Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

  He picked up the chair with Georgio on it and balanced the full length of it over the trough, its legs resting along the trough’s edges, so that the man was lying lengthways, looking down into the water.

  ‘Open your mouth.’

  He moved his grip from Georgio’s collar to his hair, and the man screamed out as his hair took his whole bodyweight. The General rammed the piece of wood between Georgio’s teeth.

  ‘Bite it.’

  He let Georgio down so that his body was only prevented from falling forwards into the water by the piece of wood he was biting against. The General closed the door of the cell.

  After five minutes Georgio’s jaw gave in. The wood shot up

  hard into his throat; for an instant he was suspended less than a centimetre above the water - then he sank beneath the surface, never to breathe again.

  The group of doctors stood round the hospital bed, all staring at the patient. Even though she was pale and thin, you could see that she was a very beautiful woman. There was a noise outside the door of the room and they turned to see a massive black man in combat uniform easily pushing aside the medical orderlies who sought to block his path. His voice was deep and powerful.

  ‘I don’t care what you say. I have come to see the American woman, Comrade Elliot, and you are not going to stop me.’

  He slammed the door of the room shut behind him as he entered. The doctors examined him as they might a specimen on the dissecting table.

  ‘How is she?’

  The question boomed across the floor. Dr Dmitri Suvorov smoothed the jet-black hair across his enormous head and peered into the man’s eyes. A physician of some note, he did not appreciate his present position as consultant in the tiny hospital in Beira. However, he was a Party man, and the Party had ordered him here. He was not intimidated by this black man.

  ‘General Vorotnikov himself ordered that no one should see this woman. You realise the penalty for disobeying such a command?’

  The black man moved closer and towered imposingly over the brilliant young doctor from Leningrad.

  ‘Enough of your General, Comrade Doctor. I am a comrade and you are a comrade. This country belongs to me and my people, not you Russians. Now tell, how is the woman?’

  Dmitri Suvorov trembled with rage. He was not used to being talked to like this; men feared him for his power within the Party. He would see that this black man suffered for his impertinence.

  ‘She has been very ill, Comrade. She swallowed a large quantity of infected water and has been delirious for the past seven days. But she has a strong body. She has survived, and she has responded well to the drugs I have administered. It is only a matter of time before she will be completely recovered.’

  ‘Then why are you all so concerned about her condition, Comrade Doctor?’

  ‘It is General Vorotnikov who is particularly concerned. He warned that should she not recover he would regard me and my assistants as personally responsible.’

  ‘I am glad the General is concerned.’

  Suvorov watched the black giant move towards the bed and examine the American woman closely. He heard the words the man was speaking to himself: ‘I should never have left her with Georgio.’

  Dr Suvorov felt a little more sympathetic, some words of comfort were in order. ‘A fine genetic specimen, Comrade, she will live to a good age. The only effect of the torture she endured will be slight psychological damage. That is not my area of expertise, however, and I cannot comment on it.’

  ‘Just make sure that she gets better, doctor.’

  ‘Who shall I say called, if the General should ask me?’ ‘Comrade Tongogara. Go tell that to your General.’

  ‘Do not fear, comrade, I most certainly will.’

  ‘And here is this evening’s news. Five days ago, top American reporter Samantha Elliot disappeared in the Umtali area while visiting an outlying farm. The farmer was shot dead by ZANLA terrorists. The body of Miss Elliot, however, has not been found, and it is believed that she may have been abducted by ZANLA. Miss Elliot is well known for her controversial reporting on this country. Anyone who might be able to assist in tracing her should contact their closest police station as soon as possible.’

  Major Martin Long turned off the radio and paced up and down his office. Rayne would never forgive him. How could she have been so stupid? They’d both told her a thousand times not to move in the operational area without members of the security forces. She was probably lying in a ditch somewhere, after being raped and then beaten to death.

  He was furious when he heard that they had tried to keep her disappearance quiet. He had demanded that it be broadcast immediately, but already it was probably too late. The only chance was that she might be in a Mozambican jail, alive - more or less.

  As a man of action in this situation he felt totally frustrated. He was stricken with guilt; he had sent Rayne on a crazy mission and now Sam was as good as dead. It was all his fault. God, he owed it to Rayne to try and find her. At least that was something he could do.

  With the coming of the Rhodesian elections, the worst part of the conflict would be over, but the Major’s job was a continuing nightmare. He had to keep ZIPRA and ZANLA apart, because if the Mashona and the Matabele clashed, the country would descend into a bloody civil war. The trouble was that neither faction was prepared to hand over its weapons - especially as each believed its own candidate would soon be president. Then the Major had his own men to worry about. Most of them just wanted to keep on infiltrating the enemy bases across the border, to prove they could still win the war; he had to keep them in order too. He was particularly anxious for his black troops after Independence. Would they be singled out and persecuted? It was so much easier for whites; they could always move over the border to South Africa or back to Britain where most of them still had connections.

  He worried, too, about the future of the country in general. The new government would have to take a stance on the South African problem, and in the end that could only lead to war. Rhodesia - or, as she was now to be called, Zimbabwe - was still a great country, but she could not cope with such a war. The worldwide sanctions of the last few years had cut her off from lucrative international markets; she needed to build up her economy; she needed a period of stability so that she could get going from within.

  Martin Long sat down at his desk and stared at the map of the war zones into which Rhodesia had been divided. Why had he sent Rayne on that assignment? John Fry was a bastard. The trouble was, nobody cared any more about sending men to their death. This war had gone on too long. Death had become a habit.

  He thought again about the Selous Scouts. The ‘pseudo’ concept had overreached itself. Turned terrorists who had agreed to become pseudo terrorists had turned again, and reverted to being real terrorists. And though the pseudo concept had allowed the Scouts to kill off large numbers of terrs - in fact over sixty- eight per cent of all terrorist casualties in the Rhodesian war were a direct result of the activities of the Selous Scouts - still these figures did not add up to any real gain because they had failed to regain control of the rural areas. It was this lack of real victory that sapped the morale of the civilian population more than anything else.

  Major Long sighed. There was bugger all he could do now for Rhodesia, but he could do something for Rayne. He could try and find Sam.

  Smiling broadly, General Vorotnikov switched off his radio. This was much better than he had expected - the Rhodesians were obviously very worried about the disappearance of the American woman. They had taken a long time to make the announcement, a sure sign of behind-the-scenes anxiety. Yes, he had no doubt now that the woman could be used to make some very positive public statements about ZANLA and the way the Soviet Union was helping the peoples of Mozambique and Rhodesia. The more pressure they could put on Mugabe now, the better. Vorotnikov wanted no agreements between the new state of Zimbabwe and South Africa; rather, he wanted a stepping up of the hostilities between the two countries. He
wanted to see Zimbabwe firmly clasped in the Marxist embrace.

  The first important step would be the opening up of the Beira to Umtali railway line and the restructuring of Beira as a major port and Soviet military centre. This would give the new state of Zimbabwe access to the sea, and independence from South Africa. Then the border with South Africa at Beit Bridge must be closed as soon as possible, and all air links between South Africa and Zimbabwe severed. The way to achieve that, he knew, would be to convince the rulers of the new state that there was no advantage to such links - that they were much better off with neighbouring Marxist states as their allies.

  But already there had been irritating developments that threat­ened Vorotnikov’s grand plan. The South Africans and Rhodesi­ans had together been aiding a right-wing guerilla group in the northern part of Mozambique. This group, RENAMO, was turning out to be a more potent force than Vorotnikov had guessed. They were harassing FRELIMO and making things very hard for Machel’s Marxist government. Then there was the problem of Malawi. The state of Malawi still refused to bend to Soviet imperialism and Dr Hastings Banda, Malawi’s ruler, remained as intractable as ever. Worse, Banda enjoyed good relations with the South African government. In Angola, too, there were problems. The rebel group UNITA, with South African backing, was trying to overthrow the Marxist government in Luanda. Unfortunately this had necessitated the bringing in of Cuban troops to strengthen the position of the ruling party.

  Vorotnikov knew what he wanted in Africa: strong black dictatorships that would impose the doctrine of Marxism on the new generation. The trouble was that many black leaders were now becoming wary of the Soviet Union. This American woman, Samantha Elliot, could speak to the world. She could prove that the Soviet Union was only in Africa to free the peoples from oppressive white rule, and that the only problems in the region were being caused by the Afrikaner government in South Africa. And speed was all-important, for the South African military machine was gaining in strength daily as the black states desper­ately wrestled to get their weak economies into shape.

  Vorotnikov gazed reflectively out of his office window at the Beira coastline and the sea beyond. This penthouse suite had once belonged to a wealthy South African businessman, now it was the centre of Soviet command and intelligence for the region.

  When the woman had recovered he would have her moved to a secret location - though, of course, he would inform his associates that she was still in Beira: the last thing he needed was a bunch of hot-blooded Rhodesians racing in in helicopters and plucking her from his grasp. She must be kept well out of sight of the operation that was currently in progress. In fact, if she was shown round some of their disused facilities, she might actually believe the Soviet forces were dismantling their military installa­tions, which would be an excellent message to send to Rhodesia and the outside world . . .

  Vorotnikov allowed himself to contemplate the final victory; the immense satisfaction of seeing the Rhodesian commander, General Walls, publicly executed, and along with him, Mr Ian Smith. And a bloody end to white rule in Rhodesia - the wholesale slaughter he planned - would create just the right atmosphere in South Africa, the dramatic swing to the right that would prepare the ground for the greatest coup of all.

  He smiled grimly, thinking of his most important asset; of Bernard Aschaar, the man who was the head of one of Africa’s largest mining consortia. This man had already promised Vorot­nikov that he would secure for him the complete take-over of the mining industries in both South Africa and Rhodesia after the Revolution. That meant total power for Vorotnikov over all southern Africa. An excellent foundation to push him right to the top of the Kremlin.

  It was night, and she was alone. Sam tiptoed across the linoleum floor of her hospital room to the door, and slowly turned the knob. She pulled at the door but it refused to open. Locked, as she had guessed it would be. She moved to the window and looked down across the car park, which was bathed in electric light and almost empty. She could see that her chances were slim, but she was going to try. With her experiences in the cell at the hands of Captain Georgio so fresh in her memory she had only one intention - to escape. The Russian physician, Dr Suvorov, frightened her; he seemed to regard her more as an interesting breed of animal than a person ... If she could escape from the hospital she figured she might be able to make it to the American consul and seek asylum.

  Sam eased herself over the windowsill and gauged the distance to the ground. Probably not more than three metres - she was only on the first floor. There didn’t seem to be any guards in sight, so she worked her way right out of the window and lowered herself from the outer sill. Now she was hanging from her hands, her toes still two metres from the tarmac below.

  She let go, falling silently through the cool evening air. The ground came up hard. She landed noisily and was temporarily stunned by the impact, but after a few moments she tentatively stretched out her legs to see if she was still in one piece. No bones broken, to her relief. She looked around her. What she hadn’t seen from the window of her room was that the brightly lit hospital reception area to her left commanded a first-class view of the whole car park, making it virtually impossible for her to move across it without detection. For a time she could edge her way along the car park wall, but in the end she would have no choice but to move out across the tarmac and just hope no one noticed her. The white hospital gown she was wearing wouldn’t make that any easier.

  Slowly Sam crawled along beside the wall of the car park. She had almost reached the far corner of it when she heard the noise of a car engine in the street outside and then the squeal of tyres as the vehicle turned in to the hospital. The bright headlights lit up the entire side wall of the car park. As the car pulled up close to the reception area, Sam made a mad rush for some rubbish bins and dived behind them for cover. Heart beating hard, she saw a tall, dignified-looking man get out of the driver’s seat and walk into reception. It was only when he was in the light that she realised it was General Vorotnikov. He must be coming to see her.

  There was no time to lose now. Sam sprinted to the front entrance. Just beside the gate she saw a large bush and moved behind it. There were two men in the guard post beside the gate, smoking cigarettes and talking. Now she was effectively trapped: if she moved out from the bush and tried to make it to the road, the guards would see her, but to go back to the car park also meant immediate detection. As if to confirm her thoughts, a siren suddenly screamed out from inside the hospital, and the whole area was flooded with light. Sam now crawled right into the bush; she was able to sit up quite comfortably in the middle of it, perfectly shielded from the outside world by the foliage.

  People were pouring out into the car park now, obviously trying to find her. She recognised Vorotnikov’s voice as he shouted out a command. ‘On no account must she be hurt. On no account!’

  A sound below her - a sort of scratching noise - almost caused her to scream out with fright. Puzzled, she parted the leaves to see that a mongrel had discovered her scent. She quickly scooped up a handful of sand and, hardening her heart, threw it in the dog’s face. It hurried off into the blackness and she started to breathe a little more easily.

  The commotion in the car park was moving closer and closer to her hiding-place. The two guards at the gate stepped out of their hut to meet an approaching officer. Sam heard his voice punctuate the darkness.

  ‘You two fools. Did you see the woman?’

  The men looked dumbly at the Russian officer. Now he was standing just next to the bush in which Sam was hiding.

  ‘I saw you as I came out. Sitting around and not paying any attention! One day someone’s going to come up and kill you - if I don’t do it myself in the next five minutes. Find her!’

  The two men darted into the guard post and then reappeared, armed with powerful torches which they shone out desperately into the darkness.

  ‘Idiots! Search along the wall! Split up! Shoot her, and I will have you tortured, very slowly.’

&n
bsp; Moments later, General Vorotnikov appeared at the gateway. Studying him, Sam thought he looked like a German conductor she had once seen at a symphony concert in London. His face reflected an intense concentration. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, staring out into the darkness - she smelt the strong aroma of Turkish tobacco. He lifted his left hand and rubbed at an area round his neck that was evidently causing him some pain. Then the little mongrel came back up to the bush again, and Sam almost felt her heart would stop. When the dog started to lick the General’s boots, he did not kick it away as she had expected him to, but studied the animal with a curious kind of detachment. It was almost as if he grudgingly welcomed the animal’s company, when he was otherwise surrounded by such fools.

  ‘General Vorotnikov, sir. She must have escaped into the bush. There’s no way we will find her until the morning.’ It was one of the troops returning from his search along the wall.

  ‘You blockhead. Don’t tell me what to do. Now shut up and search the other side of the road.’

  A car came flying down the road and skidded to a halt outside the guard post. Dr Suvorov stepped out, his mop of black hair soaking with sweat.

  ‘General. The American woman, she has escaped?’

  ‘You fool, Suvorov, why do you always insist on such low security at the hospital?’

  ‘The intention is to cure, not to kill, General Vorotnikov. The woman is strong, she has an incredible desire to live. Now that she has recovered she has manifested this desire by escaping.’

  ‘You analyse too much. If I didn’t know you better I might think that you admired the capitalist system. How far do you think she might be able to walk?’

  ‘As far as she wants. She’s made an astonishing recovery.’ ‘You should have realised she might try to escape.’

  ‘The door of the room was locked, General. The window was nearly three metres above ground-level, only a madman would jump from such a height onto hard tarmac.’