Recoil - Andy McNab [3]
He had consolidated his position in the early days by publicly executing anyone who even looked like they might become a political rival. Pierre Mulele, a rebel leader, was lured back on the promise of amnesty, but was tortured and killed by Mobutu’s boys. While he was still alive his eyes were gouged out, his bollocks were ripped off, and his limbs were amputated one by one. You could see where our machete-wielding mates got their ideas from.
Mobutu had nationalized foreign-owned firms and forced European investors out of the country. His favourite trick was to hand the management over to relatives and close associates; theirs was to plunder the companies’ assets until the pips squeaked. It caused such a slump that Mobutu was forced to try to reverse the process. He’d needed Belgian aid to help repulse an attack by rebels based in Angola, and he needed us to help him out now.
Despite everything, he’d been re-elected – but that’s not so difficult if all the other potential candidates are just too scared to stand.
His minister of information did the rest. The evening news was trailed by an image of the Father of the Nation descending through clouds from the heavens. It was our favourite moment of the day. There were more portraits of the Saviour of the People than you could shake a machete at – every public building had a dozen of them, and government officials even wore them in their lapels.
It wasn’t altogether surprising that the natives were getting a bit restless. Most were living in mud huts and dying of starvation, while our new best mate Mobutu had tucked away nearly five billion US in numbered Swiss bank accounts. This was almost equivalent to the country’s total foreign debt, but we, the US and even the IMF were still giving him loans.
He was pro-Western, anti-Communist, and since chaos seemed to be the only alternative, he was worth a bung or two. Without Mobutu, Zaïre would disintegrate into ethnic violence and civil war – and so would the export of its vast mineral wealth to the West. So there we were, getting burned to a crisp, maintaining what our government liked to call ‘the UK’s interests overseas’.
My only concern was making sure my gun was free of grit. Because as soon as Davy reported back, we were going to have to drive down into the valley and make like the Seventh Cavalry.
3
Annabel and the other two had satellite comms, which was how they’d managed to send a may-day from the bush about sixteen hours ago when the rebels had blocked the road and they’d taken refuge in the plantation house. There was no power, so to save battery they were just calling in every two hours with a sit rep. They also had no water or food, so the haphazard band of Mobutu’s troops who were supposed to be looking after them sounded as though they were only a couple of steps short of doing a runner.
The US Third Fleet’s carrier task force were stationed permanently off the west coast of Africa so they could keep a friendly eye on their Nigerian oil assets, but their Marine Expeditionary Force were still going to be out of range until tomorrow. By the time they arrived on their helis, it might be too late.
Our little gang, on the other hand, was only about two hundred Ks up the road. Downing Street had picked up the phone to the head shed at Hereford and now we were all set to escort the limos to the port. If the worst came to the worst, we’d keep off road and head cross-country, which was why we needed the trucks.
We’d made ourselves sterile of any ID and borrowed civvies from our Zaïrean students to try to blend in – as you do in Africa, when you have red skin, a peeling nose and a government that wants to maintain its interests but doesn’t want to be seen doing so.
Before I’d joined the Regiment, just over a year earlier, I’d assumed that every mission would be run to detailed planning and precision timings. But for most jobs I’d been on, we’d had less time to grab our kit and come up with a plan than fire-fighters on a call-out – and this one was no exception. We’d stripped down the Renaults, loaded them