Martin Long looked out through the back window of the car at the house in the darkness. God, what had he come to? It was sheer suicide, what they’d proposed; he’d refused it point-blank. Then the pressure had started. If he wouldn’t do it, then he had to find someone who could.
Rayne Gallagher had been the only possible choice. But what condition was he in to handle the pressure he was going to be under?
Martin Long turned and looked out of the front window, concentrating on the dirt road curving ahead of him into the distance. How had John Fry found out about his father, about the disgrace and the cowardice? Fry was a bastard, threatening to unearth the whole story, feed it to the press. The price of his silence was a man who could lead his crazy mission.
He shivered. Had he been a coward? He tried to ease his conscience by telling himself that the release of the story would destroy his father, an old man in his eighties with nothing but his past to keep him going.
‘Good evening, Captain Gallagher, I’m pleased you have agreed to lead this operation. My name is John Fry.’
From his accent, Rayne knew at once that he was an American. CIA? But why the hell were the Americans involved in this? He was in his early forties, in good physical shape and around five foot ten tall, with a clean-cut boyish face and dark hair. He would have been at home in the first class compartment of an aircraft or in the salon prive of a casino. He was dressed in a dark blue suit and pale blue shirt with a button-down collar. He looked out of place in the deserted farmhouse.
Fry walked over to a map that had been stuck on the wall with masking tape. The map was of the Mozambique area to the east of Rhodesia.
‘Captain Gallagher, you are familiar with the location of enemy forces within Mozambique? The public believes that this is a territory receiving Chinese aid and military assistance. This is a naive assumption, and we wouldn’t want to change it. The reality is that the majority of aid and assistance is of Soviet origin. Nothing startling about that.
‘Now, my own government, together with the British government, has accepted that the Rhodesian War of Independence is entering - how shall I say it? - its final phase. Our intelligence reveals the existence of many bases within Mozambique for the supply and control of terrorist operations. Your forces have successfully eliminated some of these in the past. However, the major source of supply and control we have never, until now, been able to identify.
‘Now, recently the CIA infiltrated this base. It has provided us with the most disturbing information. In short, we have discovered that a major attack on Rhodesia is to be launched very soon. The operation’s code name is Salisbury. The intention, to decimate the capital city of this country and achieve immediate power for the ZANLA, Mashona faction. In short, it will be a Soviet take-over.’
Rayne whistled under his breath. Up to now, the war had stayed out of the capital city. This would bring it to the heart of their fragile society; it would be a bloodbath - something they had all feared but never believed would happen.
‘They will utilise the very latest Russian fighter-bombers and helicopter gunships. The whole operation will be under Soviet control. Once under way, your army will never be able to stop it.
‘Many men have died gleaning this intelligence information, now I must utilise it, and that requires both stealth and secrecy.’
‘But I thought that this was a Rhodesian operation?’ Rayne was perplexed by the absence of any Rhodesian officials. His guard was up.
‘Relax, Captain. You were recommended to me by the Rhodesians. I needed a man who could operate in Mozambique, and they selected you. It is you, Captain Gallagher, on whom the success or failure of this operation depends.
‘Your mission is simple. You are to leave this country and to recruit an elite band of mercenary soldiers. You will infiltrate the enemy position, destroy their aircraft and helicopters, and then get the hell out. The rest of the base must be left intact, the fuel storage depot and other secondary installations are on no account to be destroyed.
‘This mission must not be seen as Rhodesian. The Soviets are waiting for an excuse for invasion - a Rhodesian-inspired attack would give them that excuse. For your operation to succeed, it has to be seen as a mercenary action.
‘For the Russians, of course, Rhodesia is merely a pawn so that they can then advance on South Africa. That is quite clear, I think.
‘This mission has the backing of both the CIA and MI6. The governments of the United States and Great Britain want the election process to take place unhindered in Rhodesia. They want the world to know that democracy can succeed in Africa.
‘Now, do you have any questions, Captain?’
‘Why?’
Fry looked momentarily disconcerted. Then he smiled good- naturedly. ‘Ah, Captain Gallagher. I am not used to a military man asking such a question. You see, the objective for the moment is to achieve some kind of stability in this part of Africa. We have come to realise that black governments do not trust the superpowers. However if Russia were to help ZANLA get into power, they would then have a considerable hold over them. You see, we don’t need a Soviet government in Southern Africa.’
Rayne got to his feet and walked over to the map. He wasn’t thinking of the politics, just of the task in hand.
‘Getting into Mozambique with a band of armed men won’t be easy. The targets will have to be clearly identified. The speed with which we eliminate them will be all-important. A successful escape route needs to be well planned - one mistake and my force could be annihilated. Remember that in the Selous Scouts I’ve been up against ZANLA and FRELIMO, not a sophisticated Soviet force.’
John Fry smiled. ‘You assess the difficulties well, Captain Gallagher. However, you will have every military resource at your disposal, and unlimited financial backing. It is a challenge, of course, but you were chosen for your unique leadership abilities and your fighting spirit.’
‘So where is the target, Mr Fry?’
‘The target is Beira.’
The harbour of Beira, on the east coast of Mozambique, had at one time been linked by railway all the way to Salisbury. The war had put paid to that; Rayne had even blown up some sections of the Beira line himself.
‘Can you now understand why you were selected, Captain Gallagher?’
Rayne ignored the question. ‘How much accurate information do you have on this Soviet build-up? Do you know how they propose to attack Salisbury?’
‘An airborne assault will be mounted. After initial heavy bombing, fighter planes will move in and strafe designated areas. Then taskforce units will be airlifted in by helicopter. They will be briefed to shoot on sight, no hostages are to be taken.’
Rayne shivered. It was a brilliant, savage plan.
‘We’ll be able to give you a very detailed plan of the Beira airport. That’s your target.’
‘Mr Fry, I suppose that while I attack the airport, the Russian and Mozambique forces will miraculously stand back and not interfere?’
‘Witty. You will have to operate under cover - get in there without being noticed, strike, and then get out as quickly as you can.’
Rayne’s mind immediately went to work on the problem. He and his men would have to be flown in; there was no way they could make a ground-based attack if they were not coming from Rhodesia.
‘Suppose I’m caught alive?’
‘Another reason why you were selected. You are not the sort to talk. If they did break you, by that time they’d have to question whether you were telling the truth or lying to stop the pain.’
A frown appeared on Fry’s face as he said this. Suddenly he seemed much older. Rayne noticed. ‘You talk from experience, Mr Fry?’
‘They got me in Korea. It changes one. I was lucky, I escaped.’
‘I don’t intend to get caught.’
John Fry got up from his chair and extended his hand.
‘You’ll be supplied with a contact number and a bank account in any country where you want to start rec
ruiting - we’ll take care of getting you in and out. Good luck, Captain Gallagher.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t believe in luck.’
Rayne’s first priority was recruitment. Major Long told him he could recruit men from the army as long as they didn’t hold rank, and within a fortnight he’d interviewed seventy and chosen fifteen, including Lois. There’d been a big argument over Lois, but eventually the Major had agreed to let him go.
Next, Rayne and Lois flew to Durban. Rayne planned to launch his force into Mozambique from South Africa, and north of Durban, on the east coast, he knew of the ideal place in which to establish a base. While the other fourteen men flew into Durban on random commercial flights, drove into the base and began a stiff training programme, Rayne and Lois organised stocks of weapons and explosives. Rayne also did some interviewing, but he found no one suitable. He was beginning to be worried; he still needed four more men, men who had proven ability with explosives, and also the ability to lead. Obviously, they weren’t going to be easy to find.
There’d been plenty of candidates, of course, men who were just after a fast buck. But Rayne was looking for that rare breed, the hardened professional soldier, a man who would readily accept discipline but who could also act on his own in a difficult situation. He needed four of them, to complete his full complement of twenty.
Rayne knew of one person who could find him the men he needed, but that person was on the other side of the world.
The jumbo touched down on the slippery, wet landing strip of Heathrow and drew to a halt in the inevitable drizzle. For a few moments it sounded as though the engines were about to shut down, but instead the plane taxied a little further towards the terminal buildings before juddering into silence.
Outside the grey sky offered a bleak greeting after a twelve- hour flight from the heat of the South African summer. There were few passengers on board this mid-week SAA Boeing 747 flight from Jan Smuts, Johannesburg’s main airport. Most of them did not look particularly pleased to be leaving the warmth of the plane.
In the crowded arrivals hall a man waited, slightly to the side of the main concourse. He was looking for a particular person. His instincts did not let him down. Almost the first person through customs, Captain Gallagher stood out in contrast to the rest of the passengers, and it was evident that he had immediately detected his watcher.
Yes, Michael Strong said to himself, this one would be fine. The hardness and the intelligence marked him as a fighting man.
Definitely a man worth knowing. He moved forward to greet his foreign guest.
‘Captain Gallagher, welcome to Britain.’
Strong could sense that he, too, was being assessed. ‘Colonel Strong? I didn’t expect to be met at the airport.’ The tone in which Rayne spoke the words of the call-sign was suspicious.
‘You’ll enjoy our beer.’
‘I prefer tea.’
Why were these call-signs always so stupid? Rayne supposed it was because people figured that that way, no one could come up with the correct answer by accident.
‘I’ve booked you a room at the Dorchester, Captain Gallagher. I thought we might eat first at my club. That is, if you’re not too tired?’
The car, a white Aston Martin DBS Vantage, moved effortlessly along the M4 motorway in the fading daylight. The brute power of the engine was just audible through the angry burble of the exhausts.
Rayne watched the Colonel as he drove. He was a big man with a wide craggy face topped by an unruly mane of dark hair. His mouth seemed bent in a perpetual sardonic smile, and the keen brown eyes gave the impression of missing nothing. His nose, slightly hooked at the tip, had the predatory air of a falcon. Colonel Strong, he thought, was a man he could get along with.
They dropped Rayne’s cases off at the Dorchester, and then dined excellently at the Colonel’s club. After that, Colonel Strong suggested entertainment. They walked down a narrow alley into a small square dominated by an elegant Georgian-style townhouse with an enormous black door. In front of the door stood a man who looked like a cross between a maitre d’hotel and a prize-fighter. He recognised the Colonel and swung open a wrought-iron gate to the left of the front door; Rayne looked down a line of steps that led to the basement.
‘Evening, Colonel Strong, sir.’
‘Good evening, Sylvester, how’s business?’
‘Typical for a weekday. Couple of drunk public school chaps. Some rather dour-looking Saudis. And then there are the regulars like yourself, sir.’
‘Let me introduce you to Captain Gallagher, Sylvester.’ ‘Always a pleasure to meet your friends, sir.’
They walked down the steps and through a narrow side-door. Inside the air was thick with tobacco smoke, and the sound of a jazz quartet energised the atmosphere. As they walked into the room Sylvester vanished and they were met by another man in evening dress - a thin, debauched face with an aristocratic line to it.
‘Good to see you, Michael. Ah, you have company. Your favourite table is available. Let me get you a drink.’
‘Thanks, Richard. This is Captain Gallagher.’
‘My pleasure, Captain Gallagher. I’m sure that you’ll enjoy yourself. The Mandrake always endeavours to please.’
Rayne was impressed with the Colonel’s natural air of authority. Even the owner of the club was clearly intimidated by the big man. They were led to a table that was close enough to the jazz quartet for them to enjoy the music but not so close as to kill conversation. Their drinks arrived a few minutes later, a neat double Scotch for Rayne and a gin and tonic for the Colonel.
Rayne was surprised at how full the club was. There were some very attractive women in the room, obviously high society; and then there were others of more dubious background . . . Many of the men were clearly in business, but others looked like actors, musicians, sportsmen and soldiers. This was obviously a night club that didn’t care too much about the social standing of its members, more about their ability to pay their membership fees and enjoy themselves. No one had paid the slightest attention to the Colonel or himself. That was obviously part of the etiquette.
The quartet rounded off the number. The applause was muffled but appreciative. The Colonel had been in a meditative mood while the music was playing but now he became more expansive.
‘You can really relax in this place. I’ve never been much of a man for words. Can’t stand heavy books. Poetry leaves me cold. But music, music I’ve always liked. Especially jazz.’ He took another sip at his drink and then continued, ‘Jazz is non-aggressive. I can imagine going into a fire fight listening to rock music. Mind you, I don’t think about music when I’m in action. All I think about is staying alive.
‘Take a look at the lady who’s about to sing. I’ve been after her for the last six months. She’s still giving me a hard time.’
A very dark-skinned woman came up to the microphone and smiled at the tables. Rayne noticed that there was scarcely a man in the room who was not watching her. She waited for the quartet to settle down. The opening note came from the keyboard player and the other instruments moved in to create a driving rhythm.
She started to sing. Her voice was deep and sensual. Magical. Rayne was transfixed. She was not attractive in the conventional way, her figure was a little too full, her long legs a shade too muscular, and her face had a wanton look. But she radiated a magnetic sexuality that could not be ignored. Her hair was long, raven black with dark russet streaks.
As she sang, the content and words of the song became irrelevant. It was the emotion in her voice that mattered. No man in the room was left unmoved by it - a voice more attractive than the female body itself.
Then the number was over, and only when it was clear that she was not going to continue, was there appreciative applause.
She left the stage and walked over to their table. The long black dress clung to her body. A slit that rose almost above her thigh revealed her legs as she walked towards them. She pulled up her chair and stared at Rayne
. Dark, sultry eyes that were without embarrassment. She knew what she wanted. He could smell her now, a warm musky scent that caused him to come erect.
‘Well, Michael. Your manners are appalling. If you won’t introduce me then I’ll introduce myself.’ Her voice was not what he had expected. Deep, yes, but with a very English upper-class accent.
‘Rayne.’
‘An unusual name. I see you are surprised by my voice.’
‘You haven’t told me your name.’
‘Priscilla. Priscilla St John.’
‘Priscilla, you sing very beautifully.’
‘Thank you. You are very flattering for a military man.’
‘How do you know I’m a soldier?’
‘Michael only mixes with fighting men.’ She stared at Colonel Strong provocatively. ‘Are you on holiday, Rayne?’
‘Yes. I’m staying at the Dorchester. Just here to see London.’ ‘Oh, all Michael’s foreign friends come here on holiday, don’t they, Michael. . .’
At forty-seven, Michael Strong was wealthy and his business was successful, but he was a soldier at heart and longed for action. At first when he’d met Gallagher he’d summed him up as just another tough boy heading for an early death, but as the evening progressed he’d become aware of a sensitivity and a keen intelligence beneath the hardness. He found himself intrigued, too, by the operation - about which Gallagher refused to divulge details. It sounded dangerous but possible. He loved danger; without it he went into decline.
Michael Strong parked the Aston Martin in the garage of his South Kensington mews house and let himself in. Upstairs in the lounge he poured himself a last tot of Scotch and gazed round him at the pictures, medals and campaign memorabilia that decorated the walls. The men in most of the photographs had been friends. Very few of them were still alive. He himself had been lucky, or perhaps intelligent. It crossed his mind to offer Gallagher some friendly advice - but he was sure it would be construed as weakness.
Hyena Dawn Page 5
