Reconciliation for the Dead

by Paul E. Hardisty

  Clay shook his head, amazed. ‘Did he buy it?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘You’re a hell of liar.’

  ‘I’m going to be a hell of a writer someday, broer.’

  Clay didn’t doubt it one bit. ‘If this kid doesn’t get medical attention soon, he won’t be anything. Did you find out where we’re going?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Do you really think they’re just going to land and let us walk off the plane with the boy?’

  ‘I have no clue, broer. It’s all minute by minute right now.’

  Clay glanced at the parachutes racked up behind the canvas webbing. ‘We could jump.’

  ‘Over the ocean?’

  Clay shook his head. Stupid. They were still more than two hundred kilometres from the coast. They’d drown.

  ‘We’re just going to have to bluff it out,’ said Eben. ‘Keep your R4 close.’ Then he turned and walked forwards to where the other men were washing up. Clay watched him queue up for soap and wash his arms and face and rinse himself with the water and towel dry. Soon Eben was talking to some of the men, and this was the way that Clay would always see him, his face lit up, a raconteur spinning the story out with his infectious smile and the big movements of his hands and arms, his whole body moving to the rhythms and paces of the story. Clay could see the men he was speaking to warm to the story, laugh at some well-placed word, some punctuation. He had a gift, Eben did, out on his lunatic fringe.

  Clay stayed with the boy. Dared not leave him. Feared that, if he did, even for a moment, he would disappear from this deck just as all those other souls had vanished, become just another echo.

  As the plane droned on, Clay held Adriano’s hand, timing his pulse and the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his small chest. The boy seemed stable. He wasn’t good, but he wasn’t getting any worse.

  Eben came back, handed Clay a cup of water and a blanket, turned and went back to where the other men were sitting. Balls. That’s what Eben had. Elephant balls. He knew it then, sitting there on the flossie’s cargo deck with the boy’s pulse echoing frail in his own veins. And much later, after Eben was gone, Clay would allow himself to realise that his friend was one of the bravest men he’d ever known, and how unfortunate it was that his death had not been a brave one.

  Clay spread the blanket over the boy, sat beside him and watched the Atlantic drift past far below, shrouded now in afternoon mist, the horizon a blurred diffusion of sea into atmosphere, water into air.

  And then the forward bulkhead door opened.

  A man stood for a moment in the doorway, a plastic-gloved hand gripping the bulkhead. He seemed to sniff the air, scanning the cargo bay. Some of the paramilitaries, the ones who weren’t sleeping in their harnesses, looked away. Others busied themselves with equipment, weapons.

  It was the man Zulaika had called O Medico de Morte. Doctor Death. His assistant, bareheaded now, was following him.

  They were heading straight for Clay.

  13

  Benguela Sky

  Clay let go of the boy’s hand and dropped his head slightly, feigning sleep.

  He’d been about the same age as this boy, a little more, when he’d last done this. He’d pretended to be asleep in the car that time when he’d driven to Durban with his mother and father, the summer they’d visited his uncle at his place near the beach. They’d arrived late at night, and he remembered smelling the warm sea smell and feeling the salt already on his skin and the way the air felt heavy and full of water. He’d been awake when they arrived but he wanted his father to carry him. Maybe it had been because he’d realised, then, that this might be the last time his father would ever carry him from the car, through the door and then strong and smooth up the stairs to lay him on the bed. And the whole time he could hear his father’s voice and smell the heavy tobacco smell on his skin from the cigars he smoked, and feel his strong miner’s arms around him like nothing would ever be able to hurt him.

  ‘I would move away from him, if I were you, trooper.’ The voice was cracked, as if scarred by some adolescent illness, Skeleton Coast dry.

  Clay looked up. Dark eyes peered out over a white hospital mask. Doctor Death.

  Clay didn’t move.

  ‘Cholera.’

  Eben was there now, standing beside Clay.

  ‘I heard you boys were sent to bring this kid out,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m afraid that will not be possible. Quarantine rules apply. That’s why we are burying at sea, so to speak.’

  ‘He’s still alive,’ said Clay.

  ‘He won’t be for long.’

  ‘Are you a doctor?’ said Clay.

  The man nodded.

  ‘Then help him.’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘I’ve already done all I can, for all of them.’ The doctor fixed his gaze on Clay. ‘You look dubious, trooper.’

  ‘They…’ Clay hesitated. ‘No one said anything about cholera.’

  ‘What did UNITA tell you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Eben.

  The doctor closed his eyes a moment, reopened them. ‘It has become very serious,’ said the doctor. ‘We have been helping UNITA combat the disease for some months. We believe MPLA is deploying it as a biological weapon.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Clay.

  ‘We are working on some experimental treatments for those who have already contracted the disease, and we have been vaccinating the healthy.’ He pointed at the boy. ‘This one, I am afraid, must be disposed of.’

  Clay stood, trying to reconcile what he’d just heard with what he’d witnessed back at the makeshift airstrip. If the communists were using biological weapons, as had been persistently rumoured over the past few months, the war was entering a deadly new phase. ‘You’re not touching him.’

  The doctor adjusted his mask. ‘You are in danger yourselves of contracting the disease.’ He looked back at his assistant. ‘We could inoculate you now, if you like.’

  ‘We’ll take our chances,’ said Eben.

  The doctor coughed. ‘I am sorry, trooper. We cannot land until the body is safely dealt with.’

  Outside, Clay could see the red dunelands of the Namibian coast, the blue ocean beyond. ‘Our orders are very specific, sir.’

  ‘Whose orders?’ said the doctor.

  ‘Can’t say, sir,’ said Eben. ‘Classified. I’m sure you understand.’

  The doctor stared hard into Eben’s face, coughed into his mask then turned away and shuffled back across the empty deck and through the bulkhead door, assistant in tow. Every one of the paramilitaries was staring at them now.

  ‘Do you believe him?’ said Eben in English. ‘All this bullshit about biological weapons?’

  ‘He was trying it on. Fishing.’

  ‘What about all the rumours?’

  ‘If it was true they would have issued us B&C gear,’ said Clay.

  Eben raised his eyebrows. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes I do, damn it.’

  ‘If he’s in radio contact with Mbdele, he’ll know pretty soon that our story is bullshit.’

  Just then the bulkhead door reopened and the doctor appeared with Cobra beside him.

  ‘Kak,’ said Eben. ‘Didn’t take him long.’

  ‘Not going to be able to talk our way out of this one, broer,’ said Clay in English, just loud enough for Eben to hear.

  Eben adjusted the sling of his R4, palmed the pistol grip. ‘Just don’t let him see your face.’

  Cobra, flanked by two paramilitaries, the doctor and his assistant, stopped about five metres away, hands on hips. ‘You men,’ he shouted in Afrikaans. ‘Whoever you are, move away from the boy and lay your weapons on the deck.’

  Eben and Clay stayed where they were, saying nothing.

  ‘Step away,’ said Cobra again, louder this time. ‘Lay down your weapons.’

  Looking back, they never really had a choice. Earlier, of course, there had been all kinds of options – other decisions which could have been
made, each with its own trajectory of action and result and consequence. But as soon as they’d decided to set foot on that plane, they’d carved away almost every alternative. Clay raced through the possibilities in his mind. Most ended with them both dead. The boy, too.

  It was Eben who acted first.

  Cobra was filling his lungs, preparing for a third and, most likely, final vocal challenge when Eben raised his R4 and flicked it to automatic.

  ‘We’ll do it the other way around, gentlemen,’ Eben shouted.

  The doctor’s eyes bulged. He looked like he was going to shit himself.

  Clay raised his rifle too.

  ‘Drop your weapons, please,’ said Eben, ‘and take a step back.’

  Cobra held his ground. The doctor’s mouth was pursed tight. Clay was pretty sure no one had ever pointed a gun at him before.

  ‘Now,’ said Eben.

  Cobra raised one hand, pulled his sidearm from its holster at his waist, laid it on the deck. The other two paramilitaries did the same. The doctor’s assistant stood motionless.

  ‘You, too,’ said Eben, motioning to the doctor’s assistant with the muzzle of his rifle.

  The assistant slumped his shoulders, placed his sidearm on the deck.

  ‘Grab two chutes,’ said Eben in English out of the side of his mouth.

  Clay was already doing it, one hand still on the R4’s pistol grip. By now the other men had seen what was going on, were collecting their rifles and moving aft.

  ‘Tell your men to stay back and put their weapons on the deck,’ shouted Eben in Afrikaans. ‘Or your doctor friend here gets it first.’

  The doctor was trembling now. Sweat beaded on his forehead and above his pursed lips. He swayed a moment and flexed at the waist. A look of surprise came over him as a dark stain spread down both trouser legs.

  Cobra glanced at the doctor, frowned, held up his hand. ‘No shooting,’ he said. ‘Put down your weapons.’

  His men stopped where they were, about halfway along the cargo bay, and placed their weapons on the cargo deck.

  Clay hoisted a parachute onto his back and started securing the straps.

  ‘There is no need for this,’ said Cobra. ‘We have no quarrel with either of you, or your mission. But the boy cannot go back.’

  Clay tossed the other chute onto the deck at Eben’s feet, went to the aft loadmaster RECP control panel, R4 still aimed at Cobra. Beyond, ten men faced them, weapons at their feet. At this range, even on automatic, Clay and Eben might be able to take out four or five, no more, before the rest returned fire. He keyed the RAMP/ DOOR switch to ON, grabbed the pendant control and started lowering the ramp. At cruise speed, the noise from the slipstream was deafening. They were going too fast.

  ‘We’re not going to let you go,’ shouted the doctor at the top of his voice, barely making himself heard over the buffeting from the open rear door. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Cover me,’ shouted Eben.

  Clay secured the ramp in the DOWN position, stood with the wind whipping at his trouser legs and through his hair, two hands now on his R4. Eben threaded on his chute and tightened the straps.

  Just then, one of the pair standing with Cobra reached to his back and pulled out a handgun. It was small, compact, designed for concealment. Clay reacted first, fired just as the man was raising the weapon for a shot. The 5.56 mm round cut through the man’s shoulder and he fell to the deck in a heap. The pistol clattered across the deck.

  No one moved. Cobra’s men were all poised, ready to pick up their weapons. The doctor was down on the deck now, too, beside the wounded man. At first Clay thought he might have hit him by mistake. But there were no wounds that he could see, no blood. The doctor was curled up, whimpering in a puddle of his own piss.

  Eben was backing towards the ramp.

  Cobra held up his hand again. His men tensed, line abreast.

  ‘Grab the kid and jump,’ Eben yelled in English.

  Clay reached for the boy with one hand, the other still on the R4. ‘We go together.’

  ‘Go,’ yelled Eben. ‘You need two hands to hold the boy.’

  Eben was right. At this speed, the force of the slipstream might rip the boy from his arms. Clay picked up the boy. As he did, his bandana fell away from his face. He stood. Cobra was staring right at him.

  For a moment their gazes locked. Cobra’s eyes flashed with recognition. His hand was still raised, as if waiting to give the signal to his men to grab their rifles and open fire. Clay let his rifle hang from its strap around his neck and shoulders, clutching the boy in his arms.

  And then Cobra lowered his hand. He did it slowly, backing away. ‘Stand back,’ he shouted to his men.

  ‘What are you doing?’ shouted the doctor’s assistant.

  Eben stood blinking, R4 still at the ready.

  ‘Let them go,’ shouted Cobra.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ shouted the assistant, crouching beside his boss. ‘You don’t have the authority.’

  ‘I’m not risking a firefight,’ said Cobra. ‘Not here. We could all end up dead.’

  Clay took a last look at Cobra, those strange gunmetal eyes flashing in the light from the open cargo-bay doors, and jumped.

  The slipstream hit him like a speeding car and he tumbled out of control, the world spinning red and blue around him. For a moment he thought he was going to lose his hold on the boy, but he clamped down hard, fighting to right himself.

  For an eternity he spun earthwards, the boy’s naked body clutched to his chest. Then slowly he managed to stabilise himself. He pulled the rip cord and heard the drogue deploy, and then the jerk as the main chute opened. Below, the ochre and haematite dunelands of the Namibian coast, and high above, the solitary white puff of Eben’s chute opening out against a blue Benguela sky.

  Part III

  14

  Even Up the Scorecard

  13th August 1981,

  Latitude 24° 19'S; Longitude 14° 57'E, South-West Africa

  The dunes rushed up to meet him, sculpted walls of red-and-gold sand as high as Johannesburg’s tallest buildings. The sea breeze was carrying him inland fast, across the long, crested peaks, the light and shadow of afternoon casting the troughs in darkness. He could feel the reflected heat of the crests rise up to meet him in pulses between the coolness of the troughs. And then he was down, his feet piercing the lit, upwind side of a steep, red dune just beyond the line of shadow, sand billowing all around him as the chute carried him forward. He held tight to the boy, trying to protect his head as they tumbled over the rippled surface in which it was entirely probable that no human had ever before stood. He jammed his boots into the sand, grabbed the chute’s cords, collapsed the canopy and finally ploughed to a halt.

  He lay a moment, breathing hard, looking up at the sky. Through the din still filling his head – the shouts of men, the mechanical drone of aircraft engines, the sheared fluid scream of the slipstream, the rush of thickening atmosphere past his ears as he fell to earth – now, another sound: the wind’s whispered caress of the dunes, the feathering of sand grains, too many to ever be counted.

  Clay looked at the boy. His eyes were closed. Sand crusted his lashes, patched his face, his torso and his smooth, hairless arms. He reached for the boy’s wrist, felt for a pulse, but his own heart was beating so fast he could distinguish nothing. He reached a hand under the back of the boy’s head and lifted his face to his own, listening. But there was just the breeze sighing along the spine of the dune, the sand shivering like skin on its back and naked flanks.

  Clay shed his harness and put his ear to the boy’s chest. Nothing. God damn it, after everything. He kicked out a ledge on the flank of the dune, put the boy on his back, pulled off his R4, laid it cross-slope on the sand, pulled the kid’s head back and opened his mouth, making sure the air passage was open. Then he pinched the boy’s nose, placed his mouth over the boy’s and exhaled. He watched the chest expand, counted three. Again, pushing air into the boy�
�s lungs, watching the response, the inflation, the collapse. Still no pulse. Again and again he flooded the boy’s lungs with air, to no avail.

  Clay jammed the heel of his hand down hard onto the boy’s chest, leaning in with as much weight as he dared. He’d seen men crack the ribs of casualties they were trying to revive, so hard did they push. Three, four sharp thrusts, and back to the artificial respiration, alternating now, three and three. How long had the boy been gone? In basic training they’d been told that the onset of brain damage was three minutes without oxygen. With all of the shit they’d pumped into him, who knew? Perhaps his brain was gone before they’d jumped. Almost surely.

  They were in shadow now, the sun still in the sky but hidden behind the next dune.

  Let him go now, he said aloud. Let him go. Clay put his lips to the boy’s mouth for the last time, watched the chest rise, fall. And then he sat back on his heels and looked up at the sky.

  And it was clear to him, at that moment, that he had been put on this earth not for the giving of life, but for the taking of it. He had already killed three men that he knew of definitively. Probably more. They had all been strangers – men who in another time he would have passed in the street without a glance or thought. And much later he would realise that everything he had done – refusing to dump the boy into the sea and jumping with him – had not been because he was intrinsically good, but because he was selfish. He’d done it for himself, to somehow even up the scorecard. But at that moment, at that point in his life, he had neither the time nor the self-awareness to reach such an understanding. All he knew was that, when he looked back down, the boy’s chest rose, then fell. Once. Almost imperceptibly.

  In fact, no, it was just the light.

  He reached for the boy’s wrist, closed his eyes. There it was, the faintest of pulses, a rumour. Another rise of the chest, stronger now, no trick of shadow. And then the boy opened his eyes.

  Darkness came.