by Tony Park
Henri screamed through gritted teeth as Kevin tied the tourniquet around his right thigh. The inside of the helicopter was spray-painted with blood. One of several twenty-millimetre cannon shells that had passed through the fuselage walls had all but severed the Frenchman’s leg. The pulpy mess was studded with the bright white of shattered bone and the leg rested at an obscene angle. Kevin’s quick work might just save his life. It was probably wasted effort, Novak thought. The weapons officer on the gunship had his eye in now and had steadied his nerves. Death was coming up behind them.
‘Fuel state critical,’ Oliver Msimang said.
‘Roger,’ Jaco said. ‘I’ve got him. He won’t survive this pass. We hit him last time. There’ll be okes bleeding on their ivory in there now.’
Oliver nodded to himself.
They were chasing an unarmed whale of a troop helicopter. There was no way he could fail. The consequences of letting these men escape were not worth considering.
‘Kufa,’ Kobus said into his mouthpiece, ‘get on the satphone and call Jose on the island. Give him our location off the GPS on the instrument panel. Tell him to come to us in the Fair Lady and –’
‘But what about Alex? This isn’t part of the plan, Kobus.’
Novak cut in on the chatter. ‘We’re about to fucking die, Kufa. Do as he says, man! If any of us survives it’ll be the only chance we have. Fire!’
On Novak’s command, he and Heinrich each emptied a magazine of bullets in the direction of the Rooivalk, which was now in range, at about three hundred metres. They aimed high, hoping the other helicopter might fly into one or two of their rounds. Even if they did score a hit, though, the projectile would bounce off the armoured cockpit windows. By a fluke, they might sever a fuel line or damage some other vital component through the aluminium skin.
Kobus threw the Oryx hard over to the right.
Cannon shells ripped through the tail boom and Kevin laid his body over Henri’s.
‘Kobus, we’re smoking!’ Novak yelled into the microphone. Behind them, the Rooivalk had veered off to avoid flying into the thick cloud that was pouring from their engine exhaust.
‘Fuck. Right engine’s gone. I’m shutting it down.’
Novak felt the loss of speed. Through the hatch he could see the Rooivalk standing off, just out of rifle range. It slowed its speed to match theirs, waiting out there like a vulture waiting for a stricken beast to die.
‘We can keep going. I’ve still got control,’ Kobus said.
‘Put her down,’ Novak said.
‘What? Are you crazy?’ Kobus replied. ‘They’ll slaughter us.’
‘I said, put us down.’
*
Jaco said over the internal intercom, ‘I’m going to finish them off.’
‘No,’ Oliver replied.
‘What do you mean, no? I’m well within range for the twenty-millimetre.’
Even though the Rooivalk was hovering, it was still pointing in the same direction the Oryx had been travelling. Jaco turned his head to the left and Oliver knew the multi-barrelled cannon was moving, following his weapons officer’s eye.
‘Jaco, they’ve got a wounded man down there. They wouldn’t have put out the raft if they could take off again. I’m not going to let you murder them in cold blood.’
‘All right. We wait until it looks like they’re all clear – until the raft has moved a safe distance away – and then if that fucking helicopter is still afloat I’m going to sink it.’
The captain’s voice over the radio stopped further debate. ‘Kestrel One, good work. You are to disengage and proceed to a new rendezvous. I’m told you won’t make the Talana, but we have contacted a civil vessel which you can land on.’
‘Roger control,’ Oliver said, swinging the nose of the Rooivalk to the south, away from the Oryx. ‘What’s the name of this ship, over?’
‘The MV Penfold Son.’
Alex found the canvas satchel he had buried in the mound of tusks after the helicopter had picked up the cargo net. It was time to cash in his insurance policy.
He opened the bag and checked the home-made bomb. Four thermite grenades were bound together with duct tape and wired to a detonator and a satellite phone. If Chan had tried to double-cross Alex, or ambush him – as he had, then Novak would have called the satellite phone once they were all clear of the ship. Receiving the signal would activate the detonator and the grenades. Alex knew Novak wouldn’t make the call while there was a possibility Alex was still alive.
The firebomb in Alex’s hands would ignite the ivory around it and punch through the hull of the Peng Cheng. It would be like using an oxy-acetylene torch to cut tinfoil. Alex knew the smoke and flames from the burning tusks would make it impossible for the ship’s crew to reach the hole and attempt to repair it. The Peng Cheng would sink.
Alex didn’t have a phone of his own, so he set the alarm for twenty minutes’ time. He replaced the bomb in its bag and tucked it under half-a-dozen shafts of stained ivory.
Alex couldn’t feel bitter towards Chan, because even if the gangster had stuck to his end of the bargain he would have called tactical headquarters and relayed the Peng Cheng’s last known position. He’d phoned Silvermine, anonymously, using the same codeword he always did when he was reporting an illegal fishing vessel or a ship he suspected was carrying illegal immigrants.
For months the South African Navy had been apprehending wrongdoers on Alex’s information and he’d often imagined their puzzlement at who the source might be. No doubt the staff officers would have a fit if they knew the information was coming from a pirate with a conscience. To lure the Talana out he had hinted that the Peng Cheng might be carrying arms and explosives as well as ivory and rhino horn. He wanted to make doubly sure that while the elephant cull would go down in history as a disaster, the ivory would never make it to Asia.
‘Drop your gun, Tremain.’
Alex looked up. ‘Van Zyl?’
‘You can call me “Death” if you like.’ The South African grinned across the sights of his M4. ‘I said drop it. Don’t make me kill you now – my employer wants that privilege for himself.’
Alex stood slowly, laid down his R5 and unholstered his pistol.
‘What were you doing in the ivory?’
‘I was going to hide under the tusks.’
Van Zyl laughed. ‘That’s pretty stupid.’
Alex shrugged and started to move away from the ivory. He wanted to draw their attention away from the explosive device. ‘So who’s your boss – Chan?’
Van Zyl followed him towards the shaft of light that shone down from the open cargo hatch above. Alex moved to a ladder, unbidden, and started climbing.
‘You’ll meet him soon enough, but I sense it’ll be a pretty brief chat.’
Alex looked down at the South African as he climbed. ‘Why not do me a favour, as one soldier to another, and shoot me now?’
Van Zyl shook his head. ‘As one soldier to another, you’ll understand orders are orders. Don’t worry, though, you won’t be alone. You’ll have someone else there to talk to. An old friend of yours.’
Alex swallowed. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Five six, strawberry blonde, nice legs . . .’
Jane heard the changing note of the diesel engines somewhere below her and felt the ship slow. She sweated profusely in the hot, stuffy shipping container that was her cell. She had prayed to God – something she hadn’t done since she was twelve – and hoped that her parents wouldn’t suffer too much. She wondered if the change in pace of the vessel signalled her end.
She looked up and the beams of light that penetrated the air holes at the top of the container were momentarily eclipsed. She placed a hand on a warm metal wall and felt a different hum. It was louder now, the buzzing noise increasing in volume as the ship’s engines slowed even more.
A helicopter.
She allowed her hopes to rise, though told herself to stay calm. Was it a rescue force, or
something yet more sinister, related to the fate she had all but resigned herself to? Someone was yelling outside, shouting instructions. She couldn’t make out the words.
Jane started banging on the walls of the box with her balled fists. The sound was puny and not even she could hear it over the competing mechanical notes of the aircraft and ship. She tried yelling, but her voice was lost too.
Jane looked around her. The only thing in the container was the steel bucket full of her own waste. She grimaced as she grabbed it and emptied it in the furthest corner of her gaol. She retched and swung the bucket with all her might against the wall of the container. It made a satisfyingly loud clang, so she did it again.
George Penfold walked down the stairs from the bridge wing. Sitting on a tightly packed row of shipping containers was a Rooivalk attack helicopter.
To ignore the distress call from the South African National Defence Force would have simply drawn unwelcome attention to the Penfold Son, but having a stranded helicopter gunship on his vessel was tantamount to the same thing.
He tensed his face into a grin and moved closer to the aircraft as its blades finally stopped turning and began to sag. The Rooivalk looked less like a kestrel and more like a giant resting dragonfly. He eyed the rocket pods, cannon and wing-mounted antitank missiles. There was enough hardware here to stop a troop of tanks or a company of infantry.
The pilot and gunner opened their cockpits.
‘Welcome aboard,’ George called over the last dying groans of the engines. ‘I’m George Penfold.’
‘Lieutenant Oliver Msimang and this is my weapons officer, Warrant Officer Jaco Kronje.’
George shook hands with the two airmen as they stepped down onto the deck.
‘I can’t tell you how grateful we were to see your ship on the horizon. We were on fumes,’ the black African said.
George laughed politely. ‘So, what exactly are you guys doing out here?’ The panicked satellite phone call from Chan had told him already, but he needed to feign innocence.
Msimang explained they had been tracking a smugglers’ ship and a stolen helicopter full of ivory. ‘We splashed it,’ the pilot said proudly.
‘Wow,’ George said. ‘That must have been quite a sight, seeing another aircraft go down in flames.’
Kronje shook his head. ‘They ditched in the ocean, but the helo was still afloat. You’ll hear rescue traffic on your radios soon. The Talana will be looking for survivors, and we’ll get back into the game once we’re refuelled.’
George processed the new information. Tremain was being brought to the Penfold Son by Van Zyl and his men. He’d hoped the gunship would have killed the rest of the pirates, but they were possibly still at large.
Chan was making for Ilha dos Sonhos, the nearest landfall, where he would stash his cargo. With Mitch Reardon in charge of the island and the pirates out of action, Chan could hide out on the resort for as long as required. The Peng Cheng would sail on, in international waters, and if it was boarded by the South African Navy its crew would say the stolen helicopter had tried to force a landing on her deck.
‘How will you refuel?’ George asked the pilot.
‘We’ve got just enough left for one takeoff and a short hop, to the SAS Talana, when she gets close. To be honest, she’ll need to be almost alongside as we’re just about dry.’
George nodded. ‘They have aviation fuel on board?’
‘Yes, and they’re equipped to take helicopters too.’
‘Well let’s get inside out of this heat. We’ll get you a cool drink and there’s even an indoor swimming pool if you’d like to cool off.’
Kronje smiled. ‘Lekker. This beats the navy any day.’
George led them along the walkway beside the stacked shipping containers.
The loud clanging of metal on metal stopped the military men.
‘Hey, what was that?’ Msimang said.
‘Probably something coming loose, falling over or banging into something.’
‘It’s smooth as glass on the water,’ Kronje said.
‘Quiet! I can hear a voice,’ Msimang said.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ George replied. He reached behind his back and lifted his shirt. Tucked in the waistband of his jeans was a .44 Magnum pistol. He liked the feeling of power a big gun gave him.
The pilot moved to the container and his stocky warrant officer planted himself in the centre of the walkway, watching both his superior and George.
‘It’s a woman!’ He leaned his head closer to the hot steel of the box. ‘She’s calling for help. How do you open this thing?’
‘My God, perhaps it’s a stowaway,’ George said, hoping he sounded surprised enough.
‘Show me your hand, Mister Penfold, sir,’ Kronje said, hands on hips.
‘Oh, all right, if you insist. But I wish you hadn’t said that.’
George pulled the pistol and shot the warrant officer in the heart.
‘HELP!’ Jane rattled the stinking bucket over and over against the container’s side. ‘Help me!’
She stopped when she heard the shot. She sensed there was no longer any point, and she slumped to the floor, tears filling her eyes.
A while later she heard the hum of outboard engines. The noise grew louder and when it stopped she heard the ebullient voices of Piet van Zyl and a couple of his men. George was talking rapidly, but his deep, low tones were harder to decipher.
When the door creaked open she retreated, like a night creature, from the flood of light that invaded her prison.
The first man who came through the door was dead. She cowered at the back of the metal box as a booted foot rolled the body over. The dead man wore a green military flying suit that was drenched with blood, front and back.
The next man in walked like a zombie. He was an African, dressed the same as the first. He barely registered Jane’s presence when he blinked, his eyes finally finding her in the gloom. She said nothing.
With the door open she could hear George’s voice clearly. ‘We’ve got to get that helicopter off the deck,’ he said.
‘How?’ Van Zyl asked.
‘Push the fucking thing, I suppose.’
‘All right, but let me lock this bastard up first,’ Van Zyl said.
Jane watched the black man. He looked around the container, his nose wrinkling at the smell of her.
Three men were silhouetted in the doorway of the container, against the blindingly bright outside light. One was pushed to his knees and the door slammed shut.
The sudden appearance then loss of light ruined Jane’s vision and she blinked in the gloom, waiting for it to return. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Jane?’
She got to her feet and stumbled towards the sound of his voice as he said her name again. When she bumped into him in the dark she lost her footing, but he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight.
‘Jane,’ he said, and she felt him bury his face in her hair. She clung to him and fought back the sobs.
‘Alex, I didn’t want to die without seeing you again.’
He kissed her cheek and her forehead. ‘I know how you feel. But we’re not going to die on this ship.’
32
Captain Gert Fourie sat in his padded leather chair in the airconditioned bridge of the SAS Talana, sipping a mug of coffee.
He projected an air of calmness in the face of the mounting excitement building in the voices of the officers and sailors around him. They had listened to the radio transmissions between Tactical HQ and the Rooivalk crew, and the men and women on the bridge had cheered when the news came through that the hijacked Oryx had been downed.
A suspect vessel was out there somewhere ahead of them, and their job would be to intercept and board it, as soon as they had taken the Rooivalk on board and refuelled it. With the help of the gunship they would also have to search for and apprehend the pirates who had left their downed aircraft. It would be a busy day and the first real test of the Talana’s crew aga
inst an armed foe.
The Talana was already off the coast of Mozambique, thanks to an anonymous but supposedly reliable tip-off that a ship smuggling arms was in the area. Fourie didn’t know if the report was linked to the stolen helicopter and the ivory heist, but one thing was certain – they were now in dangerous waters.
The ship needed a win. The air of controversy over the government’s purchase of four new frigates from the Germans had never entirely cleared. Opposition parties and the media had criticised the ships as too costly for a country where too many people still lived in poverty, and there had been questions over the transparency of the tender process.
But Fourie was a navy man through and through. Third generation. Every day of his life had been preparation for this one and he was determined every man and woman under his command would be going home safe to their base at Simon’s Town.
The screen set high in front of him showed their position in relation to the MV Penfold Son, which was ahead. They would soon have visual contact.
‘XO, what’s the position of the suspect freighter?’ Fourie asked his executive officer, Commander Mishak Kumalo.
‘Target is bearing zero-four-two degrees, twenty nautical miles, sir. He’s making a steady eight knots further into international waters,’ Kumalo replied from his place behind the captain.
Fourie looked across at the framed photograph of his ship. He would miss her when his posting ended in a few short weeks.
‘SAS Talana, this is the MV Penfold Son, over,’ came a voice over the loudspeaker on the bridge.
Commander Kumalo acknowledged the call and the captain listened intently to the exchange. The voice of the Penfold Son’s master sounded anxious.
‘We’ve got an emergency situation here,’ the Englishman said. ‘Your air force helicopter has just crashed into the sea!’
Fourie craned his head to look back at Kumalo, who held the radio handset by his side. ‘Sir, the last report from the Rooivalk crew was that they had landed safely on board the Penfold Son.’
