by D C Macey
‘Are you sure Bob is in the lockup?’ said Helen.
‘Yes, the lockup’s really just a giant wire cage, he’s there alright. We saw him.’
‘Is he hurt?’
‘Can’t say for sure, looks as though they have him tied to the fencing.’
‘I thought he was probably asleep,’ said Charles.
‘Now here’s my plan. I and four of Charles’ morani will work back around to a spot behind the warehouse and wait.
‘Charles, your senior moran,’ Sam rested a hand on the shoulder of the warrior crouched next to him, ‘should take four men to the end of the runway and get in a position to attack the dugout. Their job is to take out the defenders there to prevent them firing down the runway at us when we cross back here with Bob. Now this is very important - you’ll remember as we went round together, I pointed out the shoulder-launched rockets, the tubes they have placed beside their dugout. I need them brought back to this point as quickly as possible.’
Sam paused to allow Charles a chance to translate for the warriors.
‘Charles, I would like you to get to the other end of the runway, to the very end. You’ll have cover there where the bush has regrown right back to the edge. When the two guards patrolling the runway’s edge reach the corner, you and your men take them out. Your only targets are the two patrolling guards. Then, as soon as you strike - but not before, I want the senior moran to go into action at the dugout end. Then we’ll move on the guards at the warehouse. Finally, once we’ve grabbed Bob we will come directly back across the runway to here.
‘I don’t know how long we’ll have before the guards on their break kick back into action or how many more men Ro has in the office building. We will be lucky to have two minutes before reinforcements start to turn out. So, let’s make every second count.’
‘What’s the rocket for?’ said Helen.
‘My goal is to rescue Bob. The military want ACE rescued. Right now, we don’t have the tools to get it away from Ro, so the next best thing will be to destroy it - at least that will keep it out of other people’s hands. There won’t be time to rescue Bob and destroy it while I’m over there. Once back here, I’ll use a rocket to blow the damned thing up. That should satisfy everyone - except Ro.’
‘What about Ro and the rest of his men?’ said Helen.
‘As soon as we’ve snatched Bob, we’ll fall back to this location, and then carry on to the vehicles. I’ll follow as soon as I’ve blown up ACE. Then it’s hell for leather to the river and across at the ford. We should be able to hold them off from the other side for a while. I’m guessing once Ro sees the ACE is destroyed, a desire for revenge will be trumped by the need to get out of here ahead of any authorities that he must know will be closing in on him.’
Again, Charles provided a translation for the morani. It was clear they were delighted, welcoming the opportunity to dole out punishment for the death of their brother warrior.
‘So, timing is going to be critical. All three attacks must be launched in strict order or we lose the element of surprise. If we get the timing right, they won’t have time to put up any resistance. Those of us attacking the warehouse and the defensive position will get into our positions, wait, and watch. We will strike only after the patrolling guards reach the corner and turn at the far end of the runway, where you will be waiting, Charles. Exactly as they turn, you attack. Everyone happy with the plan?’
The shadows dispersed into the night leaving Helen with Angel and two morani, who were to act as a rear guard. The minutes slipped by, and while maintaining the strict silence that Sam had ordered, Helen, Angel and the rear guard crawled the short distance back to the edge of the bush. The runway was close enough to touch. Then the silence was broken by a whispered voice.
‘What if it goes wrong?’ said Angel.
‘It won’t,’ said Helen.
‘But it’s all such a patchwork, so many variables.’
‘It’ll work, stop worrying. Sam understands these things.’
There was an anxious hiss from the shadows as one of the morani expressed displeasure at their talking. Angel fell quiet, and Helen settled down to wait and watch.
• • •
Sam was tucked in to the immediate rear of the open-sided warehousing. From his vantage point, he could see the lockup with Bob lying inside, and the row of vehicles. One long wheelbase Land Rover was in British Army camouflage colours, and its peculiarly shaped fibreglass superstructure marked it out. The others were a selection of civilian 4 x 4s. Two men sat beside the lockup, their seating positions ensuring they could see along the line of vehicles. Away to his right, at the end of the runway, Sam could just make out the little raised mound of earth that marked the defensive position. The intermittent glow of a cigarette indicated that the guards there were relaxed.
To Sam’s left and immediately beyond the warehousing was the office building. It was quiet now, but he knew there were two guards taking a break inside. Sam was unsure how many other men were inside, and he recognised that not knowing was a danger. He had to live with that as best he could.
Low and intermittent, the sound of the dawn was just starting to splutter into life as the first light crept into the eastern sky. He knew, in only a few minutes, the bush world would be filled with singing and rustling in the growing light. He let his eyes cast across the runway, knew Helen and the others would be watching from directly opposite his position. Then he turned his head to check on the mobile patrol’s progress. Approaching the farthest end of the runway, now too far away for detail to be discernible, only their torches played clearly against the bush line, where the once cleared land had regenerated growth back to the runway’s edge. They would be turning at any moment now. He glanced to the morani ranged to either side of him. Using hand gestures and facial expressions he had signed their tasks as best he could. They had nodded understanding; he had to trust they had picked up what he needed.
• • •
Charles squatted in the bush, two morani to either side of him. The lightening sky had done nothing yet to illuminate them in the still darkened shadows of the bush. They remained invisible to the two guards whose torches had steadily worked their way along the edge of the runway; now the guards were close, very close, just three or four paces from the corner. They would turn at any moment.
Twisting the shaft of his spear slightly, Charles allowed the long-bladed head to rest against the upper thigh of the young moran who knelt to his left. He gently pressed the flat of his blade against the moran’s flesh until he felt a slight resistance. With his other hand he brought the balled end of his rungu to rest on the thigh of the moran to his right. He could sense the anticipation in the air as his young morani tensed, ready for the off. He maintained a steady pressure.
A torch beam flicked past them, failed to pick them out; but had it done so, Charles could tell it would not have mattered. The guards were not even looking now - their senses were relaxing with the approaching daylight and the reassuring calls of the dawn chorus. They just wanted their break. The torch beams swung away, forming an arc as the guards started to change direction.
At the same instant, Charles lifted his spearhead and rungu from the flesh of his men, releasing them. Like greyhounds loosed from the trap, both men leapt up and, in silence, stepped clear of the bush, launching their spears towards the unguarded backs of the two guards.
A lifetime of practice ensured the spear hands that needed to be steady in the face of a charging lion launched their missiles true. Simultaneously, the long-bladed spearheads reached their targets’ backs. One died instantly, dropping to the ground without a sound, the spear point having plunged through the back of his ribcage and straight through his heart.
The second guard dropped forward to his hands and knees, the shaft sticking up from his back, straight to the sky, its blade embedded in his left lung. The man had no breath to cry out and just moaned as the young moran closed on him. Pulling the rungu from his waistband the
moran raised it high and brought it down on the guard’s head. He died instantly, his skull collapsing under the blow.
Charles signalled the second pair of morani forward. They moved out from cover to help the first two warriors carry the guards away into the bush. Charles retrieved the abandoned torches and switched them off before he too stepped back into the anonymous bush where his young warriors were busy extracting their spears from the dead men’s bodies.
• • •
The senior moran was kneeling on the ground. Head up, he had been staring intently down the length of the runway, maintaining an unwavering watch on the slow bobbing beams of the guards’ torches, toy-like in the distance as they worked round the runway perimeter. He was also aware of the cigarette smoke and sounds of quiet chatter emanating from the dugout that was just a few paces in front of him.
He saw the beams of the distant torches swing round as the patrol reached the far end of the runway and began its turn. A moment later the distant beams tilted, shuddered and rolled as though they had been dropped to the ground. The beams caught a moment of movement and then went out. It had begun.
Bringing his focus closer to home, he began to crawl forward. The morani who were spread out to either side did the same and the warrior line rapidly advanced on the defensive position. Reaching the edge of the little trench, the senior moran stood and leapt over the earthwork, dropping down into the trench.
He landed between the two guards who had been sitting peacefully on upturned wooden boxes, their weapons resting against the side of the trench. Both men cried out in shock and one leapt up, reaching for his weapon. The other couldn’t move. The senior moran had angled his spear down towards the man’s belly as he dropped. The spearhead sliced through flesh and vitals. Driven by the senior moran’s bodyweight the long broad blade kept moving down, finally emerging from deep between the guard’s legs to embed itself in the wooden box on which the guard sat.
The guard did not understand what had happened, with one hand he gripped the spear shaft, with the other he reached between his legs. Instantly, both hands were bloodied and foul, he tried to stand but couldn’t. The pain signals at last reached his brain and he screamed loud. A young moran standing above the trench swung his rungu and shattered the man’s jaw to stop the noise. He swung again and broke the guard’s skull, killing him.
The senior moran grappled with the surviving guard, preventing him from picking up his firearm. Two more morani dropped into the trench and the guard realised it was all up for him. His shouted alarm call died on his lips when one of the newly arrived morani thrust a sharp knife into his throat.
Blood pumped out of the opened throat and sprayed across the morani who revelled in this further revenge for yesterday’s death of their brother moran. As the blood flow ended and the guard’s body went limp, the senior moran let it fall to the bottom of the trench. He pointed to the tubes sticking up at either end of the trench and ordered his men to remove them. The men grabbed a tube each and clambered out of the trench.
Time was tight with the daylight growing minute by minute but the senior moran took a moment to look across at the open-sided warehouse, trying to gauge Sam’s progress before he led his band in a run directly down the runway, to carry the shoulder-launched rockets to their rendezvous point.
• • •
Sam had watched the silhouette of a moran appear behind the defensive trench then drop out of sight, he guessed into the trench. No gunfire followed. Then more morani appeared and they too dropped into the trench. He thought he heard a cry, knew he had, but was thankful that the dawn chorus was now cranking itself up; to the unaware, the distant cries had merged into the steadily building wall of noise from a myriad of different birds and animals and insects. Today it sounded different, louder than he had heard before, as though an unconscious sense of anticipation permeated the bush.
The coming of daylight revealed another change. The long days of blue skies and burning sun were gone. Yesterday’s patchy clouds had been harbingers of change. This morning’s sky was a mass of grey and black cloud, piling up high, bulging fit to burst, heavy with rain and just waiting for nature’s cue to release its load.
While he’d watched the distant morani move into action there had been a tightness in his stomach, something he always felt just before action. Now, as he raised a hand to trigger his attack, the tightness subsided, as it always did. He looked to left and right, saw the morani were ready, waiting for the signal. His hand dropped, and they swung into action.
Sam and the four morani stood as one; while two morani paused to launch their spears at the guards, Sam and the other two closed in at the run. The morani were to deal with the guards while Sam needed to find the key to the lockup cage.
The sitting men were caught completely off guard. All they could do was turn their heads in response to the movement at the rear of the warehousing and note the blurs that were the spears hurtling across the open space towards them.
One spearhead punched through its target’s breastbone, slicing through the lung behind and emerging through the ribcage at the rear to embed itself in the chair back. The man groaned and dropped his cigarette. He coughed and, volcano-like, a puff of smoke emerged from his mouth, followed by a flow of frothy red. Vainly, he clawed at the spear shaft where it had entered his chest. He looked at it, then up at the moran rushing across the concrete floor towards him.
There was no time for his consciousness to register the pain he felt in his chest before the heavy end of the moran’s swinging rungu met the side of his head, shattering his skull. The second blow was unnecessary but was delivered regardless, coming down from above and splitting the skull in two to leave the brain exposed to nature and the first of the morning flies that were quick to settle on the exposed jelly.
The second spearhead met more resistance in the stock of the guard’s machine pistol; it was deflected to one side while knocking the guard off his chair and onto the ground. His weapon still secure on its strap, the guard looked up at the moran closing on him, raised the barrel of his weapon and pulled the trigger. The burst of fire put three rounds into the moran: leg, groin, belly, the wounded warrior dropped to the ground. And then snarling, he raised himself on to his forearms and tried to continue his attack, dragging himself towards the grounded guard.
In complete fear, the guard fired again, determined to kill his attacker, and without thinking, he allowed his high-speed machine pistol to empty its magazine, in the process, the grounded moran’s head simply disintegrated. Then the guard wished he had exercised more control with his trigger finger. He saw his friend, still seated, skewered with a spear and being beaten with a club. In desperation, he tried to get up, but slipped in the splattered remains of the dead warrior’s head. He screamed and shouted for help while scrabbling across the concrete floor.
Sam’s plan A, the stealthy opening of the cargo cage and rapid dash away to safety, had vanished with the firing of the guard’s weapon and his desperate shouts for help. There was no advantage now in pausing to search the guards for the access key. Leaving the morani to deal with the still breathing guard, Sam changed direction and headed for the cargo cage.
As he approached, Sam could see his friend Bob, lying on the ground, hands secured and tied to the inside of the fence. He aimed his pistol at the padlock that held the gate shut.
‘Turn your eyes away,’ he shouted.
He saw Bob avert his gaze and immediately brought the muzzle close to the lock and fired. He fired again, and the broken lock dropped to the ground.
As Sam swung the gate open there was a scream behind him, it rose and fell in intensity several times. While crossing the cage, he chanced a glance in the direction of the scream. The second guard would never get the chance to shoot another Maasai. One moran was stood over the guard, repeatedly plunging his long-bladed spear into the guard’s back. Simple justice - the guard had killed his brother, now he killed the guard.
Turning his attention back t
o the cage, he belted the pistol, produced his pocketknife and knelt beside Bob Prentice. ‘Hold still, sir,’ said Sam, while cutting at the rope around Bob’s wrists.
‘Cameron? Sam Cameron, is that you?’ Bob was sitting up, twisting his wrists to offer the best cutting profile.
‘It’s me. Don’t ask why, long story. We’re on a tight line here.’
‘Right, right, I’m with you. But Sam, you know who’s behind this? It’s Ro.’
The rope fell away. Then Sam cut the ties from Bob’s ankles and pulled Bob to his feet. He realised Bob could hardly walk. Pushing an arm beneath his old commanding officer’s shoulder, he began to lead him from the cage. The morani saw the problem and hurried to help as Bob collapsed to the ground.
One moran stood between Bob’s legs, bent and took a leg in each hand. The other two morani each took an arm. They lifted Bob off the ground and set off at a run across the runway towards the rendezvous point. Sam swung the machine pistol off his shoulder and followed the morani out onto the runway. A few paces behind the group, he provided cover, running backwards, keeping his weapon trained on the office doorway.
He had not retreated twenty paces before the tea-break guards got their act together. The office door burst open and the two men ran out. They did not get the chance to fire as Sam put them down with a crisp burst of fire.
Still retreating, he spotted movement at an upper floor window and fired; saw through the remnants of shattered glass that he’d made contact. Then a weapon fired from a window further along. Sam heard a cry from one of the group behind him and immediately sprayed the offending window, hoping he’d got his man but couldn’t be sure - certainly made them keep their heads down for a moment. He fired again, emptying the magazine.