Leopard Hunts in Darkness b-4

by Wilbur A. Smith

  "Keep your face down," he whispered. "It can shine likea mirror." Obediently she dropped it into the crook of her arm. He pulled up his shirt to cover his own mouth and nose, and watched them come on.

  Oh God, they are good, he thought. Look at them move! They have been going all night, and they are still as sharp and wary as lynx. The point was a tall Shana who moved likea reed in the wind. He carried his AK 47 low on the right hip, anct he was charged with a deadly intensity of concentration. Once the light of coming dawn caught his eyes and they flashed like distant cannon-fire in the blackness of his face. Craig recognized him as the main man.

  His drags, two on each side of him, were sombre, stocky figures, full of dark men ate and yet subservient to the man who led. They reactM like puppets to the hand-signals that the tall Shana gave them. "They came on silently towards the edge of the pan, and Craig arranged the wires across the palm of his left hand and ran them out between his fingers.

  Fifty paces from the bank the Shana stopped them with a cut-out signal, and the line froze. The Shana's head turned slowly from side to side as he surveyed the low bank and the scrub beyond it. He took five paces forward, stepping lightly, and stopped again. His head turned once more, back and forth and then back again. He had seen something. Craig instinctively held his breath as the seconds drew out.

  Then the Shana moved again. He swivelled and picked out his flanks, marking them with a stab of his forefinger, into a and then a pumped fist. Their formation changed reversed arrowhead the Shana had adopted the traditional fighting formation of the Nguni tribes, the 'bull's horns" that King Chaka had used to such terrible effect, and now the horns were moving to invade Craig's position.

  Craig felt a surge of relief at his own foresight in spreading the grenades so widely. The two flank men would walk almost on top of his outside grenades. He sorted the wires in his hand, taking up the slack, and watching the flank men come on. He wished it had been the tall Shana, the danger man, but he had not moved again. He was still way back out of blast range, watching and directing the flanking movement.

  The man on the right reached the bank, and gingerly stepped up onto it, but the man on the left was still ten paces out on the pan.

  "Together," Craig whispered. "I've got to take them together." The man on the bank must have almost brushed the hidden grenade with his knee as Craig let him overrun it.

  The man on the left reached the bank, there was a bloody bandage around his head, Timon's work. The grenade ig heaved with would be at about the level of his navel. Cra all his weight on the two outside wires, and heard the firing handles fly off the grenades with a metallic Twang!

  Twang!

  Three seconds delay on the primers, and the Shana were reacting with trained reflexes. The man on the bank dropped from sight, but Craig judged he was too close to the grenade to survive. The three others out on the pan went down also, firing as they dropped, rolling sideways as they hit the crust, firing again, raking the top of the bank.

  Only the trooper out on the left, the wounded man, perhaps slowed by his injury, stayed on his feet those fatal seconds. The grenade exploded with the brilliance of a flashbulb, and the man was hit by fragmenting shrapnel.

  He was lifted off his feet as the blast tore into his belly. On the right the other grenade burst in brief thunder, and Craig heard the taut, drum like sound of shrapnel slapping into flesh.

  Two of the bastards, he thought, and tried for the tall Shana, but his aim was through scrub and over the lip of the bank, and the Shana was rolling. Craig's first burst kicked white salt inches short, but on line, his second burst was a touch left, and the Shana fired back and kept rolling.

  One of the other troopers jumped up and charged the bank, jinking like a quarter-back with the ball, and Craig swung onto him. He hit him cleanly with a full burst, starting at the level of his crotch and pulling up across his belly and chest. The AK 47 was notorious for the way she rode up in automatic find Craig had compensated for it.

  The trooper dropped his rifle, and spun around sharply, fell onto his knees and then toppled forward on his face likea Muslim at prayer.

  The tall Shana was up, coming in, shouting an order, the second man followed. him twenty paces behind. Craig switched his aim back to' him exultantly. He couldn't miss now. The AK 47 Aked once, and then snapped on an empty chamber. The Shana kept on coming, untouched.

  Craig was not as quick on the reload as he had once been; just that microsecond too late he swung back onto the Shana, and as he squeezed the trigger, the man dropped out of sight, below the rim of the bank, and Craig's burst flew high and harmless.

  Craig swore, and swung left onto the last trooper who was just five paces from the safety of the bank. It was snap shooting, but a single lucky bullet out of the long burst hit him in the mouth, and snapped his head back likea heavy punch. The burgundy-red beret, glowing like a pretty bird in the dawn light, flew high in the air, and the trooper collapsed.

  Four out of five in the first ten seconds, it was more than Craig could possibly have hoped for, but the fifth man, the danger man, was alive down there below the bank and he must have marked Craig's muzzle flashes.

  He had Craig pinpointed.

  "Keep under the sheet," Craig ordered Sally-Anne, and pulled the wires on the other three grenades. The explosions were almost simultaneous, a thunderous roll like the broadside of a man-of-war, and in the dust and flame, Craig moved.

  He went forward and right, thirty running. paces, doubled over, with the reloaded AK in his hand, and he dived forward and rolled and then waited, belly down, covering the spot below the bank where the Shana had disappeared, but darting quick glances left and right.

  The light was better, the dawn coming up fast, and the Shana moved. He came up over the bank, a brief silhouette against the white pan, quick as a mamba but where Craig had not expected him. He must have elbow-walked under the bank, and he was way out on Craig's left.

  Craig swung the AK onto him, but held his fire, that quick chance wasn't good enough to betray his new position, and the Shana disappeared into the low brush j fifty paces away. Craig crawled forward to intercept, slowly as an earthworm, making no noise, raising no dust, and listening and staring with all his being. Long seconds drew out, slow as treacle, and Craig inched forward, knowing that the Shana must be working towards where he had left Sally-Anne.

  Then Sally-Anne screamed. The sound raked his nerve ends like an emery wheel, and out of the brush they rose together, Sally-Anne fighting and clawing likea cat and the Shana holding her by the hair, down on his knees, but holding her easily, turning with her to frustrate any chance of a shot.

  Craig charged. It was not a conscious decision. He found himself on his feet, hurling forward, swinging the AK 47 likea club. The Shana saw him, released Sally Anne and she staggered backwards and fell.

  The Shana ducked under the swinging rifle, and hit Craig in the ribs with his shoulder as he came off his knees. The rifle flew from Craig's hands, and he grappled, holding desperately as he fought to regain the breath that had been driven out of him. The Shana, realizing that his rifle was useless in hand-to-hand contact, let it fall, and used both arms.

  Craig knew in that first moment of contact that the Shana was simply too strong for him. He had height and weight and he was trained to the hardness of black anthracite. He whipped a long arm around the back of Craig's neck, but Craig, instead of resisting, put all his own weight into the direction of the Shana's pull. It took him by surprise, and they cartwheeled. As he went over, Craig kicked out with the metal leg but he didn't connect cleanly.

  The Shana twisted and struck back at him. Craig smothered it and they locked, chest to chest, rolling first one on top, then the other, flattening the coarse scrub, their breathing hissing "into each other's face. The Shana snapped likea wolflat Craig's face with his square white teeth. If he got a grip, he would bite off Craig's nose or rip his cheek away. Craig had seen it done before in beer hall brawls.

  I
nstead of pulling his head back, Craig butted forward with his forehead, and hit him in the mouth. One of the Shana's incisors snapped off at the gum and his mouth glutted with blood. Craig reared back to butt him again, but the Shana shifted over him and suddenly he had the trench knife out of its scabbard on his belt. Craig grabbed his wrist desperately, only just smothering the stab.

  They rolled and the Shana came out on top, straddling Craig, the knife in his right hand probing with the bright silver point for Craig's throat and face. Craig got both hands to it, one on the Shana's wrist, the other into the A of his elbow, but he couldn't hold him. The knife cro point descended slowly towards him, and the Shana kicked his legs and locked one between Craig's, pinning him likea lover.

  Down came the knife, and behind it, the Shana's face, swollen with effort, his broken tooth pink with blood, blood running from his chin and dripping into Craig's upturned face, his eyes mottled with tiny brown veins, bulging from their sockets and the knife came down.

  Craig put all his strength against him. The knife point checked for a second, then moved down to touch Craig's skin in the notch where his collarbones met. It stung likea hypodermic needle as it pierced the skin. With a sense of horror, Craig felt the Shana's body gathering for the final thrust that would force the silver steel through his larynx and he knew that he could not prevent it.

  Miraculously, the Shana's head changed shape, distorting likea rubber Halloween mask, collapsing upon itself, the contents of the skull bursting in a liquid fountain from his temple and the sound of a shot dinned in on Craig's eardrums. The strength went out of the Shana's body and he rolled off and flopped on the ground likea fresh-caught catfish.

  ay, kneeling Craig sat up. Sally-Anne was only feet aw facing him, the Tokarev pistol held doublehanded, the barrel still pointing skywards where the recoil had thrown it. She must have placed the muzzle against the Shana's temple before she fired.

  J killed him," she breathed gustily and her eyes were filled with honor.

  "Thank God for id" Craig gasped, using the collar of his shirt to dry the nick on his throat.

  "I've never killed anything before," Sally-Anne whispered.

  "Not even a rabbit nor a fish nothing." She dropped the Pistol and started to dry, wash her hands, scrubbing one with the other, staring at the Shana's corpse. Craig crawled to her, and took her in his arms. She was shaking wildly.

  "Take me away," she pleaded. "Please, Craig. I can smell the blood, take me away from here: "Yes. Yes." He helped her to her feet, and in a frenzy of haste rolled the ground sheet and buckled the straps of the rucksacks.

  "This way." Burdened by both packs and the rifle, Craig led. aer away from t i ing grounc towards taste west.

  They had been going for almost three hours and had stopped for the first sparing drink, before Craig realized his terrible oversight. The water bottles! In his panickly haste, he had forgotten to take the water bottles from the dead Shana.

  He looked back longingly. Even if he left Sally-Anne here and went back alone, it would cost him four hours, and the Third Brigade patrols would surely be coming up.

  He weighed the water bottle in his hand, a quarter fall: barely enough to see out this day, even if they laid up now and waited for nightfall and the cool, not nearly enough if they kept going and t9ey had to keep going.

  The decision was made for him. The sound of a single engined aircraft throbbing down from the north. Bitterly he stared up into the pale desert sky, feeling the helplessness of the rabbit below the towering falcon.

  "Spotter plane," he said, and listened to the beat of the engine. It receded for a while, and then grew stronger again.

  "They are flying a grid search." As he spoke, he saw it. It was closer than he had thought, and much lower. He forced Sally' Anne down with a hand on her shoulder, and spread the cape over her, glancing back as he did so. It was coming on swiftly, a low winged single-engined monoplane. It altered course slightly, heading directly towards him. He dropped down beside Sally-Anne and crawled under the ground sheet beside her.

  The engine roared louder. The pilot had spotted them.

  Craig lifted a corner of the ground sheet and looked out.

  "Piper Lance," said Sally-Anne softly.

  It carried Zimbabwe Air Force rounders, and incongruously the pilot was a white man, but there was a black man in the right, hand seat, and he wore the dreaded ey both stared burgundy, red beret and silver cap-badge. Th onlessly as the Piper made a steep turn, with down expressi one wingtip pointed likea knife directly at where Craig lay. The black officer was holding the radio microphone to his lips. The wings of the Piper levelled and she came out turn, heading back the way she had come. The J of her throb of the engine receded and was lost in the desert silence.

  Craig pulled Sally-Anne to her feet.

  "Can you go on?" She nodded, pushing back the sweat-damp wisp of hair i from her forehead. Her lips were flaking, and the lower one had cracked through. A drop of blood sat on it likea tiny ruby.

  "We must be well inside Botswana, the border road can't be far ahead. If we can find a Botswana police patrol-'

  I.J

  he road was single width, two continuous ruts running north and south, jinking now and then to avoid a spring-hare colony or a soft pan. it was patrolled regularly by the Botswana police on anti, poaching and prevention of alleged entry duties.

  Craig and Sally-Anne reached the road in the middle of the afternoon. By this time Craig had discarded the rifle and ammunition, and stripped the pack of all but essentials.

  He had even considered for a while burying his manuscript for later retrieval. It weighed eight pounds, but Sally-Anne had dissuaded him in a hoarse whisper.

  The water bottle was empty. They had had their last drink, a blood-warm mouthful each, just before noon.

  Their speed was reduced to little more than a mile an hour. Craig was no longer sweating. He could feel his tongue beginning to swell and his throat closing as the heat sucked the moisture out of him.

  They reached the road. Craig's gaze was fastened grimly on the heat-smudged horizon ahead, all his being concentrated on lifting one foot and placing it ahead of the other.

  They crossed the road vhthout seeing it, and kept going on into the desert. They were not the first to walk past the chance of succour and go on to death by thirst and exposure. They staggered onwards for two hours more before Craig stopped.

  "We should have reacked the road by now, he whispered, and checked ee compass heading again. "The * I North isn't there." He was con compass must be wrong.

  fused and doubting. "Damaged the bloody thing. We are too far south," he decided, and began the first aimless circle of the lost and totally disorientated, the graveyard spiral that precedes death in the desert.

  An hour before sunset Craig stumbled over a dried brown vine growing in the grey soil. It bore only a single green fruit the size of an orange. He knelt and plucked it as reverently as if it had been the Cullinan diamond.

  Mumbling to himself through cracked and bleeding lips, he split the fruit carefully with the bayonet. It was warm as living flesh from the sun.

  "Gemsbok melon," he explained to Sally-Anne as she sat and watched him with dull, uncomprehending eyes.

  He used the point of the bayonet to mash the white flesh of the melon, and then held the half shell to Sally Anne mouth. Her throat pumped in the effort of swallowing the clear warm juice, and she closed her eyes in ecstasy as it spread over her swollen tongue.

  Working with extreme care, Craig wrung a quarter of a cupful of liquid from the fruit and fed it to her. His own throat ached and contracted at the smell of the liquid as he made her drink. She seemed to recharge with strength before his eyes, and when the last drop had passed between her lips, she suddenly realized what he had done.