Spears of Defiance

by David Holman

  Swan nodded. ‘We’ve teamed up, on the trail of two stolen air to surface missiles, which we now believe to have come across the border and are being used by Gifford.’

  Wyatt was intrigued. ‘And just how is he going to use them?’

  Swan grinned. ‘Would you believe it if I was to tell you, by using a Buccaneer stolen from Britain?’

  Wyatt paused to suddenly take this all in. ‘And there’s me thinking that he was just going to fly over the dam in some little Cessna and drop the phial into the lake.’

  ‘No, Damien. Gifford was a Buccaneer test pilot in the UK. He intends fly the plane and release the missiles loaded with the biotoxin into the Kariba Dam.’

  Wyatt suddenly took on a more authoritarian air. ‘Right, I’ll get back and get an assault force together.’ He turned on his heel, then halted. ‘By the way, who is the other South African?’

  ‘The reason we came. We were in pursuit of Phillip Munroe, a mercenary who I now believe is working for Cunningham.’

  Wyatt shook his head. ‘I don’t think I know him. What makes you think he’s NIS?’

  Swan winced in pain as he coughed. ‘Let’s just call it what my old colleague used to say, who as a matter of fact is Andrew’s father. He would have called it a detective’s hunch.’

  Wyatt nodded his appreciation. ‘I know exactly what you mean. I was a detective in the South African Police before moving over to BOSS.’ He gave Swan a concerned look. ‘You take care of yourself, old man. I’ll be in touch.’

  Swan watched Wyatt disappear into the corridor. ‘Old man’, he thought. It was the first time he had ever been called that. Maybe Janet was right?

  26

  Out on the Wankie and Bulawayo Road, Phillip Munroe brought the Leopard into a clearing and having sat in the oil drum-like cab for the last two and a half hours, they planned a short stop to stretch their legs.

  First to climb out, was Andrew Gable and with his feet now on the ground, he stretched out his arms in the direction of the setting sun. They had less than eight hours to the high tide on the Zambezi and according to the moving-map display, Munroe had estimated they were just over half way. They would also need time to reconnoitre the farm in order to weigh up the situation before going in. For this particular task, Cunningham decided Munroe’s proven combat experience would be useful. If there was a full force present, they would need everything they had using the Leopard’s resources. They would also expect that to get the best results from the breached dam, the Buccaneer would most probably take off to coincide with the Zambezi tide.

  All three men strolled around the clearing, taking in the cool early evening air.

  Gable then spied a fallen tree and moving over to it, sat down and lit a cigarette. It was the first since leaving Nash’s house, and it felt good. Exhaling the tobacco, he looked across at Munroe who was playing with his Soviet-made pistol. ‘Looks like you’ve used one of them before?’

  Munroe glanced back at him over the barrel, but didn’t say anything. He had been too distracted at something behind Gable’s right foot. His eyes widened with terror. He replied to the Englishman’s comment, but what he said with a whisper, had no relation to the weapon in his hands. ‘Andrew,’ he said softly, ‘freeze! Don’t move. Your life may depend on it, man.’

  Gable stared at Munroe, meeting his anxious stare.

  Cunningham was to the side of him, also mesmerised by the long grey band moving stealthily in the brush.

  The mercenary measured up the situation. The position of where it was to where Gable sat, would make it difficult to shoot at with the Makarov. He could inadvertently shoot the Englishmen in the leg.

  Without moving, he desperately scanned the ground, soon finding what he was looking for near the rear tyre of the Leopard. Then, with minuscule movement, glided over, and with his eyes still on the creature, he crouched to pick up the broken branch which had at some point thankfully detached itself from the fallen tree.

  Now holding it, he edged his way to the side of Gable.

  Gable knew he daren’t turn around to see what had suddenly created this drama. Without saying it, Munroe had described it clearly with his eyes. He remained still. His cigarette burning down to the butt. He then suddenly realised, that even a drop of ash could have an effect. This was something he had never encountered before, and from the way Munroe was transfixed, concentrating solely on whatever it was behind him, it was obviously very dangerous. He suddenly remembered his last evening at home, and what Sandra had found in their refuse shed. How wrong he had been by telling her he wouldn’t be going anywhere near a jungle.

  Cunningham also stood rigid on the spot, studying Munroe as the South African ex-Recce trooper moved closer to it.

  As if now seeking out its kill, the viper slithered nearer towards Gable’s black boot, its forked tongue feeling the air.

  Reaching at arm’s length with the stick, Munroe carefully placed it behind the snake’s thin tail. Then, with a few deep breaths, he moved the V-shaped prongs to brush it up over the body.

  The snake stopped as if it had just felt something and started to arch in curiosity to this sudden strange, yet soothing feeling.

  Munroe was well aware that should it turn its head now, it could turn on him, but its head stayed looking forward, the flicking tongue still punching the air.

  Monroe then continued, moving the stick further up the body, until he had reached its neck.

  Gable was completely unaware what was going on four feet behind him. All he could do was wait, and hope.

  The viper ceased its advance. Conscious to something stroking it, it swayed its menacing head from side to side, as if enjoying this new sensation, and writhing its body, moved closer towards Gable, but having done so, the V-shaped prongs were almost back further down towards the tail.

  Munroe’s face creased. He cursed silently, realising he would have to move the stick again.

  The snake was now three feet away from Gable’s left foot and sensing danger, the body began to coil. It was getting ready to strike. Arching, it gave a loud hiss, then pulled its head back and like it had done countless times before when stalking its prey, it prepared itself for the lunge of attack, but this time, it had suddenly found itself unable to. It writhed in protest under the prongs of Munroe’s stick which had finally trapped its snarling head.

  Pushing the fanged creature’s cranium more into the ground, Munroe screamed at the Englishman. ‘Run man!’ His full concentration was still on the trapped reptile as its tail slashed at the air as if searching for whatever was denying it from its intended victim.

  Gable didn’t need telling twice, and with lightning speed, leapt off the log, throwing himself into the safety of the Leopard.

  Outside, Cunningham relaxed a little watching in awe as Munroe carefully knelt and still staking down the snake’s head, grabbed the tail with his other hand, then with one propelling movement, turned his body and threw the snake high and far into a copse of trees.

  Cunningham followed its trajectory as it wriggled in the air and sank into the foliage. At that moment, he didn’t care whether it had been killed by its fall or knocked cold to wake up with one hell of a headache. He sighed with sheer relief and, as Munroe walked silently past him, suggested they all get as far away from here, as soon as possible.

  Inside the Leopard, Munroe caught Gable examining his ankle. ‘Don’t worry Andrew, if that Mamba had bitten you, you’ll soon know about it by now, man. Believe me, I’ve seen what happens.’ He then handed him the stick he had used on the snake. ‘Here, have a souvenir.’

  Gable pulled up his sock and rolling down his trouser leg tucked it inside his boot. He turned to him. He had stopped shaking, but on hearing the snake was a Black Mamba, he could feel his heart pumping again. ‘So, what would’ve happened to me if it did?’

  Munroe paused to light a cigarette then threw the packet at Gable. ‘Well, for starters,’ he blew out some smoke and waved his cigarette, ‘you wouldn’t be able t
o move your leg like that because your muscles would be paralysed. The venom attacks the nervous system. Your eyes would be bloodshot by now, you’ll have trouble breathing cos your lungs wouldn’t be working, and you’ll be sweating like a pig. Due to the shock, you’ll be constantly vomiting till there’s nothing left in your stomach.’

  Gable fumbled nervously trying to light his cigarette. ‘So how long is it before you’re dead?’ ‘Depends man. The quickest time is about twenty-one minutes. If you have a strong heart, you may last about two hours, which means there is a chance you’ll get some help. But seeing we are miles away from getting any anti-venom, I reckon, if it had bitten you, you’ll be at death’s door right now.’

  Gable gave a relieving smile. ‘Thank God you were there. So where did you learn to do that trick?’

  ‘In the Recces. It’s an old bushman’s trick. We have to do it as part of selection.’

  ‘What if it bites you?’

  Munroe grinned. ‘Then you fail the course, if you get my meaning.’

  Gable dropped his cigarette. It was now all too much for the Englishman and with one leap, he jumped out and doubled-up to release his fear. Wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his borrowed camouflaged smock, he then returned to the vehicle.

  Cunningham showed his concern. ‘Are you okay, Andrew?’

  ‘I am now, thanks, Peter,’ Gable nodded. He then gave a sheepish look at his saviour. ‘I wouldn’t usually ask this, but I’m desperate for a pee. You wouldn’t mind coming with me, would you, Phil?’ He picked up the pronged stick, ‘and I think we better take this as well.’

  *

  It was still the early hours of the morning, when having lay awake almost all night in his hospital bed, Alex Swan had decided enough was enough.

  After calling Janet at the hotel, he had managed to get himself dressed and she now found herself stuck between her husband and the protesting night-duty doctor, insisting he stay until the morning. Despite this advice, Swan was determined to leave the hospital, and gathering his jacket, shuffled outside to an awaiting taxi.

  Now back in the hotel, Swan was still restless. He checked his watch. London would still be sleeping. He was desperate to talk with John Stratton, tell him what he knew and what was about to happen. His thoughts then turned to his colleagues. They would hopefully be somewhere near the farm by now, looking over the place. Although, both Gable and Cunningham would be out of their comfort zones, he was assured the fieldcraft skills of Phillip Munroe would see them through. The plan was to gather as much information as possible about the location. How many men did Gifford have? What sort of resistance would they be up against? Suddenly, he considered Wyatt’s offer of a crack squad to intercept the farm with the K-Cars. At least they would be in a position to match whatever force was waiting for them, rather than sending three men against an army.

  Janet had ordered a bottle of whisky from Room Service. She thought it may help her husband relax and perhaps even get a few hours’ sleep. She reached for the tray, passed it to him and looked at her watch. Although it was still pitch black outside the first-floor window, it was almost Five o’clock in the morning. She watched attentively as he took a few sips of the glass. ‘I’m hoping that will at least calm you down.’ She sat beside him and stroked his forehead, indicating to his injuries. ‘Apart from being all worked up, how do you feel?’

  Swan took another sip and sighed. ‘Hurts like bloody hell.’

  Janet sympathised with him. ‘You can’t have any more painkillers right now, so we’ll have to rely on the scotch.’ She got up to get herself undressed. ‘I suggest you don’t move too much. I don’t mind sleeping in the chair.’

  Swan gave her a contemptuous look. ‘Right now, I want you right here,’ he spat, patting the bed.

  Janet smiled, releasing the arm straps, she allowed her patterned dress to fall to the floor. Despite the fan spinning above their heads, It was still hot. Sliding in naked beside him, she nuzzled into his right side. ‘In that case, this is where I’ll be.’ She took his hand and kissed it, then closed her eyes.

  He glanced down and stroked her auburn hair. ‘I’m really glad you came all this way, my darling,’ he turned his head to check the time again, ‘I suppose a few hours won’t hurt. Somehow, I think we’re going to need it.’

  27

  In thick woodland, a few hundred yards from Haldenbrook Farm, Phillip Munroe peered through binoculars at the grounds below. From his raised position, the early light was just enough to make out certain things around the site. Earlier, he had noticed a man carrying what looked like an automatic rifle going over his own footsteps, an action which soon convinced the South African he could be looking at a sentry. He had watched the figure for several minutes before moving in for a closer look.

  Back at the Leopard, Gable and Cunningham we’re adding the finishing touches to the crude camouflage they had been tasked by Munroe to use to conceal the vehicle.

  From time to time, after putting the branches of foliage in place, Gable would scan the ground around him, determined not to repeat the previous evening’s incident with the Mamba.

  Cunningham checked his watch. ‘Six thirty-five. According to your Pommie intel, we have two hours.’

  Gable nodded. ‘We can’t really make any plan, until Munroe comes back with all the news.’

  Back outside the farm, Munroe lay prone on the ground.

  A hive of activity had suddenly started up around the hangar. The sentry had now been relieved, and in his place two more armed guards looked on, as other men opened the hangar doors. There were also two others. They were busy untangling what appeared to be white electric cable from a drum. What were they up to? It was then another thought had crossed his mind. Having checked out these men, deciding they all looked quite fit, it had suddenly occurred some of them could well be old pals from his Recce days. One of them walked over to a group of parked farm vehicles and climbed into a blue tractor.

  Munroe heard the engine start up and studied the machine as it reversed up to the hangar and disappeared inside. He could just make out some other men hooking up a bar to the back of it. Another man then moved in front of the tractor and gestured for the driver to move forward.

  The vehicle juddered as if struggling to pull its recently attached load, then it moved slowly away from the building, the bar behind pulling the nose and front wheel of the aircraft into the rays of the rising sun. With its outer wings still in the folded position, the Buccaneer crept out on its own undercarriage. The canopy for the tandem cockpit was slid back open.

  Munroe took in the size of the plane. The last time he had seen it, was in the barn near Brough, when he had assisted with wrapping it in the oilskin sheets and loading it onto the trailer. He noticed it was still in the green and grey European camouflage with low-visibility red and blue RAF roundels under the cockpit. Why had these been left in place? Surely it would have been easier to repaint in the colours of the South African Air Force. His earlier thoughts were confirmed. They were his fellow countrymen down there; the Pommies were going to foot the blame for all this. He recalled the news reports in the London hotel; the remaining white-settlers hoping for the help from the British that hadn’t come. But what those men didn’t know, was how powerful the Locust Rain would be as it slowly seeped further into the southern soil destroying the tobacco plots and the vineyards in its path, and along with it, the livelihood of many South Africans. If these men really knew it all, they could be turned? Then, having reminded himself about the hotel, and the argument they had had, Siobhan Hennessy entered his thoughts again. But he needed to focus on what he was witnessing right now. This had to be prevented, and it was going to be down to three men against a small army.

  He moved his binoculars onto the two white darts hanging down under the wings of the plane and a sudden chill ran down his spine. There was no more speculation these were just a myth. This thing needed to be stopped. He scanned the perimeter fencing around where the aircraft was now static, wat
ching carefully as the driver of the tractor climbed out of the cab and went to assist in detaching the tow bar from the nose wheel of the Buccaneer. Ahead of the aircraft lay the long stretch of black tarmac set down by McDougall.

  Munroe put down his binoculars. It was time to return to the others. He slithered backwards, and as he turned, something niggled at the back of his mind. He looked back at the scene and raised the binoculars again to view the men handling the cable. They had now progressed to feeding it around the eaves of the building. This quickly led former Recce to one conclusion, and sliding down the bank, he dissolved into the trees to inform the others.

  *

  In the Ambassador Hotel in Salisbury, Alex Swan had managed to sleep awhile and was now on the telephone to Thames House in London.

  John Stratton had not long been served his first coffee of the day by his PA, Hayley Thomas. She had been part of his life for almost 18 years, having moved departments with him when Swan had left his post as Head of A Section to form SID. Thomas had at first felt unappreciated by her boss, but over the years, he had mellowed of his gruff attitude and she had grown to like him. He had even supported her in her recent marriage, by allowing her to spend a honeymoon in Mauritius. It was Hayley Thomas who had taken the call from Salisbury and after a friendly chat with Swan, and then with her old colleague, Janet, had put the call through.

  Stratton was pleased to hear Swan was recovering from his injuries. ‘I must say, when I tried to contact Janet, yesterday and got no answer, I was rather concerned that things weren’t too clever, Alex.’

  Swan smiled appreciating the concern. ‘I’m fine, John. Just a few scrapes and scratches, nothing too damaging.’ He looked over at his wife to catch a cold stare that said otherwise. ‘Well,’ said Swan resignedly, still glaring at her. ‘Apart from the broken collarbone and the two ribs, of course.’

  ‘Ooh, that sounds a bit nasty,’ winced Stratton, ‘did you manage to find out who did it?’