Spears of Defiance

by David Holman

  Placing it back into her pocket, she toyed with commandeering the file for her Head of Section. It could help her to get back in Stratton’s good books following her mistake with the Libyan in the Savoy, but then thought it would be better to replace it, and when it was time to confront this man with his actions, Special Branch would know exactly where to find this incriminating evidence. She did her final checks around the study and whispered into her short-wave radio. ‘I’m all done here, exiting the house, now.’

  Moving back over to the desk to turn off the lamp, she noticed a framed photo on a sideboard of a woman who she placed in her late forties. Assuming this was the face of Tracey Jayne Mallinson, she touched it. ‘Good luck with the divorce, just make sure you take the bastard for everything before he goes to prison.’ She turned off the lamp and crept back into the hallway.

  23

  As the early morning sun rose, the usual combination of bird and small primate calls were abruptly interrupted by the piercing whine of two Rolls Royce Spey turbofan engines.

  Toby Gifford and his navigator, Chris Campbell sat in the seats of the Buccaneer taking it on half-power down the stream of tarmac.

  Campbell found the cockpit of the British-built strike bomber differed greatly from the Canberra, but as a veteran navigator, since retired, the principles had been the same: - locate the target, deliver the weapons and return safely back to base. He had done it many times before as part of a two-man bomber crew of the Rhodesian Air Force. There had also been some harrowing moments, one being the famed Green Leader Raid on Westlands Farm in Lusaka following the downing of the Air Rhodesia Vickers Viscount by ZIPLA forces. A mission notably infamous for its recorded radio chatter. His feelings about what they were going to do, much-mirrored what had happened that day. Up to last year, Campbell had left the Air Force and had a prosperous farm with many years of reputable tobacco crop. But, then came Kuwani’s DAGA terrorists. After a brutal attack on his property, he had lost most of his loyal workforce and his livelihood. He was left with the house he had managed to rebuild, following the ransacking and firebombing, but had quickly got his family out. They were now safe in England, and Campbell looked forward to being with them after what he saw as the ultimate sortie of his service career.

  The aircraft moved cumbersomely bobbing along the black strip, and with the wings folded, it took on the mantle of a graceful swan. This was to be the final fast-taxi run before the missiles were to be loaded. This time tomorrow, Gifford would be lifting the mighty warbird off the runway and turning for the dam.

  At the quarter point, Gifford brought the plane to a halt. Then, pulling a lever, turned his head to watch the wings lower into configuration for flight. He then spoke through his radio. ‘Okay, Chris. Are you ready?’

  ‘All okay here, fire ‘er up, Toby,’ Campbell responded.

  ‘Okay, here we go then. Hold tight.’

  In seconds of pushing the throttle forward, the Buccaneer surged ahead, the low whine gradually transitioning into a thunderous roar. Gifford pushed the throttle further, increasing the speed to take-off level, the exhausts throwing out the hot thick gases with thrusting force.

  Rammed into their cockpits, the two men saw the rapidly approaching marker - the point of no return. Tomorrow, if they missed this, it would be all over, with nothing to show but a crashed airframe, deadly explosions and mangled perimeter fencing. He slammed open the rear airbrake.

  Opening like a Venus Flytrap setting itself up for a tasty buzzing morsel, it slowed the machine, and with only a few hundred feet remaining, the Buccaneer was brought to a crawl, its engines still roaring in protest.

  Gifford turned the aircraft 180 degrees and headed slowly back towards the hangar. They would let her rest for a while to allow the engines to cool, then just before dusk, the AS-30 missiles with their Locust Rain-filled warheads, would be attached to the wings. There was still a lot of work to be done and Gifford decided he would go over the flight plan again, it needed to be right.

  In the almost empty farmhouse, he handed out cans of beer for his men. Spread on the table, was a flight map of Rhodesia and the surrounding borders. Around the target area, a large red circle had previously been added, with a clear route from the farm, leading out over the bush to the target area. Annotations applying to flight times, speed and altitude, had also been scribbled in various places. There was another mark on the map, one that both Gifford and Campbell had dreaded to refer to since they had first discussed it. It was where they were to both eject. There was no option. Following the raid, the Buccaneer had to be destroyed and what remained of the wreckage needed to be identified as a machine belonging to the Royal Air Force.

  Gifford took a sip of his beer. ‘I know we’ve been over this for what seems like a hundred times, but we need to just finalise things for tomorrow. Make sure in our heads, we’ve got everything right.’ With satisfaction they were all with him, he leaned over the map with a pencil. ‘Right, we take off at 05:30 hours. Then, taking the Bucc’ to cruising speed, we’ll come around the dam and about four miles from target, drop down to two hundred feet. At five hundred yards, the missiles will be released and climb to five thousand feet.’ He turned to one of the other men. ‘You’ll position yourself at this vantage point, here, to observe what happens. Let us know on the radio, and then I suggest, you get the hell out of there. We’ll fly on into Botswana and head for the mountains, then punch out, here.’ He looked around. ‘Is everybody clear?’ There was a sea of nodding heads. He looked over to two other men. ‘When we’ve taken off, remember, you have to destroy everything. Drive the fuel truck into the hangar and set off the charges in there, and the ones at the farmhouse. We don’t want anything coming back at us.’ He suddenly remembered something else that was vitally important. ‘Oh, and get those plates on the jeeps changed, today.’ Gifford checked to see his men understood. ‘This time tomorrow, we’ll be in Gaborone, watching the tragedy unfold on the news.’ He raised his beer can. ‘Here’s to the spears of defiance,’ he said, referring to what had been chanted at the last meeting of local white farmers, how they had vowed to defend their lands from the tyranny. ‘and the death of Jericho Kuwani,’ Gifford added.

  *

  It was lunchtime in the ward at the Andrew Fletcher Memorial Hospital and Alex Swan was now able to move freely without too much discomfort. With Janet remaining by his side, he had managed a few steps up and down the corridors. On the doctor’s last round, he too was pleased with Swan’s progress. The headaches had gone, and with aspirin, his patient found movement bearable.

  Dinner was served, and Swan recognising the biltong, and sadza, began to wonder if this was the stable diet for the people of Southern Africa. Since he arrived from London, four days ago, it had been his third time in eating this particular meal.

  Earlier, Gable had dropped by, astonished to see Janet sitting next to the bed. He had not stayed long, having come to check on his chief’s recovery and update on the situation in trying to locate the airstrip. So far, he had checked with the national library and newspaper office under the guise of an British news correspondent, but there had been no success in finding it. He had then left, promising to return later with Munroe and Cunningham who were eager to see Swan; they would be pleased to hear the news of how he was progressing, following the incident.

  Over the far side, the other patient was also looking better. Swan noticed he was now sitting up talking to family members who had come to visit him. During the day, other patients had occupied some of the other beds.

  Janet had also been given the same meal. Besides a few trips outside to have a cigarette, she had sat in the chair beside her husband. This was a rare moment where they finally had the time to talk. As Swan had predicted, she had lectured him about the field trips. They had also talked about the upcoming department review. She knew her husband was concerned that SID could be decommissioned, but he was now approaching pension age, and she herself was not far behind him. The world had changed since
SID had formed. It wasn’t just the threat of Communism anymore, there were now new enemies of the state to contend with, enemies far more dangerous than the KGB. These enemies would need new blood to deal with them, young blood with new ideas and methods to keep Britain and its interests safe. She turned to him. ‘After lunch darling, shall we try a little walk again?’

  Swan wiped his mouth. ‘Yes, I think I’m up for that.’

  After walking along the corridor, Janet noticed her husband was growing more confident each step he took.

  Re-entering the ward, he decided to make a few more steps over to the other side. The hernia patient had since been abandoned by his guests and was sitting up reading a novel which Swan recognised instantly in being one written by an old friend. It was also one he had not yet had the chance to read himself; the second in what he knew to be a planned trilogy.

  Janet had decided to leave him to find his own feet, while she went outside to the courtyard for another cigarette.

  Swan approached the tousled-haired bearded man. ‘How’s the book? I happen to be acquainted with the author.’

  The man looked up at him. ‘Well, you can tell him, he’s certainly got me riveted to it. I read the first one and thought that was brilliant too.’

  Swan recognised a deep Scottish accent. ‘Sounds to me you’re rather a long way from home, old chap?’

  ‘Aye, I’m from Eaglesham, near Glasgow originally, but came out here in 1970 to make my living. Never thought I’d give myself a bleedin’ hernia from it, mind.’

  Swan smiled. ‘You poor chap.’ He pointed to the tent. Funny enough, I expected that much when I first saw you from my bed. My name’s Alex, by the way.’

  ‘Vince McDougal. But my friends call me Doogie.’

  Swan turned to allow a handshake with his good arm. ‘Nice to meet you, Doogie. So, what’s your line then?’

  ‘I’m a road layer, Alex.’

  Swan smirked. ‘I can imagine there’s plenty of work in that field around here right now?’

  Doogie sniggered, ‘aye, ‘specially with all these mines the Terrs keep laying. They’ve been blowing the roads up and I’ve been repairing them.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve done well out of this war, Doogie?’

  The Scotsman nodded. ‘Aye, it’s been tough, but there’s been plenty of things to do here. Still, those things have come to an end, I’m afraid. I recently did a job which has set me and my family up for a healthy retirement back in Scotland, and once I’m out of here, that’s where we’re heading.’

  ‘Really? And what was that, may I ask?’

  ‘Oh, some farm wanted a hell of a long service road laid, only God knows what the hell for.

  I did ask my client, and they said they were just expanding their business and needed to be able to cater for the extra vehicles they’d be needing to operate.’

  Swan was suddenly intrigued. ‘And just how long a service road are we talking about?’ ‘Just over five miles, and about twenty feet wide, you could land a jumbo jet on it.’

  Swan was then more interested. ‘Or one could take off from it.’

  ‘Doogie agreed. ‘Aye, it probably could.’

  Swan was eager to know more. Could this be the place he’d been looking for? ‘Who did you lay this road for?’

  Doogie laughed. ‘Christ, Alex. I feel like you’re interrogating me. What is it you said you did again?’

  Swan kept a straight face. ‘I don’t think I did, Doogie.’

  The Scotsman gave a suspicious stare then referred down at his book. ‘So, you weren’t just trying to make conversation, when you said you were acquainted with the writer. I get the picture now. So, how comes you’re in here? Looks to me, like you’ve tried to take a few Terrs on yourself.’

  Swan gestured to his injuries. ‘I was knocked down by a car.’ ‘

  ‘An accident?’

  Swan just shook his head. ‘You were saying, about the people you did the road for?’

  ‘Aye, it was a company called Mallinson Shipping. I’ve had dealings with them before.

  Used them to ship bits of road-laying equipment over from England.’

  ‘Who did you actually deal with?’

  Doogie paused to think about this. ‘It was a chap called Gifford at the farm itself. A young chap who said he was the owner. Told me he lost his parents to the Terrs.’

  Swan could not believe his ears. For over a week, they had been looking for an airstrip. ‘So please tell me, Doogie. Where exactly is this farm?’

  *

  An hour later, at Haldenbrook Farm, Chris Campbell and three other men carefully placed one of the AS-30 missiles onto the makeshift loading rack. Almost copying the mechanics of the actual loaders found on airbases, the loader had been built from the hulk of an old trailer, with a steel brace operated by a manual jack, like the one found in the boot of a car. The missile was secured into the cradle, and pulled over to the aircraft by a small tractor where it was placed under the wing, and in line below the weapon pylon.

  Campbell turned the handle for the jack to lift it and watched as the attachments rose towards the carrier unit and insert itself. One of the other men checked the missile was secure, before allowing him to lower the jack. The whole process was repeated for the other missile and on completion, now protruding from beneath the wings, the aircraft appeared to have grown a set of claws. He then helped the other men to pull the hessian sacks full of grain under both projectiles in case the plugs should fail, and the missiles detach and fall before the morning. From experience, he knew this was an occurrence not uncommon with older combat aircraft and this had been an old trick which he knew worked.

  Back inside the farmhouse, Toby Gifford picked up the phone to make one quick call to his wife at their new home in Freetown. Although, she had no knowledge about what he was about to do, she knew things were still hostile in the area around the farm. They talked about many things, including her ordeal at the hands of one of their own farm workers who had tried to kidnap her and his children. Gifford had returned from a business trip to find one of his hired bodyguards had shot the man dead. In his eyes, the country he was born in before graduating as a British test pilot then losing his parents to, was finished. Outnumbered by the black factions, it had finally run out of steam, and now it was due to be changed beyond all recognition, even being given back the old Shona name, Zimbabwe - House of Stone.

  As he listened to his wife, he closed his eyes, imagining her on the veranda of this house, a glass of South African Shiraz in her slender hand as the setting sun caught her tanned face and sapphire blue eyes. He could see her smile, and the energy she had for him in the evenings, even after dealing with the children throughout the day. ‘Listen Nadine, I love you.’ He felt the sadness in her sudden silence. ‘I will see you in a couple of days, I promise.’ His wife had no knowledge of what was about to happen, as far as she was concerned, her husband was finalising their move. ‘We could all go to Table Mountain on a camping trip,’ he suggested to her, put this place out of our heads forever. Then, I’m sure we can make our new farm as good as we did here.’ He sensed she was now crying. Had he said too much? ‘I have to go now, sweetheart. Kiss the kids for me and tell them I can’t wait to see them again. I love you. Goodbye Nadine.’ He placed the receiver back down on the telephone and at the same time, suddenly had a feeling of what goodbye really meant.

  *

  Andrew Gable had kept his promise. Returning in the early afternoon with both South Africans, he was puzzled to see Swan out of bed talking with his wife to another patient,

  As they walked over to him, Swan acknowledged them with a smile. ‘Ah, looks like we have visitors. Our wonderers return, at long last.’

  Janet moved to hold him, as he used his free hand to shake those of the others.

  Gable then introduced her to the South Africans, but when she was presented to Munroe, her face changed. She gave him a venomous stare. This was the man who had caused all the trouble back home, and t
he reason why her husband was in the position he was now in.

  ‘I’m not going to say I’m pleased to see you, Mr Munroe.’ She looked over at her husband. ‘Especially right now.’

  Munroe understood, choosing to remain silent. Given the current circumstances, he thought this was the only thing he could do.

  Swan, however, was elated to see them all again. There was something exciting he had to tell them. Something which would also thaw this suddenly hostile atmosphere. ‘Gentlemen, we appear to have a breakthrough.’ Introducing them to Doogie, he allowed the Scotsman to explain about what he had just told him. At this moment, being surrounded by this strange crowd, he felt like a character in one of his spy novels he so enjoyed. When he had finished, Swan cut in. ‘So, it looks like we’ve been barking up the wrong tree. It’s not an airstrip we need to find after all, it’s the farm itself, Haldenbrook Farm to be precise, and it’s off the main Bulawayo road in Plumtree, in Matabeleland.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And according to Mallinson’s transcript, we have just over 14 hours to get there.’

  Swan’s wife abruptly interrupted, turning to her husband. ‘Alex, you’re not going anywhere!’

  Swan put up his hand to her. ‘Of course not, my darling.’

  Cunningham suddenly realised the situation. ‘Matabeleland is the other side of the country, man. How’re we going to get there in time?’

  Munroe decided to step forward. ‘We need Leona.’ They all stared at him as if he had just lost his mind. ‘I have an idea. My old mate, Compton Nash, lives south of the city,’ he smiled, ‘With any luck, he still might have a vehicle we can borrow.’