The Soldier who Said No by Chris Marnewick Read Free Book Online Page A

in the special backpacks designed for it. You will disassemble the weapon first and bring it back. That is a top priority for us. It’s the first prototype, a copy of a Russian weapon, much better than anything the Americans have, and the only one we have.’
    The general paused for effect. ‘We want it back, understood?’
    De Villiers and Verster nodded.
    ‘And we want a report on the weapon’s performance when you get back,’ the ARMSCOR man added.
    De Villiers wasn’t convinced but kept his thoughts to himself. What’s wrong with the rifle I used in training and on a previous operation, the bolt action Accuracy International using .300 Winchester Magnum cartridges? Didn’t these same people from ARMSCOR smuggle that one in from the UK ?
    De Villiers sat still, in the near attention soldiers adopt in the presence of a high-ranking officer. But he had not seen the general at any time during the previous briefings. He studied him while pretending to look past him at the map of Angola on the wall. An officer with the insignia of a major in the Air Force stood against the wall next to the map.
    The general was stocky, muscular and fit. He had a dark complexion and hair greying at the temples. He could have been anything between forty and seventy. But the general must have realised that he was being studied. He stood up and took up a position behind De Villiers. De Villiers studied the major. He was plump and pale, a desk soldier, De Villiers surmised. No colour to him. He was completely bald. The inner linings of his eyelids were a light pink. His eyelashes were long and white. When De Villiers dropped his gaze to the major’s hands, he noticed an apparent contradiction. The fingernails on the left hand were long and finely manicured, but the right hand’s fingernails had been clipped very short. A classical guitarist, De Villiers speculated, an albino classical guitarist and left-handed to boot. The hair on the major’s hands was soft and white.
    The general’s voice called De Villiers back to the business at hand. ‘There are reasons,’ he said, not dealing with the exfiltration issues worrying De Villiers. ‘One: this weapon has an effective range of two thousand three hundred metres,’ he said. ‘Yes, you heard me, twenty three hundred metres.’
    De Villiers tried not to show his surprise. There had been talk of a Russian sniper’s rifle with a range of up to two kilometres, but the rumours had never been confirmed. The general must have read his thoughts. ‘In case you are wondering where we got it, the Mujahedeen took a couple off the Russians in Afghanistan and gave them to the Americans in exchange for Stinger missiles. The Americans kept one and gave one to the Israelis and they in turn shared it with us to develop our own model. The cartridges we manufacture ourselves.’ He pointed to the ARMSCOR representative.
    ‘General, with respect, can’t we test it here? Why do we have to take it to Angola to test it there?’ Verster asked.
    ‘We have a special target there, that’s why.’
    De Villiers and Verster were silent, each considering the implications.
    ‘And another thing,’ the general said, ‘you are going to have to fire from more than fifteen hundred metres if you want to avoid capture.’ He chuckled. ‘It will give them a hell of a fright and they won’t know where to look for you.’
    ‘Who’s going to be our contact?’ Verster asked, looking the general in the eye. He was going to have to carry the radio during the operation and would be in charge of communications.
    The general pointed towards the Air Force officer at the back of the tent. ‘The major over there. He’s with me in MI . That’s all you need to know.’
    De Villiers was never to learn the name of the major.
    The shooting range at Swartwater was too short, only six hundred metres, but it was unkempt and overgrown, which was just as well because it simulated the conditions that could be expected in the field.