Spears of Defiance

by David Holman

  The brief for Janny had been simple. Once across the border, he was to head north-east to Bulawayo, where just before the city, he would veer west on a long-winding road until he reached a large farmstead. He had also been falsely informed the crates contained Wombat anti-tank launchers, and although it was unusual for him to be smuggling such weapons, he had been instantly persuaded when he saw how much cash he would receive on delivery of the package.

  Just over an hour later, Janny drove the truck through the gates of Haldenbrook Farm, opened by two men wielding automatic rifles.

  Of course, such a sight as this was not uncommon. Since the start of the Bush war, terrorists had raided white farms all over the country and despite calls to Government House in Salisbury for protection, only a few farms had received this help. The remainder had had to find other means to defend their livelihoods, which even meant the costly hiring of international mercenaries.

  Janny stopped just inside the gate, where he was approached by one of these tough-looking men. Suddenly, they jumped onto the footplate of the truck and gestured for him to drive towards a big barn on the far side of the farm. Janny noticed that the long road leading to the far side of the farm, appeared to look like it had recently been laid. It was almost dead-straight and completely flat. It had also taken him nearly five minutes to drive the truck to the large concrete area outside a large outbuilding.

  On arrival, he was met by other men. They were similarly dressed in combat fatigues to the man who had just jumped down off his cab; one of them, sat inside the small cabin of a mobile crane.

  The South African climbed out of the cab and lit a cigarette as one of the mercenaries stepped forward. He was a muscly, bearded Rhodesian with black scraggy hair. ‘Mr Van Der Kroek, I take it that your trip here was trouble free?'

  Janny smiled. 'Just as always,' he boasted. ‘You’ll find the merchandise intact and untouched, since it was loaded.'

  The man nodded his approval. Then, they all turned to an approaching jeep. The man looked back at Janny. 'Please, Mr Van Der Kroek, go with the driver and get some refreshments. We will be about an hour.'

  Janny puffed on his cigarette. 'Just whatever you do, don't open up the back of the truck.'

  Curious to this statement, one of the men walked up and looked through the slats, to soon realise what the driver had meant. However, Anala wasn't going to be a problem for them as they could access the missiles by just opening a cleverly-concealed side panel in front of her compartment. Besides, she was still fast asleep, and as the men commenced, they could hear an occasional snort, fearful not to disturb the beast.

  The jeep moved back along the long strip of black tarmac towards a large two-storey farmhouse, while the crane moved in towards the truck.

  After the men had accessed the crate, they wrapped heavy chains around it and it was gently lifted out and placed onto the ground. The crane operator then climbed out and walked over to the barn. Opening the two doors, he climbed into a low-loader, started it up and drove back out to the crates.

  Ten minutes later, the load had been safely placed onto the back of the flatbed truck and transported back into the barn.

  At the farmhouse, Janny sat in a wicker chair on the long porch enjoying a cold beer. He was then alerted to a lot of activity as men were loading wooden crates into trucks. He also noticed furniture was being lifted out and placed into the vehicles. Then, as he emptied his glass, two other men had walked out of another entrance at the far end of the porch, one carrying a briefcase. They sat down on the wicker chairs opposite him and laid the case on a small table where it was opened to display the 50,000 dollars stacked neatly inside it.

  Janny' s eyes lit up as he gazed at the cash. He reached over and took hold of one of the bundles. He was also still curious as to his recent observations. ‘You guys look as though you're moving out?’

  The man holding the case nodded. 'That' s right. As a matter of fact, we're moving to a new farm in South Africa.'

  Janny studied him for a few seconds. He was young, late twenties, maybe early thirties, he thought, his fair tousled hair fell over his eyes and he brushed it away with his hand. The other man was a lot older and smartly dressed in a beige safari suit. Janny sensed there was an air of tension between them, as if they were uncomfortable with this moment.

  A phone rang and the younger man stood up to answer it. Then confirming with the caller, put it down again. ‘I think you’re already to go now, Mr Van der Kroek.’ he said, in a dialect that showed this man had slightly lost his Rhodesian brogue. He’d obviously been spending some time in Britain, thought Janny.

  The jeep returned him to his truck and clasping the briefcase, he bid his farewell and climbed into the cab. It was as he was reversing the vehicle to head back along the strip to the gates, he glanced over at the open barn and through the gloom, thought he had just seen what had looked like a large military jet aircraft inside. The distinctive shape of two massive oval-shaped air intakes and a high positioned cockpit had raised his curiosity.

  Then moving back along the long wide road, he suddenly made an obvious connection. This road, wasn't a road at all. At the gates, he waved at the same two men who had greeted him on arrival, then after checking his map, headed out to get back onto the main road to deliver Anala. The animal was now very much awake and protesting again as Janny headed out for the game reserve.

  Back inside the hangar, Toby Gifford stood with former Rhodesian Air Force navigator, Chris Campbell, looking at the newly delivered missiles. ‘I didn’t realise how big they’ll be,’ Gifford commented.

  Campbell agreed. When flying in the Canberra jet bombers, he was used to the bombs and gun packs carried by the type, so this was also going to be new to him.

  They walked over to the Buccaneer, both men had found the British camouflage and markings strange in such a climate, but it was necessary to ensure when they were spotted around the target. They were hoping some keen-eyed survivors would report on what had been responsible for destroying it.

  Gifford touched the lip of the big air intake. ‘This will be my fifty-eighth sortie in a Buccaneer.’

  ‘And it will be your last, as well, man.’ Campbell joked.

  They walked out into the sunshine and stopped at the end of the long tarmac.

  Gifford turned to the older man. ‘How you feeling about all this?’

  Campbell stared down the long strip. ‘I feel like it’s an honour to do this, Toby. Okay, I’ve never flown in a Buccaneer before, but I’m sure it can’t be too different from a Canberra.’

  Gifford nodded. ‘I’ve flown both, and no they’re not that different.’ He turned to him and smiled. ‘Except for the speed, of course.’

  Walking back to the farmhouse, Gifford looked over to the hangar. ‘I’ll brief the men in the morning, following our final taxi run. Mallinson said after we take off, nothing can be left behind. No comebacks, so that the Pommies can take all the blame for what’s going to happen.’

  17

  It was early afternoon, when the two SID men stepped off the British Airways Boeing 747 at Johannesburg Airport and into the Arrivals Hall.

  A tall blonde man wearing a lightweight grey suit and sunglasses, stood reading this morning’s copy of The Star, newspaper.

  Peter Cunningham of the National Intelligence Service recognised Swan and Gable from photos sent through from London and walked over to greet them. ‘Mr Swan, Mr Gable, I presume?’ The South African smiled at his own in-joke parody of the famous Livingstone-Stanley rendezvous at Victoria Falls. ‘I’m Peter Cunningham. I believe we have a mutual friend in London?’

  Swan shook the man’s hand. ‘John sends his regards, Mr Cunningham.’

  The South African didn’t like formalities- it was so British. ‘Please call me, Peter. If you follow me, I have a car waiting to take us to Pretoria.’ He led them out of the airport terminal to a parked white Chevrolet Firenza.

  Driving along the highway, conversation was light hearted. None o
f them really wanting to discuss the mixed political views of the country. After all, they would be working together for a while, so whatever the differences were, would be kept to themselves. Swan had been to South Africa before so knew what to expect, however Gable was visiting for the first time and during the flight, Swan had pre-warned him of what he may experience, and to not comment. This was a different country with different rules.

  As they moved through the streets of Pretoria, Cunningham pointed out the various landmarks, while briefing them on the historic significances of the city. They soon came to an area known as the Meintjes Kop, a hill region that looked over the city. It was also the location of government headquarters. Swan had never been to Pretoria before, and was awestruck at the site of the Arcadia Building as it filled the windscreen.

  From the back seat of the car, Gable also stared at the red-bricked crescent shape edifice built in 1913, by Herbert Baker.

  As Cunningham manoeuvred the Firenza around the building, he pointed out some of the other features such as the statues that lined The Garden of Remembrance with its rows upon rows of violet Jacaranda trees. He also indicated to the Delville Wood Memorial and the Pretoria War Memorial.

  In the distance, they viewed the immense Voortrekker Monument. It was Gable who was first to point at the object, its bronze sculptures and the granite ox-wagons surrounding the main block. ‘Blimey, I’ve seen it a few times on television, but to see it now even from here, takes your breath away.’

  Cunningham stopped the car and turned to him. ‘It represents the great trek of the people who left Cape Colony in the last century, Andrew, and is designed to stand for a thousand years. I recommend you make sure you see the famous marble Frieze and the Cenotaph Hall, before you go back to London, gentlemen. As you say, Andrew, it is breath-taking.’

  Both Englishmen also thought this would be a good idea. Each time they had to travel to exotic locations in their pursuits of a case, they never really found the time to take in the sights.

  In complete contrast, the drab interior of the open-plan Intelligence office, reflected well the mood of the white shirt-sleeved individuals scattered around at desks; some with cigarettes protruding from their lips as they hammered their typewriters with the vigour of an ace reporter about to submit a Pulitzer Prize winning piece to his editor. Around them, the odour of tobacco smoke hung loosely in the air. They had a lot to keep them busy, especially with all the recent ANC terrorist activity.

  Cunningham gestured the Englishmen over to the far side where a small office was situated off the main thoroughfare. He opened the door and side-stepped to allow his guests inside.

  They sat down at chairs set around a large busy desk with two telephones, one in black the other in green resting amongst the debris of stacked files and a large notepad.

  Cunningham sat in his swivel chair and taking grip of the top file, handed it to Swan. ‘This is what we have on our mutual friend, gentlemen.’

  Swan placed the file down, so Gable could also view what the NIS already had on Phillip Munroe. ‘Looks like Mr Munroe keeps you all busy,’ he quipped, taking in the thickness of the volume.

  Cunningham smiled. ‘We have to keep tabs on all ex-members of our special forces, Andrew. They seem to have found a lucrative niche in the African paramilitary market.’ Swan stared at the official South African Defence Force photo in the file, and in his mind, matched it with the photos taken at the President Hotel. ‘That’s our man,’ he confirmed.

  Cunningham nodded. ‘So, what I would like to know is, what was he doing in London, meeting with a known IRA operative and a Libyan arms dealer?’

  ‘An IRA operative, lately deceased.’, corrected Swan. ‘Siobhan Hennessy was found in a London canal with two bullet holes in her back and one in her head.’ He decided not to disclose the fate of the arms dealer, Ramir, still languishing in the detention facility where he had left him, in West Germany.

  Cunningham gasped. He looked down at Munroe’s photo. ‘Death seems to follow this guy around like a dependent puppy.’

  Swan agreed. He closed the file. ‘Any idea where he could be right now?’

  Cunningham took back the file, placing it back on top of the others. ‘We’ve had word, he was back at his flat in Cape Town, went out to one of the local bars and met up with a few other of his ex-Recce pals.’ Cunningham tapped the pile of files. ‘We also have them on record. They’ve done some work together before - in Angola, a few years ago.’

  Swan looked at Gable. ‘Sounds to me like another job could be in the offing, or it just could be old soldiers getting together to talk about old times?’

  Cunningham agreed, but also knew a gathering of ex-soldiers who were now considered mercenaries, is never a good thing. It was likely to be the Englishman’s first suggestion. Munroe was putting a team together for a reason. ‘So, if our man is planning something, do you think it could be here in Africa?’

  Swan nodded. ‘There does seem to be plenty of scope on this continent to warrant some sort of action.’

  Cunningham smiled. ‘Yes, Alex. I know what you mean. Over the border for instance.’

  ‘You mean in Rhodesia?’

  Cunningham raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s bloody chaos over there right now, man.’

  Swan was suddenly lost in thought. If there was a job in Rhodesia, what could it be? The Lancaster House meeting in London was scheduled in a few weeks, and rumours were, the country could see a new leader emerge, bringing with it a dramatic change to the political landscape. Maybe this motley crew had been hired to protect one of the white farms which many had suffered with attacks from guerrilla groups attached to the opposing political parties? He recalled the latest atrocities concerning white farmers and the news footage of the big meeting in Bulawayo, stating that enough was enough and they had to protect not only their properties, but also their families from these thugs who were using the hype of a free state as an excuse for illegal insurgency. ‘Are these soldiers still under surveillance?’ He asked.

  Cunningham sifted through the files. ‘These men and others like them have been on our watch list since the end of the Angola conflict, Alex. Apart from Munroe, we have Solly Leith, although he’s more of an informant these days, as long as we pay him enough. There’s Greg Lumsden and Henno Massey under watch at all times. They make a move - we know about it. Massey lives in Rhodesia now though. There were also others who are no longer with us - Jev Barratt springs to mind.’

  ‘Who was he?’ Swan suddenly needed to know more about this motley crew of ex-soldiers.

  ‘Another former Recce. Him and Munroe got through Recce selection together. Barratt did some dirty work for BOSS. A separatist group were being formed out of SWAPO forces and led by a Zambian dictator called, Jericho Kuwani.’ Cunningham rose from his chair to refer to a large map of Southern Africa on the wall, ‘he has a large encampment here, right on the Rhodesia-Mozambique border, next to Lake Kariba. His followers are fanatics, and mostly trained by the Russians. He even has members of NKomo’s ZIPLA and Mugabe’s ZANLA armies turning against their leaders and joining him. If you ask me, he’s the man we should all be worrying about in Southern Africa, not Mr Mugabe and co. It’s Kuwani and his DAGA organisation.’

  Gable was suddenly intrigued at the somewhat appropriate name. ‘DAGA?’

  Cunningham enlightened him, ‘Democratic African General Alliance, DAGA. If you ask me, these initials are a clever wordplay used to strike fear in all those who dare oppose him.’

  ‘So, how come we haven’t heard about Kuwani before, in the news?’

  ‘You don’t always hear everything you want to hear in the news, Andrew. Especially out here. Kuwani tends to remain in the shadows. He’s a clever man, seen to be supporting all the parties, including the ANC. But, he’s also dangerous and we’re watching him closely.’

  Gable raised a brow. ‘So, what was this job BOSS got Barratt to do, then?’

  ‘To carry out a little sabotage to some of Kuwani’s hardwar
e at his Lake Kariba base.’ Cunningham walked over to a filing cabinet and pulling another file, extracted some photographs and placed them on the desk in front of the men from Whitehall, ‘when the former SWAPO members came to him, they came bearing gifts. These are Strela-One launch vehicles - surface to air missiles. We also believe there’s some Strela Twos, the handheld version there too.’ He showed them more photos, including light tanks and a fully armed Mil Mi-2 attack helicopter.

  Swan and Gable surveyed the pictures. They soon noticed something else. They all seemed to be Soviet-manufactured equipment. ‘You see now why we think he is the one we should be worrying about, gentlemen?’ Cunningham emphasised.

  ‘Indeed, Peter, said Swan. ‘I also think there’s a possibility Kuwani’s bank account is being fed by the KGB. So, what was the outcome of this little sabotage operation?’

  ‘Barratt was betrayed, Alex. We all were.’

  ‘Any idea by who?’ Swan was intrigued.

  Cunningham reached for a cigarette and lit it. ‘There was a leak in our own department, Alex.’

  Swan settled himself in the chair. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘Well, I think it was my old boss, Damien Wyatt. Although I couldn’t prove it. Kuwani was most likely lining his pockets.’

  Swan and Gable just stared at each other as Cunningham continued. ‘You mentioned earlier about the corruption scandal. Well, I can tell you it went right to the top, and we are only just recovering from it.’

  Both Englishmen were aware of the publicised scandal involving the former head of the organisation, which eventually led to the resignation of the South African president. The BOSS title had also changed, to DONS, Department of National Security, and recently had changed again, to become the National Intelligence Service.

  ‘What became of Wyatt?’ Swan asked.