Escolar Documentos
Profissional Documentos
Cultura Documentos
www.geoffwolak-writing.com
Part 12
An independent Scotland
Boot camp
With the airport panic calming, and scanners winging their way to
third-world countries, Jack brought an RAF officer up to my office. I
made them tea.
‘This is Wing Commander Russell, he’ll oversee the training
squadrons in Africa.’
‘We already agreed the deal, you don’t need to hard sell it!’ I
quipped.
The man smiled. ‘No, just here to clarify a few points.’
‘You mean, you’re here to try and sell us some old kit!’
‘Not exactly. We wanted to know … just how you see the
training evolving, since we could offer a basic flying programme,
followed by a fast jet conversion, followed by specialist
programmes.’
‘I’d say … all of the above. But we’ll have to talk to the national
leaders. But, as you know, they don’t have much in the way of shiny
new aircraft to play with.’
‘Our American cousins have some cheap F16s they’re happy to
impose on you,’ Jack said.
I cocked at eyebrow. ‘I see.’
‘And we have a great many Tornados about to be
decommissioned.’
‘Which would still be more than adequate for regional use in
Africa,’ the Wing Commander nudged.
‘We’ve only just bought a few F15s,’ I pointed out. Firmly.
‘We’ll have more planes than enemies!’
‘These particular Tornadoes and F16s would be a steal,’ Jack said
with a grin.
I eased back. ‘What are you up to, Jack?’
‘I’d hazard a guess, and say Anglo-American influence in the
region.’
‘They wouldn’t be under your influence … would they?’
‘No, but they’d be preferable to a … growing and emerging
economic superpower buying Migs.’
‘Ah…’ I let out.
‘And once started on the route of western aircraft,’ the Wing
Commander began, ‘they would buy western aircraft in years to
come.’
‘When they had a little money to spend,’ Jack added.
‘You know what I think? I think … I’d like three squadrons of
F16s and three squadrons of Tornadoes to start with. Spares,
technicians and instructors. I’d then see all of the countries in our
region having a squadron. Will that get you two reprobates out of
my office?’
‘It would,’ Jack said with a smile.
An hour later, Jimmy knocked and entered. ‘Are you decent?’
‘Dressed decent? Or well behaved decent?’
He sat. ‘You agreed to the RAF deal?’
‘Yes, it made sense. A bit early, but we need a culture of good
flying, and that takes years.’
‘It does,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘And the British Army are building a
base near Mawlini, one in Somalia, and one near Forward Base.’
‘We being invaded?’
‘Hopefully,’ Jimmy stated, a strange answer. ‘Oh, French are
interested also in a base near Forward Base, and Mawlini, and one in
Somalia.’
‘We being invaded?’ I repeated.
‘Hopefully,’ Jimmy repeated, making me puzzle just what the
hell they were all up to. ‘Anyway.’ He handed over a sheet of paper.
‘The kids in Shanghai have finalised a project that I won’t release
fully – not just yet.’
I scanned the detail. ‘So … they can turn coal into oil.’ I lifted my
gaze. ‘Industry can already do that. It’s expensive, and eco-
unfriendly.’
‘Not any more. The process they’ve developed creates a type of
oil that burns in a more eco-friendly manner. And the cost of the
process has been slashed. And … our region of the DRC has enough
coal to last a thousand years.’
‘Oh…?’
‘Order up the first coal mine and refinery.’
The sound of voices outside my door preceded a knock, and the
PM stepping in with an aide. ‘This where all the real work goes on?’
We stood and shook hands, and I ordered drinks from my
secretary.
Settled, the PM said, ‘We’re happy about the RAF deal.’
‘Bet you are,’ I complained.
‘We won’t be paying for your contribution, though,’ Jimmy told
him.
‘No?’ the PM puzzled, a heavy frown taking hold.
‘No,’ Jimmy repeated. ‘And we’d like the rights to re-start coal
mining in this country, and on a large scale.’
‘Coal … mining?’ the PM puzzled. ‘What the hell for?’
‘After 2025, oil will be at a premium, expensive before then.’
‘Coal fired power stations? Are you mad?’ The PM challenged.
‘We can make them eco-friendly with new technology,’ I put in.
‘You can?’ the PM puzzled.
‘We can now,’ Jimmy answered. ‘But we won’t be building too
many. That’s not what we want the coal for.’
‘You going to start making some sense, Jimmy?’ the PM
implored.
‘How much is a barrel of oil right now?’ Jimmy asked.
‘Sixty something dollars a barrel,’ the PM answered.
‘Well, don’t tell anyone, but I can convert coal to oil for fifteen
dollars a barrel. And I think we can dig it up for the equivalent of
twelve dollars an oil barrel. That gives a profit margin of at least
thirty dollars a barrel for capital equipment costs.’
The PM stared back, his mouth slowly opening. ‘That … that
could employ tens of thousands of people, and replace North Sea
oil.’
‘That’ll piss of the Scottish Nationalists,’ I said. ‘This will be
cheaper!’
‘My God, Jimmy. The ramifications are huge!’
‘The Yanks should be happy, they have plenty of coal,’ I put in.
‘So too the Chinese,’ the PM’s aide mentioned.
‘But there’s a problem,’ Jimmy noted. ‘If oil purchases from the
Middle East slowed too much it would be like 2025 – only sooner.
So this technology needs to be limited for now, but in place for
2015. We’ll build a plant in Africa, one here, one on the States, one
in China. And then we’ll make it look more expensive than it really
is, hiding the profits.’
‘How much coal is there in your region?’ the PM asked.
Jimmy glanced at me. ‘Enough to worry the Saudis. In simple
terms, enough to keep the whole world going for thirty years.’
The PM blew out. ‘No wonder you spend so much time and
money on that region.’
Thirty minutes later, Jimmy led the PM out, asking me to break
the news to Chase. I checked my watch, and dialled the White
House, eventually getting through after I told the lady receptionist
that the reason for the call was a need for advice on improving my
sexual technique.
‘Paul, they announce you now as Rude Paul. How can I help?’
‘You sat down?’
‘At my desk.’
‘America has a lot of coal, yeah?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘We’d like to buy it.’
‘Buy coal? What the hell for?’ Chase queried.
‘Would you sell it to us?’
‘Sell you coal? No law stopping you from running a mine or
exporting the damn stuff. But what the hell for?’
‘Oh, we just found a way to turn it into oil for fifteen dollars a
barrel.’
There was a long pause. ‘You what?’
‘We can convert it now, we perfected the technology.’
‘Future technology?’
‘Where else would it come from, dope.’
‘Fifteen dollars a barrel?’ Chase repeated.
‘Yep. So, that coal, you’ll sell it to us?’
‘Like fuck! You can fuck right off … to quote Rude Paul. When
can we get the technology?’
‘Sometime after we’ve drawn up a shopping list.’ I hung up.
At 5pm, I noticed an email from the White House. ‘We reckon it
takes two barrel equivalents of coal to make oil, and that we can dig
that up for twenty-two dollars, less with improved technology and
efficiencies. Downstream costs may add another twenty dollars. It’s
not a huge saving, but a great alternate. And it creates jobs here.’
I emailed back. ‘The process creates a special oil that burns clean
for power stations. It can be converted quickly to car gasoline. PS.
Jimmy says he can mine coal for twelve dollars an oil barrel
equivalent, so check your sums.’
North Korea
Haiti
Lebanon
Shelly’s marina
With permission from the school, we took the girls and a group of
their friends down to Goma for the grand opening of the main phase
of the marina. The kids enjoyed a day at a safari lodge, chasing after
balls of fur that were faster than they were, and the next day we all
dressed smart for the grand opening. Many of the ministers were due
to attend, as well as Marko and Yuri, Po and his family, plus a few
of the senior staff from the corporation.
But arriving at the marina we could see thick crowds, many
tourists, others appearing to be local businessmen in their smart
suits. I even saw a few Indians and Arabs amongst the crowd.
Security was tight, a line of police officers in blue stretching out and
marshalling the crowds.
There remained a few tall yellow cranes around the casino, but
that structure was taking shape nicely, and in the distance I could
just make out very tall cranes around the new stock exchange.
Pulling up in our electric bus, we stepped down being photographed
by hundreds of people, the crowds ten deep at least behind the police
and barriers. I waved, getting snapped by tourists.
The canals were now full of green-tinted water, clear at the top,
but I could not see the bottom. The concrete sides had been nicely
finished with a type of brown tiling, a black-painted iron guardrail
running alongside the canal’s edge to stop drinkers and revellers
from falling in. The sun glistened off the water’s surface, and even
this small section was appealing to the casual visitor. We strolled
along the canal’s edge, soon to the main circular marina, wooden
pontoons and a handful of boats in place, including a tall sailboat
that Yuri had flown down in an IL76. Stood at the edge, at the
railing, a hand on Lucy’s shoulder, I was very pleased with our new
marina.
Turning, I could see the curving row of cafes and bars, signs
above doors proclaiming the establishment’s names and the dishes
served within. The head of the corporation led us on, finding Po,
Marko and Yuri inside an ice cream parlour, suitable produce in
hands. We accepted ice creams as we greeted the gang, Jimmy
leading us slowly up to the second floor. There we found that all of
the restaurants offered balcony seating, and that you could walk
along the balcony, which we now navigated as a group.
From the second floor I could appreciate the whole of the marina
and its horseshoe of bars and cafes. Directly opposite the cafes,
edging the main canal down to the lake, sat two areas of neatly
mown grass, many benches dotted about, play areas for kids tucked
into corners.
Helen and the girls took snaps with digital cameras for five
minutes, before we wandered down to the ribbon-cutting ceremony.
We crossed an ornate wooden bridge, local dignitaries and ministers
stood waiting in the sun, TV crews and journalists backing them.
President Errol handed Shelly an oversized pair of scissors, and
under the gaze of the crowds my daughter cut a large red ribbon.
Behind it stood a plinth with a plaque, dedicating the opening to
Shelly. Shelly’s Marina, Gotham, City, had been born.
With a nudge from Jimmy, I approached the microphone, now the
focus of the TV cameras and the keen journalists, some appearing to
be western.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming here today, to
the opening of Shelly’s Marina. This marina was named after my
eldest daughter, because she drew the pictures that inspired the
creation of this facility for the people of Goma, and for tourists to
enjoy.
‘It is our aim to create further water features and marinas to
improve the appearance of the city, and to attract more tourists,
helping the economies of Africa. To that end, I would like all of you
to visit the cafes and bars, and to spend some money on cold drinks
on this warm day, and some food later. Thank you.’
The crowds applauded, and Jimmy nudged me towards them.
They snapped us close up, many asking for autographs. I had to
wonder when I stopped fearing the public, and they started asking
for autographs. I greeted families from all over the world, a wide
range of accented English uttered. I practised my Russian, my
Chinese, and even some German.
Yuri led us to his own restaurant, our group soon sitting on the
balcony in the sun, having lunch as the crowds spread out, people
either walking along the canals or using the bars. Sat there in a
gentle cooling breeze off the lake, I could hear metal wires tapping
the yacht masts, a familiar sound in any marina. The arrival of a
hungry pink pelican was a treat, the bird resting on a pontoon and
being keenly photographed by the tourists.
Not to be outdone by Yuri, Po was building his own restaurant –
and on a grand scale, and now handed us a sketch of the hotel he
was going to build. My first thought was that he would not fill it, but
it was a beautiful design. If he wanted to build it he could, the land
free, the materials and labour both cheap enough.
After lunch we sat chatting, cold beers on a warm day with a
great view; I could have stayed there all day. The girls wanted to see
the view from the tallest tower, so we reclaimed our bus and set off
as a group, soon on the windy viewing platform, the balcony now
complete with wire mesh to stop jumpers. The girls peered down,
getting a bird’s-eye view of the marina, as well as the sections that
were still a work in progress.
The main structure of the casino was complete, and in the
distance we could make out the first four floors of the stock
exchange in skeletal metal form, a second tower rising up next to it.
Po and Yuri seemed to be in a heated debate about what new
buildings should go where – and who should build them. Jimmy and
I didn’t care; they could build as many new structures as they liked.
Jimmy called Po over to a large plastic drawing of the city, one
that detailed the various attractions for the tourists. On the drawing,
he pointed out where Spiral III was being built, and a new estate
called Hilltop. I took a wild guess and figured it would be atop the
distant hills that backed Spiral III. Po then studied the distant hills
through a telescope fixed to a pole.
That led to a debate between Po and Yuri about who should buy
the land and build the houses, Jimmy resisting a smile. Jimmy
intervened, explaining that neither Spiral II nor Hilltop was up for
grabs, but if they wished they could sponsor Spiral IV and V each.
These estates would be closer to the Stock Exchange. I peered out
across the city, and figured that they might be closer - by a whole
hundred yards or so. Po and Yuri, keen to measure their dicks,
agreed to one each.
‘My estate will be better than your estate,’ I whispered to Helen.
‘We should get Shelly to design them, and charge a fee!’
I took my wife to the south side. Pointing at the lakeside, I said,
‘Jimmy will build houses and canals all the way along, a mile or so.
If they’re like the first one, it’ll make this place the Venice of
Africa.’
‘We should build a house here.’
I stopped dead and faced my wife, the one I was supposed to lose
in a year or less. ‘You serious?’
‘Yes. Why not? It’s cheap to build, and the city is nice place to
visit now. We all have a lot of work here, so why not.’
‘Holton Mansions,’ I quipped. ‘Shelly!’ I called. When Shelly
drew near I pulled her in. ‘We want you to design a new house, a big
one that we can live in when we come down to visit.’
‘On the lakeshore,’ Helen put in.
Shelly peered out at the lake. ‘Where?’
I pointed to a place beyond the Stock Exchange. ‘Half a mile
further down the lake.’
Five minutes later, stood with Jimmy, I said, ‘Helen wants a
house down here, a big one. What do you think?’
‘Helen … suggested a house? Here?’
I was surprised by his surprise. ‘Yes. Would that … not have
happened anyway?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ We took in the view. After a moment I said, ‘Is … that a
good sign?’
‘I guess so. It’s … all new to me.’
‘And the house?’ I nudged.
‘May as well make it talk of the town. Make it a fucking great
pink palace, Miami style, rooms for us all; offices, staff, security
lodge, gates - and a dinning hall to entertain guests.’
‘Governor’s residence,’ I quipped.
‘About time, really.’
I told Po and Yuri about it. It took a whole ten seconds for them
to ask if they could build along the shoreline like that. I agreed. And
down here, a ten-bedroom mansion cost about fifty thousand pounds
to build. If that. Returning to Jimmy, I suggested that we build a row
of mansions ourselves, and sell them or rent them out as holiday
homes to the rich, especially pro-golfers. He lifted his eyebrows and
nodded.
‘Shelly!’ I called.
Back in the UK, with Shelly busy refining drawings, and Helen
having a strong input to our own mansion’s design, I got back to the
drudge of running the empire. A golf tournament was about to start,
and the hotels were packed out, limiting the spectators. Houses in
the Spirals - and the city’s existing apartments, were being rented
out for two weeks at a premium, some residents moving out for
those two weeks to make money. Other householders had moved in
with neighbours to allow their homes to be rented out.
I was busy directing food to Southern Sudan, that country now
suffering from the destruction of its oil pipeline. Southern Sudan had
all the oilfields, but the north controlled them, the south remaining
dirt poor. I now arranged regular food shipments, and also bought
food on the open market to ship over. Rescue Force had moved in,
being kept busy distributing food to villages. Rudd had organised the
self-assembly huts in their hundreds, and the trucks now trundled
through Ethiopia to reach their destination.
Anna got a nudge, and some of the new school-building budget
went to the southern-most parts of the Christian southern Sudan.
With that organised, I returned to the cooperation group, and to
facts, figures and statistics. Zimbabwe’s crop yields were an
inspiration, growing by fifty percent or more a year. They had even
seen the return of a few white farmers. I was not sure that was a
good idea, but the farmers did know how to till their own land for
the best results.
One report caused me to stop and stare at it. The Chinese,
thinking that they should be more involved with grabbing future
African GDP and import markets, had made our bank a loan, a great
deal of money. That had been followed by the British, the French
and the Germans, and finally by Hardon Chase. They all wanted a
slice of a future apple, and were falling over themselves to get in
there now.
Traditional African investment was seen as “owning” the
country, since the country in question could never pay back its debt.
That would lead to lucrative mining contracts for the creditor
nations. I wondered how much of that attitude was still alive and
with us. I heaved a sigh, and realised that everything I had spent or
earmarked had been topped-up. Back to the drawing board.
In a bold move, I ordered an entire estate built east of Goma Hub.
It would replace the huts that sat there now, and would consist of
neat rows of our standard four-storey apartment blocks, thirty-six of
them at the first go. When complete, those living in the huts would
be offered the apartments for the same small rent they paid now. The
huts would then be moved elsewhere.
I increased the budgets for thirty town councils, but then had an
idea. It was outlandish. It was so outlandish as to make outlandish
ideas seem normal. I smiled, but then I shook my head, expecting
Jimmy to shout at me. But the damn idea would not go away.
Standing at my window, hands in pockets, I decided that the worst
Jimmy could do was to shout.
Hopping into my electric car, which I still hadn’t charged, I raced
down to the house, finding Jimmy in the office. ‘Got a minute?’
‘You have a phone, dear,’ Helen quipped from behind her screen.
Jimmy eased up and stretched.
I tapped a large map of our region, one affixed to the wall, and
Jimmy closed in, awaiting my great idea. ‘Kinshasa is a thousand
miles away from where the action is. If - and it’s a big if - a new
capital city was built here, south of Forward Base, it would be at the
centre of all the action, and have road, rail and air links to
everywhere. It would create jobs in this region, and make it easier to
spread the money around through their existing institutions. And
such a new capital would have no shanty towns, people would only
be allowed to live there if they had work there.’
Jimmy sat back down. ‘One of the main reasons for having Goma
hub where it is, was to isolate it from the corruption of Kinshasa. To
be … a new start.’
‘As this would be,’ I countered.
‘And another reason, was that we run the region – seen at the
time as a giant swamp – so that we can control it, its growth and its
money.’
‘Which shouldn’t change, not now; everyone is loyal to us, not
Kimballa. Look, I can only grow the region so much without
wasting money, or spending it on projects that are someone else’s
idea. For the region to grow faster it needs entrepreneurs, businesses,
and people growing their own city naturally – like every other city
on the planet did.’
‘True,’ Jimmy admitted. ‘And it would transplant a million
people into our region, people with jobs and skills.’
‘And … Gotham City would be more Beverly Hills to this new
city’s Los Angeles. We keep Gotham City elite, and make this new
city a proper working city.’
Sharon, her daughter and Helen, were all now keenly listening.
‘The growth of Gotham City has always been a struggle in my
mind,’ Jimmy explained. ‘Because it will attract poor people, as it
does now. I’d guess, that twenty years from now, it would be less
ideal … and more traffic jam.’
‘So this would make it a posh suburb,’ I concluded.
‘I had planned on building the next phase of Goma to the south
and south west,’ Jimmy explained. ‘The stock exchange area would
be mostly posh apartments, the lake would be Miami, the hills would
have the Spirals, and the southwest would be more working class
apartments. If those working class apartments were twenty or thirty
miles further south it would not do any harm.’
‘Put a rail link in,’ I suggested. ‘They can commute.’
‘Could you move a whole city?’ Sharon asked.
‘Most of Kinshasa is shanty town anyway,’ I said. ‘And there
would still be businesses and buildings left there; we wouldn’t be
pulling them down. I reckon that a quarter million of the best paid
jobs might move.’
‘Go sell it to Kimballa,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘See what he says.’
A few days later, Shelly presented me with some typically Miami
style mansions, all beautifully drawn by hand. I asked her to
photograph them and email them to me, pleased with the work. She
then presented me with her drawing of our new house, Helen having
had a hand in it.
The house was a large “H” shape, and reminded me at first glance
of a French chateau, a slopping tiled roof with numerous small
windows. It was two-storey, three with the attic rooms, offered
ponds and gardens, and lodges for guests.
‘Twenty-four main bedrooms,’ she explained. ‘Another twenty
small rooms in the attic, ten guest lodges, an indoor and outdoor
pool, a gym, a dining hall, and three reception rooms.’
‘Excellent work, babes. Where would your room be?’
She pointed at a window facing the lake. ‘Lucy would be next
door, you and mum are here, and Jimmy there.’
I faced Helen. ‘Are you happy with the design?’
‘Yes, it should be lovely.’
‘It’s a deal then. I’ll call Rolf tomorrow and start it. Right, young
lady, I have a new project for you as well. See if you can draw a
design for a whole new city, in Africa, but nothing too strange.’
‘Am I getting paid for this?’ my daughter nudged.
‘What … would you like?’
‘A horse, twelve or fifteen hands.’
I turned my head to Helen. And waited. My dear lady wife
shrugged. ‘OK. Find one you like.’
‘Portia has one for sale, he’s called Max,’ Shelly said with a
smile. She ran off to phone whoever Portia was.
When Rolf turned up the next day, he found the Kangaroo in the
drawing straight away, this Kangaroo peering out from a window. I
wagged a warning finger at him. ‘Design it, and build it where I
marked on the back. Then I want twenty mansions built, different
design for each, as per the other drawings. Think … Miami
waterfront properties and canals. Po and Yuri will build their own
houses at the end of this row. There’ll be a road down the backs of
the houses, and another row of mansions the other side. Think …
Beverly Hills.’
‘We get the whole contract?’
‘To design and build, but using local labour. Go to work.’
A week later, Jimmy told me to pack a bag, and we flew down to
Goma Hub with Big Paul and his mates, jumping on a flight for
Mawlini. At Mawlini we booked into the hotel before boarding a
flight of three Hueys that had been sat waiting for us. Ten minutes of
flying southeast towards the border delivered us to a base almost as
big as Mawlini, hundreds of huts, high fences with guards, many
brick buildings partly complete, many cranes attending others.
Landing on a concrete apron next to a Huey hangar, we were met
by Ngomo himself. ‘Welcome to the United Nations.’
‘UN?’ I queried as I shook his hand.
‘The “M” Group military academy,’ Ngomo clarified. It was
news to me. I didn’t even know that this super-sized base existed. I
knew there were foreign soldiers about somewhere, but not where.
Ngomo led us to jeeps, which whisked us around to an officer’s
mess. Stepping down, I could now see Big Paul and his mates
suitably armed. Ngomo led us inside.
In a large and air-conditioned lounge we found a sprinkling of
officers sat about, and a variety of national uniforms. The officers
eased up and lowered books, newspapers and files, stepping slowly
towards us.
Ngomo introduced the men, just about getting the names right.
We had an officer from the British Parachute Regiment, an
American Rangers officer, a Russian Parachute Corp officer with his
distinctive blue and white stripped vest, an Indian officer in a turban,
a French Foreign Legion officer and a Chinese officer.
Wow, I said to myself, wondering what the hell Jimmy was up to.
‘My sister is not a goat,’ the Chinese officer said to me. And in
English.
‘Your English is good, for a mainland Chinese officer,’ I probed.
‘A condition of being here; everyone must speak English.’
‘Yes?’ I faced Jimmy.
‘One size fits all,’ Jimmy responded. ‘And it saves having to use
interpreters … too much.’
Ngomo put in, ‘In the evenings, all the foreign soldiers have
lessons in English, two or three hours a day.’
The British officer said, ‘And the native English speakers have
learnt how to offer insults about sisters, and farm animals, in a
variety of languages.’
The other officers agreed whole-heartedly about that. The
Russian said, ‘In my language, “whoey” is a bad word. So, instead
of “How are you?” the English boys say “Whoey are you?”’
I smiled. I had used the phrase myself once or twice.
‘How’s the training progressing?’ Jimmy asked Ngomo.
‘They were all injected on day one, and most now train like the
Rifles. A few accidents, and few broken bones, but they are
progressing.’
‘And the discipline?’ Jimmy pressed.
‘Not where we would like it,’ Ngomo admitted. ‘A … change in
culture for some.’
‘Punish the whole squad, and their officers, when they break the
rules,’ Jimmy insisted. ‘If they’re a problem, send them home.’
‘The English and Americans are the worst offenders,’ Ngomo
mentioned. ‘They like to play the fool and play tricks on others.’
‘Have the worst offenders flogged in front of their units, remove
liberties and beer, or just kick them out. If you like, flog their NCOs
and officers – I don’t fucking care.’
The British Major stood silent, and looking worried, as Ngomo
grinned at him. Back in the sun, we boarded the jeeps, soon out of
the base and heading along dusty tracks to a firing range. This
particular range was enclosed by high brick walls, sand dunes
having blown into place against their base.
At the entrance to the range, we climbed a set of steep metal steps
to a viewing platform, a thick glass pane protecting us from errant
rounds or ricochets. Below us, a squad of six men stood in a line –
appearing British, no flack jackets or helmets worn. In front of them,
a man stood waiting our signal. He now lifted his colleague into a
fireman’s lift, held up his M16, and stepped slowly forwards.
A target popped up on the left. He swung left, fired twice, then
immediately checked the area to his front and right. The target
dropped away. A few steps in he fired to the right, followed by a
target at the front. At the end of the fifty-yard range he turned
around, facing his squad, and started back.
‘In the UK, this would be illegal,’ I noted.
‘It would be in most countries,’ Jimmy agreed.
The man being tested swung his weapon around and fired as he
progressed. Back at the squad, he carefully laid down his travelling
companion, stripped his weapon whilst using his mock-injured
colleague as a mat to keep the rifle parts off the sand, then reloaded
his weapon, checking it. He lifted the injured man, and repeated the
exercise.
‘How many times would they do that?’ I asked Ngomo.
‘Till they are so tired they cannot think.’
‘Anyone ever been shot?’
‘Yes, a few Rifles have died this way, but its good training.’
At the next range, soldiers were holding small targets at arms
distance, their colleagues firing at them with pistols from ten yards.
After that came a grenade training exercise.
‘How the fuck do you train … for a grenade going off?’ I asked.
‘You see now,’ Ngomo said.
From behind a thick glass screen, scratched heavily on one side,
we observed a soldier with a standard NATO grenade. He walked
forwards, alone on the enclosed range, and pulled the pin. My eyes
widened and my heart stopped. The man tossed the grenade into the
sand, just four yards in front of himself, spun around and lay down
so that the axis of his body pointed to the grenade through his boots.
The grenade exploded in a puff of smoke and sand, the soldier
jumping up and joining his colleagues emerging from a brick room.
He sat down and took his boots off, revealing blood on his foot.
‘He caught some!’ I noted.
‘Yes, he need the doctor to remove it,’ Ngomo calmly said.
‘Everybody get a piece in the foot.’
‘And … the point of this exercise?’ I firmly nudged.
‘Not to be afraid the grenade, and to know what to do.’
‘No wonder this doesn’t go on in the west,’ I quipped. ‘Shit.’
At the next range, a group of Russians were being put through
their paces by Rifles NCOs. Those NCOs had their berets on, but
shirts off, each looking like a heavyweight boxer – only more scary.
I guessed that they didn’t get much backchat from the recruits.
A long bench crossed the range at this end, on it some twenty
weapons. The assorted weapons started with pistols and ended with
an M82 fifty calibre sniper rifle, and the aim of the exercise was
simple: to see if the recruit could remember how to handle each
weapon. There was just the one small problem. The ammunition was
on a separate table, in a bowl, all jumbled up. If you tried to stick the
wrong round in the wrong weapon you were in trouble. You could
even blow your own head off.
Back at base, we observed as men were learning to drive a variety
of vehicles, forty-eight different types of them available, and all had
to be mastered. The philosophy here was simple. They learnt all
vehicles, all weapons, all scenarios, till they were confident that they
could tackle anything. That basic training would then be extended
into desert specifics, such as desert survival and desert sniper
courses, jungle survival and jungle fighting, mountain climbing and
mountain fighting. And that was before they got anywhere near unit
manoeuvres and company manoeuvres.
The final training area was for advanced first aid, Silo Stiffys
getting plenty of attention in rooms built like lecture theatres. Teams
of four men were now competing with each other to correctly
diagnose the patient. We sat to observe.
‘What do you see,’ Jimmy whispered.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What … do you see?’
I studied the men. ‘Soldiers … training in advanced first aid.’
‘What else?’
‘Training to … fight The Brotherhood?’
‘Open your eyes, numb nuts.’
With a curious frown, I studied the teams trying to diagnose the
patient. And I was still studying them thirty seconds later.
Then the clock on the wall froze, and the world stopped turning.
I glanced at Jimmy as he waited expectantly, and turned back to
the soldiers. Each team had four men, but of different nationalities.
The team on the left offered a Russian, an American, an Indian and a
Chinese soldier.
‘The national soldiers are training together, and bonding,’ I
whispered.
‘Good. And what else?’
‘Might make it harder for them to fight each other in the future,’ I
whispered.
‘Soldiers don’t make policy, politicians do, so that’s not a factor.
What else? What … current and near-future events may be
affected?’
‘They … could be used in Africa? Against Sudan?’
‘Never. Where … else?’
I gave it some thought. I ruled out Lebanon - the Somalis were
there, and we didn’t want western soldiers to be seen there. A
thought occurred to me, and I grinned towards Jimmy.
‘Finally,’ he said.
‘Hardon Chase is pushing for an invasion of Afghanistan,’ I
whispered.
‘He’d need some suitably trained soldiers first.’
‘And a multi-national force would stop complaints about western
aggression,’ I whispered.
‘And such a campaign would need cooperation at the highest
national levels,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘With the public behind them.
Chase doesn’t realise it, but this will be the undoing of the Pentagon
hawks. If he was sensible, he would never have agreed to this – it
was a huge mistake.’
With the competition at an end, rude words exchanged by the
various the teams, we walked down to them and chatted for ten
minutes.
Back at Mawlini, we spoke to international soldiers undertaking
basic flying lessons, both Tucano and Huey, before tackling a well-
earned steak in the rooftop bar. Mac stepped out fifteen minutes
later, pistol holster on his hip. It looked a bit odd, because he wore
RF medical whites.
Mac was looking better these days, better than the gnarled old
baldy he had been most of the time I had known him He looked ten
years younger now, the little pot belly gone, even the crows feet
gone from his eyes.
‘Expecting trouble?’ I asked, pointing at the pistol.
‘Never know around here.’
‘And the two men who tried to follow you?’ I asked.
‘Sudanese fuckers. And fucking amateurs!’
‘Compared to an expert like yourself,’ Jimmy said with a straight
face, but we all knew he was taking the piss.
‘Aye, bollocks,’ Mac responded.
‘You look … well,’ I nudged, knowing full well that he had been
injected four times.
‘I’m ageing backwards!’
‘Mentally, or physically?’ Jimmy asked.
‘Both! And you could have given me some of that stuff twenty
years ago.’
‘We had to test it first,’ I lamely suggested.
‘How’s the wife?’ Jimmy asked Mac.
I snapped my head around to Jimmy, then back to Mac. ‘Wife!’
‘We ain’t married, she … er … just lives with me.’
‘A nice bit of black,’ Jimmy said. ‘A nice … nineteen year old …
bit of black.’
‘Aye, well … I couldn’t tell how old she was when I met her.
They all look the same to me.’
‘Did they not list her age in the catalogue?’ Jimmy asked.
‘I’m helping the local community, providing a job and a home,’
Mac said defensively. ‘That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.’
‘She’s less than a third of your age,’ I pointed out.
‘Yeah, well I can still get it up.’
‘So how’s the base?’ Jimmy asked.
‘Still fucking growing with the new camp out there; they all fly
from here.’
‘More people for you to shout at,’ I quipped.
‘So why the big move towards Sudan?’ Mac broached.
‘Since their ideas about a referendum are inconclusive so far, the
situation has become … less clear. And, with the damage to their oil
industry, I figured we should help.’
‘Aye, and I don’t know who did the damage either!’
‘It’s a mystery,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘Should the people of Southern Sudan wish to break away, I may
consider assisting them,’ Jimmy suggested.
An F15 came into land, right in front of us.
‘They based here?’ I asked Mac, certain that they weren’t.
‘No, Mombassa. But always up here for a visit, or to bomb the
ranges.’
A second F15 came in behind the first, and I faced Jimmy. ‘Do
you think anyone would tell Helen?’
‘You’d be divorced,’ Jimmy suggested.
‘It’s no fun, is it,’ I said with a sigh.
‘Stick to golf,’ Mac suggested. ‘We do.’
‘You play down in Mombassa?’ I asked.
‘No, there’s a wee course here now.’
‘You … have a golf course?’
‘Four holes so far, we made it ourselves,’ Mac explained. ‘We
formed a committee, paid a few labourers, cleared an area and dug
up the dirt so that the good stuff was on top, watered it and spread
grass seeds. Took six months. Plenty of sandy bunkers, no water
feature.’
‘You can allocate some money to it,’ Jimmy offered.
‘We can?’
‘Yes. I’ll be ordering a new estate, just like yours, to sit the other
side of the road. May as well have a nice course for the people who
live around here.’
‘I’ll get on it sharpish,’ Mac threatened. ‘Any major deployments
in the works?’
‘Nothing on the horizon at the moment other than Southern
Sudan,’ Jimmy replied. ‘But there’s plenty to do around Africa, so
keep them reaching the villages. And the next time you waste the
fuel of eight helicopters to deal with a few gunmen the cost will be
taken out of your fucking salary.’
Mac raised his hands in surrender. ‘I called the base and told
them the situation, that’s all. It was their decision to send out a full
squadron. Or two.’
‘Don’t keep a pistol under your pillow, Mac,’ I warned. ‘You
annoy that nice young girl and she’ll blow your balls off.’
During this visit, the senior staff did not wish to corner us and
worry over the drug, or any of our innovations and inventions. They
were all now reported to have been injected – and enjoying the
benefits. I stood at the wall as the sun hit the far horizon, beer in
hand, and enjoying the amber hue that everything adopted this time
of day. Hueys came and went, that sound that I was so fond of, and
two F15s glided effortlessly by, heading home for tea.
Big Paul drew level, an elbow on the wall, peering down with a
beer in hand. ‘You miss this place?’
‘Yeah. And I miss the stress of a deployment or a battle.’
‘Getting old, you see.’
‘Fuck off, underling. Where you been, anyway?’
‘I’ve been working on the training programme with Jimmy for
the past six months. I’m the liaison, computer in the house.’
‘Kept that quiet.’
‘Jimmy don’t want the world to know. Al-Qa’eda might come
straight for us then.’
‘Yeah, I suppose,’ I softly stated. ‘Looks like the Sudanese are
intent on sniffing around this place.’
‘They think the Pathfinders blew up their bridges. Can’t blame
‘em.’
‘How’re the international soldiers getting along?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, fine, no problems. What you gotta keep in mind, is that
this lot are all volunteers, and that back in the UK they’d have fuck
all to do other than exercises after exercises. Being here is like going
to war for them. And the training they’re getting – well, when they
finish they don’t need to apply to join the SAS, they exceed the old
standards – and then some. Prime Minister was concerned.’
‘About what? Accidents?’
‘No, about the Rambo types going home and kicking-off in civvy
street.’
‘Ah, I see. That a problem?’
‘No, soldiers want to show off when they think they have
something to prove. When this lot get back they’ll have seen some
action, nothing to prove to anyone. They’ll all get patrols in northern
Somalia, a few places in the Congo where rebels hold out, Angola.
But it’s been a fucking eye opener for the British and Russians,
being taught by blacks who know more than they do. And the
fucking Chinese have never seen blacks.’
‘No Israelis here?’ I puzzled.
‘Some problem with the injections I heard. Not sure if they want
their people injected, some religious crap.’
‘It’s been banned in the Middle East,’ I informed my sometime-
bodyguard. ‘But they fly to Goma to get it. Pope spoke out against it
as well.’
‘Ah, fuck ‘em. What’d they know.’
‘Haven’t seen your lad for a while.’
‘He’s down here, at the beach hotel, trainee assistant manager.
Having a ball, plenty of girls on holiday.’
I smiled. ‘Not a hard life for him. You got anyone steady?’
‘Nah.’
Jimmy appeared the other side of Big Paul. ‘Any minute now.’
‘Any minute now … what?’ I asked.
‘Italian UN coordinator with a great cleavage.’
We waited. She appeared beneath, stopping to chat to a few
people, but our eyes were not good enough to appreciate the boobs.
‘Reckon we could hit the cleavage with our drinks?’ Jimmy
asked.
‘Only one way to know for sure,’ I said, and we poured, ducking
back and getting three more beers, soon sat looking innocent as the
lady in question stormed in; wet hair, and now a wet see-through
top. A few cat calls went up, an applause issued from one table as
the fiery Italian babe shouted at a waiter, pointing at the wall. That
waiter pointed at the men clapping, turning to us with a grin as she
assailed them with curses in Italian. We eased back in our seats.
After a minute, she realised that she was leant forwards as she
shouted, and coming undone. The men, all RF doctors, beckoned her
back when she turned away.
She returned ten minutes later with the senior Italian
representative, and Coup, lambasting the doctors again. They had
cheered when she reappeared.
‘Do you think we should intervene?’ I asked, without sounding
sincere.
‘And spoil their view of her cleavage?’ Jimmy questioned.
Everyone in the bar was now laughing as she assailed the men in
English and Italian, her best assets wobbling as she wagged a finger,
eliciting even more laughter.
Jimmy scraped back his chair and stood, wandering over with a
napkin. He uttered a few soothing words, wagged a finger at the
men, and rubbed her cleavage with the napkin. Coup threw his hands
in the air and walked off, Jimmy leading the lady below.
‘That’s him gone for the night,’ I said. I stood at the wall and
rang home, chatting to the girls and getting the latest on the new
horse, Helen hinting that Shelly had a steady boyfriend. We didn’t
know the lad, and we were not about to pry. I drank with Big Paul,
chatting with many of the senior staff, and hit the sack around
midnight.
At noon the next day we landed back in Goma, a meeting with
Kimballa arranged in the Pentagon. At the Pentagon building we
took a little time to view the canal reaching towards it and a new
café under construction, before proceeding inside. On the top floor,
we entered President Errol’s office, making use of his boardroom,
Kimballa and his team sat with Errol and chatting away.
When everyone was settled around the boardroom table, I lifted
the shroud on the first drawing that Shelly had made for me, certain
that any Kangaroos would be too small to be visible to my audience.
‘We have, for some time, considered building a larger city in this
region.’
My audience were quietly stunned by the scope of the
undertaking.
‘That city would be designed from the ground up, literally, to be a
modern African city, and a shining example to the world of what can
be achieved here. But, such a city would compete with Kinshasa and
draw the talented individuals this way. To that end, I have the
following suggestion: why don’t we build a new city here, and move
your centre of government from Kinshasa, to here.’
They were shocked.
‘Move the capital?’ Kimballa asked.
‘A capital with no slums, with new road and rail links, clean
streets, tall towers and low unemployment,’ I teased. ‘A capital, that
would put Lagos, Nairobi and Johannesburg to shame. The centre of
Africa, the capital … of Africa.’
They were still stunned, but pleasantly stunned.
‘It would take a long time to move the government and its staff,’
Kimballa complained.
‘We would build certain departments and ministries first, and
move just those, and could build enough buildings and apartments to
accommodate all of your government’s staff and functions. These
new buildings would be purpose built, luxury, yet functional. There
would be a new university, a major hospital, parks, cinemas …
everything that you would see in a modern western city, but there
would be no slums or pollution.’
‘How long would it take?’ they asked.
‘We would start at the centre and work out, so some ministries
could move in a matter of months. And, to start with, it would be a
giant complex for the government and its workers. After that would
follow apartments for civilians, business offices, factories and
industrial parks. The entire project would take ten years or more, but
the first stage could be ready quickly.’
I opened a folder and handed out sketches of buildings, images of
what such a city may be like in the future.
‘You would pay for this?’ Kimballa asked.
‘Out of the money we make here, plus other money that we
would put in,’ Jimmy answered him. ‘Some buildings we would
own, some you would own.’
I showed Kimballa the sketch of my new house. ‘We’re building
many houses like that along the lake. You could all live in one.’
Now I could see the kind of response I wanted, and from the simple
sketch of a house.
‘And what of Kinshasa?’ they asked.
‘It would go on as now, still a major city,’ I assured them. ‘It
would only be the government moving, and then key sectors,’ I lied,
hoping that they would not question it.
I answered their questions for twenty minutes, before we sat
around drinking cold lemonade on the balcony. My audience was
keen, I could see that, it was just a matter of logistics. I ended by
saying, ‘If we build it, it will attract all of the key businesses from
Kinshasa, and become a powerful city.’ I could see Kimballa’s grey
matter working away, and I knew that he feared us breaking away.
We thanked him for his short visit and showed him out, our
President already buying properties off-plan in Spiral III.
Our luggage had remained with airport security and Big Paul. We
now reclaimed it and passed through our own scanners, boarding a
British Airways 747 bound for London.
En-route, I asked Jimmy about the meeting.
‘I would have built up Gotham City, but not as much as you’re
proposing for this new city. It’ll use up a lot of cash, but at the end
of the day it’ll create jobs and improve the regional GDP, which is
just as important. If it’s a modern city, and we ring-fence it to keep
the poor out, then it should attract a lot of talent.’
‘And Gotham City is the rich suburb up the road.’
‘Which would not be a bad thing,’ Jimmy agreed.
Winter
End of year
By mid December, the designs for the new city were coming along,
some two hundred people involved. I called them all to London,
where a number of models had been designed. Fortunately, the
models moved, and you could break bits off.
Around a monstrous table, some six feet square, we pored over
drains and sewer works first. They were followed by power lines
and phone lines. Then came the main roads, and the link to Gotham
City, a four-lane highway now in progress. That highway would cut
right through the middle of the city and carry on south another thirty
miles, splitting as it headed towards nearby towns.
The monorail was already being built, and would be a two track
elevated line to the city centre, Chicago style. In the centre it would
split and loop around, looking like a giant pair of scissors. Electric
buses would be a key feature, running every ten minutes on most
streets, every five minutes down the main drag.
The original idea was for the government buildings to be near the
lakeshore, till we figured that the most valuable land would be there.
It was moved half a mile inland, a large marina planned. Behind the
marina would sit a huge shopping centre and an indoor bar and
restaurant area, New Orleans with a glass roof. That would lead to
the business district, tall towers, behind which would sit the
government buildings. On either side of the government area we
would build quality apartments.
Along the lakeshore, north towards Goma, would be a series of
posh estates, gated complexes with their own marinas – after the
shallow water had been dredged and the mosquitoes killed.
Millionaires Row, where my new house sat, would be extended a
good few miles towards the new city. We planned on two distinct
housing estates on nearby hills; nice houses and gated complexes.
South and west of the city would sit industrial areas, business
parks and factories. The city would have its own hospital, and four
regional medical centres, a new university, several technical
colleges, a library, a football stadium, a swimming pool, and several
posh gyms. We were not short of ideas.
I awarded the mobile phone network to an American company,
the sewerage to a German company, the phone lines to another
American company. The building contracts for the government
buildings were spread out amongst several western contractors, but
after that it was a bidding war as to who would get what; I allocated
the shopping centre to a consortium operated by Po and Yuri.
It was then a case of people wanting plots, with any buildings that
they erected being done so at their own cost. Those near the city
centre would be charged for, those on the outskirts given away free.
The row of international embassies was down to us to build, and
they would stretch north towards Goma. In essence, the north and
the lakeside were posh, the south and west working class. And,
risking some criticism, we would impose a license to live in the city,
roadblocks on the main roads. Locals could not simply move in and
set-up a shack, since it would be well policed.
I had complained about not spending my budget, but this project
would certainly have eaten it all up. At least it would have, but so
many people wanted to invest in the new city that we’d have money
left over. The Americans, the Russians, and the Chinese were falling
over themselves to have influence. And the American banks, they all
asked for offices to be built in Gotham City, even the ones we didn’t
get along with. Behind the stock exchange, six modest towers were
taking shape, a banking quarter in the making, property prices still
under pressure. I could see a Spiral Twenty-Two on the horizon.
Literally, on the horizon.
Considering New Year, we all agreed that Gotham City was an
option; we could get a bit of work done whilst there. We travelled
down when the girls finished their school term, the senior staff from
RF Mapley invited down, as well as the Mawlini gang. Po, Yuri and
Marko, and many others travelled down, a fireworks display and
lightshow planned.
Jimmy gave all the RF staff five hundred dollars worth of chips to
lose in the casino, and New Year’s Eve found us in the marina at the
Chinese restaurant, sat on the balcony under the stars, watching the
resident monster crocodile below. That croc was now fed chickens
every day and had become an attraction in itself. So far, it had not
tried to eat anyone. A woman now stood with a small pooch on a
lead, the dog barking at the floating log. My money was on the croc.
At midnight we all stood, a barge on the lake beginning its
expensive fireworks display courtesy of Po and the Russians.
Gotham City had been here a while, but this felt like its birth, its real
birth, the start of a something special. I held Helen around the waist
and watched the display.
She leant in and whispered into my ear. ‘I’m pregnant.’
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