Limit of Exploitation by Rod Bowden Page B

antenna gently bouncing and swaying in its rubber mount on the bumper. In the far distance he could just make out two lanes of Iraqi traffic. They were holding well back, not wanting to come near the APT’s convoy let alone pass it. Surviving popping to the shops for some new flip flops and a Burkha for the missus could be a risky day out for the average Iraqi, and avoiding armed security convoys had become the new national sport.
    As they hurtled south on Heretic, there was a sharp double tone from the dash mounted Thuraya satellite phone, a text message was coming in. Phil uncoupled the phone from its docking station for a closer read. There was no sender name to the text, just a number.
    Through his wrap around’s Phil studied the last four digits of the UK phone number.
    He grunted and murmured under his breath. “John Logan, now what can I do for you?”
    It had been quite a while since he’d heard from John, but what with him working in Iraq and John still serving in the Army, it wasn’t like they were going to pop to the pub each night and swap stories on their day at the office. People who had served together in Military units form a tight and unique bond. It could be years that two people in that position would see each other, but put them in the same room together and they can strike a conversation up like it was only yesterday.
    Phil’s mind starts to race as he idly watches the distant traffic. John needed a favour. All he had to do now was get out of Iraq.

Chapter 13
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Bo Airfield – Sierra Leone 07° 56’ 44.62”N – 11° 45’ 35.93”E
    It had been decades since anything commercial touched down at Bo. The years of civil wars and inter-tribal fighting that reduced Sierra Leone to the world’s poorest nation had effected every aspect of life there. Nowadays the only aircraft that ventured to Bo were the military variety that flew in, spent minimal time on the ground and then flew out again. Located a couple of kilometres south-west of Bo town, the airfield had definitely seen better days. Weeds and coarse bush grass now spiked through the cracked runway and a steaming jungle was forcing its way over the decaying perimeter fence. Not even Easy Jet landed there.
    Half way along the abandoned runway is a small car park, a group of sagging aircraft hangers and Bo’s derelict control tower. At the base of the tower groups of African Soldiers draped in AK47’s and RPG’s lounge around in any available shade. They smoke the local gat and chitchat in creole.
    A British soldier; tall, athletic looking with a tanned baldhead, sits halfway up the towers external metal staircase. Unshaven and dirty, he wears filthy worn out jungle combat gear, but the AK across his knees is clean and good to go. His hawk-like face and crows feet are testament to years of soldiering spent under a tropical sun. Military advisor Jack Lyndhurst pulls hard on a tatty hand rolled cigarette while gently drumming his fingers on the AK’s curved magazine.
    Along with the African troops below him, the quietly spoken Jack patiently waits in the heat and humidity for the UN Helicopters that will lift them all back to Freetown for a welcome shower and some hot food after their long border patrol.
    Jack was posted to SL as a military advisor to the country’s fledgling army. British foreign and defence policy had made a commitment to aid Sierra Leone in its reconstruction effort after a series of particularly brutal civil wars had reduced the place into blood soaked chaos.
    Previous British army operations had finally ended the violence and put an end to the almost medieval carnage that had swept the country for decades. The fact that the former colonial power had intervened and brought peace and stability to a troubled land was something that the white liberal tree-hugging community just could not get their head around.
    Perched on top of the daysack laid at his feet was