The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

David was appalled. He had never intended to get into any shooting match.

  ‘I’m not going after the British! De Mello was emphatic – we’re not to shoot!’

  ‘I know. This is simply to protect you if they come after you. Remember, they know who you are and where you two fit into things. Be careful, but if you have to shoot be assured we will support your actions.’

  With that, Taylor turned on his heel and stepped off the jetty onto the fishing vessel. It slowly backed away, its propeller churning the muddy water.

  They stood on the jetty and watched the fishing boat depart.

  David and Gisela drove off and headed for the main road that would take them to the restaurants that thronged the sea. They decided to eat out as the evening was still young.

  They left the restaurant after eleven. David drove. After a few miles, Gisela tapped him on the arm.

  ‘I think we’re being followed.’

  He looked in the rear-view mirror. There certainly was a set of lights behind them. He had seen them a while back, but they had not come any nearer.

  ‘You could be wrong, you know.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Even at the fishing harbour, I had the distinct feeling we were being watched.’

  He switched off the lights and let the car coast to a stop alongside the road. There were no streetlights as they were already beyond the harbour town. Suddenly, the other car’s lights also disappeared.

  ‘Shit. Something’s up.’

  ‘I don’t think they know where we’re staying,’ Gisela said, ‘That’s why they’re following.’

  ‘Okay, about a mile or so ahead is a roadside garage with an all-night convenience store and coffee bar. We’ll stop there but not go in. We’ll hide, leaving the car in a conspicuous position. They’re bound to see it. Let’s see what they do and who they are.’

  She agreed.

  Soon he swung the car off the main road and stopped in the park space next to the pumps. They climbed out and walked toward the store. There appeared to be nobody else around. Instead of entering, they swung left and then hid behind a large storeroom that was part of the garage. It was merely a corrugated roof supported by pillars joined by mesh-wire. The enclosure was packed with paraffin drums and gas bottles.

  They did not have long to wait. A few minutes later, a large Chevrolet sedan swept into the parking lot, its headlights sweeping the walls and store as it entered the forecourt. Three men alighted, dressed as tourists in long pants with their cotton shirts hanging out, no doubt to conceal their weapons. Two of the men were young, maybe in their late twenties, the third older and obviously the man in charge. Their pale complexions gave them away as new arrivals from Europe. David wondered whether they spoke Portuguese. They looked around the parking lot and when they saw David’s car, a short discussion followed. They slowly made their way to the store, two of them disappearing through the doorway, the third remaining outside. Within a few minutes the two re-emerged, clearly agitated. It was evident that not all was well and their frantic conversation was accompanied by gesticulations. The three spread out.

  ‘Christ! What are they going to do when they find us? Start a gunfight?’ David whispered.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  David wasn’t taking a chance. He drew the automatic from his belt. It was a Swiss SIG P210 automatic with a sixteen-shot magazine. He flipped the safety off and held the weapon alongside his leg, pointing at the ground. He watched the man approach. The man’s hands were empty. When he was three or four yards away, David stepped out from behind the storeroom, his automatic levelled at the man’s chest.

  ‘You’re looking for me?’ His voice was barely above a whisper.

  The man stopped, his head snapping back. He stared at the gun in David’s hand. Gisela then also emerged from behind the building with gun in hand. The man raised his arms above his head, an automatic reflex.

  ‘I was looking for somewhere to piss,’ he said.

  David didn’t move. ‘Really? Why are you following us?’

  He could see the other two opposite the property.

  The man sighed probably realising that bluffing was pointless. ‘We were sent to warn you of the consequences of what you are doing.’

  ‘Who wants to warn us?’

  ‘The British government.’

  ‘Really? Well, I’ve an answer for you. You said you wanted to piss. Well, you’ve come to the right place. You can start pissing in your pants right now.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ the man said.

  ‘Oh, I think you are going to. I’m sure you’re armed and I will shoot you, in self-defence of course. Your knees first. So, I suggest you start pissing now. I’m going to count to five. One … two … three …’

  ‘Oh, shit!’ was all the man said, the front of his pants revealing an expanding wet spot. Aggrieved, he added, ‘For fuck’s sake, you bastards.’

  ‘Good boy. No need to get nasty. Now, go back to your friends and leave. If anybody makes a move in this direction, we’ll shoot. Know something else: the PIDE know who we are and that you are following us. So, should anything go wrong you’ll land up without your nuts. I’m sure you know about the PIDE, they’re worse than the KGB and you’re British agents in this country under false pretences, aren’t you?’ David asked. His automatic never wavered.

  The man nodded and slowly backed off, his shoes squishing. The other two realised there was something wrong as their partner walked backwards, his hands still in the air. When he reached them, there was a quick flurry of conversation and then they all climbed into the car and drove back towards Beira.

  Gisela watched the tail-lights fading into the distance.

  ‘Piss in your pants, hey! That’s original, I must say. Not bad, maybe banking is not your forte. Intelligent, hot in bed, hot with a gun, what else?’ She laughed, putting her arms round his neck and kissing him full on the lips.

  That took him by complete surprise. ‘They’ll be back,’ he said.

  ‘I know, but not tonight.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Captain Le Clercq was expecting John Taylor and his men. He had received a coded radio communication.

  The fishing vessel drew alongside as it rose and fell in the slight swell. A pilot’s ladder was dropped from the tanker’s deck above and the men, encumbered by their weapons, scrambled up onto the steel deck.

  ‘Quite a force you have brought with you. Are you expecting the British to try something?’ The captain raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You’re damn right! They’re not about to give up. If this crude gets through to the tank farm, they’re going to look pretty ineffective in the eyes of the world. If you only knew what has been going on behind the scenes. They’ve gone to the UN to get permission to use force. They’re still pressurising the Portuguese who, thankfully, just shrug their shoulders with a ‘business as usual’ attitude, even with the Britain’s Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs paying Portugal urgent visits trying to twist their arms. I understand you are now a ship without a flag and a captain without papers?’

  The captain laughed. ‘Do I look concerned?’

  ‘Where’s the Bristow?’

  ‘She’s lying just outside the harbour in international waters. They’ve got their glasses trained on us most of the time.’

  ‘Good, I want them to see that we have heavily armed men patrolling your decks. That should deter any attempt at boarding.’

  Taylor withdrew a packet of cigarettes and put one in his mouth.

  ‘I wouldn’t light that if I were you. You’re standing on 16,000 tonnes of crude. Please ensure that your men know they’re not to smoke except in designated areas. I must insist that they hand in all lighters and matches,’ Le Clercq said.

  Taylor widened his eyes. ‘God yes, I understand. I’ll make sure this happens right away. We wouldn’t want to help the British get rid of this crude, do we?’

  Taylor knew that if the British attempted an assault on the tanker it would have to be
at night. Any approaching crafts’ intentions would be too obvious during daylight, the element of surprise not there.

  He decided not to retire for the night, although Le Clercq had assigned a cabin to him and his second-in-command.

  Around three in the morning, a lookout alerted him to four inflatable boats approaching, Zodiacs, powered by large outboard engines. British Marines, eight in each boat, recognised to be formidable foes anywhere in the world, came alongside the tanker.

  Taylor’s men remained hidden behind the high gunwales of the tanker. The soldiers in the dinghies immediately started to fire grappling lines across the tanker’s deck preparing to board.

  ‘Ahoy! Georgio V, we represent the British government and in terms of UN Resolution 221, we are boarding you. Any resistance will be met with force. If you do not resist, you will come to no harm.’

  Taylor looked over the gunwale and saw a Marine officer standing in the foremost Zodiac, a megaphone in his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Captain Le Clercq walk up next to him. He also had a megaphone in his hand.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s your ship, but if you agree, I’ll speak to them.’

  Without a word, Le Clercq handed Taylor the megaphone.

  He brought the megaphone to his mouth.

  ‘This ship and its cargo is the property of the French government. Any attempt by an armed force to board will be considered an act of piracy and will be met with force,’ he said, his voice amplified. ‘Secondly, you appear to need reminding that this vessel is anchored in Portuguese waters,’ he added.

  As he spoke, he signalled his men, who rose as one from behind the steel gunwales, their automatic weapons and bazookas at the ready. They were backlit by the numerous lights that illuminated the tanker’s bridge and deck. There would be no mistaking that they were armed.

  Taylor signalled again and this was followed by the sound of rifle and machine gun breeches being cocked.

  ‘Your move,’ Taylor said through the hailer.

  Each party stared the other down. Nothing further was said.

  The officer in the Zodiac spoke into a walkie-talkie. They turned round and roared off in the direction of HMS Bristow, abandoning their grappling lines.

  ‘Phew, that was close.’ Taylor’s voice was a breathless, husky sound. ‘Not often do you get to out-think the British.’

  ‘Clearly, the British are serious about avoiding any armed conflicted,’ Le Clercq said.

  Taylor had to agree with the captain.

  Both men watched the departing dinghies.

  ‘Merde, de Gaulle would have considered this something to see, the British returning with the tail between the legs. That stupid Prime Minister, he makes his navy fight one-handed. We are lucky. Of course, you realise they could have destroyed our cargo long ago with the firepower they have at their disposal. But no, the politicians make them play their stupid games. Trust me when I say I have tremendous respect for the British Navy.’

  Taylor wiped his face with his handkerchief.

  ‘God yes, they’re certainly in a tizzy. Doing what they did is so stupid. They must have realised we would protect the ship. I’m not going to make an incident out of this – I don’t want to embarrass the British Navy. Hopefully, they don’t want to mention this either. It would not bode well for us to antagonise them. The American press, who have not been very supportive of Wilson, will make mincemeat out of them.’

  CHAPTER 11

  David tossed and turned. The woven bamboo shutters of the bungalow windows were tied in the open position, allowing a slight sea breeze to waft through the room. They were both naked.

  He slid from the bed and groped through the clothing draped over a chair next to the bed looking for a pair of shorts. He pulled these on quietly. Taking binoculars, cigarettes and a lighter from the bedside table, he tiptoed out of the room on bare feet.

  The beach sand underfoot was cool. He walked along a well-worn path, which wound its way through the palm trees interspersed between the bungalows towards the beach, where he could hear the sounds of the surf. The sky was free of clouds, a half moon rippling its reflection on the water. Towards the south, he could see the lights of Beira and, out to sea, the lights of the ships anchored in the bay.

  The events of the last twenty-four hours had his mind in turmoil. When he took on this job, he never for a moment believed it could lead to the possible use of weapons. He was no more than a glorified bank clerk, not an undercover agent. Yes, he had no problem sourcing goods for Rhodesia or establishing letters of credit or anything else which would assist the country, but he drew the line at violence. If breaking the embargo demanded that he look the other way, he would do that too. Drawing a weapon on somebody else, well, that was an entirely different matter. What made it worse was that he had done this without thought. He had acted out of pure reflex. This must have sent a definite message. The British would now consider him dangerous.

  He lit a cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. He could see the small fishing boats anchored just beyond the shoreline through his binoculars, the fishermen after line fish in the shallows.

  He knew it would be difficult to extract himself from where he now was in this operation. Any attempt to do so would be misinterpreted and affect his career. All he could do was to try to separate his operation from that of John Taylor and his minions and, at all costs, avoid direct confrontation with the British.

  He heard a soft footfall behind him and turned to see Gisela. She was dressed in a long, collarless cotton T-shirt that reached to just above her knees. Her hair was loose and cascaded to her shoulders, blowing in the light sea breeze. She stopped alongside him and lowered herself cross-legged to the sand.

  ‘What ails thee, Jock?’ she asked, laying her head on his shoulder. He caught her smell.

  ‘I just couldn’t sleep. What happened in the car park was bad. I’ve never pulled a gun on anybody before.’ He paused. ‘Christ, I’ve never even walked around with a revolver except as a showpiece while in uniform.’

  ‘David, you must believe that they had something in mind. They were also armed. Yes, maybe they didn’t want to harm us, but you’ll never be sure. You had to take the initiative, you had no choice.’

  ‘What if the man had done something threatening? Was I supposed to shoot him?’

  She ran her fingers through his hair, not immediately replying. ‘Rather shoot him before he shoots you. We’re at war,’ she finally said.

  ‘Uh-uh, you’re at war, not me. There’s a difference.’

  ‘Not true, you’re a mercenary paid by the Rhodesian government. You’re now committed.’

  ‘Bullshit. I am not paid to shoot people.’

  She turned towards him, her face inches from his.

  ‘Listen, just take this a step at a time. That’s all we can do. Hopefully this will all be resolved in a couple of months.’ She leant forward and kissed him softly on the mouth, her tongue probing his tongue. She took his hand and placed it on her breast. He could feel her hard erect nipple. She slid her other hand down the front of his shorts, closing her fingers around him.

  They made love on the beach under the stars, the palm trees rustling, accompanied by the intermittent thud as the breaking waves crested and toppled over on the sand, oblivious for a few moments to the world around them.

  The two British agents sat on the sand in the shadow of a tamarisk thicket no more than forty yards away. They made no move. They had returned to Beira only to be sent out again to check every holiday cottage complex along this stretch of coast. They had found the Mercedes and thus knew were the two were holed up.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Georgio V slowly entered the harbour. Two tugs nudged her alongside the oil terminus quay. Surprisingly, there were several people on the quayside awaiting her arrival. David had no doubt that these included one or two British agents. The Portuguese had resisted pressure from the British government and i
gnored their request that the ship be barred from entry.

  Discharging the crude oil would be an entirely different matter, as the tank farm and its facilities were the property of Rholon, a British-registered company. No doubt, they were now feeling the heat. God knows what Wilson would threaten them with if they dared receive the crude in their tanks and attempt to pump this through the pipeline to Umtali.

  David looked at the others on the quay, hoping to recognise the three he and Gisela had encountered in the car park a few nights ago. If they were here, they must be watching from a distance.

  The first to disembark was John Taylor and his men, now unarmed. He approached David and Gisela with a contented grin on his face. They shook hands.

  ‘Well, that’ll teach the bastards. They sent a raiding party the first night we were out there. Thank God, we didn’t wait until the next day. Can you believe it? The bloody Marines had to back off.’ Taylor grinned from ear to ear, quite pleased with what had been achieved.

  ‘You were just lucky,’ Gisela murmured.

  ‘What do you mean … lucky?’

  ‘They’re British, you should know, if they really wanted to take you on, they could’ve. It’s all bloody politics. Some damn politicians are making all the decisions. Don’t forget, you were anchored in Portuguese waters. The Portuguese would’ve had every right to intervene,’ David said in support of Gisela’s statement.

  ‘I suppose you’re right, but as sure as shit, if they had tried anything I would’ve opened fire,’ Taylor said, intent on displaying his stance on the subject.

  ‘Where’s the frigate now?’ David asked.

  ‘Left the moment they realised the Portuguese were letting us enter the harbour.’

  ‘Well, there’s not much else I can do here. It’s now a matter between Rholon and London and yourselves. What are we to do now?’

  The discharge of the crude oil was indeed a serious problem. However, this was not to be handled locally, but rather from Salisbury at a very high level. Meanwhile, the Georgio V would remain alongside the tank farm with its crew aboard indefinitely.