Chapter 1: In her Majesty's service

Sweat ran freely down the red-haired Englishman's temples, smearing the jungle camo on his clean-shaven face. A knife blade covered in dry mud sat in his left hand, while his other hand made a rough circle in the air. It was a hand signal for the command to encircle the target.

Five men melted away into the green humid jungle in a heartbeat, as if they had been an optical illusion. They moved fast; faster than what Ethan had believed them capable of. He decided to stand back for a little while more, and see how they could handle their approach on their own.

All of them stopped dead in their tracks and hunched low when they heard noise, probably from the direction of the clearing up ahead. The two men that formed the edge of the squad aimed their rifles outwards from the squad, as if a switch had been thrown.

The point man laid himself flat with the silken grace of a cat, knife drawn in his right hand while his left hand reached out for his Colt zero-point-forty-five. The rearguard moved like a pair of dancers, covering each other's back, both aiming their rifles from shoulder-high, safeties clicked off to single-shot selection.

In that cautious small diamond formation they moved as a whole, each step forward made with practiced ease and well-earned confidence, the mark of a well-trained soldier. For all intends and purposes, and as far as Ethan was concerned, he had done a good job training them. What did bother him though was that they had yet to fire a shot in anger. He knew that nothing tests a man like real combat.

Though they moved precisely as they had been taught, and seemed quick and stealthy enough, Ethan couldn't really tell if they just went through the motions or if they were really up for the challenge. After all, no matter how much one practices before a show, it's the opening night that makes or breaks it.

Ethan's free hand was wrapped tightly around a metal L-shaped trigger attached to a small box no larger than a pack of cigarettes, from which a run of cables protruded and got lost somewhere under the rich jungle tapestrie of green and brown.

With a tight grin, Ethan whispered to himself with the expectation of a job well done:

"Showtime, lads."

When he double-clicked the trigger the first thing that attracted everyone's attention were the flashes. And then came the shockwaves, their force pummeling at everyone, making every ribcage vibrate intensely as if tremors had seized them. And that was just the opening note.

Small gun fire erupted from various well-placed locations, the muzzle flashes dotting the lavish scenery as if hundreds of photographers clicked in rapid succession.

The scouts instantly dived for cover, falling prone while keeping their arcs of fire fimly fixed to their own particular zone of responsibility. A wry smile formed on Ethan's face: he seemed to be enjoying the performance.

The five trainees were on their bellies, rolling and crawling over the jungle bed in an effort to find as much cover as possible in mere moments. They exchanged quick glances and made repetitive hand motions to each other, communicating silently trying to establish a point where they could fall back away from the guns blazing at them.

Every tree trunk and low bush or gully counted for gold at times like these, and the five Marine scouts from the 3rd Marine division made excellent use of their surroundings. Very much so that Ethan felt a twang of pride at seeing his handiwork in action. They were his men, and they seemed every bit as professional as he intended them to be.

They quickly abandoned their exposed position for a slightly shallow depression with good cover, fat tree trunks strewn around them with thick bush for cover and a clear view on all sides. A defendable position from which they could easily spot a move against them and fall back while they harassed their enemy firing and moving in turns. Ethan's mind flashed with the sudden realisation they were good enough to be Royal Marine scouts, not just Nigerian troops.

He almost felt a hint of regret he couldn't be there with them when it really mattered, when the guns pointing towards them were not loaded with blanks; when the explosive charges half a mile away were real shells and mortars falling right on them.

Almost, as Ethan reminded himself inside his head, was the eminent keyword: This was not his war, not by a far chance, and setting up mock engagements such as this one was as close as he wanted to get to another warzone. Except for the times when he itched, except for the times he woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, knowing it wasn't the tropical heat that left him sleepless thereafter, but faces all too well remembered and defined.

The team of five men had dug themselves in taking solid cover.

The gunfire died down soon afterwards, and Ethan believed there was no point in continuing tracking and crossing the jungle. He had seen what he wanted to see, and that was a team of scouts, not a bunch of gung-ho Nigerians hollering with rifles raised firing on auto, vying for Igbo blood.

Ethan raised himself above the brushes and bellowed as if he wanted the cadets back at Sandhurst to hear him clear as rain:

"End of session! Fine job lads!"

The team of five gave no sign of sight or sound that they had heard their instructor. Ethan repeated himself with less enthusiasm:

"Come on, games' over! Let's head back for some rest, off we go."

Still, nothing could be now heard other than the usual sounds of the jungle, the distant cries of birds and monkeys, and the constant buzzing of mosquitoes and other assorted exotic insects.

Ethan furrowed his brow and briefly considered that the team might have actually extracted themselves without him noticing, and decided to check the small depression himself. With a hurried pace, he made his way through the brush and in a few moments reached the position he had last seen them take cover in.

He saw noone, but suddenly felt a piece of metal poking him through his left side, right between his ribs, poised to pierce his heart at a single thrust. He had been caught unawares, and once he looked sideways to his assailant, he saw Onko, the team scout leader smiling wildly, his bright white teeth a stark contrast to his camouflaged dark face. A little stunned and a little bit surprised, Ethan barely had time to let off a curse:

"Bugger me, you've grown into a real scout Idowu."

No longer wearing the same disarming smile, the nigerian marine responded with a heavy accent, the nigerian pronunciation thick and strong:

"You grow soft, Captain Whittmore."

Onko then sheathed his knife, and the four other men suddenly appeared from quite unlikely and widespread places, from any one of which they could have put a bullet through Ethan at their leisure.

Ethan nodded and made a small sigh, as if acknowledging he had indeed let his guard down and been overcome, exactly what he tought his recruits should never happen, not even while not in the battlefield. Cultivating a little paranoia went a long way in keeping a man alive, especially in a civil war where telling a friend from an enemy was not as clean a business as shooting at one.

Ethan did manage to save some face though when he pointed at his feet to a small bump in the ground, leaves cluttered all over it and said:

"See now Ibrahim, that's a mark for a landmine. You might have killed at least one man when you chose to fall back here."

Onko seemed far from smiling at that comment, and with a mixed expression midpoint between anger and disappointment he said to

Ethan, making it sound almost like an accusation:

"There was no place else to fall back and cover, Captain. It was a death trap then, for sure. What could we have done different?

Not fair, sir."

The word 'sir' had a strange ring to it, and that probably was because it was meant to sound off-putting. Ethan only cared to answer briefly right before he turned about and started walking to the gathering area of the training field:

"All's fair in love and war, sergeant. Says so somewhere, I'm pretty sure of that."

In the warm light of neon orange, Ethan searched his pockets for the some small change, but to no avail. He rarely needed dimes and pennies when he made his cosmopolitan visits to the center of

Lagos, but using the jukebox in Loui's bar was such an occasion, and even more so a favourite habit.

In fact, Ethan was not a rare visitor to Loui's establishment, and most would instantly recognise him. He was widely known as the Englishman, both to the few locals and the numerous extraordinary foreigners that frequented the Metropolitaine.

Ethan maintained that he only came for the regularly up-to-date jukebox, whilst his tab indicated a thirsty sort of music lover with a certain taste for fine malts.

Malts such as the unusually fine scotch that Loui kept stashed for the well-off or even well-liked customer. He had simply decided to thank God there was good scotch to be found in a place like Nigeria and even more so in a bar like Loui's. To make the realisation even more mind-numbing for Ethan, there was good scotch to be found during what the Nigerian government chose to characterise as a 'crisis'. The Metropolitaine's crude and shanty decoration, or more appropriately its blatant lack thereof only helped to somehow accentuate that a war was going on.

A couple of ceiling fans still worked despite what one might expect at first sight, barely keeping the air from going stale.

It was with his usual wide grin that Louis, the proprietor, approached Ethan and offered him a penny before bowing slightly, impeccably dressed in a striped jacket, white pressed shirt, bowtie and smart pants, an air of the thirties Paris about him.

Ethan accepted the coin gladly and immediately dropped it in the slot, while Louis chimed in his blatantly french but not unbearable accent:

"Compliments of the house, Capitain. The usual? Little ice, double fine scotch?"

Ethan smiled wryly and nodded while selecting a song in the jukebox, his index finger searching for the correct button to press. He pushed 'Under my thumb', and turned to reply to Louis before setting off to settle in his usual barstool, the bar solely at his disposal at that hour:

"Very fine scotch."

"Nothing but Scotland's finest, Mr. Whittmore."

Ethan sat on the barstool, his eyes staring at the glasses and various bottles of liquor neatly arrayed and featuring prominently in the shelves behind the bar. When he next spoke, it was with a feeling of relief:

"I'd never thought I'd say this, but God bless Nigeria."

Louis had assumed his proper place behind the bar when he picked up a bottle of one of his finest malts from a cupboard below along with a short glass, and said smiling wryly while he poured:

"I'm from Guiana though."

"Ah, and Scotch is from Scotland but it knows no borders. Come on then, pour one yourself."

The unusually tall, lank bartender complied and picked up a shot glass which he filled promptly and raised to a toast:

"To all the thirsty men."

The Rolling Stones song had started playing in the background.

Ethan raised his own glass of scotch and made a toast as well:

"To Mick Jagger and crew."

They both gulped down their drinks in one go. Ethan made a slight motion with one hand, indicating the cupboard below.

Louis went through the motions of pouring another glass of scotch and asked his regular customer for the past year or so with his usual air of cool affection:

"How's life treating you?"

Ethan's tone was lighthearted, almost flippant when he said:

"Not sure. Better than horseshit? I'm not complaining though.

Still 'ere, aren't I?"

Louis laughed politely and nodded before replying:

"Woe be me if something should happen to you. Losing customers, I cannot afford that?"

"You're not losing me soon enough. Keep the scotch coming, and

I'll manage."

Louis let the glass of scotch slide across the wooden bar and looked Ethan straight in the eye, his face almost a pale shade of dark under the dim candlelight surrounding the bar:

"What news from your friends in high places?"

Ethan shook his head and made a strange, sour face for a moment.

He brought the glass to his lips, sniffing the aromas:

"Nothing yet. It's not easy, you knew that. Not to mention there's money involved. But it'll take time Louis. Your visa isn't exactly top priority."

Louis shook his head in disappointment, and started polishing a basket full of washed glasses. His eyes were fixed to the task at hand when he replied to Ethan with a mixed feeling of sadness and slight aggravation, his movements lacking his usual crispness and finesse:

"You said by the end of the month, Englishman. Said you knew the

'ins and outs', didn't you? Who will keep Insami and Wadu off my back, I wonder. Make it top priority, can you?"

Ethan kept wearing the same smile that had won him arguments on innumerable occasions, while he kept tapping his fingers to the rhythm of the song playing from the jukebox. After a short uncomfortable silence, he said to Louis:

"It must feel like a kick in the nuts, Louis, but remember, I'm doing you a favor. Take a look around you. There's bigger trouble than those two thugs. There's a war going on. If they do pop up and act like a couple of tough guvs, I'll make sure they get one in the sack and lose a couple of teeth each. No use worrying about it now."

Louis looked a bit distraught, his eyes somewhat dull from wariness. Ethan tried to change the subject:

"What do you have for me this time? Auchentoshan? Glenfiddich?"

Louis became his professional self again; he seemed to relax a bit, his tense mouth loosening into a tight smile. He reached for a tall cupboard with a lock on the handles, and used a small key that hung from a chain around his neck. He opened the cupboard with small, graceful movements of his hands, as if opening an icon or a shrine. In it, a dozen bottles of Littlemill sat, dusty and squat, seemingly quite authentic seal, cork and all. At the sight of the bottles of scotch and the prospect of savouring them at his leisure, Ethan's face lit up and his blue eyes seemed for a moment to sparkle. His voice couldn't contain his enthusiasm:

"Littlemill? Thirty-two years old, triple distillation. Bugger me, oldest malt in Scotland. Let me see that bottle."

Louis complied even though anyone could tell from his face he was quite puzzled. Ethan was usually interested in the contents, not the labels.

"Here you go, englishman."

Ethan completely disregarded the bartender's effort at a light-hearted insult and studied the bottle's labels with focused interest. At length, he nodded appreciatively before adding:

"From Ayrshire, too."

Loui asked with real curiosity while opening the bottle of

Littlemill Ethan was still clutching like a scepter:

"Is that the place for the best scotch?"

Ethan let go of the bottle and while Louis put a single cube of ice in Ethan's glass, he continued, his expression emanating a scholarly aura:

"'Tis the ancestral birthplace of the greatest scot that ever lived. William Wallace."

The name of the famous scottish hero was intoned with reverence and pride. It seemed to have no effect on the Guinean bartender who casually asked:

"Who is he?"

Ethan blinked twice and was taken slightly aback when the name of the greatest Scotsman that ever lived rang no bell. He nevertheless straightened his back and breathed deeply when he tried to explain to Loui.

"William Wallace fought the English for the freedom of Scotland for over a dozen years. They killed his wife and family and in the end he was betrayed. He gave his all, William Wallace.

Biggest set of stones ever."

Loui looked at Ethan in puzzlement as he uncorked the fine scotch, its smoky aroma wafting upwards, arousing the senses. His question seemed to flatten Ethan's face right at the moment his nostrils had become so excited:

"But Scotland isn't free. You serve the Queen of England."

"That's not entirely true, I serve the Queen of the United

Kingdom."

"But there's no Queen of the Scots, is there?"

"She's also Queen of the Scots. And the Welsh. And the Irish.

Well, at least some of the Irish."

"See, that's not unlike the situation here in Nigeria. The Igbo are like the Scots, they want to be free. Shouldn't they be free?"

"I don't have a say in that. It's not my job, and it's not my people. If they can, they will. And if you want to know, my father might have been born in Glasgow but I grew up in

Kensington, so piss off with the Scots and all that. Pour, for the love of God."

Louis smiled wryly before he retorted:

"You brought it up, Captain."

Ethan was starting to get properly wound up when the door bell rang and attracted his attention. He looked up from his drink and saw Louis pointing with his long bony index finger to a sturdy, tall and fit black man dressed in fatigues, the beret of the

Nigerian Marine Corps smartly adorning his head. The man's eyes peered vehemently through the haze and fog of the smoke and dust that seemed to always twirl lazily in the Metropolitaine.

The soldier's gaze quickly settled on Ethan, who was spinning around on his barstool to look at the newcomer directly. He cracked a smile and gave a mocking half-salute to the burly man who - judging by his epaulets - appeared to be a brevet Major.

The man did not seem to share the same good humor and did not salute, neither did he seem to enjoy smiles and levity a lot. As he approached the bar, Ethan's mood had swung again towards his sweet side and he cheerfully made a gesture at the still open cupboard full of Littlemill, greeting the man with a proposition:

"James, this is a once in a lifetime chance for a once in a lifetime experience. It's Littlemill. It's the nectar of the

Gods. It'll be monumental James; getting plastered with the finest scotch in the whole country, with little doubt. So, what is the unhappy occassion of your visit here in uniform? Tell me all about it so I can forget it with the help of Louis and

Littlemill. Is it remotely serious? Are the Biafrans hurtling shells at Lagos? Can I go home now?"

The heavily set man had a quite intimidating appearance. The capability of severely wounding a man armed with nothing but his hands was the usual first impression. At odds with his brutal image he had a strangely calm and serene demeanor, a grim look on his face that implied his mind was occupied with grave matters.

He approached Ethan and taking off his beret he calmly said:

"It's your brother, Ethan. We have reports their caravan was probably attacked today. Somewhere in the jungle near the border.

They never reached Owerri."

Ethan's smile evaporated. He suddenly looked somber and withdrawn. The news were a mood killer to say the least. He looked at James with wary, stern eyes:

"Red Cross is supposed to have Army support. Where was their support, James?"

James' bulky shoulders shook with a disarmingly vulnerable shrug.

He embraced Ethan with a single arm and told him in a friendly, casual manner:

"Let's have a drink, Ethan. Let's talk."

Business in the Metropolitaine was in full swing. A small gang of sailors were celebrating one of their mates birthday, following the custom of drinking till the botswain comes looking for them.

Louis kept a wary eye on a couple of strange-looking figures, but other than that the orders kept coming in and that made him a happy man.

Ethan was sitting opposite James at a small round metal table in a corner near the bar, looking far from jovial. What James had told him had suddenly turned this war into a personal matter, something that every professional soldier tried to avoid. A well-known but sadly overlooked factor in dying was doing stupid things for all the wrong reasons, and making a war something personal was both stupid and wrong.

James had fallen silent for a couple minutes silently sipping at his wine, a local plonk variety that barely passed the mark.

Ethan was down to his last couple of cigarettes, chain-smoking ever since they had sat down to talk. At length, Ethan broke the uncomfortable silence:

"I should have pulled some strings when he told me he was going in with the Red Cross. Red tape, paperwork, passport trouble.

Surely someone you know in the Interior could have been of some help. Maybe forced him to stay in Britain, somehow. Don't know, really."

James motioned a definite 'no' with his head, eyes closed shut.

He then had another sip before answering:

"You know there are many ways to come into Nigeria. If your brother wanted to come, he would have found his own. There's nothing you could have really done to prevent him from coming here in the first place."

Ethan drew heavily on his cigarette and exhaled briskly. He spoke with some irritation: