The Chinese Agenda (2 page)

The night sounds of the rain forest were in full swing, a threnodic counterpoint to his musings. Through the folds of mosquito netting, the heavy jungle growth completely obscured the sky, trapping all the heat and moisture of the day and releasing it slowly throughout the night. Every so often, the quiet would be broken by a raucous laugh from the barracks or the muttered oath of a sentry as he tripped over something in the path of his beat.

It was just after midnight that Gillon was shocked out of a light doze by the sharp explosions of bangalore torpedoes on the perimeter wire. A sudden rattle of small-arms fire was drowned in the first carumping shock of incoming mortar rounds. Still half asleep, Gillon swung off the cot reflexively, kicked out the screen and dropped through the window, pistol in hand, before the second wave of mortar shells struck. Scattered throughout the din was a ragged blend of hysterical screams and shouts from attackers and attacked alike.

Awake now, he paused for his bearings and, crouching, ran lightly to the corner of the hut, where he sprawled on his stomach to peer around the edge of the foundation. A slit trench, the only safe refuge from the .82 mm mortars, was eight feet away across cleared ground. From where he lay, he could see the flicker of machine-gun fire sweeping the compound area from beyond the fence.

Gillon faded back into the brush near the hut and made for the eastern side of the compound. This sector was quiet, indicating that the raid was on from the west and as he glanced back over his shoulder, he saw flashes of fire starting on the northern edge. He moved quickly along the fence, checking to see that the nervous sentries were all in place and ready. Satisfied, he raced toward the river. As he ran, he could hear the cough of a mortar going off and seconds later the roar as the shell struck. The explosions were spaced far enough apart to indicate no more than two mortars were in use and that suggested that the attack had been hastily mounted and he cursed Jacques and the two visitors all over again. Ahead, he could make out the barbed strands and flopped to a halt. Once on the ground, he wriggled around until he had a clear view of the wire in both directions. At the point nearest the upstream edge of the wire, he saw the dull gleam of a metal helmet and that told him that the machine-gun crew was holding its position. Faintly surprised that they were in place rather than run off to join the fire fight or, worse yet, ducking for cover in the jungle, he turned and at a half crouch, half run, made for the boat.

Breathing heavily, he crouched behind a dock piling. Flashes of fire from the forest two hundred yards behind showed him that the attackers were hurrying to extend a flank down to the upstream edge of the compound. They were probably after the boat, he thought, and the two guards who were supposed to be on the dock were nowhere to be seen.

As Gillon started to climb up onto the dock, a figure materialized at the foot of the walkway and sprinted towards him. Gillon was taken by surprise and the figure slammed into him, sending the pistol spinning from his hands. Gillon went down and a heavy body straddled his, knocking the wind from his lungs. Thick, muscular fingers went around his neck and a vise clamped down on his windpipe. He gagged and gasped simultaneously. Just as suddenly as it happened, the hands relaxed and the pressure on his chest lifted. Through the red haze filling his exploding head, Gillon felt himself being lifted to his feet and pushed in the direction of the boat and dimly he heard the cheerful voice of his second-incommand, Nbtobi, apologizing for not recognizing him sooner. Nbtobi practically lifted him over the taffrail and pushed him down on the deck and he gagged and went into a coughing spell that threatened to split his already tortured throat. Gillon rubbed his neck and glanced up at the dark face, now split in a wide grin.

`Goddamn you, you idiot,' he choked.

Nbtobi chuckled and handed him the pistol. 'Some karate expert!'

Gillon's throat felt as if it were about to' come apart into two raw halves. Nerve endings from skull to chest were screaming and his eyes refused to focus properly. Nbtobi disappeared for a moment and returned with a canteen, which he pushed at Gillon.

`Here, drink some water . . . but carefully.'

Gillon took the canteen and let a dribble slide down his raw throat. The first swallow burned like fire into his gullet.

Without a word, Nbtobi hurried out of the cockpit and a moment later Gillon started as the boat's remaining machine gun exploded into action and began hosing the wire along the upstream flank.

Gillon stumbled to his feet and went forward to the deck cannon. Nbtobi had the only operable machine gun but he could make more than his contribution with the Bofors. More than once the combination of machine gun/Bofors had gotten them out of tight spots and it was likely it would do so again.

Gillon knelt down and threw open the deck plate covering the ammunition hatch, pulled up the drum

and settled it onto the gun's breech, swung into the saddle and pedaled around until he was sighting it on the line of tracers laid down by Nbtobi's weapon. He flicked the selector switch to semi-automatic and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked solidly against his shoulders and he traversed the wire, laving down a ceiling of exploding steel well over the heads of the defenders, but into the area held by the attacking forces. Nbtobi dropped the fire angle on the gun to concentrate directly on the wire to pick off any attackers that might have gotten through. Gillon reached the far corner of the compound and released the trigger. Between the Bofors and the machine gun the fire from the far side of the wire had practically died away. Mortar rounds, however, continued to drop in on the compound and he raised the muzzle elevation and lobbed a few shells into the jungle at points he thought most likely. A few minutes later, the, mortars ceased firing and the area around the compound was still.

Gillon leaned his head back from the gunsight and hunched his shoulders. When he rubbed his hands on his thighs, he found that he was wearing nothing at all. His reaction to the first explosion had been automatic enough to send him through the window, pausing only long enough to grab up his pistol.

`Think they're gone?' Nbtobi asked softly.

`More likely . . .' Gillon stopped. He found that he couldn't speak above a whisper. During the firing, he had forgotten about his bruised throat.

`Hey . . . Gillon, you all right?'

`Yeah, my . . Gillon tried again, gave up and climbed stiffly down and pattered across the deck to the machine-gun mount.

'I'm okay,' he croaked. 'My throat . . . can't talk.'

`Sure am sorry about that,' Nbtobi chuckled. 'Thought you were a friendly native come to toss a grenade or something.'

Gillon cleared his throat experimentally. 'Damn that Emile . . .' he muttered. 'He ought to have more . . sense than . . . to bring strangers . . . into the area . . Both men were silent, listening for sounds that might

indicate a renewed' assault, but the night remained quiet and empty for a few moments more as the stunned defenders recovered. Then, suddenly a voice was heard shouting, marshaling order into the stunned camp, and single pistol shots rang out along the wire. Gillon and Nbtobi looked at each other and then both shrugged. Killing was an old story in this war and so was savagery. Prisoners were only taken for the information that could be tortured from them.

'Come on, let's go up and see what's happened,' Gillon muttered, and swung a leg over the lee board. Nbtobi laid a hand on his shoulder in warning.

'Listen,' he whispered.

A sheet of flame flared in the compound and the breaking matchstick sound of a collapsing hut followed. Then Gillon heard it, a faint splash of water.

'The stern,' Nbtobi murmured, and drew his pistol from his waistband. He backed away in a deep crouch until the deckhouse was between himself and the stern. Gillon edged over the side of the boat down onto the dock, then pattered silently back to the stern, where he lay down at full length and leaned his head around the transom to examine the dark river. One minute, two minutes, three passed and he was no longer sure of what he was seeing. The river's slow movement along the boat was making him dizzy. A dark arm broke water for just an instant. A moment later, a head emerged and moved toward the boat. Gillon got slowly to his knees, and then suddenly stood up full, leaned around the stern and fired twice. The arms thrashed water for a moment and a cry of pain cut off almost before it started and the head disappeared. Four feet away, Nbtobi leaned over the stern and fired down into the water. Something flew through the air and landed with a clunk in the cockpit. Gillon heard Nbtobi scream and he dove off the dock onto the muddy riverbank as the grenade went off. Its sharp crack was followed immediately by a louder, more solid explosion and flame billowed high over the stern. The concussion pounded Gillon's ears and flung stinking mud into his face. A raging sheet of flame spread swiftly from the petrol tanks in the stern. Nbtobi must have been killed by the

exploding grenade; Gillon was almost certain of that and helpless to do anything more than swear savagely. He could only watch the boat burn. Voices came from behind him and the sound of feet running down the path to the dock. Several soldiers pushed past and fanned out along the bank. A few shots were fired into the river, more for his benefit than anything else.

'Robert?' A hand took his arm and gently turned him away from the burning boat and led him back up the path.

Robert,' Jacques repeated as they walked on toward the camp. 'We are finished here. I have given orders to move at daybreak. We will never withstand another assault. Therefore, you must talk with the two men who came to the camp tonight, and you must do it now.'

Gillon swore and shook his arm out of Jacques' grasp. 'I told you that it was a fool thing to do, to bring those damned spooks here.'

''Do not lecture me, Robert. I know as well as you, perhaps more than you, what risk I was taking.' Jacques paused and swung Gillon around to face him, suddenly angry with the younger man.

'I have been a soldier for nearly forty years. There is little or nothing that you can teach me about military matters. So, you will shut your mouth and listen to what I have to say. These two have come a very long way on an important assignment and I know for certain that they were not the ones who led the Army to this camp . . . our location has been known to them for several days now. It was always a matter of time. I have told you that we are finished. We will move the camp at dawn, but that is merely a delaying tactic. The Lisbon negotiations will collapse in a few weeks because the government will have won. To save their own necks, the National Front will capitulate soon, throwing us to the wolves. I have seen it happen before and am well acquainted with the signs.'

Gillon began to interrupt, but Jacques shook his head and continued on.

'I will not stand by and see these people executed as traitors after the real -traitors in Lisbon are finished with them. Nor do I wish to face a firing squad myself. We will stay in the jungle for one more week and then I will negotiate my own terms with the M'bouti . . . terms that will be favourable to everyone concerned. By that time, I want to see you well away from here. It will not be so easy for an American after the war is over, no matter what promises will be made. The Russians will have the upper hand.'

Gillon shook his arm free and angrily started up the path, shocked at what he had just been told. He swung around, his voice barely under control.

`You mean to tell me that you are going to sell out what we've spent nearly two years building up here . .

`Merde; Jacques exclaimed. 'After all these years and you still have pretensions of loyalty to a government, and one that by no stretch of the imagination can even be called your own?'

'No, of course . .

`Then do not accuse me of such nonsense either,' Jacques shot back. 'They would and will do the same to me if given the slightest opportunity. I intend to see that they are not given that chance. I will protect as best I am able those who have worked and fought with me. What I can no longer protect I warn them of the coming danger. They may then run to the next country who requires their services, or they can stay with me.'

Gillon listened, knowing that what Jacques was saying was true, thrusting down the ugly suspicion that perhaps Jacques had already contacted the M'bouti and that tonight's raid was the result of those preliminary discussions.

Àll right,' he said wearily. 'Let me at least get some clothes on first.'

A single Coleman gasoline lantern hissed angrily from the ceiling, filling the stifling room with white light and heavy, sharp-edged shadows. Both Jones and Phan were seated at the deal table, which had been cleared of its usual accoutrements of maps and dirty dishes.

The smell of cordite and oil smoke was heavy in the room, trapped by the blackout curtains on the windows and door. Outside, Gillon could hear shouted orders and the sound of shovels and padding feet as the troops worked to clear away the debris of the attack. Gillon and Jacques sat down at the opposite side of the table and Jones could see that Gillon was angry, that he blamed them for the night's, attack. But there was nothing he could do about that now and he shrugged it off to be settled later. They were a contrast he decided, the big American and the diminutive Belgian. That both were professional soldiers was obvious to anyone who was at all familiar with the breed and if there was one thing that he was, it was familiar with the military – from the outside looking in, thank God. To find someone like Gillon here, and a mercenary at that, was certainly a contradiction. Gillon's military record had been excellent. A major at thirty, young even for the Special Forces in the early days of Vietnam, he had clearly been a man on the way up until suddenly, he had resigned and disappeared. The resignation would not ordinarily have been noteworthy except for its suddenness. The manner in which it was carried out had suggested irresponsibility to some and perhaps they were right after all, Jones thought. In some respects, Africa with its growing-pain wars could be considered a secession from the 'real world.' Here there was no real responsibility because loyalty was not required beyond certain hounds and, because there was no responsibility, there were no pressures beyond those one imposed on oneself in order to remain alive. Seen in this light then, he did not have much hope for what he had to do. But then, he had no other choice than to try. They had made that clear enough to him in Paris.