Spears of Defiance

by David Holman

  Suddenly, through the sound of intense gunfire, a new sound pounded the ears of the three men. The sound of thrashing rotor blades.

  Gable looked up to see a flotilla of Alouette helicopters swooping down. One machine flew over to the far side, a soldier hanging down from the opened side door. He was holding onto a mounted heavy machine gun and opened fire on the advancing jeep.

  Doing his best to avoid the hail of 7.62 ammunition raining on his vehicle, the driver swerved, sending his two colleagues above careering over the flatbed and onto the tarmac.

  Another Alouette hovered close by and on either side, more soldiers appeared. Then, dropping ropes, they abseiled down to the ground, brandishing their shoulder mounted guns.

  The two men who had fallen from the jeep, lay flat, their hands-on top of their heads. They knew the drill of how to stay alive.

  The driver inside the jeep also knew, and skidding to a halt, he exited the vehicle and collapsed to the ground.

  As the soldiers started to spread out, the remainder of Gifford’s men, began to cease their actions, throwing down their weapons and raising their hands. From behind their wheeled barricade, Munroe turned to the others. ‘Raise your hands, guys, or they’ll start shooting at us as well.’

  Gable and Cunningham decided that at this point, they would take his advice.

  Two troopers stood fifty yards away, one of them shouting above the noise of the helicopters. ‘Is one of you blokes, a Pommie called Gable?’

  Andrew Gable gave a relieving smile. ‘That’s me, I’m Andrew Gable, of the British Ministry of Defence.’

  The solider paused. He then spoke into his radio and as if on cue, another Alouette buzzed into view and circling a few times, touched down to the side of the runway.

  Inside the transparent cockpit, two men shuffled in the rear seats. Then, sliding the door aside, they climbed out. One of them had grey hair and sported a white sling over his left shoulder. Alex Swan smiled as he walked over to his colleague, followed by Damien Wyatt.

  Cunningham spat on the ground to the surprise of seeing his old boss approaching. He suddenly had a bad taste in his mouth. What was he doing here?

  Gable emerged from behind the Leopard to shake the hand of his chief. ‘Am I glad to see you, Alex!’ He gestured to the gunmen being rounded up by the soldiers, ‘looks like you just missed the party.’

  Swan then looked at the belching black smoke on the hillside. He turned to his SID associate. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  Gable also stared at it. ‘We did it, Alex. We stopped it. I don’t think the pilot made it out though. We watched and waited, but it looks like only the navigator managed to eject.’

  Swan sighed. He suddenly recalled the lecture given by Ambrose at Porton Down. ‘Well, at least the Locust Rain is destroyed. We’ll have to arrange a special team from Porton to check the wreckage, of course.’

  Cunningham stepped forward to face his old boss. They both paused as if they were two gunslingers ready to draw at each other. Finally, Cunningham spoke. ‘Mr Wyatt. It’s been a long time.’

  Wyatt reached out his hand. ‘You look like shit, Peter, man. But it’s good to see you.’ He smiled at his old intelligence officer, then turned to a man in dusty camouflage fatigues who had looked like he had spent the last few days sleeping rough in the bush. ‘And you must be Phillip Munroe? Mr Swan has told me all about you, how you helped steal the plane and this biotoxin. Question is, what do we do with you?’ He pointed to the plume in the distance. ‘You seemed to have helped save the day.’

  Munroe reached into his pocket for a cigarette. ‘Actually, it was Andrew that saved the day. If he hadn’t of pushed the nitrous button, we would be hearing about the breach of the Kariba Dam by now.’ He turned to Gable. ‘By the way, next time you decide to do that, Andrew, man, try and give me warning, ok?’

  Gable laughed. ‘I think I’ve seen enough of the African bush for a while, Mr Munroe.’ He reached out his hand. ‘Thanks Phillip, for saving my life. ’That was incredible what you did, and I’ll never forget it..’

  Swan looked puzzlingly at his colleague, but Gable gestured as if to say, not now.

  Munroe then stood back to examine the Leopard. ‘I promised Compton to get this back in one piece.’ Looking at the overturned vehicle, he noticed miraculously, there were only a few dents from the bullets. He suddenly had an idea. He looked over at the soldiers standing in a group on the other side smoking cigarettes. ‘I don’t suppose I could have some assistance to get her back on her wheels again?’

  Wyatt grinned. ‘I suppose that could easily be arranged.’ He turned to Swan. ‘So, what happens now then, Alex? I suppose your work is all done and you and Mr Gable here, can get back to London.’

  Swan raised his good hand. ‘Not quite, I’m afraid. Before we head back to London, we have a little appointment with the brains behind all this. We’re going to have a nice drink in Mombasa with Mr Henry Mallinson.’

  Cunningham raised his head. ‘I would very much like to be invited along to that drink with you guys. I have a few things to say to him, myself.’

  Wyatt nodded. ‘I agree, NIS should be part of this little showdown.’ He looked back over at the burning hillside. ‘After all, they were South African missiles on that plane.’

  Gable looked at Swan’s bandaged arm. ‘Did you ever find out who tried to kill you outside the restaurant?’

  Swan nodded, although he was assured, he had nothing to do with it, he still forced himself not to look in Wyatt’s direction. ‘Looks as though that will remain a mystery, Andrew. I expect it was someone who Mallinson had hired, or maybe had in his pocket. Anyway, I’ve sent Janet back to London, there’s the review coming up and I need her to get back to all the prep work.’ He stared back out at the smoke. ‘Perhaps what’s happened here today, may help our cause.’

  Munroe followed his gaze. ‘What about the guy who ejected? Maybe he can be picked up for questioning?’ He pointed to a copse of trees in the distance. ‘His chute drifted off over there, somewhere.’

  Gable sighed. ‘Whoever he is, I think he deserves a bit of a breather, before the police track him down.’

  They walked back towards the awaiting helicopters, while in the distance, the smoke from the wrecked Buccaneer now almost spent of its burning fuel, began to wane.

  It was then, Munroe had remembered what he had seen on his reconnaissance mission. He stopped, grabbing Gable’s arm. ‘We can’t leave yet guys, There’s still that other problem back at the hangar.’

  29

  Following the information received from Phillip Munroe, the soldiers set about defusing the explosives around the hangar.

  Damien Wyatt then ordered a full inspection of the farm. On discovering the farmhouse had also been rigged, it was evident everything had been intended to be destroyed.

  Now given the all clear, Alex Swan and Andrew Gable walked inside the hangar followed by Peter Cunningham.

  Next to a blue tractor, stacked on top of each other, they found two green metal cases which had contained the missiles. Pausing to look at them, Cunningham flicked open the lid.

  ‘Looks like you’ve reached your journey’s end, Peter,’ said Gable, reading a label with the manufacturer’s instructions in their native French.

  Cunningham just nodded to the Englishman’s cynical remark and closed the lid again. On the far side, they saw a mobile white box. It had also been checked over for explosives, but none had been found.

  Moving inside what looked like a windowless caravan, Swan saw it was just as he had thought. With a metal table set in the centre, with two large clamps resting on the surface, this could only have been a clean-room, set up to facilitate the handling of the warheads and the Locust Rain. Along one of the walls, hanging on pegs, were a set of yellow suits, while on the other side of the room, was a table with a row of wooden test tube racks. Swan noticed there were only two empty tubes resting in them. He went over and the others followed. Using his free hand, he
picked one up; there was still a couple of centimetres of opaque liquid left inside.

  Cunningham had suddenly become cautious to the Englishman’s actions. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  Lifting it up, Swan turned to him, shaking the tube. ‘Don’t worry, Peter, it’s not the Satan Bug,’ he quipped, referring to the old Alistair Maclean novel, ‘In fact, it’s perfectly harmless to humans and animals.’ He held it up to examine it closer, twisting it a full 360 degrees in his fingers and read the label. He then placed it back into the rack and picked up the other one to do the same. Although Swan remained silent, Gable guessed what his chief was thinking, as he had also spotted it.

  Cunningham sensed there was something wrong. ‘What is it, Alex?’

  Swan shook his head. ‘It’s nothing. I think we’re done here. Damien Wyatt can clear up the rest. It’s time to get back to the helicopters. We have a plane to catch.’

  *

  In the Moonbeams Bar in Mombasa, Henry Mallinson sat in the shade and sipped on his second cocktail of the day, while surveying bikini-clad young women dancing about in the blue surf, and lying under the natural tree canopies on the golden beach. He looked at his watch.

  In the background behind the bar, music was being played by a local radio station. It would soon be time for another hourly news bulletin. Almost eleven hours had passed and so far, he had heard nothing about the dam breach, or the chaos this had caused. An air of doubt began to claw at his mind. Surely, Cascade had been carried out?’

  Apart from a few holidaymakers, and by the way they were dressed, a couple of businessmen who sat outside the bar in the sun, he was the only one seated at the tables. There was still plenty of time for drinking later, now most of the local inhabitants and the tourists were still enjoying the sun.

  He then noticed three men enter and one of them had a white sling supporting his left arm. He stared at them for a few minutes, then decided to ignore them. He picked up his cocktail, and reclining in the chair, lifted a local newspaper, then put them both down again.

  The three men had pulled chairs to his table and were now sitting opposite him.

  Mallinson was suddenly curious. Then with a startled realisation, he suspected who these men were.

  Alex Swan was the first to break the ice. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Mallinson. My name is Alex Swan from the Services Investigations Department in London, this is my colleague, Mr Gable.’ He then gestured to the man on his right side. ‘And this is Mr Cunningham of the South African National Intelligence Service.’

  Mallinson shuffled in his seat, then took on a more relaxed, casual attitude. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. May I get George to fix you a drink?’

  Swan glanced at the cocktail, admiring the different coloured layers and the skewered olive and half-ring of pineapple on the long stick. ‘I must say I rather fancy one of those.’ He turned to the others. ‘What about you chaps?’

  Gable nodded. ‘Yes, after our long journey, I think that would be quite refreshing.’ He turned to Cunningham. ‘What about you, Peter?’

  After Cunningham had asked for a beer, Mallinson sensed he was being mocked. He shouted over to the barman who had also become curious of these strangers as he stood and cleaned a tall glass. ‘Can I have two Mombasa Mambos and a glass of beer please, George.’

  The barman nodded and using the glass he had just cleaned, filled it with a bottle of beer taken from the small cooler behind him. He then set about making the cocktails.

  Swan looked out to the sea. ‘Decided not to sit out on the beach, then Henry?’ He looked at Mallinson’s arms. ‘Perhaps work some more on that tan?’

  Mallinson was perplexed at hearing his first name. He folded the newspaper and pushed it away to the side. ‘I don’t think we’ve met, Mr Swan. Tell me, what brings you out here to Mombasa?’

  Swan responded. ‘I’m sorry, Henry. You were expecting Mr Gifford to be joining you, instead. Well, I’m afraid as from this morning, you’ve made his wife a widow and left his children without a father.’

  There was a pause, as George brought the drinks to the table.

  Mallinson then took another sip of his cocktail, doing his best to hide the disappointment he was feeling right now. Gifford was dead which could only mean one thing, Cascade had failed. ‘You seem to have me at a loss, gentlemen. Who is this, Gifford?’

  Cunningham put down his beer. He wanted to put his hands around this man’s neck, but Swan sensing this patted the South African’s leg. He then leant back in his chair.

  ‘Mr Toby Gifford was a test pilot for an aircraft manufacturer in the UK. Born in Rhodesia, his parents were slaughtered when terrorists attacked their farm, Haldenbrook Farm, near Plumtree. However, the start of our story goes back to last year, when you hired a band of South African and ex- Selous Scout mercenaries to steal a Buccaneer on its way from the factory at Brough, to the test airfield at Holme on Spalding Moor. The aircraft was transported to a small holding, where it was placed onto a flatbed lorry, and a frame was put over it to ingeniously disguise it as a large crane. Then, it was transported out on your ship, the Minerva, to the port of Beira in Mozambique, ending up at Haldenbrook. Ironically, just a mere six weeks later, Gifford then quit his job to return to Rhodesia. Allegedly, this was to run his family’s farm, but it was all part of a sinister plot, called Operation Cascade.’ Swan watched for Mallinson to give his reaction to this and was not disappointed when his assailant’s eyes flickered on hearing the name.

  Mallinson took another sip of his cocktail and smiled. ‘This is all beginning to sound like something Roger Moore would star in. I must say, Mr Swan, you have a very vivid imagination. Perhaps you should write the screenplay.’

  Swan chose to ignore him, but he could sense Cunningham’s rage increasing as Mallinson attempted to continue humouring them. He continued, ‘so both the Buccaneer and its pilot were now in place, the other part would be played by Professor Horace Baines, again, Rhodesian-born, and a biochemist at Porton Down who worked on a formula for LRX-435, a biotoxin known more familiarly as Locust Rain.’

  Mallinson let out a laugh. ‘Jesus, this just gets better and better. Do go on, Mr Swan, I’m really enjoying this. If I were a movie producer, I’ll be handing over a contract for you to sign by now.’

  Cunningham contained himself again, as Swan carried on, ‘you see Henry, among the mercenaries you employed the services of, was a man named Phillip Munroe, who never forgave you for sending a good friend of his to his death in Zambia. However, he continued to take your blood money and carry out his job, including helping with the theft of the Buccaneer and obtaining the Locust Rain phials from Baines. Except, when it came for Baines to steal them and hand them over, he got cold feet on the train he was to meet with him, and after Munroe managed to prise them from him, jumped to his death. He couldn’t see this through anymore, but couldn’t obviously see any other way out, either.’

  Mallinson interrupted, raising his hand. ‘So, what you’re saying, is I contributed to his suicide?’

  Swan just nodded. ‘You now had your weapon for the job and all you needed was a delivery system, and because you were also familiar with how Locust Rain worked, a suitable target. The obvious one would be a dam of which you chose the Kariba in Zambia. Trouble was, there was a little fly in the ointment in the shape of Jericho Kuwani and his DAGA party. His guerrilla camps are situated all along the north shore of the lake, and he has some pretty serious hardware such as Strela Two, air to surface missiles posing a direct threat to your scheme. That’s why you sent Jev Barratt into the area, so he could scout it for you.’ He turned to Cunningham. ‘Which brings me to the involvement of my South African friend here. The delivery system you chose to use with the Locust Rain, happened to be available in the country next door. So, you arranged for your little band to acquire two AS-30 surface to air missiles from an air base, as Gifford knew these were used with the South African Air Force Buccaneers. Need I go on?’

  Mallinson finished his cocktail
. ‘A very interesting analysis, Mr Swan. Some of it quite feasible.’ He rose from his chair. ‘But I’m afraid you have the wrong man. I’m a businessman, not some megalomaniac, hellbent on bringing misery to a nation that I love. Why would I want to flood the lands and cause mass famine and death to thousands of people for centuries to come?’

  Swan looked up at him. ‘A businessman soon to have no business. Under black majority rule, your shipping company is about to have its import and export licence revoked. Seems the new government have opted to use an arch-rival of yours for their trading needs, a Captain Jack Mallory, I believe. You’ve been in competition with him all through the bush war. You see, Mr Mallinson, trying to have me murdered in Salisbury, got me into hospital, where I was fortunate to meet a fellow patient of your acquaintance. He told me lots of things about your Trans-African shipping trade. For example, how under UDI, you were the sole-trader for imported goods, some of which was most probably contravening the embargoes put on the country since 1965. When you heard you were about to be closed down, I think you got together with some of your colonial hardliners and formulated this plan. And, it is strange, that despite not telling you what Locust Rain, a top secret experimental biological weapon does - you seem to already know this. Which means, you could have only got this information from Professor Baines.’

  Mallinson dipped his head in silence. Then, in what can only be a reactive rage to Swan’s conclusion, he picked up the half-filled cocktail glass, and smashed it on the floor. ‘Prove all this then, Mr Swan!’ He went to walk away but then turned on his heel. ‘And despite you are probably here to arrest me, I think the extradition laws here will state otherwise. I’m not going anywhere.’

  Gable decided it was his turn to speak. ‘We don’t have to prove anything. We have your file, and the pages from your desk diary, as well as the MI5 transcripts from the tap on your phone. In my old police days, this would be known as ‘banged to rights.’