Hyena Dawn (59 page)

Lois flew close to the ground, following the road that led towards Beira. He knew he had to reach the shoreline fast. Flying inland would be disastrous - he had no points to navigate by, and they could easily go in the wrong direction, wasting both valuable fuel and time. The gauges below him glowed eerily, and he scanned them anxiously to make sure that everything on board the chopper was functioning as it should.

Rayne came round and pulled the giant hatch closed so that he and Sam were enclosed in the dark fuselage. He could hardly believe that it was all over. It felt strange - to be safe.

‘
Where’s Tongogara?’

‘
Dead.’ Sam’s face was streaming with tears. ‘He knocked you out and then threw you in the hold. He and Mnangagwa stayed on the ground, drawing off the Russian fire so that we could get away. Oh Rayne!’ She put her arms round him and buried her head in his chest, clasping him tightly. He saw at once that she had been in love with Tongogara. And Tongogara had saved their lives.

It was now, when he should have felt relief, the satisfaction of a job well done, that the rage and the bitterness really welled up in him. How many good men had been lost tonight? How many acts of heroism had gone unrewarded - except by agony and death? They had died by treachery.

Sitting there in the throbbing darkness, holding Sam’s hand, Rayne thought of John Fry. He thought of Bernard Aschaar too. There was no way he was going to leave the score unsettled.

Rayne and John

The crowd of black fighters were gathered together in the wet Mozambican darkness. There was none of the happy anticipation that usually characterised such meetings, the laughter, the singing. They all knew why they had been summoned.

In the distance, torches flamed as their leader appeared. They saw the glint of light on his glasses. He climbed onto the roof of a truck and stood above them. There was utter silence. The rain fell steadily.

Mugabe began, ‘The war is over for us. The Rhodesians have struck yet again. The forces of Western imperialism again threaten the independence of the peoples of Africa.’

A murmur of assent rose from the crowd.

‘
Our Russian friends have failed us. We needed major air support to launch the attack on Salisbury. The Russians, who claimed they were omnipotent with their modern fighters, were easily outwitted by our enemies. Every Russian plane has been destroyed. There will be no attack on Salisbury.’

A stunned silence descended on the crowd. Unmoved, Mugabe went on.

‘
This, I say, is a good thing. As Africans we must stand aloof from that kind of aid. It is the foreigners who have always held us in subjugation, it is the foreigners who made us poor and powerless in our own lands. They must be defeated!’

The applause that greeted this command was tumultuous.

‘
I know that you are sick of fighting, but you must forget your sickness. We must fight on. And though for the time being you must lay down your rifles and return to the land of your birth for the forthcoming elections, remember that the elections, too, are a contest, a battle that we must win. The Matabele dogs to the west must never rule over the Shona peoples. Our victory must be complete and overwhelming. You must make sure that the people vote for the people. If the Russians want our friendship after such a victory, they must bring us food before guns and treaties!’

The crowd was screaming now with excitement.

‘
What happened tonight was a victory for the people. We will never have an obligation to these Russians. Now each man will have his own land, his own house, his own vote, and his children will be able to stand proud in his memory. Long live Zimbabwe!’

The applause was overwhelming, and Robert Mugabe climbed off the car into the arms of his supporters.

Lois put the chopper gently down on the undulating runway and watched the grass flatten under the force of the rotor blades. The moment they were down, he killed the engine and began shouting instructions for hiding the machine. He had landed as close to the trees as possible. Now it was a matter of taking the rope he had in the fuselage and winching the machine under the branches. It would have been impossible for them on their own, but Lois had brought along a giant ratchet used by lumberjacks for hauling logs up a slope. They attached it to a tree and began to lever in the helicopter, clearing away the lower branches as it disappeared under the leafy canopy.

By the time they had finished, they were completely exhausted. They had crossed the South African border at dawn that morning, and stopped briefly to refuel in the green wilds of Tongaland. Now they were in the Transkei, not far from Port St Johns, at a deserted airfield Rayne knew of from his Selous Scout days. The place was perfectly situated in the middle of nowhere.

Rayne led them down the winding path towards the house. Nothing had changed since he had been there years ago, the key was hidden exactly where he remembered. Lois and Sam were too shattered to make it to the bedroom and curled up at once on the main carpet. In a matter of minutes they were both fast asleep.

Rayne willed himself to stay awake. He moved out onto the balcony and the sea air went some way towards reviving him. He was sure they would come looking, and he wanted to prove his suspicion correct. It was just a question of how long he would have to wait.

Two hours later his patience was rewarded. The giant Mirage jet appeared on the horizon like a magical silver bird. It was criss-crossing the sky, moving slowly down the coastline. He shivered as it came towards him and when he heard its engines at last, he instinctively ducked for cover - but not before he had clearly identified the livery of the South African Defence Force.

He need not have worried. All the pilot saw below him was a deserted house and a particularly attractive deserted beach.

When she first came down to the beach, he could tell she was unaware of his presence. It was typical of her that she had found her way down there without knowing that there was a way at all.

Her long blonde hair blew in the wind, exposing the strong jaw, the high cheekbones and wide sensuous mouth. Her eyes were fixed on the waves, and she tore off her clothes as he had done and bounded towards the white, thunderous surf.

He felt himself aroused by her nakedness, the full firm breasts, the legs that seemed to go on forever. The appetite that had remained dormant for so long woke, hungry, and he sprinted into the waves after her, strong and erect with anticipation. She swung round with surprise. Then there was the coming-together, the embrace in the fresh blue water of the Indian Ocean.

He led her across the beach and into the dense leafy forest that surrounded it.

Under the shadows of the trees he pressed himself against her naked body.

Her hands gripped his buttocks, kneading, and pulled him into her. There was to be no slow foreplay, only the satisfaction of a long, smouldering desire. His toes gripped the leafy soil and she straddled him and wrapped her long legs around his torso. He could hear her screaming with excitement and his own body moved in rhythm to her own.

He came once, and then again. All the while he could feel the multiple orgasms that rippled through her body like the endless succession of waves smashing against the sand of the beach. It was the fulfilment of all they felt for each other, the long-hidden desires that now cried for release.

When they walked up from the beach together, hand in hand, Lois was lying straddled over his silver bird. He was working on the big in its hiding place in the trees, and there was green paint lying all over the ground as he worked feverishly with a flat spatula, peeling long lengths of it from the fuselage. He was stripped down to a pair of shorts, and soaked in sweat.

‘
This stuff works like a dream, man, I’ve nearly finished. All I’ll need to do is paint on some false civilian numbers and we’ll be fine. I can repaint some parts of the fuselage with whatever’s left in that storeroom where you found the paint-stripper.’

Rayne saw the guns and the rocket-launchers lying on the ground. The helicopter looked completely different without them.

‘
Do you think we’ll be able to fly out tomorrow?’

‘
Definitely. We can fill up with the fuel that’s left here and we should make Johannesburg easily, if that’s where you want to

go-’

‘
Yes, but I don’t want to be seen.’

‘
I know a private landing strip where, if you’ve got money, no questions are asked.’

‘
Then we’re on for tomorrow.’

John Fry sat in his office in the Pretoria headquarters of CIA Southern Africa. He had an untasted cup of coffee at his elbow, and he was sweating. He couldn’t remember ever feeling like this before - terrified, desperate, and powerless. The last twelve hours had been a slow descent into nightmare.

They had begun well enough - exceptionally well, in fact. He’d started the day by reading the
Rand Daily Mail
account of the Beira assault. ‘When Will The Killing Stop? Mercenary Force Wipes Out Beira’ the headline ran, and it had been an innocuous little article, referring merely to a ‘sophisticated military action’ by an unnamed power. The 7 a.m. news on the SABC’s English Service hadn’t been nearly so coy. ‘After yesterday afternoon’s raid on Beira the British Foreign Office handed out a tersely worded statement condemning the action as foolish and irresponsible. Lord Haversham said that it was about time the Rhodesians learnt that the rule of the gun was over in their part of Africa . . .’

He’d enjoyed that hugely - it was just as he might have written it himself! Of course, the Rhodesians would be furious with him for conning them into believing that the action
wouldn’t
be seen as theirs - but what could they do about it now? As it was, he’d nicely pulled off his own private show, efficiently eliminated all personnel, and above all, got those safe-deposit boxes destroyed. Now he was safe. Now the evidence of his involvement with the KGB was gone for good, and he could easily carry on with his career as their most effective double agent. He’d smiled to himself, considering the Russian situation now. Vorotnikov’s bid for power in the Soviet government was over. No doubt the KGB would now move in and establish its own links with the new Zimbabwe government.

And so it was in a happy and relaxed frame of mind that he’d sat down an hour later to listen to the recorded report of his operative in Beira.

‘
Time, 8 a.m., Beira station,’ the cold voice declared. ‘Report two men and one woman escaped in Bell-Huey gunship. Probable destination South Africa. ZANLA third-in-command Joshua Tongogara enabled escape of Captain Rayne Gallagher and captured American journalist Samantha Elliot. Identity of helicopter pilot unknown.’

That was when the nightmare had begun.

His first move - he’d put his hand to the phone even before the report was finished - was to ring Sarel van der Spuy, head of South African Intelligence, and spin him a cock-and-bull story about a Bell Huey helicopter - the very one implicated in the killing of ‘Iron Man’ Viljoen - being seen near the Mozambique border; according to his intelligence reports, Fry told him, the helicopter was in the hands of Russian agents. Van der Spuy had fallen for it hook, line and sinker. ‘We’ll get the bastards!’ he’d bellowed down the phone. ‘Don’t you worry, John!’

Smiling grimly, John Fry had put the phone down and sat back to consider the position in more detail.

It was that incompetent Martin Long who had recommended Gallagher to him . . . And Gallagher was now a serious threat. He’d had the foresight to organise his own escape, and he’d got out alive with first-hand evidence of the whole operation, including his force’s final betrayal. What if he came looking for revenge? Captain Gallagher was just the sort of man who would want to avenge his friends. He was the sort of man who did what he thought was right, and never mind the consequences; the sort of man you couldn’t rely on to obey orders . . . suppose he hadn’t obeyed the order to destroy the safe-deposit boxes, so that those vital documents were lying around in Beira for anyone to find? Or supposing Gallagher himself had taken the documents?