Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

  He went up to sleep an hour later, alone, thinking of Priscilla.

  Rayne woke up sweating. He had dreamed he was in Mozam­bique, in a clearing, alone, when he heard the sound of a rifle being loaded ... He stared into the darkness of the London hotel room, wondering if he had really recovered from his ordeal a month before.

  Then the door handle turned and the door opened very slowly. Someone moved into the darkness, came close. He grabbed an arm and twisted it up sharply. There was a high-pitched scream. He turned on the light and found himself looking at Priscilla St John.

  ‘You’re quite a man, Captain Gallagher.’

  He had let her go and she was staring at his naked body.

  ‘Didn’t your mother tell you it was dangerous trying to get into men’s bedrooms?’

  ‘Yes. But I’ve never had much difficulty. I got your room number and a key from reception.’

  ‘So much for the discretion of the Dorchester.’

  ‘I told a lie. I said I was your wife.’

  ‘Would you like a drink, Mrs Gallagher?’

  ‘Later . . .’

  He pulled her towards him and she did not resist. Her mouth locked over his and he felt himself swimming in her sensuality. She pulled him down on the bed and her hands began to work on him. He unfastened her dress and eased it off her body. Under­neath she wore nothing but stockings and suspender belt.

  She straddled him and lowered herself onto him. Beads of sweat broke out across her forehead and her nipples were hard with excitement. She stared into his eyes as he pushed himself up inside her and felt her body convulse as the orgasms began.

  ‘Don’t stop. Oh, don’t stop.’

  He pushed her over, sinking his face into her, and she screamed out with pleasure. He felt her lips teasing him, her hands fondling him, taking him to ever higher planes of excitement.

  The alarm clock screamed in his ear and he buried it under the pillow. His whole body was still aching.

  She was gone. But there was a message written with lipstick on the mirror above the dressing-table. ‘Next time, you pay me a surprise visit. Love Priscilla.’ Her phone number was underneath.

  He smiled and went into the shower, turning the water on cold. Later he went across the road into Hyde Park and did a couple of quick circuits, sprinting hard. Then he jogged back to the hotel, ready to face what the day had to offer.

  Again the room was plunged into darkness. Another face flashed before his eyes - one of the world’s finest mercenary soldiers, another man from the exclusive files of Colonel Strong, ex SAS, known for his ability to supply quality.

  Many of the men Rayne did not like the look of at all. Others he was indifferent to. He needed only four - but he wanted loyalty, intelligence and leadership ability, plus a highly special­ised knowledge of explosives.

  As the Colonel switched on the lights of the small viewing theatre, Rayne’s mind was working in overdrive. These men were good, but were they what he wanted?

  ‘It’s not easy, Rayne, I know. No one can guarantee results. But these men are the best. Every one of them has been thoroughly checked out. They’re hard, and you’ve got to be tough to command them.’

  Strong looked at him with that predatory air of his, and Rayne wondered what was going through his mind. For him, this was a matter of life and death; for Strong, perhaps only another day’s work.

  ‘And the ones I want. When would I be able to get them to my take-off point?’

  ‘All the men you’ve seen are immediately available. They all have valid passports.’

  ‘Do you have any personal recommendations?’

  ‘The magic question. I’d take the first three I showed you. As for the rest. . . your guess would be as good as mine.’

  ‘Why the first three?’

  He had to be sure. What if Strong was merely trying to get things in order as quickly as he could?

  ‘Dammit, Rayne. You think I’m a bloody horse-trader!’

  Rayne stared at him enigmatically. ‘If they fail I die; you still make your commission.’

  ‘You bastard!’

  Strong picked up the file in front of him and closed it with an air of finality. Rayne remained seated. He had played his card, now he waited for the reaction.

  Strong stood up. ‘You can get out of this office right now, Captain Gallagher. I’ve always operated on the basis of trust. That’s why the men you’ve seen put their lives in my hands. I don’t supply people I don’t like - and you fall into that category. Now get out.’

  ‘No.’

  Rayne felt himself being hoisted to his feet. He cannoned his right arm up and broke Strong’s grip. Before he could make another move Strong drove his other fist into his stomach. Rayne staggered forwards and then swung, delivering a roundhouse into the Colonel’s side. The big man crashed into the slide projector but stayed on his feet.

  Then they were on each other, limbs flailing like fighting cats. Neither would give in to the other. After five minutes they staggered back from each other, bleeding and exhausted.

  Rayne looked at Michael and began to laugh. The Colonel collapsed to the ground, laughing too.

  ‘Deuce, Michael!’

  ‘Well, I think we’ve earned a good lunch!’

  Rayne looked out through the latticed windows of the old room to the branch of an oak tree waving in the wind. The noise of the raindrops on the windowpane was strangely soothing. After a lifetime in a climate where it rarely rained, he found the English weather a pleasant change.

  He was waiting for the fourth of the men whom the Colonel had arranged for him to meet in this obscure little village hotel.

  ‘Come in.’ Rayne enunciated the words crisply as soon as he heard the knock. He liked to project authority from the first moment of contact.

  The door of the room opened. Rayne stared at the eyes that stared back into his. It was Michael Strong. He sat down opposite Rayne, in the chair the other interviewees had sat in. He spoke slowly.

  ‘It’s always tough for a soldier to answer questions. How much can you learn about a man during a five-minute conversation? Very little, except what your intuition tells you - and that’s what you go by. I should be an expert at it after all these years, but I’m still never a hundred per cent accurate. I can give you a good picture of each man’s background, and a good idea of his potential, but how he’ll actually get on with you when the bullets start flying, that’s something that only experience will show.’

  The Colonel leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. The brown eyes looked again into Rayne’s, the craggy face was deadly serious.

  ‘I’m the fourth man, Rayne. I’m with you. I have the explosives knowledge you want. I’m bored; I’m intrigued by your expedition. I’m divorced, my children are grown up. I want to get into the field.’

  Rayne felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He now had a second-in-command - and he couldn’t have wished for a better man.

  Back at the Dorchester, Rayne packed the dossiers on each of the men into his attache case. Now he had everything he needed. He had organised payment through the Swiss bank into which John Fry had deposited the funds. Now he and Strong were about to fly back to South Africa. He would be operational in less than a week’s time.

  He looked round the room one last time to make sure he’d forgotten nothing, and then carried his case towards the door - but before he got to it, Priscilla St John entered, wearing a vividly-coloured dress that stood out against her dark skin. The expression on her face, though, did not match the gay design of her dress.

  ‘How did you know I was going?’

  ‘I asked Michael.’

  Rayne hadn’t known how to say goodbye to her. He had been afraid to admit to himself that their relationship had become more than just a casual affair. The guilt was still there about Sam.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed, and Rayne put down his case, took her in his arms and kissed her softly on the lips. The embrace w
ent on. He felt scared of what had developed so quickly between them.

  Eventually she pulled away and looked directly at him. ‘You’re so hard, yet underneath you’re hurting. Tell me there’s no one else.’

  He shook his head. ‘I have a duty . . .’

  ‘A duty to live, not to die.’

  She got up and went over to the mirror. Carefully she made up her mouth again. Then she turned to him.

  ‘That woman, whoever she is, is very lucky. Don’t let her down.’ And before he could reply, she was gone.

  Rayne was seated in the tourist-class compartment of a British Airways 747 flying direct from London to South Africa. Sitting next to him, thoughtfully sipping a glass of white wine, was Colonel Strong. Across the aisle were three hand-picked men.

  Rayne and his team were going on a long holiday to South Africa, and a rather interesting sight-seeing trip to Mozambique.

  Bunty Mulbarton. Easily the most experienced; an ex-SAS man like Colonel Strong. Son of Major Mick Mulbarton, hero of the Somme and countless other actions. Heir to the Mulbarton Biscuit Company but preferring action to management. Active in the Arabian Peninsula with the SAS, particularly Aden and the Radfan Mountains. A weapons and explosives expert. Holder of the rank of major in the regular British army. Five foot nine of him in his stockinged feet. Blond hair, incongruous jet black eyebrows, over penetrating green eyes, sensual mouth, aquiline nose, old Etonian accent.

  Guy Hauser. French national. A career soldier with the French Foreign Legion. Silent about his past before that. A first lieuten­ant with a violent temper who’d faced numerous assault charges but never been convicted. First-rate shot, hardened hand-to-hand fighter. Ruthless; also highly intelligent. A man who had seen action in Vietnam and anywhere else he could find a war and someone wanting to pay him to fight. Distinctive goatee beard, face deeply tanned, widow’s peak. A tendency to raise the eyebrows and furrow the forehead when speaking.

  Guy was the closest human equivalent to a bull terrier Rayne had ever seen. A good choice for mercenary action; a very intense and dangerous man.

  Furthest away from Rayne sat Larry Preston. He was a very short, stocky man with long, straight blond hair, and he spoke with a Birmingham accent. Formerly an officer in the SAS, and now a full-time mercenary, Preston was a rough diamond with a penchant for the good life. He was expert with explosives, and claimed there wasn’t a vault door he couldn’t open.

  Colonel Strong had provided Rayne with the very best. Now all he had to do was deploy them.

  Mozambique at the end of 1978 was a wasteland. Outside the main towns any man who had a gun made his own laws.

  The Marxist government headed by President Samora Machel had little long-term chance of success. It was merely a stumbling block for the forces intent on toppling the white regimes to the west and south.

  The MNR, the Mozambique National Resistance, was gaining more and more members. Formed some five years before, it had been originally founded by the Rhodesians, but gained more local support as the people of Mozambique found the new independent regime little better than the Portuguese one which had preceded it. The South Africans also saw the numerous advantages of the MNR for the continued destabilisation of Mozambique. By 1978, the movement had a powerful leader, Andre Matangaidize. The Rhodesian SAS helped train the soldiers of the MNR and turned them into one of the most terrifying terrorist forces in Africa. They operated in ideal terrorist terrain - a subsistence economy. Many of the men in their ranks knew of no other way of life but fighting, and the MNR was their permanent employer. The state of Mozambique had little to offer those who wanted a peaceful life except pain, fear and poverty.

  This then was the country that Rayne and his force would be entering. The MNR were fighting FRELIMO, the Mozambique people’s army, for a new government in Mozambique; the Rhodesians were fighting Robert Mugabe’s ZANLA forces, also based deep in Mozambique territory. President Samora Machel was having to rely more and more on Soviet aid. His crippled economy received no Western support because of his avowed communist sympathies. The formerly lucrative tourist trade with South Africa had come to a standstill after Independence, and seemed certain to stay that way.

  Rhodesia had carried out over 350 raids into Mozambique, completely crippling the ports, roads and railway lines. But even victory against Rhodesia wouldn’t mean the end of Machel’s problems. After that, there was the growing conviction that the Soviets would merely use his country as a forward base for the war against South Africa. And as the South African army had the capability to blast its way to Cairo unopposed, it would take South Africa less than a day to control Mozambique. Only the certainty of an international outcry seemed to be holding them back.

  In Africa since 1960 - the beginning of decolonisation, there had been over 120 military coups and of these 50 had been successful. The resulting growth in mercenary activity in the area had been enormous.

  Rayne leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Thinking about Mozambique and her bleak future made him realise that once their mission was accomplished, they must get out of Mozambique - and quickly.

  The Boeing 747 winged off lazily from Jan Smuts airport and the Witwatersrand, the economic heart of South Africa, and headed to the east; away from the high altitude and blazing heat of the Transvaal highveld, towards the green rolling hills of Natal, the ‘settlers’ province on the east coast of South Africa.

  The plane took one and a half hours to complete the six- hundred-kilometre journey. It passed over many of the places that had rung to the sounds of battle between the British army and the farmer armies of the Boer republics a hundred years before: Dundee, Elandslaagte, Ladysmith, Isandhlwana. It passed over Pietermaritzburg, a sleepy town on the railway line from Durban to Johannesburg, where in 1893 a young Indian lawyer named Gandhi was told to get off the train because his first-class ticket did not entitle him to ride in coaches reserved exclusively for whites. It crossed the Pietermaritzburg-to-Durban road, the route of the world’s greatest long distance road race, the Comrades Marathon, ninety gruelling kilometres. It was from here that Rayne and his men would be launching their operation into the heart of Mozambique.

  Just at that moment, however, Rayne was reading the evening edition of the Johannesburg Star, unaware of the lands passing beneath him. For the time being he had even forgotten about the mission that had occupied his thoughts almost continuously since his first briefing with John Fry nearly a month before. Instead he was staring at the picture of a woman on the front page; a beauty with long blonde hair who was being heralded as the new Marilyn Monroe.

  Penelope O’Keefe. She had always been ambitious. The daughter of Sir George O’Keefe, one of Johannesburg’s richest mining magnates, she had been destined for a life of leisure. A year in one of Europe’s finest finishing schools had prepared her for a suitable marriage and a comfortable existence. Except that Penelope had been different. She’d returned to South Africa from Europe with a loathing for high society, and greedy for excitement. Her parents had despaired of her, especially when she announced that she wanted to become a model while studying for her BA. But she finally got her way, as she always did.

  Rayne had met her in his first year at university. He was sure they hadn’t met by chance. He’d noticed her before, watching the rugby trials, enjoying the admiring glances of the young men and parrying their lewd shouts. Then she’d managed to get herself into the same English tutorial group as he, and had struck up a casual conversation. Some weeks later he found himself invited to her father’s trout lodge in the Eastern Transvaal. He couldn’t quite remember when he’d told her that he enjoyed fly fishing, but he accepted with alacrity. Sir George’s farm was known to be on one of the best sections of the river.

  Fly fishing had not taken up much of that weekend. In fact the only times Rayne’s hands had touched the rod were when he took it into the lodge when they arrived, and took it out when they left. The rest of the time had been spent in bed. And for the next year
and a half he and Penelope had had a stormy relation­ship that was the talk of the campus.

  He remembered when they’d flown down to the family’s house in Port St Johns for Christmas. Port St Johns was a tiny old harbour on the Transkei east coast, just below the province of Natal. They’d narrowly escaped death when Sir George’s com­pany plane had crashed just before landing. The pilot had been killed, but miraculously Penelope and Rayne had survived.

  Afterwards she’d been a lot keener to leave South Africa. Rayne thought the accident might have been sabotage though that was never confirmed officially.

  He and Penelope had graduated in the same year. She scraped through, and he had the highest average of any student in the previous ten years. He had gone on to study further, she’d left for New York, to take up a lucrative modelling contract, and had never looked back.

  Rayne looked at the picture in the paper again and smiled ruefully to himself. There certainly weren’t going to be any women like that where they were going. He felt an enormous void between his former existence as a law student and what he was now. How would it be if he met Penelope again? Would the same animal magnetism be there? He felt a stab of guilt for his disloyalty to Sam. She was the only woman who had really understood him. And he had let her down.

  The noise of the flaps going down, ready for landing, pulled him from such thoughts.

  ‘Well, here we are. It’s all stations go.’ Michael’s voice was confident. Rayne wondered if it would still be confident in a week’s time.

  Lois was at the airport to meet them. He’d bought a used Land Rover to ferry them all to the base camp. After a brief exchange of greetings they sped off north into the night.

  The high humidity of the Natal coastal belt hit them immedi­ately. Rayne’s London clothes became uncomfortable in the sticky heat. Lois was ideally dressed in a wide-collared open- neck white shirt, khaki shorts and leather sandals.