The man rose from among the other Africans. He was very tall, Blakey saw. As Ndala moved away, there was a movement from among those he left behind; they envied the man his ability to talk to strangers and to offer them hospitality, the American decided. Ndala walked awkwardly, his left leg stiff. Blakely wondered if the loose robe covered an artificial limb. It was unlikely, he thought.

  “From where do you come?” asked the man, as they walked.

  “Rome,” said Blakey.

  “Is that far away?”

  “Very far,” said Makovsky.

  The rest house was a small, domed building. They had to stoop to enter. The only ventilation or light, apart from the door, came from an uncovered opening high to the left. It was warmer inside where the heat of the day had been trapped, and Blakey winced away from the mosquitoes. Ndala seemed untroubled. Seeing the American’s reaction, Ndala said, “It is the marshes. Now the lake is far away, but during the rains it develops a big belly.”

  There was no furniture. Rushes covered the floor. They dumped their packs and then followed the man to a larger house about twenty yards away. There was a woman at the pots and when they saw Ndala and two strangers approaching her two children ran and hid behind her; one would have been about the same age as Samantha, guessed Blakey. Ndala spoke to the woman in dialect and she half rose, bowing nervously. Uncertainly, Blakey and the Russian bowed back to her. She said something and Ndala translated: “She regrets the appalling food.”

  She scooped mealie into bowls and handed it to them. There were no utensils so they ate with their fingers. Ndala made far less mess than the other two men. There was native beer, which tasted thick and sweet as if there were molasses in it.

  “Where do you intend visiting?” asked Ndala.

  Blakey gestured generally westwards, towards the lake. “As far as possible.”

  “To the north of the lake there are others,” said the man.

  “Priests?” prompted Makovsky.

  “Men of different color,” qualified Ndala.

  “Doing what?” asked Makovsky.

  “Making stars,” said the African.

  Bent over his mealie bowl, Blakey winced at the simplicity of the man’s imagery.

  “God makes stars, not man,” said Makovsky.

  “There is fire, then stars,” insisted Ndala. He finished his beer and the woman appeared immediately from the darkness with a jug.

  “Do you know these people?” asked Blakey.

  Ndala shook his head. “From Rig Rig and Mao some of the men go to work. Their buildings are of rock. Inside it is always cold, like the night.…”

  He made a scrubbing motion with a flood-flecked hand. “There is much cleaning and the floors make pictures, like water.”

  Blakely could see enough of the man’s stiff leg to know that it was not false; he wondered how Ndala had sustained the injury.

  “Perhaps we will visit them,” said Makovsky.

  Ndala shook his head. “There is a fence like silver, and those who work there have to make a mark against paper, every day, with their fingers which are dipped in mud. If they do not know your mark, you cannot enter.”

  “Do people from this village go there?” asked Blakey.

  “Some,” said Ndala. “They camp, because it is too far to travel each day. They are treated well; there is good tobacco and much food.”

  “How do the people feel about such a place?” asked Makovsky.

  Ndala appeared surprised by the question. “They are very happy,” he said simply. “Good tobacco and much food. Without them, it would have been difficult. The harvests have not been good and last year the rains were short, so the lake did not get a big belly, as it normally does. Now, in many places, the crops and trees are dying.…

  “My God says that no one should do His work or make statues of Him,” said Blakey, needing to look again into his bowl as he spoke. “Perhaps the gods are angry at others making stars.”

  Again Ndala appeared surprised. “Our wise men do not think that.”

  “Perhaps they should consider again the reasons for it happening,” said Makovsky.

  It was Makovsky who remembered the courtesy of tobacco, producing cigarettes at the end of the meal. Ndala accepted, holding the cigarette awkwardly with his palm upwards as he smoked.

  “Are there many villages between here and the lake?” asked Blakey.

  “They follow the waters, as they grow and get small. They are from the Sara tribe. Christians,” said Ndala.

  “You?” queried Makovsky.

  “Wadai,” said Ndala proudly, as if he regarded himself as superior to the fishermen. “We farm.”

  “Is the farming good?”

  Ndala made an uncertain gesture. “The sands in which nothing will grow are gradually moving from the north; it is not easy. Now the crops die in the ground, for no reason.”

  They smoked a second cigarette before rising from around the fire. Ndala walked back with them to the rest house and watched, interestedly, while Makovsky lit the solid fuel lamp they carried in their packs. As soon as there was sufficient illumination, Blakey ignited the smoke flare to repel the mosquitoes. They waited for almost thirty minutes after the African’s departure before signalling to Peterson aboard the Arthur F. Grant. While Blakey transmitted Makovsky remained at the doorway, attentive for any movement outside. It was a short message reporting their arrival and took only a few minutes to send.

  Makovsky waited until the American had repacked the radio and then came further into the hut. The insect repellant was keeping the mosquitoes away.

  “It was useful,” he judged. “We can suggest the poor rains last season and the encroachment of the Sahara were caused by the complex.” He paused. “And the defoliation,” he added.

  “Yes,” said Blakey.

  “Do you think Ndala will react to the thought that the gods might be angry at what’s happening there?”

  “Yes,” agreed Blakey again. “It’s unusual for two white men to stay in an African village like this; everything that was said tonight will have been repeated by now.”

  “Did you notice anyone who could have been a witchdoctor among the group in the square when we arrived?”

  “No,” said the American. “But he was probably there; it would be his place, among the elders.”

  Makovsky smiled suddenly at an apparent recollection. “Wasn’t that food foul tonight?” he demanded. “I never thought I’d manage to get through it.”

  “Because we ate, the woman and the children went without,” said Blakey.

  The Russian looked at him, curiously. “Anything wrong?” he demanded.

  “Nothing,” said Blakey. Another lie, he thought.

  It had taken a long time to make the discovery; so long, in fact, that Walter Jones had begun to fear there was nothing in Flood’s background that they could use to fight back. It was only when he’d taken the inquiries beyond Harvard to the mid-West university where Flood had held his first Chair in political science that the break had come. The woman was married now, Jones noted — well past thirty, in fact. Prettier than in the campus pictures. There were two other children, both girls. Flood’s child, which had apparently been accepted by her insurance salesman husband, would almost be a teenager. There was a picture of him, standing in front of a typically middle-income house: wood frame and single story, two cars parked neatly in the background. He was holding a baseball glove proudly in front of him — probably a birthday present, Jones guessed. He was a tall boy, much bigger than his stepsisters.

  Jones sighed, uncomfortable about what he was going to do. Properly presented, a professor abandoning his pregnant student, it would create enough moral doubt to damage the chances of Flood’s political career. But it could wreck this family.

  The Deputy Director put the picture and the reports aside, seeking justification. Flood had started the war, not them, he remembered. They were being forced to protect themselves. It was unfortunate but unavoidable. Perhaps it wouldn’t affect the family as badly as he feared. He reached out towards the telephone.

  23

  With such comparatively large parties, it was obviously judicious to separate the assault groups for their initial entry into the country, in case of accidental interception.

  Sharakov’s team parachuted directly into the country from the Tupalov, far to the north in the largely barren desert region. He had awakened them long before they reached the drop zone, to conduct his mid-air briefing. Trained as they were — and in awe of being led by such a man — there were still snatched glances among them at Sharakov’s instructions. There was, of course, no questioning.

  Bradley’s group had dropped into the Cameroons, to make the border crossing on foot. There was a fail-safe margin of a further twelve hours built into the two days that had been allowed for the American and Russian soldiers to reach their coordinate, a thickly jungled swamp area just north-west of Lake Chad.

  The Americans had a good drop without any mishaps, and despite the darkness they assembled quickly. Bradley star-sighted their position as the crooked finger of uninhabited territory in the north-easternmost part of the Cameroons. The Nigerian border would be about four miles to the east, with Marte and Dikwa the nearest towns.

  “Good,” Bradley said to the sergeant, Richard Banks. “Better than I had hoped.”

  From his Washington meeting with Walter Jones, until the moment when they made their close-formation jump from the unlighted C-130, Bradley had had eight full days to mold his men into a unit. There were seven Green Berets and three Marines, all long-term soldiers who, even before the Azores briefing at which he had announced that they were to work with a Russian unit, sensed with professional soldiers’ instincts that they had been selected for a difficult and perhaps unusual operation. They had come together well and, after the Azores, with complete understanding. But it wasn’t sufficient, Bradley had decided. He allowed three hours rest, then had them back-packed and ready, parachutes buried, an hour before dawn. Fires would have made smoke detection possible, so they ate their rations cold. Around them the forest remained black, but the sky began blooming a rose pink and the birds and monkeys started screeching and chattering with the excitement of a new day.

  Bradley waited until it was almost light before giving the briefing.

  “There mustn’t be any obvious reluctance,” he began. He still burned with the humiliation of that warning in Vienna, in front of the Russians; there was going to be no complaint about him holding back.

  “It’s been decided by the President, so it’s an order,” he took up. “It’s an order that we completely liaise and completely cooperate and so we will.”

  He stared around at the faces; it was still difficult to discern all the features completely.

  “I want no antagonism … no hostility. Understood?”

  There was a variety of movements from the men grouped before him.

  “But there’s something else I don’t want,” said Bradley, reaching the point of the talk. “I don’t want any failure. We’re matching the Soviets, man for man. But that’s just in numbers. We’re going to be better — consistently better — than any of them. If there’s a foul-up, it’s to be a Russian one. If a soldier can’t stand the pace, it’s to be a Russian soldier. If we’ve got to penetrate the goddamned place to take out the rocket, then it’s to be an American shell or an American bullet or an American grenade that does it. I make myself clear?”

  There was more movement from the men and he deteted a smile from the sergeant.

  “And so,” he said, “the next thirty-six hours are going to be used for further training.…” He looked at the heavy Rolex, remembering fleetingly how the watch had become almost an identification symbol for the Green Berets in Vietnam. “We’re scheduled to meet with the Sovients at 1600 tomorrow,” he said. “At 1600 I want us in position, packs and equipment ready for inspection, every man shaved and prepared.…” He smiled, happy at the impression he was making upon the men. “I want us ready for anything,” he finished.

  Bradley divided them carefully, a function decided for every man. Two were assigned as vanguard, alert for any native settlement or movement. Two more made up a rear guard, to move out an hour after everyone else and to insure that the area where they had rested there were as few signs as possible of their having been there.

  It was precisely the moment of dawn when the remainder, with Bradley at the head, moved out between the protection of the forward and rear groups. Where the undergrowth permitted, he ran them at double time, able to test them in real rather than simulated climatic conditions and aware that proper acclimatization was one of the first things he had to achieve if he were to avoid any physical collapse. After an hour he backtracked for a hundred yards, pointing at the crushed grass and broken branches and scuffed earth that showed their route. He made them erase as much as possible, then hurried them at a pace faster than he had used before, to catch up with the vanguard soldiers and stage a mock ambush. It failed because the scouts became aware of their approach and prepared an ambush of their own, intending to let them pass unhindered if they had been Africans and showing themselves only when they realized who the pursuers were.

  It was four hours before Bradley permitted any break. He was greased with perspiration, his uniform black ringed under his arms and across his back. His shoulders and legs ached with the weight of equipment and weaponry he was carrying and the air seemed to burn the back of his throat when he breathed. Aware of his own fatigue, he studied each man in turn, alert for any indication of weakness. They were all slumped around, mostly just spread back against their packs; two had discarded the weight and sat hunched forward, heads between their knees.

  “Attention!” he demanded, suddenly.

  They came up immediately, even those who had kept their packs on, and Bradley nodded, contentedly. It had been an extreme test, and he knew if he demanded another four hours, they could have done it.

  “Thank you,” said Bradley, who believed in controlling men as much by persuasion as by command and was therefore rarely openly impolite: the inherent rudeness was kept in the mind. When he moved out, he continued the psychology, matching it with a physical awareness. For forced acclimatization, extreme exercise is necessary but it has to stop just before the point when final adjustment goes over into exhaustion. Bradley was aware of this and balanced his men carefully. He discarded the force marching, splitting them instead into two-man squads and despatching them at intervals, each to ambush the other within the confines of the forward guard unit, to avoid accidental encounters with any Africans. Bradley appointed himself as adjudicator, awarding points as in a war game, but doing it only for the satisfaction of his soldiers. It was an exercise for his benefit, not theirs: he wanted to test their jungle-craft in real conditions, not the threadbare patches of scrub and forest which was all that had been possible in the short time available before they had left America. Vietnam had been a long time ago and it would have been easy to forget.

  He concluded the exercise after an hour, as happy with that session as he had been with the earlier one of climate adjustment. At midday they had their first hot meal, beef from a K-ration pack that self-heated when a fuse was pulled. Bradley estimated that they were roughly at the Chad border. He watched attentively while the tins were buried and then radioed to the two men bringing up the rear, setting them the task of locating the hiding place. After a further hour, they came upon a small river not marked on Bradley’s maps. He decided it was a tributary or sub-stream from some larger source feeding into Lake Chad. He looked at his sweat-drenched men and waited for the first suggestion that they should bathe. They formed a disorganized group at the water’s edge and then Banks pointed and said, “There.”

  Bradley concentrated on the spot and saw the ridged back of the crocodile almost completely hidded in a far mud-bank.

  “And there,” said someone and Bradley saw two more, about three yards further along. From the side on which they were standing, Bradley heard the slithered splash as something entered the water but was unable to see what it was.

  “Let’s find where the others crossed,” he said.

  “I think these are the tracks.” The speaker was a man named Logan, an angular, prominent-boned man who came from Kentucky and had a deep Southern accent. Bradley had already noted that no one in the group mocked him because of it.

  Aware of how their footprints would have been left in the mud, the two soldiers sent ahead had trailed tree branches behind them, to disguise the marks as crocodile paths. It was possible, by bending close, to detect the sharpness of boot edges and once the pattern of a sole: Bradley noted it, for later criticism. He had the men find their own tree debris from the jungle floor, pointing out the earlier mistake to insure it didn’t happen again. It was difficult following the river edge. And dangerous, too, because the undergrowth was very thick near the ground. They had to ease their way through without being able to see below their knees, so they could never be sure of what they might be treading on. Logan, who was the lead man, almost stumbled onto the crocodile nest. He had just started across a welcome clearing when he heard the hiss and turned to see the mother astride her eggs, mouth open in warning. He unslung the M-16, selecting automatic fire in readiness, and gestured the others to cross behind him. The crocodile hiss became more frenzied and when they had almost crossed the gap the reptile made a sudden, flurried movement, as if it were going to attack: the tail thrashed from side to side. It stopped about five yards from the nest and waited. Slowly, never turning away from it, Logan backed away to catch up with the rest of the unit. Bradley was waiting at the rim of the clearing. Sergeant Banks was standing braced and looked out to the river, guarding against another crocodile coming out of the water behind the southerner.

  “Wait until she goes to the nest,” warned Logan, with a backwoodsman’s knowledge. “‘Gators see a turned back as a weakness and they can run faster than we can. Reckon these are worse.”

  The crocodile made one more feigned attack but slowly began retreating. It took fifteen minutes before resettling itself, covering the eggs. Logan still went backwards, until the clearing was no longer in view. They found the crossing-point about a hundred yards further on. A tree had come down across the river but had been prevented from going into it by a thatch of vines which held it up at an angle, like one half of a suspension bridge. Two men climbed the inclined trunk, forcing their weight down to test the strength of the vines. Then one of them continued on to the point at which it hung out furthest over the river and managed to secure a grappling line to another tree on the far bank. He threw the end back to the second soldier, to be attached to a more secure tree on the bank, then launched himself out and went hand over hand across the water. The rope jerked once, when the grappling iron shifted in the branch arc into which it had embedded itself, but it held. Safely ashore, the first soldier strengthened the rope on his side and they had a line stretched about fifteen feet above the river. Logan climbed out along the half-fallen tree and threw another rope across, which the waiting soldier tied to the base of the tree. One of the unit had climbed the securing tree on their side to fix the second rope much higher than the first. All the packs and weapon-webbing were fitted with clamped tubular pulleys for exactly this sort of transfer. Logan had lashed himself to the tree. The others thrust the equipment up to him, to be attached to the rope and then slid over the water to the first soldier across. Bradley led the way, remaining at the spot where he had dropped from the rope and back-pushing each of his men further into the jungle the moment they reached him. Logan was the last to cross. Both ropes had been tied with a release knot; each gave after a sharp tug, crashing into the water. The soldiers managed to retrieve them before any of the crocodiles reached the spot.

 

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