Recoil - Andy McNab [47]
‘Tin ore. It’s the most hotly traded metal on the London Exchange these days – worth four hundred US per fifty-kilo sack. Here and South America are the only really big sources left. Did you see the old open-cast pits as we flew in?’
‘Like nuclear Ground Zeros?’
He nodded. ‘Those were the diamond mines. That war still goes on, but this is the one that’s giving a few guys happy faces.’
‘What’s the big deal about tin all of a sudden? We overdoing it with the baked beans?’
Sam kept watching the other side of the strip. ‘Supply and demand.’ He pointed at the column working its way into the back of the aircraft. The poor bastards looked like beetles as they leaned forward with the sacks on their backs. ‘The ore is casseritite. Every circuitboard on the planet uses the tin it produces. People are being killed and treated like animals here so that soccer mums can video their kids, and the kids can download Britney Spears on their PCs. Every time somebody uses a mobile, Nick, every time they use the Internet . . .’
‘How much are you shifting?’
‘About twenty tons at a time. And the plane’s flying in and out 24/7.’
‘That’s a fuck of a lot of four-hundred-dollar bags.’
‘Just over two million US a week at the moment. And the owners have plans to expand the misery once the LRA are sorted. Dodgy peerages might grab the headlines, but the real money’s in those lumps of rock.’
‘So who owns it?’
‘The Chinese, would you believe? Africa’s changing, Nick. This continent is no longer just an empty paradeground for us to come and play soldiers on. The rebel groups are slashing and burning for the multinationals now. And you know what? That makes them even more scary.’
‘The Chinese are fucking everywhere.’
‘Aye, big-time. Standish is fixed up with a guy who’s the middle man for one of their operations here.’
‘Anyone we know?’
Sam started to laugh. ‘Sure he’s going to tell us that. You know what he’s like, knowledge is power. Anyway, who cares? We can all get what we need out of this deal.’
Lex’s engines kicked into life and the props began to turn. The Antonov taxied through the heat haze before the ramp had finished closing. I knew just how he felt. I didn’t want to stick around any longer than necessary either. The wash from the huge propellers blasted any sweat-covered bodies still on the strip, whipping at tattered T-shirts and shorts and caking them in dust.
Sam had to shout: ‘Lex flies it to Kenya. From there, it’s a slow boat to China.’
Sounded good to me. Once back here, Silky and I would be on the next available flight. A couple of days’ R&R on the beach in Mombasa and then, all being well, a flight home.
Sam’s eyes hadn’t left the two white guys for one second. I could see from his face that they took their organizational skills a little too seriously for his liking.
‘How long’s the walk-in?’
‘With the kit, it’s fourteen hours in daylight or eighteen in the dark. It’s safer to move at night. These guys won’t like having to go back without a decent rest, but they’ll still want to be there before first light. If they’re not carrying weight and we don’t have a contact, we can do it in about nine hours.’
Lex’s Antonov had reached the bottom of the airstrip and turned. The props screamed and it lurched forward. Its take-off run brought it straight towards us, but even fully laden, the aircraft lifted halfway down the strip. The kids jumping and waving below it were soon engulfed in huge clouds of red dust.
The Antonov roared over our heads and banked away into the dazzling blue sky.
The women along the treeline were doling out small bowls along with the water bottles. Tired fingers scooped up the food and shoved it into hungry mouths.
‘Once they’d rested, our patrol would usually take this lot back tonight, and come back in three days’ time with full bags. Then it would be their turn again.’ He waved in the direction of