The Delta (57 page)

‘Don't shoot, don't shoot! American civilian, don't shoot!'

Sam? She couldn't see him, and couldn't believe what she was hearing, but there was no doubt the voice was his. The bloody fool, she thought. The mad, idiotic, gorgeous bloody fool.

‘Pass me my AK-47,' she heard a man say from up on top of the armoured vehicle.

Sonja reached up and wrapped her hands around the top of the tyre and heaved herself up.

Bang. Bang
.

‘Hey, don't shoot!'

Sonja groped for a handhold on the smooth cold steel skin of the BTR 60. The bloody man was opening fire on Sam – shooting first and asking questions later in case it was a trick. Smart guy, she thought.

‘He's got a grenade!' she heard the crewman yell.

She heard the squeak of rubber boots above her and as she found a climbing rung and pulled herself up on top of the vehicle she saw the green metal orb land and bounce along the roof right towards her. The crewman was too preoccupied climbing back into his turret to notice her. Sonja reached out and batted the grenade away and it rolled off the angled side of the Russian armoured car and into the river with a plop. She crawled across the top of the machine, using the machine-gun turret to conceal her from the sight of the panicked crewman and from the blast that she knew would come any second from the grenade.

The hatch slammed shut, but there was no explosion. Sonja looked around and saw Sam's head break the surface of the water. ‘Sam!' she hissed. He raised a hand and waved at her.

A burst of machine-gun fire raked the BTR 60, with half a dozen bullets zinging and ricocheting off the steel around her. Sonja ran along the water-slicked armour and slid down the sloping rear as the driver engaged gear and the car started to move. ‘Sam, hurry!'

He swam towards the rear of the vehicle as another long burst of fire landed in the water around him and pinged off the car. ‘Machine-gun on the dam wall,' Sonja said. She clung to a climbing rung at the back of the car, half in and half out of the water, and reached out her hand. Sam struck out towards her, then reached for her.

‘Got you,' she said. ‘You crazy bastard. What are you doing here?'

‘Coming to rescue you.'

Sonja almost laughed at the absurdity of the remark, but the machine-gun was joined by the
pop-pop
of rifles and more bullets started zeroing in on them.

‘Why are they firing at their own guys?' Sam asked, ducking his head half into the water as a bullet whizzed low over them.

‘They know they can't hurt the guys inside the armoured car, so they're trying to pick us off. The guys inside don't want to stick their heads out so my guess is they're going to just head towards shore. If we let go the soldiers on land will just pick us off.'

The BTR 60 turned for the riverbank and chugged slowly through the water.

‘And if we keep hanging on to this thing?'

‘They'll shoot us when we get to shore,' Sonja said.

‘Got any ideas?' Sam said.

‘Only the one.' Sonja undid the flap of a pouch on her combat vest while still hanging on to her rung with the other. Sam held onto another metal bracket. He pulled out a radio transmitter. ‘In case this doesn't work, Sam, for the record, I think I love you.'

He blinked water from his eyes. ‘Did I hear you right?'

‘I hope so. Now hold on.'

Sonja pressed a button in the middle of the transmitter and the sequential high explosive charges detonated. A bubble and geyser of water erupted from the surface of the lake, at the base of the dam wall, and a split second later an even bigger fountain shot into the night air. The shockwave created an instant rippling tsunami that fanned out from the site of the underwater explosion.

The BTR 60 bucked in the water as a wave washed over the vehicle's bow and threatened to capsize it. Crewmen inside were
yelling at each other as water gushed in through open hatches, but the car righted itself and didn't take in enough to sink. Sonja and Sam clung to the metal handholds on the back. Like the panicked crew, they didn't want to go under.

The gunfire from dry land had stopped. ‘The dam wall's still there, Sonja. It didn't work.' The waves had passed them and the water was calming.

‘Hold on,' Sonja said. ‘Just wait.'

He shook his head. The BTR's engine was vibrating beneath them and they were headed towards the shore again. ‘It didn't work,' he said, freeing one hand and wiping his face, then twisting his finger in one of his ears.

Sonja took his hand and placed it back on the bracket he'd been clinging to. ‘Hold on! Wait … listen … it's going!'

Another shake partially restored his hearing and he picked up the rumbling: soft at first and then slowly growing louder and stronger like an oncoming train. The water started to swirl on either side of them and the armoured car and he felt the stress on his arms increase as the BTR started moving faster through the water.

‘Hold ON!'

The explosion deep beneath the surface had fractured the dam and the pressure of the accumulated water was doing the rest. The base of the dam wall was cracking and the water, at first a few isolated jets shooting out under intense pressure, was now ripping its way through the barrier, dislodging concrete, earth and rocks, which were shooting out from the face of the dam like jagged cannonballs.

Sonja was grinning wildly as they hung on for their lives. The BTR 60's engine screamed as the driver floored his accelerator and tried to turn out of the riptide that was sucking them towards the dam wall.

The dam wall gave way and water rushed through the narrow gap. A swirling undertow dragged the armoured car towards the breach, faster than its screaming engine could resist. Sam felt like his arms were being ripped from their sockets and both he and Sonja yelled at the top of their lungs with pain and adrenaline and fear and wild exultation. The amphibious vehicle rode high on the wave that coursed through the breach but the stomach-lurching dip as they went over the gap forced their bodies to slap back down hard against the unforgiving angular steel edges of the armour. One of Sonja's hands was torn free but Sam reached out and grabbed it so that the pair of them hung there, one hand each on the vehicle and one on each other. They dragged themselves back to their respective handholds and waited for the ride to slow.

Down the Okavango they went, past farmland and mud huts on one side and the bush of the national park on the other. Hippos honked and snorted from the riverbanks where they had been grazing and lights came on along the shore in their wake. Sam watched as the river burst its banks, the mini tsunami inundating the land on either side of their path. Boats and
mekoro
s slipped their moorings and were drawn into the flood, racing behind and beside the Russian armoured car as it careened on, its engine powerless to change direction. Someone inside was screaming. Sam couldn't blame the crew for being terrified – he was as well.

As their movement gradually slowed Sam and Sonja were able to pull themselves up onto the back of the armoured car. They sat on the engine cover at the rear, panting and coughing water they'd both inadvertently swallowed. ‘Do you have another grenade?'

‘One,' Sam said, ‘but I don't want to kill these guys. They were just doing their job.'

She took the hand grenade from him. ‘I don't think there's much risk of that. Shush … listen.'

There was noise coming from inside the gunner's turret and the rasp of steel on steel was followed by a squeak as the hatch slowly began to open. As the gunner's head came into view Sonja grabbed the lip of the hatch and reefed it back. Sam grabbed the lapels of the soldier's fatigue shirt and hoisted him up. With the hatch fully open, Sonja wrapped an arm under his chin and rabbit punched him in the throat, killing off his alarm cry. The man tried to rise up as they pinned him on his back on the top of the armoured car, but Sam punched him hard enough in the chin to snap the man's head back against the steel. Sonja pointed to the side and she and Sam hefted the dazed gunner overboard. He landed with a splash, but immediately began flailing his arms and swimming, albeit poorly, towards shore.

‘Hey!' cried a voice from inside. ‘What's happening, comrade?'

‘This,
comrade!
' Sonja pulled the pin and dropped the grenade down the hatch.

The other two crewmen started screaming and scrabbling and the front two semicircular hatches, above the driver and commander's seats, popped open. Sonja was waiting, with pistol drawn, as the two men emerged, scrambling over each other in their rush to get out.

‘Move! Out of the way!' she said.

Sonja rode the rocking of the floating car easily, legs apart, her pistol hand raised. She inspected the men's uniforms. ‘Relax, lieutenant, corporal. I'm pretty sure that grenade was a dud. Now, if you'd be so kind as to leave us.'

The men looked at each other, as if wondering if they could overpower the woman. They glanced rearwards and saw Sam standing there, holding the pistol Sonja had given him. Sonja
took aim and fired a round just to the left of the officer's arm. The two men dived overboard.

‘Ever driven anything like this?' Sonja asked.

Sam smiled and shook his head.

‘Climb into the driver's seat, big boy. I'm taking you for the ride of your life.'

‘What do you call our little surf just then?'

‘Oh,' she grinned, ‘you ain't seen nothing, yet. Now we're going to war.'

Every time he pulled the trigger the recoil of the AK-47 sent a fresh shot of pain through his body. He was fairly sure he was dying.

Two army trucks were stopped at crazy angles across the road to Divundu in front of him. One was still engulfed in fire, with its burning tyres sending oily black pyres into the clear blue morning sky; the other was a charred, smoking skeleton. There were two bodies lying in the dirt at the edge of the highway and already half a dozen vultures were circling in a thermal high above them.

The last of the assault force of infantrymen from the Namibian Defence Force were retreating. Hans wasn't sorry that he'd missed the man he'd just fired at. There had already been enough killing. It wasn't their aim to destroy the NDF – just buy themselves some time.

He looked at the sky and his watch, then surveyed their position for the hundredth time since the sun had come up. Behind him was the long bridge over the Kwando River, with the police and customs barrier post on the other side, closer to Katima Mulilo. His troops had formed semicircular perimeters on either side of the bridge and he had men dug in on both banks of the virtually dry Kwando, upstream and downstream of the bridge. Hans's men had blocked the bridge by driving an old Volkswagen Golf hatchback and a Toyota
bakkie
owned by the local veterinary staff at the checkpoint onto the structure and shooting out the
tyres. Tactically, the river crossing wasn't a bad position to hold. He had good fields of fire in all directions and his perimeter was tight enough for his force of a hundred and thirty men to defend against ground attack.

They were very vulnerable, he knew, to air and artillery bombardment, so every second man was digging into the soft sandy soil as if his life depended on it. Until more of the NDF arrived every third man was foraging for timber, corrugated iron and any other bits of natural or man-made material they could find to reinforce their fighting pits.

Hans knew, as did all of his men, that if the Namibian government did not want to negotiate with the CLA and their political wing, the UDP, then they would all die here. His men were confined to a small space, hence their vulnerability to artillery shells and aerial bombardment. But if the government wanted to kill them that way then they would most likely lose the bridge as well, which they'd hesitate to do.

Strategically, Hans had cut a main arterial highway and put an end for the time being to tourist and commercial traffic between Namibia, eastern Botswana and Zambia. His men had already turned back several startled foreigners in rented four-by-fours and a party of rebels had driven in a commandeered Land Rover down to the luxury lodge and campground at Nambwa Island, about fourteen kilometres south of the bridge, and overseen an evacuation of the worried holidaymakers staying there.

It was no longer business as usual in the Caprivi Strip and if the government wasn't prepared to bomb or shell them out of existence, then they would have to negotiate. Hans was confident his men were well trained, armed and dug in enough to repel conventional infantry attacks for many days to come.

Edison, the young lieutenant and chief's son, had not been seriously wounded by Steele's bullet and was walking the line,
stopping to talk to his men and offering words of encouragement. He was a good man, and would make a fine leader of his people one day, Hans thought, unlike his pompous oaf of an uncle who had taken control of the CLA after his wiser brother had died.

‘How are they holding up, Edison?' Hans asked, then coughed.

‘The men are fine, sir. But I think you should rest a little while.'

‘Don't bloody tell me what to do.' The pain was making him irritable and he cursed his bad luck. He knew the boy was only worried for him. ‘I'm fine, Edison. Go check on the mortar crew.' Edison nodded and walked off.

Logistically they weren't completely cut off, but nor were they assured of support. A network of Caprivian women, children and older men were standing by to ferry more food and ammunition out of Botswana along the Kwando, though the Botswana Defence Force would get organised soon enough and put a halt to any more illegal cross-border movement. Hans figured they had four to six days to wait at the crossroads. By that time they would either all be dead, or a truce would have been negotiated. Hans had told his men they might need to hold on until the United Nations could be forced to intercede, though based on past form that never happened quickly.