Massacre at Umtali (Soldier of Fortune #1) by Peter McCurtin

Author:Peter McCurtin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: military hero, james axler, piccadilly publishing, frederick forsyth, anti-terrorist, mens action adventure, peter mcurtin, mac bolan
Publisher: Piccadilly

Chapter Five

IN THE BRIGHT firelight I could see the ‘Colonel’s’ finely tailored uniform cut in the British style. It was stained with sweat and dust and probably blood because Gwanda liked to keep his hand in with the panga. His eyes were glittering wildly, and his face twitched under the stress of his emotional outburst. Pushed down hard on his Afro was a cap that might once have belonged to Field Marshal Goering, and if all the scrambled egg on the peak had been real it would have been enough breakfast for three hungry men.

Even now, distorted by rage though it was, his voice was impressive. Its tone was full basso and the accent was British—too British. It sounded a lot like an actor doing a take-off on some stuffy, British officer of the old school. But there was nothing even faintly funny about the man. From a full forty feet away I sensed his menace, the power he had over these people. Back in the days when he was a sergeant in the Rhodesian Rifles his white superiors probably thought he was funny. The black non-com with dreams of glory, working with records to improve his diction, digging his nose in books to improve his mind.

There was no longer anything funny about Gwanda. In just a few months in the field he had proved that to the white-dominated government back in Salisbury. Salisbury thought he was so unfunny they wanted to stretch his powerful neck. I sensed that the Cubans were afraid of him, too. I could see their point of view, and I wouldn’t have been so fond of him if I didn’t have my R-I to argue with when the time came to kill him or fetch him home to the Major.

The Cuban who spoke English was obviously in charge of the “advisory” mission. He was about fifteen years older than the other Fidelistas. I pegged him for a colonel or at least a major. I figured him for a colonel because of his age, but you can’t tell with officers in the Cuban army: they don’t wear officers’ insignia.

The head Cuban was about forty; the others were in the middle twenties. The head man was short and thick-bodied but in good shape, else they wouldn’t have sent him to Africa. He had white hair and a fat black mustache and he had an even fatter cigar in his mouth. Just like Fidel himself. The other two Cuban officers, if that’s what they were, might have been twins: both slim and short and kind of dandyish in their green jungle outfits.

The older Cuban was trying to reason with Gwanda. I didn’t catch what he said; Gwanda’s powerful voice drowned him out. Gwanda took a swig from his bottle and went on with his tirade. He shook his fist at the Cuban. “I tell you the time for an invasion is now. What are you waiting for? While you are making your blasted plans, and more plans on top of plans, Salisbury is recruiting more and more mercenaries.

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