Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  Twenty minutes later they were climbing the tree and loading the superbazooka. At almost exactly the thirty-minute mark the first charge exploded with a ground shaking thump. It was the one situated on the back wall and a cloud of dust rose high into the night sky.

  There was instant pandemonium in the house. Lights went on, guards started to run from the building and shouts were heard from all points of the dwelling.

  And then the next three charges detonated simultaneously. The right hand wall was knocked down completely whilst the front and left wall had massive holes blasted through them. Two patrolling guards were caught in the left hand blast and they were torn to shreds.

  Then Petrus fired the bazooka. The rocket-propelled bomb flashed across the open space and hit the top left hand window, smashing through the glass and detonating inside the room with a massive belch of flame.

  Garrett quickly loaded another round into the tube and he patted Petrus on the shoulder.

  'Ready.'

  Petrus fired again. This round missed the window and exploded on the front of the building, smashing a gaping hole through it and covering the area with a wash of flame.

  But the Flying Tigers were no normal group of troops. They were battle hardened and very well trained. Some of them had already assessed the situation and were firing back. The crack and snap of hypersonic steel rounds whipped past the two men as they shinned down the tree as quickly as they could.

  They both ducked low as they sprinted down the street away from the colonel and his troops.

  They got to the pick up and piled in. Garrett drove, spinning the wheels as he accelerated away. They had studied the map book before and the plan was to head out of town and into the rural areas to lay low for a while. Then they would return, either on foot or with a stolen vehicle, and continue their campaign.

  Already they could hear a multitude of sirens echoing around. In a town where police response was, at best patchy, it appeared that they were taking this occurrence seriously.

  'To many cops,' said Petrus. 'They were waiting for something to happen.' He pointed down the road. 'More cops. Take a turn.'

  Garrett dragged the wheel to the right and they skidded around the corner. He cut the lights at the same time in an attempt to help concealment. Up ahead there were more police cars as well as two army jeeps. He went left.

  He had no idea where he was as this was totally off their planned escape route but he reckoned that he was heading in the general direction so he kept his foot down. A line of police and army vehicles snaked behind him. A metal conga line.

  He turned another corner. A hundred yards in front was a roadblock. Two cars across the road and a police motorbike parked in front of them. Behind the cars stood policemen with sidearms drawn.

  There was no warning. No due process. They simply opened fire on the pick up. Fortunately they appeared to be the worst shots in the world as not one slug came close.

  Garrett hit the brakes.

  'I've had enough of this shit,' said Petrus. He grabbed the superbazooka, jumped out of the cab and ran around to the back, facing the oncoming conga of government vehicles. He rammed a round in and raised it to his shoulder, taking aim.

  'Petrus. No!' Shouted Garrett. But he was too late.

  Petrus pulled the trigger.

  The M20 superbazooka launches a nine-pound high explosive rocket up to a distance of one thousand yards. This creates a significant back blast that will severely damage anything within twenty-five meter of the back of the tube. In fact there are several recorded cases of bystanders being killed by the said blast. When firing from the tree as they had earlier that evening, the back blast simply dissipated through the leaves and into the open air behind.

  However, now Petrus was standing with the pick up directly behind him. The burst of flame hammered into the puck up, smashing all of the windows and rocking it back on its suspension. Garrett was thrown to the ground and his dustcoat caught alight. He rolled frantically to extinguish the flames.

  The rocket streaked through the air and hit the second car in the conga line, exploding in a massive ball of flame. Molten shards of metal punched through the cars of front and behind the target, igniting their fuel tanks and causing a series of secondary explosions.

  Petrus glanced behind him and his jaw dropped open.

  'What the…?'

  'Back blast,' yelled Garrett. 'You almost killed your partner in crime.'

  'Sorry,' apologized the Zulu. 'I had no idea.'

  'No worries. Let's get back in the pick up an get trough this roadblock.'

  Petrus threw the bazooka into the load area and jumped into the driver's seat. The policemen at the roadblock were still shooting at them, and it seemed that the practice was improving their aim. Bullets were ricocheting off the tarmac around them. To close for comfort.

  The pick up leapt forward. Garrett stuck the barrel of his FN out of the windscreen-less cab, lined up with the roadblock, flicked the fire-selector rate to fully automatic and pulled the trigger, sweeping the barrel from left to right. The windows of the police cars disintegrated and bright star shaped scars appeared in the doors and fenders as the 7.62mm rounds poured out at a rate of twelve per second.

  The magazine ran dry as the pick up hit the motorbike, slamming it aside as it did so. Petrus aimed at the small gap between the two cars and struck it perfectly, spinning them both out if the way as he powered through.

  The pick up barreled on through the night, heading west, through Kuwadzana and Dzivarasekwa and on towards the rural area around Lake Chivero.

  Eventually it was swallowed up by the night.

  Chapter 27

  Chinese ambassador mister Lin Chun and senior colonel Zhao Yuan stared at Jin Chang, both of their faces a portrait of scorn and disgust.

  'Ren hou lian, shu hou pi,' said the ambassador to Chang. 'Men can’t live without face, just as trees can’t live without bark.'

  Chang looked down. His demeanour that of a scolded child.

  'You have brought shame to yourself, your embassy and your country. We have always looked the other way when it came to your transgressions,' continued Lin Chun.

  Chang looked up. 'Of course you did,' he snapped. 'I paid you enough to do so. But now, in my hour of need, you abandon me.'

  'Silence,' roared the ambassador. 'How dare you speak back to me. You have no face. You are worthless. Now, you still have your Flying Tigers. I want you to take them and use them to clear up this mess before we have an international incident. The only reason that I am not sanctioning you completely, is that misses Mugabe has personally spoken up for you.'

  'Five of my Tigers are dead,' said Chang. His voice sulky.

  'That is not our problem,' interjected senior colonel Zhao Yuan. 'You still have twenty-five of the world's best elite soldiers. Misses Mugabe has promised the full backing of both the police and the Fifth Brigade. The fact that she felt that she had to do this has, in itself, resulted in yet another loss of face for our government. Sort this problem out, colonel Chang, and do it soon.'

  'Now leave us,' commanded the ambassador.

  Chang stood, bowed and left the room. Sergeant Feng was waiting for him outside the ambassador's office.

  'Come,' commended Chang. 'We have work to do.'

  ***

  The colonel had hired the entire Southern Cross guest lodge. The owner had been understandably concerned, not usually catering for a Chinese army colonel and an entire team of special force troops.

  But a carrot, in the form of a large wad of cash, delivered with a certain amount of stick, in the form of a loaded and cocked pistol, turned his frown upside down.

  Sergeant Feng had the Flying Tigers on a constant guard rota, the police had put out an APB and the Fifth Brigade were on full alert and hunting for his attackers. But still Chang felt uneasy. The attack on his house had been efficient, professional and a total surprise. The assailants had gotten away but his special forces had managed to get a fleeting glimpse of
them. Two men, one black and one white. There could be no mistaking the fact that it was the Zulu and the white man that Roddy had spoken of. It was also patently obvious that these were very dangerous, heavily armed men.

  They were out to get him and he had no idea why, which made the entire situation all the more frightening.

  The colonel was under no illusions - the sun had truly set on his time in Zimbabwe. Now was the appropriate moment to move on. He would start again. Build a new empire. He had the money, the men and the contacts. Africa was his feeding ground. The people were his cattle.

  'Feng,' he said. 'Tomorrow, I want you to take four of the men and go to the central bank. You will meet with mister Mikize. Here is a key. He will take you to a safe deposit box. There is a suitcase in it. Bring it to me. Then, we shall play the waiting game.'

  Chapter 28

  Garrett and Petrus had driven west, leaving the main roads at first and then eschewing even the dirt roads that followed. They crawled slowly into the virgin bush and, after a couple of hours, they stopped. The two of them hacked down some branches from the surrounding thorn trees, camouflaged the pick up and then crept under it to get some sleep.

  They woke with the sun, ate some dry trail biscuits and drank some water.

  'We need to stay here for a short while,' said Garrett. 'Maybe a couple of days or so. Looks like every man and his dog are looking for us. Bloody army, police. If they had a navy I'm sure that they would be patrolling for us as well.'

  'This Chang must be pretty well connected,' said Petrus. 'Someone high up has unleashed the dogs on us. What do you reckon that we do next?'

  'I suggest that we lay low, don't move. After that we go back into Harare, track this Chang down again and make life seriously uncomfortable for him.'

  Petrus nodded.

  Later that afternoon a Cessna 206 single engine spotter plane over flew them. It didn't stop or slow down but it did turn after a while and continue its search above the area.

  'Shit,' said Garrett. 'They know that we're here.'

  'Maybe not,' argued Petrus. 'Could just be a general search.'

  'Can't take the chance,' said Garrett. 'I reckon that we should move.'

  Petrus agreed and they started the pick up and bumped further away from any major civilization. But there were still people, albeit small quantities of them. Herd boys, hunters, wood collectors and simple travelers. Both Garrett and Petrus kept their eyes open and, if they saw someone, they stopped to lay low.

  Just before night they looked back at their last camp to see a helicopter hovering above it, machine gun poking out of the side door. It did a grid search of the immediate area and then flew off.

  They grinned with relief and dug in for the night, using grass and branches to camouflage their meager campsite.

  ***

  Bongani whistled as he walked with his herd of goats. There were eight of them. Short, wiry animals with sharp yellow teeth and a look of dull malevolence about them. There was a day when any self respecting Matabele would not have been seen dead herding such a lowly animal. Bongani's father talked of times when they had owned a herd of twelve cows. Majestic animals that proved a man's worth and gave him stature in society.

  Now they had goats. And goats were not good. They ripped the roots of the grass up when they grazed. Destroying it like spoiled children with no thought of tomorrow. Leaving a path of destruction wherever they went.

  Not like cattle. A cow would crop the tips of the grass, promoting growth and eating its fill at the same time. But there were no more cattle. There was no more anything anymore. The white farmers had all gone so there was no work. And the land that Mugabe had appropriated had been left to go fallow. So, Bongani supposed, it didn't actually matter that the goats destroyed the land, there was no other use for it and there was plenty to go around.

  And having eight goats was far better than having nothing at all.

  Bongani, stopped whistling and took out his sling. A simple piece of leather with two pieces of string attached. He loaded a small stone, whirled and let fly.

  It was a perfect strike, hitting the small mossie sparrow and killing it instantly. The little hunter picked up the bird and added it to the other five in his pouch. Later that day he would cook them, burning the feathers off over an open fire and then eating the rest whole, intestines and all.

  He kept his eyes wide open for bigger birds. It would please his father greatly if he brought home something substantial to eat. It was difficult for his father to obtain food ever since he had stood on an old anti-personnel mine left over from the war. Bongani had been with him when it had happened. A small crack. A puff of dust and smoke. And his father no longer had a left leg below his knee.

  Now he had two sticks to help him walk, so he moved very slowly. Like a chameleon.

  Bongani saw a small movement up ahead. He pulled his sling out again and moved forward in a low crouch. He peered through the grass.

  And then he saw him. A white man sitting next to a truck. His heart leapt in excitement. That very morning, some soldiers had come to his village and told of a white man and a black man traveling together in the area. Any information would be richly rewarded, they had said.

  Bongani crept silently away. His father would be more pleased with this than even a large bird. This would provide dollars. Perhaps even enough to buy a month worth of food.

  And then he felt a huge hand grab him by the shoulder.

  Petrus dragged the young herd boy into the camp and sat him down next to their tiny smokeless fire.

  'Look what I found, spying on us,' he said to Garrett. 'I heard the goats so I went to take a look. This little bugger was doing a bit of a recce so I picked him up.'

  The boy did not move from where Petrus had sat him down. His eyes were wide open in terror and his lips quivered.

  The two men stared at him for a while.

  Eventually Garrett spoke. 'Shit,' he said.

  'And then some,' agreed Petrus. 'The moment he gets home he's going to tell all and then it's only a matter of time before they're onto us. They've probably already offered a reward for info on us, after all, they suspect that we're in the general vicinity.'

  'We can't tie him up,' said Garrett. 'We can't take him with us.'

  'Could kill him,' suggested Petrus.

  Garrett looked blankly at him. 'Don't even joke.'

  'Okay, just throwing ideas out there. Use them, don't use them. Whatever.'

  'I won't tell,' said Bongani in a shaking voice.

  'Course you will,' said Petrus.

  'I won't.'

  'Shut up, boy,' snapped the Zulu.

  Garrett took out a box of cigarettes, lit two and passed one to Petrus. Bongani stared at the cigarettes. Garrett offered him.

  'Here, boy. You want one?'

  Bongani nodded and took one from the pack. Then he slipped it behind his ear.

  'For my father,' he explained.

  Garrett threw him the rest of the pack. 'Here. For you father. Now fuck off. Quickly before I change my mind.'

  Bongani sprang to his feet, a broad smile across his face. 'Thank you, sir,' he said. 'I won't tell. I promise.'

  'Yes you will,' disagreed Petrus.

  The young herd boy sprinted off, whistling for his goats as he did so.

  'Who knows?' Said Garrett. 'Maybe he won't tell.'

  'Bullshit,' said Petrus. 'We had better break and get moving. Place will be crawling with uglies soon.'

  Garrett laughed. 'Have some faith in human nature, my friend. A bit of trust never goes amiss.'

  They set off again, creeping slowly into the interior. Late that afternoon they looked back and saw three light airplanes grid searching the area where they had seen Bongani.

  'Ha, told you,' exclaimed Petrus. 'He sold us out.'

  Garrett said nothing.

  That night they stopped and, once again, camouflaged up.

  They couldn't risk a fire so they simply sat in the dark and smoked in silen
ce. Eventually Garrett spoke.

  'We need to talk, my friend,' he said. 'Things are not going according to plan. We're pretty much stuck out here in the wilderness for the foreseeable future. Soon we're going to need more gas, food, water. Seems like the entire country is looking to do us harm. Tactically…well…I'd say that we are pretty close to fucked.'

  Petrus shrugged. 'I've been in better situations,' he admitted.

  'Look,' continued Garrett. 'What I wanted to say is - maybe we've done enough. We've killed the people directly responsible for Malusi's death and we've scared the crap out of the next in the chain. To all intents and purposes we have screwed up their business. Retribution has taken place. If we continue this way…I can't see things ending well for us.'

  'It is not enough,' said Petrus.

  Garrett nodded. 'Okay. When will it be enough? The colonel? His soldiers? The man who controls the colonel? And what about his people? His family, friends? The people that owe him money? When will it end?'

  'I do not know,' answered Petrus. 'Malusi will tell me. He will give me a sign.'

  'What sign?'

  'I will know it when I see it,' said Petrus, his voice full of confidence.

  'Okay then,' said Garrett. 'Then we had better get some sleep because we need to get back to Harare and find this colonel.'

  Petrus smiled. 'Thank you, my friend.'

  The next morning they woke, took out the map and plotted a course back to Harare. Before they got going another light aircraft flew over. Then it did a slow turn and waggled its wings when it flew above them again.

  'Shit,' exclaimed Garrett. 'We've been spotted.'

  'Nothing that we can do about it,' said Petrus. 'Let's get going.'

  They saddled up and set off.

  The sun hammered down on them, the heat a physical presence that leached the moisture from them, drying their eyes and their throats. After a couple of hours they had to stop the pick up in order to let the engine cool down. They raised the hood to help the air to circulate and waited.