Operation: Congo

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At eight in the morning, it was already hot enough to raise a sweat while sitting still. Even under a canvas canopy, the heat came in waves off the river as if an oven door had been left open in an already warm room. The S-Squad sat together in the shade while their guide at the outboard at the rear sang raucous songs in a language none of them understood. Banks suspected they were being laughed at. It didn’t surprise him. They were a sodden, sweat-soaked, sorry excuse for a crack team. Coupled with the fact that they’d now come into a dead zone for the sat phone and there was no way to phone home and complain, things weren’t off to a very good start.

And it’s only going to get worse the deeper in we get.

As usual, Wiggins was doing the most complaining.

“Golden sands, big cocktails, and long-legged lassies with easy smiles and loose knickers. That was your promise, wasn’t it, Cap?”

John Banks managed the energy for a laugh.

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