Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  Garrett heard the sound first. Far away. Just on the very edge of hearing.

  'Listen,' he said to Petrus. 'Engine. Maybe two.'

  Petrus cocked his head to one side. 'Yes,' he agreed. 'Trucks. Two of them.'

  They slammed the hood down and set off once more, trundling through the African veld.

  Soon they came across a stretch of land covered by fist-sized rocks, strewn thick as far as the eye could see. Garrett changed down to first and they crunched across, steering around the bigger boulders. The pick up slid and swayed as the wheels spun and juddered over the treacherous rockscape.

  There was a sudden bang as the front right tire sank into a hidden hole, slamming the bottom of the vehicle onto the rocks. Immediately a smell of diesel pervaded the cab.

  'Shit,' cursed Garrett. 'We've holed the gas tank.'

  The two of them sprung from the cab, gabbed the jack and feverishly cranked the vehicle up. Garrett slid underneath and checked.

  'Yep,' he said. 'Hole as big as my thumb. Have you got any soap?'

  'Sure,' replied Petrus. 'Also toothpaste and shaving cream. Why don't you have quick shave while you're down there?'

  'Fuck off,' retorted Garrett. 'Just get me a bar of soap. I'm sure that there's one in the washbag with the medic kit. Hurry, I can't lie here all day with my finger stuck in a gas tank, people will talk.'

  Petrus rooted around in their packs and came back with a bar of soap. He handed it to Garrett. The soldier broke it in half and then rubbed some diesel onto it, working it in his hands as he did so. In a few seconds it had converted into a putty-like consistency. He forced it into the hole and smeared the excess around the hole, plugging it tight. Then he slid out, wiping his hands on his trousers as he did so.

  'Clever,' admitted Petrus.

  'Yep,' said Garrett. 'But we lost most of our fuel. We better get moving.'

  The sound of the approaching engines was closer now. Much closer.

  They cleared the rock-strewn area and ploughed on. After another hour the sun began to set and, at the same time, the engine coughed and spluttered. And died.

  'That's that,' said Garrett. 'Shank's pony from now on. But first, let's rig a few surprises for whoever is following us.'

  Garrett rigged the pick up's doors with claymores and then pulled the pins almost completely from two grenades and dropped them into the cab. Then they loaded up their packs, food, water, medical kit, C4 explosive, extra ammunition, the Bren gun and the superbazooka, claymores and grenades.

  They set off at right angles to the direction that they had been going and they covered their tracks as best they could, hoping to avoid being followed. They walked for an hour but there was no moon and the going was slow and dangerous so they stopped and slept.

  The two of them woke before the sun and set off immediately, walking fast. After ten minutes they heard the ragged thumps of the claymores and the grenades exploding as their pursuers set off the booby traps.

  Garrett grinned. 'Take that,' he murmured under his breath.

  A few minutes later they heard the engines start up again.

  They started to run. Moving at a soldier's pace. Each carrying almost one hundred pounds of kit. Long loping strides that ate up the earth and used minimal energy. All day they ran, not pausing once. Drinking on the move, taking the route that they considered hardest for the trucks to follow.

  And they stayed ahead.

  Barely.

  When the sun began to sink back into the netherworld, they finally stopped to take a breather. They were both utterly exhausted. But the enemy was so close now that they could actually smell the vehicles diesel fumes when the wind blew in the right direction.

  Petrus drank deeply from his water canteen 'You know, Isosha,' he said. 'I think that it's time that we went on the offensive. I can't speak for you but I don't think that I can keep this up for another whole day.'

  'Well, they do say that the best form of defense is to attack,' agreed Garrett.

  'Personally, I've always found the best form of defense to be a good defense,' said Petrus. 'Whatever, I'm going to do a quick recce. You wait here. If I don't come back, you can have my watch.'

  'You don't have a watch.'

  Petrus grinned, his teeth shining white in the moonless night. 'True.' He disappeared, like a ghost, into the darkness.

  Twenty minutes later he returned.

  'It's the Chinese,' he whispered. 'Two ACP's. Twenty soldiers. They don't appear to have heavy weapons. Three sets of guards. They're patrolling in pairs. They randomly change their routes, they stay alert, they don't smoke. They're good. Well disciplined.'

  'Could we take the guards out?' Asked Garrett.

  Petrus shrugged. 'One set, easy. Two, maybe. Three, no way. Not without the alarm being given. I told you, these guys are good.'

  Garrett thought for a while.

  'Right,' he said. 'I've got a plan.'

  Chapter 29

  Chang had moved from the guesthouse when the bulk of his troops had gone on hot pursuit of his two attackers. He had hired out the Imperial suite at Miekles hotel in Harare. To ensure his privacy he had also hired out the presidential suite and all of the rooms on the floor below. It was costing him in excess of twenty thousand dollars a night.

  He had retained four Flying Tigers and they were staying in the corridor outside his room. Cots had been set up so that two could sleep while two stood guard. Sergeant Feng slept in the room next to his. He was taking no chances.

  But he had just received good news. Corporal Yeung had just radioed in. They were hard on the trail of the two fugitives and were confident of overhauling them the next day. The corporal did not mention the booby-trapped pick up. Nor the loss of three of his men. He knew that this small failure would be forgiven when he brought the colonel the heads of the renegades.

  Colonel Chang sat in front of an octagonal marble topped table that graced the center of the sitting area of the room. On the table sat a large leather suitcase. It was open. Inside were neat bundles of one hundred dollar bills.

  The suitcase was made by Hermes and was worth a staggering eight thousand dollars. The contents added another twenty two million to that total.

  'Sergeant Feng,' called Chang. 'Come through.'

  The sergeant walked through from his room and stood in front of the colonel. 'Sir?'

  'Sergeant, I have decided on our future. This morning I booked a train. A locomotive and two carriages for our private use. We will travel from here to Bulawayo and then onwards to Lusaka in Zambia. From there we will proceed on to Dar Es Salaam. I have always wanted a place overlooking the sea. We will live like kings.'

  'Yes, sir,' agreed Feng. 'You will.'

  'What?'

  'Nothing, sir,' replied the sergeant. 'Simply agreeing.'

  'Good. We will take the four Tigers here and I want you to contact corporal Yeung. Tell him the plan. Tell him that I have decided to rebuild in Dar Es Salaam. All are welcome as soon as they have dealt with the two renegades. Their pay will be doubled. They will have to decide whether to stay with the people's army or become part of their own thing. If they want to be a part of the new empire that I shall build tell Yeung to proceed to Bulawayo as soon as he has completed his mission. Sell them all on the idea, sergeant. I foresee great things for us.'

  Feng nodded. As he walked off he thought again of his sister. And the mountains. And his parents who could not read or write. The family that he had not seen or spoken to for over six years. He remembered an old Chinese proverb; Life is a dream walking, death is a going home. And he finally admitted to himself, he would never go home. This afternoon he would wire all of his savings to his parents. Then he would follow the colonel into whatever suicidal delusion he had waiting for them. Because the sergeant was not cursed with Chang's psychotic level of naïve megalomania and he knew that, if you stole an entire detachment of Special Forces from the Chinese government, they would hunt you down for the rest of eternity. But he no longer cared. />
  He switched the radio on and contacted corporal Yeung.

  Chapter 30

  Garrett and Petrus used the cover of the moon free night to plant the Mk5 land mine in the middle of their tracks. They dug in from the side of the trail rather than digging directly down so as to conceal the point of ingress. No tell-tale mound of earth to give the explosives position away. Then he placed four of the claymores around the side of the track. They were there to catch the soldiers who jumped from the stricken vehicle or those who came to help.

  Then the two of them went one hundred and fifty yards down the track and Garrett used the remaining claymores to create a choke point, stringing two on each side, not bothering to conceal the steel trip wires. They were there to funnel the enemy together, more than to surprise them. At the bottom of the channel that he had formed he dug a shallow trench, built a small parapet and lay the Bren gun on top, the spare magazines in a row next to it. By the time he had finished the sun was threatening to rise and a false dawn had washed the darkling sky with a haze of gray.

  'Right,' he said to Petrus. 'I need you to get behind them. Skirt around the right flank and then get in close. When the first APC hits the mine they will probably take casualties. Anyone who runs from the APC, or anyone who dismounts the second vehicle and goes to help will detonate the claymores. That's when I'll hit them from the front using my FN. I'll make sure that I am exposed and then I'll leg it down the track. They should pursue me, but they're good, so I am sure that they will do so with caution. I fully expect them to spot the next block of claymores but that doesn't matter, I'll be taking pot shots at them to keep them from thinking too hard. As they funnel themselves into the killing ground I want you to open up with the superbazooka. I will lay down fire with the Bren at the same time. We hit them hard and fast and then split before they can regroup. Remember, Petrus, I cannot stress how good these guys are. Don't take any chances. When it's over, we meet at the foot of the koppie with the three thorn trees.'

  Petrus nodded. 'Got it. Let's party.'

  Garrett knew that every battle plan would only last until the first shot is fired. From that moment on it rapidly degenerates into more of a rough guideline coupled with a frantic prayer session.

  So, as far as battle plans went, this one did not go so badly - to a point.

  The leading APC struck the mine with a resultant boom of fire and dust. The troops poured out of the damaged vehicle and three of them ran directly into the claymores detonating a storm of steel balls that scythed them down in a welter of flesh and blood.

  Garrett opened up on them, picking his targets by the light of the rising sun. The return fire was unbelievable. All around him the air turned to fire. The bullwhip crack of supersonic copper jacketed steel assaulted his ears and the close passage of superheated air buffeted him from side to side as they missed him by mere thousands of an inch.

  'Shit,' said Garrett to himself. 'These guys are good.'

  He pulled off a few more rounds and then ran, zigzagging from side to side as he did so. The ground exploded all about him and small boughs and leaves rained down from the trees as the sheer weight of fire decimated all in his immediate area. Something hit him hard in his left calf, kicking his leg out from under him and sending him rolling to the ground. He tried to get up but his leg collapsed and he fell again. Desperately he ripped a grenade from his webbing, pulled the pin and threw it. Immediately he followed it with another. The rate of incoming fire stuttered and slowed for a few seconds.

  Garrett used the slight lull to raise himself up and stagger away, pushing himself as hard as he could. He could feel his boot filling with blood. Warm. Sticky.

  Sweat ran into his eyes, obscuring his vision. His swiped it away with the back of his hand. He searched frantically for the claymores. Squinting to see the trip wires. Finally he saw them, picked out by the sun like a morning spider web covered in dew. He headed down the funnel, throwing himself into his shallow trench, fervently hoping that it would not become a shallow grave.

  Then the ground shook with the deep savage detonation of the superbazooka round. A cloud of fire rolled skyward and the surrounding trees burst into flame. Garrett peered down the barrel of the Bren and opened up. A man went down.

  Petrus fired from behind.

  The Bren ate the magazines of ammo up. The beats shouted out in joy as the battle madness overcame Garrett. Fire. Fire. Change magazine. Throw grenade. Fire again.

  He could no longer hear the deep thud of the FN that is easily discernable from the high crack of the Chinese 5.8x42mm rounds.

  Garrett looked for Petrus. Why couldn't he hear his rifle firing? Has he been hit? No. He's on the move. Calm down. Think. Garrett crawled for the trench and then stood up and ran, moving with inherent stealth. Becoming part of the bush. More animal than human.

  Blood, sweat, cordite.

  The green smell of raw sap from the splintered trees. The gritty taste of dust mixed with salty sweat.

  Garrett fell again, rolling as he hit the ground. He pulled his bootlaces as tight as he could. Then he tore a sleeve off his shirt and tied it around his calf, pulling it taut until the bleeding stopped.

  He got to his feet and ran on.

  He met Petrus at the foot of the hill. The Zulu squatted under a tree. He had a bloody bandage wrapped around his head like a sweatband. The blood had soaked through and both of his shoulders were wet with red.

  'Hey, Isosha,' he greeted. 'I keep getting shot in the head. I'm worried that my brains are going to fall out.'

  'What brains?' Gasped Garrett as he lay down, panting.

  'I could have bet that you would have said that,' said Petrus. 'Now let me see what I can do for your leg. It doesn't look good and we don't have much time.' He leant over Garrett and used a knife to cut his trouser leg away. Then he pulled Garrett's makeshift dressing off to expose the wound.

  'It's not a bullet wound,' he said. 'Looks like a piece of shrapnel, a sliver of stone or something. It's cut you deep.' He dug through his pack, pulled out the medical kit, opened it and selected some surgical thread and a curved needle. 'I'll stitch it quickly,' he continued. 'No need to clean it, the flow of blood will have done that already. He threaded the needle, pinched the lips of the wound together and inserted six rough stitches and bound it again. 'There. Good as new. Now let's go.'

  He put the medic kit back and shouldered his webbing as he stood up.

  Garrett followed suit, grimacing at the pain. 'You're right, we gotta keep moving, stay ahead of them. Then come nightfall, we hit them again. Finish the job.'

  Chapter 31

  The two friends had stayed ahead of the Flying Tigers all day. They had used the landscape, cutting across broken land as much as they could to force the Chinese to disembark and split up, some on foot whilst the APC had to drive around the broken land and rocks and rendezvousing with them afterwards.

  Petrus and Garrett had killed ten Tigers and badly wounded two others in the ambush. But they were exhausted. Fatigued almost unto the very door of death itself.

  In fact both of them had started to hallucinate.

  Petrus talked to his brother, Malusi as he ran. Smiling and nodding.

  Garrett could hear the cries of children. He could hear their screams of agony. And all about him the landscape shimmered and changed. Vacillating between the desiccated brown of Zimbabwe to the verdant green of Sierra Leone. Wraiths danced ahead of him, crooking their fingers at him. Calling him.

  Then the beast howled and drove them all away, bringing Garrett back to reality. He ran next to Petrus and shook him, dragging him back to the present, forcing him to stay sharp. Focused.

  They paused an hour after mid day to snatch something to eat and drink, but Petrus fell asleep instantly and Garrett had to slap him repeatedly to awaken him.

  Eventually night fell and, as soon as the darkness enfolded them. Petrus fell to the floor and instantly slept. Garrett kept watch for as long as he could, almost two hours, then he woke Pe
trus and asked him to keep watch while he snatched two hours sleep.

  Almost exactly two hours later Petrus woke him. It was still as dark as pitch.

  Garrett mixed some water and sand and used the mud to darken his face. Then they both smeared the mud on their blades to avoid any reflection. They set off together, leaving their firearms but carrying two hand grenades each.

  And they became children of the night, questing out to slake their thirst. Shades amongst the shadow. Lions seeking the blood of man.

  There were four sentries on guard, leaving the other four survivors asleep next to their campfire.

  Together, Garrett and Petrus moved in on the first sentry. A young man, alert. His eyes scanning constantly, letting the rods in his peripheral vision pick up any night time movement. And then the shadow in the valley of death came alive and took him. The only sound, the silken whisper of steel slicing through human flesh followed by the almost imperceptible patter of blood on earth.

  The shadow moved on.

  Three more sentries died in absolute silence. They were there - then they were not.

  Still moving with a stealth necessitating slowness, Garrett and Petrus took out two grenades each, pulled the pins and lobbed them next to the fire. Four vicious cracks and four blinding flashes rent the night.

  Garrett and Petrus closed their eyes and blocked their ears so they suffered no disorientation and, as soon as the grenades had exploded, they ran in. The four people next to the fire were all dead. The two friends checked, looking for colonel Chang, but the men were all enlisted troops. No colonel. They ran to the APC and looked inside. There were two wounded men, wrapped in their sleeping bags. Both too badly injured to react.

  'Shit,' shouted Garrett. 'No colonel.' He grabbed one of the wounded men and shook him. 'Where is the colonel?'

  The man looked blankly at him, his eyes wide with delirium.

  Petrus leant in close, using wile instead of the threat of violence. 'The colonel. We need him. Please, help us.'