Seatrek

By T.S. Borrow

A hilarious satirical tale of two guys one white and one black after blotting their copybooks back home are thrown together as mercenaries in Africa. From border disputes to uncovering a source of blood diamonds, shipwrecked and captured by pirates our heroes go from one diabolical mess to another their journey is fast moving, extremely funny, includes blood and guts with a little sex thrown for good measure. Enjoy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467892322

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AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

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Phone: [phone]

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

|are the product of the Authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is coincidental

© 2011. T.S. Borrow. All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in

a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means

without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 1/14/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-7058-7

ISBN: 978-1-4678-9232-2 (ebk)

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or

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may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

DEDICATION

PART 1

PART 2

BLURB

SEATREK

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to ALEX for all her help in choosing the suitable hardware and software for this project, her hard assed bargaining skills learnt in the Arab Souks saved me a fortune .Her cheeky review she offered when I wasn’t looking and her subsequent comment to Mum that it was surprisingly, good gave me the boost I needed.

Somewhere up there on the family tree is the classical author George Borrow. Among his classics is The Bible in Spain, in which he writes of the journeys, adventures, and imprisonments of an Englishman. If Jan is correct and I am possessed, look no further. He was my inspiration to write.

Last but not least, Chelsea Downham, my Publishing consultant at my Publishers Author house, her personal touch and timely phone call got the Publishing ball rolling.

DEDICATION

To my wife Jan, who has never ceased to be amazed by my enthusiasm and passion to see this project through to completion. She claims I am possessed.

PART 1

I am BP (I call myself that because I gush and leak a lot) and my trusted garden worker is Ticky Tembo (Tics for short). Please note there is no old colonial racist nonsense here, we are buddies and on first name terms. I call him Tics and he calls me sir. When working in my garden, we are a team. He does the gardening and I lay in my hammock with a drop of the old amber nectar at hand, pointing out any blade of grass or weeds he has missed. He considers this positive help.

We met a couple of years ago, while both, for personal reasons, were serving as mercenaries in the little known Central African Republic of .Bongaland. My background, Eton and Sand Hurst, Queens Commission, I was serving in a front line regiment with rank of Captain. I Served in Iraq and Afghanistan with honour. Then the Shit hit the fan.

One forgettable weekend in Guildford, I was fulfilling an invitation to an old School friend’s wedding, Horace Dillywimple and Lady Alice Parsons no less. As usual, too much imbibing. I found myself sitting next to the anything but attractive Lady Penelope Smyth-Wharton. In fact, she is five foot high in heels and has measurements of 50, 50, 50. In other words, all square. She is the Only Daughter of Lord and Lady Smyth Wharton, world famous Pig pig farmers and Tory MP, currently serving as PPS to the ministry of Defence. In other words, he was my Boss of Bosses. The fact is, if Penelope fell naked into one of his sties, it would be hours before anyone would notice the difference and get her out.

I vaguely remember her asking me if I would like to visit her boudoir, which conveniently was upstairs. I would take any port in a storm, and the storm had been raging for some months now. Needless to say, she had her wicked way with me.

Some weeks later, her father in his role as PPS, was in touch to say that Penny was with Child. My child. He would like to meet to make urgent wedding arrangements.

When serving in the Army you are aware of a number of opportunities in foreign lands. It was to one of those I turned to, hence Bongaland.

Ticky Tembo, meanwhile, was a child during the Apartheid years in South Africa. He joined the SA Army in 1993 and in a very short time; he made it to the rank of Sergeant. He saw action in a number of neighbouring states, but was frustrated by the advancement of unqualified individuals to high rank while his status was unchanged. This led to him decking his commanding officer, and needing to find a new venue for his skills.

Welcome Ticky to Bongaland.

I arrived at the International Airport in Lukaka, capital of Bongaland, Having experienced a near death experience on Air Bongaland’s clapped out old Boeing 707 aircraft. The trouble began when we were twenty minutes out of Heathrow, when we discovered that they had failed to load food and drinks.

Don’t know about you but I don’t fly sober

Having arrived six hours early for my flight, I had spent some time in the bar, recovering from the interview I had earlier that day at Bongaland’s Embassy. The interview took approximately ten minutes. It involved a cup of coffee and the all-important question.

When can you start?

Right away. Was my answer. I was aware that old Piggy Wharton was closing in on me, complete with a loaded shotgun.

My Army rank, A Colonel no less, at least a Bongaland Army Colonel, assured me of a seat in first class. The only difference was that a curtain was drawn behind the first ten rows of seats.

Besides the absence of drinks and food, an electrical fault prevented us from reading, as the internal lights didn’t work. Strictly speaking, this excuse for a commercial airplane, should have been scrapped and definitely not flying.

Too late. We were up and away, and deep in prayer.

The guy in the seat next to me was a mining surveyor, travelling to Bongaland to explore the possibility of mining for Diamonds. It was also his first trip into Africa, so we have common ground and we both hoped that what we would find on the ground would be superior to what we had up here, we introduce ourselves and offered to share our bottles of duty free.

Tell me about mining diamonds, I asked, eager to distract myself from the thought of impending doom at the hands of Air Bonga.

Edward who, during our introductions, told me how he had qualified as a Geologist and attended a mining experience course at the School of mines in Cornwall. He had then gone on to work in the Western Australian mines for two years. The job in Bonga had been advertised in a mining gazette. Edward had been delighted, if not surprised, to get the job, of course he was young and inexperienced. The rest of the World mining community are aware of the local Bonga politics and avoid it like the plague.

At that precise moment in time, we couldn’t help but notice an unearthly noise emitting from the rear of the dividing curtain. My first thought was that this heap of crap, to put it nicely, was breaking up. Fortunately, it turned out to be a service trolley that had broken away from its moorings and crashed into a sleeping passenger who had dossed down in the aisle. In a fit of temper, he had propelled the trolley back up the aisle, causing mayhem in the cabin.

Panic over.

Edward had spent much of his short mining experience underground and it took more than an escaped trolley to rattle him.

He addressed my question about mining diamonds. "I am aware that diamonds are mined in South West Africa by the application of large mechanical scrapers. This is possibly due to the proliferation of diamond pipes in that area.

Diamond pipe, Edward went on to explain, is a fissure in the earth’s surface through which Nature propels these very precious stones from the bowels of the Earth to the surface.

Do you expect to find one of these pipes on this trip, I ask.

Very unlikely, Answered Edward. Stories about diamond pipes have abounded for many years and appear in local native folklore. My Company is sending me out there to explore the possibility of mining a specific area, an area from which most of the tales have sprung from.

How do you recognise a diamond in its rough state, Edward, I asked.

Call me Ted.

By this time, we were three quarters of the way through my litre bottle of duty free Scotch. Fortunately, water was available on board.

Rough diamonds are difficult to discern with the naked eye from stones, said my new friend. A couple of simple tests can be carried out by the amateur. The most common is cutting a pane of glass or the butter slide…more on that later. Having discovered my role in Bongaland’s Military, he suggested that I might keep my eyes peeled when out in the bush.

I won’t be in the bush, I exclaim. My rank entitles me to a large office and desk to fly. My days wandering about hunting out terrorists are well and truly over, I gush. If only I knew what was in store for me.

Look, says Ted. You’re bound to see a little of the countryside, so keep your eyes peeled and who knows your luck. I could even come to your Military Headquarters and give your men a talk on the subject.

I don’t know about that, I say, though I will think about looking myself.

Ted reached for his briefcase from the overhead locker, and produced a number of Photos

. You may have these you never know what you might find out there"

I took a look at the photos with the help of Ted’s pocket torch and realised the difficulty involved. Rough Diamonds are the size and shape of small stones, and there is nothing to indicate that underneath the dirt, it is all bright and sparkly.

How do I contact you, I asked.

Here is my card with my Cell phone number on it.

By this time we had well and truly finished off my Scotch and sleep was called for.

It was 6.30 am and we were about to land at Lukaka International Airport.

My first impressions from the air were those of absolute horror. The main airport building consists of a large corrugated roofed building with a number of similar smaller units to either side. There was no evidence of a control tower. I found that this was due to it being written off when, shortly after Independence from Colonial rule, one of the Bonga pilots flew a MIG19 fighter into it during a misjudged landing.

The Russians had gifted a dozen of them to the Bonga Air force. Thirty years later, two remain. They are now only flown by the two original Russian trainers, who have stayed on beyond their contracts, as Russia has forgotten to recall them.

Our landing, rather than three point was more like bouncy-bouncy

When the hell are we going to land

The Steward informed me that as I was to be greeted airside, I was to alight first. I bid Ted au revoir and exited via the stairs, which have been left at least a foot proud of the aircraft so one has to carefully alight onto this rickety contraption, grateful to be alive.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs was a six foot plus black Officer who wore the insignia of a Captain. He greeted me warmly. Welcome to Bongaland, Sir. I am Captain Ticky Tembo and have been appointed as your Aide De Camp, Sir.

So he was to be my gofer.

At this point, some asshole threw my beloved suitcase from the luggage hold above .On contact with the tarmac it broke open displaying all my dirty under ware for all to see. I told you I left in a hurry.

Ticky kindly gathered up my sole belongings and chucked them into the boot of the waiting staff car. The doors were being held open by a smartly turned Corporal who gave us the customarily salute.

Without further ado, we were on our way .The staff car was a relatively new Mercedes 500, and the driver took up the centre of the road"Bongas technically drive as we do, on the left.

Our car was fitted with a rack of flashing blue and red lights and the siren blared away, which was a good thing, for as we approached the roundabout at the junction with the main drag into Lukaka, our driver cut across to the right, forcing the traffic to pull over.

We received many waves from the chaos we have caused.

The Bongas seemed a very friendly bunch so far.

Fifteen miles into our journey, we entered the Lukaka high street. This was a welcome eye opener. Cairo Boulevard was truly such; a dual carriageway with the centre resplendent in massive shade trees, which were now in bloom, sporting beautiful large red flowers like nothing I have seen before. This beautiful display distracted from the line of rundown shops and office premises on either side of us. Half way down, we turned left, drove over a bridge, and drove along the aptly named Protea Avenue, again in full bloom. This time the trees on either side disguised the horrible rundown residential areas, which would become all too familiar to me.

We arrived at Military headquarters. The Guardhouse boom was lifted without any scrutiny of our credentials. In front was obviously the main office block, two stories of brick and a corrugated iron roof. A number of Nissan huts were in line to the rear of the building as were two large warehouses.

We entered that which was described by a sign as the reception area, and were met by an extremely smart corporal who, without hesitation, leads us up to the second floor and into a large office.

Rising from behind the gigantic desk is by far the biggest black man I have ever set eyes on. Idi Amin times two came to my mind .His uniform was that of a Major General and he is bedecked with medals From a boy scout medal to Bongalands own version of our Victoria Cross, he is wearing his cap the peak is covered in more gold leaf than Fort Knox. According to his name plate he was Major General Joseph Wanka. I have been assured that there were a lot of Wankas in Bongaland. In fact, the President was also called Wanka.

Our General was the first son of the President’s second wife, and though he looked fifty, he was only twenty-eight. According to Ticky, he had no formal training in Military matters and flopped out of school at ten. He kept a wooden printing block close by so that any document he had to approve was stamped!

The General welcomed me like a long lost friend. At this point, I should have been waking up to a potential problem for me. Unfortunately, due to the overnight flight, my guard was down.

The General passed me a thin folder. These are your orders, my friend, which Captain Tembo will run through with you tomorrow, on your way to your command post.

Again, a chance had just slipped by to make myself aware of what I was getting myself in to. I noted that Capt Tembo had had little or nothing to say and I rashly misinterpreted this as shyness. Meanwhile, the General has proposed lunch, at the Lukaka Incontinent Hotel. Yes that was the name. The Intercontinental group wouldn’t entertain them due to substandard health and safety. This snippet of information was kept from me!

On our arrival at the Hotel, I check into my room, showered, changed clothes, and joined my newfound friends in the bar .These were my type of guys.

The beer flowed like water and I was introduced to just about anybody who was anybody, from Business to Embassy. They were all there, hanging onto every word the General uttered. He was without doubt the big kahuna.

I noticed that the reception area was full of young professional ladies, but for some reason they didn’t enter the bar.

Ticky had now found his voice, thanks to the beer.

They are scared of the General he doesn’t believe in paying and he is HIV positive and doesn’t believe in wearing protection. The Bongas have the highest rate of Aids in the world" he says.

‘The International pharmaceutical companies thanks to the UN supply them with anti-virus drugs. Totally free. They distribute first to the ruling classes, then the middle, and what’s left, if any, goes to the Villagers. The Villagers are most at risk because the others with their fancy 4x 4s pay visits on the weekend and enjoy unprotected sex with the local girls. Thus they pass on the virus to those who have virtually no hope of drugs, and therefore they develop full blown AIDS.

Christ, this wasn’t a statement. It was a full-blown speech.

After my close call with death that was Piggy Wharton, I had no interest in the other sex, and now total abstinence was my calling.

We took our places in the dining room. Thank God, I am famished.

Our numbers had increased quite considerably. On my right, I had the Archbishop of Bongaland, and on my left, the Admiral of Bongaland’s navy. Yes, I was aware that Bongaland is landlocked, but it did have the river Zimber, which constitutes part of its border with Zimberland. The Admiral was in charge of a fleet of inflatables which patrol the Zimber, preventing any intrusions from that source by the Zimber people. He was also a Wanka, the first son of the President’s first wife. As the head of the Senior Service, he outranked our General, and he would succeed his Father when the time came. I had only been in Bongaland five minutes and I was keeping such hallowed company.

In the main, the lunchtime conversation was the problem of the Zimber insurgents and the way they had of helping themselves to the poor old Bonga’s Tractors and 4x4s not to mention their young ladies. This was carried out with impunity, as the Bongas had no way of combating it.

Until now,

Says my friend the Admiral.

"Why what’s