Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

Rayne moved swiftly, taking one of their packs and most of their ammunition. Then he disappeared into the bush, moving in a zig-zag pattern and covering his tracks constantly. He was close to collapse; the wound in his thigh was still oozing blood, and it made him sick to look at it. But the fear that, in this weakened state, he might run into a genuine ZANLA group, pushed him on. He had to get out of Mozambique, and fast.

  Five days later Rayne swam painfully across the Gairezi River, north of Ruda in the Honda Valley. He had covered some eighty- five kilometres, mostly at night, avoiding any contact with local people.

  He had been in constant danger. There were ZANLA forces scattered over the entire area and also frequent patrols by Mozambique’s own armed force FRELIMO. Either of these groups would shoot him on sight or worse, capture him and subject him to the horrors of interrogation. Several times, in fact, he had almost walked into a party of soldiers but years of experience had taught him how to melt into the bush at the first sight of the enemy.

  The days had passed in a blur. The evenings and nights he had spent staggering wearily onward, the mornings and afternoons had been spent ‘resting’ - lying wide awake, listening for the sounds of enemy patrols. These were the worst times, for over and over again his mind replayed the ambush.

  For Rayne, killing had always been something he’d done to the enemy. Its justification was that the enemy would otherwise kill him; he never thought about the men he killed. But now he had killed his friends, murdered them in cold blood. The guilt of it would never leave him. He felt sick to the depths of his soul. And how would he ever explain what had happened? Would anyone believe him? They would think he was out of his mind.

  Rayne shivered, his clothes and his body still wet from his swim across the river. It was very dark; the moon was hidden by the trees, making it hard for him to see ahead. Above the usual sounds of the bush at night he strove to listen for the slightest noise that was out of the ordinary. He knew he should move off the path but he was just too tired, his eyelids would droop, stay closed for a fraction of a second too long . . . Only will-power kept him lifting one leg after the other along the narrow path.

  He heard a noise in front of him, but his arms refused to respond. He held up his rifle ineffectually. Before he realised it a man was facing him, pointing a rifle directly at him. Then something struck him from behind and he keeled over, crashing to the man’s feet.

  They had been lying in wait since dusk. The path was a favourite route used by ZANLA terrorists coming in from Mozambique - terrorists determined to make an attack in the Thrasher opera­tional area on the eastern border of Rhodesia.

  It was thirteen long war-weary years since Ian Smith had signed Rhodesia’s historic Unilateral Declaration of Independence. In so doing he had severed all Rhodesia’s links with the British Crown, thus ending an eighty-year association that had begun when Cecil Rhodes’ famous Pioneer Column hoisted the British flag in Salisbury in 1890.

  The reason for the Declaration was simple. Rhodesia wanted Independence based on her 1961 constitution, which entrenched the rights of the white minority. This was unacceptable to the British government, and so Ian Smith had taken the decision to go it alone.

  In 1966 the United Nations applied selective sanctions to Rhodesia in an effort to force the white government to make moves towards handing over power to the black majority. Four years later, in retaliation, the white government of Rhodesia declared the country a Republic. To black Rhodesians this seemed the appalling culmination of years of political frustration - but then came the offer of assistance. Two countries, China and Russia, were ready to provide military equipment, money and training. With this help, black terrorist groups began to make an impact. To the west were the ZIPRA forces based in Zambia and Botswana and attacking the western flank of Rho­desia in the operational areas designated Tangent and Splinter. The ZIPRA freedom fighters came mostly from the Matabele tribe. To the east were the ZANLA forces, primarily of the Mashona tribe, based in Mozambique and attacking the eastern side of Rhodesia in the operational areas known as Thrasher and Hurricane. Rhodesia was effectively surrounded except for a small area to the south, the border with South Africa. Apart from the air routes, this was her only lifeline.

  What Rayne had walked into was an ambush laid for ZANLA terrorists by the Rhodesian Light Infantry, a crack battalion that was rated by international military experts to be amongst the finest in the world. In this instance the object of the ambush was to capture rather than kill. If a terr talked he would provide vital information about compatriots operating in the area.

  The terr they’d caught coming up the path in the early hours of this morning was obviously pretty badly hurt. He had a serious leg wound, and a stab wound in one shoulder. That would give them plenty to work on during the interrogation. He must have lost his sense of direction, too. Why else would he be staggering across the Rhodesian border instead of returning to Mozam­bique? They could tell he was in a bad way because he had heard them coming but had been unable to retaliate.

  They had disarmed him and tied his hands behind his back. He was carrying a Browning pistol that he must have taken from a soldier or a farmer. He was white, not black as they had first thought. A white disguised as a black. Maybe a Russian or a Cuban. If he was Russian it would be a rare capture; the Russians usually only took high-command positions in the cities.

  The terr opened his eyes and smiled at them.

  ‘I’ve made it.’

  The words had hardly left Rayne’s mouth when he received a savage blow across the face. He muttered his name and regiment as the blood trickled down from his mouth.

  ‘Captain Rayne Gallagher. Selous Scouts. Get Major Martin Long. He’ll know me.’

  They tied him to a tree and left two men to guard him, not taking any chances. The rest disappeared into the bush.

  He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t want to antagonise them. They thought he was lying to save his skin. He kept his eyes closed.

  The time began to drag. He wondered if they had just gone off to fetch more supplies. Perhaps they were just trying to faze him before they started the interrogation. He shook his head at the thought; he knew about interrogations; he’d conducted many himself.

  After about two hours the commanding officer returned. He walked up to him. Rayne looked him square in the face.

  Lieutenant Roy Brown RLI examined his captive closely. He had just spoken to Major Long of the Selous Scouts on the radio, and now he had to check out the visual description he had been given. He didn’t like the look in the penetrating blue eyes that were staring at him. It was the look of a killer.

  He pulled the man’s hair back and saw that the roots were blond beneath the dye and the muck. The face was covered by a thick, dark beard. He felt the line of the man’s jaw - firm and hardset. The eyes were positioned well back behind the eye­brows. Everything about the face projected strength. The neck was made up of cords of hard muscle and sat squarely on powerful shoulders. The body was superb. Well over six foot, he thought. He tore open the battle smock to reveal rippling stomach muscles. Only a diagonal scar going right across the belly-button marred an otherwise perfect torso. The skin was dark and deeply tanned. When Brown slammed his fist hard into the man’s stomach, it was like hitting a wet sand-bag. The man didn’t even register the blow, just looked at him.

  ‘Welcome home, Captain Gallagh - ’

  He didn’t get to complete the sentence. The man’s good leg shot out and hit him hard in the pit of the stomach. He collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath.

  ‘Untie me, you bastards.’

  The two guards quickly released Rayne from the tree he was haltered to. He staggered towards the prostrate form of Lieuten­ant Roy Brown, then he blacked out.

  Once again he felt the early morning sunlight on his face. He didn’t know where he was, but he remembered all too vividly the faces of the terrs who had nearly killed him. He tried to strike out with his left arm but got nowhere because it
was strapped firmly to his side.

  ‘Oh fuck.’

  ‘Easy there, Captain Gallagher. You’re going to be all right. You were given a shot of morphine to put you out. Lieutenant Roy Brown has two broken ribs which’ll teach him not to throw his weight around in future. A helicopter should be here any moment. Please relax. You’ll be back in Salisbury soon. You’ll be OK. I’ve checked your leg, the bullet will come out easy. There’s no infection. Bloody miracle you didn’t lose it.’

  The man was interrupted by a shadow falling across them both. The helicopter roared down from the sky, a dirty green K-car bristling with armaments, a troop-carrier that struck fear into the heart of every terrorist. Rayne was securely strapped on a metal stretcher and then hoisted carefully into the K-car. He saw Lieutenant Roy Brown follow him into the hold. He felt no remorse; the man should never have hit him in the stomach. The helicopter began to rise above the thick green bush that lay like a giant mat across the Thrasher operational area.

  Rayne smelt something familiar - a perfume that roused him from the morphine-induced stupor that had taken over his body. He turned over, and saw a female face beneath a tin helmet. Her body was hidden beneath an unflattering camouflage uniform. He must be dreaming . . .

  She leant down and kissed him on the lips.

  ‘Samantha.’

  He could see the other soldiers in the hold grinning. He shot them an angry glance and they immediately turned away. Captain Gallagher was not a man to be treated lightly.

  ‘Rayne, they thought you were finished. What the hell hap­pened to you?’

  ‘It’s too bloody terrible.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it now, then. Relax.’

  Relax, he thought, with that body leaning over him? Even her voice turned him on. He looked at the Nikon hanging from her neck. Samantha Elliot, war photographer extraordinary.

  ‘How did you know they’d found me?’

  She lifted up the Nikon, focused it on his face and pushed the shutter-release. The motor-drive sounded alien amidst the noise of the propeller blades whirling above them.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said mirthlessly.

  ‘You might just make the next issue of Time.’

  ‘Pervert.’

  ‘You can talk.’

  He smiled and lay back, knowing that for the next few weeks he wasn’t going to have to worry every second about his chances of surviving. He would be in the hospital where the aim was to preserve life, not to take it away. It is one of the great absurdities of war, he thought to himself, that everyone tries to maim or kill as many of the enemy as possible, and then a dedicated band of men and women put the torn bodies together, knowing full well that they will be back fighting again as soon as they are repaired. At least he’d made it home. Not like the others who lay buried in the veld, food for carnivores.

  The white man was in the minority in this war - the white man with his stupid bloody ideals hammered into him since birth. Do it for king and country; do it because it’s right; do it because it’s romantic. What was he, Rayne Gallagher, a volunteer from another country, doing it for?

  The Rhodesian army was undoubtedly the finest of its kind in the world, but then it had been founded on a military tradition that had won two world wars. Most Rhodesian soldiers were professionals when it came to fighting to the death, just like their Australian and New Zealand counterparts. He had always been proud to be one of their number, proud to serve with the best. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  He turned and looked at the beautiful woman who was staring out of the helicopter, down into the bush. Her long blonde hair, the colour of golden corn in the evening sun, was partly hidden under the ugly tin helmet on her head. There was a mischievous twinkle in her green eyes that spoke of the fire beneath the ice. Her complexion was smooth and soft, giving no indication that she was in her mid-thirties. The full dark eyebrows perhaps suggested her tomboy spirit, the courage with which she faced whatever problems life put in front of her.

  He mentally undressed her. The breasts were full and firm with big brown nipples. Beneath them was a tiny waist that both of his hands could fit round with ease as she sat astride him during their love-making. It was nearly two months since they’d last done that. He found himself becoming erect at the thought of the hair that lay between her exquisite thighs and the long legs that would wrap themselves around his body as he thrust deep inside her. She would claw into his back with her fingers, and come in long shuddering orgasms.

  He thought back to their first meeting, three and a half years before. One of those rare happenings that had changed the course of his life.

  He’d just received his wings after passing the tough initiation course and making it into the crack SAS regiment. He’d rented a small cottage in a Salisbury suburb and was looking forward to a couple of relaxing weeks. The first morning, trying to enjoy a lie-in for the first time in months, he’d been woken by a tirade of swear words. She’d been out in the street, trying to start her car.

  When he got outside, wearing nothing except his shorts, she was kicking the side of the car. She’d flooded the engine, so he held the accelerator flat and the car started.

  Later, when she got back, she invited him over for a drink. They were in bed within half an hour and didn’t get out of it for the next two days. By the time they did, they’d completely exhausted each other. And they were in love.

  Her name was Samantha Elliot. She was a woman with a passion for action - violent action. In her early twenties she’d gone to Vietnam with her Nikon and her good looks and nothing else. She started going to places most journalists avoided and taking pictures that revealed a side of the war that only the men who were fighting in it knew about. She was on the cover of Time a year later, and after that she could pick any assignment she wanted. Quite why she had chosen to go to Rhodesia she didn’t know. At the time she’d been in love with an American Green Beret helicopter pilot who was hungry for action after Vietnam and had travelled to Rhodesia to find it. After that, once she was in Rhodesia, she was hooked.

  She turned from the door of the helicopter and stared at Rayne. Her vivid green eyes flashed like emeralds beneath the long black lashes.

  War was her passion. There was an honour in it, a striving, that fired her. She had discovered this thing that men enjoyed doing, and it stirred the core of her sensual being. Sometimes she was scared of this feeling, but she could never resist its pull upon her.

  Most war photographers were obsessed with the spectacular gore of warfare, the vivid colours of blood, smoke and flame, but for her the fascination lay in the men - in faces caught when they could not hide emotion: the look of horror on seeing a wounded enemy; the lust for blood in the heat of action.

  Rayne had become the embodiment of this vision of hers. He was bigger than any man who had ever taken her, and his love- making had a dark ferocity about it. She could never have enough of it.

  She looked down at him and shivered. His leg was roughly bandaged, blood already seeping through the white material; there was a deep cut in his neck, and his face was a mass of dirty wounds. Yet when she looked into the depths of the intense blue eyes she saw a deeper hurt. He had changed. Something had happened to him out there, and whatever it was had struck at the very core of him. He was hanging onto his sanity by a slender thread.

  As she looked at him, she saw his eyes lose their focus, the lids fall. The drugs, and the shattering experience he had lived through, were at last taking their toll of him. He was blacking out; forgetting Samantha, forgetting where he was, forgetting everything.

  Rayne came round much later. He seemed to be in a hospital bed. He must have been captured by the enemy. He knew he had no friends left; they had all been killed. A strange chill crept up and down his body. Deep down in the oldest section of his brain a voice was urging him to fight, to remember his old cunning and wait for the moment when he could burst out of the bed and surprise them.

  He eyed the woman who stood by the bed. Yes, she should
be afraid of him, all right.

  ‘Rayne,’ whispered Samantha. ‘What’s wrong? Don’t look at me like that.’

  His left hand shot out from beneath the sheets and pulled her down savagely. For a fraction of a second the grip eased, and then he whipped his forearm and bicep around her head like a vicious pincer. The grip hardened, his bicep pushing against her ear, and she screamed out as the crook of his elbow closed into her windpipe. She lashed out wildly but ineffectively. Then two male nurses were on him, prizing her out of his grip, binding him down with straps. He heard her screaming as they dragged her down the passage. He reached for his gun but could not find it.

  When, later, a man came up to him and leant over him, pulling one of his eyelids back and shining a light into his eyeball, Rayne spat in the man’s face. Then he reared up and bit the man’s arm. The man jumped back with a look of horror on his face. After that Rayne felt a painful jab in his left thigh and he slipped away into another place that felt a lot safer than the one he’d been in.

  It was a pleasant day. Rayne was glad to be outside in the open air. He was in a wheelchair, which was uncomfortable, and he still couldn’t understand why they kept his arms and legs strapped up; he could have pushed himself around instead of having to rely on a nurse.

  Nurse Maureen Thrush was careful with her charge. Captain Rayne Gallagher was a man they’d heard much of over the past few years. Not that they’d ever seen him until a week ago - and, she’d never imagined he’d be so good-looking, even after they’d shaved off his beard.

  She remembered the first time she’d heard of him. Her boyfriend in the SAS had told her about it. Gallagher had apparently been put through the tough selection programme that all the men had to undergo, and one of the tests was unarmed combat. The instructor, Sergeant Rourke, had a habit of picking the toughest of the new recruits and working them over. Rourke tipped the scales at over two hundred pounds of solid muscle, and had never been dropped in a fight. Most of the men feared him, and he knew it.