De Salis, followed by five men, ran lightly up the steps that led to the main door of the residence and flattened himself against the jamb, flat on his belly. He thumbed back the hammers of his personal weapon, a sawn-off twelve-bore shotgun, and counted to three. Beside him, one of his men kicked open the door and another flung himself into the hall beyond, rolling over.
There were two African soldiers in the hall. One of them raised a pistol as the first Special Force man burst in, but he never had time to fire; a charge from de Salis’ shotgun took him squarely in the chest, hurling him in bloody ruin against the wall. The second man was shot through the head by the Special Force commando who had kicked open the door and who now sprang into the hall.
De Salis rose and ran across the hall, followed by the others. Meticulously, they checked the rooms that led off it; all were empty except one, which contained the body of an African maidservant, sprawled across a table. She had been raped and shot.
‘Upstairs,’ de Salis ordered. A broad staircase led to the upper storey of the residence and they advanced up it cautiously, a few steps at a time, alert for every possible movement. They reached the landing, and almost fell over the body of Nkrombe’s son, a boy of seventeen or so. His genitals had been hacked off and thrust into his mouth, and his staring eyes testified to the horror he had undergone before death gave him merciful release.
A few yards away lay the body of the boy’s mother, the senior of Nkrombe’s three wives. She lay on her back, her hands still clasped around the hilt of the knife that was thrust into her rib cage under her left breast. At least she had been spared the fate of the maidservant; de Salis hoped that she had also been spared the sight of her son’s death agony.
At that moment, de Salis and his men stiffened as a muffled scream, accompanied by raucous laughter, came from behind a door at the far end of the landing. The scream tailed off to a whimper. De Salis injected another cartridge into the empty barrel of his shotgun and was beside the door in a few silent strides, his men flattened against the wall on either side.
De Salis dropped to one knee, his gun cradled in the crook of his right arm, and nodded to the man next to him. An instant later, the door crashed open.
There were five Kerewatan soldiers in the room, and they probably never knew what hit them. One of them, bending over the body of the man who was strapped to a bed by his wrists and ankles, half-turned just in time to see the man who killed him, outlined in the light of the electric bulb that dangled over the landing. De Salis blasted his head off his shoulders and then swung the gun towards a second man, hitting him low in the belly. He collapsed in a heap, screeching and clutching at himself, then coughed blood and was silent. The others were despatched equally as quickly.
De Salis walked forward into the blood-soaked room. The whimpering man on the bed, he saw at once, was Nkrombe. He was covered in small cuts; it looked as though his captors had been taking it in turns to torment him. ‘Untie him,’ de Salis ordered crisply. ‘No time to clean him up now. And blindfold him.’ Ruthless though he was, de Salis had no wish for Nkrombe to see what had happened to his wife and son.
Nkrombe, however, was too stupefied with shock and pain to care much about what was happening to him. Dumbly, he pulled on his trousers, which one of de Salis’ men had retrieved from a corner of the room, and made no complaint when a strip of cloth was bound over his eyes. He spoke only once, asking in a trembling voice who his rescuers were.
‘Never mind about that,’ de Salis told him. ‘We’ve come to get you out of here. Let’s go.’
Nkrombe did not enquire about the fate of his family. He must already have guessed, perhaps had even seen, what had become of them.
The residence echoed suddenly to the chatter of machine-gun fire. There was no time to lose. Quickly, de Salis and his men bundled Nkrombe out of the room and down the stairs, past the pitiful bodies of the woman and boy. A Special Force soldier reported to de Salis as they reached the main doorway.
‘The surrounds are clear, sir,’ he said. ‘The exit at the rear, which was shown on our map of the residence, had been sealed off, but we’ve blown it. It’s big enough for the truck to get through. The road on the other side leads through the north-west outskirts.’
‘Right.’ De Salis gave Nkrombe a shove. ‘Get him into the truck and keep his head down. You others — ’ he turned to the men who had helped him rescue Nkrombe ‘— you others join the chaps at the gate and lay down as much covering fire as you can. The moment I give the word, into the truck as fast as you can. I won’t be hanging around.’
The shooting from across the square was sporadic, but growing in intensity all the time. The Special Force men were replying to it with short, accurate bursts, conserving their ammunition. There was no immediate danger that they might be overwhelmed by a suicidal charge.
De Salis started the truck, still in the shelter of the wall, and turned it so that its bonnet was pointing into the darkness at the rear of the residence. Leaning out of the cab, he gestured at the men defending the gateway. At once, they began to fall back towards him in a well-rehearsed movement, two at a time. As the last of them piled into the vehicle, their comrades hurled a shower of grenades over the wall into the square to deter any sudden move by the Africans, for a few seconds at least.
With everyone safely on board, de Salis sent the truck lurching away across the residence gardens towards the rear entrance. A minute later they were through and away, speeding along the narrow road out of town with headlights full on, unmindful of anything now except speed. Beside de Salis, the NCO was peering at a map by the light of a small torch.
‘How far?’ de Salis yelled, swinging the wheel to negotiate a sudden bend.
‘About fifteen miles,’ the NCO answered, his finger tracing their route. ‘There’s a junction just outside the town. Turn left there, and the road heads straight into the forest and doubles back on itself for a while. It peters out near a village, but then there’s a track leading south. It’ll be tough going, but at least it’ll be taking us in the right direction, and it’ll be better than walking. It runs through secondary forest, so we’ll have some cover. After that, it looks as though we’ll have to strike out across country. If everything goes well, we should reach our destination shortly before dawn.’ He grinned suddenly, his teeth white in the darkness. ‘I expect that’s when our troubles really start,’ he commented.
De Salis grinned back. ‘Let’s cross our bridges as we come to them,’ he said. ‘At least we’ve got this far.’
The NCO’S map, based on one obligingly supplied by a Belgian intelligence organization, was surprisingly accurate. As the NCO had predicted, the main track ended at a native village and became a muddy footpath, veering away to the south. De Salis nosed his way cautiously along it, the wheels of the truck crunching through the undergrowth on either side. Once, turning to avoid a large tree, he lost sight of it altogether, and was forced to stop while the NCO got down and cast about him with the beam of his torch. It was five minutes before he found the path again and guided the truck back on to it.
Several times, the vehicle got bogged down in marshy patches and had to be pushed clear by the occupants, who had jettisoned most of its load of ammunition en route, keeping only a few boxes of grenades and 7.62-mm rounds.
At last, after a couple of hours of crawling through the forest, de Salis, his eyes bloodshot with the effort of peering through the darkness, brought the truck to a stop with a suddenness that brought some grunts of protest from the men in the back. There was no track ahead any more; just a large expanse of swamp. The headlights picked out grassy tufts, spaced at regular intervals, that might have provided firm footholds for a man, but de Salis knew that this was as far as he could take the vehicle.
‘Now what?’ he asked the NCO.
‘It’s all right, sir,’ the man replied cheerfully. ‘The swamp is marked on the map, right here. From now on, we’re on foot. We skirt the edge of it until we come to a rise in the
ground, then we take a compass bearing of 030 magnetic. A two-mile march through the forest, and we’re there.’
‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ de Salis ordered. ‘Everybody out. Bring some grenades, but leave the rest. How’s Nkrombe?’
‘Seems to have come round a bit, sir,’ one of the men answered. ‘We’ve cleaned up his cuts. He’ll be okay.’
De Salis stayed in the truck as the others got down. There was one more thing he felt he had to do. With everyone safely out, he engaged first gear, released the handbrake and then jumped clear himself. The truck lunged forward and nosed into the mud with a gurgling sound. In time, the swamp would swallow it completely.
The NCO looked at de Salis enquiringly. ‘Well,’ the latter said rather lamely, ‘she’s served us pretty well. Doesn’t seem right for the locals to pull her to bits for scrap, somehow.’
They set off on a compass bearing through the forest, taking it in turns to half-carry the corpulent Nkrombe. It was an exhausting march, for the near-impenetrable darkness made it hard to see obstacles in their path. Fortunately, only light undergrowth lay across their track and they were never compelled to hack their way.
Apart from their laboured breathing, they marched in silence for an hour and a half. Light was beginning to filter through the trees, making progress a little easier. Suddenly, at the head of the column, de Salis raised his hand. They halted and stood like statues, listening.
From somewhere up ahead, a deep rumble split the silence. It grew in volume, resolving itself into the unmistakable shriek of jet engines, then died away. De Salis took a deep breath of relief.
‘All right, boys,’ he said, ‘not far now. Come on.’
They set off again with renewed vigour. De Salis fell back a little and hooked one of Nkrombe’s arms around his neck, grunting at the sudden burden of the exhausted man.
‘Where are you taking me?’ the African croaked, speaking for the first time since the march began.
‘Don’t worry,’ de Salis told him, ‘we’re getting you out. Hold on. It won’t be long.’ He spoke with an assurance he did not feel.
After another half hour’s march, the forest began to thin out. They went ahead more cautiously now, as the spreading dawn began to show through the screen of trees that marked the forest’s limit.
Beyond the forest lay Kerewata airstrip, the boundary of which was separated from the forest by a fifty-yard stretch of open ground. Accompanied by several of his men, de Salis crept forward and surveyed the area. There did not appear to be any defences on this side of the field, and de Salis reasoned that any defenders must be concentrated on the north-east sector, where any threat would be most likely to develop.
‘What now, sir?’ whispered the NCO who had map-read their way to the airfield.
‘We wait,’ de Salis answered. ‘We wait, and we watch.’
A few minutes later, three Sabres came whistling in from the south-east, dropping into line astern over the airfield and landing behind one another. De Salis watched as they taxied over to the far side of the airfield and vanished from sight. The minutes ticked by slowly, then the NCO tapped de Salis’ arm, pointing. A light twin-engined aircraft, painted blue and white, was taxiing out towards the end of the runway. It took off with a throaty roar of engines and headed northwards at low altitude, towards Kerewata town.
De Salis looked at his watch. It was 0530. ‘H-hour is set for 0630,’ he muttered, half to himself. He turned to the NCO. ‘Better break out some rations,’ he said. ‘It might be some time before we eat again.’
They munched their cold breakfast, and continued their vigil. After a while, the light aircraft returned and landed, parking near the control tower on the other side of the field. It was now 0610.
De Salis slid back through the undergrowth and spoke to three of his men, each of whom carried a bulky pack. ‘Is everything okay?’ he asked.
The senior of the men nodded. ‘Yes, sir. The equipment checks out okay. We can have it up in about five minutes, maybe less.’
‘Good. We won’t have much time.’ He looked out across the airfield, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the rising sun. The dark silhouettes of three more Sabres emerged from it; like the first three, they broke into line astern and landed, the wail of their turbojets dying away.
I hope Yeoman and Sampson have done their job, de Salis told himself, or we’re done for. It was now fifteen minutes to H-hour. Ten more minutes, and they would have to make their move.
Chapter Ten
YEOMAN SAT IN THE COCKPIT OF HIS HUNTER, ENGINE idling, ready for take-off. The other seven Hunters were behind him, their pilots eager for the prospect of some action.
The vast bulk of the Beverley transport aircraft was little more than a dot on the western horizon; they would catch up with it over the river and then pass it, ready to deal with any opposition.
He ran over the details of the operation in his mind, smiling to himself as he did so; Sampson, as usual, had preserved secrecy right up to the last minute, but now Yeoman knew why a heavy guard had been placed on the Beverley, and why no-one had been allowed near it. If unauthorized eyes had spotted the equipment inside it, the game might have been given away.
Sampson had insisted on flying aboard the transport aircraft to supervise the operation personally. Considerable danger was involved, for the mercenary pilots, unaware of what was happening, would almost certainly try to intercept it. Determined attempts had been made throughout the night by Sampson’s signals people to contact the mercenary HQ at Kerewata, but to no avail. It was the one flaw in an otherwise impeccable plan. If the mercenaries could have been contacted, they might have been persuaded not to take action against the British; as it was, no-one quite knew what would happen.
Yeoman was convinced that they would try to shoot down the Beverley, perhaps in the belief that it contained paratroops. The job of his Hunter pilots was to stop them.
It was time. Yeoman pressed the R/T button.
‘Red Section, take off.’
He opened the throttle and the Hunter began to roll as a surge of power went through its Rolls-Royce Avon engine. The jet fighter accelerated rapidly, and Yeoman felt the rudder begin to ‘bite’ as the airspeed indicator showed 90 knots. At 120 knots, a slight backward pressure on the stick raised the nosewheel off the ground, and at 150 knots the aircraft flew itself into the air.
Yeoman tucked up his undercarriage and went into a left-hand orbit of the field, allowing the others to catch up with him. Then, in battle formation, they climbed away at a steady 430 knots, following the path of the Beverley.
They levelled out at eight thousand feet and quickly overhauled the lumbering transport. It looked weird and box-like, for the clamshell doors at the rear of its cargo hold had been removed. Yeoman glanced back: the four Hunters of yellow section were half a mile to the rear and above, in finger-four formation.
He pressed the R/T button again. There was no need to maintain radio silence. ‘Hunter squadron, keep your eyes peeled. Yellow section, maintain altitude. Red section, descend to four thousand feet.’
Yeoman’s four aircraft went into a shallow dive, levelling out as though held together by a thread. Their objective, Kerewata airfield, was five minutes’ flying time away. Every instinct told him to take all eight Hunters down in a blazing attack on the objective, destroying the mercenaries’ Sabres before they could get airborne, but such were not his orders. His brief was to protect the Beverley, and to defend himself only if attacked first. To him, the orders seemed utterly illogical, but he supposed there must be some political reasoning behind them. Maybe, he thought, they might be lucky enough to complete the operation without risk; maybe the mercenary pilots were having breakfast.
*
They were not. As soon as the Colonel had landed, having assessed the situation in Kerewata and reasoned that the airfield might soon come under attack by rebel forces, he brought his pilots to cockpit readiness. Six Sabres, including his own, were combat-read
y; three more, the last to return from patrol, were hurriedly being refuelled and rearmed.
The Colonel radioed the control tower, from where Koppejans was supervising the defences, and asked if anything was happening. The controller handed the microphone to the Belgian.
‘Not a thing, as yet,’ Koppejans said. ‘The Africans are making no move, although one of my reconnaissance patrols reports that they have been joined by more units who have pulled back from the river. I think ... hold on a second.’
The Belgian had been interrupted by the controller, who had been scanning the eastern sky through powerful binoculars merely for the sake of something to do. He gave a gasp of astonishment when several black dots swam into his field of vision. Adjusting the focus slightly, he handed the glasses to Koppejans. ‘What do you make of that?’ he asked.
Koppejans looked, and did not need to look again. Grabbing the microphone, he yelled: ‘Get airborne! There are planes coming in from the direction of Warambe. They’ll be here in minutes!’
‘Let’s go,’ the Colonel said over the radio, and waved to his ground crew. The starter cartridge ignited with a thump and soon the Sabre’s engine was fully lit, its shrill whine rising sharply as the rpm climbed. Soon, all six aircraft were moving, taxiing out towards the end of the strip as fast as it was safe to go, the pilots carrying out their cockpit checks as they went.
The Colonel was the first to take off, followed closely by Jan and Piet, who over the past few days he had come to recognize as by far the most skilful of his band of pilots. Whipping up their undercarriages, they went into a hard climbing turn to the right, intending to face the threat coming in from the east.
Hunter Squadron Page 12
