Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

  ‘I wish I had your confidence. He would never marry me.’

  ‘Do not try to think for him. Think about yourself. There are few women who have your courage, it’s a rare quality. I want you to write your story, I want you to be happy. Forget him, he will not forget you so easily.’

  ‘Thank you. I won’t disturb you again.’

  ‘I’ll wake you when the darkness comes and we can go down to the sea.’

  For a long time Tongogara stared into the distance, then he lay down next to Sam and fell into an uneasy sleep.

  When twilight came they made their way silently towards the water. Now they were away from the road, the fuel tanks about five kilometres to their left. Sam could see their shapes on the horizon, ugly cylindrical forms that looked out of place in the African landscape. In the cover afforded by the dim light, Tongogara loped along almost casually, far less vigilant than before.

  Soon darkness overtook them and Sam started to trip over roots and branches that Tongogara easily avoided. He slowed his pace to allow her to move more carefully. She noticed that his assault rifle was always at the ready. He might seem relaxed to her, but he wasn’t taking any chances. She had thought they would reach the water quite quickly, but she must have underes­timated the distance; hours seemed to pass, and yet they were still apparently no closer to the shore. It was only at about ten o’clock that the ground started to slope downwards and the fresh smell of sea air assailed her nostrils.

  Moments later they were on the sand, the water stretching out in front of them. Sam forgot the war and the purpose of their journey. The place was wonderfully romantic; she could imagine the thrill of the Portuguese navigators who had first ventured into these waters; she could imagine them seeing this verdant coastline for the first time, imagine the desire that must have welled up in them to explore the mysterious interior.

  Perhaps she and Tongogara were the first people ever to walk on this particular stretch of beach. No lights were visible in the distance, there were no human sounds. She pulled off her outer clothes and waded out into the salty water. It was marvellously cool as it lapped against her limbs, her cuts stung as the salt worked its way into them. Immediately she felt refreshed.

  Tongogara had first to remove the massive pack and all the ammunition he was carrying before he could go into the water. He came in next to her, and she shivered involuntarily. The deep masculine smell of him aroused her senses and she stared at his body. Until now she had always seen him in the familiar dark green camouflage uniform that left only his face and arms exposed. Now he was naked she saw that there was not an ounce of fat on him; his arms were enormous above the elbows and his neck latticed with cords of muscle; there were the marks of old wounds on his stomach; his hips were slim and sinewy. Her eyes dwelt on the area between his legs and the pride of his manhood. He stretched his arms upwards and then sank beneath the water, rising up quickly again as it cascaded off his body.

  They did not speak. Instead he drew her close to him, and her arms clasped him instinctively. They kissed for a long time and she reached down with her left hand to guide him inside her.

  The next moment her legs were round his torso and her hands dug into his flanks. He was bigger than she expected and she felt the pain as he penetrated deep within her. She hung her head back and sighed with joy; as the tension vanished from her body she knew that all along she had wanted him. She felt his body shudder as she worked herself against him, the orgasms running through her in waves of excitement. Then he climaxed, and she felt the deep, silent sigh within him. He let her down into the water slowly and she swam out, not caring about the risk of sharks. If she died tomorrow, she would die happy.

  Now she knew him, and the memory was hers to cherish forever. For the first time in months she felt truly free.

  The water became cooler and more refreshing as she pulled away from the shore. After a while she turned, and saw the lights of Beira that had been concealed from the beach. She shuddered, and moved back quickly towards the shore, only happy when she could see the lights no longer. They were an intrusion, and she did not want to know that they were there.

  He was standing on the beach, watching her as she came in towards him, and she could see the flash of his pearl-white teeth as she emerged from the water. She guessed that he had been worried because she had gone far out.

  He took her hand and they walked back towards the vegeta­tion. They dressed slowly, not wanting the moment to pass. Then they walked some way in from the shore and ate an unappetizing meal of tinned fish. They lay down next to each other.

  Tomorrow they would attack the fuel tanks. They were both quiet, knowing that this might well be the last night of their lives. The sounds of the bush took on a special significance, everything that spoke of life to them was treasured. After an hour or so they drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

  Rayne and Bernard

  The knock on the door of his hotel room startled Rayne. He got out of bed, gun at the ready. His nerves were on edge; Saturday had passed with agonising slowness - he had seen the same tension building in Larry, Mick and Guy, all anxious that nothing should go wrong and well aware of the danger that lay ahead. At least with the helicopter as back-up they were not going to be left high and dry.

  He walked carefully to the bedroom door and opened it slowly, surprised to find Bernard Aschaar standing in front of him, alone. Rayne disguised his unease and smiled.

  ‘Mr Aschaar. Come in. I can only offer you whisky but at least it’s of a passable standard.’

  ‘Whisky will be fine, Mr Brand. I’m glad to have found you alone.’

  Rayne decided to leave the conversation to Aschaar. The man was going to have to make the first move.

  ‘When will the guns arrive?’

  ‘On Monday,’ Rayne lied.

  ‘You are too good at your job. You have delivered faster than anyone could have imagined.’

  ‘You stressed the importance of timing on this deal. You’ve paid for a fast delivery and that’s what you’ve got.’

  ‘What I have come to tell you is that the situation has changed appreciably. I have had certain discussions, and from a business point of view it would be better if the General was not supplied with the weapons he needs right away.’

  God, Rayne thought, what’s he playing at? He wants to forestall the invasion date. Immediately he was on his guard; he felt he was being led into a carefully engineered trap.

  ‘I’m afraid the machinery has been set in motion. I have to accept delivery, I have no choice in the matter -1 have paid the pilot and chartered a plane. Besides, from my understanding of the situation here, if ZANLA are not supplied with those

  weapons there’s going to be a lot of trouble. I don’t want to get involved in that.’

  ‘I am not making myself clear - ’

  ‘And what about General Vorotnikov? He wants those weapons. I’m going to let him down if I don’t deliver.’

  ‘I’m not talking about a non-delivery. I’m merely asking you to delay delivery. And I realise the difficulties from your point of view, and am therefore advancing you a further million dollars to arrange it.’

  Rayne pretended to be unimpressed by the amount. ‘You realise that if word gets out, my career will be over? And the Russians are past masters at sorting out people who let them down. How am I protected in this deal?’

  ‘For a million dollars I should think you wouldn’t care.’

  ‘A million dollars is chicken-shit to you, Mr Aschaar.’

  Rayne saw the anger flare on the man’s face. ‘You could tell Vorotnikov about our little deal,’ said Aschaar. ‘He’d be just as happy to eliminate me as he would you.’

  ‘No go, Mr Aschaar. Ten million dollars is the minimum bid on this deal.’

  Aschaar rose up like a coiled snake about to strike. Rayne’s gun was pointing at his chest in a fraction of a second.

  ‘Try me, Mr Aschaar. Try me.’

  Aschaar sat down. ‘You’re a basta
rd, Mr Brand.’

  ‘I’m not in your league. Pay me what I want or get out.’

  ‘All right, but. . .’

  ‘No buts. You pay. I do what you want. You shut up.’

  Aschaar closed his eyes for a second. Rayne guessed he had rarely been spoken to in this way before.

  ‘You’ll get your money, Mr Brand.’

  Rayne immediately sensed treachery, but there was little he could do about that now. He said, ‘How late do you want the delivery to be?’

  ‘As late as possible. I want you to inform me, in the presence of the General, that there has been a delay. That you are prepared to forfeit the whole deal if necessary because of the late delivery. Of course he will not accept that proposal, he needs the guns desperately.’

  ‘And when do you want me to put this to him?’

  ‘Tomorrow, at lunch at the villa. A car will come to collect you at twelve-thirty.’

  ‘Unfortunately tomorrow I have important business.’

  ‘For ten million dollars you can drop it. It’s vital that you inform the General tomorrow when I am present. Just make sure that you arrive for lunch on time, Mr Brand.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Mr Aschaar.’

  ‘Very good. And it will be best if you are alone. You must appear as distressed as possible, and I’ll be very hard on you. I’d like you to leave hastily, and then I’ll patch things up with Vorotnikov after you’ve left. It has to look realistic.’

  ‘Goodnight then, Mr Aschaar. I’ll see you at lunch.’

  Rayne closed the door, and found that he was shaking.

  Even without the prospect of getting the rifles he needed, Vorotnikov would go ahead with the Salisbury attack, Rayne was sure of it. He would have done, in Vorotnikov’s position - and the man must have some kind of weapons he could still hand out to his black forces. No commander would let slip the military and political opportunity of a lifetime for want of a bit of hardware. Rayne smiled to himself. It was interesting to know that he and his men would not be the only people happy if his mission succeeded; Aschaar obviously no longer wanted the invasion to succeed either - though for what reason, Rayne hadn’t a clue.

  Vorotnikov stood on the beach outside his villa, staring out across the waters and watching the moonlight ripple across the waves. He picked up Rhodes and thoughtfully scratched the little mongrel behind the ears, speaking to him softly.

  ‘I am on the verge of achieving my dream. With my own people there is no problem, but with my friend Mr Aschaar . . . I’m not so sure.’

  It had occurred to him that there must be other Western businessmen besides Aschaar who would be interested in devel­oping the new Zimbabwe. He had been wrong to involve Aschaar.

  Aschaar had to leave Beira by plane. An accident could be arranged. The Lear jet was the perfect target for a heat-seeking missile, and he had SAM-7 rocket-launchers amongst his armoury. He wished he had the American equivalent, he wasn’t particularly happy about the effectiveness of the SAM-7. He remembered the statistics from the Yom Kippur War: over half the A-4 aircraft hit by SAM-7 missiles had managed to return to base. Still, with a light aircraft like a Lear jet the weapon could be effective.

  He put Rhodes down and stretched his arms above him. If the invasion was successful and Aschaar was eliminated, he would be safe. With Aschaar dead, the evidence that the General had consorted with capitalists would be gone. Anyway, no one would dare to incriminate a national hero, and he would quickly organise his power-base within the Kremlin to make sure that nothing could go wrong. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if the invasion failed.

  He turned round and walked back towards the villa, followed by the ever-faithful Rhodes.

  Bunty Mulbarton stared down at the eerie glow of his watch and saw that it was just after 2 a.m. The day before had been sheer hell. The heat and the mosquitoes had been terrible, but the worst part was that he couldn’t relax for a second. Groups of black soldiers kept joining the road, coming out of the bush from all directions. There was constant risk of discovery and he had to be on the alert all the time. When one of Michael Strong’s group had unexpectedly come up to his position to confirm that everything was all right, he’d almost shot him.

  Now he wanted the action to start. How he was going to get through the next day was beyond him. Gallagher had certainly been correct when he said that they’d earn their money. Most of the mercenary jobs he’d taken on before involved sitting around at a cushy base camp or in a town. This was different, more like genuine army action.

  Bunty thought about his role. His job was to blow up the road when the vehicles retreating from the airport came along it. This would block the road with wreckage, forcing the vehicles behind to make a diversion, and these vehicles would then hit the minefield Bunty had laid on either side of the road and be blown to pieces - if everything went according to plan.

  He would then pin the Russians down with sniper fire while Michael Strong’s group made their getaway; then, he’d join up with them and they would make for the lift-off point together. According to his calculations, they should be flying away from Beira by the time darkness fell.

  Bunty desperately wanted a cigarette, but knew that it would be disastrous to have one. That single pinprick of red light would be enough to give them away.

  On the airfield Michael Strong waited for the next day with grim anticipation. He had no illusions about what was going to happen

  • he had seen enough planes go up before. It always surprised him how they lit like thatch houses. Aeronautical fuel was highly volatile. He’d advised his men to keep well back when the shooting began, because the waves of flame would be more dangerous than the rifle fire. The worst part would be seeing the Russians running around with flames leaping from their backs. He’d promised himself he’d shoot any man he saw burning to death. To his mind, that was the most horrific way to die.

  They’d counted every plane on the airfield, and his express orders were that no man was to retreat until each plane had been destroyed.

  He kept on rehearsing the action in his mind, trying to see if there was any point he’d missed. It was a game he always played with himself at times like this. More than once it had saved his life. Try as he might, he couldn’t find any loopholes in his strategy.

  Bernard arrived back at his villa and went up to his room to catch a few hours’ sleep before dawn. It always amazed him how he tired of people the moment they ceased to be of use to him. He had been stupid to get involved with the Russian in the first place. Still, one constantly learned from one’s miscalculations.

  Tomorrow would be amusing. After that, later in the after­noon, he would leave this place in his private plane and that would be the end of his involvement with the invasion. But before he left, he would have the pleasure of witnessing the sudden, dramatic death of General Vorotnikov after hearing shocking news . . . Yes, he could sleep easy tonight, knowing he had arranged that.

  The evening air hung heavily over Beira. Then the wind began to blow across the water, gently at first, then harder, whipping the trees along the shoreline into uneven motion. The few boats in the harbour began to tug at their moorings as the water became more disturbed. A full moon cast silvery patches on the tips of the waves, thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. The horizon was thick with water-laden storm clouds, carried towards the port by a strong south-wester.

  Then the bad weather struck in earnest. First came stronger winds, tearing at the trees and shrubs. Windows rattled, litter was blown across the streets. Outside the port, small dust storms developed along the dry, untarred sand roads. The wind made strange noises through the trees and any animals that were in the open soon made for whatever cover they could find. The moon disappeared behind a giant cloud, and the eerie landscape below was plunged into blackness.

  The first drops of rain came an hour later. They tamed the sandstorms, beat musically on the tin roofs of Beira’s shanty town, a strong and steady downpour. It would ra
in like this for at least the next twelve hours.

  The air now smelled sweet and pure, or at least it smelt so to Sam, sleeping under a blanket beneath a big tree with Tongogara snoring noisily beside her.

  The universe had changed. She had felt the coming of the storm in her bones and shivered involuntarily. She had pulled the plastic ground-sheet over them as protection from any rain that might pass through the heavy foliage of the branches above. Now she could see the wisdom of Tongogara’s choice of sleeping place. They were slightly higher than the surrounding ground, so that any water running down towards the sea would naturally be deflected away from them.

  Bad weather had always been a good omen for Sam. It always symbolised a change for the better in her life. She remembered that the day she left school it had rained, and on the day she had become a trainee reporter. She was glad to see that Tongogara was still sleeping quietly.

  Silently she moved his pack, ammunition and rifle to a place where they would not get wet. Her father had taught her all he knew about hunting, especially the handling and care of weapons. Once she had put the weapons in a dry place, she moved back to the warmth of the blanket and lay down to sleep again. The rain was falling more heavily now and showed no signs of abating.

  She closed her eyes and imagined she was back in her flat in Salisbury, enjoying a bottle of red wine from the Cape and listening to a Miles Davis record. Soon she was asleep, the storm forgotten.

  In the first grey light of the overcast morning, the runway looked like burnished black glass, with every plane reflected in it. There was a heaviness in the air, and the steady beat of large raindrops against the hollow metal of the fuselages. Not a human being was in sight, and to a first-time observer the place might have appeared completely deserted.