It was also part of his calculations that, once he had dropped Mek
Nimmur, his men would not be eager to follow up with too much despatch.
Boris planned to make a running retreat, stopping at every defensible
strong point to fire a few shots, knock down one or two of them, and
keep the pursuit circumspect and cautious until they eventually lost
their taste for the game and let him go.
However, all that had now changed. He would have to take the first
opportunity that presented itself - almost certainly a moving target -
and as soon as he had fired he would be exposed on the path up the cliff
face. His one advantage here was that his hunting rifle was a superbly
accurate piece, whereas Mek Nimmur's men were all armed with AK-47
assault rifles, rapid-firing but notoriously wild at longer range, and
more especially in the hands of these shufta. With proper training, the
fighting tribesmen of Africa made some of the finest troops in the
world. They possessed all the necessary skills, with one exception -
they were notoriously poor marksmen.
He lay flat on the ledge, and the rock under him was so hot from the
direct sunlight that it burned painfully even through his clothin - He
pulled the pack from his 9 back and set it up in front of him, settling
the forestock of the, rifle over it to give himself a dead rest. He
peered through the telescope, wriggling into a comfortable position,
sighting on a small rock beside the main trail and then swinging the
barrel from side to side to make certain that he had a clear arc of
fire.
Satisfied that this was the best stance he could find in the short time
left to him, -he set the rifle aside and picked up a handful of dirt. He
rubbed this gently into his face, and the sweat turned it to mud that
coated his pate skin and dulled the shine that an alert scout might pick
out at long range. His last concern was to check the angle of the sun,
and to satisfy himself that it was not reflecting off the lens of his
scope or off any of the metal parts of the rifle.
He reached over and pulled at the branch of the shrub beside him so that
it cast its shadow over the weapon.
At last he settled down behind the rifle and cuddled the butt into his
shoulder, regulating his breathing to a deep slow rhythm, dropping his
pulse rate and steadying his hands. He did not have long to wait. He
heard the bird-call again, but this time much nearer at hand. It was
answered immediately from the far side of the trail, down closer to the
river bank.
'The flankers will be having difficulty maintaining station over this
terrain.' He grinned without hurriour, a death's-head grimace. They will
be bunching and straggling.' As he thought it, a man came into view
around the bend of the trail, about five hundred metres, dead ahead.
Boris picked him up in the magni of ens.
He was a typical African guerrilla, a shufta dressed in a tattered and
faded motley of camouflage and civilian clothing, festooned with pack
and water bottle, ammunition and grenades, carrying his AK at high port.
He hatted the moment he came through the turn, and crouched into cover
behind a boulder at the side of the trail.
For a long minute he surveyed the lie of the land ahead of him, his head
