I feel the JACKAL sway below me, the dust-red road unrolling in front and the stunted mahogany scrub flashing alongside. We pass women bent double under towering loads of firewood and are passed by young men on mopeds in turn. I make it a point to always wave - with my left hand only, the right stays welded to the .50 cal. You can always tell there’s a village ahead because the trees start to thin and the umber houses begin to multiply. They could have been built yesterday or a hundred years ago and the only thing that changes is th

I feel the JACKAL sway below me