Atomic Gold

By Cameron Jacks

When a prospecting team from his company is slaughtered in Sudan, a brilliant young geologist is sent to investigate, uncovering an insidious communist plot that only he can stop.
Logan Bechard had barely graduated from Oxford University when he was hired by his uncle’s world-leading mining company, EMco. CEO Sir James Rochester saw his nephew’s immense potential from an early age, becoming a father figure to him after the tragic death of Logan’s own father in a mining accident. It was clear that the young geologist’s pedigree made him perfect for Rochester’s team of hardened specialists, and Bechard quickly proved his worth, devising highly technical methods for the recovery of lucrative minerals and receiving worldwide recognition for his work. With the help of Pierre Charest – his long-time friend and fearless protector – Logan journeys from the frozen coal mines of Siberia to the treacherous rainforests of Africa, ensuring the planet’s precious resources are harvested safely. But when they are sent to look into the massacre of an EMco prospecting team in southern Sudan, they uncover an ominous international plot for Russian world dominance and must join forces with local freedom fighters to prevent chaos from ensuing.
Dmitry Kouzminov, the director of the Russian foreign intelligence service and a hard-line communist, has become increasingly disillusioned with the west after the collapse of his beloved soviet union. As the world clamours for precious industrial minerals, he seizes the opportunity to bring it to its knees with deadly aggression. Enlisting the Janjaweed, a murderous band of executioners raiding the killing fields of Darfur, Kouzminov aims to take control of a critical mineral reserve by deadly force. As Bechard and his team are only too aware, the ransacked mining operation is one of the few places on earth producing a rarefied mineral called ‘molybdenum’ and a communist stranglehold on it would mean untold devastation. As Kouzminov’s malevolent designs on this invaluable resource become clear, Logan and his ragtag team of freedom fighters must wage a ferocious battle for survival.
Atomic Gold is the explosive debut by author Cameron Jacks, and introduces a fearless new hero in Logan Bechard. the reader is thrust headlong into Bechard’s perilous exploits, as he must fight not only for his life but to save the world from a terrifying communist campaign for international dominance. Jacks masterfully blends high-stakes action with poignant real world issues like dwindling fossil fuel supplies and the justice and equality movement which is fighting for south Sudan’s independence against Khartoum’s Islamic state. a thrilling debut with a global awareness and a very contemporary conscience, Atomic Gold makes for the perfect 21st century action-adventure novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cameron Jacks
• Release date: Jan 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9780957316522

Cameron Jacks

Born in 1961, Cameron Jacks grew up in the Scottish border town of Lockerbie where sporting endeavour, rather than academic prowess, dominated his teenage years. He studied Architecture at Dundee University. After many years in private practice his career moved away from design towards business management. Further studies added a business degree to his academic portfolio, before he established his own property development company in 2004. These academic and business challenges, together with a love of adventure stories, sparked a growing fascination for the written word which finally matured in 2011 when he finished writing his first novel – Atomic Gold. Cameron lives with his wife in Oxfordshire but is building a house on the small Hebridean island of Colonsay and hopes to move there soon. When he is not writing, he likes to relax on long walks, or catch up on the latest sporting events from around the world. He has a passion for all sports, fast cars, watches and cooking great food.

Book preview

ATOMIC

GOLD

by

CAMERON

J A C K S

Copyright © Cameron Jacks 2012

Atomic Gold

Copyright © Cameron Jacks 2012. All rights reserved.

First ebook edition 2013

The Colonsay Project – Publishing, Teme House, Banbury Road, Finmere, Buckingham. MK18 4BW.

The moral right of Cameron Jacks to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of both the publisher of the book and the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by The Colonsay Project – Publishing at Smashwords

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-9573165-2-2

Cover Illustration by Larry Rostant

www.rostant.com

Cover Artwork by Peter Cotton Design Ltd.

www.petercottondesign.co.uk

Chapter 1

May 1990

He had never known any other place.

For as long as he could remember he had struggled to survive along with the thousands of other desperate souls that were forced to call this place home. All displaced from lands far to the north. His mother, father and three sisters – his only family – had been forced to flee after their village had been destroyed by unseen forces, for unknown reasons. Ajani Bankole was only two years old and spent most of the long arduous journey south and west, towards the border with neighbouring Chad, strapped to his mother’s side.

It became so dangerous to continue their flight that they decided to stop and rest awhile. That was five years ago. They now live, huddled together, in a flimsy tent-like structure that is part canvas sack, part plastic sheet and part woven twigs. After many days of searching, Mother Earth had provided the twigs. The sack came courtesy of strangers, generous people from far away lands, and was delivered on the back of a truck. It’s faded blue UNHCR logo clear evidence of its charitable origins, its precious contents long gone.

Similar white structures stretched as far as the eye could see, and probably beyond. A desolate sun bleached landscape, constantly sand blasted by dust and swirling winds, seemingly devoid of life, yet heaving with a mass of hidden humanity.

This was Abu Shouk, home to more than fifty-five thousand displaced people.

The Darfur region of Western Sudan has long been synonymous with refugees, human suffering and crimes against humanity. Decades of rebellions and conflict, driven by feelings of discrimination and economic neglect, have combined with the natural forces, of drought and desertification, to leave the region an empty carcass of a place, long ago stripped bare of anything worthwhile.

This was Abu Shouk, situated just to the east of the town of Al Fashir in North Darfur.

This day started in the same way as all the others that Ajani could remember. His younger sister crying, desperate for food, his father’s tuberculosis riddled body unable to do much more than sustain a heartbeat. His mother had never really recovered from the trek to this place and was severely malnourished, her children’s need for food always far greater than her own. As the only man in the family capable of such efforts, he knew his duty was to go and find food to ease their pain.

Leaving the shelter of their tent, he immediately noticed something different. The sun was still baking hot, even at such an early hour, and the dust was still billowing, scouring his bare skin. Last night, the guns had remained unusually silent so, normally under such circumstances, people would be slow to emerge from their uninterrupted, hard-earned slumber. There was, however, substantially more activity than usual about the camp. A definite buzz of anticipation was spreading by word of mouth as more and more people emerged from their night-time shelter.

Several old men, thin to the bone, rode around on their, equally thin, donkeys. Seemingly, today they had a purpose. Mothers and fathers, less sick than his, gathered in small groups talking animatedly. He listened intently to their voices, struggling at first with the unfamiliar dialect of their particular tribe. With hundreds of tribes all speaking different dialects concentrated in this relatively small area, there was no guarantee of immediate understanding when communicating with strangers.

Yes, yes, it is today they are coming, the white lady from the big truck told me; she did, yes she did. That’s what she told me, said a very tall man, gesticulating towards a convoy of trucks that were leaving that part of the camp.

No it can’t be true, replied an old hag of a woman, showing off the gaps in her teeth as she spoke.

Maybe the white lady has been in the sun too much again, a third member of the group quipped.

Ajani did not dare interrupt his elders despite his frustration at not knowing what it was they were talking about. Instead he waited. After much talk about the departing white woman’s ability, or lack of it, to cope with the heat, the conversation turned again to what she had said.

It is definitely today that the flying white trucks will appear in the sky and drop their parcels of food to us, revealed one of the men, pointing upward to the clear blue cloudless sky, with a long bony finger. He was very tall, standing surprisingly erect for one so old, head and shoulders above his contemporaries, such noble posture a sure sign of his Dinka tribal roots. Ajani had to strain his neck to see the man’s wizened face.

On hearing those words, Ajani raced back to his family as fast as his skinny legs could carry him. He relayed the stories he had heard, word for word, and promised his parents he would not let them down when the food parcels dropped from the sky. He would be waiting, ready to claim their survival.

****

The airstrip was no more than an empty area of dusty orange-brown sand. Tyre tracks of previous aircraft movements were the only telltale signs that this was more than scrubland. There was a piece of faded yellow cloth seemingly caught right at the very top of a lone thorn bush at one end of the strip. To any approaching pilots it was a key indicator of wind speed and direction, to the uninitiated, it was just and old piece of clothing snagged on a bush, being teased and tortured by the wind.

At the northern end of the airstrip, men were busy working inside a large rectangular building. It only had one entrance, a massive eight and a half metres high by thirty metres wide sliding, folding door. Its brown paint flaked and distressed under the constant attack from the searing temperatures. The door was not fully closed, leaving a gap in the middle, allowing men to squeeze in and out.

The building was home to an Antonov An-26, twin-engined turboprop transport aircraft, NATO reporting name Curl.

The pilot and crew were inside the cockpit carrying out their pre-flight checks. With its cargo already loaded and secured in place, the large ramp to the rear of the fuselage began to close.

Two of the ground crew, one on each side, slotted long handles into position and began to crank them round and round. The mechanical clanking and screeching that followed signalled the opening of the hangar’s huge doors. The process was slow, and for the two men, a huge physical effort in the heat – but eventually the doors were fully open, revealing the pristine white aircraft.

The pilot fired up one engine and then the other, before gently pushing the two levers to his right, forward. There was a maelstrom of dust and debris. Empty cans, left carelessly strewn on the hangar floor, were now being tossed around as if they were paper cups. Any residue of their contents splattered indiscriminately on walls and floor alike. The two men by the doors immediately took cover, dropping the crank handles and cursing as the stinging dust stuck to their sweat-covered bodies. The rest of the service crew turned their backs and shielded their faces from the onslaught.

The pilot carefully manoeuvred the plane out of the hangar, with less than half a metre to spare between the wingtips and the edges of the newly created opening. It was a delicate operation. As the plane slowly taxied out into the full glare of the sun, its two metre high black UN markings stood out almost proudly against the white fuselage. As it reached the end of the runway the plane was directly in line with the multitude of tyre tracks. With no air traffic control there was no take-off protocol to follow, so they could leave whenever they wanted to.

The pilot pushed the throttles to their stops and the Curl accelerated along the runway until it reached its take off speed. He needed to use all the power at his disposal to make sure the fully laden plane reached its cruising altitude, and at just the right moment, he engaged the Auxiliary Power Unit sending the Curl soaring upwards and onwards towards its destination.

The dishevelled ground crew watched as the landing gear disappeared into the fuselage and the plane climbed into the cloudless sky, the start of a journey to deliver its cargo to the suffering, displaced masses of the refugee camps.

With the plane now a distant speck, his charges turned to face the wrath of their superior. The two door operators picked up their crank handles and started the reverse process to close the doors.

Right you lot, what a mess! Whose bright idea was it to leave all the cans lying about? shouted the senior member of the ground crew.

Half an hour of frantic activity and the men had returned a semblance of order to the hangar and were almost ready to leave. They used rags soaked in petrol to wipe their hands and faces and rid themselves of any incriminating splashes and smears of paint.

Right, leave me the can and get into the truck, quickly, was the boss’s last order of the day.

The team turned and ran for the doors, squeezing out, one by one, through the gap. Once outside they raced for the truck, pushing and shoving each other, laughing and joking as they jostled for pole position – the driver’s seat.

Alone in the hangar, their boss gathered up the remaining rags and threw them into the skip. He picked up the jerry can and liberally doused the contents of the small heavy metal bin. With one last look at the jumbled mess that only half filled the large metal bin, he struck a match and tossed it towards the day’s debris. The contents of the bin instantly exploded in a huge ball of flames, extinguishing all evidence of their activity.

As the truck sped away, leaving only a cloud of dust trailing in its wake, he knew that no one would ever see the empty tins of white and black paint, all the brushes and rollers and the countless rags they had used to paint the plane.

****

Ajani had witnessed the arrival of the planes once before. He had seen for himself the chaotic stampede of thousands of desperate, starving people towards the open ground designated by the white people as the target corridor.

He did not understand the words, but he knew what was going to happen later that day.

In remote areas where no landing strips are available, the UN agencies arrange for aid to be dropped out of the back of an aircraft, usually a Lockheed Hercules C-130. The pilot flies the plane at a fourteen-degree angle as low, and as slow, as is possible, almost to the point of stalling. With the loadmaster securely attached to a safety harness positioned near the exit ramp to the rear of the cargo bay, the rear door opens and supplies are rolled out. Aid is thus dropped along a three to four kilometre long target corridor.

He knew his quest for food parcels would be a huge task to carry out alone, and one that would ultimately fail if he didn’t muster some support from his two best friends, in fact his only two friends. Both boys were older, but that never made any difference, they liked his bright spirit and quick mind. Ajani always felt safer with them around.

Kajombo, The Boot, was named after the size 8 black, army boot that he wore on his left foot, the result of a landmine explosion that killed his parents and blew off his toes. He was lucky and escaped with his life.

The boot was still too big for him, but its laces were tied tight around his ankle, keeping the makeshift prosthetic in place. The fact that his other foot was bare, and his right leg therefore shorter, didn’t bother him. The resulting limp was a small price to pay for having such a huge lump to kick things with, mainly other boys or goats.

Ajani knew this particular asset might come in useful in the following hours.

His other friend was Mukiri, The Silent One. Ajani had never heard him speak a single word since they met four years ago. He’d drifted into the camp alone. The rumour was that he had witnessed such atrocities committed against his family that the trauma severely damaged the part of his brain that controlled his speech. Mukiri slept in a small shack made from twigs next to the Bankole’s shelter, and had become a surrogate brother for Ajani over the years.

Ajani knew he could depend on his mute friend’s complete loyalty, even in the tightest of situations.

Ajani found both the boys loitering around one of the camp’s many makeshift water stations. There had been no water for the last few days, but the station had become a meeting point and was always busy despite the lack of water. He knew his friends would be there as they had little else to do. Children in the camp rarely played games, saving their energy instead for more important things, like trying to find food or water and generally just staying alive.

Jombo, Muki, over here, he shouted, using their nicknames.

Jani, the little one, why are you so excited? The day is too young for such high energy, calm down! replied Jombo as he limped over to greet his friend.

Muki followed close behind, smiling with delight at seeing his ‘brother’ had lived through the night, and knowing he would spend another day close by his side.

Have you heard the news? The white planes are coming today! Ajani said.

He then proceeded to recount, for the second time that day, and still word for word, all the stories he had heard about the impending delivery. His two accomplices listened intently to the increasingly exaggerated tales until, at last, Ajani fell silent.

Should we go? It will be dangerous for us? Jombo asked.

Yes, but I have an idea, replied Ajani.

Oh no little one, please not another of your great ideas! Save us all, Jombo teased.

Jombo, please, this is no time for jokes. We could bring back enough food for at least a month. Are you with me? Ajani knew the answer to his own question, but asked it anyway.

What do you think Muki, shall we help our little friend today? Jombo continued in his light-hearted way.

Muki, playing along, looked to the skies and pondered for several minutes before turning to his friends, smiling and nodding furiously. With a loud cheer, the three boys briefly danced around an imaginary food parcel, before sitting down on a long, bleached tree trunk to hatch their plans.

Once again, the two older boys listened as Ajani described each element of his carefully thought out plan.

OK, Jombo, you’ve seen the planes before and you know what it’s like. People swamp the first parcels in an instant. As soon as they hit the ground and break open, hundreds of people are clambering over each other to get to the food, said Ajani.

Ah yes, I remember the last time. I almost lost my boot, when my leg got stuck between two women fighting over a bag of rice, Jombo replied checking his bootlaces were extra tight.

We need to keep clear of those first parcels, and concentrate on the very last parcel as it falls from the plane. Everybody else will already be fighting over the first ten or so boxes. If we are quick, and head straight for it, we should be able to get to the last parcel before anyone else does, Ajani said, confident his plan would bring much happiness to his friends and family.

Before the sun is at its highest, we should go to the top of the ridge, overlooking the target corridor.

The what? Jombo said, turning to his mute friend with a puzzled look, then to Ajani. What on earth is a target corridor?

That’s how the white people describe the area where all the food lands, Ajani went on. From the top of the ridge we will be able to see the white plane approaching and see all the parcels fall to the ground. As the last one comes out of the plane we can guess where it will land and run as fast as we can to the correct spot. Ajani’s plan was now fully explained.

Brilliant, I knew there was a reason why you are my best friend, Jombo joked, wrapping his little friend in his version of a bear hug.

The three boys got up off the tree trunk and started on their trek up to the ridge. It would probably take them a good hour, especially now that the sun was beginning to climb high in the sky and the temperature was accelerating to its normal forty degrees.

****

KGB Internal Memo

25th May 1990

From: Field Agent 23E5TSU

To: Dmitry Kouzminov, Director

Subject: FAE’s

Comrade Director,

Source unknown. Trying to track down now. Other news agencies are not picking up the story, so far. I’ll ensure they don’t. Copy of UK newspaper report regarding supply of FAE’s to Sudan follows:

Illegal bombs for Sudan

Sudan Government takes shipment of Russian made FAE bombs despite imminent UN condemnation

Ray Cameron, Africa Correspondent, Khartoum

Government sources in Khartoum have unofficially confirmed that their military have taken delivery of a shipment of Russian made ordinance. The bombs are believed to be the latest version of FAE’s or Fuel-Air Explosive bombs – ODAB-500PM’s.

FAE represents the military application of a devastating effect that is often found in a variety of industries where dust or vapour are prevalent – such as coal mining, grain storage, woodworking and paper processing – where the build-up of dust or vapour has been ignited by a spark, causing serious explosions and fires in industrial plants.

Fuel-air explosives were first developed and used in Vietnam, by the US. Soviet scientists were quick to copy, developing their own devices. There is some evidence of these being used against China in a 1969 border dispute.

This type of bomb was designed to work most effectively in confined spaces, concrete bunkers and built up areas where the solid enclosures allow the shock waves created to rebound and intensify. Their destructive capability is comparable to that of a low-yield nuclear bomb.

The devices consist of a container of fuel and two separate explosive charges. The first charge blasts open the container dispersing the fuel in a cloud that mixes with the oxygen in the air. The second charge then detonates the cloud creating a massive blast wave.

The Russians nicknamed the ordinance ‘vacuum bombs’ after the rarefaction, a drop in pressure below atmospheric pressure that results after the initial explosion. The blast kill mechanism against living targets is unique and highly unpleasant. Whilst those near the ignition point are vaporised, those at the fringe suffer internal injuries such as burst eardrums, severe concussion, ruptured lungs and even blindness. In addition, the fuel is highly toxic. Targets that have not been severely burned, but inhaled burning fuel, will be poisoned as if they had suffered massive exposure to the worst chemical agents. Those unluckier still not to be rendered unconscious will suffer for several minutes while they suffocate.

Whilst these types of bombs have not been outlawed by the UN, a spokesperson for the organisation confirmed that a report is due for publication next month detailing plans to try and restrict their future production.

Thankfully no mention of quantities, but they are accurate on the effects. Perhaps you should audit the security at the Sudanese end of things.

Ends

23E5TSU

****

The boys trekked slowly along with the hundreds and hundreds of other people heading out of the camp, all hoping against hope that the white plane would come and they would be lucky enough to secure some food from its parcels.

After about half an hour, Ajani led the boys away from the herd and started the climb up the ridge. They were now travelling at ninety degrees to the long line of thousands of people drifting along to where they thought food would be. The further the boys walked, the higher they climbed, and the more they could see of the huge mass of starving people stretching out below them. A huge dust cloud hung in the air all around the column, evidence of its shuffling movement.

Ajani was relieved that no one had followed them. This would have been a huge dent in their ambition to get to that last parcel first.

Come on Jombo, we’re nearly there, he called out, seeing his friend begin to struggle with his boot and associated limp on the uneven, sloping ground.

Yeh, yeh, yeh, you’ve been saying that since we started to climb, puffed Jombo.

Ajani stopped and the other two caught him up. They were now standing on the edge of a twenty metre high ridge that ran about a kilometre before flattening out again. It wasn’t particularly high, but still gave them a commanding view of the plains stretching out in front of them. Turning round, they could also see the camp, a city of hope and despair, stretching out to the horizon and beyond. White smoke from small fires spiralled into the sky at various points across the vista – from this distance, the only visible sign of life.

They could see a large group of people had gathered at the base of the ridge away to their right. It looked as if there was some unseen gate that everybody had to squeeze through, causing a bottleneck of people to bulge out from the advancing column.

The truth was nobody knew where to go, so as they rounded the end of the ridge they just stopped.

This was also good Ajani thought. People were not spreading out along the target corridor, instead staying at one end. This is where the first parcels would drop if everything went to plan.

By the time the sun was at its highest, ten thousand people waited below the boy’s vantage point. Some sitting, some lying down, some still with the energy to stand – all were starving. Even the old men on their donkeys were there, hopeful their beasts of burden would have a busy day ahead. Most people were wearing white cloth robes, a sea of dusty white, interspersed by waves of colour from hundreds of small groups of women who wore brightly coloured material draped over their heads and round their bodies. Blues, turquoise, yellows and greens.

Unlike most normal crowds of this size, people were near silent. Hardly a sound could be heard from the thousands of congregated soles. An eerie silence hung in the air and was mixed with a sense of anticipation at the thought of much needed sustenance.

The boys sat down and waited too, equally silent, each with their own thoughts and hopes for what was to come.

****

It was Muki who noticed it first.

It is said of people who have lost a sense that their other senses compensate and become sharper; this mute was no different. He heard the distant drone of the plane’s turbo props long before anyone else.

He immediately got up and scanned the distant skies way to the northwest, squinting against the brightness. His eyes scrolled across the distant blue, one way then the other, as if he was operating some sort of built in radar system. It was a speck, nothing more, but he saw it first, its fuselage sometimes catching the sun’s rays and sending them in a flash, like a warning light, towards Muki and the boys.

Muki turned and shook his friends out of their heat-induced semi-slumber, pointing to the ever-larger dot in the sky.

Ok, Muki, what is it? asked Ajani.

No sooner had he asked the question, than he knew the answer. He followed Muki’s pointed finger right into the path of the incoming plane.

All three boys, with adrenalin starting to course through their veins, dusted themselves down, their body language more upright and alert, ready to execute their plan.

The plane was clearly visible now and the low-pitched buzzing of its engine getting louder by the minute as it continued its approach. It had also been spotted by the gathered masses at the bottom of the ridge. Word soon spread and the huge crowd began to stir, generating its own signature cloud of dust once again.

Several minutes passed before Ajani could make out in more detail the features of the plane. He was looking for two things, a white plane and the huge black UN letters on its fuselage. His heart raced when he was finally able to make out both.

This is it boys, let’s get ready. Jombo, make sure your boot is tight and Muki stay close, he said rallying his troops.

The plane began its descent, flying on a parallel course with the ridge; it was probably about two kilometres away. In the cockpit, the pilot flipped a toggle switch.

Stand by for first approach, he ordered. Loading ramp opening now.

Roger that, came the response from the loadmaster at the back of the cargo bay.

At that moment the loading ramp started to swing down revealing the orange brown baked earth, passing in a blur, no more than sixty metres below. The crew inside were all securely fastened to safety harnesses to stop them being sucked out of the, now gaping, hole at the back of the plane.

From the ground, Ajani didn’t see the ramp opening as the plane was flying towards him. It wasn’t until it was level with the thousands of people at the end of the ridge that he saw the huge hole in the back of the plane, this was good, this was how it happened before.

The plane continued on its path about forty metres above the boys, all noise and spinning propellers, speeding past at five hundred kilometres an hour. It was so close now; a huge shiny white, lifesaving, mechanical bird, almost close enough to touch. Ajani could see the pilot look out to his left and down at the boys, he even raised a gloved hand to wave at them. The boys returned the gesture, frantically waving their whole arms in joy and anticipation of the pilot’s impending charitable gifts.

Unlike the previous drop Ajani had witnessed, nothing came out of the back of the plane on this first pass. Instead, the plane tilted its wings and banked, climbing as it did so, to nearly two hundred metres.

They were just having a look. They’re coming round again. Get ready! Ajani shouted, pointing to the plane, which had flown a half circle and was now lined up parallel with the ridge, but much higher and away to his right again.

This time, as the plane got nearer, five small cylinders fell out of the back of the plane. Ajani was surprised how small they were, he was expecting large pallets of cardboard boxes all taped together that would burst open on impact. Maybe this was a new kind of nutritious food. Maybe it was a special tablet that was so small it didn’t need boxes. Yes, he had seen the white lady swallow tablets when she had spent too much time in the sun. They’d made her well again. That’s what it must be, hundreds of tiny special pills. His young imaginative mind, fuelled by an oversupply of adrenalin, was working overtime.

He visually calculated that the first three cylinders would fall short of the crowd away to his right – all according to plan. The fourth cylinder was going to land right on top of the gathered ranks of hungry people still standing at the end of the ridge – even better. The last cylinder, however, was going to fall some five hundred metres short of where the boys were standing – much too close to the crowd.

They were too far away.

They were in the wrong place; Ajani had miscalculated.

By the time they would get to the last cylinder it would already be swamped by hundreds of people all fighting for its contents. They didn’t stand a chance.

His heart sank and his knees gave way. Tears began to stream down his face. His two companions, also following the path of the cylinders, made the same calculations and realising their plight, they too fell to the ground.

Through his tears, Ajani looked up just in time to see small parachutes open out from the tail of all five cylinders in quick succession. The cylinders were now floating down to greet the expectant crowds. Huge circles of people were now forming under each of the cylinders, hands outstretched, reaching upwards towards their salvation, tens of thousands of upturned faces willing the descending objects to the ground.

When the first cylinder was fifty