he had was the reason for his being there. He was a salaried member of Her Majesty’s forces and this was a half- arsed job for a US Special Forces colonel. The US and the UK were allies, sure, but this was essentially a covert operation. He was beginning to think that Sumners might not have had the authority to send him. And why hadn’t Steel used one of his own boys? That was a bit odd, to say the least.
Stratton had considered all that before the jump but since the mission was supposed to be nothing more than a drop, a quick lesson in explosives and then a trek back home, he hadn’t given it much more thought. Now he was growing concerned. What would happen if the other side caught him, for instance? Steel had sketchily covered that by telling him that he had friends on both sides and that Stratton would be fine. Stratton was no longer confident that would be so. The urge to bug out and leave these people to their own war grew in him again but he held it at bay. He decided to take things one phase at a time and reckoned that if the situation changed significantly he would quit and go home. He ran his fingers through his moist hair, scratched a small bite on the back of his neck and trudged on.
For the first few kilometres the terrain was fairly level but after crossing a shallow river it began to ascend. The forest canopy also thinned beyond the river and the sun shone down on the column. Within a couple of hours they had gained a lot of altitude and the ground became rocky. The view of the roof of the forest they had walked through was stunning.
In the late afternoon the sun went behind dark clouds that promised a deluge and the humidity increased notably. Eventually rain pelted down and slowed the column’s progress as the steep terrain grew slippery. Victor kept the men marching with only a few short breaks. The rebels ate on the move.
The rain finally ceased as they were traversing a steep hillside and shortly afterwards the column came to a stop. Stratton sat down on a rock and had a sip of water. He did not feel as fit as he would have liked, not yomping fit at least. It was always the same. A man could go for as many runs as he liked and do all the gym training he wanted. But when it came to a good long trek carrying a heavy pack there was no better preparation than yomping itself.
The front of the column had disappeared into a dense wood and some movement ahead turned out to be a runner making his way back down the line. He was informing each man of something and as he passed Stratton he whispered a single word harshly. ‘Neravistas!’
Stratton watched the man reach the rearguard and after a brief chat all but a handful of men, left to watch the burros, hurried past him up the line towards the front. The tension among them was perceptibly high.
Stratton instinctively studied the surrounding terrain, looking for places that offered cover from any gunfire and for potential escape routes. Any firefight involving these people would be a very good reason to get out of there.
Yet after several inactive minutes his curiosity got the better of him. He picked up his pack and rifle and headed up the line of burros. As he reached the front of the column he saw why it had halted. A dozen men hung by their necks from various branches. The ghoulish expressions on the faces were horrifying: their eyes bulged, their tongues hung out of their mouths, their necks were elongated and broken. One noose held only a head - the body lay on the ground beneath it. Thousands of flies crawled over the bodies, concentrating on their eyes and mouths. The smell of death and decay was overpowering.
Stratton had seen his share of dead bodies but he would never get used to sights like that. The smell alone was enough to make anyone vomit and he moved upwind of the macabre display.
All the rebels except those minding the burros were huddled in a group just below the crest of the hill. Victor, Marlo and a handful of others squatted to one side and appeared to be arguing heatedly in low voices.
Stratton kept his distance and sat against a tree to watch what was going on, ready to take off at the slightest sign of trouble. There seemed to be some indecision among the rebels about what they should do. He couldn’t tell if the warning about the Neravistas was that they were nearby or that they had already been and gone.
The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of one of the young Indians who went directly to Victor. Whatever he said caused more discussion, which continued after Victor sent the Indian back the way he had come.
One of the rebels from the large group saw Stratton and decided to come over and sit close by. He was a young man who, despite the excitement, had a casual air about him. He took a piece of dried meat from a breast pocket and offered some to Stratton.
‘No. Thank you,’ said Stratton.
The young man, who was quite skinny, had piercing dark eyes below a greasy jet-black fringe. ‘They are unable to agree on whether to attack or not,’ he said, taking a bite of the meat and tucking the rest into his pocket.
‘Attack what?’ Stratton asked.
‘There is a Neravista patrol heading our way, the other side of this hill,’ he said, pointing towards the crest. ‘The scouts say they do not know we are here . . . They may be the ones who did this,’ he said, indicating the bodies.
‘Who are they?’
‘They’re from Bajero’s brigade. The one with his body separated from his head, he’s Altorro, Bernard’s cousin,’ he said, jutting his chin towards a strong-looking young man with long hair and a beard on the edge of the group who was looking towards the dead rebels with a forlorn expression on his face. ‘I knew him too,’ the young man added.
‘Why’d they hang them?’
‘That’s what they always do to us when they capture us. It’s their policy. It’s a good incentive to fight to the death, no?’ he added.
Stratton had to agree. ‘What do you think is going to happen?’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
The young man did not seem very sure. ‘Marlo wants to attack but Victor thinks we should let them pass. Marlo is always aggressive and Victor is always cautious.’
Stratton looked over at the commanders. ‘Who do you think is winning?’
The young man shrugged. ‘Marlo believes we should take every opportunity to strike at the enemy. Victor is arguing that we are not an attacking force at this moment but a resupply column. He says our responsibility is to get the supplies home safely. Marlo is arguing that we are a guerrilla force that must adapt to opportunities and that we must revenge those men. We can become fighters when it is time to fight and then change back to a resupply convoy after we have won.’
‘Isn’t Victor in charge?’
‘He’s in charge of the supply column but he is not a soldier. Marlo was once an officer in Neravista’s army and is technically in charge of any fighting . . . My name is David,’ the young man said.
‘Stratton.’ He held out his hand and David shook it. ‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t think it’s such a good idea to have two commanders.’
‘Yes,’ Stratton agreed, liking the young man. ‘What do you think they should do?’
David took a moment to consider his response. ‘I would make my decision based on the number of enemy. If we are more than them maybe we should attack.’
‘Have you ambushed Neravistas before?’
He shook his head. ‘Not like this. But I have taken part in some attacks.’
‘How well armed are they?’
‘They have more weapons than us. Better weapons.
More machine guns, usually. They have grenades. Sometimes they have mortars.’
‘What about artillery or air support?’
‘They can’t get their big guns into these mountains. There are no roads for them to get close enough . . . You’ve seen their air force.’
‘Are there likely to be other patrols in this area?’
‘It’s possible. But communications are difficult in this region. We blow up their radio masts whenever they build new ones.’ David looked at Stratton, eyeing his sophisticated weapon and other equipment and the ease with which he seemed to take the threat of conflict, as if this were nothing new to him. ‘What do you think we should
