Comrade Yelena’s eyes gleamed with mocking approval as Jackson followed the other man from her office.
Once out of earshot, the man turned and raised an open palm to Jackson. ‘You speak well, Zulu. I am Comrade Selveira. My home is Angola. Do not let that bitch get to you.’
Jackson shook his hand. ‘Is she really in charge here?’
Selveira cast a quick look towards the tent and lowered his voice. ‘A temporary arrangement. She’s an experiment. The Russians use us as a dumping ground for their rejects. You will find out soon enough that they are no better than the British, the Portuguese or any of the others.’ He shrugged. ‘No matter, Comrade Jackson, no matter. It is but a small price to pay for the supply of arms, hey?’ A short bark of laughter. ‘We use them, they use us. At least we fight a common enemy, if not for a common goal. They will find sooner or later that we can bite their hands just as easily as we bite others. Do not concern yourself with Comrade Yelena and her games. She will be recalled to Moscow soon, if one of us does not kill her first. They do not last long in Africa, these Russians.’
‘I felt she was testing me somehow. Does she always . . .?’
‘With everyone,’ Selveira said emphatically. ‘You did well. Many fail her stupid tests.’
They started walking again. ‘You would be dead by now if you had. I, myself, would have killed you.’ Another short laugh. ‘Unless of course she had felt like killing you herself.’
Jackson shuddered.
‘She hates men, that one. It’s women she prefers.’
Jackson was scandalised and it showed.
‘Heh!’ Selveira was amused by his innocence. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
‘White women have no shame,’ Jackson burst out. ‘None at all.’
Selveira laughed long and hearty. ‘And how would such a puppy know?’ he managed at last. ‘One so young as you should not have got it wet yet.’
‘Well I did,’ Jackson said, stung. ‘Well and truly wet.’
‘So!’ Selveira was still amused. ‘I thought Zulu girls kept their legs together.’
‘She was not Zulu,’ Jackson boasted. ‘She was white.’ This was the first time Jackson had discussed sex in such detail with anyone. It made him feel worldly.
But Selveira changed the subject suddenly. ‘Why do you want to join us?’
‘For the same reason as you.’
‘I think not, my young friend.’
‘I want freedom. Isn’t that what we’re fighting for?’
‘No.’ Selveira’s voice suddenly went hard. ‘You’ll learn soon enough. Freedom is not why we fight. It’s something more than that.’
‘What then?’ Jackson was truly puzzled.
Selveira gave him a pitying look. ‘Power, of course. The old order has been destroyed. Power and leadership is up for grabs. I plan to be calling the shots when the time comes. No more taking orders, I’ll be one of those giving them. Call it freedom if it makes you feel any better but you’ll learn, as we all have, that the child we once called Idealism soon grows into the man known as Ambition.’
Jackson was not convinced. ‘But without freedom there can never be power.’
Selveira grinned mirthlessly. ‘There is no such thing as freedom. You will learn soon enough.’
Jackson thought it would be unwise to continue the conversation. He sought safer ground. ‘At least you’re doing something. My people still talk of the past, even about bringing back Inkatha. Where will that get them?’
‘You make a good point, comrade. Bullets kill. Words can only wound.’
‘But the South Africans are worried. Their faith in themselves has been badly shaken. You have already achieved much. More and more join your cause. Success . . .’
‘What makes you think we are successful? We lose more men than we kill. The South Africans are very good.’
‘We can be just as good.’
Selveira sighed and stopped. ‘This is your tent. Make yourself at home. Tomorrow you may wish to be dead.’
That was nearly five years ago. Comrade Yelena had, as Selveira predicted, not lasted long. Recurring intestinal malaria left her weak and unable to carry on. The camp breathed a collective sigh of relief at her departure. She had been replaced by a drunken oaf of a man who spent all day in his tent drinking vodka, content to leave the training program to his minions. After him came the youthful and extremely inexperienced son of a high-ranking Soviet official who arrived with a loud voice and high hopes and left, two weeks later, in a body bag, having blown himself into tiny little pieces with one of the Russians’ own, and extremely unreliable, TM-46 landmines.
Much to everyone’s relief, the Russians then decided that a handful of African recruits who had been specially trained in the Soviet Union were capable of running their own show. For the past three years, Base 37 had been under the command of Comrade Selveira. He was a popular choice and, most of the time, the camp operated like a well-oiled machine, only developing engine trouble when the Soviet hierarchy paid an unannounced visit to check on their investment in Africa.
Jackson was now a junior officer. He had trained hard and learned quickly, believing every word of the instructor’s rhetoric. After two years at Base 37 he had been singled out and sent to Russia for specialist training in explosives. Now, at the age of twenty-three, he was the leader of a small group who made frequent incursions into the Caprivi Strip, laying landmines. Their first targets were the South African police in Katima Mulilo who, in an effort to discourage the escalating incidence of SWAPO insurgent activity in the area had increased the intensity of their patrols along Caprivi’s northern borders with Angola and Zambia.
The regime in Pretoria quickly became so concerned at the number of men and machines suddenly being blown to bits that they sent in a special army unit to devise a vehicle which could withstand the withering blast from landmines. With the army in place, it became obvious to Jackson that a better option would be to start hitting civilian targets. This would focus world attention on the region. Besides, civilians tended to crumble with shock in the face of a violent explosion, which meant Jackson and his men stood an infinitely better chance of getting safely back into Zambia. The South African Defence Forces on the other hand were highly trained and, in an adrenalin-filled confrontation, inevitably came out on top.
Jackson had put his suggestion to Selveira who agreed with him but delayed issuing an order until it had been cleared by Moscow. While they were waiting, news came in that a partly South African wildlife project operating in the Caprivi Strip was being wrapped up. ‘This is our chance,’ Jackson urged Selveira. ‘The whites are pulling out.’
‘There’ll be others,’ Selveira told him, still reluctant to take responsibility himself.
‘Not like these, not right under our nose. We know where their base camp is set up. We know the routes they travel. We can hit them hard.’
What turned the tide in Jackson’s favour was that many of the men agreed with him. They were now returning from laying mines on selected tracks west of the Linyanti River. Tracks used all the time by members of the research team. The unfortunate rhinoceros, blown to smithereens as Michael King watched, was a victim of work done weeks before. The animal had detonated a mine meant for the South African border police.
FIFTEEN
As he drove back to camp, Michael’s mind kept returning to the landmine. ‘How many more are out there?’ he wondered. It was not the first time an animal had stepped on one, nor would it be the last, but it was the first time Michael had witnessed both the explosion and the result. The rhino, instead of cutting through the bush, had chosen a track made by the border patrol, which passed that way once or twice a month. Michael was devastated by the loss of this particular beast. In just two weeks’ time, Natal Parks Board rangers were due to arrive and dart that rhino. It had all been so carefully planned. They were to transport it to Mkuzi Game Reserve, north of Umfolozi, where Emil Daguin had identified a habitat as close as possib
le to the one where the animal had lived. Waiting for the bull were others, both male and female, part of a breeding program that had already recorded a more than promising level of success. While the loss of this bull did not jeopardise the project at Mkuzi, it was one more senseless death in a population already suffering more losses than gains.
Michael swung off the border track and on to the section that connected their base camp to the road leading into Botswana. Under a tarpaulin in the back were the only parts of the rhino that he’d managed to find. Jennifer might be able to use them, though for what he didn’t quite know. He wondered if she had returned from Maun.
Although they were supposed to take it in turns to make the monthly trip for mail and supplies, lately, and at her suggestion, the job had fallen to Jennifer. She always took the boys and stayed with friends for a couple of days. Several families living beside the Thamalakane River just outside town had children of similar ages to Jeremy and Andrew, so it was a welcome opportunity to let the boys mingle with others.
In the headlights, Michael tried to see if any other vehicle had recently passed this way but, though there were many tracks, the newest were his own from this morning. He was surprised but not unduly alarmed. Although Jennifer hated driving at night she was sometimes delayed in leaving Maun. She was probably no more than a few kilometres behind him.
Michael missed his family when they made these monthly trips away. Jeremy was now a sturdy little fellow of three. He had a bright, inquiring mind and would dismantle almost anything just ‘to see how it works’. Michael spent a great deal of his time putting his elder son’s handiwork back together again. In a way, Michael was pleased that the project was nearly finished. Jeremy needed the stimulation of others his own age, something he would have for the first time if they got the Umfolozi job.
Jeremy looked a lot like Michael. Blonde hair, blue eyes, wide mouth and a sprinkling of freckles over his nose. He could amuse himself for hours on end and called all forms of life ‘God’s creatures’. Those he accidentally stood on or deliberately squashed became ‘poor God’s creatures’. His open and friendly disposition made him immensely popular with everyone.
Andrew, at eighteen months, was tall for his age. He was also fair, with his mother’s angelic face. Shy with others, he followed his older brother around incessantly and tried to imitate everything Jeremy did.
Being constantly in the company of adults, both boys had vocabularies well beyond their years. They also conversed with Emil in simple French, spoke Setswana to the young African girl who had been hired as a nanny and, to the delight of Bruce who had spent many hours working on it, said ‘Gawd’s struth’ in pure Australian.
Jeremy was, in Jennifer’s opinion, shaping up as a man’s man. ‘He’s the doer,’ she insisted. Andrew, on the other hand, was sensitive and affectionate. ‘A lover, not a fighter,’ Jennifer claimed.
Michael was less inclined to slot his boys into niches. All he knew was that these little beings had quickly found places in his heart. He was absurdly smitten and proud of them and, both boys, he knew with absolute certainty, would make their marks on the world.
Michael frowned when he saw a straggle of African men in his headlights. ‘What are they doing out here?’ There was something about the way they lined up along the road, smiling and waving, that wasn’t quite normal. The few inhabitants of the Caprivi were primitive, mistrustful people who tried to avoid contact with others. Batswana tribesmen rarely ventured into the area. Terry had come across men like this a few days ago. Michael could see why he’d been suspicious enough to report their presence, they looked out of place somehow. He decided to radio the border police as soon as he got to camp. With SWAPO becoming more active along the Caprivi it didn’t do to take chances. These men could well be innocent but, then again, they might be terrorists. They could even be the ones who laid the mine that blew up the rhinoceros. As he lurched past them on the bumpy road, one of the men raised his head and stared directly at Michael. There was something about him, something familiar. But the road quickly reclaimed his concentration and he dismissed the man from his mind.
His headlights picked up a sandy spot ahead and he turned slightly to avoid it. The tracks were a treacherous combination of ruts, potholes, corrugations, hard calcrete outcrops and stretches of deep, soft sand. Michael now knew this section like the back of his hand but, in the early days, it had been a different matter. The sand cover was ever-changing and deep potholes could inexplicably develop to catch the unwary. Hitting one at speed could severely damage a vehicle.
His wheels missed the rim of the landmine by a fraction.
Jackson had heard the vehicle travelling quickly in third gear way before he saw its headlights. They had no more than two minutes. ‘Quick,’ he snapped. ‘Get that mine buried.’ It took only seconds in the soft sand before the men were moving forward again towards the approaching vehicle, weapons, rucksacks and clothing discarded into the bush. They made no attempt to hide. Very often, vehicles out after dark were driven by hunters who carried powerful spotlights. Men seen crouching in the bush would raise more suspicions than those walking openly along a road.
They moved swiftly, wanting as much space between them and the mine as possible. When a vehicle detonated a mine, the combination of its momentum and the resultant explosion very often flung it up and forwards. This was why they walked towards the approaching vehicle rather than away from it.
The headlights on full beam nearly blinded them. One of his men laughed and slapped another on the arm as if sharing a joke. Although striving to look natural all were strung tight with tension. Border patrols rarely used this track but occasionally they’d seen one and knew that the South Africans would shoot first and ask questions later at the slightest suspicion of SWAPO. But the vehicle did not stop, or even slow down. Jackson barely had time to register that it was driven by a white man. He smiled foolishly as the vehicle passed and waved with the others, holding his breath as it went over the landmine. Then it was gone.
‘We must hurry,’ he said to his men. ‘He’ll report seeing us.’
‘How much longer, Mummy?’ Jeremy quizzed.
‘Not long, darling. Another fifteen minutes.’
She was tired. It was a long drive up from Maun and, although Jennifer enjoyed being there, the trip home seemed to take forever. A puncture hadn’t helped either. Not being strong enough to undo the wheel nuts, they’d been forced to wait nearly two hours before another vehicle came along. She glanced back to where Andrew was now asleep on the back seat. ‘Why don’t you lie down too?’ she suggested.
‘No thanks Mummy,’ Jeremy replied politely. ‘I’ll stay awake and keep you company.’
Too late, Jennifer saw the same soft spot in the road that her husband had driven past some thirty minutes before. Praying it did not hide a pothole, Jennifer gripped the steering wheel tighter and drove straight over it. The front slid out slightly in the sand but one back wheel passed directly over the metal pressure plate. Instant detonation blew the vehicle forwards and upwards, turning it sideways in midair before it crashed, nose down, and flipped crazily end over end three times, finally coming to rest off the road and upside-down. The back of the vehicle had been literally blown apart, an unrecognisable mess of twisted metal.
Andrew was spontaneously ejected by the blast, straight up through where the two-layer tropical roof had, split seconds earlier, parted company with the other bodywork. Jeremy, not restrained in any way, had been catapulted through the front windscreen as it disintegrated, his body skinned alive before being crushed beneath the front bumper as the vehicle crashed back to earth for the first time. Jennifer was killed instantly, flying shrapnel tearing through the back of her head and the rigid steering wheel smashing every bone in her young ribcage.
In the pitch dark of the African night, the silence that followed was the silence of death.
The blast was heard by two members of a South African police patrol who were on a converging track
about a kilometre away. They knew immediately what it was. Approaching cautiously, taking care to drive over the same tracks as other vehicles, weapons cocked and at the ready, they found what was left of Jeremy first, on the road where the vehicle had crushed him. His little body, so full of life a few minutes earlier, lay flattened and lifeless, bloody and covered with sand. Neither man could bring themselves to touch or even look at him for very long. His skull had been shattered but the freckled face was untouched and serene, asleep and at peace, while the rest of him had been so cruelly disfigured.
‘Oh Jesus, oh Jesus! The bastards!’ one of the policemen gasped as rising nausea hit him.
Moving carefully forward, powerful torches probing the night, checking the ground ahead for signs of any more mines, they made their way towards the smoking, twisted wreck. Jennifer was inside, arched strangely forward over the steering wheel, arms hanging limp on either side, what was left of her head thrown back, blonde hair red with blood. The stench of burning flesh was overpowering.
‘Anyone else?’
The policeman closest shone his torch around. ‘No.’
‘It’s Dr King from the research camp,’ the other, older and more experienced officer said. ‘At least, I think it is. It’s one of their Land Rovers.’
The younger man bent double and retched. ‘That’ll be one of her boys then,’ he said, straightening and pointing back towards their vehicle. ‘Hard to say which.’ He turned and vomited again. ‘Jesus Christ! The bastards! Jesus Christ!’
‘Come on,’ his partner sensed the onset of shock. ‘We’ve got to report this.’
They walked cautiously back to their own vehicle, carefully avoiding the body that had once been Jeremy King. The younger man reached inside and grabbed the radio.
But his mind had gone blank and it was the other policeman who took over the handset and reported the incident to headquarters. ‘You’ll have to let them know at Linyanti too.’
People of Heaven Page 36
