The Congo Affair

factual.

Chapter 1

Although nothing seemed out of the ordinary, James woke earlier than usual with a subtle, inexplicable feeling of foreboding. Through the bug screen he watched the resident troop of vervet monkeys scamper across dewy lawns to forage in the giant banana trees behind the bungalows. Tendrils of early-morning mist seeped from the shadows and disappeared with the squawking cries of gaudy parrots echoing under the dense, gloomy canopy.

He decided to take a walk along the river; on weekends he spent many hours exploring the primeval tranquility of the mighty Congo. He donned cargo shorts, sneakers, and bush hat: more than enough for the climate. On workdays he added a short-sleeved cotton shirt, to look a little more businesslike.

With an old canvas satchel containing water bottle, dried nuts and assorted gear, and a fishing rod in hand, he stepped into the pre-dawn humidity. The screen door banged behind him.

The sound of distant tom-toms floated across the river from the wall of vegetation on the far side. It wasunusual to hear drums so early in the morning; they fuelled his sense of unease.

A thirty-yard walk through a partially concealed side-gate and across a sloping, grassy flood plain led to the banks of the river. As far as he knew, James was the only person in the compound who used this gate: it was probably used during construction five years earlier. Most inhabitants lived for the day when they would return to ‘civilization’: few aware of or interested in the ‘real’ Africa outside the fence.

On a baking-hot afternoon six months earlier, while observing a butcher-bird hanging its insect prey on the fence to dry, he had found the gate-key dangling innocently on the razor wire near the gate. It was coated in a thin layer of spider web; and an insect had built a cocoon on the side. Assuming no one else knew of the key, he had moved it to a more private location.

The gate was nearly a mile upstream of the main entrance and the wharf which were obscured by a wide bend in the river.

The plaintive, haunting cry of a fish eagle greeted him as he waded through soft, waist-high grass on the slope down to the flood plain. It reminded him of the Bald Eagles back home. He cautiously approached the top of the sandy, fifteen-foot cliff above the deep, silently-moving water.

Early morning forays were often rewarded with magnificent views of elephant, buffalo, and other animals at the water's edge. Today the river was deserted, mostly shrouded in low mist that concealed the far side.

It was a spectacular sight. A mile-wide swathe of swirling, brilliant white vapor gleamed snow-like in the first rays of sunlight. The huge red ball lifting over distant mountains dusted fluffy pink tints on its surface.

As he strolled quietly along the bank, James felt at one with nature. Behind him, the tall grey support-structures of the launch site contrasted with the jungle. An Orion rocket, after which the base was named, stood patiently waiting for launch day, now delayed indefinitely. The supply route by river from the coast was often closed due to civil unrest and the grass airstrip, unused since the Hercules transports stopped coming a month before, was already overgrown with grass and small bushes; on the equator everything grew faster.

The aircraft had been shot at by rebels in the jungle, effectively closing the only viable supply link to the coast. The ferry route was much longer but slightly safer. Most of the passengers on the ancient vessels were poverty-stricken natives who posed little threat to warring parties. It was a tenuous supply-line at best; more than one thousand four hundred miles of often turbulent, bush-flanked river, serviced by a few dilapidated ferries: when they weren’t under repair.

As if by magic the mist evaporated and the full splendor of Africa’s mightiest river unfolded; the silent, shifting expanse broken only by small clumps of drifting salvinia weed. A skein of Egyptian geese skimmed nose-to-tail a foot above the water, honking in turn.

Although infested with crocodiles, hippopotamuses and numerous undocumented threats, described by the natives in terrifying detail, nothing broke the surface. James had grown up in Africa and discounted most of the tales as pure superstition exaggerated by primitive fears and fuelled by the ever-present jungle, mysterious and brooding, even to his skeptical western eyes. The cradle of life was a catalyst for fertile imaginations.

There were huge eels, catfish, and tiger fish, all fearsome and some capable of eating a grown man, but he doubted the stories of two-hundred foot monsters, three feet thick, that swallowed whole boats full of people. Selfishly perhaps, it suited him to add credibility to the accounts of the wide-eyed natives; fewer residents of the compound would be inclined to venture into his personal domain. A private, million-square-mile park appealed to him.

The water was clear and fresh but ran so deep it was difficult to see the bottom, except in shallower areas where sunlight reflected off the white sand below. Sometimes dark shapes loomed under passing boats; submerged logs or hippopotamuses trying to escape the relentless equatorial sun.

‘Mboka’ and ‘Congo Queen,’ the ferries that plied the hundred-mile stretch from Ubundu, had eight-foot drafts, but rarely touched bottom. Massive, floating logs, some more than eighty feet long and four in diameter, were much more of a danger than shoal water.

A rustling in the gully ahead brought James to a silent crouch. All along the bank, small, perennial streams cut steeply to the river, forming short ramps in the sandy alluvial soil and providing wildlife with easy access to drinking water. Dense thickets of reeds up to fifteen feet tall filled these mini-gorges and obscured all manner of dangerous occupants. He waited patiently.

Another loud rustle, followed by the wrenching sound of vegetation being torn from the ground gave a clue. Amongst the reed beds, patches of lush green grass grew thick in the rich silt. Hippopotamuses, the second largest animal in Africa, and nocturnal by nature, spend nights grazing the flood-plains and grassy slopes right up to the perimeter fence. In the day they usually return to the coolness of the river to rest. Occasionally one needed a 'midnight snack' and ventured into the reeds during daylight.

Although ‘hippos’ are vegetarian, James was well aware of the danger of surprising a two-ton wild animal when it was out of its natural daytime retreat. He backed off very slowly and quietly, choosing to fish further away.

This section of river was on the outside of a wide bend; the current eroded the bank over the years as it gradually changed course like a huge, twisting snake, When large trees were undermined they fell into the river, providing shelter for small fish and a food-source for larger ones.

James stripped twenty yards of line from his reel onto the sand at his feet. The dark brown sinking-line and ten foot leader was tipped with two feet of fine, nylon-coated steel wire, and a number sixteen Mrs. Simpson fly. Without the steel tippet the razor-sharp interlocking teeth of the notorious tiger fish would bite through the line and steal the fly in an instant. James tried to avoid the larger tigers and catfish; hooking a hundred-pounder from the bank, in the strong current, was useless and could result in the loss of line, tippet, and fly.

Three quick flicks of the rod back and forward over his shoulder propelled the line gracefully through the air, straightening far out over the water. The feathery fly floated softly on the water near a partially submerged tree, twirling briefly in a tiny eddy before disappearing below the surface.

A sharp tug announced the take of a 'Chessa,' probably the finest small game fish in the world. Up to six pounds of hard muscle covered with a coat of tough silver scales and backed up by a big, businesslike tail, the fish endures a life of strong currents all the while avoiding the vicious teeth of the tiger fish; making for a very fit wily opponent.

For the last ten years James had worked on computer projects all over the world; spending much of his spare time fishing for salmon trout and other game fish. Pound for pound, none could compete with the sheer endurance, tenacity, and power of the Chessa.

After a brief entanglement in submerged twigs the fish headed for open water. The taut line skimmed and whined as the fish dragged it tirelessly, first upstream then down, and then up again.

James gradually worked his line further and further away from the tree, hoping a big tiger fish wouldn’t attack the exposed Chessa but, at the same time, not wanting to lose it in the mass of branches below the surface.

He finally landed the fish by dragging it firmly onto the sand. With a deft wrist motion, he extracted the barbless hook and gently returned the dazed fish to the river. It drifted for a second, stunned, and then swam away enthusiastically, none the worse for wear. He never killed a fish unless he intended to eat it, and Chessa were far too bony.

James maintained peak physical fitness by running six miles almost every day, usually inside the compound. Whenever he had the opportunity, mostly on weekends, he ran along the river outside the fence. Today he hid his bag and rod in a thorny shrub and set off upstream, moving in a wide arc around the browsing hippo. To attempt to pass between it and the river was inviting disaster; if the animal was disturbed it would charge toward the water, flattening anything in its path.His route took him close to the jungle where the gully was shallower and further from the water. After struggling through acacia bushes bristling with vicious two inch white thorns, and sharp spiky reeds, he re-appeared on the other side, his deeply-tanned, muscular torso blending naturally with the autumn grasses.

Once clear of the reeds he broke into a steady lope, cutting back gradually toward the river. Although it was just after seven o’clock, the sun was already fierce, warming his shoulders as he followed sandy paths left by countless wild animals.

By the time he reached a small beach three miles from the hippo he was drenched in perspiration. He scanned the river carefully for dangerous inhabitants then filled his hat with water and doused himself a few times to cool off before languishing in the shade of a thick shrub.

Just as he was about to head back he noticed a small native next to the water a hundred yards upstream. He was cleaning what looked like fish on a log at the edge of the water so James went to see what he’d caught.

The man was very short and wiry, probably a pygmy from the Mbuti tribes of the northeast border regions. They rarely ventured into the lowlands, preferring cooler montane habitat. James guessed he had been driven out by the war, possibly even from Rwanda two hundred miles to the east. The pygmies are a peaceful people, often victims of the larger, more warlike tribes.

Oblivious to James’s presence, he sang a repetitive lilting song softly to himself. James stood on the bank admiring how skillfully the man cleaned the fish with his homemade knife.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye James noticed a long dark shadow, gliding silently just beneath the surface of the river thirty yards away, toward the pigmy. James was high on the bank and could see it clearly, but the sunlight reflecting off the water in the direction of the approaching crocodile blinded the pygmy.

It must have been twenty feet long; its stealthy approach meant it clearly intended to eat the little man. Using the current to its advantage, it purposefully turned in a wide arc and, without causing a ripple, faced the pygmy; ready for its final lightning dash.

Crocodiles are notoriously cunning, preferring to sneak as close as possible before attacking. A full grown one can approach its prey undetected in a foot of water.

There was no time to warn the pygmy, especially in an unknown language. Alarming a bushman armed with a blow-pipe and poisoned darts was very risky; he would probably attack without hesitation. James quickly grabbed a four-foot piece of driftwood from the sand, carefully calculated the distance, and tossed it high over the pygmy, right onto the cruising monster.

The pygmy saw the reflection of the log flying over his head and instinctively crouched. It landed with a loud splash on the crocodile’s hard, scaly back. The croc got a bigger fright than the bushman and lunged vertically out of the water, twisting violently around in a desperate attempt to get to deeper water. In an instant it towered eight feet above the surface, massive jaws open wide in a guttural roar as it snapped at James’s log before vanishing into the depths.

The terrifying sight of a ton of man-eating crocodile so close to him was too much for the diminutive forest dweller. His eyes rolled back and a spine-chilling wail rent the air as he abandoned his possessions and flew up the twelve-foot bank.

When he saw James, his mind worked frantically to sort the events of the last few seconds. When he realized James had thrown the log and saved his life, he fell to the ground jabbering what was probably eternal gratitude. Some African tribes believe the ‘Garwe’ is sent by the devil himself, and being eaten by one guarantees an afterlife of indescribable torment.

All the while muttering and jabbering, he pointed to the sun, rubbed his heart with a circular motion of his hand and patted the ground repeatedly, his eyes rolled vigorously between heaven and earth.

Eventually he settled somewhat. He fumbled with his necklace and proffered it; a token James felt quite unnecessary and tried to decline. When he saw the genuine concern on the pygmy’s face he knew he’d breached jungle-protocol. He held out his hand and accepted the gift solemnly, admiring its intricate beadwork.

The pygmy smiled, happy that his gesture, though small in the light of his rescue from certain death, was appreciated. He approached the water with caution, retrieved his fish and knife and then, without further delay, trotted off toward the jungle. Every few paces he turned and waved respectfully to James until he vanished into the damp green darkness, the giant, evergreen leaves closed behind him.

It was too late for a fish-breakfast so James broke into a fast run back to the compound, stopping briefly to collect his gear. He didn’t relish being caught outside the fence and having to explain himself to the security staff who would probably be outraged at his breach of base security.

Near the gate, he heard the chugging engine of a vegetable-delivery boat rounding the bend. The vendor plied the river daily in his ‘banana-boat’; selling vegetables and fruit and sometimes trading these for other goods such as honey or small wild animals. Orion had its own orchards and vegetable gardens but occasionally the catering staff supplemented these with goods from the natives.

The yellow boat looked like a huge fiberglass banana, about forty feet long, four wide, and propelled by a small, inboard diesel engine. James waved to the driver who waved back, his white teeth contrasting sharply with his very black face. James had met Mchenga once before but didn’t know if this was his first name or last name.

Mchenga gestured with his hands, enquiring if James had caught anything. James raised five fingers then pretended to throw them back. Mchenga scowled playfully; he would have eaten the fish. The boat chugged slowly upstream to unknown destinations that James would love to explore. Mchenga’s loud singing gradually faded around the bend.

Just as James closed the gate behind him he was startled by an announcement on the public address system. The pole-mounted loudspeakers situated all over the compound were rarely used. The last time was a year ago when the site was evacuated due to an electrical short in the underground liquid-rocket-fuel store. Fortunately, the automatic isolation systems functioned correctly, and prevented disaster.

The speakers echoed and reverberated, making it difficult to understand the announcement. It seemed there was to be an urgent general assembly of all personnel at ten o’clock at the stadium.

He dashed into his bungalow, had a quick shower and arrived at the stadium with two minutes to spare. He had his breakfast with him, two huge bananas that he devoured while waiting in the sun. He looked quite festive – no shirt, bush hat with imitation leopard skin band; chomping a foot-long banana. All two thousand employees of the space program were present, milling around in anticipation.

Dr. Althorpe, head of the project, tapped his microphone for attention. As silence fell he spoke. "I apologize for disrupting your Sunday but I have some rather urgent news. As some of you know, the regular supply ferry, ‘Mboka’ is three days overdue. Also, due to a failure in our short-wave transmitter, we have had no radio contact with Kisangani for more than a week. We have to assume the vessel has broken down again and that it will be some time before it is repaired.

The alternative boat, ‘Congo Queen,’ has been out of action for two months and is unlikely to be repaired in the short term." His voice dropped and he continued soberly.

Although I believe alarm is premature, it is important to bear in mind that we are temporarily cut off from the outside world and that there is a war raging in large parts of the country. Because of this, we need to observe security regulations more closely, and brush up on our defenses. John Gilmore, head of security, will explain the procedures and requirements in detail.

James didn’t like John Gilmore; he was abrasive and self-opinionated, strutting around in his uniform like a dictator in waiting. It was unfortunate the situation warranted giving him a platform at all.

Gilmore started his address by running through existing precautionary procedures; they sounded a little inadequate to James.

Although most of you resent the idea of weapons-training, the assumption that the revolutionary forces will leave Orion Base alone indefinitely is naïve. He shouted at the top of his voice as if he had no microphone. James thought he looked like a Maltese poodle barking at the moon. Dr. Althorpe and I cannot overstress the importance of self-defense; please trust our judgment on this matter.

He shuffled a paper, and after studying it importantly for too long, started ranting again. I have drawn up a weapons-training roster which will be posted in both gymnasiums and at all five canteens. I expect everyone to attend their scheduled sessions which will include emergency procedures as well as weapons drills. Remember that defenseless untrained staff are a liability to others as well as themselves.

He eyed the crowd for a few seconds as if expecting someone to argue, then spun on his heel and marched back to his seat.

Dr. Althorpe got up. It is important to be conscious of base security and participate in as much of the scheduled activities as possible. Thank you all and enjoy the rest of the day.

For some time animosity between scientific and security staff had been growing. The scientists and technicians were a mixed bunch of liberals radicals nerds and social-misfits, but most were pacifist and un-confrontational. Security staff often chose the profession for the uniform and accompanying authority; many enjoyed inconveniencing transgressors of petty regulations.

James didn’t fully identify with either group but understood both. Although a mechanical engineer by trade and computer programmer by choice, when he was much younger he had spent three years of compulsory military service in Zimbabwe, his country of birth.

He had many fond memories of his childhood, and had acquired a deep appreciation of all things African, including the volatile, often brutal nature of conflict-resolution. Most of the other residents of Orion were born and bred in the United States or Western Europe, with little experience of African wildlife and the raw, untamed character of the continent.

He had limited tolerance for bossy security staff with poor training and no combat experience. He felt they were more of a danger to themselves and others than they were protection. Most of the scientific fraternity was too engrossed in their activities to take any notice of external phenomena like wars anyway.

Ironically James knew Gilmore was right this time. There was a very real, growing threat, and security was far from optimum. Twice in the last few weeks he’d woken in the middle of the night convinced he’d heard gunfire in the jungle beyond the wharf. This region still operated on the primitive, savage principals of aggression and survival that most western societies had mostly forgotten. The security system at Orion was designed primarily to prevent the hundred or so natives employed as casual labor on the base from pilfering tools and foodstuffs. It would need a major overhaul if it was to secure the lives of the inhabitants.

He made a mental note to clean and check his personal L1A1 / SLR assault rifle as soon as he got back to the bungalow. Years ago in Morocco, on a whim and because the price was so enticing, he had purchased the ex-Nato weapon. He didn’t know if he would ever get the opportunity to use it, but brought it to the base as a ‘sporting rifle’, even though it was fully automatic.

Some of his colleagues knew of its existence but didn’t know the difference between a tank and a water pistol and weren’t really interested. Because of the potentially neurotic reaction of the security staff, he had kept it well hidden and partly disassembled in his luggage.

The long-barreled weapon is similar to the Belgian Fabrique Nationale (FN); each of its four extended-magazines holding thirty 7.62mm intermediate cartridges, the same as those issued to many armed forces around the world.

James had noticed that Gilmore and his staff were equipped with the NATO G3 rifle which used the same ammunition as his SLR. Hoping to get some practice, he ambled across to the security block to talk about the weapons training. He knew that, to accommodate Gilmore’s sense of self-importance, he would have to pretend to have little knowledge of firearms.

The security building nestled close to a grove of palm trees sagging under the weight of ripe, yellow fruit. The troops of monkeys that used to feast on the fruit prior to the construction of the compound, and relieve the burden on the palms, had all been chased away by children and security guards with catapults and sticks.

A guard languished against the low white wall, his long unkempt hair hiding his grimy collar. James pretended not to see him and walked quickly past, hoping to avoid filling in forms and the petty ‘interrogation’ about the purpose of his visit.

John Gilmore was pacing in front of a large wall map of the base. The opposite wall had a topographical map of eastern Congo, with colored pins marking Orion and the nearest towns. The gaps between the pins were huge, an indication of the size of the country and sparseness of formal population centers.

He ignored James provocatively for a few seconds before turning casually. Can I help you? He knew James but pretended otherwise.

James overlooked the obvious affront. Hi, John, I just wanted to say that I totally agree with you about the training and would like to volunteer for the first session.   He gauged Gilmore’s response before continuing. I know a little about guns but I’m keen to learn more.

Gilmore rose to the bait. Sure, he said looking up and down at James’s casual attire with distaste. The first rifle drill and range practice is scheduled for Tuesday.

James briefly contemplated volunteering to assist with other sessions, on the basis of his military experience, but thought better of it. He needed to avoid the temptation to show up Gilmore and his lack of practical military experience.

He studied the impressive wall map intently, absorbing relevant detail as fast as he could until Gilmore cleared his throat loudly. Will that be all?

Yes, thanks. I’ll see you on Tuesday.

James was looking forward to the training as he strolled back to his quarters along lush, tree-lined avenues. He really appreciated the huge landscaped park that made up the residential and work sectors of Orion, marveling at the great lengths the designers had gone to incorporate as much local flora as possible.

The residential area was divided into married and single sections by the only full-sized road on the site. A school, hospital, and one canteen were in the married section whilst two gymnasiums and two canteens were in the single side. Greenways separated blocks of bungalows and, once construction had ceased, all side-roads were converted to single-lane footpaths with wide, green verges.

Most buildings were pre-fabricated in pastel colors and assembled on site. Married accommodation comprised detached units with multiple bedrooms, while single quarters were in blocks of five, separated from the next block by shrubbery and flower beds. Each unit had an en-suite bathroom, lounge, and kitchenette, as well as a single garage which was never used since no one had a motor vehicle. He wondered how the architects and site planners had made such an obvious oversight; maybe they believed one day the site would be connected to who-knows-where by road. That everyone got drenched in equatorial downpours on their way home was a refreshing way of life. There were a few emergency and utility vehicles but, except for John Gilmore who took his motor bike home every night, these were all stored at their stations.

As with many bachelors living away from home, James’s rooms were in need of cleaning. Most people left their air-conditioning on permanently but James preferred the fresh, humid air, especially when doing occasional housekeeping; a bit like a sauna.

A major disadvantage of the fresh-air approach was the swarms of mosquitoes that arrived at sunset; changing shift with the voracious flies which literally got up everyone’s nose during the day. Even though all rooms were fitted with sonic devices which supposedly repelled them, as well as screened-doors and windows, some still managed to get in. James had also suspended an ultra-violet attractor with an electric mesh inside the front door; it got most of the insurgents.

When he’d finished cleaning, he took a lukewarm shower and lay on the bed listening to music and contemplating the morning’s meeting. The six-foot ceiling-fan swung ominously as it forced its way through the heavy flower-scented air, pushing balmy waves over his naked body. His thoughts turned to possible worst-case scenarios; the civil war could spill into their lives and make extreme actions necessary.

Monday morning arrived suddenly around 4 am with the raucous babble of coucals in the nest behind James’s bungalow. These large noisy birds knew when dawn was coming and let everyone else know too. A naturally early riser, he didn’t mind, and took their cue; bounding out of bed, pulling on his running trunks and preparing for his daily jog around the compound. With the humidity around ninety-five percent and the temperature already nearly eighty, there was little need for a warm-up. A few stretching exercises and a glass of warmish water sufficed.

As he ran across the wet lawns dewdrops sparkled rosily in the glow of pre-dawn streetlights, the silence broken only by his footsteps padding gently on the soft grass.

Some advantages of living in this small, insular world were that there was no traffic, and no one lived more than a fifteen minute walk from work.

Except for the workaholics and fitness enthusiasts like himself, everyone had too much spare time, and boredom was a serious concern to the administrators. The relentless stifling heat made usual small-town occupations like social clubs and infidelity too much like hard work.

His route took him along the western fence near the wharf gate. The perimeter fence of the main residential and administrative compound was two miles long by one wide, with the launch pad in another one-mile-square enclosure separated by a security corridor of half a mile. This was merely a wide, surfaced road bordered by double electric fences topped with razor wire. The launch pad also had a double fence while the rest of the compound had a single mesh and razor-wire barrier.

Outside the fence was the earth airstrip and beyond that, another low fence. The fences were designed to exclude wild animals from the compound and prevent elephants from following their ancestral route to the river. After encountering the obstacles for more than five years the elephants still tried to force their way through, rather than walk two or three miles around. James thought it was more stubbornness than instinct.

As he approached the riverside fence, his thoughts were on faraway places so he didn’t see the lone buffalo next to the wire until he was very close. A gruff snort startled him and he jumped back, his heart pounding violently, hair crawling on the nape of his neck.

This was a primeval animal, confident in its natural surroundings and contemplating a trespasser through a flimsy wire fence. He was a fine old bull, two thousand pounds of pure muscle with massive horns, pitted and scarred from numerous battles. The base of the horns covered his whole forehead in solid, six-inch-thick armor.   

James’s eyes locked hypnotically with the bull's unblinking black gaze. It was a brief period of exquisite danger, a subtle balance between the desire to flee and the excitement of proximity. The buffalo stood motionless, not breaking its gaze as it probed its adversary’s mind. James held his breath, cooling sweat trickling down his bare back.

Across the six-foot space between them, he could see every wrinkle and wiry-hair on the massive beast. Caked mud flaked off powerful legs above huge hooves worn by years of tramping the jungle. James felt irresistibly drawn into another world; way back to when men drew paintings on cave walls and lived in spiritual awe of such beasts. He felt as if he was falling uncontrollably into the deep, black wells of the animal’s emotionless eyes.

After what seemed an hour the bull snorted, flicked his tail, and lowered his head to the fresh green grass against the fence. Feigning disinterest his massive tongue wrenched a choice tuft from the ground with a loud rasping sound. Now that he’d assessed the situation and eliminated the possibility of threat he barely noticed James.

A warm feeling of acceptance washed over James and he relaxed to savor the closeness. It was a great pleasure to be accepted by a wild animal, even a bird, in its natural habitat. He believed animals had the ability to read man’s hostility and intentions and he took pride in passing the test.

Reluctantly he broke the spell, and backed off quietly.

Back at his quarters he took a quick shower then set off for the canteen, stopping at the laundry to drop off his clothes. The laundry was run by the ‘housewives association’ and catered mainly to bachelors. For an exorbitant fee the clothes were washed, pressed (partially and unnecessarily) and ready for collection on the way home. Some people did their own laundry, hanging the clothes out to dry on lines behind the bungalows, but the ‘putsie’ flies concerned James. The large, blue-green flies, endemic to the continent, lay eggs in damp hems of clothing. After a week the eggs hatch and the pupa crawl under the wearers’ skin to grow into maggots. Eventually, a large abscess develops and has to be surgically treated. All very unpleasant and well worth the $50 a month he spent on laundry. Orion used US dollars as currency; even the locals preferred it to Congolese francs.

At seven o’clock the air-conditioned canteen was still quiet; most people arrived for breakfast at eight and started work at nine. James preferred to start early and leave early, giving himself an hour of uninterrupted productivity before everyone else commenced work. This particular canteen was mainly used by single staff; married people with children usually ate at home or used the bigger one near the school.

He was helping himself to a huge pile of paw-paw and melon salad from the buffet when he saw a new face approaching from the glass doorway. As the petite girl got closer he could see she was naturally lovely, pronounced cheek bones and striking brown eyes set beautifully in a symmetric, oval face; rich, wavy, auburn hair pulled back into a pony-tail. She looked soft and vulnerable yet, at the same time, trim and healthy. She projected that intangible peaceful aura one finds in people who are close to nature; that elusive innocence animals recognize and respond to.

James must have been staring because she gave him a sharp, defensive look. Caught off guard, he turned and seated himself at the window, trying to concentrate on the garden outside. As he placed a cube of delicious, pale-green melon in his mouth his eyes wandered irresistibly back to the new girl.

She stood with her back to him, selecting pieces of freshly cut fruit from a long, glass serving platter. He couldn’t help noticing her smooth, shapely legs and petite ankles. He was still assessing her figure absent-mindedly when she turned and caught him staring again. Their eyes met briefly and he felt embarrassed, he was acting like a teenager.

Head high, she walked to the far end of the room and sat alone, ignoring him even though they were the only customers.

Just over a year before, James’s wife, Elizabeth had left him for a wealthy hedge-fund broker in New York and, since then, he’d dedicated himself to his work, unwilling to expose himself to emotional pain again.

This was the main reason he took the job in Congo, and he’d kept pretty much to himself since his arrival. Some probably thought him anti-social but the need for female company and late-night parties was low in his priorities.

He was partly to blame for the divorce, spending too much time at work in places as far afield as New Zealand and Chile but still couldn’t completely forgive her for the callous way she’d terminated the relationship. Her announcement came as a total shock, and her marriage to the broker only two weeks after the divorce made him re-think the merits of female company.

When he’d married her he wasn’t aware of her preoccupation with wealth and in retrospect often wondered why she married him at all. It soon became apparent that he was unable to maintain her standard of living without working excessively long hours, so the relationship was doomed.

The irony of the events which followed the divorce gave James a bittersweet feeling of revenge.

Two months after it was all finalized he was sitting in his apartment gazing at the miserable weather streaming down the window and looking forward to the Congo assignment. His application for the post had been successful and he was due to leave in five weeks.

A knock on the door jolted him back to reality. A well-dressed man with an Australian accent stood outside. Mr. James Kent? he enquired.

The huge briefcase made James suspect he was an insurance salesmen, or peddling some unconventional religion. Yes?

The man stepped forward, hand outstretched. My name is Edwin Smythe. I am an executor of estates, he spoke somewhat aloofly. I am here to notify you of the contents of a last will and testimony. Before I can proceed and, with no offence intended, I must ask that you provide photo identification.

James still thought it could be a scam but decided to play along and produced his passport. OK? he enquired.

After scrutinizing the documents closely, Mr. Smythe returned them smiling. Well, all seems to be in order. I’m sorry to be so thorough but I’m sure once you’ve heard what I have to say, you’ll understand.

He looked past James into the living room. Anyway, let’s get down to business. Is there somewhere we can sit?

James led him to the dining table, his curiosity aroused. Both his parents were dead and since he had no other close relatives, he wondered who would leave him anything.

First I must offer my condolences on the death of your uncle, Agnew Kent. He passed away in Sydney six weeks ago. We had tremendous difficulty tracing you but, considering the size of the estate and the business considerations involved, we left no stone unturned.

Although James knew he had a wealthy uncle who lived in Australia, he’d never met him. His parents mentioned him once or twice but James always suspected they exaggerated his wealth.

As you know, your uncle was a very rich man and, as you are the sole living relative, you inherit the full estate. Although you probably weren’t aware, he always took a keen interest in his few relatives, and closely followed their lives from a distance.

How much was he worth? James enquired, intrigued but still not totally convinced that this wasn’t some practical joke, possibly even a media prank.

It’s difficult to give an accurate figure at this time but our conservative estimates indicate the value of mining, the sheep ranch and wool-production at roughly six hundred million Australian dollars.

James was stunned, but before he could say anything Mr. Smythe continued. Then there are the publishing and media interests, and real estate in Sydney and Melbourne; a further four hundred and eighty million dollars.

James sat back, trying to digest the impact of the news and how it would affect his life. He suddenly smiled to himself as he realized Elizabeth would have a fit if she knew; he might even send her a gift.

After Mr. Smythe had explained the details of the will, which was remarkably simple considering the enormous figures involved, he summed up the situation.

Basically, you have three options. Take up the reigns of the empire and involve yourself in the business, appoint an expert to manage your interests in some or all the ventures and allow someone else to take day-to-day control, or liquidate your equity.

James knew nothing of corporate finance and was reluctant to start learning about it now. He’d always believed he wasn’t cut out for office work or the accompanying responsibility. He was also very keen to get far away from New York and his ex-wife. The Congo post was ideal, a place to get fit and healthy and to take stock of his life in a leisurely fashion.

The third option would be my preference; can you recommend someone to handle the process?

Mr. Smythe spoke sincerely, I should caution you to consider your options carefully. Possibly think on them overnight and I will answer any questions and give advice in the morning. I am only leaving tomorrow night so there is no rush.

No, I’ve made up my mind, James interrupted, overwhelmed by the prospect of being a multi-millionaire.

OK. If you’re absolutely sure about this I can start the paperwork. You won’t be committed for a few weeks; in case you change your mind.

He took a large, leather-bound dossier from his briefcase and handed it to James. Here is the full list of business interests. I suggest you retain our services on a consulting and management basis for the process. We have handled Mr. Kent’s affairs for more than twenty years and are very familiar with the whole portfolio.

He continued, taking his lead from James’s approving nods. We also need to appoint a local investment-advisor to facilitate the placement and investment of capital as it frees up. We have used the Manhattan firm Bentley, Bentley & Walton successfully in the past, so I can recommend them.

Another smile crossed James’s face. Elizabeth’s new husband, Bruce Atkins, was a junior partner in Bentley, Bentley & Walton. James wasn’t vindictive by nature but he derived some pleasure in the knowledge that sooner or later Elizabeth would hear of his good fortune. Elizabeth’s ‘rich’ husband had but a tiny fraction of his newfound wealth.

By the time James left for the Congo, Bentley Bentley & Walton had invested nearly seven hundred million US dollars in fixed income securities. They estimated the full process could take up to a year.

He visited their offices before leaving and happened to pass Bruce in the foyer. Bruce was very polite and keen to be of assistance, already fully aware of the substantial fees to be earned from managing such a large portfolio. James thanked him for his offer but a senior partner, Jack Bentley, was already handling his affairs.

James hadn’t taken particular interest in the opposite sex for months and found something about the new girl unsettling. He was aware for the first time that his self-imposed celibacy would be difficult to maintain indefinitely. She looked lonely and a little sad and, knowing the anxiety everyone experienced on arrival at Orion, he was tempted to speak to her.

She seemed totally disinterested in anything in the room, gazing nonchalantly at the distant mountains above the jungle. He couldn’t help admiring her soft profile against the magnificent backdrop, long lashes and intelligent forehead clearly visible from where he sat.

He also noticed only she ate fruit, avoiding the mouth-watering aroma of bacon and scrambled egg. He decided to make conversation at the earliest opportunity, possibly introduce her to the gym staff. The gym was always good for the ‘blues’.

Trying not to stumble over a chair or stare at her, he left the canteen, relieved by the fresh air and space to collect his thoughts.

It was a five-minute walk to the cool concrete building where he worked as a programmer on the communications systems that linked the ground station to orbiting modules deployed by the rockets from the site. Although that was his official job description, he now had the additional responsibility of maintaining the access-control system in the compound.

Three months earlier the previous technician was evacuated to Europe after contracting some obscure tropical bug and, to date, no replacement had arrived. James hoped the poor chap had survived the ordeal; no one had heard from him since he left.

James didn’t mind the additional responsibility; he enjoyed the work and it complemented his normal job that required sitting at a computer all day, coding and debugging in C++ and Assembler. Since the last launch (and the temporary grounding of the system), he’d had very little work anyway.

The access-system comprised a number of turnstiles that operated on pass-codes read off magnetic cards carried by all staff. The community at the site was grouped into access zones according to job description and security clearance. Early every morning, James ran a series of loop-back tests to check turnstile operability and status. The program also generated statistical reports for each access point. There were thirty-seven turnstiles and the test was identical for each. Over the week-end James decided the process needed automation, so he set about writing a small batch-program that would cycle through all sites, run the tests, and log any results in a spreadsheet for easy analysis.

He was deep in concentration when he sensed rather than saw someone behind him. He turned to see Albert, the French engineer from the front office, almost leaning over him. Albert stepped back and to one side apologetically, I have brought Ms. Walsh for zee access card, he stammered.

James towered over the girl from the canteen as he stood to shake her hand. Close up, she was even more attractive. She wore no make-up and her fine, clear skin positively glowed, exuding a healthy natural beauty. Albert, usually quite the charmer, was also a little overwhelmed and muttered unintelligibly as he took his leave.

She smiled her thanks before turning to James; a distinctly cooler expression crossed her face. Here are my particulars. I would like to start work today, so how long will it take to get the access card?

Hopefully while you wait he tried to smile engagingly. I’m sorry for staring at you earlier; the fact that you’re new here and so good-looking caught me a little off guard.

She looked at him without forgiveness. You probably say that to every new girl. She turned her back to him and looked around the room.

James’s handsome, tanned face dropped slightly, his happy-go-lucky temperament not prepared for the rebuff. It was the first time he’d complimented a girl since the divorce and her response didn’t do his frail ego much good. Have a seat please, he said, sitting to complete the form. This will only take a minute.

Although her attitude was cold he instinctively liked her. He thought she must be very unhappy, and resolved to repair the bad feelings as soon as possible.

Michelle Walsh (Shelly) had arrived from Florida on the last flight into the base. Like all new staff, she’d spent a while in the compound hospital. The isolation phase was intended primarily to facilitate acclimatization, as well as to assist in recovery from the compulsory series of inoculations against malaria, smallpox, and cholera, and some other less well known diseases. In the hospital, newcomers live in a closed environment and are gradually exposed to the local climate, food, and water to minimize dehydration from the heat and stomach disorders. Bacterial activity in the tropics was ten times that of cold, northern climates; the daytime temperatures always over 100º F.

Shelly, like James and many others, had opted for the post in Congo to get away from her ‘previous’ life. She was the victim of a horrible, violent experience in which her husband, Alan had been murdered and she’d been brutally assaulted by a gang of drug-fuelled thugs.

Her parents tried to talk her out of going to Congo but she felt a complete change of scenery was the only way to put things behind her. In Tampa, surrounded by friends and associates, she was continually reminded of the soul-destroying events. The immense burden of her experiences had put her off men for life and she hardly noticed when she hurt them with her curt, insensitive remarks.

Before the incident she’d been contented and fun-loving, close to her family, friends and pets; she dearly hoped to regain some of that former joy by starting from scratch at Orion. In some ways it was an extreme plan, but she’d inherited a stubborn, independent streak from her father.

James typed the security codes from her registration form onto the computer which matched them with those downloaded from the permanent satellite link to Eurospace. A special terminal on the desk printed a color picture of her on the plastic card before coding the RF ID.

Once complete, the terminal ejected it with a soft ping. James looked at her, confirming that the picture was a good likeness. Here you are, he said, handing it to her. "Let me run through the procedures and the