‘Not once D Squadron and the other SF teams get in. They’ll send the twats packing,’ Loader said. ‘All we’ve got to do is make it to Rogandu, protect the family, and it’s job done.’
No one replied. Casey stared out of the window at the burning buildings, the mutilated corpses dumped at the side of the road.
‘What’s the plan once we get to the mansion?’ she asked Mallet.
‘We’ll link up with Mike Gregory, secure the family, sort out the defences around the estate. Then wait for the reinforcements to come in.’
She inclined her head slightly. ‘Do you think we’re in for a fight?’
‘Anything’s possible. But General Kakuba and his men won’t be heading to Rogandu, not immediately. It’ll take them a while to search the president’s other homes. By the time they arrive at Rogandu, we’ll be getting a brew on.’
‘The timing is tight,’ Bowman said. ‘If there’s a delay, we’re fucked.’
Loader said, ‘I think we can handle a few poxy rebels.’
‘We’re down to the bare bones, mate. We were counting on those forty lads from the Presidential Guard to bolster our numbers. If Kakuba attacks us in force, we’re gonna be up against it.’
‘We won’t have to wait there for long,’ Mallet said. ‘A couple of hours, max.’
They continued north until they were within sight of the port and then navigated east, steering well clear of the obvious targets. Police stations, army barracks. Radio stations. The president’s numerous residences. Anywhere the rebels might be gathered in large numbers. Mavinda took them on a winding route out of the city, through narrow roads lined with shanty huts and modest dwellings partially hidden behind graffiti-decorated breeze-block walls. The darkened streets were heaped with mounds of rubble and chopped timber and plastic bottles.
As they bulleted east Mallet put in another call to the Voice. He got no answer, left a long message, filling the Voice in on the current situation. The massacre at the palace. The family’s flight to the country pile in Rogandu. The new plan. He asked for an update on D Squadron and the other elements of the strike force: SFSG, the SBS. He told the Voice to get hold of Mike Gregory, if possible. Let him know that the team was on the way. He hung up, plugged the phone into the cigarette lighter receptacle and left the handset on charge.
They crossed a small bridge over the Karatandu River and skirted around the fringes of several outlying villages, avoiding the main highway. The only stretch of paved road outside the capital. The most obvious route to Rogandu, the major had explained. But slower and less direct than the country tracks. And much more dangerous. The rebels might have ambushes set up on the main routes, he said.
The road soon degraded into a rough track, the lights from the smaller settlements shrank to dots, and suddenly they were pushing through the Karatandan countryside. The slums and ruined colonial villas gave way to a seemingly endless sprawl of lowland plains and claustrophobic forest, the muddied track slithering like some giant black snake beneath the gloom of the canopy. The Hilux rocked along in front of them, headlamps cutting through the pitch-black night.
Mallet tried to get hold of Six again. But they were in a sparsely populated area. The signal was terrible. Non-existent. He gave up after the fourth attempt and settled back into his seat as the vehicles steered deeper into the jungle. Bowman glanced over at the bluish digital glow of the console display.
02.00 hours. A hundred miles from the mansion near Rogandu.
Two hours to go.
Two hours until I can pop another pill.
Bowman was flagging badly now. It seemed as if epochs had passed since he’d last slept. He found it hard to concentrate on the road. His vision was juddering, the Hilux kept slipping in and out of focus. The world had a weirdly dreamlike quality to it. To make matters worse, the cravings were beginning to sneak up on him. The air con in the Land Cruiser was on full whack, but Bowman was sweating beneath his webbing and plate armour. He felt the ache deep in his muscles, a sharp scissoring pain shooting through his body, tingling in his fingertips and toes. Five hours since he’d dropped a pill. Too long. His mistake.
Another two hours until we get to the mansion, Bowman thought to himself. Four o’clock in the morning. Keep pushing on. Hang on until we get there.
Then you can drop a couple of Lang’s magic pills.
The road was empty. They saw no other cars on the road, no gangs of rebel soldiers or pedestrians. An hour later, the forest began to thin out. The convoy trundled on for another ten miles, past pockets of mangrove swamp and impoverished fishing villages clinging to the banks of the river. Mallet checked his phone for a signal. Still nothing. Webb and Loader dozed in the back seat. Casey sat wedged between them, alert, tense, on edge.
The jungle ended abruptly. Like a curtain being lifted from a stage. One minute they were driving through the swampy suffocating dark of the forest. The next they were leaving the treeline behind them and rolling across a low grassy plain, so flat you could play billiards on it. A quick glance at the console told Bowman that they were less than half an hour from the target location. We’re getting close to Rogandu now.
Mallet checked his phone again, got a weak signal and dialled Six. He waited several long beats. Then he hung up, swore under his breath and sent a brief encrypted message.
‘Still no answer,’ he said.
Bowman shot him a look. ‘Why aren’t they picking up?’
‘Fuck knows. Could be anything.’
‘Maybe they’re busy briefing the strike force,’ Casey said.
