Spears of Defiance

by David Holman

  Cunningham pondered. He was now intrigued. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem, Alex. I had to go there last week to get more information on these stolen missiles. We could head there after a bit of lunch, if you like?’

  Swan agreed to this idea. The more information he could get from talking to the crew, the better. He was also now hungry from the day’s proceedings, so far, and allowed Cunningham to lead the way to a restaurant.

  For lunch, Cunningham had insisted they try Biltong, a traditional meat dish of marinated beef strips served with Potbread. Cunningham explained the bread baked in a cast-iron pot, originated from the Boer settlers and was their stable diet. As they washed down their meal with locally produced red Syrah wine, Cunningham spoke more about the missing missiles, informing his English guests of the type of missiles and how they went missing from the weapons facility.

  Doing his homework for Operation Butterfly, Swan was familiar with this type of missile, the French- built AS-30 had been the standard air to surface weapon since the 1960s and had gone through many upgrades. A replacement, although a few years away was already on order with air forces who still had the old missile as part of their armoury.

  Cunningham then ordered the desserts, recommending Malva pudding, another old Boer recipe which was served with ice cream. He wanted to know more about why Swan and Gable were so eager to track down Munroe. He recalled Swan mentioning explosives when they had spoken to Solly Leith.

  ‘So, Alex. What’s this about Semtex?’

  Swan explained to him about the incident in London and how it had followed Munroe and his Irish companion meeting with the Libyan arms dealer. Still carrying a bitter taste after what he had witnessed at Camp Echo, he decided again to leave out what had happened to Ramir. He continued, informing Cunningham of the shipment, and of the unknown operation in Rhodesia. Then as they sipped their extremely strong, South African coffee, Swan was asked about his interest in the Buccaneer aircraft.

  Gable looked at his colleague, wondering if he would reveal the details of Butterfly to a foreign agent.

  There was no need to worry, Swan came across as theoretical, saying suggesting the aircraft was a formidable war machine and in the wrong hands could be lethal. Remembering what Janet had said to him earlier, he informed Cunningham of when the Buccaneer was sold to his country, being transported by ship from the port near the factory in Hull. He went on to talk about another British aircraft and how the Buccaneer ended up replacing the Rapier as the RAF’s main strike platform.

  Although suspecting Swan was not telling him everything, Cunningham then changed the subject. ‘Any theories as what Munroe could be up to in Rhodesia?’

  Swan nodded. ‘What we have so far, is that he needs explosives, has tried to recruit a member of his old team, of which I fear he has contacted others, so whatever this operation is, it is something big.’

  An hour later, Cunningham showed his credentials to the guard at the main gate of Waterkloof Airbase.

  Being the Day of the Vow, the base was a hive of activity. Groundcrew were zipping back and forth in small trucks, hooking and unhooking trailers to pull aircraft in and out of hangars.

  Over the far side of the airfield next to the main runway, Swan spied the two Buccaneers which had taken part in the flypast. More groundcrew were around them as they secured the red safety Remove Before Flight tags into various parts on the airframes; the two sets of crews were now having lunch.

  The three men met with the station commander who was introduced to Swan and Gable. The commander, Colin Williams, asked Cunningham for an update into the investigation of the stolen missiles and was disappointed to hear that no further progress had been made. Cunningham then asked him if he could meet with a crew member associated with the Buccaneer.

  A short while later they were joined by a Major Wim Anders, an old veteran on the type, having flown them since they had first arrived at the base. He had also been part of the initial evaluation team in England, flying with Fleet Air Arm pilots on maritime exercises. He went on to give the men what was almost his complete flight history on the aircraft, telling of how he took part in the destruction of two stricken oil tankers, having learned how the Royal Navy had handled the wreck of the Torrey Canyon, by using their Buccaneers to drop bombs and napalm on the stricken ship, which leaked crude oil off the coast of Cornwall. There were also the counter-insurgency operations in Angola and Zambia of which some of his colleagues had been lost in fatal crashes.

  Swan wanted to know about the performance of the aircraft. ‘Can you tell me, Major, what its range is?’

  Anders nodded. ‘About two thousand nautical miles.’

  Swan realised this covered a big area. If the plane was in Rhodesia, it could reach all parts of the country without having to refuel. ‘And how many of these AS-30 missiles can it carry at one time?’

  ‘Two, one on a pylon under each wing.’

  ‘And how does the missile home in on target?’

  Anders explained to him, the navigator releases the missile and guides it manually using a command line of sight system to its target, by monitoring a TV screen in the cockpit, with a radio link to the weapon. ‘I can tell you that this is not an easy task for my navigator to plot courses and deliver a missile at the same time, even worse when flying a single-seat Mirage and having to do everything yourself.’

  Swan was thinking about how the stolen missiles and the Buccaneer were beginning to link-up. Then, remembering the diagrams in the file on Locust Rain, he had seen at Porton Down, he felt like he had been hit by an express train. He suddenly felt sick. Was it a possibility these missiles could be used with the biotoxin and fired at a specific target from the stolen Buccaneer? He turned to Cunningham who with Andrew Gable were deeply engrossed in the information given to them by the old pilot. ‘I think I know where your stolen missiles are,’ he announced.

  Cunningham suddenly moved his interest. ‘Where, Alex?’

  It was Swan’s turn to take the floor. ‘Before I reveal this, I would like to ask the Major something. Do you know if there are any Rhodesian aircraft capable of using this missile?’

  Anders was lost in thought. He knew the types of combat aircraft their air force had. ‘They’re too big for a Hunter. Maybe they could use a Canberra, but they’re not as versatile as say a Mirage or Buccaneer.’

  Swan smiled appreciatively. ‘Thank you, Major. Your input to this has been most invaluable.’

  Everyone was suddenly confused with Swan’s response; even more that he decided to not say anything further.

  It was as they were leaving the base that Cunningham in no longer being able to control his despair, slammed on the brakes of his car.

  ‘So come on Alex, man. Where are the missiles? And, why all the questions to the Major, about the Buccaneer?’

  ‘All in good time, Peter,’ Swan teased.

  Cunningham tutted, shaking his head. ‘You guys haven’t really been straight with me, have you? So, why don’t we go back to the office, and perhaps you can tell me everything.’

  Swan smiled. ‘With pleasure, Peter. We’re also going to need a geographical map of Rhodesia.’

  The South African was now even more confused, and until they had arrived back at the Union Building, he had not said another word.

  The warm afternoon African sun shone through the tops of the Jacaranda trees and into the office of the National Intelligence Service situated in the left wing of the Union Building. Inside the office, along the white walls, the shadows of the leaves outside danced across a framed photograph of a landscape. The three men were huddled over a map of Southern Rhodesia, an area soon to be officially recognised as Zimbabwe. In the interim, following the dissolution of UDI, the temporary Muzorewa government had adopted the un-official transitional name of Zimbabwe-Rhodesia. This seemed to have also been adopted by the media.

  As they supped more strong coffee, Swan perused the border crossings on the map. He was particularly interested in the crossing point of Beitbri
dge, the main route into the country from South Africa, across the Limpopo river. There were some things he needed to know, such as the attitude at the crossing, details on the personnel and what checks are carried out on the vehicles. Holding a pencil, he pointed to the area on the map. ‘How are things here at Beitbridge?’

  Cunningham stared at the tip of the pencil as Swan made it form a small lead circle. ‘They’re pretty tight down there. The place is bloody chaos most of the time. As for the vehicles, Alex, every single one is checked thoroughly, and a mirror passed underneath before being let through. There’s been a few guerrilla attacks there over the years, so a small barracks holds around thirty men at one time, round the clock. Also, we have a lot of trouble with black refugees crossing the Limpopo at night.’

  Swan nodded, continuing to stare at the map. ‘What about bribes?’

  Cunningham laughed. ‘We have an old saying here, line a Rhodesian border guard’s pockets and he’ll build you your own archway.’

  Swan had suspected this was the case. He remembered his time in Cyprus during the crisis of 1974, when on the way to Nicosia International Airport, the RAF officer they were with had to hand over bottles of whisky and cigarettes to get through both Greek and Turkish road blocks. It seemed also that Third World countries only had one rule - bata for everything. Given the circumstances, this didn’t help matters. There was no doubt the missiles could have easily crossed at Beitbridge.

  Cunningham was impatient. ‘So, if you think the missiles have gone to Rhodesia. Which is what I’m guessing right now. Who stole them?’

  Gable also looked at his colleague with the same look of intrigue on his face. ‘Alex?’

  Swan raised his head and looked at his watch. ‘Before I tell you, I’m going to need to call Thames House, this should confirm my theory.’

  Cunningham pushed the telephone over to him. ‘Please, be my guest. Put me out of this misery.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Swan put down the receiver, having spoken in length with John Stratton and making notes on the pad in front of him. There had been several things he needed to know, such as the latest transcripts from the MI5 phone tap on Henry Mallinson.

  Following Gable’s report on his findings in the port offices, it was suggested by Swan to keep an eye on the British shipping magnate, and now it looked as though this particular seed had bared some fruit. He also had checked with his friend it would be okay to reveal details of Butterfly, to the South Africans.

  He picked up the pad, it certainly now made some interesting reading. ‘Okay, this is what I can tell you.’

  In a short while, now being fully briefed on Operation Butterfly, Cunningham’s jaw suddenly dropped in disbelief. ‘Jesus. So, this guy, Mallinson could be behind both what happened to your missing plane and the missiles?’

  ‘It seems so, Peter.’ Swan raised a hand. ‘But, that’s not all. We believe that an experimental bio-toxin will be released into the rivers which could render the whole region a desert for centuries.’

  Cunningham was stunned. ‘We’re the only air force apart from your RAF, who have Buccaneers, Alex. If this plane is seen delivering this stuff, we’re going to get the blame, man.’ The South African needed to know more. ‘So how do you think this is going to be done?’

  Swan looked down again at the map. ‘When Andrew and I were at Porton Down, we were told this bio-toxin, called Locust Rain, works its horrible magic over a period of time in fast-flowing rivers.’ He took the pencil and pointed to a few areas. ‘Here’s the Limpopo, to the south, we have the Zambezi, here to the north.’ Swan’s face dropped. ‘Dear God. Look at how all the tributaries flow from these two rivers into the country: the Sengwa, the Gwai, the Umniati - the whole country is full of small rivers, which obviously make it ideal for its home-grown agricultural needs.’

  Cunningham interrupted. ‘That’s not all, is it guys? These rivers don’t just stop at the Rhodesian borders, do they? This madman could wipe out the whole of Southern Africa with this stuff.’

  Swan referred back to the notes. ‘According to the MI5 transcript, Mallinson made two calls this morning to Rhodesia. One was to Government House in Salisbury, the other was to somewhere else. John’s team are trying to trace it for us.’ He pointed to the place on the map. ‘The conversation mentioned something called Cascade. The name Toby, was also mentioned and reference to his family. I’m guessing this Toby is Toby Gifford, the test pilot who left the Brough factory to take on his family’s farm, after they were killed by terrorists.’

  Cunningham could feel his blood pressure rising. ‘Cascade sounds like a waterfall, doesn’t it guys. You don’t suppose they’re going to fire these missiles into Victoria Falls, do you?’

  Gable surveyed the area on the map. ‘That would send the Locust Rain into Botswana. What would be the point of that?’

  Swan nodded. ‘I agree with Andrew. It has no value and considering Mallinson also has arranged for Gifford to leave the farm, this suggests the aim is for the bio-toxin to affect the new Zimbabwe.’

  ‘Which makes perfect sense, they’ll be mass famine bringing the newly-elected government to its knees.’ Cunningham added.

  They all looked at the map again. Cascade meant a waterfall; however, they had discounted the famed Victoria Falls from being the target.

  Gable started to search around the map. ‘What would cause a body of water to cascade apart from a waterfall?’ He looked up at Cunningham, then something caught his eye, the leafy shadows from the Jacaranda trees were still swaying around the frame of the photograph - the photograph of a dam. ‘Where’s that?’

  Cunningham looked at him puzzled to what he was asking him. ‘Where’s what?’ Gable pointed to the picture.

  ‘This dam?’

  Cunningham nodded. ‘That’s the Caborra Bassa, on the Zambezi.’

  Swan was now also staring at the picture. He studied its features, the curved concrete wall, but he especially paid attention to the eight controlled sluices allowing water to flow through. He then glanced down at his notes - Cascade. ‘If you need a waterfall where you need it to be - why not make your own?’

  Cunningham turned to the picture. ‘That dam controls power to Mozambique. If this was the target, then this Locust Rain would run downriver to the coast. Again, it just doesn’t make any sense - unless,’ He put his eyes back onto the map and locating the dam, moved left along the Zambezi to Lake Kariba; then he felt his heart give a flutter. ‘Oh Christ!’

  ‘What is it Peter?’ Swan was curious to the fact that his South African counterpart, had suddenly turned white.

  ‘The Caborra Bassa wouldn’t be suitable for what Locust Rain needs to do - but, if the Kariba Dam was breached, it would send thousands of gallons of water into these rivers. The only thing is, Jericho Kuwani has his whole camp there. The Buccaneer wouldn’t get close enough to release the missiles before it was shot down by DAGA’s air defences’

  Swan let out a gasp. ‘Of course! Thinking about what Leith had told us about the mission to take out the Strela missile launchers, could be so they can’t prevent the Buccaneer from attacking the dam.’

  ‘That would make perfect sense to me,’ added Gable.

  The three men stared up at the picture on the wall again as if sharing telepathic thoughts as the water cascaded down from the sluice vents. Up to this moment, Cunningham had taken the image of the dam for granted, something to look at now and again as a change to the trees and city structures. If the Kariba Dam was the target, they needed to now know two things: When precisely would this be and from where?

  Swan moved around the room. ‘I think we need to go to Salisbury. Somehow, Munroe is still connected to all this, and I was thinking if we could find him, he may be able to tell us more about it.’

  Gable picked up the pad from the desk. ‘I don’t think it was Munroe who Mallinson called in Salisbury. The transcript reads it was from Government House, why would he be there?’

  Swan returned to the desk. ‘Indeed, An
drew. I’m beginning to fear, as well as Gifford and Mallinson, this Cascade operation, could have other players.’

  Cunningham agreed. There had to be other people involved. He accepted Swan’s idea of going to Salisbury. It was a feasible one. What he wasn’t comfortable with, was having to go to Government House. There was more than a remote possibility he could bump into Damien Wyatt and the prospect of seeing his old boss again, was something which filled him with dread.

  Swan drew to a quick conclusion. ‘We need to find out the location of Gifford’s farm. My guess is we can get this information from the Agricultural Minister’s office. ‘I’ll make another phone call to Thames House. Perhaps, Stratton can pull a few strings and get me in there. If we can find the farm, I’m sure we’ll soon find this airstrip.’

  The others agreed. Outside, the sun was beginning to set. They had spent the last few hours predicting the outcome should the Locust Rain find its way into the rivers system, how it would then flood the lands and seep into the soil, then over time, act as a potent herbicide to render the land useless.

  Cunningham had then suggested he would cut into the office’s budget again to take them to dinner before their planned trip across the border.

  19

  Phillip Munroe stared out of his window on the first floor of the Meikles Hotel.

  Since his arrival, in Salisbury, he had ventured no further than the bar downstairs. His thoughts were still of Siobhan Hennessy and what had happened in London. A rage churned inside him, as if trying to tell him it was all his fault. Also, having his mugshot on every English-speaking newspaper, hadn’t helped with the grief he was feeling. He touched a hand to his stubble. It was coming, but needed a few more days to alter his appearance. He thought about dyeing his hair, but had decided the short crop to the inch of his skull he had gotten in Cape Town, was sufficient enough to not resemble the photofit.

  Although a television was in his room, he had not switched it on in case of seeing her again. He had friends here, friends he could rely on to help if needed. He also had plenty of thinking to do. The job Mallinson wanted, was no longer on. Whatever had happened with the Libyan, was the catalyst in the events that followed. Then, there was the appearance of the Irishmen, Kerrigan’s men. It was this brigade leader who had had them followed, that was certain, but was he responsible for her being killed? He needed time to work this out. Yes, his friends here could easily get the explosives he needed, but it was when he had tried to contact the shipping magnate, he had decided he was no longer in his employ. The way the butler, Jempson, had brushed off the call, stating his master was not available until the end of the week, had helped him reach this conclusion. The last thing a respectable, yet devious man in society needed on his staff, was an international fugitive.