Frederick Forsyth: The Dogs Of War

“It must be the South African plane,” said the leader and turned to one of the four other whites crouched in the Land Rover behind him. “Janni, go and ask the skipper if he’ll make room for us.”

A tall, rawboned, angular man climbed out of the rear of the vehicle. Like the others, he was dressed from head to foot in predominantly green jungle camouflage uniform, slashed with streaks of brown. He wore green canvas jackboots on his feet, the trousers tucked into them. From his belt hung a water bottle and a Bowie knife, three empty pouches for magazines for the FAL carbine over his shoulder. As he came round to the front of the Land Rover the leader called him again.

“Leave the FAL,” he said, stretching out an arm to take the carbine, “and, Janni, make it good, huh? Because if we don’t get out of here in that crate, we could get chopped up in a few days.”

The man called Janni nodded, adjusted the beret on his head, and ambled toward the DC-4. Captain Van Cleef did not hear the rubber soles moving up behind him.

“Naand, meneer.”

Van Cleef spun round at the sound of the Afrikaans and took in the shape and size of the man beside him. Even in the darkness he could pick out the black and white skull-and-crossbones motif on the man’s left shoulder. He nodded warily.

“Naand. Jy Afrikaans?”

The man nodded. “Jan Dupree,” he said and held out his hand.

“Kobus Van Cleef,” said the airman and shook.

“Waar gaan-jy nou?” asked Dupree.

“To Libreville. As soon as they finish loading. And you?”

Janni Dupree grinned. “I’m a bit stuck, me and my mates. We’ll get the chop for sure if the Federals find us. Can you help us out?”

“How many of you?” asked Van Cleef.

“Five in all.”

As a fellow mercenary, Van Cleef did not hesitate. Outlaws sometimes need each other.

“All right, get aboard. But hurry up. As soon as that Connie is off, so are we.”

Dupree nodded his thanks and jog-trotted back to the Land Rover. The four other whites were standing in a group round the hood.

“It’s okay, but we have to get aboard,” the South African told them.

“Right, dump the hardware in the back and let’s get moving,” said the group leader. As the rifles and ammunition pouches thumped into the back of the vehicle, he leaned over to the black officer with second lieutenant’s tabs who sat at the wheel.

“We have to go now,” he said. “Take the Land Rover and dump it. Bury the guns and mark the spot. Leave your uniform and go for bush. Understand?”

The lieutenant, who had been in his last term of high school when he volunteered to fight and had been with the mercenary-led commando unit for the past year, nodded somberly, taking in the instructions.

“G’by, Patrick,” the mercenary said. “I’m afraid it’s over now.”

The African looked up. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps it is over.”

“Don’t go on fighting,” urged the white man. “There’s no point.”

“Not now,” the lieutenant agreed. He nodded toward the steps of the Constellation, where the leader and his group were saying good-by. “But he is leaving for safety. That is good. He is still the leader. While he lives, we will not forget. We will say nothing, do nothing, but we will remember.”

He started the engine of the Land Rover and swung the vehicle into a turn. “Good-by,” he called.

The four other mercenaries called good-by and walked toward the DC-4.

The leader was about to follow them when two nuns fluttered up to him from the darkness of the bush behind the parking apron.

“Major.”

The mercenary turned and recognized the first of them as the sister he had met months earlier, when fighting had raged in the zone where she ran a hospital and he had been forced to evacuate the whole complex.

“Sister Mary Joseph! What are you doing here?”

The elderly Irish nun began talking earnestly, holding the stained uniform sleeve of his jacket.

He nodded. “I’ll try, I can do no more than that,” he said when she had finished.

He walked across the apron to where the South African pilot was standing under the wing of his DC-4, and the two of them talked for several minutes. Finally the man in uniform came back to the waiting nuns.

“He says yes, but you must hurry, Sister. He wants to get this crate off the ground as soon as he can.”

“God bless you,” said the figure in the white habit and gave hurried orders to her companion. The latter ran to the rear of the aircraft and began to climb the short ladder to the passenger door. The other scurried back to the shade of a patch of palms behind the parking apron, from which a file of men soon emerged. Each carried a bundle in his arms. At the DC-4 the bundles were passed up to the waiting nun at the top of the steps. Behind her the co-pilot watched her lay the first three side by side in the beginning of a row down the aircraft’s hull, then began gruffly to help, taking the bundles from the stretching hands beneath the aircraft’s tail and passing them inside.

“God bless you,” whispered the Irish nun.

One of the bundles deposited a few ounces of liquid green excrement onto the co-pilot’s sleeve. “Bloody hell,” he muttered and went on working.

Left alone, the leader of the group of mercenaries glanced toward the Superconstellation. A file of refugees, mainly the relations of the leaders of the defeated people, was climbing up the rear steps. In the dim light from the airplane’s door he caught sight of the man he wanted to see. As he approached, the man was about to mount the steps while others waited to pull them away. One of them called to him.

“Sah. Major Shannon come.”

The general turned as Shannon approached, and even at this hour he managed a grin.

“So, Shannon, do you want to come along?”

Shannon stepped in front of him and brought up a salute. The general acknowledged it.

“No thank you, sir. We have transport to Libreville. I just wanted to say good-by.”

“Yes. It was a long fight. Now it’s over, I’m afraid. For some years, at any rate. I find it hard to believe my people will continue to live in servitude forever. By the way, have you and your colleagues been paid up to the contract?”

“Yes, thank you, sir. We’re all up to date,” replied the mercenary. The African nodded somberly.

“Well, good-by, then. And thank you for all you were able to do.” He held out his hand, and the two men shook.

“There’s one more thing, sir,” said Shannon. “Me and the boys, we were talking things over, sitting in the jeep. If there’s ever any time— Well, if you should ever need us, you only have to let us know. We’ll all come. You only have to call. The boys want you to know that.”

The general stared at him for several seconds. “This night is full of surprises,” he said slowly. “You may not know it yet, but half my senior advisers and all of the wealthy ones are crossing the lines tonight to ingratiate themselves with the enemy. Most of the others will follow suit within a month. Thank you for your offer, Mr. Shannon. I will remember it. But how about yourselves? What do the mercenaries do now?”

“We’ll have to look around for more work.”

“Another fight, Major Shannon?”

“Another fight, sir.”

“But always somebody else’s.”

“That’s our way of life,” said Shannon.

“And you think you will fight again, you and your men?”

“Yes. We’ll fight again.”

The general laughed softly. “Cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war,” he murmured.

“Sir?”

“Shakespeare, Mr. Shannon, just a bit of Shakespeare. Well, now, I must go. The pilot is waiting. Good-by again, and good luck.”