Читать книгу The Congo Affair - Norman Shakespeare - Страница 3

Although nothing seemed out of the ordinary, James woke earlier than usual with a subtle, inexplicable feeling of foreboding. Through the bug screen he watched the resident troop of vervet monkeys scamper across dewy lawns to forage in the giant banana trees behind the bungalows. Tendrils of early-morning mist seeped from the shadows and disappeared with the squawking cries of gaudy parrots echoing under the dense, gloomy canopy.

He decided to take a walk along the river; on weekends he spent many hours exploring the primeval tranquility of the mighty Congo. He donned cargo shorts, sneakers, and bush hat: more than enough for the climate. On workdays he added a short-sleeved cotton shirt, to look a little more businesslike.

With an old canvas satchel containing water bottle, dried nuts and assorted gear, and a fishing rod in hand, he stepped into the pre-dawn humidity. The screen door banged behind him.

The sound of distant tom-toms floated across the river from the wall of vegetation on the far side. It wasunusual to hear drums so early in the morning; they fuelled his sense of unease.

A thirty-yard walk through a partially concealed side-gate and across a sloping, grassy flood plain led to the banks of the river. As far as he knew, James was the only person in the compound who used this gate: it was probably used during construction five years earlier. Most inhabitants lived for the day when they would return to ‘civilization’: few aware of or interested in the ‘real’ Africa outside the fence.

On a baking-hot afternoon six months earlier, while observing a butcher-bird hanging its insect prey on the fence to dry, he had found the gate-key dangling innocently on the razor wire near the gate. It was coated in a thin layer of spider web; and an insect had built a cocoon on the side. Assuming no one else knew of the key, he had moved it to a more private location.

The gate was nearly a mile upstream of the main entrance and the wharf which were obscured by a wide bend in the river.

The plaintive, haunting cry of a fish eagle greeted him as he waded through soft, waist-high grass on the slope down to the flood plain. It reminded him of the Bald Eagles back home. He cautiously approached the top of the sandy, fifteen-foot cliff above the deep, silently-moving water.

Early morning forays were often rewarded with magnificent views of elephant, buffalo, and other animals at the water's edge. Today the river was deserted, mostly shrouded in low mist that concealed the far side.

It was a spectacular sight. A mile-wide swathe of swirling, brilliant white vapor gleamed snow-like in the first rays of sunlight. The huge red ball lifting over distant mountains dusted fluffy pink tints on its surface.

As he strolled quietly along the bank, James felt at one with nature. Behind him, the tall grey support-structures of the launch site contrasted with the jungle. An Orion rocket, after which the base was named, stood patiently waiting for launch day, now delayed indefinitely. The supply route by river from the coast was often closed due to civil unrest and the grass airstrip, unused since the Hercules transports stopped coming a month before, was already overgrown with grass and small bushes; on the equator everything grew faster.

The aircraft had been shot at by rebels in the jungle, effectively closing the only viable supply link to the coast. The ferry route was much longer but slightly safer. Most of the passengers on the ancient vessels were poverty-stricken natives who posed little threat to warring parties. It was a tenuous supply-line at best; more than one thousand four hundred miles of often turbulent, bush-flanked river, serviced by a few dilapidated ferries: when they weren’t under repair.

As if by magic the mist evaporated and the full splendor of Africa’s mightiest river unfolded; the silent, shifting expanse broken only by small clumps of drifting salvinia weed. A skein of Egyptian geese skimmed nose-to-tail a foot above the water, honking in turn.

Although infested with crocodiles, hippopotamuses and numerous undocumented threats, described by the natives in terrifying detail, nothing broke the surface. James had grown up in Africa and discounted most of the tales as pure superstition exaggerated by primitive fears and fuelled by the ever-present jungle, mysterious and brooding, even to his skeptical western eyes. The cradle of life was a catalyst for fertile imaginations.

There were huge eels, catfish, and tiger fish, all fearsome and some capable of eating a grown man, but he doubted the stories of two-hundred foot monsters, three feet thick, that swallowed whole boats full of people. Selfishly perhaps, it suited him to add credibility to the accounts of the wide-eyed natives; fewer residents of the compound would be inclined to venture into his personal domain. A private, million-square-mile park appealed to him.

The water was clear and fresh but ran so deep it was difficult to see the bottom, except in shallower areas where sunlight reflected off the white sand below. Sometimes dark shapes loomed under passing boats; submerged logs or hippopotamuses trying to escape the relentless equatorial sun.

‘Mboka’ and ‘Congo Queen,’ the ferries that plied the hundred-mile stretch from Ubundu, had eight-foot drafts, but rarely touched bottom. Massive, floating logs, some more than eighty feet long and four in diameter, were much more of a danger than shoal water.

A rustling in the gully ahead brought James to a silent crouch. All along the bank, small, perennial streams cut steeply to the river, forming short ramps in the sandy alluvial soil and providing wildlife with easy access to drinking water. Dense thickets of reeds up to fifteen feet tall filled these mini-gorges and obscured all manner of dangerous occupants. He waited patiently.

Another loud rustle, followed by the wrenching sound of vegetation being torn from the ground gave a clue. Amongst the reed beds, patches of lush green grass grew thick in the rich silt. Hippopotamuses, the second largest animal in Africa, and nocturnal by nature, spend nights grazing the flood-plains and grassy slopes right up to the perimeter fence. In the day they usually return to the coolness of the river to rest. Occasionally one needed a 'midnight snack' and ventured into the reeds during daylight.

Although ‘hippos’ are vegetarian, James was well aware of the danger of surprising a two-ton wild animal when it was out of its natural daytime retreat. He backed off very slowly and quietly, choosing to fish further away.

This section of river was on the outside of a wide bend; the current eroded the bank over the years as it gradually changed course like a huge, twisting snake, When large trees were undermined they fell into the river, providing shelter for small fish and a food-source for larger ones.

James stripped twenty yards of line from his reel onto the sand at his feet. The dark brown sinking-line and ten foot leader was tipped with two feet of fine, nylon-coated steel wire, and a number sixteen Mrs. Simpson fly. Without the steel tippet the razor-sharp interlocking teeth of the notorious tiger fish would bite through the line and steal the fly in an instant. James tried to avoid the larger tigers and catfish; hooking a hundred-pounder from the bank, in the strong current, was useless and could result in the loss of line, tippet, and fly.

Three quick flicks of the rod back and forward over his shoulder propelled the line gracefully through the air, straightening far out over the water. The feathery fly floated softly on the water near a partially submerged tree, twirling briefly in a tiny eddy before disappearing below the surface.

A sharp tug announced the take of a 'Chessa,' probably the finest small game fish in the world. Up to six pounds of hard muscle covered with a coat of tough silver scales and backed up by a big, businesslike tail, the fish endures a life of strong currents all the while avoiding the vicious teeth of the tiger fish; making for a very fit wily opponent.

For the last ten years James had worked on computer projects all over the world; spending much of his spare time fishing for salmon trout and other game fish. Pound for pound, none could compete with the sheer endurance, tenacity, and power of the Chessa.

After a brief entanglement in submerged twigs the fish headed for open water. The taut line skimmed and whined as the fish dragged it tirelessly, first upstream then down, and then up again.

James gradually worked his line further and further away from the tree, hoping a big tiger fish wouldn’t attack the exposed Chessa but, at the same time, not wanting to lose it in the mass of branches below the surface.

He finally landed the fish by dragging it firmly onto the sand. With a deft wrist motion, he extracted the barbless hook and gently returned the dazed fish to the river. It drifted for a second, stunned, and then swam away enthusiastically, none the worse for wear. He never killed a fish unless he intended to eat it, and Chessa were far too bony.

James maintained peak physical fitness by running six miles almost every day, usually inside the compound. Whenever he had the opportunity, mostly on weekends, he ran along the river outside the fence. Today he hid his bag and rod in a thorny shrub and set off upstream, moving in a wide arc around the browsing hippo. To attempt to pass between it and the river was inviting disaster; if the animal was disturbed it would charge toward the water, flattening anything in its path.His route took him close to the jungle where the gully was shallower and further from the water. After struggling through acacia bushes bristling with vicious two inch white thorns, and sharp spiky reeds, he re-appeared on the other side, his deeply-tanned, muscular torso blending naturally with the autumn grasses.

Once clear of the reeds he broke into a steady lope, cutting back gradually toward the river. Although it was just after seven o’clock, the sun was already fierce, warming his shoulders as he followed sandy paths left by countless wild animals.

By the time he reached a small beach three miles from the hippo he was drenched in perspiration. He scanned the river carefully for dangerous inhabitants then filled his hat with water and doused himself a few times to cool off before languishing in the shade of a thick shrub.

Just as he was about to head back he noticed a small native next to the water a hundred yards upstream. He was cleaning what looked like fish on a log at the edge of the water so James went to see what he’d caught.

The man was very short and wiry, probably a pygmy from the Mbuti tribes of the northeast border regions. They rarely ventured into the lowlands, preferring cooler montane habitat. James guessed he had been driven out by the war, possibly even from Rwanda two hundred miles to the east. The pygmies are a peaceful people, often victims of the larger, more warlike tribes.

Oblivious to James’s presence, he sang a repetitive lilting song softly to himself. James stood on the bank admiring how skillfully the man cleaned the fish with his homemade knife.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye James noticed a long dark shadow, gliding silently just beneath the surface of the river thirty yards away, toward the pigmy. James was high on the bank and could see it clearly, but the sunlight reflecting off the water in the direction of the approaching crocodile blinded the pygmy.

It must have been twenty feet long; its stealthy approach meant it clearly intended to eat the little man. Using the current to its advantage, it purposefully turned in a wide arc and, without causing a ripple, faced the pygmy; ready for its final lightning dash.

Crocodiles are notoriously cunning, preferring to sneak as close as possible before attacking. A full grown one can approach its prey undetected in a foot of water.

There was no time to warn the pygmy, especially in an unknown language. Alarming a bushman armed with a blow-pipe and poisoned darts was very risky; he would probably attack without hesitation. James quickly grabbed a four-foot piece of driftwood from the sand, carefully calculated the distance, and tossed it high over the pygmy, right onto the cruising monster.

The pygmy saw the reflection of the log flying over his head and instinctively crouched. It landed with a loud splash on the crocodile’s hard, scaly back. The croc got a bigger fright than the bushman and lunged vertically out of the water, twisting violently around in a desperate attempt to get to deeper water. In an instant it towered eight feet above the surface, massive jaws open wide in a guttural roar as it snapped at James’s log before vanishing into the depths.

The terrifying sight of a ton of man-eating crocodile so close to him was too much for the diminutive forest dweller. His eyes rolled back and a spine-chilling wail rent the air as he abandoned his possessions and flew up the twelve-foot bank.

When he saw James, his mind worked frantically to sort the events of the last few seconds. When he realized James had thrown the log and saved his life, he fell to the ground jabbering what was probably eternal gratitude. Some African tribes believe the ‘Garwe’ is sent by the devil himself, and being eaten by one guarantees an afterlife of indescribable torment.

All the while muttering and jabbering, he pointed to the sun, rubbed his heart with a circular motion of his hand and patted the ground repeatedly, his eyes rolled vigorously between heaven and earth.

Eventually he settled somewhat. He fumbled with his necklace and proffered it; a token James felt quite unnecessary and tried to decline. When he saw the genuine concern on the pygmy’s face he knew he’d breached jungle-protocol. He held out his hand and accepted the gift solemnly, admiring its intricate beadwork.

The pygmy smiled, happy that his gesture, though small in the light of his rescue from certain death, was appreciated. He approached the water with caution, retrieved his fish and knife and then, without further delay, trotted off toward the jungle. Every few paces he turned and waved respectfully to James until he vanished into the damp green darkness, the giant, evergreen leaves closed behind him.

It was too late for a fish-breakfast so James broke into a fast run back to the compound, stopping briefly to collect his gear. He didn’t relish being caught outside the fence and having to explain himself to the security staff who would probably be outraged at his breach of base security.

Near the gate, he heard the chugging engine of a vegetable-delivery boat rounding the bend. The vendor plied the river daily in his ‘banana-boat’; selling vegetables and fruit and sometimes trading these for other goods such as honey or small wild animals. Orion had its own orchards and vegetable gardens but occasionally the catering staff supplemented these with goods from the natives.

The yellow boat looked like a huge fiberglass banana, about forty feet long, four wide, and propelled by a small, inboard diesel engine. James waved to the driver who waved back, his white teeth contrasting sharply with his very black face. James had met Mchenga once before but didn’t know if this was his first name or last name.

Mchenga gestured with his hands, enquiring if James had caught anything. James raised five fingers then pretended to throw them back. Mchenga scowled playfully; he would have eaten the fish. The boat chugged slowly upstream to unknown destinations that James would love to explore. Mchenga’s loud singing gradually faded around the bend.

Just as James closed the gate behind him he was startled by an announcement on the public address system. The pole-mounted loudspeakers situated all over the compound were rarely used. The last time was a year ago when the site was evacuated due to an electrical short in the underground liquid-rocket-fuel store. Fortunately, the automatic isolation systems functioned correctly, and prevented disaster.

The speakers echoed and reverberated, making it difficult to understand the announcement. It seemed there was to be an urgent general assembly of all personnel at ten o’clock at the stadium.

He dashed into his bungalow, had a quick shower and arrived at the stadium with two minutes to spare. He had his breakfast with him, two huge bananas that he devoured while waiting in the sun. He looked quite festive – no shirt, bush hat with imitation leopard skin band; chomping a foot-long banana. All two thousand employees of the space program were present, milling around in anticipation.

Dr. Althorpe, head of the project, tapped his microphone for attention. As silence fell he spoke. “I apologize for disrupting your Sunday but I have some rather urgent news. As some of you know, the regular supply ferry, ‘Mboka’ is three days overdue. Also, due to a failure in our short-wave transmitter, we have had no radio contact with Kisangani for more than a week. We have to assume the vessel has broken down again and that it will be some time before it is repaired.

The alternative boat, ‘Congo Queen,’ has been out of action for two months and is unlikely to be repaired in the short term.” His voice dropped and he continued soberly.

“Although I believe alarm is premature, it is important to bear in mind that we are temporarily cut off from the outside world and that there is a war raging in large parts of the country. Because of this, we need to observe security regulations more closely, and brush up on our defenses. John Gilmore, head of security, will explain the procedures and requirements in detail.”

James didn’t like John Gilmore; he was abrasive and self-opinionated, strutting around in his uniform like a dictator in waiting. It was unfortunate the situation warranted giving him a platform at all.

Gilmore started his address by running through existing precautionary procedures; they sounded a little inadequate to James.

“Although most of you resent the idea of weapons-training, the assumption that the revolutionary forces will leave Orion Base alone indefinitely is naïve.” He shouted at the top of his voice as if he had no microphone. James thought he looked like a Maltese poodle barking at the moon. “Dr. Althorpe and I cannot overstress the importance of self-defense; please trust our judgment on this matter.”

He shuffled a paper, and after studying it importantly for too long, started ranting again. “I have drawn up a weapons-training roster which will be posted in both gymnasiums and at all five canteens. I expect everyone to attend their scheduled sessions which will include emergency procedures as well as weapons drills. Remember that defenseless untrained staff are a liability to others as well as themselves.”

He eyed the crowd for a few seconds as if expecting someone to argue, then spun on his heel and marched back to his seat.

Dr. Althorpe got up. “It is important to be conscious of base security and participate in as much of the scheduled activities as possible. Thank you all and enjoy the rest of the day.”

For some time animosity between scientific and security staff had been growing. The scientists and technicians were a mixed bunch of liberals radicals nerds and social-misfits, but most were pacifist and un-confrontational. Security staff often chose the profession for the uniform and accompanying authority; many enjoyed inconveniencing transgressors of petty regulations.

James didn’t fully identify with either group but understood both. Although a mechanical engineer by trade and computer programmer by choice, when he was much younger he had spent three years of compulsory military service in Zimbabwe, his country of birth.

He had many fond memories of his childhood, and had acquired a deep appreciation of all things African, including the volatile, often brutal nature of conflict-resolution. Most of the other residents of Orion were born and bred in the United States or Western Europe, with little experience of African wildlife and the raw, untamed character of the continent.

He had limited tolerance for bossy security staff with poor training and no combat experience. He felt they were more of a danger to themselves and others than they were protection. Most of the scientific fraternity was too engrossed in their activities to take any notice of external phenomena like wars anyway.

Ironically James knew Gilmore was right this time. There was a very real, growing threat, and security was far from optimum. Twice in the last few weeks he’d woken in the middle of the night convinced he’d heard gunfire in the jungle beyond the wharf. This region still operated on the primitive, savage principals of aggression and survival that most western societies had mostly forgotten. The security system at Orion was designed primarily to prevent the hundred or so natives employed as casual labor on the base from pilfering tools and foodstuffs. It would need a major overhaul if it was to secure the lives of the inhabitants.

He made a mental note to clean and check his personal L1A1 / SLR assault rifle as soon as he got back to the bungalow. Years ago in Morocco, on a whim and because the price was so enticing, he had purchased the ex-Nato weapon. He didn’t know if he would ever get the opportunity to use it, but brought it to the base as a ‘sporting rifle’, even though it was fully automatic.

Some of his colleagues knew of its existence but didn’t know the difference between a tank and a water pistol and weren’t really interested. Because of the potentially neurotic reaction of the security staff, he had kept it well hidden and partly disassembled in his luggage.

The long-barreled weapon is similar to the Belgian Fabrique Nationale (FN); each of its four extended-magazines holding thirty 7.62mm intermediate cartridges, the same as those issued to many armed forces around the world.

James had noticed that Gilmore and his staff were equipped with the NATO G3 rifle which used the same ammunition as his SLR. Hoping to get some practice, he ambled across to the security block to talk about the weapons training. He knew that, to accommodate Gilmore’s sense of self-importance, he would have to pretend to have little knowledge of firearms.

The security building nestled close to a grove of palm trees sagging under the weight of ripe, yellow fruit. The troops of monkeys that used to feast on the fruit prior to the construction of the compound, and relieve the burden on the palms, had all been chased away by children and security guards with catapults and sticks.

A guard languished against the low white wall, his long unkempt hair hiding his grimy collar. James pretended not to see him and walked quickly past, hoping to avoid filling in forms and the petty ‘interrogation’ about the purpose of his visit.

John Gilmore was pacing in front of a large wall map of the base. The opposite wall had a topographical map of eastern Congo, with colored pins marking Orion and the nearest towns. The gaps between the pins were huge, an indication of the size of the country and sparseness of formal population centers.

He ignored James provocatively for a few seconds before turning casually. “Can I help you?” He knew James but pretended otherwise.

James overlooked the obvious affront. “Hi, John, I just wanted to say that I totally agree with you about the training and would like to volunteer for the first session.” He gauged Gilmore’s response before continuing. “I know a little about guns but I’m keen to learn more.”

Gilmore rose to the bait. “Sure," he said looking up and down at James’s casual attire with distaste. “The first rifle drill and range practice is scheduled for Tuesday.”

James briefly contemplated volunteering to assist with other sessions, on the basis of his military experience, but thought better of it. He needed to avoid the temptation to show up Gilmore and his lack of practical military experience.

He studied the impressive wall map intently, absorbing relevant detail as fast as he could until Gilmore cleared his throat loudly. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, thanks. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

James was looking forward to the training as he strolled back to his quarters along lush, tree-lined avenues. He really appreciated the huge landscaped park that made up the residential and work sectors of Orion, marveling at the great lengths the designers had gone to incorporate as much local flora as possible.

The residential area was divided into married and single sections by the only full-sized road on the site. A school, hospital, and one canteen were in the married section whilst two gymnasiums and two canteens were in the single side. Greenways separated blocks of bungalows and, once construction had ceased, all side-roads were converted to single-lane footpaths with wide, green verges.

Most buildings were pre-fabricated in pastel colors and assembled on site. Married accommodation comprised detached units with multiple bedrooms, while single quarters were in blocks of five, separated from the next block by shrubbery and flower beds. Each unit had an en-suite bathroom, lounge, and kitchenette, as well as a single garage which was never used since no one had a motor vehicle. He wondered how the architects and site planners had made such an obvious oversight; maybe they believed one day the site would be connected to who-knows-where by road. That everyone got drenched in equatorial downpours on their way home was a refreshing way of life. There were a few emergency and utility vehicles but, except for John Gilmore who took his motor bike home every night, these were all stored at their stations.

As with many bachelors living away from home, James’s rooms were in need of cleaning. Most people left their air-conditioning on permanently but James preferred the fresh, humid air, especially when doing occasional housekeeping; a bit like a sauna.

A major disadvantage of the fresh-air approach was the swarms of mosquitoes that arrived at sunset; changing shift with the voracious flies which literally got up everyone’s nose during the day. Even though all rooms were fitted with sonic devices which supposedly repelled them, as well as screened-doors and windows, some still managed to get in. James had also suspended an ultra-violet attractor with an electric mesh inside the front door; it got most of the insurgents.

When he’d finished cleaning, he took a lukewarm shower and lay on the bed listening to music and contemplating the morning’s meeting. The six-foot ceiling-fan swung ominously as it forced its way through the heavy flower-scented air, pushing balmy waves over his naked body. His thoughts turned to possible worst-case scenarios; the civil war could spill into their lives and make extreme actions necessary.

Monday morning arrived suddenly around 4 am with the raucous babble of coucals in the nest behind James’s bungalow. These large noisy birds knew when dawn was coming and let everyone else know too. A naturally early riser, he didn’t mind, and took their cue; bounding out of bed, pulling on his running trunks and preparing for his daily jog around the compound. With the humidity around ninety-five percent and the temperature already nearly eighty, there was little need for a warm-up. A few stretching exercises and a glass of warmish water sufficed.

As he ran across the wet lawns dewdrops sparkled rosily in the glow of pre-dawn streetlights, the silence broken only by his footsteps padding gently on the soft grass.

Some advantages of living in this small, insular world were that there was no traffic, and no one lived more than a fifteen minute walk from work.

Except for the workaholics and fitness enthusiasts like himself, everyone had too much spare time, and boredom was a serious concern to the administrators. The relentless stifling heat made usual small-town occupations like social clubs and infidelity too much like hard work.

His route took him along the western fence near the wharf gate. The perimeter fence of the main residential and administrative compound was two miles long by one wide, with the launch pad in another one-mile-square enclosure separated by a security corridor of half a mile. This was merely a wide, surfaced road bordered by double electric fences topped with razor wire. The launch pad also had a double fence while the rest of the compound had a single mesh and razor-wire barrier.

Outside the fence was the earth airstrip and beyond that, another low fence. The fences were designed to exclude wild animals from the compound and prevent elephants from following their ancestral route to the river. After encountering the obstacles for more than five years the elephants still tried to force their way through, rather than walk two or three miles around. James thought it was more stubbornness than instinct.

As he approached the riverside fence, his thoughts were on faraway places so he didn’t see the lone buffalo next to the wire until he was very close. A gruff snort startled him and he jumped back, his heart pounding violently, hair crawling on the nape of his neck.

This was a primeval animal, confident in its natural surroundings and contemplating a trespasser through a flimsy wire fence. He was a fine old bull, two thousand pounds of pure muscle with massive horns, pitted and scarred from numerous battles. The base of the horns covered his whole forehead in solid, six-inch-thick armor.

James’s eyes locked hypnotically with the bull's unblinking black gaze. It was a brief period of exquisite danger, a subtle balance between the desire to flee and the excitement of proximity. The buffalo stood motionless, not breaking its gaze as it probed its adversary’s mind. James held his breath, cooling sweat trickling down his bare back.

Across the six-foot space between them, he could see every wrinkle and wiry-hair on the massive beast. Caked mud flaked off powerful legs above huge hooves worn by years of tramping the jungle. James felt irresistibly drawn into another world; way back to when men drew paintings on cave walls and lived in spiritual awe of such beasts. He felt as if he was falling uncontrollably into the deep, black wells of the animal’s emotionless eyes.

After what seemed an hour the bull snorted, flicked his tail, and lowered his head to the fresh green grass against the fence. Feigning disinterest his massive tongue wrenched a choice tuft from the ground with a loud rasping sound. Now that he’d assessed the situation and eliminated the possibility of threat he barely noticed James.

A warm feeling of acceptance washed over James and he relaxed to savor the closeness. It was a great pleasure to be accepted by a wild animal, even a bird, in its natural habitat. He believed animals had the ability to read man’s hostility and intentions and he took pride in passing the test.

Reluctantly he broke the spell, and backed off quietly.

Back at his quarters he took a quick shower then set off for the canteen, stopping at the laundry to drop off his clothes. The laundry was run by the ‘housewives association’ and catered mainly to bachelors. For an exorbitant fee the clothes were washed, pressed (partially and unnecessarily) and ready for collection on the way home. Some people did their own laundry, hanging the clothes out to dry on lines behind the bungalows, but the ‘putsie’ flies concerned James. The large, blue-green flies, endemic to the continent, lay eggs in damp hems of clothing. After a week the eggs hatch and the pupa crawl under the wearers’ skin to grow into maggots. Eventually, a large abscess develops and has to be surgically treated. All very unpleasant and well worth the $50 a month he spent on laundry. Orion used US dollars as currency; even the locals preferred it to Congolese francs.

At seven o’clock the air-conditioned canteen was still quiet; most people arrived for breakfast at eight and started work at nine. James preferred to start early and leave early, giving himself an hour of uninterrupted productivity before everyone else commenced work. This particular canteen was mainly used by single staff; married people with children usually ate at home or used the bigger one near the school.

He was helping himself to a huge pile of paw-paw and melon salad from the buffet when he saw a new face approaching from the glass doorway. As the petite girl got closer he could see she was naturally lovely, pronounced cheek bones and striking brown eyes set beautifully in a symmetric, oval face; rich, wavy, auburn hair pulled back into a pony-tail. She looked soft and vulnerable yet, at the same time, trim and healthy. She projected that intangible peaceful aura one finds in people who are close to nature; that elusive innocence animals recognize and respond to.

James must have been staring because she gave him a sharp, defensive look. Caught off guard, he turned and seated himself at the window, trying to concentrate on the garden outside. As he placed a cube of delicious, pale-green melon in his mouth his eyes wandered irresistibly back to the new girl.

She stood with her back to him, selecting pieces of freshly cut fruit from a long, glass serving platter. He couldn’t help noticing her smooth, shapely legs and petite ankles. He was still assessing her figure absent-mindedly when she turned and caught him staring again. Their eyes met briefly and he felt embarrassed, he was acting like a teenager.

Head high, she walked to the far end of the room and sat alone, ignoring him even though they were the only customers.

Just over a year before, James’s wife, Elizabeth had left him for a wealthy hedge-fund broker in New York and, since then, he’d dedicated himself to his work, unwilling to expose himself to emotional pain again.

This was the main reason he took the job in Congo, and he’d kept pretty much to himself since his arrival. Some probably thought him anti-social but the need for female company and late-night parties was low in his priorities.

He was partly to blame for the divorce, spending too much time at work in places as far afield as New Zealand and Chile but still couldn’t completely forgive her for the callous way she’d terminated the relationship. Her announcement came as a total shock, and her marriage to the broker only two weeks after the divorce made him re-think the merits of female company.

When he’d married her he wasn’t aware of her preoccupation with wealth and in retrospect often wondered why she married him at all. It soon became apparent that he was unable to maintain her standard of living without working excessively long hours, so the relationship was doomed.

The irony of the events which followed the divorce gave James a bittersweet feeling of revenge.

Two months after it was all finalized he was sitting in his apartment gazing at the miserable weather streaming down the window and looking forward to the Congo assignment. His application for the post had been successful and he was due to leave in five weeks.

A knock on the door jolted him back to reality. A well-dressed man with an Australian accent stood outside. “Mr. James Kent?” he enquired.

The huge briefcase made James suspect he was an insurance salesmen, or peddling some unconventional religion. “Yes?”

The man stepped forward, hand outstretched. “My name is Edwin Smythe. I am an executor of estates,” he spoke somewhat aloofly. “I am here to notify you of the contents of a last will and testimony. Before I can proceed and, with no offence intended, I must ask that you provide photo identification.”

James still thought it could be a scam but decided to play along and produced his passport. “OK?” he enquired.

After scrutinizing the documents closely, Mr. Smythe returned them smiling. “Well, all seems to be in order. I’m sorry to be so thorough but I’m sure once you’ve heard what I have to say, you’ll understand.”

He looked past James into the living room. “Anyway, let’s get down to business. Is there somewhere we can sit?”

James led him to the dining table, his curiosity aroused. Both his parents were dead and since he had no other close relatives, he wondered who would leave him anything.

“First I must offer my condolences on the death of your uncle, Agnew Kent. He passed away in Sydney six weeks ago. We had tremendous difficulty tracing you but, considering the size of the estate and the business considerations involved, we left no stone unturned.”

Although James knew he had a wealthy uncle who lived in Australia, he’d never met him. His parents mentioned him once or twice but James always suspected they exaggerated his wealth.

“As you know, your uncle was a very rich man and, as you are the sole living relative, you inherit the full estate. Although you probably weren’t aware, he always took a keen interest in his few relatives, and closely followed their lives from a distance.”

“How much was he worth?” James enquired, intrigued but still not totally convinced that this wasn’t some practical joke, possibly even a media prank.

“It’s difficult to give an accurate figure at this time but our conservative estimates indicate the value of mining, the sheep ranch and wool-production at roughly six hundred million Australian dollars."

James was stunned, but before he could say anything Mr. Smythe continued. “Then there are the publishing and media interests, and real estate in Sydney and Melbourne; a further four hundred and eighty million dollars.”

James sat back, trying to digest the impact of the news and how it would affect his life. He suddenly smiled to himself as he realized Elizabeth would have a fit if she knew; he might even send her a gift.

After Mr. Smythe had explained the details of the will, which was remarkably simple considering the enormous figures involved, he summed up the situation.

“Basically, you have three options. Take up the reigns of the empire and involve yourself in the business, appoint an expert to manage your interests in some or all the ventures and allow someone else to take day-to-day control, or liquidate your equity.”

James knew nothing of corporate finance and was reluctant to start learning about it now. He’d always believed he wasn’t cut out for office work or the accompanying responsibility. He was also very keen to get far away from New York and his ex-wife. The Congo post was ideal, a place to get fit and healthy and to take stock of his life in a leisurely fashion.

“The third option would be my preference; can you recommend someone to handle the process?”

Mr. Smythe spoke sincerely, “I should caution you to consider your options carefully. Possibly think on them overnight and I will answer any questions and give advice in the morning. I am only leaving tomorrow night so there is no rush.”

“No, I’ve made up my mind,” James interrupted, overwhelmed by the prospect of being a multi-millionaire.

“OK. If you’re absolutely sure about this I can start the paperwork. You won’t be committed for a few weeks; in case you change your mind.”

He took a large, leather-bound dossier from his briefcase and handed it to James. “Here is the full list of business interests. I suggest you retain our services on a consulting and management basis for the process. We have handled Mr. Kent’s affairs for more than twenty years and are very familiar with the whole portfolio.”

He continued, taking his lead from James’s approving nods. “We also need to appoint a local investment-advisor to facilitate the placement and investment of capital as it frees up. We have used the Manhattan firm Bentley, Bentley & Walton successfully in the past, so I can recommend them.”

Another smile crossed James’s face. Elizabeth’s new husband, Bruce Atkins, was a junior partner in Bentley, Bentley & Walton. James wasn’t vindictive by nature but he derived some pleasure in the knowledge that sooner or later Elizabeth would hear of his good fortune. Elizabeth’s ‘rich’ husband had but a tiny fraction of his newfound wealth.

By the time James left for the Congo, Bentley Bentley & Walton had invested nearly seven hundred million US dollars in fixed income securities. They estimated the full process could take up to a year.

He visited their offices before leaving and happened to pass Bruce in the foyer. Bruce was very polite and keen to be of assistance, already fully aware of the substantial fees to be earned from managing such a large portfolio. James thanked him for his offer but a senior partner, Jack Bentley, was already handling his affairs.

James hadn’t taken particular interest in the opposite sex for months and found something about the new girl unsettling. He was aware for the first time that his self-imposed celibacy would be difficult to maintain indefinitely. She looked lonely and a little sad and, knowing the anxiety everyone experienced on arrival at Orion, he was tempted to speak to her.

She seemed totally disinterested in anything in the room, gazing nonchalantly at the distant mountains above the jungle. He couldn’t help admiring her soft profile against the magnificent backdrop, long lashes and intelligent forehead clearly visible from where he sat.

He also noticed only she ate fruit, avoiding the mouth-watering aroma of bacon and scrambled egg. He decided to make conversation at the earliest opportunity, possibly introduce her to the gym staff. The gym was always good for the ‘blues’.

Trying not to stumble over a chair or stare at her, he left the canteen, relieved by the fresh air and space to collect his thoughts.

It was a five-minute walk to the cool concrete building where he worked as a programmer on the communications systems that linked the ground station to orbiting modules deployed by the rockets from the site. Although that was his official job description, he now had the additional responsibility of maintaining the access-control system in the compound.

Three months earlier the previous technician was evacuated to Europe after contracting some obscure tropical bug and, to date, no replacement had arrived. James hoped the poor chap had survived the ordeal; no one had heard from him since he left.

James didn’t mind the additional responsibility; he enjoyed the work and it complemented his normal job that required sitting at a computer all day, coding and debugging in C++ and Assembler. Since the last launch (and the temporary grounding of the system), he’d had very little work anyway.

The access-system comprised a number of turnstiles that operated on pass-codes read off magnetic cards carried by all staff. The community at the site was grouped into access zones according to job description and security clearance. Early every morning, James ran a series of loop-back tests to check turnstile operability and status. The program also generated statistical reports for each access point. There were thirty-seven turnstiles and the test was identical for each. Over the week-end James decided the process needed automation, so he set about writing a small batch-program that would cycle through all sites, run the tests, and log any results in a spreadsheet for easy analysis.

He was deep in concentration when he sensed rather than saw someone behind him. He turned to see Albert, the French engineer from the front office, almost leaning over him. Albert stepped back and to one side apologetically, “I have brought Ms. Walsh for zee access card,” he stammered.

James towered over the girl from the canteen as he stood to shake her hand. Close up, she was even more attractive. She wore no make-up and her fine, clear skin positively glowed, exuding a healthy natural beauty. Albert, usually quite the charmer, was also a little overwhelmed and muttered unintelligibly as he took his leave.

She smiled her thanks before turning to James; a distinctly cooler expression crossed her face. “Here are my particulars. I would like to start work today, so how long will it take to get the access card?"

“Hopefully while you wait” he tried to smile engagingly. “I’m sorry for staring at you earlier; the fact that you’re new here and so good-looking caught me a little off guard.”

She looked at him without forgiveness. “You probably say that to every new girl.” She turned her back to him and looked around the room.

James’s handsome, tanned face dropped slightly, his happy-go-lucky temperament not prepared for the rebuff. It was the first time he’d complimented a girl since the divorce and her response didn’t do his frail ego much good. “Have a seat please,” he said, sitting to complete the form. “This will only take a minute.”

Although her attitude was cold he instinctively liked her. He thought she must be very unhappy, and resolved to repair the bad feelings as soon as possible.

Michelle Walsh (Shelly) had arrived from Florida on the last flight into the base. Like all new staff, she’d spent a while in the compound hospital. The isolation phase was intended primarily to facilitate acclimatization, as well as to assist in recovery from the compulsory series of inoculations against malaria, smallpox, and cholera, and some other less well known diseases. In the hospital, newcomers live in a closed environment and are gradually exposed to the local climate, food, and water to minimize dehydration from the heat and stomach disorders. Bacterial activity in the tropics was ten times that of cold, northern climates; the daytime temperatures always over 100º F.

Shelly, like James and many others, had opted for the post in Congo to get away from her ‘previous’ life. She was the victim of a horrible, violent experience in which her husband, Alan had been murdered and she’d been brutally assaulted by a gang of drug-fuelled thugs.

Her parents tried to talk her out of going to Congo but she felt a complete change of scenery was the only way to put things behind her. In Tampa, surrounded by friends and associates, she was continually reminded of the soul-destroying events. The immense burden of her experiences had put her off men for life and she hardly noticed when she hurt them with her curt, insensitive remarks.

Before the incident she’d been contented and fun-loving, close to her family, friends and pets; she dearly hoped to regain some of that former joy by starting from scratch at Orion. In some ways it was an extreme plan, but she’d inherited a stubborn, independent streak from her father.

James typed the security codes from her registration form onto the computer which matched them with those downloaded from the permanent satellite link to Eurospace. A special terminal on the desk printed a color picture of her on the plastic card before coding the RF ID.

Once complete, the terminal ejected it with a soft ping. James looked at her, confirming that the picture was a good likeness. “Here you are,” he said, handing it to her. “Let me run through the procedures and the security system.”

He stood up to point at a large site map on the wall, his athletic frame and rugged good looks obvious to her. “From where we are now,” he pointed to the computer building, “you have access to the following facilities.” He consulted the printout which accompanied the card. “This block, since you are computer personnel. Your living quarters, S3D2, are in the single residential area, road 3, block D, unit 2, which is a few hundred yards in that direction.” James indicated out of the large rear window. “Your luggage will already be there when you get back this afternoon. You have access to all recreational areas.” He pointed out the gymnasiums, canteens, and park on the map. “The launch site, maintenance workshops, and wharf areas are off limits.

“If you lose your card, just push the ‘help’ button on the first turnstile you come across, and follow the instructions. In emergency, the red button can be used. It is linked directly to the security office which is manned twenty-four hours a day.” He found himself distracted by her exquisite, upturned face as she absorbed everything he said. He turned back to the diagram on the wall to avoid annoying her again.

Shelly hadn’t noticed his dilemma. “Are there any wild animals in the area?” she enquired neutrally.

“Yes, outside the fence. Why do you ask?”

“I would like to see some; I enjoy nature and the outdoors and it would be a shame to come all this way and not experience the wild.” She stopped abruptly, looking out of the window as if she’d already said too much.

“I couldn’t agree more; it’s sad that so many of the staff have no interest in the wildlife and can’t wait to get away from here. If you’re in the right place at the right time you will see plenty of elephant, lion, hippopotamus, and crocodile. In fact, if you listen at night you will hear most of them outside the fence.”

Briefly, she looked enthralled so he added hesitantly, “I can show you around if you like.”

Shelly shook her head. “It’s all right, thanks; I am sure I will find them easily enough.” The thought of being alone with any man made her tremble anxiously.

“Suit yourself” he said quietly, a little disappointed. “If you need any advice or information don’t hesitate to contact me. You will be working on the software component of the personnel project downstairs.”

“Yes, I probably will since I am a computer developer.” She didn’t know why she uttered the oddly cynical remark; possibly because the assured confidence of this Mr. Kent unsettled her.

“So am I,” James said innocently.

“Really?” She wasn’t convinced that a security guard who issued access cards could program computers. “What languages do you use?”

“C++ mainly. I designed and maintain the objects and classes for the orbiter up and down-links; I also use Assembler for the access systems.” He derived a little pleasure from the surprise on her face. “What is your specialty?”

“VB and C++.” She stood up. “I must go now, please show me to my office. Thank you for running through the procedures.” Her tone was distant.

“You’re welcome. Right this way.” He took her downstairs and left her in the capable hands of Mrs. Jennings, the I.T. manager. “Come along, dear,” her voice boomed as he left. “This is your workspace.”

“So lovely but so distant.” James wondered what went on in Shelly’s closed, defensive world. He hoped she would ask him to show her around outside the fence. It would be fun to share his magical outdoor experiences with someone who appeared genuinely interested.

He returned to his desk, mildly pleased that he could still find women attractive; lately he’d been a little worried.

Unbeknown to anyone, James’s predecessor had linked his computer to the security database and bypassed the password system. One afternoon a few weeks before, James had been working on his computer when an error occurred, corrupting a file. He was attempting to rectify the problem when he discovered a hidden executable file with a strange name. He used a dis-assembler to look at the content and it seemed to be a communication program of some sort. He changed some of the code and executed it to see what it did. The menu for the closed-security-system appeared and, amongst other things, he was able to directly access maximum security communications intended for the eyes of the Director only. The Director was the most senior staff member on the base and answered to the head of EuroSpace.

Initially, James wasn’t interested in this information and respected the Director’s privacy but, after the security meeting with John Gilmore on Sunday and with all the uncertainty on the base, he decided to see how bad things really were.

Albert had sneaked up on him once already today, so he rearranged the desk to get a better view of the office before starting the program.

He ran the utility, logged-on quickly and selected “New Correspondence” from the menu. A list of three documents appeared and he chose the first. It was titled “SitRep - Congo unrest.” He knew from his military days that “SitRep” was a security abbreviation for ‘situation report.’ What followed was an alarming, although in parts vague, summary of the state of the civil war in the country. He was surprised to learn the extent and degree of hostility. There would be a serious morale problem if this got out.

The report was dated April 3, two weeks earlier, and had originated at NIS in Washington. The second document was even more alarming. It had come from the US embassy in Kinshasa (the capital of the Democratic Republic of Congo), also two weeks ago, and mentioned the imminent evacuation of embassy staff from Kinshasa and the general disintegration of law and order across the country.

It seemed almost every province and tribe was at war with someone, and it had spilled into the eastern regions of Kivu and into Rwanda. Men, women, and children were being butchered indiscriminately, in both the cities and the countryside. Expatriates were a prime target due to their perceived wealth and vulnerability, often taken for ransom. A horrendous quote from the regional governor of Kasai province followed.

'Barbarism flared at the Catholic mission eighteen kilometers east of Kisangani where eight nuns were raped and tortured before their legs were amputated below the knees. They were then forced to walk on the stumps until they collapsed and were executed – what has become of our people.'

James believed the report to be accurate; he'd heard many similar stories as a child when unrest in the Congo had resulted in mass evacuation of all Europeans due to horrific violence.

The third document was a personal letter from CG Casey, Head of EuroSpace, to AA Althorpe, Director, Orion Base. In essence, it was an apology for ‘too little action, too late’ and implied simply that ‘you are on your own until further notice.’ The only light note in the whole document was the hope that Orion was too far from ‘civilization’ to be affected. It suggested the conflict with Rwandan rebels two hundred miles to the east had concentrated troops in that area and Orion was currently in a ‘strife-vacuum.’

James now understood how the ‘need-to-know’ system at Orion worked. The director told John Gilmore what he thought he needed to know and John Gilmore distributed his own version or part-thereof to whomever he thought needed to know.

He logged off and sat back, shaken by the state of affairs. “It’s time to consider options and make plans,” he thought, resolving to keep fully up-to-date with all matters of security, and be prepared at all times.

Suddenly, intense anger swept over him when he realized that the authorities had known about the unrest in Congo before Shelly Walsh had left the USA. Anyone who could send a young woman to this situation deserved punishment, and he chivalrously decided to expose the culprits at the first opportunity.

He started weighing up possible emergency scenarios: escape to the coast at the mouth of the Congo River was becoming increasingly difficult; more than one thousand four hundred miles of hostile natives and then widespread civil unrest at the end of the journey. To the north were four thousand miles of jungle and desert to Cairo or Tripoli. East was Rwanda with its ongoing civil war. South was Lusaka in Zambia, four hundred miles of almost uninhabited jungle and unexplored territory, following the Congo to its source, and then another three hundred through Katanga province in Zambia, another hotbed of unrest. One could probably count, on the fingers of one hand, the number of Europeans who had been to the source of the Congo since the famous journalist Henry Stanley in 1880. The term ‘heart of darkness’ sprang to mind; the region was so isolated and undocumented that no one knew who or what lived there.

James now realized where his sense of uneasiness yesterday had originated; the situation could optimistically be described as precarious, with the potential to get a lot worse.

Although he had had logistics training in the military, and expedition experience in Argentina, these skills just made the situation more dangerous. Only an ignorant, very desperate person would consider leaving Orion in any direction other than by air, if aircraft were available, and even that was dangerous.

As the day progressed, he settled down to work on his batch-program. He was concentrating so hard he didn’t notice everyone had gone home until the room went suddenly dark; someone had turned off the lights assuming they were the last to leave the office.

A huge thunderstorm far across the jungle obscured the setting sun and completely filled the wall-to-wall view from his office. He sat back to admire the spectacle. To study the awesome natural power of an equatorial thunderstorm from the comfort and security of an air-conditioned office was a pleasure indeed.

The massive cumulonimbus cloud, boiling to forty thousand feet, towered over the landscape like a thermo-nuclear explosion of unimaginable proportions. Immense, silver-grey plateaus projected horizontally from the broad central column, casting swathes of gloomy shade hundreds of miles over the jungle. Lightning flashed and glimmered deep inside, illuminating the inky blackness below and shooting searing shafts of white fire downward, blasting everything in its violent path. Curtains of sheet-lightning highlighted the background as trillions of gallons of water and hail-stones the size of golf balls fell in a devastating, cobalt-blue wall onto the submissive terrain.

Beneath the storm, all life cowered in fear; lion, elephant, warrior, and snake bowed to its ultimate supremacy and infinite power. Even at thirty miles, thunder reverberated against the tinted-glass windows, intimidating the occupants and shaking the building with continuous, sub-audio bass rolls of giant drums.

James gazed intently at the spectacle, so engrossed that he didn’t notice Shelly at the door. She watched him curiously, wondering what he was looking at before she too was captivated by the magnificent storm.

Florida has its share of bad weather but she’d never witnessed anything even close to this, or had the opportunity to study one in relative safety. The living cloud, bigger than some European countries, completely filled the window that ran the length of the building, swelling and heaving beyond the frame as it strove to suppress the savage land below with enough electrical energy to power Manhattan for life.

Shelly stood, absolutely fascinated, her delicate lips parted slightly in silent awe. For a while she wasn’t even aware of James, who was totally absorbed in the sheer drama of the spectacle.

Suddenly he noticed a slight movement reflected in the glass. He turned and caught her off guard. For a second she was disoriented then she stammered, “I’m sorry, I came to speak to you about something but got distracted by the storm.”

Before he could say anything she was gone, walking quickly down the wide staircase, embarrassed by the apparent intrusion.

For some rash, ill-considered reason, Shelly had briefly considered taking James up on his game-viewing offer. While she’d watched the storm she changed her mind, deciding she didn’t need the male association that would accompany the tempting wildlife tour.

Quietly she left the offices and walked briskly down the main road, passing eight side avenues before reaching number-3, which lead to her quarters.

She felt very lonely; the huge burden of her experiences ruled out any possibility of male friends, and the only female in her department, Mrs. Jennings, was married, elderly, and a little intimidating. She knew Dr. Clive Walker from the hospital and was friendly with Alison, the nurse who had been her primary contact, but now that she’d completed the acclimatization process she probably wouldn’t see them very often.

Her access card opened the door of apartment-2 in block D. It was clean and tidy, her luggage neatly stacked on the floor and a bowl of fresh flowers on the dresser. Shelly inhaled the rich scent.

The significance of her actions over the last few months suddenly dawned on her. Ten thousand miles away from home, in the middle of the jungle with a war raging, and no one to talk to. A tear trickled down her cheek and she wiped it away with the back of her hand, determined to see it through.

An instruction manual lay on the round glass table in the middle of the lounge. It contained operating instructions for all appliances in the unit, health warnings and procedures and, on the back page, minimum housekeeping regulations. The canteens provided delivery services of both prepared and raw foodstuffs, and the personal computer on the desk was equipped with limited electronic shopping menus.

She kicked off her shoes and lay on the bed gazing at the ceiling, hoping to relax for a while, but terrible memories and images started flashing before her, growing increasingly vivid. She sat up with a haunted, wan look on her face and started unpacking. As long as she was occupied it was OK, but sleep was always a series of fitful nightmares. The horrifying event had taken a terrible toll, resulting in weight loss and nervous bouts of terror and anxiety. She hadn’t disclosed anything to the hospital staff in case she was sent back, so she was carrying the full weight of her experiences without the support of friends or family.

The TV on the dresser featured a soap opera she’d seen before in Florida. She decided to take a shower. The water was just warm, the heating had only been switched on an hour earlier. She preferred it cool anyway.

A tiny window in the cubicle looked out onto a pretty, secluded garden. In the late afternoon light Shelly could see a profusion of pale-pink blossoms on the shrubs, their powerful scent filling the bathroom.

Feeling a little better, she dressed and went for a walk. It was still light outside and she felt quite safe strolling to the end of the road, away from the main street dividing the residential areas. In a closed society like Orion, with nowhere to hide, there was no crime. She passed blocks E, F, G, and eventually M before the narrow road came to an abrupt end.

Few people had reason to walk this way since it led nowhere; ending at a grassy area thirty yards wide adjacent to the perimeter fence. She crossed the grass and stood gazing over the cleared area toward the river and beyond to the mountains; the sun setting over the jungle behind her bathed them in a pale salmon glow. The storm had mostly dissipated, leaving a brilliant, water-color sunset. Snow-white cloud-banks piled high upon each other in preparation for the next downpour, a never-ending cycle in equatorial Africa.

As she watched, a small herd of antelope trotted quickly down the slope from the jungle and out of sight toward the river, calves scampering playfully beside their mothers.

“This must be one of the most beautiful places on earth,” she sighed to herself. “I must try to get well here.”

For twenty minutes she languished in the idyllic setting, gentle warm breezes hardly stirring the leaves on the rich, scented shrubs.

She turned away, briefly filled with peace and tranquility, and strolled back to her apartment.

After swiping her access card on the terminal in her room, she paged through the short menu of pre-cooked meals. Reluctant to sit alone at the canteen, she decided to order a pasta dish, salad, and some mineral water to stock her refrigerator. She wondered how the bottled water was produced in such a remote location.

Two minutes later, a girl of about twelve rang the bell. “Your supper!” she chirped happily.

“Thank you.” Shelly took the two carry bags. “I am new here; do people usually tip for the service?”

“No, we’re paid by the canteen, but I do have to return the plastic carry-bags; they are in short supply and shouldn’t go into the litter anyway.” She left with a cheery “good bye” and Shelly tucked into the food, suddenly realizing how hungry she was.

James met John Gilmore at the gym and confirmed the training session. It was just as well he did because apparently there was no rifle-range at the base and Gilmore had simply intended firing indiscriminately across the airstrip into the jungle.

James pointed out that there was a strong possibility that one of the natives or a wild animal would get hit by a stray bullet. The natives who worked in the compound came from a village three miles downstream and often collected firewood and wild fruit in the jungle.

Initially Gilmore was unconcerned, but when James suggested that it could spark labor action, general unrest, or worse, he reluctantly decided to requisition the bulldozer from the wharf and build an earthen berm to trap the bullets. James generously offered to arrange it with the jetty staff; he really wanted a closer look at the group of warehouses, and their contents – an area off-limits to him. He agreed to collect the necessary documentation from Gilmore in the morning.

He left the little man pacing irritably in the change rooms like Napoleon. James thought he looked like a pseudo dictator orchestrating a coup-de-tat with his rag tag band of thirty regulars and volunteers.

After his usual light meal, he retired to bed; unsolicited thoughts of the lovely, distant Shelly carried him off.

He woke enthusiastically and chose a swim instead of the usual run, the magic of ‘permanent summer’ always welcome. The pool was next to the gym where he’d met John Gilmore last night and, at six in the morning was pleasantly cool and deserted. By ten o’clock the water was warmer than body temperature and like swimming in tea.

After a fast thirty lengths, he floated, cooling his system while his pulse gradually returned to normal. His lean muscles ached pleasantly from exertion and he was quietly pleased with his present state of endurance. Since his divorce he’d become a little obsessed with physical health and was probably the fittest person on the base. A close contender for the title was James’s good friend, Dr. Clive Walker, who had just appeared at the side of the pool.

“Morning, Mr. Kent. Care for a race?” Clive always sounded pompous and formal, even when he knew someone well, but his dry humor soon shone through.

“I’ve just done thirty lengths; should be sufficient handicap to make it fair.”

“Cheeky bugger, that’s just an excuse for when you lose.”

James rose to the bait. "Let’s go!” he shouted, pushing himself into a furious pace.

They raced neck-and-neck for ten lengths, Clive gradually pulling ahead and finishing a full length in front of James.

“You need to train more often," he teased, "you’re out of condition.” He knew James would be two lengths faster on equal terms.

Clive, a highly qualified physician from London, was thirty-five years old. His ruddy face and tight, curly-blond hair always managed to give him the intoxicated, unruly look of the eccentric gentleman. James enjoyed his wit although, like all successful people, he tended to be tenacious when his curiosity was aroused or when he sincerely believed he was right. He was very intelligent and well-read and had spent five years with Médecins Sans Frontières, experiencing the earthy life of Asia and Africa.

While drying themselves off, James asked casually, “Did you work with Shelly Walsh during her acclimatization?”

“Yes, lovely girl. Why?”

“I met her yesterday; she was very abrupt and snooty.”

“I’m not surprised, with an animal like you making passes.” He laughed loudly at his dig. “She does seem to have a lot on her mind; never opened up to me or Alison, but there is definitely something not quite right. Alison noticed it as well.”

Alison was Clive’s fiancée and they were to be married when they returned to Europe in eight weeks. She also came from the UK, from a little farming town called Witney, west of Oxford. They met at Orion where she worked as a senior nursing sister.

“It’s a shame, she’s so attractive,” James observed thoughtfully.

“I have never seen you take this much interest in a girl. Thinking of leaving the closet?”

James got a firm grip on Clive’s arm and shoved him into the pool, towel and all; Clive roared with laughter.

Alison arrived and placed her towel on a chair. “What’s so funny?” She looked closely at Clive.

James leered suggestively at Alison, “He’s convinced I’m gay and says the only way to change his mind is if you tell him otherwise.”

“Come to my apartment tonight and prove it.” Her mischievous wink was hidden from Clive.

“Over my dead body, you old son of a gun!” Clive bellowed then changed tack. “James has a thing for Shelly Walsh but he also noticed she’s wound a little too tight.”

“Yes, such an attractive girl, but there’s obviously something in her past that is upsetting her.” Alison dived into the pool, cleaving the water effortlessly then breaking into a powerful butterfly stroke.

James changed the subject. “What did you think of John Gilmore’s speech on Sunday?” So far he’d not disclosed to anyone the contents of the communiqués.

“Alarmist possibly, but it’s hard to tell with so little information,” Clive answered casually. “One of the lab technicians has a short-wave radio and listens to radio Kinshasa but his French is so bad and there is so much propaganda that he says it is virtually useless anyway.”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we were attacked one of these days,” James said gloomily. “We’re a prime target for looters and other opportunists.”

“I think you should come for a check-up,” Clive laughed. “You’ve been working too hard.” His face was not as relaxed as his tone, aware of the potential danger but reluctant to dwell on it. “We should meet for a meal sometime this week; Alison can do the cooking.” He winked at her pretty face as she launched herself out of the water.

“Chauvinist!” She adopted a classic fencing pose, her towel taut between outstretched arms, and then flicked him repeatedly. James admired her fine, well-endowed figure; for the first time in a while, he really felt he was returning to normal.

“Thursday will be great for me,” he said, conscious of Alison’s full bust as she leaned over the pool lounger.

“OK. See you at seven.” She smiled to herself, secretly pleased at his admiring looks.

He changed the subject. “Are either of you going to the emergency-action training sessions?”

“No. We’re committed to the Hippocratic Oath,” Clive pompously spoke on behalf of Alison. “They should start extensive first-aid training while they’re at it, especially if the ‘end is nigh’ as you and your mate Gilmore seem to think.”

“Good idea, I’ll talk to him. Unfortunately, if it isn’t his idea, he’ll probably reject it. Better think of a subtle introduction to the plan.” James retrieved his towel. “I’m off to drive a bulldozer, building the back-wall for the rifle range. Imagine my résumé, ‘programmer, security consultant, and bulldozer operator.’”

John Gilmore was too important to see James personally; instead a lackey kept him waiting, pretending to search for the requisition form.

“Probably the only new item on his desk this month,” James thought.

“Commander Gilmore says you should notify him when you have finished,” the lackey chirped.

“He’s been promoted?” James asked, reluctant to let the apparently self-appointed title pass without comment.

“That has always been his rank, although he doesn’t normally use it,” squeaked the lackey, a corporal, and second-in-command to Gilmore.

“OK.” James knew that one rank above corporal was sergeant. “See you later, Colonel.” He left before the man could respond.

It was a fast, twenty-minute walk down the main road to the jetty gate. The pair of armed volunteers on duty was an unusual sight.

“State your business, please?” one of them requested.

“Sightseer,” James joked, holding out the requisition form.

The other guard fingered his rifle officiously. “State your business immediately,” he demanded, raising his voice.

“As it says on the form," James replied levelly, handing the requisition form to the loud one, "I am going to the warehouses to request the use of a bulldozer to construct the back-wall of the rifle range.”

The guard barely looked at the document. “These papers are not in order,” he shouted, waving his rifle menacingly. “Go back to Commander Gilmore and get the correct permit to enter the wharf area.”

The other guard, obviously concerned by the escalation of hostility, held his rifle dejectedly, unsure what to do next.

“Why don’t you phone him?” James spoke sharply, losing his patience.

“Don’t shout at me!” screamed the now very agitated guard. “I’m in charge here!”

James, unimpressed by silly posturing, laughed. “In charge of a gate. Responsible position indeed.”

The guard stepped back, struggling to cock his rifle, apparently intending using it to subdue the 'impertinent civilian.’

James leaped forward, knocked the weapon to the ground, and grabbed the man by the neck, lifting him clean off the ground and pressing him firmly against the wall of the guard-hut.

He spoke in a deadly, flat voice. “If you ever point a weapon at me again, I will force it up your ass till it sticks out of your mouth. Do I make myself very clear?” Icy-grey eyes bore into the guard, who knew he was way out of his depth, and perilously close to the end.

James had not reacted this way since his time in the military; he’d hoped the killer instinct, acquired through intensive training and long exposure to violence had passed. He had attained the rank of Major through combat performance and field leadership, and had been decorated for ‘displaying extreme bravery and aggression in the face of often overwhelming enemy strength.’ The officious guard sensed the very real danger.

“Yes, Sir,” he jabbered, white with fear, “I am sorry for the inconvenience.” James dropped him and, snatching the requisition paper from the other guard, strode away without looking back.

He wondered what John Gilmore's reaction would be if he found out. He resolved to try and control his temper and co-operate with the security guards.

He’d cooled down by the time he reached the jetty office. A light breeze ruffled the surface of the river, which sparkled an iridescent blue in the bright sunlight. The jetty, a two-hundred-foot structure, ten feet wide and made of treated timber, stood high above the river. It was designed for offloading supplies from the ferries. “Ideal fishing spot,” he thought as he entered the cavernous, main warehouse.

“Good morning. Can I help you?” a voice echoed from deep in the gloomy interior.

“Yes, I have a requisition for the loan of a bulldozer and operator for a morning,” James announced just as an old man appeared from the depths.

“No problem with the bulldozer, it’s under cover outside the gate, but operators are non-existent. The last one left the site a year ago, no need for them anymore,” the old man said philosophically.

“How difficult are they to operate?” asked James, ever keen for adventure.

The old man shook his head. “'Haven’t a clue, but the unopened instruction-booklets are in a file here somewhere.” He started digging around in a metal filing cabinet. “Here we are, ‘Caterpillar model D8 operators manual.’ That’s a very big machine, son; you be careful.”

The fifty-page booklet included an index and lubrication instructions. ‘Very little to it,’ James thought. “Have the batteries been maintained?”

“Yes. It’s been on trickle-charge since the last operator left. Very meticulous Mr. Perreira, he serviced the whole machine before leaving. One never knows when one will have to use it again.”

“Excellent,” James agreed, taking the keys from the old man. “I’ll just stroll over and see what gives.”

He almost ran the two hundred yards; all his life he’d wanted to drive a bulldozer. As he got closer he became aware of exactly how huge the machine was. “Must have brought it here in pieces and assembled it on site,” he thought, looking up at the gleaming yellow monster.

He locked the gate behind him and, after disconnecting the charger cables and removing the heavy tarpaulin, ascended the ladder to the operator's platform. The cab door opened smoothly and James seated himself in the massive chair. Everything was on a large scale, the oil-pressure gauges, track control joystick, and throttles all made for giants. The steel floor of the cab was at least ten feet above the ground. James got comfortable and spent twenty minutes studying the manual.

Mechanically-minded James quickly figured out how the controls worked; a paddle operated transmission and track-control on the left and the blade/ripper joystick on the right seemed straight-forward. He thumbed the start button. The powerful starter motor drew tremendous current as it cranked the monster engine. Two grinding revolutions and it fired, belching dense clouds of black smoke.

James ran the engine for two minutes on three-quarter throttle to re-charge the batteries and get the fluids circulating.

By the time the engine was warm he’d studied the rest of the instructions and believed he could drive the beast.

He engaged the transmission but the powerful engine was revving too fast and the behemoth lunged forward violently, almost throwing him from the cab. Fortunately, it was pointed away from the fence and lumbered rapidly across the open ground toward the jungle. Before he could reduce speed it had effortlessly crossed a gully deep enough to bury a car. He throttled back using the push-button on the right wall and slewed left, in the direction of the airfield.

Setting its course, James leaned back smiling. “This is the life!” he cheered aloud to himself. He still had to practice operating the sixteen-foot blade used to push the soil. It was raised fully in front of the engine.

He was at the specified site in five minutes. He lowered the blade to the ground, aimed the machine, and powered forward, raising a five-ton pile of earth eight feet high in a matter of seconds.

He repeated the maneuver for almost an hour until he had created an earth embankment fifteen feet high and fifty yards long. He was having such fun he was reluctant to return but his boss had only allocated two hours to the security department. If he was late, he might re-assign the access-control job that gave him so much freedom and insight.

He raised the blade, engaged the tractors, and set the engine roaring at full throttle. The bulldozer seemed to love the freedom; the forty-ton machine trundled over the ground at nearly forty miles an hour, its momentum equivalent to four city buses. It was lunging so violently James only just managed to throttle back and avoid crashing through the fence.

The old man was standing in the yard shaking his head in wonder. “You operate that beast like a veteran!” he roared as James handed him the keys. “Are you sure you’ve never driven one before?”

“Yes, but it’s the best fun I’ve had in years,” James laughed, exhilarated.

He waved to the gate guards on the way back and they responded with an enthusiastic salute. “Must shout at them more often,” he thought.

He entered the security building expecting trouble but not a word was said. On a roll, he walked straight into John Gilmore's office, ignoring the corporal who was a little slow off the mark shouting, “Excuse me!” after James was already inside.

Gilmore jumped up, furious. “Don’t you ever barge in here again, mister!” he bellowed. That a ‘non-military’ man could be so forward annoyed him intensely.

“Relax, John,” James smiled disarmingly. “I’ve finished the back-wall for the range so we can commence training when you’re ready."

John Gilmore didn’t know how to handle this tall, confident man with obvious disregard for military protocol. The fact that his bellowing had no apparent effect confused him even more. He looked perplexed for a few seconds then sat down.

James took the initiative. “I must get back to work, see you at three then?” he said cheerfully, leaving without expecting a reply.

“OK, thanks,” replied the disconcerted ‘Commander’ Gilmore.

After spending four hours enhancing his turnstile-test-program, James left for the emergency training session. Only fourteen people turned up for the initial exercise which comprised two sections.

First, there was a one-hour orientation lecture describing signaling, action-stations, communication facilities, and weapons storage areas. It seemed that weapons were only going to be unlocked and issued once an enemy attack had commenced. “A little late,” James thought, hoping he had time to get his own SLR and still look after Shelly.

He found it strange that he automatically assumed he would take care of someone he hardly knew.

He’d assembled his rifle the night before and, after giving it a thorough clean and lube, stood it in the cupboard within easy reach. The need for immediate access outweighed the risk of theft or interference from security officials. No one ever came into his rooms anyway, so it was probably quite safe.

James also had a 9mm Browning service-pistol which, in the last few days, he’d started carrying under his shirt in a brushed-nylon shoulder harness. The pistol was issued before departure to Congo by EuroSpace to all staff who wanted one, as long as they had verifiable weapons experience and training.

James didn’t know who else owned personal weapons; he didn’t brandish his like some of the others did. He thought that one’s stature didn’t depend on weapons; they were simply tools like any others.

The second part of the afternoon was dedicated to rifle training. Everyone was issued a G3 and a magazine of twenty rounds. John Gilmore led the exercise with his favorite corporal Walls assisting.

The guards provided half an hour instruction on the operation, safety and maintenance of the weapon, as well as procedures for clearing ‘stoppages,’ a nasty situation where a live cartridge jams in the breech and has to be freed without detonating it and blowing a hole in one’s face.

After this, Corporal Walls led them to the berm James had constructed. Each trainee took a ‘number eleven’ target (a picture of the top half of a man with a mean face, dressed in camouflage clothes) and attached it to a stake in the ground.

After they’d each fired ten shots from the ‘one-hundred-yard firing point’ they ‘made safe’ (a term for unloading the weapon), walked to the back-wall, collected new targets, and replaced the used ones. James proudly displayed his effort to the corporal, who was impressed with the three holes in the target. Most of the others also hit the target multiple times. The fact that James had only fired three shots went undetected in all the confusion. He wondered if his ‘deviousness’ was out of control, but he needed to start accumulating ammunition.

In the second round of ten he fired eight bullets into the target. The corporal was even more impressed, unaware that James was rated ‘Marksman’ at the military academy where he’d trained, or that he was considered the best shot in the whole intake of three hundred men. James attributed his skill to the fact that he was raised on a farm and had used a rifle from the age of five.

He resisted the temptation to place twenty out of twenty in the ‘bull,’ although he would have loved to see John Gilmore's face. In the military, marksmen trained at up to five hundred yards with assault rifles and up to one thousand yards with sniper rifles, so a hundred yards was child’s play.

They all had fun despite John Gilmore’s attempts to over-regiment the event. One young woman in the party screamed when she first experienced the powerful recoil and loud percussion of the G3, but things soon settled into an effective weapons-handling session.

Once finished, they walked back to the security building for a question and answer meeting. All agreed it had been productive and fun and that they would return for regular refresher sessions.

After putting the weapons away, James had a steam bath at the gym, successfully removing the remains of the dirt and grime from the bulldozer exercise as well as the acrid smell of burnt cordite from the rifle drill.

He dressed in running shorts, khaki shirt, and sandals, and then went to the canteen hoping to see Shelly. She wasn’t there but Albert was sitting on the veranda playing cards with two girls James had recognized but didn’t know personally. There was no one else about; the canteen staff was having supper in the back.

“James, come and help me, pleeze,” Albert wailed in his heavy French accent. “I’m losing all my money to these lovely ladies.”

At first James resisted, keen to get to bed, but after considerable persuasion from the tall, willowy brunette in the skimpy two-piece, he sat down.

Albert playfully introduced him as the ‘chief computer scientist,’ apparently impressing Wendy and Carol, the brunette. Carol was a self-confessed ‘party-animal’; she always made sure she got the most out of life, and that included an uncomplicated view of sex: ‘get all you want and enjoy it’.

She sat opposite James, blatantly admiring his muscular shoulders and forearms. “You must spend a lot of time in the gym?” she purred, leaning over and squeezing his biceps shamelessly.

She leaned so close, he had nowhere to look but into her deep, inviting cleavage. Carol spent a lot of time at the pool maintaining her tan that contrasted exquisitely with her tiny, white blouse.

Albert dealt a hand, smiling at Carol’s uninhibited enthusiasm.

James picked up his cards, trying to extricate himself from her grip. “How much are we playing for?”

Carol winked at Wendy, an impish little blonde with turquoise eyes. “Let's play strip-poker; it’s so dull winning money when there’s nowhere to spend it.”

Albert didn’t know what ‘strip-poker’ meant, but was keen to create a good impression with the ladies so he agreed. All had four items of clothing so it was an even game.

Carol, Wendy, and Albert had already had three drinks so, when Wendy lost the first and second rounds in a row, she wasn’t at all concerned about taking off her sandals and blouse. Her ample breasts filled her bra, threatening to pop out when she leaned forward for her cards.

Carol and Wendy both worked in ‘administration’ and for the last nine months had been assigned to the hospital. They both knew Alison and Clive.

Albert was really beginning to enjoy the game which he thought was called ‘shit-poker.’ The others roared with laughter each time he said it, not bothering to enlighten him. He just assumed he was a natural comic.

James bought a bottle of ice cold white wine for the others and a grape juice for himself. They didn’t even notice his advantage. Albert, Carol and he had each lost a hand before Wendy lost another.

By now she’d had another two glasses of wine and wasn’t at all worried about taking off her skirt, revealing tiny white panties.

James wondered what the Director would think about their behavior. “Probably not much,” he thought, especially since the veranda was deserted.

Just as he took a long sip of grape juice, Carol’s inquisitive toes crept up his bare leg and into his loose trunks. She was concentrating on her cards with such credibility that he at first wondered if it was Wendy but she was too far away.

At this point Carol, who hadn't even caught his eye, lost the hand and promptly took off her top, completely uninhibited; she had nothing on underneath. Albert’s jaw dropped at the size of her magnificent breasts brushing the table as she leaned forward for the new hand.

Wendy cried out, laughing. “You bad girl. Where's your bra?”

“Yes, you bad girl,” James joined in, his eyes twinkling.

Carol, totally unconcerned, giggled uninhibited, “Come on, deal! I want to see what James’s got.”

They played for another hour, in which time James was left with just his briefs. Albert hung onto his shorts and briefs, suspiciously managing to win most hands. Wendy had lost again and sat close to the table, her smooth, firm breasts distracting James and Albert to the point where the game was almost forgotten. Carol, the first loser, had nothing on at all and was effectively 'out of chips.’

“Let’s all go to my room for a night-cap,” she suggested, her eyes aglow.

Wendy declined, keen to get home; Albert volunteered to walk her.

James suggested Carol get dressed before she was arrested by John Gilmore’s men. At first she refused, enjoying the reckless abandonment. James reluctantly agreed to escort her home if she got dressed. She managed to put on her top and panties, carrying the rest of her clothes in her hand.

They walked quietly along the warm scented avenues, arms around each other’s waists. Carol, although five-foot-ten, was much shorter than James. It wasn’t often her male companion towered over her and she enjoyed it.

At her door she took James’s hand and pulled him inside. “This is what I’ve been thinking about all night,” she breathed, her hand sliding down the front of his trunks; hot, moist lips exploring his tanned, naked chest.

James was unable to resist; drawn by her voluptuous, very-aroused body, his self-imposed abstinence officially over.

He woke as Carol finished dressing. She kissed him and was gone, totally uncomplicated. He took a leisurely five-mile run, showered, and left for the office; the experience with Carol left a lingering grin on his rugged face.

He thought about the events of the previous night with mixed feelings. Carol was a fine, wholesome girl, well worth getting to know but he was strangely troubled that Shelly would disapprove. “Weird, since she probably doesn’t even know my name,” he thought.

He stopped at the canteen to collect some fruit for breakfast.

As he entered the software lab James caught a glimpse of Shelly. His heart warmed to her immediately. He found it unsettling how quickly she was getting to him. It made him feel both vulnerable and accountable.

If she noticed him she didn’t look up so he continued upstairs and began running his new turnstile program. It worked so well that before he could finish his banana, the report was printed. “Only one fault,” he noted mischievously, “Must check the turnstile at the jetty.”

“Hello.” Shelly’s clear young voice interrupted his absent-minded mumbling, “I need some help with my computer and you are the only person in the building at the moment.” She spoke levelly, reluctant to actually ask him for help.

“One of the joys of getting in early,” he smiled widely. “What seems to be the problem?” He knew ‘Support’ resented anyone ‘fiddling’ with computers but he definitely wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity.

“It ‘chirps’ continuously when I switch it on,” she replied unhappily.

“Can you describe the sound?”

She made a soft chirping sound, lips pouting innocently.

Looking at the computer so she couldn’t see his eyes twinkling, he said, “Do it again. I didn’t quite get that.”

She started to make the sound again before catching herself. Noticing his playful look she laughed, blushing, the carefree, musical sound going straight to his heart.

“Very funny” she smiled, realizing it was the first time she’d laughed in months; it felt good.

She had a beautiful, genuine smile. Perfect white pearls and soft lips. Little dimples completed the picture of gentle innocence.

His thoughts bounced back to reality. “Let's go take a look.”

As he followed her he couldn’t help comparing her slimmer, girlish figure to that of the magnificent Carol.

He switched on the computer and it immediately started chirping. He raised one side of the keyboard a few inches then dropped it. As it landed on the desk the chirping stopped and the computer proceeded to ‘boot’ normally.

“Stuck key,” he suggested, looking at her intently. “Probably too much coffee in it.”

“I don’t drink coffee!” she objected before realizing she’d done it again. He made her nervous, and whenever she was nervous she answered spontaneously.

He smiled. “Just testing.”

“So you can program computers as well as fix them?” she teased innocently.

“And operate bulldozers,” he said proudly.

She looked incredulous. “Was that you out there yesterday?” She pointed out the window to the embankment clearly visible across the runway.

“Yes, did you like my charge back to base when I was finished?”

“Everyone in the office thought the driver was under the influence or being chased by a wild animal. It was very impressive.”

“I’m glad you liked it. Give me a call if you want a ride.”

“Not in your lifetime.” She shook her head firmly. Suddenly a curtain closed over her face. “I must get back to work; thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome.” James took his cue, wondering what was really going on in her lovely little head.

At ten o’clock, when he’d finished all outstanding jobs, he told his boss Al White that he was going to check the faulty turnstile. Selecting some tools from the box under his desk, he set off for the jetty gate. He passed eleven side-roads before reaching the main gate. The same guards were on duty but the change in attitude was remarkable.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” the formerly hostile one greeted James, as he stood to attention and saluted.

“Good day, gents,” James returned the salute. “Just going to fix the turnstile.” James didn’t know whether they were being genuinely friendly or avoiding confrontation, but he went along with the play.

When he arrived at the warehouse he peered into the dark interior, eyes still adjusting after the bright sunlight. “Good afternoon, Mr. Williams,” he greeted the store man. “Solitary job when there are no ferries.”

“Yes, dreadfully boring. What can we do for you today?”

“I need to check the electronics on the gate; there seems to be a fault.”

“Sure, carry on.” Williams gestured in the direction of the turnstile to the jetty.

After inspecting the turnstile and ‘reconnecting a loose wire in its control-box,’ James stood admiring the view. Fish were rising near the jetty and sunlight sparkled on the river, smooth and inviting. He marveled at its changing moods; some days grey and forbidding, others windy and choppy.

The old man stood next to him. “Fine view.”

“Yes, very peaceful. Do you ever fish here?” James asked.

“No, if I had a rod I would. Fishing tackle’s a bit scarce around here,” he chuckled.

“I have a spare I could lend you. Do you fish with a fly rod?”

“Yes, the only way, although I haven’t done it for years,” Williams said.

“I’ll get my gear,” James said, glad to have someone to fish with.

“Don’t you work during the week?” Williams asked.

“Not if it interrupts the fun,” James laughed.

He went home quickly, telling the guards he needed more tools and that he’d be back shortly.

Twenty minutes later he reappeared with a large, brown, plastic tool box, more than three feet long. Inside, under a tray full of light tools, were three fly rods, reels, spare spools, boxes containing hundreds of flies, and even a collapsible landing net. “Here you are, a genuine Hardy six-weight.” He handed the rod to Paddy Williams who was admiring the contents in disbelief.

“Best damn toolbox I ever saw,” he laughed, stripping line and selecting a fly. “What do you find works best?”

“Mrs. Simpson or Walkers Killer, especially the ones with the ‘jungle cock.’” James indicated the shiny, pale-brown skirt near the eye of the hook.

Soon they were on first-name basis, chatting like old fishing buddies.

James caught the first fish, a small tilapia. “These are the best eating fish in the river, especially if you get one big enough to fillet,” he said, releasing it. “Go and call your big brother.”

Paddy wasn’t having much luck so he changed to a bigger fly, a number eight red and black ‘woolly worm.’ He cast far out from the jetty and let the fly sink to the bottom before to retrieving it, very slowly. Suddenly the rod bucked, reel screaming, as a large fish set off at a terrific pace, pulling out line in a blur. Fortunately it headed upstream, fighting the current as well as the drag of the line and reel.

“I think I’ve caught a crocodile,” Paddy shouted excitedly. “He’s taking all the line.” The fish swam with the steady committed endurance of a big one, giving no indication that it would stop soon. The line left the reel in a pulsating stream even though the drag was as tight as possible.

Paddy stared in alarm at the dwindling line, hypnotically counting the remaining turns. “I’m going to have to follow him along the bank as far as I can.”

“Good luck!” James called, “Shout if you need a hand.”

Paddy jumped down from the jetty, the rod bending in a sharp curve under the strain. He staggered fifty yards upstream over bushes and driftwood, the line down to the last turn when it suddenly went slack. “I think it got off!” he shouted, looking despondent as he turned to walk back.

“Maybe not,” James cautioned. “Sometimes those big catfish get wise and swim back towards you very quickly.”

Paddy rapidly retrieved the loose line and suddenly the reel started screaming again. The fish set off on a series of long runs into mid-stream before tiring, gradually reducing the length and speed of its runs. After half an hour they landed it, a twenty pound catfish, nearly four feet long.

“Nasty looking bugger.” Paddy observed the long whiskers and brown, slimy body with distaste.

“True, but they fight like hell and taste quite good too.” They put the fish back into the water and it immediately swam into the depths, wiser and none the worse for wear.

They sat for a while enjoying some tea and discussing the difference between fishing in Oregon, from where Paddy hailed, and the Congo. James thoroughly enjoyed Paddy’s company and, after agreeing to come fishing again, reluctantly returned to the office.

On the way home he met Kenneth Manzi, a wiry old gardener from the village downstream. James greeted him in his own language. Kenneth had been teaching James ‘Lunga’ for a while and he was becoming quite proficient. In return for the private lessons, James gave Kenneth fishing hooks, a rare commodity in these parts.

Kenneth held a red, nylon mesh bag containing two huge mangoes, indicating to James that he should take it.

James smiled as he admired the fruit. He enjoyed the mature sweet taste of the giant mangoes.

First they discussed the weather, then Kenneth’s family; he had twelve children. Kenneth was a staunch adherent of the old custom that ‘there is no hurry in Africa’ so it was nearly half an hour before they got down to the serious business of the civil war. Kenneth said a group of twenty rebels had passed through his village last night. They were very aggressive and beat one of the elders.

They were armed with machine guns which, by the description of the forward curving magazines, were AK 47s.

He said they had threatened to come back and burn the village unless the people undertook to provide them with women and food whenever they passed by. He looked very unhappy as two of his daughters were over thirteen, ‘of age’ in rural Africa.

James could offer little advice, but said he would to speak to the Director about accommodating the village people within the base.

Kenneth said there was no need; the rebels would destroy their village and livestock and eventually attack the base anyway.

James thought he was probably right. They parted with forlorn good-byes. James resolved to talk to Kenneth every day from now on, an important part of his intelligence-gathering campaign.

A motorbike came roaring along the road from the direction of the administration buildings. John Gilmore, too important to walk, stopped next to James. He had become quite friendly since the incident at his office and seemed to realize that James could be an ally, and that he was the only person who had practical military experience. He probably also knew he couldn’t intimidate James like some of the others.

“Hi James. Good session at the range yesterday eh?”

“Yes, very important and the ladies enjoyed it too. Nothing like some tail in short pants to brighten up the drudgery.”

John Gilmore laughed loudly. “Very true. We must arrange a party for all trainees sometime. I quite like the looks of that Jane Willis.”

They discussed strategic priorities. Although John Gilmore was able to canvass advice when out of range of his lackeys, he still found it difficult to accept. He felt the Director was endangering the population by minimizing the threat, and even went so far as to suggest that he should stand down until the situation normalized and the need for boosted security declined.

“I’m not sure he’d agree to that,” James ventured.

“If the position worsens he might have no choice,” John Gilmore muttered, kick-starting his bike and speeding off in a noisy, acrid cloud.

Shelly was daydreaming about going for a swim after work when the phone rang.

“Hi Shelly, its Alison,” said a cheerful voice. “How is everything going?”

“Fine thanks Alison.” She wondered why Alison was calling, “I’m not missing the solitude of the hospital at all. How are you and Clive getting along?”

“Much the same, hot and bored. Would you like to join us for supper tomorrow? It’ll be nice to catch up on some news.”

“I’d love to,” Shelly agreed. “What should I bring?”

“Maybe some wine, it’s simple and casual. Seven OK?” Alison didn’t mention that James was coming, not sure how Shelly would respond. “It’s two roads away from you, nearer the fence. There is a shortcut between lanes ‘I’ and ‘J’ if you don’t want to walk around the main road.”

“OK great! See you tomorrow,” Shelly rang off, glad to have something to do. She liked Alison; they’d got on well at the hospital.

Thursday morning started badly. James was trying to maintain code written by someone who assumed it would never need maintenance. There were no comments or instructions, making the program very difficult to understand. What should have taken him an hour eventually became four.

To complicate things, he found himself thinking of Shelly. After losing concentration for the fourth time, he decided to go and chat to her.

She saw him approaching, his intentions obvious from the friendly expression on his face. A cold feeling gripped her heart and she looked down, disturbed at the thought of conversation with a man so obviously attracted to her.

She wondered how long it would take to get over her phobia, shivering at the memories of her terrible ordeal.

“Hi, Shelly,” he started congenially. “How’s it going?”

“Very busy, thanks.” She didn’t look up, hoping he would go away.

“Have you settled in all right?”

“Yes, thank you,” she answered levelly, still not looking up.

After a pregnant silence, he tried once more. “Have you been to one of the gymnasiums yet?”

She looked up bleakly. “No, I’ve been too busy.”

James got the hint, “OK, I’ll leave you to your work. Call if you want me to show you the ropes.”

She noticed the disappointment in his voice, feeling guilty about her rudeness but not wanting to start something. “Even with such a hunk,” she mused before shivering visibly, rattled that such a phrase could even venture into her shattered world.

He returned to his desk, dejected, but not hopeless. “One day I will make contact with that girl,” he mumbled. He wished he knew what was troubling her; the thought of such a lovely young girl, all alone at Orion with problems that she couldn’t share troubled his chivalrous nature.