He was known as the N.C.O. A nickname he’d earned, and one used so often his real name, Henry Horton was rarely heard.
At five feet and nine inches tall, but with many years behind him in gyms throughout the world he had become proud of his physique.
As a boy at school he’d been skinny and was looked down upon as the odd boy out. It led to him being picked on by an entire team of schoolyard bullies.
He learnt well at primary school. Being shunned by the other students on a daily basis was to his advantage, as he found refuge in books, after discovering the library was the safest place to be.
The schoolyard bullies had taught him how to fight and he became a practiced hand. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough against a pack, but he found it gratifying at times to see bruises and black eyes on some of the individual players the day after a chance meeting.
It was especially gratifying when a pack member would be absent from school altogether. A reminder to those present that stragglers beware.
Horton survived primary school, but by the first years of secondary school he had become withdrawn and insecure. To the extent he believed that everyone who spoke was speaking about him, and that every sound of laughter was aimed at him.
He’d taken it as a compliment when the girls at school became quiet as he passed. Mistaking their silence as respect rather than the steps they saw necessary to take, so as to not mistakenly provoke, ‘Weird Henry.’ The nickname was whispered, and it had been a long time before he had found out what it was he was called behind his back. The day he found out was in his third year of high school and the place was the science laboratory.
The students were working with acids in small uninspiring experiments when Weird Henry made a comment to the one girl in the class who was pleasing to his misguided eye. The girl was annoyed enough to tell him of his nickname in front of the whole class. Amid the snickering, Weird Henry wanted to shrink from view, but instead he lashed out at the girl. She had been holding a beaker which was partly filled with acid, and as he attacked her she instinctively flung the contents into his face.
He been badly burnt, and after a short time in hospital he’d returned to his home, where he told his Mother not to worry about him before he walked out to see the world.
After several low paid jobs in various fields, Henry joined the British army with the goal being the high prestige of the S.A.S. However, the army discovered almost immediately that Henry was a loner, and not nearly enough a team man. It was here he acquired a new nickname; one that Henry decided could only be a compliment. He had no idea where the name originated. When the men around him began to call him the N.C.O he just smiled in his ignorance and took it as a sign of respect. Not knowing, and never finding out that the real meaning of the letters was, ‘Never Count On’ Horton.
He would never follow the team plan to the letter, which is fair enough after the shooting starts. It is then that any plan can go haywire. He was seldom where he was supposed to be and rarely in place on time, in effect he couldn’t be depended on and this impacted on the morale of his team members.
They knew Horton had balls and the ability to back anyone up in trouble, but would he be in the right place to do so if the situation ever arose?
He was a loner and even the army couldn’t change that, although it did teach him two fundamentals toward the end of his army career. One being that he would never be S.A.S and two, that the freelance life of the mercenary was the next best thing.
He’d quickly gained contacts and now twenty-six years later, he was a survivor trying to survive another fight in someone else’s war. It didn’t matter whose war. He was employed for his expertise not his conscientious support. As long as Imbo kept feeding his bank account, then Horton would continue to supply his tools of trade.
That was part of the reason anyway; the root of it all was that Horton was addicted to his work. He needed the action, the sound of battle, the noises associated with it, the sound of men dying and the adrenalin rush.
He’d had seen a lot of wars and he’d decided to stay alive to see a lot more. He justified his actions with the obvious fact that each and every one of his wars was intent on the death of a tyrant or the overthrow of a dictator.
Of course he knew nothing of the characters who replaced the deposed. He expected the countries that’d been under the previous leaders control had at least the chance offered by a new beginning.
The death and carnage which littered the road to these new beginnings did not concern Horton. His motto was simple. ‘No pain, no gain.’
He’d taken up temporary residence in this jungle three weeks earlier and had spent most of it bored out his mind. The rebels who made up Imbo’s revolutionary force had no discipline at all. Horton had discovered very quickly he needed to be up front to lead them, whilst at the same time in the rear to rally them forward. As the weeks had passed, his followers had been thinned out in the often short skirmishes with the Government troops. Until at last the ‘best’ were left standing and Horton had at least something pliable to mould.
Against the government troops anyway, for their only cause was self-preservation and for this reason they had a tendency to break off engagements early, when with a little more push they may have won the day.
He scraped out the last of the baked beans cold from the can and hoisted the tin into the bush. Then after checking his weapon for dirt, he brushed the soil and leaf litter from his clothes, swung his back pack into place and called to his ‘team.’
“Righto you mob, on your feet. It’s time to go back to work.” The fact that most of them spoke little or no English didn’t matter. The command sounded alright to him.
Most of them had seen Horton check his personal gear and had risen, ready to go when he called. A lazier few tagged onto the end of the band as it moved off in the direction of Freetown, thirty miles away.
These were noted by Horton who sized them up as he ran his fingers over the heavy bristle which would never grow into a decent beard. He would remember the ‘tail taggers’ when some shit or dangerous jobs came up.
They were expendable.
*****
At the same time thousands of miles away. Garry Sudovich was caught up in heavy traffic snaking its way through Sydney’s heat. The fact that someone had broken into his car the previous night and stolen all his C. D’s didn’t help to improve his day. He was about to turn his car’s radio off, when the national news burst out and he decided with some resentment to give it one last chance to offer satisfaction. The last item of news caused him to concentrate.
“West African sources report the Sierra Leone Government is once again under threat of hostile takeover. Members of the African Union have called on the United Nations to send representatives to the country to evaluate the deteriorating situation. The calls come amid speculation that the actions of the rebel forces could lead to a situation, similar to that of the late 1990’s when civil war broke out. It is estimated that over half a million people were killed, and neighbouring countries were forced to accept a similar amount of refugees.” The newsreader went on with some more, but Garry was not listening as he had to brake heavily to narrowly avoid running into the car ahead.
He wished the day was over.
It was going badly.
His mind went back to the news bulletin and he wondered without care how Abu was going. Sudovich didn’t like the African, and the fact he was thousands of miles away suited him. Sudovich had liked his percentage of the African’s misappropriations though. Easy money which had fallen into his hands at a time when he was riding a wave of successful ventures and his confidence was at its peak.
A period in his life when everything he’d touched turned to gold. It had appeared that life was his oyster until the day it had been gutted by misadventure on the stock market. The monetary cost had been great, and its loss had forced him to enlist the services of a ‘silent partner’. One whom h
e’d soon learnt was more like a vampire, determined to suck the very lifeblood from him.
Sudovich hated the man, but his back was to the wall and he had nowhere to run. He needed the ‘silent partners’ capital to survive. The banks would not look at him because the company’s books, in their words, “Didn’t appear sound.” He was in no position to show them the second set of ledgers. He had to accept the situation as it was or face ruin.
If he was able to drive a wooden stake into the heart of the vampire, he would and not miss him at all. If the African met a similar fate in whatever was going on in Sierra Leone, then to hell with him too.
It had been over twelve months since their last contact, and the man had nearly slipped his mind. Now with the radios reminder of his possible existence he wondered if maybe he should give the African a call. If he was lucky there may be something to be gained out of the whole affair, especially if the African was under pressure.
Sudovich suddenly decided to ring the African right now; it would at least give him something to do until the traffic speeded up. As he reached for his mobile phone there came the realization that the C.D bandits had taken it too and were probably running his phone bill up to the sky.
He cursed loudly and wondered if the day could get worse.