Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  'Close one eye then,' advised the Zulu.

  'That's better. Fine if you were an ogre,' responded Garrett as he swung his vision across the house in front of them. 'Jesus, this place is crawling with protection. Teams of guards, floodlights, electric fencing. There're no dogs. Why? I don't like it when there aren't any dogs.'

  'I do, says Petrus. Don't like killing dogs. Makes me feel bad. They're only doing what they're told.'

  Garrett continued to scan the area, laying out quadrants in his mind and then meticulously scanning them. Eventually he spoke.

  'I see, that's why.' He passed the monocular binoculars to Petrus. 'Take a look. Three o'clock from the main building. Between the main building and that one guardhouse.'

  Petrus adjusted the focus and looked. 'I see it,' he confirmed. 'A trip wire.'

  'Yep,' agreed Garrett. 'Follow it.'

  Petrus ran his gaze along the steel wire. 'A green box. Is it a mine?'

  'Yep,' said Garrett. 'Claymores. If you keep looking you can pick up more of them. They're everywhere. We're lucky, the angle of the sun picks up the wire. Another ten minutes and the angle will be too low. They'll be invisible again. But that's why they don't have dogs roaming around. They would set off the mines.'

  'Scary,' admitted Petrus.

  'Very,' confirmed Garrett. 'So, we've got a hard perimeter, claymores everywhere, four guard houses, probably with machine guns, two guards in each hut. Two more couples patrolling the perimeter. I'm sure that there's a whole bunch more inside.'

  'But no dogs,' said Petrus.

  'No dogs,' agreed Garrett.

  'Suggestions?'

  Garrett shrugged. 'Go somewhere else. Somewhere far away. This place is a fortress. There's no way that we can get in here without being seen and even if we did there's too many of them for us to overcome. It's a lose, lose situation. Maybe if we had amour, artillery and air support, but otherwise I'm fresh out of ideas - sorry.'

  Petrus pulled a stick of biltong, South African dried beef, out of his pocket. He bit off a piece and lay on the ground, chewing thoughtfully.

  Eventually he spoke. 'What if I could get us some armor and artillery. Could we do it then?'

  'Is this a serious question?' Asked Garrett.

  'Deadly.'

  'Well then we might stand a chance. Not alone though. We would need some help. Can you do it?'

  Petrus nodded in the affirmative, although he didn't look that confident. 'I think so,' he answered. 'But it'll cost.'

  Chapter 19

  Ngyen Van was one of the richest men in Hanoi, Vietnam. He had made his money by buying huge tracts of land in the 1990's that was now worth over one thousand times more. He had made hundreds of millions of dollars profit and he was determined that everybody knew it.

  Firstly he had purchased a collection of fifty supercars and then an empty lot in the middle of Hanoi on which he parked his cars, together with a serious amount of protection. Then he took over two hundred posters of himself surrounded by various trappings of his wealth and placed them, in frames, around the cars. Finally he had a life size wax model of him placed on a throne in the middle of the lot, under a cover and he opened the lot for public viewing.

  The strangest thing about his incredibly megalomaniacal project was the fact that he had actually copied it from a wealthy entrepreneur who lived in Ho Chi Minh City. Lifestyles of the rich and tasteless.

  But impressing the local peons was a relatively easy task. Impressing fellow multi millionaires, however, took a little more thought.

  So Ngyen Van threw a party.

  He greeted his guests wearing his gold and platinum sunglasses and custom diamond encrusted Rolex ushering them into the main banquet hall that featured Salangane's nests and caviar. Food purchased for over ten thousand dollars a pound in a country that the average wage was less than one hundred dollars per month.

  A perfect example of the efficacy of a one party communist state and its ability to ensure that workers enjoyed the same levels of luxury as the ruling classes.

  But even this what not enough. So the Vietnamese oligarch had organised a shipment of something that was more expensive than cocaine. More expensive than gold.

  He had obtained two hundred grams of powdered Rhino horn.

  This was combined with a variety of cocktails to create the ultimate billionaires alcoholic drink, instantly changing the alcohol of your choice from a ten-dollar drink into a two thousand dollar drink.

  The ultimate in conspicuous consumption.

  Plus there was the added fact that it prevented one getting a hangover, no matter how much they consumed…although Ngyen wasn't so sure about that.

  The rhino horn did the trick and the party was a huge success.

  Chapter 20

  'We call her, Aunty Beulah,' said Petrus, talking as he drove. 'Aunty was the leader of a large SPU. A Self Protection Unit, back in the days of the struggle. While we were all busy fighting apartheid the two main black parties, the ANC and the Zulu Inkatha Freedom Party were also jostling for power. We both wanted to assure our power bases before the first elections came along. Man, it was bloody. I reckon maybe twenty thousand people got killed in that struggle alone, not counting the war against apartheid. And I tell you,' continued Petrus. 'Aunty was responsible for a significant percentage of those deaths.'

  The Zulu shifted in his seat and tried to locate his pack of cigarettes. Eventually he gave up.

  'Got any smokes?'

  Garrett nodded.

  'Well light up then.'

  Garret knocked out two cigarettes, lit. Passed one over.

  'Thanks,' said Petrus. 'Now, after Mandela had been released and the political situation had levelled out, Aunty Beulah went into semi-retirement and moved to a farm outside of Ladysmith in Natal. Many of her former SPU soldiers and their families had stayed on with her and she ran her farm as a collective. Not communist, you know. No, more like an Israeli kibbutz. Each person or family received compensation dependent on their needs, regardless of what position that they held.'

  The Zulu pinched the butt of his cigarette, killing the fire. Then he flicked it out of the window onto the tarmacadam road. 'Obviously Aunty Beulah deemed her needs to be significantly larger than everybody else's. But no one minded, I mean, she was the leader and they also respected her as a great warrior.'

  'So not really like a kibbutz then,' quipped Garrett. 'More like a fiefdom.'

  Petrus thought for a while. 'Maybe,' he admitted. 'Anyway, after she retired she kept a large arsenal ranging from AK47's, R1's, various sidearms, a selection of grenades and anti personal mines, two 7.62mm light machine guns, a 12.7mm Browning heavy machine gun and two 60mm commando mortar systems with hundreds of rounds of high explosive ammunition. She was also rumoured to have a Casspir armoured vehicle and a heavy 120mm mortar. So, she's the one that we need.'

  'If she still has all of that stuff,' qualified Garrett.

  'If she does,' agreed Petrus.

  The Zulu turned off the main road onto a single lane B-road. After half an hour he turned off that onto a dirt road that eventually became a simple dirt track. Finally he turned off the track onto what could only be described as a trail.

  The Land Cruiser bumped slowly along the trail in low ratio four-wheel drive. The car was air-conditioned but both Garrett and Petrus preferred their air to be real, so the windows were wound down, allowing the dry hot air to circulate. It didn't do much to dissipate the appalling heat. It fact it simply seemed to turn the cab into a fan oven. Solar powered. Environmentally friendly.

  'We're being watched,' said Garrett.

  Petrus nodded. 'I know, seen two youngsters with cell phones. Hiding in the bush.'

  'I've seen three,' countered Garrett.

  'It's not a competition,' said Petrus.

  'Of course it is,' argued the soldier.

  Petrus laughed. 'True.'

  Finally they arrived at a fence. Barbed wire, rusted but taut. There was a gate. It was padlocked
.

  A young boy appeared out of the long grass, unlocked the large brass padlock and opened the gate for them. They drove through and it was locked behind them.

  Fifteen minutes of kidney bruising driving and they came to the main farm. The houses were set out in a semi-traditional way. A circle of dwellings with what was obviously Aunty Beulah's house, top and center, and then progressively smaller ones to each side.

  However, there was no central kraal for the cattle, they were penned in fenced areas to the sides of the dwellings in a more western style arrangement.

  Some of the dwellings had satellite television discs on their roofs. The larger houses also had pick-ups or battered SUV's parked in front of them.

  There were two armed guards standing outside Aunty Beulah's house. Both carried AK's. The weapons were clean. As were the guard's khaki quasi-military uniforms. Pressed and in good order. Boots and belts well polished. Only their berets spoiled the effect, pushed back on their heads instead of placed on the head with the edge binding one inch above eyebrows and straight across forehead.

  They waved Petrus to a parking space at the side of the house.

  Petrus parked and he and Garrett got out.

  The guards showed them through the front door and closed it behind them.

  The door opened straight into the sitting room. Aunty Beulah was sitting on a large, mustard green chintz covered chair, the arms worn shiny with age. The rest of the furniture was an eclectic mix. Two corduroy sofas, a leather wingback and a new chrome and black leather Italian-looking recliner. There was also a hoard of various coffee tables scattered about the room, seemingly at random.

  On one particular table, in front of Aunty, was a tray with a teapot, three mugs, sugar, a tin of sweetened condensed milk and buttermilk rusks.

  Aunty stood to greet them, her hand outstretched. She was a tall woman. Taller than both Garrett and Petrus. Six four at least. And big. Not fat, simply large. Raw boned and sturdy.

  She wore a purple kaftan that complimented her lashings of purple eye makeup. On her cheeks, two vivid spots of red blusher. Like a huge, demented clown.

  On her head, the most extraordinary wig that Garrett had ever seen. An Afro made from hyper-glossy man made fibre. And she wore it like a fur hat, with not even the vaguest nod towards realism or fashion. It sat on top of her head like her guards' berets. Two sizes too small and precariously perched. A comic figure.

  Until you looked into her eyes and saw the power. Authority. Strength. The thousand-yard stare of the true combat veteran.

  Petrus took her hand first, bowing slightly as he did so.

  'Aunty,' he greeted. 'It is good to see you.' He turned to Garrett. 'This is my friend, Garrett.'

  Garrett bowed lower and took her hand. 'It is an honor,' he said. Her hand felt like a welding glove filled with pebbles. Hard, calloused. Her grip was firm.

  'I have heard of you,' she said.

  Garrett smiled. 'Good things, I hope.'

  She shook her head. 'No, not really.' Then she sat back down on her mustard green chair and readied the tea. She didn't ask if they wanted sugar or milk. She simply poured three mugs full, added condensed milk and a spoon of sugar. She slid one across the table to Garrett, then, with a smile, she added another three spoons of sugar to Petrus' mug and handed it to him. 'There,' she said. 'Just as you like it.'

  Petrus grinned. 'Thank you, Aunty.'

  'Teacher's pet,' whispered Garrett, under his breath.

  Petrus assumed a look of schoolboy superiority. Smug and condescending.

  Garrett covered his laughter with a cough.

  'So. My boy,' continued Aunty. 'Why are you here?'

  'Maybe I'm just visiting,' answered Petrus.

  'Maybe,' conceded Aunty. 'But probably not.'

  'Actually, Aunty,' said Petrus. 'I am looking for your help. I need a favor.'

  And the Zulu told her of his brother's death, his quest for vengeance and what had happened thus far.

  Afterwards, she laid a hand on his shoulder. 'I am sorry, my boy,' she said. 'The people responsible for this must pay. Your brother must be released from his earthly prison so that he can sit with his ancestors. What do you need?'

  'Artillery and armor. I remember, you have a Casspir armored car and a 120mm mortar.'

  Aunty Beulah's face fell. 'I am so sorry,' she said. 'I sold both of those some time back to a man in Angola. But I still have a heavy machine gun, assault rifles, some light machine guns and a couple of 60mm mortars.'

  Garrett nodded in approval. 'I know the commando mortars well. They will do, provided we have enough ammunition. Our problem is personnel. We'll need another six people, minimum.'

  Aunty nodded. 'I can supply soldiers. For Petrus, a special price for the whole package. I would normally charge three hundred thousand Rands plus a sizeable deposit for this much ordinance. But I will make do with two hundred thousand.'

  Petrus pulled out the large wad of cash that his father had given him. He counted it out, pilling the notes into stacks of ten thousand. There were five stacks plus a pile of loose notes.

  'Just over fifty thousand,' he said.

  Aunty shook her head. 'That doesn't even cover the ammunition.'

  'It is all that I have,' stated Petrus.

  'Then perhaps you should contact your father and ask for more,' suggested Aunty.

  'Perhaps,' agreed Petrus. 'And perhaps he would send more. But bear in mind that another one hundred and fifty thousand Rands is a lot of money. If my father sent that much money then he would, most likely, send some guards with it. Perhaps even a whole impi of his warriors.'

  The well-veiled threat hung in the air. Like a bad smell.

  'A whole impi,' repeated Aunty.

  Petrus nodded. 'Two thousand strong. Most likely. After all, he would hate to think that the murder of his youngest son was not being avenged. I am fairly sure that he would take steps to ensure that all possible help was given. It is just a thought,' he said. 'Maybe he would merely send the money. Who knows?'

  Petrus was all in and Aunty had no idea how strong his hand was.

  Three minutes ticked by. The atmosphere sliced into thin manageable pieces by the clock.

  Finally, Aunty spoke. The hand had gone to Petrus. 'I will have to ask for volunteers,' she said. 'For so little money I cannot order anyone to go with you. But do not worry, there are always some men who want to fight. Men like you two.'

  'I have to fight,' objected Petrus. 'I must avenge my brother.'

  'Yes,' she agreed. 'There is always a reason.' She looked directly at Garrett. 'A reason to let the beast out of its cage. A reason to kill. Again.'

  She shook her head. Somehow she looked much older than when they had first come in. He face slacker. Softer. She waved a hand in dismissal. 'Go now. Wait outside. My man, Simeon, will come to you.'

  The two friends left, mumbling their goodbyes on the way out.

  Aunty did not reciprocate.

  Once outside they found a shady spot under a stunted thorn tree and they waited.

  Hours went by but Petrus advised that they simply sit down and wait. 'She has spoken,' he explained. 'To ask what is happening would be a sign of disrespect.'

  'But you already disrespected her,' said Garrett. 'You threatened her with your father's army.'

  Petrus shook his head. 'No. I did not threaten her. I merely reminded her of her place. It is different. I did so with respect.'

  Garrett lit a cigarette and gave up trying to understand the nuances of what had just happened.

  Finally, as the sun was setting, an old four-ton Bedford truck rolled into view, coughing and spluttering, smoke belching form its tailpipe. It was loaded high with sack full of what looked like eras of corn. Sitting on top of the sacks were five men.

  The truck juddered to a halt in front of Garrett and Petrus and a man climbed down from the cab.

  'My name is Simeon,' he said, as he handed a sheet of paper and a pen to Petrus. 'This is the inventory. A
unty says that you must sign it.'

  Petrus raised an eyebrow. 'Why? Is she going to sue me if some of the goods get scratched?'

  Simeon said nothing so Petrus read the list and then scrawled his signature at the bottom.

  1 x 7.62mm FN general purpose machine gun

  1 x 12.7mm Browning heavy machine gun.

  4 x R4 7.62mm assault rifles with 4 extra magazines

  6 x Armscor hand grenades

  2 x 60mm Hand held Mortar tubes

  20 round high explosive mortar rounds

  400 rounds 7.62 mm ammunition

  500 rounds 12.7mm ammunition

  'Okay,' said Petrus. 'Where is it all?'

  Simon gestured towards the back of the truck. 'There, under the bags. These five men and I are your team. We are yours to command. All of us are proficient with the machine guns and the mortars.'

  'Good,' acknowledged Petrus. 'Tell them to climb down. Is there a place where we can all talk?'

  'My room,' answered Simeon.

  They drove the Bedford behind Simeon's house and all crowded in and stood around his small kitchen table.

  Garrett took a piece of paper and drew a schematic of the Russians house and surrounds. Then he explained their method of attack.

  One mortar would be placed on the koppie that he and P4etruys had reconnoitred from. The heavy machine gun and the second mortar would be placed a little further away on another portion of high ground. Two of Aunty's men would man each of the weapons and one of each team would carry and R4 rifle with a full magazine.

  Petrus would carry an R4 and Garrett the general-purpose machine gun. The mortars will take out the guard huts and then lay a walking cover fire. Garrett and Petrus will cut through the fence and head for the main house. The heavy machine gun will target all guards that try to get into the house and it will be used to cover their retreat.

  They decided to stay the night and start early the next morning.

  Ten hours later, as the sun rose, the team readied themselves.

  Petrus told Simeon that he was going to say goodbye to Aunty but her right hand man stopped him.

  'No,' he said. 'She does not wish to see you.'