The diplomats introduced themselves to Mallet, then took Seguma to one side. The guy with the bird’s nest hair sat with his knees crossed, gesticulating, talking animatedly, while the woman with the dimpled chin handed over documents for the president to read. It was clear that they were calling the shots. This is how it’s going to work, they seemed to be saying. Seguma stayed tight-lipped throughout. He wasn’t in any position to argue. A few hours ago his closest adviser had been thrown to his death. The people he was dealing with were deadly serious. He wasn’t about to haggle over the small print.
Then a smartly dressed official entered the lounge and announced that the jet was ready to depart. He led the party through the gate towards a waiting Renault minivan. They clambered inside with their bags, the Renault bowled across the skidmarked tarmac stand to a Gulfstream G650. One of the long-range jets. Capable of making the short hop from Northolt to Nice, and then on to Gabon without stopping to refuel.
They boarded and stowed their bags in the aft luggage compartment. Dimpled Chin and Bird’s Nest sat upfront with Seguma. The soldiers made themselves comfortable in the rear section of the cabin. The flight attendant was male, to Loader’s obvious disappointment.
As the Gulfstream taxied across to the runway, Bowman was gripped by a growing sense of unease. They were heading into the unknown, he realised. Any number of things could go wrong. But he felt something else, too. A renewed sense of determination.
Mike Gregory had saved his career once. He’d helped Bowman to turn his life around. Took him under his wing when he’d first joined the Regiment. Now, after all these years, Bowman had the chance to return the favour.
I owe the guy, Bowman reminded himself. I’m not going to let him down. I’ll do whatever it takes to rescue him.
I just pray we’re not too late.
Nineteen
They spent the first hour of the flight sorting out their kit. Six had supplied them with several bags filled with weapons and equipment. Bowman and Webb changed back into the civvies they had stashed in their holdalls, then joined the others at the rear of the aircraft as they dished out the hardware. They would carry Colt Canada C8 rifles as their primary weapons, fitted with suppressors and scopes with mini red-dot sights, plus four spare thirty-round magazines apiece. Including the clip in the weapon, each member of the team had 150 rounds of 5.56 × 45 mm NATO brass. They had Glock 17 pistols as their secondary weapons, with two seventeen-round mags per person, body plate armour and webbing, military radios, a rucksack filled with first aid kits and bottles of water, ballistic helmets, two thousand dollars of bribery money in small denominations. The rest of the kit was stowed in the cargo hold, Mallet had said. The heavy firepower. Two belt-fed L7 GPMG ‘Gimpy’ machine guns. A Barrett .50 calibre sniper rifle in a pelican case, complete with clip-on telescopic sights, deadly at a range of up to two thousand yards and capable of punching through brickwork. An Accuracy International AWC sniper rifle in a weapon sleeve. Claymore anti-personnel mines. An M224 60 mm lightweight mortar. Frag grenades, smoke grenades, boxes of ammunition: 7.62 mm belt for the Gimpys, shells for the mortar.
The team went through the usual pre-op checks. They filled the spare magazines with ammunition, packed them into the pouches on the front of their webbing. They tested the radios. Checked their vest armour. Stripped their weapons back, inspected the moving parts, put them back together. Basic stuff. But essential. Missions had been known to fail because of faulty kit.
In the front cabin, Bird’s Nest and Dimpled Chin went through a long checklist with President Seguma. They discussed the statements he would make to the world’s media during the rebellion, his victory speech once he had returned to power. Seguma listened while gorging on a slap-up meal and double measures of Scotch. He appeared to have regained some of his old arrogance. Between mouthfuls of food, he described in gory detail what he would do to his enemies after the coup had been crushed. People would be thrown to crocodiles or buried alive. The diplomats smiled obsequiously. They were pushing the boat out. Indulging him. Pandering to the tyrant’s every whim.
‘Can you believe this bloke?’ Loader muttered softly as he slid a spare magazine into one of his webbing pouches. ‘We’re bending over backwards to help him crush this rebellion, and all he’s interested in is butchering people.’
Bowman shrugged. ‘They don’t call him the Viper for nothing.’
‘It’s immoral. He was prepared to turn his back on us, and now we’re treating him like royalty.’
‘London has got to keep him sweet, mate. If he had agreed to the deal with the Russians, we’d lose everything in Karatandu. The cobalt, all our commercial interests and training facilities. The lot. They’d do anything to stop that from happening.’
‘Doesn’t make it right,’ Loader said.
Mallet overheard them and said, ‘We’re soldiers. We’re not paid to have an opinion. Even your short Welsh arse should understand that.’
‘I’m just saying, John.’
‘Well, don’t. Six has given us a job to do. We’re doing it. End of.’
The Cell leader marched aft to consult with Webb. Casey kept her gaze fixed on the president at the far end of the cabin as he finished his Scotch and yelled at the attendant for a refill.
‘He doesn’t seem too concerned about his family,’ she observed softly.
Bowman laughed. ‘That guy doesn’t care about anyone other than himself. He’d throw his family under a bus if it benefited him.’
‘Why ask us to protect them, then?’ said Loader.
‘The only reason Seguma wants them safe and
