Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

  He watched the waves rolling up the beach, lost in his thoughts for a while. The old, wounding words echoed through his head. ‘Bloody faggot, good for nothing.’ Then he released the safety and pulled back the pistol slide.

  The muzzle of the pistol tasted strange in the roof of his mouth. This was the best, most effective way, he had been told - but he was scared that the explosion might push his head back and cause the bullet to go out of the side of his mouth. He pulled his legs up and rested them against the control panel ahead of him. This, he reasoned, would force him back into the seat and ensure that his body stayed still at the moment of firing. He breathed in, closed his eyes and - pistol at the ready - pushed his legs hard against the panel.

  The noise of the chopper engine starting up was deafening. The machine shook violently, and he fell forward, dropping the gun. Then he was at the control panel, hastily grabbing at different switches, making sure that the miracle wasn’t lost. His whole body tensed as he lifted the machine off the ground, then he started to laugh hysterically at the irony of it all.

  He swooped down low over the sand, scaring a flock of birds on the edge of the sea, then headed for a large tree and pushed the button controlling the two M134 six-barrel 7.62-mm Mini­guns. Moving in closer, he opened them up, and the tree exploded into pieces as two thousand rounds of ammunition tore into it in under fifteen seconds. On his second fly-past nothing was left but a tattered stump.

  He turned the helicopter quickly to the west and headed inland, keeping as low to the ground as possible. Then he crossed over the place where he knew the camp must be and saw that it was deserted. He pulled away rapidly as a South African Army Land Rover pulled out of the bushes to see who was coming in to land.

  Lois approached the farmhouse cautiously. He’d flown in as the sun was setting and had landed a considerable distance away. To move to the building on foot was the best course. If there was anyone waiting for him, he’d be in a better position to surprise them. He reckoned the Army Land Rover at the camp meant one of two things. Either the South African authorities had apprehended Rayne with his men, or they had discovered the site after Rayne had left. The latter was the most likely.

  By the time he got to the back corner of the house, Lois was pretty sure there were people about. His senses were hyper-alert, the slightest noise putting him into a crouching stance, ready to fire.

  The lights came on as he was about to disappear into the bush. Gunfire erupted around him. In a fraction of a second he had swung round, aiming his rifle very carefully. He hit the floodlight with the first shot and then pivoted slightly and fired at the spot where he had seen a man with a rifle break from the bushes, heading straight for him.

  The man screamed out, and Lois heard him stagger forwards. In the darkness he glimpsed the outline of an R3 assault rifle and quickly picked it up. He could just make out a man in uniform illuminated by the lights inside the house, giving orders.

  There was only one choice. Lois switched the firing switch to the single-fire position. Without hesitating, he squeezed the trigger, going for a head shot. As the man crumpled to the ground, Lois aimed his second shot at the light in the house.

  First Lieutenant Koos Conradie could hardly believe his eyes. There on the dirt, lying in a pool of blood, was the legendary Major Piet Viljoen - not popular, but still something of a hero amongst the men. He’d said that the army wasn’t capable of handling the investigation of the suspicious goings on at the farmhouse on their own. Sadly, he’d just been proved right.

  The radio operator ran up to First Lieutenant Koos Conradie and, breathing heavily, waited for permission to speak.

  ‘Yes, Swart. What’s the airforce say?’

  ‘Sir. Direct orders from Pretoria, sir. We are to remain here. On no account are we to attempt pursuit. This is a Bureau of State Security matter. The airforce have been told that my previous message about a helicopter was a mistake.’

  ‘Shit. The bastard’s just shot two of our men. Now we’re supposed just to let him go.’

  ‘The orders came from the highest authority,’ Swart stam­mered nervously.

  ‘All right Swart. Switch the bloody radio off. I’m going to demand an explanation.’

  John Fry left the American Embassy in Pretoria just after 9 p.m. Things between him and the American Ambassador had been very tense. He had not expected trouble so early on from Rayne’s men, but he had alerted the South African border forces not to act immediately if anything strange happened near the Mozam­bican border.

  The American Ambassador as usual had not wanted to help him. A direct call from the White House had changed his mind and brought him away from the glittering evening function he’d been enjoying. The Ambassador then made the call to the South African Minister of Defence. The Minister was furious: two South African soldiers dead, and some maniac in a helicopter who was to be left alone.

  The Ambassador spent ten minutes listening to a tirade against his country’s double dealing on the African continent. The

  American Ambassador then reminded the Minister of the import­ance of some undercover arms deals between the United States and South Africa.

  After a few moments’ silence the Ambassador was told that his security representative could make a call to the South African Bureau of State Security. The matter would be treated as top secret and there would be no embarrassing disclosures. The Ambassador apologised for the death of the two South Africans - and at that point the Minister slammed the phone down.

  Fry had to admit that he would have behaved in exactly the same way. The US Ambassador, Billy Halliday, vented his wrath on John Fry.

  ‘Heavens, John, you guys are still playing God. I don’t know what you’re up to, I don’t want to know. But if it causes an international incident, I’ll personally see to it that you get roasted.’

  ‘I must remind you, Billy, that officially I don’t exist. I’m not here. The security of this continent is a top priority with the United States. It’s not going to be another Vietnam, you must understand that. And we have no intention of letting the Russians control one of the world’s most mineral-rich continents. So we fight our war behind the scenes. People do get killed, but for you it’s rather like when you buy meat from the butcher - you just enjoy the taste, you don’t have to participate in the killing. Of course I’m sorry those South African soldiers got it, but that’s the nature of undercover work. There’ll be more deaths before this thing is over, more sacrifices.’

  Billy didn’t particularly like Fry’s simile. ‘But you must be careful. The Russians are looking for trouble. We burnt them on that incident in Angola and no doubt they’re still smarting. I don’t need any embarrassing prisoners trotting out unpleasant details of the activities of the CIA.’

  ‘That’s the last thing we have to worry about, Billy. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to talk to my friends down the road.’

  John Fry liked Pretoria. It was a pleasant city of wide streets and many trees. Unlike the stark skyscraper ruthlessness of Johannesburg, designed exclusively to promote the getting and spending of money, Pretoria’s architecture had a soothing period flavour. Although only twenty minutes by car from Johannes­burg, it had a warmer and more pleasant climate too. He walked to his car parked amongst the shadows and drove off casually. Always he had to watch. You didn’t have the luxury of careless­ness when you worked in security. He didn’t have far to go, but he took a particularly circuitous route.

  Eventually he came to a large British colonial house and parked next to an anonymous-looking Mercedes-Benz in the drive. He went up to the front door, waiting the customary ten minutes before being admitted. He took a deep breath as he stepped over the threshold. He was entering the headquarters of the South African Bureau for State Security.

  Sarel van der Spuy was waiting for him. ‘Fuck it, Fry, you make things very difficult for me. You certainly get a star grading for intrigue. Do you realise who that lunatic of yours shot? Major “Iron Man” Viljoen. Shot s
traight in the head.’

  Fry decided to act defensively. He had the upper hand anyway, so there was no point in overplaying.

  ‘But I thought he retired a couple of years back,’ he said. ‘Evidently he met some businessmen who’d seen some strange activities in the St Lucia area. The Major flew over the place to check it out, but by the time he arrived your boys had already flown off. But you see, Viljoen was a detail man, so he checked out the whole area and found this deserted farmhouse. A few strange objects in the workshop were all the evidence he needed to call in the army.

  ‘Anyway, one of your bastards came back. They were waiting for him, but he obviously knew they were there. He came in in a helicopter, but he was clever enough to land it a kilometre away. He killed a private and Viljoen, then got clean away.’

  John Fry was troubled - it didn’t make sense. Rayne had never said anything about having organised his own air support.

  ‘Sarel, I think we’ve got our wires crossed. It doesn’t sound like one of my guys. They would all have been together, anyway.’

  ‘It’s too late to find out now, John. But I can’t believe what you’re saying. The man in the attack was white. Now what would someone like that be doing in the St Lucia area unless he was one of yours?’

  ‘Could be a poacher.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. Show me a poacher who’s able to take on the South African army. That guy was a pro - I’ve spoken to the guys who were there. He moved like greased lightning and he was armed with an assault rifle. Listen, John, look at what happened to us in the Seychelles, a complete bugger-up. These people you employ are mavericks, they’re completely unreliable.’

  ‘No, the man I’m using is different. If it’s him there’ll be a logical explanation to all of this. What are you going to say in the press?’

  ‘Routine. It was an accident. The Major thought he saw a terrorist and it turned out to be one of our own. They killed each other by accident.’

  ‘Can you trust your men to keep their mouths shut?’

  ‘If they don’t they’ll have their balls cut off without anaesthetic.’

  ‘One more thing, Sarel. If your men run into anyone in the next week, shoot to kill.’

  ‘And if they’re yours?’

  ‘They’ll be expendable by then.’

  ‘Remind me never to work for you, John. You’re a ruthless shit.’

  John Fry left the house and lit a cheroot, his mind in turmoil. Gallagher was obviously a crafty, clever bastard. Major Long had said he was over the edge, a man punch-drunk from too much combat duty. Well, Gallagher didn’t seem much like that. He’d turned out to be a cool operator - too good for the job. The chances of success were slim enough, and the chances of getting out alive non-existent. He’d obviously realised that, and organised the helicopter accordingly.

  Fry shrugged. No matter what precautions he took, Gallagher wouldn’t last long if he returned into South African or Rhodesian air space. All that mattered was that he stopped the Russians.

  In the radar tower at Beira Airport, Comrade Asimov lay slumped over the book he had been trying to read. He had drunk far too much the previous evening and bitterly resented the fact that he had had to be on duty by six that morning. There were no exercises planned for that day, and no planes coming in on the blank screen; as he reasoned, his being there was a complete waste of time. After resisting the urge to be sick several times, and trying to keep awake with awful synthetic coffee, he had eventually dropped off to sleep at seven o’clock.

  If he had stayed awake he would have seen the tiny dot approaching the airport from the south. At first it would have seemed that the dot’s destination was the airport, but then it would have disappeared off the screen while still some kilometres away. Now the radar screen was blank again and there was no evidence that the dot had ever existed.

  The sound of footfalls on the steel ladder leading up the control tower woke him. He quickly stuffed the book under the table and took a fast swig of coffee before sweeping his hair back and gazing intently at the radar screen. He could sense that someone was coming through the trapdoor, but pretended to be locked in concentration and unaware of any other sounds.

  ‘Asimov.’

  His name was said quietly, so he pretended not to hear.

  ‘Asimov!’

  He jumped with fright, half affected and half real. As he did so, he knocked the coffee over the control panel and it dribbled over the edge onto the floor. He stood to attention and saluted his superior. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Asimov, I’ve told you before, you must keep watching that screen all the time. You haven’t seen anything?’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary, sir.’

  ‘Idiots, absolute idiots. They don’t deserve to run the country, let alone live off it. One of the fools who works in the mess says he saw a giant helicopter flying near here on his way to work. Just the sort of line they like to give you, gets you all worked up for nothing. I’ll make sure the fool works hard today. Absolute nonsense, anyway, unless it was one of ours. What the hell would have the range to make it this far? It would be suicide with what we’ve got on the runway. Bloody Rhodesians aren’t that stupid. Anyway, I’d be surprised if they’ve got any helicopters left.’

  Asimov laughed dutifully at the joke. His head was throbbing and all he wanted to do was sit still and not think at all.

  ‘I’ll keep a look-out, sir, one can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Very good, Asimov. And clean that coffee up and get this place ship-shape. General Vorotnikov is bringing that man who arrived yesterday to see the airport in all its glory. Make sure this room is so clean that I could lie on the floor without dirtying my uniform. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, you idiot. Get on the phone and call someone to clean this mess up.’

  Getting the truck had been one problem, driving it was another matter. The gearbox didn’t appear to be fitted with synchromesh and each change was accompanied by nightmarish howls from the differential. At first Lois had wondered if he’d picked up a dud, but once he’d got used to the noise, the machine was all right.

  Taking out the driver of the truck hadn’t been easy. He’d used the old trick of putting an obstacle in the road and jumping the vehicle when it slowed down. Then he had climbed along the roof and swung down across the cab, ripping the door open and grabbing the driver by the throat. Holding the steering wheel with one hand as the man fought against him, he’d braked, and then pushed his combat knife in smoothly below the lower ribs.

  The man stopped screaming after a few minutes. Lois dragged the body out of the cab and covered it with rocks and earth. He carefully covered his tracks as he returned to the truck.

  He had to get more aviation fuel for the chopper, that was all there was to it. Without it he would soon be as dead as the man he’d left carefully hidden under the earth.

  The road was good, which partially made up for the dreadful springing on the truck. He bounced along in the darkness till he came to the first road-block and leered down scornfully at the black guard who came up to him. The man spoke to him in Portuguese. ‘Where’s your pass?’

  ‘Where do you think?’

  The guard almost snarled with anger. Lois reached inside his jacket, whipped out his Browning and shot the man in the face. Then he roared off, his back soaked with sweat.

  As he had expected, the security on the fuel storage depot was far tighter than at the road-block. He’d parked the truck some distance back and leopard-crawled up near the front entrance. Now he moved in slowly and soundlessly towards the sentry post. He came at the man from behind and held a combat knife to his throat. ‘You come with me,’ he whispered in Portuguese.

  The security guard dropped his weapon and walked in the direction Lois steered him. It took fifteen minutes to reach the truck. The man stank, he’d urinated in his pants with fear.

  Lois indicated that he should drive
the truck. ‘You drive. One wrong move and I slit your throat.’

  They drove slowly through the entrance gates and past large storage tanks. They pulled up next to some hundred-litre drums of aviation fuel. Lois needed ten. He knew that the guard wouldn’t be able to load the big drums into the back of the truck by himself; he’d have to help him.

  They were lifting up the second drum when the man shifted his weight and pushed the container over onto Lois. The next moment he was on him, smashing his fist into Lois’ face. Lois brought his left hand up flat and hard into the man’s crutch. The man drew back screaming and Lois crashed his knee into his skull. His adversary fell over, dead.

  Lois loaded the truck by himself. It was back-breaking work, and by the time he’d got all ten drums on, he was totally exhausted, but at least the engine started easily, and he began to steer the machine towards the entrance gate. Now his progress was slow, the load of fuel on the back weighing the truck down heavily. Another guard was at the entrance. Outside, there were soldiers everywhere. Lois knew if they went for him, he was finished.

  To his surprise, the guard lifted the boom and let him out without any fuss.

  He took the right fork in the road and headed north. All the details of his exact landing position were accurately stored in his head. He had carefully surveyed the surrounding ground before coming in to land.

  About a kilometre further on, he swung off onto a dirt path to the left. Then he stopped and carefully covered up the tracks of the truck tyres. Now he moved very slowly, not wanting to do any damage to the bush at the side of the path. Every fifty metres he stopped and went over the vehicle tracks with a branch. He dropped pieces of dead bush to heighten the impression that no one had been that way for a long time. The sun was rising by the time he made it back to the helicopter.