Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

  Rayne pointed out that this would be no tea-party. The longer they took, the greater the chance of failure. However both units would be fully equipped to masquerade as either ZANLA or FRELIMO.

  They would land early in the morning in the Beira area by parachute, along with their equipment, then disperse. Rayne and Guy Hauser would then enter Beira by car, disguised as civilians, and would prepare the way for the other two members of their unit to join them. Then, seven days later, all of them would make their attack. They would escape under cover of darkness and meet at a prearranged point where an aeroplane, organised by John Fry, would collect them and fly them to safety.

  Rayne had opted for the attack on the bank and on the airport to take place at exactly five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. They would be airlifted out just before darkness. If anything did go wrong, in the dark it would be very difficult for the enemy to guess the number of men involved, and this would further add to the chances of a safe escape.

  So they would then have ten valuable hours in which to make their getaway. Rayne did not tell the men about the formidable build-up of enemy forces Fry had described in the Beira area. Neither did he tell them about Lois, their secret passport to success should Fry’s planes not arrive to take them out. But he made sure they knew that they were all equipped with the finest and most up-to-date weaponry money could buy, including ground-to-air heat-seeking missiles that would be used to destroy any aircraft managing to take off while the attack was being made.

  An air of excitement swept through everyone in the camp. They were all looking forward to the action. Except for Rayne. He was the only one who knew what Mozambique was really like.

  That evening Rayne went into Richard’s Bay for the last time, ostensibly to make a few last-minute arrangements about their air transport. He contacted John Fry using the classified phone number.

  ‘Is that the bird?’

  Rayne recognised Fry’s distinctive accent, a strange amalgam of English and American. He was using the special code­-sequence. Rayne replied quickly. ‘No. The eggs have not hatched this season.’

  There was a lengthy pause after this and Rayne did not speak. He waited for Fry to open.

  ‘Everything has been organised for you. I telexed the hotel in Beira and they know you will be arriving tomorrow. The car will be as arranged. The bank has accepted a deposit in your name, your front will be perfect.’

  ‘We have had visitors.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know, we were out at the time.’

  ‘It’s good you are leaving tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Yes, the timing’s perfect, my men would start to get restless if they were delayed any longer.’

  ‘The plane will be landing tomorrow morning at three hundred hours. Your ETA in Mozambique will be five hundred hours. The car has been organised for you through our contacts in the Mozambique National Resistance Movement - and that’s all the help you’ll get from them.’

  ‘How do I find the car?’

  ‘Your pilot’s name is Max. He’ll explain where to find the car in relation to your jump-zone. If you’re captured you must say that you stole the car in Maputo, that’ll fit with the car’s history.’

  ‘And the hotel?’

  ‘You and Guy Hauser have been booked into the Hotel Beira. As agreed, you’ll pose as arms dealers. Bruce Brand and Henri Dubois. Anyone who bothers to check on your references will find them impeccable.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘When you get into the bank you must remember to destroy the safe-deposit boxes - it will help us to alleviate certain security risks. And remember the story if you’re captured.’

  Rayne knew what that was. He was to say he had been employed by a wealthy man who had lived in Mozambique before independence, and that this man was paying him to get out a fortune of jewellery left behind in the safe-deposit boxes of the bank.

  ‘Fine, sir. Next time I speak to you this should all be over.’ ‘Good luck.’

  The phone went dead. Rayne looked at his watch and realised that he hadn’t much time to fit in his final visit to Lois.

  Rayne 2

  Rayne pulled out his gun and moved away from the house into the garden. What the hell was going on? After searching the area very carefully for nearly half an hour, he had put the main power- switch on. The truck was still in the driveway. Some of Lois’ clothes were still in the house, but the helicopter wasn’t in the main workshop.

  Rayne began to sweat. Something was wrong. But there was no way he could find out what had happened, he couldn’t stay away from the main camp for too long or people would start asking questions. Without Lois they were naked, they would have to rely on other people for their getaway, and in his book that wasn’t good enough. He trusted Lois implicitly. There was no way he would have taken the helicopter, he wasn’t that kind of man. But where in hell had he got to?

  ‘I don’t have to lecture you; you’ve all seen plenty of action. But what I do need to stress is that we are one, a team. We have to look after each other, and any man who deserts the group will face the death penalty. Things are going to get ugly out there and we’ll only handle them if we stick together. I’m first-in-command, if I get killed Michael takes over, and if he gets killed then Bunty is next in line. If he gets killed . . . then God help us!’

  The joke raised a faint laugh. Everyone was aware of the risks they would be taking.

  ‘We should be in and out in just over a week. That doesn’t seem very long for the sort of money you’re getting, but believe me you’ll earn it. We’re a small group, operating in the thick of enemy territory, and if we’re discovered we won’t stand much of a chance. The whole essence of the operation is surprise. We keep low till the moment we attack, and then we get the hell out the minute we’ve completed our tasks. But it isn’t a case of every man for himself; you have the best weapons available and your back-up is outstanding.

  ‘Michael and I have planned this operation very carefully, but things always do go wrong however good your planning, so we’ve made provision for that too. Now, when this is over you’re never to mention it again - not to wives, girlfriends, mates, anybody. Part of the reason why you’ve been chosen is that you’re all known for your ability to keep your mouths shut.’

  Rayne paused for a moment. He wanted to make sure that the secrecy element sank well and truly home.

  ‘For the rest, good luck and bon voyage. Enjoy your holiday in Beira.’

  The drone of the two enormous Hercules transporters was deafening. They landed precisely within the flares that Rayne had set out. It took five minutes to get all the men and equipment on board and then they flew off into the darkness. Soon they were heading towards the Mozambique border. Inside Rayne’s plane was the jeep with a recoil-less cannon, as he had requested, plus a giant army truck painted in Soviet livery.

  Rayne made his way towards the cockpit, to get the instruc­tions he needed from the pilot. The giant hold felt like a subterranean cavern that shook every time the plane hit turbu­lence, and after this the cockpit was strangely comforting. Rayne saw the crew-cut head of an enormous man hunched over the controls. He turned as Rayne came closer, and Rayne saw that his hand moved instinctively to the .45 strapped to his side. No one, evidently, was taking any chances on this one.

  ‘Hallo, Max.’

  The pilot stared at him dumbly till Rayne realised that he would have to yell to be heard over the noise of the engines.

  ‘Max. I’m Captain Rayne Gallagher.’

  The man took his extended hand and squeezed it in his giant paw.

  ‘Hi, Captain. You’re fucking crazy. Absolutely fucking crazy.’ Rayne was silent.

  ‘Listen, buddy, and listen good.’ The American’s tone was friendly. ‘I fly into that fucking place twice every goddamn week and I’m still alive. That’s not a country beneath us, it’s a cesspit of war and goddamn violence. Nobody gives a fuck down there. If you don’t like the look on someone’s face
, you just blow them away. Maputo is half sane and Beira is barely there. Don’t ask me how I know, we just have to keep on supplying and this is my job. I get paid for being stupid. Just like you do. Sorry, you get paid for being fucking mad.

  ‘You’ll drop in the dark. Don’t worry, I checked out the area last week, it’s quite clear. Keep your legs together and you’ll still have your balls with you when you touch the ground. The drop zone is a long way from habitation and you shouldn’t have any trouble. They won’t be expecting you. Here . . .’

  He handed him a piece of paper. Rayne opened it and saw a very accurately drawn map, showing the precise location of the car he was going to pick up after landing. The map even included precise compass-bearings, so there was no way he could get lost. He was about to thank Max but the man didn’t give him the opportunity.

  ‘Don’t bother, buddy, save your breath for a prayer. There’s half the Soviet airforce outside Beira at the moment, one sniff of trouble and they’ll be on you like a pack of angry timber wolves. Don’t know what’s happened to the world. Ten or fifteen years ago the good ol’ USA would have been there, blown the bastards out of the sky. Now they can get away with murder. I’d like to take my M16 into the United Nations, give those fuckers a taste of the real world. They’ll get it when the bloody Reds take over the globe, then they won’t be able to sit in endless fuckin’ meetings all day.’

  Rayne was taken aback. He’d had no idea that there was such a large Soviet presence in Beira. After Max had finished his tirade Rayne asked him another question. ‘How long have the Russian aircraft been in there?’

  Max shot him a quick sideways glance. ‘They don’t tell you fuck-all. Hey, I’ve surprised you. Look, they’ve been coming in for the past two weeks. Maybe it’s part of some manoeuvre, I don’t know. A lot of equipment is being off-loaded, a lot of planes are on the ground. Reminds me of Vietnam, like they’re preparing for an assault. Strange thing is, I can’t understand where. I can’t see them leaping into Rhodesia now the Brits are in there successfully buggering things up; it would provoke too many people. But who am I to know, I just ferry nutcases like you in and out of this pit.’

  Rayne was patient. Max could be a mine of useful information if primed properly - and once they were down on the ground it would be a lot harder to gauge what was going on.

  ‘Are there a lot of Russians in Beira itself?’

  ‘Hard to tell, but I don’t think so. The guys are pretty yellow, don’t want to catch any nasty diseases from the locals. Also don’t want to create a bad impression, I guess. This is all thumb-suck stuff, you understand, I’ve never been an on-the-ground opera­tive like you. We’ll get you out OK, just as long as you make it to the pick-up point.

  ‘It pays to keep your mouth shut in this part of the world. The trick for you lot is to lie low until you’re gonna strike. They’ll never notice you’re around - they won’t be expecting you. The Rhodesians would never dare to hit them when they’ve got all that heavy air support, and who else could they possibly think would come down on them?’

  He roared with laughter, but Rayne felt it difficult to share in his amusement. The heavy build-up of Russian personnel meant that his attack would have to be faster and more efficient than he’d originally planned. He must let Michael know the moment they landed. Michael was in the other plane - two of them on the same plane would be inviting disaster.

  ‘Have I got you worried, Captain Gallagher?’ Max’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘No, you’ve just given me some useful information. I’ll have to be a lot more careful than I’d thought.’

  ‘You’re a cool bastard, Captain. That I’ll say for you.’

  Rayne went back into the hold and wondered how cool he’d be once they were on the ground.

  He paced heavily along the side of the field, and occasionally he nodded his head knowingly - a thickset man with a white freckled skin and wispy red hair. Eventually he came back to the holidaymaker who’d first stumbled across the place.

  ‘Shit, man, this certainly does look like the army. They laid out flares for a plane to come in by. Very professionally laid out, as well. Now let’s have a look at the camp.’

  The camp was deserted. Spotlessly clean, not a scrap of paper or a broken bottle to be seen, and the huts were in immaculate condition. Even the ground outside had been swept. Major Piet ‘Iron Man’ Viljoen’s face was looking more and more concerned.

  ‘I don’t know, man. I really don’t know. There’s more to this, that’s for sure.’

  He moved away from the huts and began to search in the surrounding bush. Again he found nothing. Then he walked to the track that led out of the camp and nodded his head.

  ‘Crafty fucking bastards. Another day and no one would have known. You were correct that this was the place, Mr Retief, but these guys don’t remind me of the regular South African Army. They’d never go to all this effort to cover up their tracks. Maybe it’s an elite unit. Fuck, whoever runs this outfit has got his men well disciplined, I’ve never seen a place so well cleaned up. There isn’t a single bloody clue that they’ve been here.

  ‘There are no tracks leading out of here, so they came by road but they didn’t leave that way. Must have been a bloody Hercules that took them all out. It doesn’t make sense unless they didn’t want to be seen or known by anyone. If you ask me, something funny’s going on. I think you and your friend were very lucky you didn’t bump into these men.’

  The other man shivered, then walked quickly back to the car, anxious to leave the place.

  Major ‘Iron Man’ Viljoen scratched the stubble on his chin. Whoever these bastards were, he’d sure as hell find out.

  Rayne plunged headlong into the blackness, screaming towards the earth. The cold air rushed past his face, pushing his hair back like a powerful hair-dryer. He immediately pushed out his legs and arms so that he was spread-eagled against the air, gaining control over his fall. He could see no one else in the icy blackness and he didn’t expect to. All he did now was concentrate.

  In a way, this was the worst part - not knowing where one was going, hoping like hell that when the ground came up there was nothing in the way and no one waiting. As a practice he found this sort of jump exhilarating, in reality it was always quite terrifying. If he broke an ankle now, he would be useless to the whole mission. Instead of the regulation jump-boots he was wearing a light pair of running shoes, his personal preference. They would give him the opportunity to get away quickly once he was on the ground, and leave very few tracks.

  He was glad to be away from the mad American and his plane. The man’s cynicism had bothered him; it was the sort of cancer that got you killed in action very quickly. He pulled at the rip­cord that lay packed against his stomach and felt the rush of the shute careering up above him.

  His body was jerked upwards as the giant expanse of material above him billowed out and slowed his fall. Suspended in the air, this was the last peace he would know till it was all over. His mind ran quickly over everything they had brought, searching for something that might have been forgotten or overlooked. He thought of Sam for a fleeting moment. Then the ground came towards him very fast.

  He hit the dirt hard and rolled over to one side, forming his body into a bundle. Immediately, he was up, checking that the safety on his Browning was off and glancing round quickly. He bundled the shute into a ball, the relief of having made a good landing lasting little more than seconds.

  For the moment it would be best to sit still and listen to the others coming down. The vehicles and equipment must have landed minutes earlier, they would be lying somewhere in the bush around him. The biggest worry was that they might have landed in a very open area, contrary to their plans. He heard a noise to his right. Another man coming down. By the sound of it he had landed perfectly too. Rayne heard him pulling in his shute, and used the pre-arranged call-sign.

  ‘Hallo, my brother?’

  ‘I am not your brother, I am your son.’<
br />
  Fine. It was Guy Hauser. At least one member of his team was on the ground in perfect condition.

  ‘Guy, I’m keeping still till the light comes up. I don’t want to do anything till I know exactly where we are.’

  ‘Good, sir. I’ll stay here with you.’

  Rayne liked this quiet, ruthless man. The iron discipline of the Legion had become a part of his soul, and he was the perfect soldier even if he was not the perfect man. In the distance came the sound of another man landing. Soon they would all be down, nineteen men in a hostile country where the gun was law and little else mattered.

  General Vorotnikov did not find the major’s barrack-room humour in the least bit funny. How such a common man could have risen to such high command was beyond him.

  The General had decided to set about a thorough inspection of the military installations and airforce back-up in Beira. He had not been disappointed; the force was well organised, and care­fully disguised to escape detection by aerial reconnaissance. His black colleagues were beaming, this sort of fire-power had never been seen in southern Africa before - the fighter-bombers would annihilate the Rhodesian Airforce in a matter of minutes.

  He was pleased that there had been no comment from the West so far. The build-up had been achieved in complete secrecy and there was little chance that anyone could have known what it was all about. They had air-lifted in crack combat troops and heavy artillery. Not that the troops would be used unless things got really out of hand, and Vorotnikov doubted that that would happen. With Salisbury a mass of flames, the Parliament building destroyed and most of the key white leaders captured, the people would be a terrified herd, easy to control. The new People’s Republic of Zimbabwe would be declared within twenty-four hours while a stunned world looked on. Certain key whites would be quickly executed for crimes against humanity. Western politi­cians and journalists would be held for a long time, just to rub salt into the wounds of the Americans and the British.