTHER KING
NELSON MANDELA

They have shown us the way.

* * *

Character Build

Peter Elkins III - American Mercenary
Paul Connolly - Irish Mercenary
Mary Murphy -Irish Widow Woman
Sergeant Thompson - Mercenary Recruiter
Major Alistair Leigh - Tough Guys
Archie Andrews - African Mercenary

1

Allegheny Mountains, W. Virginia, USA
January 20, 2012

The man was dead, of that there could be no doubt. Early in the morning and alone, he had balanced his bicycle against a rock buried into the shattered safety rail and stepped back, squinting at the first vivid flames sparkling from a winter sun. The silver Porsche turned yellow just before hitting him. The young driver, also blinded, was aware of the bump and saw a dark shape as it hurtled over his head.
It was uncanny. The dead man was about his own height, with a matching slim build, the same even features and square jaw. According to his passport and identity card, they shared the same age, same eye and hair color, though his had been shorn. Even the man’s name was almost the same: Pieter, from Belgium. He’d been wearing wire-framed glasses with bendy ear holders, presumably to keep them on; presumably, as a cyclist, he needed them. Now they lay in the road and glinted in the sun, the only evidence of an accident. And it was an accident.
At this early hour of the day, with the road devoid of traffic, who would have expected to encounter someone in such an exposed position? The man had catapulted over the bonnet and windscreen into the high rear spoiler. It was clear that he had broken his back cleanly and with no mess. Nevertheless, the driver checked his victim’s pulse with some care before he drew the body closer to the car. A tarmac inspection showed no skid marks, just those glasses with the unusual ear holders. They had traded places in no time.

Twenty minutes later, the cyclist, clad in expensive clothes, with an 18ct gold Rolex around his wrist and leather billfold embossed with the initials PE III and holding three hundred dollars, plus personal papers, accompanied the Porsche through a broken safety rail, into the thousand foot gorge. By the time it stopped, not a lot remained.
Not long afterwards, John Elkins, Mayor of Elkins and President of the First National Savings Bank, identified the corpse as his son, Peter. A man who, had he lived, might have soon been facing a whole different set of problems.
Several hours down the line and well beyond his previous timetable, a blond young man cycled into Harrisonburg on the far side of the mountain. The town, beginning to wake up, possessed an obliging hairdresser who removed his stylish moustache and long curly hair in favor of a clean shave and regimental crew cut.
The new style, aided and abetted by a pair of wire-framed spectacles with bendy ear holders, now with new clear lenses, provided a fair replica of Pieter De Herdt, an army reservist from Belgium who, only hours earlier, had been enjoying a cycling holi- day in West Virginia. The man’s disguise was completed by a full change of clothes; only a cultured Harvard accent belied the image. Peter Elkins III morphed into his victim’s persona and with two passports, he had a choice of identity. It also helped that his choice of flight, from Washington to London, coincided with a rare moment in history. The eyes of America had fixed upon their first black President, Kolé Cutter, and the occasion of his second term White House signing in ceremony; a joyful distraction that surely helped the fugitive on his way.

London, England - January 21, 2013

Paul Connolly felt pleased with himself. Still early evening, he had arrived in Holyhead from Dun Laoghaire at midday. A helpful lorry driver drove him all the way to London and dropped him off in a back street close to Euston Station, full of B&Bs. With less than fifty pounds in his pocket and the need to find work an immediate objective, fate played a hand. As the vehicle pulled away, there, attached to the post of a ‘Shop for Sale’ sign, was a printed, regimental card with an army emblem at the top.

Able-bodied men aged between 20 and 30.
Must be fit, unattached and free to travel.
Ex-military preferred - Passport essential.
High rewards for successful applicants.
Apply 9 Albert St, WC2 – Jan 20-22, 2013.

A woman emerged from the shop. Ready to lock up for the night, she glanced at the young man with some interest. About to pocket the card, the man saw her and reddened with embarrassment. She noticed, pretending not to notice. He was in his early twenties, of average height and handsome, in spite of a broken nose collected in another life. She also managed not to notice his grey-green eyes, set in a strong face crowned with brown curly hair. The woman smiled and nodded both at a knap-sack he carried over one mus-cular shoulder and at an old suitcase tied with rope and held in the other hand.

‘You’ll be wanting a room, son?’ Somehow, the soft voice had a familiar accent. Connolly stared into clear blue eyes. He stepped back off the pavement and sized up the rest of her; old enough to be his mam, but still attractive. Her fair skin had a little too much make-up; her fine hair was cut in an urchin style; her small face contrasted with full breasts, emphasized by a tight blouse. Her waist had started to fill out, but the rest seemed well preserved. His intimate appraisal brought an amused riposte: ‘Well now, you’re the bold one, aren’t you?’

Connolly returned the laugh. His teeth sparkled from a tanned, unshaven face. He raised an eyebrow and returned her question with another. ‘I’m the bold one am I?’ Of course, the voice sounded familiar; she was Irish and not a million miles from Dublin. He decided to gamble. ‘Leinster girls are all the same. It’s the fellahs who end up in the con-fessional.’ Then, concerned he might have offended her: ‘Do you really have a room?’

The woman started into the shop, her voice floating out behind her. ‘Come take a look, why don’cha?’ After she had closed the door, Connolly followed her upstairs. He eyed the sway of her hips and sturdy legs while she laughed and introduced herself. ‘Me name’s Murphy. You can call me Mary!’

A novice back at the convent had once told him a gold chain seen affixed to a girl’s ankle indicated the definite badge of a prostitute. Although he later learned to discount the idea, there remained a twinge of excitement. The solid gold ring on Mary Murphy’s left hand was, however, less titillating.

A living area above the shop included an open plan kitchen, a dining room-cum-lounge, and a run-down bathroom next to a small, old-fashioned toilet. Of the three bedrooms, one appeared little more than a large closet. A door, which interconnected between the rooms, ‘remained locked.’ Connolly felt honored to receive the larger of these. The enor-mous bed also seemed to bode well. After being informed that supper would be ready in an hour, Mary left him to his own devices.

First off, Connolly unpacked his clothes and set them in the drawers of a small dresser exactly as he had been taught to do for his entire life. He didn’t have much, so the space proved more than adequate. After this, he stripped to his shorts for a 15-minute work- out - concentrating on his torso, abdominal and upper leg muscles. Having worked up a sweat, he decided to take a bath. A towel wrapped around his waist, he made his way along the landing. The bathroom door swung open to his touch. The floor trembled as an underground train passed immediately beneath the shop.

Mary Murphy stood naked under the shower, vigorously washing her hair as rivulets of shampoo ran down between firm, shaking breasts. She cocked her head, sensing little more than the sounds of the train and running water, then attempted to blink through the foam which clogged her eyes.

Connolly backed out, closed the door softly and headed back to his room. He sat on the edge of the bed and turned the situation over in his mind. Strange she had not locked the bathroom door or, indeed, closed the shower curtain. She had nothing to be ashamed of; as well stacked a figure as he had ever seen, though she’d be at least twice the age of Siobhan O’Leary, his last convent escapade before he left Naas. Mary Murphy had proper tits for a start. He recalled the sight of her, glowing in the bathroom light, soap-suds running down her body into the dark glistening nest between her thighs. He began to grow hard and considered returning to the bathroom. Surely she had set this up and expected him to arrive at any moment? Connolly stood and walked to the door, excited by the thought. Then another stopped him in his tracks. Suppose she’d just forgotten to lock the door; this was, after all, her home. He knew nothing about her, or she him. Suddenly, Connolly remembered the gold ring. Jesus, Holy Mother of God! Was she still married? What if some ould fart of a husband happened to be taking a nap in the next room, maybe even waiting for her? He sat back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of traffic and the occasional subway train which rattled the doors. After he had waited a while longer, the young Irishman ventured towards the now empty bathroom. He inspected the door. It was badly warped; hard to close, let alone fasten.

Later, over supper, Connolly learned that Mary Murphy had become a war widow when her husband, Arnold, part of the army in Iraq at the time of the second Gulf War, died as a result of ‘friendly fire’ while patrolling the Kuwait desert.

Obviously proud, Mary showed her new lodger the letter of commendation from Arnold’s platoon commander and another from the State Department, both expressing deep regret. She also brought out the medals Arnold had won playing football for Camden Town in the Minor League, as well as her marriage and honeymoon photos. One picture, a little faded, showed her in a two-piece swimsuit. Connolly was tempted to comment on what he had seen in the bathroom, but chose a safer tack. ‘D’you happen to know of an Irish pub hereabouts, Mary?’

* * *

Layers of fresh sawdust, laid down to cover the old, were spread over the floor of the bar and Shamrocks were festooned on every mirror and glass. Connolly wondered what the sawdust was intended to soak up. As he sipped a second pint of Guinness, which somehow didn’t taste the same as in Dublin, he glanced round carefully.

In the corner, right by the door, a slight lad sat alone. It seemed as if he had been there for a while. On the table beside him were two glasses - one large, one small - plus a number of empties. Connolly figured the combination to be what the Americans call a beer and chaser. He was far too good looking to be on his own - a young Robert Redford, about the same age as himself, with broad shoulders, short cropped blond hair, blue eyes and a square jaw. Perhaps he had lost his girlfriend. Strangely, he resembled a typical Yank and yet he was dressed like a European. The Irishman decided that maybe he had just lived in London for a long time and dismissed the anomaly. An old woman was sitting at the end of the bar holding on tightly to a Pekinese. Disconcertingly, the animal, which appeared to have a 360 degree rotator eyes, glared ferociously at anyone prepared to take an interest. Other tables were filled with people relaxing, having a quiet drink, minding their own business. All the noise came from behind him where the rest of the bar was crowded out by northern football supporters, favoring the blue away kit of Leeds United, with cause for celebration. They were extremely boisterous and selfishly oblivious to the other customers - their language as offensive as it was ignorant.

Connolly witnessed the barman shake his head in despair. The young man in the corner laughed and responded with a deliberate jerk-off motion of his right hand in the general direction of the large crowd along the bar. The men exchanged laughs.

Connolly had started to wonder if Mary Murphy might still be around. However, before he could get up, a large, obnoxious looking man, one of the football crowd, who had obviously seen the sign language, walked past and leaned threateningly over the seated man, bawling loudly into his ear.

‘You got a fucking problem, son?’ The young man stared back before, as if he had asked himself a question and decided on the answer, blowing the man a kiss. It was all that was needed. As the older man reached down, his intention to pull away the table, it happened: just about the most perfect uppercut the Irishman had witnessed in his life. A roar of indignation went up from behind him and, in unison, the entire group of supporters were on the move. Connolly, who by this time had stood up and thrown his bar stool into the sawdust across their path, effectively flooring a number of them, then dropped another with a searing right hook that sank right into the man’s belly. During the pause which followed, and as the crowd began to sort themselves out, Connolly decided it was time to leave.

The young man appeared in agreement and together they beat a hasty, if intelligent, retreat. It was not until they turned the corner at the end of the street that the young man stopped in his tracks, patted his shoulder, swore softly and turned, as if to return to the action. His companion reached out, barring his way. ‘What happened?’ The reply surprised him.

‘My handbag’s gone!’ The accent was American, cultured and lacking any twang.

The Irishman almost laughed. ‘Your handbag?’

‘I left it in the pub. It was hanging on the back of my chair.’

Connolly shook his head. ‘You’d not be thinking to go back at this minute?’ He had another thought. ‘You living close by?’

The American shook his head and grinned. ‘It’s in the bag.’ His companion looked confused. ‘I only arrived in London this afternoon. A cab drove me to the cheapest hotel the guy knew. I collected a key and their business card, went out for a walk, checked into the bar and was about to go when…’

The rest of the sentence was left unfinished.
Connolly sounded quizzical. ‘You can’t remember the name of the hotel?’ The American shook his head, now both embarrassed and glum.

Finding himself walking back towards his digs, the Irishman decided it was time for introductions. ‘Me name’s Connolly.’ He held out his hand to the stranger. ‘Paul!’

The young man smiled, hesitated and, finally, using a strong grip, shook Connolly’shand. ‘Hi. I’m Pieter de Herdt.’ He shook his head and grimaced, still holding the Irishman’s hand. ‘Hell, no, I’m Peter Elkins.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a long story.’

The men arrived at Mrs. Murphy’s shop to find all the lights out. It seemed the lady had retired for the night. On top of a bar stool, placed just inside the door, Connolly found a torch and a hand-written note: ‘I’m keeping the bed warm.’

Following the briefest of explanations and introductions, with no one appearing to conclude that sharing a bed was particularly inappropriate, they settled down for an enjoyable night. Dawn had broken when the woman sat up, crying with laughter. er companions sprang up in alarm. She pointed to each of them and then, dramatically, to herself. ‘That’s it: Peter, Paul and Mary.’ She laughed again. ‘They were desperate in the 60’s!’ On second thoughts, maybe her bedfellows were a mite too young.

The following morning, after a replay of the night’s indulgences and a big breakfast, the two boys helped Mary Murphy with the washing up before going in search of a job.

* * *

Paul Connolly had enjoyed only brief spells of good fortune in his short life span.

Discovered on convent steps by nuns returning from a midnight mass at the end of 1977, Monsignor Connolly, responsible for the diocese and goings-on at Naas Roman Catholic Convent in County Kildare, promptly gave the boy his own name. Gossip had it that likely the old man was more than just the ‘spiritual’ father anyway.

Brought up under strict con-trol in a Catholic orphanage attached to the convent, it was no surprise that, as the only boy in residence, trouble followed him around.

Just past his fifteenth birthday, Connolly rescued a donkey from ill treatment by tinkers, collecting a broken nose for his trouble. If that wasn’t enough, Monsignor said he shouldn’t have interfered and soundly beat the young man with a strap. However, one year later, a novice nun fell pregnant and young Connolly’s future was in the balance. Someone suggested it might have been a miracle, but the Monsignor was furious. Not only had the boy betrayed his trust but he had ruined a nurtured fraternity, one developed for his personal pleasure over many years.

Connolly had no option but to further his horizons and seek employment in a world extending to the Curragh. The famous horse racing venue chose to employ him as a stable lad. Five years on, he sailed for the UK to seek fame and, hopefully, larger fortunes.

* * *

Sergeant Thompson, ex-Marine Corps, looked as if he’d been part of a military fight- ing machine all his life. Now into his sixties, his craggy face, sunken eyes and spread nose all attested to a long and arduous career. He glared at a piece of toilet paper on the Irishman’s chin, the result of a shaky shave after his previous night maneuvers, but conveniently managed to overlook his lack of credentials.

There was no such problem with Peter - now Pieter. The Belgium conscript papers appeared adequate. They had their pictures taken ‘for security purposes’ and that was that.

The contract comprised a rail ticket and an address in the north of England, where they would receive a two-week weapons refresher course. If they proved satisfactory, seven days minimum employment somewhere on the African continent would follow, with a fee of £200 for each day spent overseas. It was somewhat of a relief. Since their first night, the insatiable Mary Murphy had maintained her amazing aptitude for sexual maneuvers of every kind.

* * *

At the ‘training centre’, an old army testing ground at Skiddaw in Cambria, Connolly and Elkins, both of whom had signed up under false pretences, met Archie Andrews. An African, originally from Swaziland, he proved good company, always cheerful and particularly proud of his 22ct gold front tooth. Proving a mine of information on just about everything, he was, indeed, the genuine article. Although neither of the young men knew anything about lethal weapons, they were now able to help one another as best they could while learning quickly from their new found friend. It also said something that, of the twenty-two men rehabilitated, only two were found to be worthless, which highlighted the recruiter’s need for quantity over quality.

Paul Connolly and Peter Elkins managed to do more than just qualify. Alongside Archie Andrews, the only black man in the party and an old soldier friend of Sergeant Thompson, they found themselves promoted to the rank of acting corporal. Thompson explained that under him they would be in charge of the party and would each receive an added bonus of £500 at the end of the commission.

Over the training period the boys had learned a lot, but most important was how to use the armaments that would accompany them. If everything to this point had been rather second-hand and sloppy, training in the use of these efficient killing machines was thoroughly professional. They and their weapons now functioned as a single unit.

* * *

After a thoroughly drunken leaving party, a delightfully inebriated Eddie Thompson confirmed that, in the unlikely event of any prosecutions arising from the assignment, they would face a criminal, rather than military, trial. During their briefing, they met the officer in overall charge, a thin emaciated man with a long face and drooping moustache: ex-Royal Marine Major Alistair Leigh. Rumors rumbled in the background of one Victor Miles; he apparently ran the lot.

Following distribution of various vaccinations and tablets for typhoid, malaria and other like malaises, the group flew to an abandoned military airfield, close to Benghazi. The main runway had been cleared. There was ample evidence of the destruction wrought by Allied warplanes, a result of the assault on Colonel Gaddafi’s air force in 2011. It was surprising that blackened, broken and burned out planes still littered the area. A couple of brand new passenger buses conveyed the group into Benghazi itself, dodging the occasional abandoned wreckage awaiting its turn to be cleared from some of the roads.

Peter Elkins, who had enjoyed a classical education at one of the top American universities, thought that coming to Benghazi was the height of irony. Its name derived from a 15th cent-ury benefactor called Sidi Ghazi. In Arabic, Ghazi means warrior, invader or raider; particu-larly appropriate for the mission ahead.

The El Fedeel Hotel, into which the group had been booked, was reputed to be one of the best in town. By normal, civilized standards, it might have been considered rather less than acceptable but, recovering from a civil war, it was patently doing its best. Paul Connolly marveled at a hotel staff, who were demonstrably grateful to have their business, providing huge helpings of Kesksou, better known in the West, as Couscous, for dinner.

Directed to one of Benghazi’s famous souks, Connolly discovered leather as soft as a young lover’s skin. Were it not for his new found friends, Peter Elkins and Archie Andrews, the inexperienced Irishman would, if left to his own devices, have purchased an entire stall.
Instead, he was persuaded to confine himself to selecting a multi-colored shoulder bag that was packed up on the spot and posted off to Mary Murphy in London. With not much else on offer in what was, after all, a broken city, the three men joined their fellow mercenaries and spent the next few balmy days lazing on a sandy beach just outside the city and swim-ming in the Mediterranean. Then, on the third day, it got serious. They returned to the airport and were issued with fatigue uniforms and weaponry.

An old transporter, seemingly tied together with fishing line, took the disparate group on a turbulent, nightmarish flight-threatening, so far as Connolly was concerned, total disinter-gration. It bumped them down with considerable violence onto a forlorn landing strip near Zitundo - a small African city, in the main, unnoticed by the rest of the world, some 100 kilometers along the coast from Maputo, Mozambique. The Irishman, whose experience had never really gone beyond the sanctuary of his upbringing, held on to Elkins’ arm for the entire journey.

In a rusty old Nissan hut that was perched on the edge of the Indian Ocean, Major Leigh, flanked by a group of ferocious-looking black soldiers, did his best to summarize the task ahead. On occasion his voice seemed to disappear, merging with the incessant and torrent-ial rain that beat down on a roof which let in as much water as it kept out. Where they were going was dangerous. They had some thousand kilometers to travel almost exclusively over inferior roads and cleared jungle tracks.

The trip would take a minimum of seven days, so they could each expect around two thous-and pounds ex-gratis payment. Paul Connolly, who had never seen more than a ten pound note in all of his life, could not believe the sum being offered. All he would think about before returning was how to spend the money. What he might be required to do in order to earn this generous sum was never given more than a passing thought, except, maybe, that it all sounded school boy simple.

Sergeant Thompson chose to confide in his three selected corporals: Elkins, Connolly and Andrews. He confirmed they were shipping counterfeit rands to white South African extremists; what they would do with it was not their concern.

Major Leigh’s interest was an exchange of raw diamonds - wholesale trade equivalent of £10M - smuggled from the famous Kimberly mines. With a pile of counterfeit money on the way out, raw diamonds on the way back and no official travel permits, capture could mean death or, at least, years of uncomfortable confinement within the Republic. It was no surprise to learn that the Major and his cohorts would not accompany the convoy comprising the formidable Sergeant Thompson, his three corporals and seventeen other ranks. Three ex-British army trucks constituted the transport.

* * *

Archie Andrews, the one man in the party familiar with these dense jungle routes, would drive the lead truck. No one saw much need to worry - an attitude justified in spite of a few scares as they passed along little used back roads over the Lebombo Mountains. From here they saw the fabled Ghost Mountain - Intaba Yemihovu - its grey peak shaped like the head of an old woman. According to legend it was a magical site of unaccountable happenings, made famous by the adventure stories of Rider Haggard.

From Mkuzi, close to the mountain, they passed around Swaziland and into Northern Zulu land before reaching South Africa itself on the third morning. For Paul Connolly, in particular, it was a magical journey: awe inspiring scenery; wild rock formations; winding rivers; dramatic gorges; the fresh, strange farmyard smell of the jungle. The sight of herds of impala dashing across the acacia strewn savannah, fisher eagles swooping down claiming their prey and countless other forms of wildlife he had never seen before and was never likely to see again, made him desperate with excitement.

It was like a safari with all expenses paid; a holiday for everybody. Except it was not long before their reverie would receive a rude interruption. It happened just beyond Edenville, in the northern Free State of South Africa.

As rain continued to pour down relentlessly and steam rose from the jungle, immersing them in an eerie mist, they made out trucks slewn across the road ahead, effectively barring their way.

Drawing closer it became clear that the vehicles had De Beer Corporation markings. Standing to the front and to the sides, a posse of armed and grim-faced white militia ignored the rain soaking their clothes and streaming down their faces.

However, if the rain was unexpected, the meeting was plainly not. Sergeant Thompson was cautious in greeting a giant of a man who appeared to be in charge. His face would have exposed nothing but deep pock marks were it not hidden in thick, unkempt hair. Without preamble, they climbed into the rear of one of the De Beers trucks and remained incommunicado for a full ten minutes. It was an eternity for those outside, fingers twitch-ing on automatic weapons and other armory during the whole nerve wracking period.

Only Archie Andrews seemed unperturbed, his grinning black face and gleaming 22ct gold tooth, a patent affront to the surly Afrikaners. Elkins and Connolly felt compelled to stay close, both somehow aware that, given the slightest excuse, their new found friend might, in his innocence, get into the kind of trouble he would find it impossible to handle. However, their vigil did not last long. When the respective leaders reappeared with several crates of whisky, the atmosphere changed to mutual relief. Crates were unloaded and transferred from the original vehicles - one into Thompson’s truck. They were thankful when each group split and moved off in opposite directions. One hundred yards down the track Corporal Andrews, who led the way back, stopped to eat a carefully preserved sandwich, causing everyone to stop; an excuse to get down and relieve themselves.

In part because of a natural driving ability and also because of his personal stripe, Connolly drove the third vehicle that, on Thompson’s orders, contained the precious package. The sergeant sat in the centre with Elkins pressed against the side door.

The constant chatter of monkeys and unnerving screams of hyenas - like a bunch of demented women - was impossible to ignore while, at the same time, heavy and con- tinuous rain made the visibility almost impossible. This, plus the heavy, indescribable stench of the jungle and its other exotic inhabitants made the return journey, if anything, more boring than the outward trip.

They had almost reached the small forest track leading back into Mkuze on the Mozambican border, when, close to midnight, a modern version of hell arrived. As the truck ahead of Connolly skidded to a halt on the oozing, muddy track, he slammed on his brakes, attempting to peer through a steaming windscreen into the pounding rivulets of water. Helped only by his own headlights, he found it hard to see the deep slimy tracks leading up to the vehicle some ten yards ahead, thick dark smoke still pumping from its exhaust.
Then a flap at the back of the truck opened up and someone stuck his head out - the whites of his eyes glowing in the darkness.

Thompson sat between his fellow passengers in the centre of the cab. They had been enjoying a quiet doze in air-conditioned comfort, but now the jolting stop had woken them to full alert. The Sergeant motioned to Elkins. Both primed their guns, holding them with a loose grip, waiting to establish the problem.

The American rolled down his window, attempting to peer along the side of the column. Fierce, stifling heat swept in immediately and sharp pellets of water beat down on his face, pouring from the thick vegetation at the side of the track. The slow mechanical sound of vehicle engines turning over mingled with the pounding rain. Somewhere ahead he heard a shout. Then he felt a sharp stinging jab in his ribs. Sergeant Thompson was uneasy.

'C’mon, son, come out of it. I need...'

Elkins could do nothing but guess at whatever it was that Sergeant Thompson needed. As he started to open the door, an orange flame lit the area, accompanied by the whoosh of an enormous explosion and rapid gunfire.

A dark shadow on the edge of the jungle track, silhouetted by a brilliant glow, threw something into the vehicle immediately ahead of them. Then, before Elkins could react, he found himself shoved out of the truck, just managing to retain hold of his sub-machine gun which buried itself in his thigh as he hit the ground. The next thing the American felt was a searing heat, like sitting in the middle of an inferno, as the vehicle exploded - a violence he had never experienced in his whole life.

Something wet, soft, still burning, wrapped itself round Elkins’ head. He began to retch, his mind screaming, nostrils filled with the nauseating smell of blood and burning flesh. The horror of the moment was too much; his entire body shook with tremors he was unable to control -a feeling of blind panic.

'Your gun, your gun, man!'

Sergeant Thompson was screaming at him. The weapon lay useless in the mud, barrel end sticky with blood. He retrieved it, aware of the pulsing wet-ness on his leg and feeling an agonizing pain in his eardrums.

Thompson was already blasting away beside him.
When Sergeant Thompson had ordered Elkins out of the cab, Connolly froze. He pictured the two thousand pounds. ‘Fuck this. I don’t want it. Take it back and get me the fuck out of here!’ It was too late. He was in this up to his bollocks. He grabbed at the automatic weapon beside him, his hands shaking so much, he could hardly retrieve it. It seemed to shrink away from him. After an eternity, he managed to secure the gun in a proper fashion and, as his two companions threw themselves out onto the track, he dived out beside them, rolling himself towards the undergrowth. Almost miraculously the fear had gone, now replaced by an even stronger urge - one of survival. He primed his weapon. There were dark menacing shadows everywhere. The Sergeant was close, lit by the moon, glistening in the rain.

With his back guarded, Connolly turned to face the other way. Never in his life had he been so grateful to have people around him he could trust. Other than Sergeant Thompson, a professional warrior who had seen many battles, a man who had proved himself an informed instructor in the art of warfare, there was Peter Elkins with whom he had felt a growing brotherhood ever since witnessing the American’s devastating uppercut, performed just a couple of weeks ago in a London pub.

Elkins saw two shadowy figures fly though the air less than four yards away. Someone else fired a salvo of shots behind them.

The savage whine of bullets screamed over their heads. Thompson spun round and managed, somehow, to stop himself executing Connolly, who was now shooting at another group of men almost upon them.

The three men now formed a perfect triangle, each attempting to protect the other. Even so, they were still exposed and, to all intents and purposes, in the open. The old soldier, his eyes blazing in the darkness, pointed at the dense jungle vegetation by the side of the track. ‘In there, quick!’ The young men needed no further bidding, diving into the wet blackness. As soon as Connolly landed, almost on top of his partner’s back, he knew that the Sergeant had not made it. He dived onto the track, rolling onto his back, shooting his weapon according to the manual, seeing another shadowy figure crumple, causing others to pause and seek cover.

It was savage, intuitive, somehow joyful, except that Thompson was on all fours, convulsing like a wounded stag, his gun no longer required. His eyes looked like two fragments of stony black glass staring sightlessly into the wet muddy ground. Through leaping shadows of light offered by flames from the burning trucks, Connolly could see the dark streams of blood cascading from his lips, his nose and ears. Then another explosion and the sergeant jolted backwards, surprise etched across his dead face.

Connolly rolled back into the undergrowth as Elkins slowly began to recover his wits. The young American’s eardrums were still being squeezed, as if in a vice. He could feel blood oozing from his leg and still felt the urgent need to vomit. Somehow, he held himself together as their attackers blundered on through the undergrowth, guided in part by areas of darkness that looked marginally less black and threatening than the rest.

The two young men now learned of death. It was a night of horror, the like of which neither Elkins nor Connolly could ever, in their worst nightmares, have imagined, as they were harried and pursued by savage hunters. Twice the two young men had the good fortune to save one another by reducing the number of their adversaries. Paul managed to stem the flow of blood from his friend’s leg wound which, he noted with relief, was superficial, failing to reach the thigh bone.

* * *

Incredibly, the next morning, drawn by excited shouts, they found themselves at the edge of a small forest clearing, yards from a scene of total devastation. The rain had stopped, replaced by bright sunshine and brilliant blue sky.

Burned out trucks and dead bodies were strewn all across the path, while those re- sponsible, their task completed, shirts discarded, were in relaxed mode. Elkins and Connolly, hidden in comfort at the centre of a large acacia bush, watched warily as, across the jungle clearing, the men rushed at each other whooping, screaming and swearing. A few men were playing cards alongside one of the trucks, while a number of others lay in the shade, snoozing in the warm sunshine. A large bearded man was lounging on the broad footplate of his truck, attempting to finish off another bottle of whisky, one he may have saved for the occasion, confirming the attack had come, not from the African Security Forces, but from those who had confronted them at Kroonstad.

One man, taking part in an improvised kick-a-bout was stripped down to his under- pants. Sporting a trim black moustache and still wearing his heavy black army boots, he aimed a ferocious kick at the ball. It rolled at an unsteady pace towards the bush where the two young mercenaries were hiding. Then, as he ran to retrieve it, something glinted in the sun - something, not only hideous, but all too familiar.

Elkins’ eyes widened with horror. He was staring at a featureless and mutilated head, hacked off under the jaw-bone and, for the most part, skinned. The nose, ears and eyes had disappeared, leaving deep sockets filled with blackened blood and mud. The mouth, a yawning hole, had somehow retained its unique 22ct. gold tooth. He turned to Connolly whose face contorted with hate, loathing and fear. The American could scarcely recognize his partner’s features: the eyes blood red; tears cascading, cleaning swathes of black grime and sweat from his cheeks. Thick yellow mucus trickled from his nose and down his chin. He looked demented and about to explode.

In the meantime, the mustachioed man continued to jog towards them and, having reached out to retrieve his frightful objective, was confronted with the squat barrel of an automatic rifle pointing at his face. It was just before his brains disintegrated to-wards his friends, stunned by the arrival of these unexpected survivors of the night.

In the space of some ten seconds, Paul Connolly and Peter Elkins, who had been leading relatively mundane lives just a few weeks before, now found themselves more than able to slaughter everyone in that clearing. The Afrikaners’ leader, with a massacre taking place before his eyes, staggered to his feet waving a near empty bottle and swearing savagely. They saved him until last. They watched joyfully as the truck that had contained the counterfeit money exploded in fierce flames around him.

Most shocking of all, the tin soldiers felt very little emotion, other than a strange, almost primeval exultation.

Not surprisingly, the raw diamonds had been stored in the one De Beers Corporation truck still in one piece. Connolly and Elkins, the sole survivors, returned in this to Map-uto. That they were able to confront Major Leigh with news that the diamonds were secure was little short of miraculous. Before he could consider providing a bonus, they explained their own calculations and the amount they had already expropriated.

After a brief delay, while Leigh requested time to contact his anonymous employer and seek approval for a share out, the two surviving young mercenaries decided to take matters into their own hands. They returned to Europe with what they considered their fair share of the booty. The considerable proceeds were then forwarded, via several Swiss bank accounts, to Monaco where they purchased an old, run down cliff top villa, overlooking the Principality - something to give them a more peaceful project, ideal for quiet retirement after their baptism of fire.

* * *

For Victor Miles - the man in charge - the whole operation had proved a disaster. He had planned it with great care and now, because these two young tin soldiers put right what plainly had gone wrong, his plans had been shattered. It was ironic that, to his way of thinking, they were bright prospects to be coveted rather than condemned.

When Miles had met with the terrorists who had approached him on the rands for diamonds exchange, he had concocted an even better plan. He suggested they might like to double their money by carrying out the exchange as agreed, then return later, dispose of his mercenaries and take charge both of the diamonds and the money, which would then be shared between them.

The beauty of his plan was a lack of any witnesses; all of his mercenaries would be dead. In any case, the potential bloody consequences did not bother Miles one bit. He knew too much to be double crossed. His plan would have worked except that two young men, Connolly and Elkins, had survived.

Somehow, these two boys had turned the tables. The money was burned but they had retained enough diamonds to hurt his pride, returning the rest to his paymaster, the ultra reliable Major Leigh.

So far as Elkins and Connolly were concerned, they had relived their childhood adventures, killed off all the bad guys, returned with a golden hoard and, apparently, been undetected by the forces of law and order. They had escaped permanent physical injury and were required to cope only with the deep scars left in their minds, the deadly nightmares they would suffer for the rest of their lives - a price they had no option but to accept.