The Jason Green series Box Set

by Gordon Wallis

  His mind raced at a thousand miles an hour and for some time he imagined he was no longer confined in his steel tomb. Instead he saw what was like a series of photographs and videos from his past flash before him. The need for more of the drug came twice in the next hour until at 10am he regained enough focus to continue trying with the horn and the banging of the doors. As he stood he felt incredibly tingly and light-headed. It was not an unpleasant feeling and the steadily rising temperature in the container didn't seem to feel as dreadful as it had done the previous days. He began shouting through the plastic horn but this time with more frequency than before. In his now completely insane mind, his voice sounded like it was not his own. It felt like there was another person doing all the work and he was able to stand back and watch the proceedings as they happened. This did not displease him as he was used to delegating and he felt like he was having a rest. In reality Carlos da Costa was shaking violently as he stood at the door. The croaky calls for help came every five seconds followed by a violent push at the chained steel doors. Blood dripped from his now mangled hands and formed dark pools on the wooden floor. His jugular veins pumped furiously beneath the grimy skin of his neck as did the veins in his temples. The capillaries in his right eye had all burst and he blinked frantically as he stared out at the deck of the ship. He had consumed almost half of the last remaining bottle of water and it was 10.50am when his legs failed him and he collapsed in a heap on the floor. In his mind he felt that he should persevere. It puzzled him slightly that his legs had suddenly failed. You rest for a while then you continue. Carlos da Costa’s mind drifted away into another series of flashed hallucinations. The temperature inside the container rose and rose and he lay there completely delirious. Occasionally he would call out in some unintelligible language and then proceed to mumble for a minute or so before becoming still again.

  In his stupor he had no idea that a combination of terrible things were about to begin. It was at exactly 12 midday when the series of flashing images he had been seeing began to recede and were replaced by glowing deep red light. It pulsated with ever-increasing brightness and was accompanied by what sounded like white noise that grew louder and louder with each passing second. Then, slowly but surely he heard the hissing and scratching of the insects. It sounded like they were far away at first and they might pass by and go away. But they didn't. Thirty seconds later his mad, bloodshot eyes opened in a flash. His terrifying hallucinations were now mingled with whatever was left of reality and he saw the insects coming through the gap in the door in their millions. The entire deck of the ship was crawling with them and they clicked and hissed and piled up as they scrambled over each other in an effort to get through the small gap of the container doors. Carlos da Costa shrieked in terror and leapt to his feet.

  As he looked down he saw his lower legs change colour to a shiny brown as the insects began to climb his body. Wide-eyed and wailing with blind panic he raced across the length of the container to escape them and in the process the top right of his head collided with the jagged steel of the damaged corner of the container. He stood there, briefly stunned with a bell like sound ringing in his head. Strips of flesh were peeled back from his head from the impact revealing the white bone of his skull. Blood poured profusely from the messy wounds, completely blinding his right eye and covering his face. Still, he felt no pain and his only concern was that of the insects. Through his left eye he saw them still pouring through the doors in their millions. They crawled over the remaining water bottle and the open package of white powder. Carlos da Costa knew he had to brave them and get back to his salvation. In some dark corner of his confused mind a final vestige of sanity told him he had to eat some more of the drug and drink some water. Wailing in abject terror he stumbled forward and in the process he slipped on the plastic he had placed on top of his turd. He landed on top of it squarely and winded himself badly in the process. With his good eye he saw the insects steadily making their way towards him across the floor. Completely oblivious to where he had landed he writhed around on the floor in an effort to get up. In the process of doing so he smeared his entire back and shoulders with his own faeces. Eventually he made it to his hands and knees, and he knew that he was about to make the most terrifying journey of his life. Yelping and panting frantically he began to crawl through the millions of imagined insects. They crawled up his arms and bit and tickled his body as they went. After what seemed an eternity he arrived at the open package. With his blood-soaked right hand he scooped huge portions of the white powder into his mouth. In his mind there was only one way to get rid of the insects and that was it. He ate with such speed that the powder went up his broken nose and covered his chest and his entire face until he resembled some bloody clown from a cheap horror movie. Unable to swallow such a huge amount of the drug, he reached for the remaining water and gulped down a large portion. Carlos da Costa closed his eyes and waited for the horror of the insects to pass. Every second felt like an hour and eventually the scratching, clicking and hissing began to subside. Stunned and mildly optimistic he opened his eyes. Sure enough the insects had gone but something had changed. The air in the container appeared slightly misty to him and there was a strange electronic buzzing sound in his ears. It grew louder and louder with every second. The obscene amount of cocaine he had eaten was being rapidly digested by his empty stomach. It surged through his blood stream like a steam train, travelling to every organ in his body and pushing them to breaking point. He had no idea that the vessels in his brain carried his death and he was seconds away from a massive intracranial haemorrhage.

  Blind rage began to fill his mind and body and, as he stood, he let out an inhuman sound from his mouth.

  The dreadful sound grew louder and louder until it sounded like some warped banshee scream. An unimaginable strength filled every muscle of his body and somewhere deep in what was left of his mind, something told him to run. From above Carlos da Costa’s body resembled a bloody, shit-covered pinball as he sprinted about bouncing off the burning steel walls of the container. Still the terrible screaming continued as did the dull thuds of his heavy frame as it collided with every surface. Blood and white powder and faeces covered his body leaving streaks and stains on the walls as he ran and bounced as if being repelled by some invisible electric force. It was thirty seconds later when Carlos da Costa’s legs stopped working. The banshee screaming stopped at the same time, and he fell in the centre of the container without holding up his arms to break his fall. A huge accumulation of blood had burst through the walls of a major vessel in his brain causing him to suffer a massive stroke. The last thing Carlos da Costa saw was the thin seam of light that was the doors of the container. Outside on the rusted deck a seagull landed and cocked its head inquisitively at the sounds from within. Carlos da Costa tried to speak but found he was unable to. Within seconds his vision began to fade into darkness from the corners of his good eye. The vision grew smaller and smaller until it was a tiny pinprick in the darkness. Soon the tiny dot of light disappeared as well, and Carlos da Costa lay dead. Dead in a metal box, on the deck of the Star of Guangzhou, in the port of Stone Town, on the island of Zanzibar.

  The End

  The Teeth Of Giants

  GORDON WALLIS

  ‘And the Elephant sings, deep in the forest maze. About a star of deathless and painless peace. But no astronomer can find where it is’

  Chapter One: 1979 Inyanga Mountains, Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) / Mozambique Border

  THE OLD MERCEDES UNIMOG lurched violently and spluttered diesel fumes as it ground over the rocks on the mountain pass. The young soldier manning the twin mounted 7.62 mm MAG machine guns hung on to the grips to avoid being thrown on to the steel floor behind the cab. He couldn't have been more than seventeen years old. A recent conscript to the Rhodesian Light Infantry, his gaze shifted from left to right constantly. Occasionally he glanced nervously down to where Johannes Kriel and I sat casually smoking cigarettes. Cap set at a jaunty angle the young man was
desperately portraying a bravado immediately given away by his eyes. I had seen this look a thousand times before. It was one of pure unadulterated fear. It was obvious that the road had not seen a vehicle for years. On three occasions Hannes and I had to disembark to remove boulders that had fallen into the rutted [and], eroded trail. Above us a perfect blue sky spread across the green vista of the mountains to the left and the yellowed lower lands of Mozambique to the right. I watched Hannes as he took a drink of water from his camouflaged bottle. His eyes were closed as he drank and he kept them that way as he screwed the green top back on the bottle. His head nodded slightly to the broken rhythm of the vehicle. Hannes Kriel was humming to himself. I had no idea what song it was, but I had seen him do this whenever he was bored or at rest. He was in his 'happy place' and I had no reason to disturb him.

  It was half an hour later when the truck finally came to a stop. Hannes and I stood up to take a look around. Through the dusty back window of the cab I saw the driver's assistant had laid a map out and was pointing at the spot where we had stopped. Without turning the engine off the driver turned in his seat and gave us the thumbs up signal. We had arrived at our drop off point.

  “Ready Hannes?” I asked over the rumbling engine.

  “Ya, let's go,” he replied in his heavy Afrikaans accent.

  Strapping on our rucksacks and retrieving our rifles Hannes and I moved to the rear of the vehicle past the young soldier at the mounted MAGs. Contrary to orders he muttered,

  “Good luck guys.”

  “Thanks. See you tomorrow,” I replied cheerfully.

  The young soldier was under no illusions as to who we were. I had met Hannes on the first day of training for the Selous Scouts. At almost seven feet tall his massive bulk towered above me. His protruding forehead and thick ginger beard gave him the look of a Neanderthal. For all his immense size Johannes Kriel was as fast and deadly as the best of them. There was also a gentle side to Hannes Kriel which few knew about. The soft hazel eyes set in the sunburnt face were the give-away and I knew him well enough to understand this.

  We jumped from the rear of the truck and immediately headed left down the rugged mountain side towards the invisible line of the Mozambique border. The fresh mountain air was sweet and cool and we broke into a slow trot as we descended. The brief was clear. Aerial reconnaissance had indicated the presence of an insurgent camp near the Mozambican town of Catandica. We were to infiltrate the camp, ascertain the number of insurgents, and draw clear maps of the layout and access to the base with a view to a future ground strike. This had to be done in twenty-four hours. The same truck that had dropped us on the mountain pass would return the following day to extract us. The heat grew in intensity and the vegetation changed from mountain scrub to bush as we descended. Eventually we saw the land mark we were to pass. The rocky outcrop with the distinctive balancing rocks stood roughly a kilometre away. The strip of land that ran parallel was heavily mined and our instructions were to pass it on the immediate right and within no more than ten metres. Any deviation from this would be deadly. We slowed up as we approached the rocky hillock eventually halting and squatting down in the grass.

  “Do you see it Hannes?” I asked.

  “Ya, Jason, I see it,” he replied.

  Forty metres in front of us and partially obscured by the tall yellow grass a rusted pole stuck out at an angle from the soil. On top of it was a red inverted triangular sign depicting a “skull and crossbones”. The chilling words 'Perigo Minas' painted above the skull.

  “You ready?” I asked.

  “Ya, let's go,” he whispered.

  With our eyes locked on the base of the hillock we carefully made our way forward in single file past the sign. I murmured a silent prayer as we went, thinking Hannes would be too. As we approached the rocks, we became aware of a terrible stench and an intense buzzing sound in the air.

  Just ahead, not twenty metres from the base of the rocks, lay the rotting carcass of a large Kudu bull. The head had been blown clean from the body and lay fifteen metres away in the grass. Swarms of green flies filled the air and as we approached, three large African vultures squawked and took to the sky in alarm, disturbed from their feast. I focused on the rocks ahead to avoid glancing at this latest unfortunate victim of the minefield. We passed the rocks without incident and when eventually we had put fifty metres behind us, we knew we were clear of the deadly indiscriminate killers. We squatted in the grass to take a break and get our bearings. Wiping sweat from my eyes I consulted my map and compass. The insurgent base lay ten kilometres due east. In between lay the Pungwe River and numerous rolling hills covered with Msasa and Miombo woodland.

  “That way,” I said pointing in the direction of the base.

  “Kom ons gaan,” Hannes replied in Afrikaans.

  Once again, we trotted in single file, our breathing synchronized, eyes scanning the horizon. The setting sun behind, turned the surrounding bush to a rich golden, brown colour as we made the Pungwe River. Its waters proved no hindrance to us as we waded across within a minute. Keeping our heading we moved off towards the camp once again. The sun had dropped behind the mountains to our rear as we passed my rough estimate of eight kilometres. We slowed to a cautious, silent walk aided by the rising moon to our right. Ahead lay a wide glade with a low-lying hill beyond. All around was silence, apart from the whistling of the cicadas as we paused to listen.

  “It's got to be over that hill, Hannes,” I said quietly.

  “Has to be,” he agreed.

  Slowly and carefully we moved through the glade eventually arriving at the foot of the hill. It was then we heard it. Although slightly garbled, it was the unmistakable sound of a man shouting through a megaphone. Slowly we made our way up the hill and took cover behind a rocky outcrop at the summit. Below was a cleared flat section of land the size of two football fields. Surrounding this were a series of high masts with powerful lights that shone into the interior casting long shadows below them. To the left of the base long rows of tents stood in neat lines. We counted ten lines of roughly twenty tents that would accommodate four men each.

  “Eight hundred men?” I whispered to Hannes.

  “Looks like it,” he replied quietly.

  In the centre of the base stood an administration building with a thatched roof. Electric lights burned on the inside. Behind this was what looked like a number of small vehicles and trucks although these were obscured by shadows. Hundreds of rag tag human figures milled around the building as the man with the megaphone shouted his mantra from the steps. To the right stood a series of storerooms or armouries followed by a large open space that would serve as a parade ground. To the front of the camp, along the length of it, stood rows of open-topped latrine blocks with thatched grass walls. Their placement would ensure the smell of excrement would be carried away by the easterly winds from the coast. I retrieved a sheet of paper and a pen and began to sketch a crude map of the layout of the camp in the moonlight. Before I had finished, we noticed the lights of a heavy vehicle approaching the camp from our right. As it approached, the crowd below began to cheer and sing in celebration. We watched as the rickety seven tonne vehicle drove in and parked near the administration block under the tall mast lights. On its load bed it carried eight open 200 Litre drums of white liquid that sloshed and splashed around as it parked. Hannes and I knew immediately that it was a potent home brewed beer.

  “Dindindi,” whispered Hannes, the Shona word for 'Party'.

  “Ya, for sure,” I replied. “In four hours’ time they'll be sleeping like babies. It'll make it a lot easier for us to get in there”

  We watched as the more senior members of the camp collected their beer rations in metal buckets and headed back to the administration building. The man with the megaphone gave a signal and the crowd let out an enormous cheer and ran towards the tents to fetch containers. What followed was a scene of complete chaos as the stronger men slapped and punched their way to the front of the haphazard queue to
collect their beer. Armed guards stationed at each corner of the camp remained religiously at their posts. However, after the initial rush, Hannes and I noticed their compatriots had supplied them all with containers at their posts so even while on duty they would not be left out.