leaving Yoinakuwa behind, to find where his emergency stores were hidden.
The tree with the mark cut into its bark was there and he reached between the roots at its base. He pulled away the earth and leaves and, to his immense relief, found his pack. He looked over at Yoinakuwa who was stone- faced. The old man had known about the pack all along.
Stratton opened it up, untied the waterproof bag and pulled out the pistol sitting on the top, a pair of trousers, shirt, underpants, socks, belt and camouflaged trainers. A side pocket contained a plastic bag with a passport and money, another a medical pack, GPS, compass, water-sterilising bottle, some food and matches.
Stratton took off his dirty underpants and quickly pulled on his clean clothes. As he laced up his footwear he heard movement through the wood. He glanced at Yoinakuwa who was clearly aware of it but had not responded. Stratton picked up his pistol and moved to where he could see the source. Kebowa and Mohesiwa were walking towards them. Behind them was Victor.
Stratton was pleased to see the Frenchman who looked no worse for wear than himself.
Victor grinned broadly on seeing Stratton. They hugged briefly in celebration of their survival.
‘What happened to you?’ Victor asked.
‘I was looking for you when the wrong people found me. What about you?’
Victor sighed as he sat heavily on a fallen tree trunk to take the weight off his sore legs. ‘I made the mistake of accusing Hector of trying to kill Sebastian.’ Victor looked around, recognising the place himself. ‘I wondered why they were bringing me here.Yoinakuwa and his boys seem to have everything worked out.’
Stratton threaded the belt through his trouser loops and attached the holster that his pistol fitted snugly into. A ray of light pierced the treetops as the sun rose over the distant hills. ‘Neravista’s soldiers are going to take out Sebastian’s camp.’
‘Hector has betrayed him.’
‘Steel’s the real manipulator.’
Victor nodded. ‘I always suspected as much. What are your plans now? You want to take me along?’
‘Sure,’ Stratton said, pulling his small pack onto his back. ‘You up to a brisk march?’
‘Why brisk? We have all the time in the world.’
‘They’re going to attack today, Victor.’
Victor looked at Stratton, suddenly aware of his intentions. ‘You’re not going to the border, getting out of this country?’
Stratton realised they had been at cross-purposes and was somewhat disappointed in Victor. ‘I’m going to the camp.’
‘You’re crazy! Neravista will hit Sebastian with everything he has. He’ll kill everyone.’
‘That’s why I’m going.’
‘They’re probably attacking as we speak.’
‘Then there’s no time to waste.’
Victor felt confused. ‘You’re going to get Louisa.’
Stratton checked his compass. He was ready to go but stopped to look at Victor, understanding the Frenchman’s dilemma. ‘I don’t expect you to come. It’s over for you now. You take care of yourself,’ Stratton said, offering his hand.
‘You’re not mad at me?’ Victor asked.
‘Why should I be? There’s nothing you can do. Enjoy France - if that’s where you’re headed.’ Stratton turned to go.
‘Wait,’ Victor called out. ‘Wait. Just one moment.’
Stratton paused, impatient to go.
‘I should go. I’m the brigade second in command.’
‘There’s nothing you can do.’
‘Then why do I feel so damned guilty?’
Stratton had no answer for him. Victor watched him go.
A battery of four howitzers was lined up in the clearing where the Neravistas had their headquarters, the barrels angled for maximum trajectory. The sky had cleared but everything was still dripping wet. The battery commander glanced at his watch, as he had done every twenty seconds or so for the last few minutes. He stared at the second hand as it jerked its way closer to the top of the hour. He raised an arm and held it there. When the slender hand reached the number twelve he brought it down sharply and the valley shuddered with a thunderous boom as the number one gun fired, mud splashing up from its wheels as it recoiled.
Birds took to the air in every direction as the shell shot out of the clearing and into the sky on its journey away from the earth. It reached its maximum height ten seconds and five thousand metres from the end of the gun before levelling out.
Had the gunner been able to see through the nose of the shell he would have enjoyed a view of a large portion of his country: the interlacing valleys and lush green forests; rocky outcrops and steep ravines; streams and rivers flickering in the sunlight and patches of manicured agricultural squares. As the shell began its descent he would have seen the many snaking trails criss-crossing the countryside and the system of plateaus that was home to the rebel brigades. As the shell dropped closer to the ground he would have been able to make out Sebastian’s camp, the cabins, the stables behind them, the patchwork of tents and campfires and the many tracks connecting them. He would have had to concentrate during the last few seconds because the image zoomed in rapidly as the shell seemed to accelerate towards an open piece of scrubland beyond the tented area.
It struck the ground where it exploded, kicking up a geyser of earth and sending fiery shrapnel in all directions, none of it harming a soul since nobody was within range of it.
Everyone in the camp heard the explosion and those on the outer defences looked back over their shoulders. They all had the same thought: the battle had begun. All rumours and speculations were resolved. The thought that followed immediately was whether anyone had been hurt. Those with family in the tented areas feared for them.
The men inside Sebastian’s cabin hurried out to look in the direction of the explosion. Most of them ran off towards their posts.
Louisa came outside to see. Sebastian stood in the doorway and she looked back at him. He did not react. The blast merely signalled the start of the next chapter in a story whose ending he already knew.
On a high point beyond the camp perimeter, the site of a rebel lookout post before the rebels had pulled back, a group of Neravista army officers surveyed the view through binoculars. Their saddled horses were held in the background by soldiers, some of whom were setting up a machine-gun emplacement.
One of the officers took the handset from a soldier carrying a radio on his back, its ten-foot whip antenna sticking vertically out of its top. ‘Drop five hundred,’ he said into it. ‘Right one hundred.’
Back at the artillery battery a radio operator relayed the message to the officer who passed it to his gun crew. The howitzer’s dial sights were adjusted and they looked up to see the commander with his arm raised again. As he brought it down they fired.
‘It’s away!’ the officer at the lookout post called out and the others watched intently for the landing point. The shell announced its arrival with an accelerating scream that came to an abrupt stop a split second before the boom of a crunching explosion.
In unison the officers aimed their binoculars at the detonation, like observers at a racetrack as the horses go by. The shell had landed somewhere beyond the stables and although they could not see the precise impact point the plume of white smoke was clearly visible as it rose into the sky.
‘Up two hundred,’ the officer said into the radio handset.
The next shell arrived thirty seconds later and struck the centre of the tented camp, blowing a shack to smithereens. Seconds later women and children ran screaming from the camp’s fringes.
‘Mark that as centre,’ the officer said casually into the radio. ‘I want a random pattern four hundred metres
