by Tony Park
*
Nia saw the glint of sunlight reflected off glass winking at her through the foliage of the mahogany tree that flashed below her skids.
The odds of there being something man-made under a tree this far from any access or game-viewing road were astronomical. Using her peripheral vision she checked the fair-haired man. He gave no indication of having seen anything.
Nia looked around her, and memorised the spot.
Ahead of her she saw the black tar of the road from Mpila Camp to Nyalazi Gate. A dozen or more vehicles were stopped and at first Nia thought it was a typical national parks’ traffic jam, with tourists queued up to see a lion or a leopard. Then she saw the police bakkie parked to one side of the road.
‘Make a left turn when we get to the road, then head south again,’ the man said to her.
*
‘Breaking right,’ the US Navy Sea Hawk pilot said into the intercom, as he turned that way.
Mike gripped the seat back in front of him. The evasive manoeuvre was to stop the people in Nia’s Robinson from seeing them.
‘I’m going to orbit off to the east for a bit, then pick them up again.’
As they circled back around Mike saw the queue of traffic. ‘That’s unusual.’
‘Police roadblock?’ Jed asked.
‘Yes. Unusual because Mtubatuba police didn’t say anything about a roadblock in the game reserve.’
Mike took his phone out of his pocket. He had a signal. From his contacts he selected the number of the section ranger for the area north of the access road into Hluhluwe.
Chapter 16
Themba came to the brow of a hill and dropped down on his belly. Lerato eased herself down too, the baby asleep on her back in his wrap, and wriggled up until she was beside Themba.
‘Police!’
‘Shush,’ said Themba. ‘Keep your voice down.’
Lerato frowned. ‘Why on earth should I? We agreed that if we saw any cops we’d give ourselves up, so what are we waiting for?’
Themba took out his binoculars. ‘It’s unusual to have a roadblock here in the park.’
‘So what? Who cares? It just means we won’t have to walk any more. I’ve got blisters all over my feet and this baby is breaking my back.’
Themba ignored her complaining and focused on the officers below. There was a white woman in blue police uniform leaning into the window of a Mitsubishi Pajero four-wheel drive. A man in civilian clothes walked around the vehicle, inspecting it from the outside, while another man in plain clothes sat in the driver’s seat of a police bakkie. Something wasn’t right about the scene. The policewoman leaned back and waved the vehicle on.
‘Let’s go,’ said Lerato.
Themba held up a hand. ‘Wait.’
‘What’s the problem?’ The frustration was clear in Lerato’s voice.
‘Those men in civilian clothes could be detectives.’
‘And?’
‘And there’s only one officer, the woman, in uniform. The cops normally work in pairs.’
‘I won’t ask how you know so much about police procedure.’
‘Don’t,’ Themba agreed. He focused in on the man in the police vehicle but it was hard to make out their features through the windscreen, which glinted with reflected sunlight. ‘They must be looking for someone in particular. Maybe even us.’
‘Yes,’ Lerato exhaled. ‘Maybe even us. Maybe they want to help us? Maybe they’re worried sick about this bundle of wee and pooh on my back.’
Themba wrinkled his nose. It was true, the baby needed changing, and the half a dozen disposable nappies they had salvaged from the Fortuner had run out. The child needed to be cleaned, fed again and, somehow, have its diaper changed. That would happen if they gave themselves up to the police officers below. He would be arrested, Lerato would be questioned, but if they allowed him a phone call, he could call Mike Dunn. Everything would be sorted out.
‘It will be fine,’ Lerato said, reading the hopeful wishes in his mind, but still he wasn’t sure. The down on the back of his neck rose.
Below them, a new model Land Rover Discovery towing a caravan pulled to a halt behind the Pajero. The policewoman waved the SUV closer and the Discovery driver crept forward a few metres until the officer was abreast of him.
Lerato pushed herself slowly upright.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going down there. If you’re coming, Themba, then come. If not, I won’t tell them where you are. I’ll say we parted company and I went off on my own, which is exactly what I’m doing right now. You’re kidding yourself if you think we can last any longer out here in the wilds with a tiny child.’
‘Wait.’
She ignored him, brushed the dirt off her front and set off down the hill. Thorn trees shielded her from view from the people below, but she would soon break into the cleared area on the verge of the main road. The vegetation was kept down on the sides so that motorists would have ample warning of game crossing.
Themba heard the drone of a helicopter and instinctively burrowed closer into the ground. They were coming for him; he was sure of it. He peeked above the stems of grass in front of him and looked around. There it was, low on the horizon and heading straight for the roadblock. It would pass right over him.
He raised his binoculars and focused on the aircraft, then inhaled sharply. This was not the same sort of small helicopter that had been chasing the stolen Fortuner; this was a much bigger machine, painted a dull, menacing grey. It reminded him of the logo of the KwaZulu-Natal Sharks Board, a fearful-looking great white coming at him head-on. On one side he saw something sticking out, and when he steadied his hands he saw that it was a machine gun. A crewman in a bulbous helmet had his torso out in the slipstream. The gun was raised to the horizontal, at the ready. Are they coming to kill me?
‘Lerato!’
She didn’t hear him, so he risked calling louder. Lerato stopped and turned. He pointed up in the air with a finger and she shielded her eyes with a hand and looked up. Just as he had hunkered down, Lerato’s first impulse was to drop to her knees, fearing the oncoming war machine.
Themba transferred his binoculars back to the roadblock and picked up movement. One of the men was getting out of the parked police bakkie, the policewoman beckoning to him and pointing to the caravan behind the Discovery. The driver, an elderly man with grey hair, opened his door and went to the caravan. Themba could see that the man had been told by the policewoman to open the door of the caravan. He sorted through his keys to find the right one as the man from the bakkie took up a position behind him. Themba focused his binoculars on the younger man and drew a breath.
‘What’s happening?’ Lerato called from where she was crouching.
‘That man down there, behind the caravan, he’s one of the men who shot at us.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘They’re not police, Lerato.’
A shadow eclipsed the sun for a second as something zoomed over them. The big grey helicopter slowed, circling the vehicles below. A voice boomed down from the aircraft.
‘Citizens below, move away from your vehicles and place your hands in the air. Do not run. Do not panic.’
Themba picked up the American accent from the slightly distorted voice from above. The old man by the caravan had his key in the door, but had taken his hand off it and looked upwards when the voice sounded. The man behind him shoved him in the back. Themba wanted to run down the hill and yell to the old man to get away, but he felt rooted to the earth, paralysed with fear.
‘What are we going to do, Themba?’ Lerato wailed. ‘I’m scared. Are they the police? The army?’
Themba saw the black star with two bars on either side of the helicopter’s tail. These were not South Africans, clearly. The crewman in the big helmet was pointing his machine gun down at the grou
nd. Themba gripped the AK-47. He had no intention of picking a fight with this giant aerial beast, and wondered if he should toss his rifle away, in case the gunner above caught sight of him and opened fire.
‘Move away from your vehicles, put your hands in the air,’ the disembodied, God-like voice called from the heavens.
A woman got out of the passenger side of the Discovery and darted towards the caravan door. The man, her husband, shook the other man off his shoulder and ran to his wife and hugged her. The man who had shot at Themba reached under his jacket and brought out an R5 assault rifle.
The couple from the Discovery looked up at the helicopter, then walked a few metres away from their vehicle and put up their empty hands. The policewoman called and waved to the man she had dispatched and he ran to her. She looked up as well, waving to the circling helicopter.
‘Ma’am, put your hands in the air. Draw your service pistol and toss it on the road where we can see it,’ said the American voice.
The helicopter was still moving in a slow circuit. Themba switched his gaze from it to the people on the ground. As the chopper passed over the parked police bakkie and the Discovery, its tail rotor and rear now to them, the second alleged policeman got out and ran to the rear of the truck. Themba saw that he was undoing the vinyl cover of the bakkie’s load area. The helicopter settled into a hover as the policewoman and the other man waved to it, distracting the crew.
‘Police officers, please put your weapons on the road, where we can see them,’ said the voice.
The elderly couple had backed away further, about twenty metres from their four-by-four and caravan. They stood, necks craned, watching the helicopter.
Lerato had retraced her steps and was kneeling next to Themba, who was now up on his knees. He shifted the binoculars back to the police bakkie. ‘The other man is getting something out of the back.’
‘What is it?’ Lerato said.
Themba saw the long tubular object that the man was hefting up onto his shoulder. ‘No!’
‘What?’
‘It’s an RPG,’ Themba said as he got to his feet. ‘Anti-tank weapon. He’s going to shoot them.’
‘Who?’
Themba started to run down the hill.
‘Wait for me,’ Lerato called.
‘Stay back,’ he yelled to her, not even turning. Themba waved his arms in the air. ‘Hey, hey, down here!’
The elderly couple looked Themba’s way, hearing his frantic screams above the drone of the helicopter’s engines. Someone aboard the chopper must have seen him too, because the nose of the machine started turning in his direction.
‘Behind you!’ Themba pointed furiously towards the bakkie. There was no way the people on board could hear him. Themba saw the crewman turn his machine gun towards him and suddenly realised he was still carrying the AK-47. They’re definitely going to kill me. He tossed the rifle into the grass.
‘You down there, Themba Nyathi, stay where you are,’ the voice said, and Themba was shocked that they knew his name.
He kept running, though, waving and pointing to the rear of the helicopter. He stopped, thought for a second, then turned back and ran to where he had discarded the AK-47. He picked it up.
‘Themba Nyathi, drop the weapon or we will open fire. I repeat …’
Themba’s heart was pounding so hard the sound of rushing blood deafened him. He brought the rifle up, swung and took aim in the general direction of the police truck.
Themba pulled the trigger and sent a wild burst of 7.62-millimetre rounds towards the man with the RPG-7 launcher. Puffs of dust and stray stalks of grass seemed to erupt around him as the machine gunner on board the helicopter started firing at him. ‘No!’ Too late, he realised he’d done the wrong thing. All eyes on the helicopter were focused on him now, and not on the real danger.
From across the road below the hill came a whoosh, and Themba watched a trail of dirty white smoke streak across the clear blue Zululand sky. A second later came a clap of thunder and Themba’s upturned face caught the heat of the black and red fireball that erupted from the helicopter. Its tail all but sheared off, the helicopter started to spin under its main rotors. A blaring siren replaced the robotic voice and Themba ran as more bullets, this time from ground level, started whizzing through the air around him like angry high-speed wasps.
Themba saw the old white couple, the woman shrieking hysterically, run for their Discovery. The helicopter, which had been almost directly above him when the RPG man had fired, was coming down.
‘Run!’ Themba called to Lerato. ‘The caravan!’
*
‘Brace, brace, brace,’ ordered the pilot over the internal loudspeaker on board the Sea Hawk.
Mike Dunn put his head between his legs and clasped his hands together underneath them. Jed Banks, he noted, was firing his MP5 out the open hatchway. Mike glanced up and, as the chopper spun, caught a glimpse of the blonde woman in the police uniform running towards the parked vehicles. There was no sign of Themba, who Mike had positively identified to the Americans.
The machine gunner, too, was still looking for targets.
‘Don’t shoot the boy!’ Mike yelled.
There was a tortured screech from the rear of the Sea Hawk as something else sheared off and the pilot seemed to lose what little control he had in the auto rotate. The helicopter yawed sickeningly over onto its side. Mike’s last vision was of the ground rushing up outside the open cargo door.
The rotor blades hit the earth first, sheering off in different directions, and then the fuselage crashed into the grassland. Mike’s body whiplashed, and his head hit the wall behind him which, though padded, still managed to stun him.
He came to and looked around the interior of the helicopter. Jed was leaning over someone.
‘Franklin,’ said Jed. ‘He’s alive, help me.’
Mike undid his seatbelt and crawled to Jed.
‘He’s unconscious,’ Jed said. He searched around the cabin and found the dive bag from which he and Franklin had taken their weapons. Jed fished out a grenade the size and shape of a drink can. ‘This is smoke. Get ready to deplane.’
Mike crawled to the crewman who had been firing the machine gun. Brave, though foolhardy, the man had stayed standing, firing his gun as the helicopter crashed. His head was twisted at an unnatural angle. Mike felt for a pulse, but there was none. ‘Must have broken his neck.’
‘Sons of bitches.’ Jed pulled the pin and tossed the grenade out. A swirling wall of red smoke rose up, obscuring the blue of the sky.
Mike clambered over the body and helped Jed lift the unconscious Franklin up to the edge of the cargo compartment. On a count of three from Jed they hoisted him over the edge then scrambled up and out themselves.
Mike heard gunfire in the smoke, but realised it was Jed laying down some cover. ‘Stay down,’ Jed said.
Mike flattened himself into the grass, which was just as well as a burst of gunfire stitched four holes in the fuselage about thirty centimetres above his head.
‘Leopard-crawl,’ Jed said, not too loud. Mike followed his voice and they each grabbed Franklin under an arm and, awkwardly, dragged him with them.
The smoke was spoiling the aim of the bogus police officers, but Mike could hear shouting. Soon the cloud would lift and they would be exposed.
‘Pilots?’ Mike asked.
‘Heading there now.’
They crawled to the cockpit, leaving Franklin in a dip in the ground, which would cover him from view of their enemies. The smoke was thinning. Mike saw a man across the road, standing by the parked cars. ‘Jed, down!’
A noise like a rushing train was followed by a smoke trail as a second rocket-propelled grenade scythed through the air between Jed and Mike. The two men flattened themselves on the ground as the projectile slammed into the cockpit of the downed Sea Hawk. The grenad
e detonated and fire mushroomed.
‘If they were still alive, they’re finished now,’ Jed said. ‘Run!’
*
Themba had run down the hill, away from the falling, spinning helicopter, and had felt the impact of the crash reverberate through his feet. Lerato had been right behind him and Themba had motioned her to the rear of the caravan.
As gunfire burst around them and a second RPG round slammed into the helicopter, Themba made his way to the side of the caravan and, finding the door unlocked, grabbed Lerato’s forearm. She struggled, the weight of the baby on her back making it harder for her to get inside.
The engine of the Discovery roared to life. Themba saw that the elderly white couple had made it back to their car during the chaos. The Discovery lurched forward, and the caravan with it.
‘Themba, hurry!’
Themba ran after the caravan, pushing himself into the fastest sprint of his life. Ahead there was another long burst of gunfire and the Discovery weaved hard to the right. The caravan slewed and rocked and for a moment Themba feared it might roll over, but the evasive manoeuvre slowed the van enough for Themba to catch up.
Lerato hung half out the door, her arm extended. ‘Take my hand!’
‘Take the rifle.’ Themba hurled the AK-47 and Lerato just managed to catch it, almost fumbling it in the process. She tossed the rifle inside. Themba’s legs pumped as fast as they could and his heart hurt with the effort of keeping up. The Discovery started to accelerate again now that the caravan had stabilised. Themba reached out and felt Lerato’s fingers grip him as he leapt. She pulled and he scrambled and for an instant he thought his arm would be wrenched from its socket, but she managed to haul him into the doorway and he landed on the floor inside with a painful thud.
Lerato reached over him and slammed the door shut then moved to the front of the caravan. She undid the wrap and laid the baby, screaming from the noise and movement, on a couch. She stacked pillows around him to try and stop him from moving. Chest heaving, Themba hauled himself to his knees and peeked through the closed blind on the rear window. The woman in the police uniform and the two men were all firing at two other men in the grass beyond the burning wreck of the helicopter. Themba saw the woman pointing at the departing caravan and yelling something to the men. Then the trio began getting into the police bakkie, the woman at the wheel. Moments later they took off, coming down the road behind the caravan. The two men from the helicopter were on their feet now and ran into the middle of the road, firing after the police vehicle. ‘Help me,’ Themba said.
