Finally, the Rhodesians, owners of the cargo, realised that they had been thwarted. In turn, the South Africans knew they had no alternative but to obey the United Nations’ directive. Months later, the news now old, the South Africans bought the cargo and pumped it to a nearby refinery in the Durban area.
The purchase of the vessel, as well as the buying of the crude on the high seas, had gone well. David and Oosterwijk in the Netherlands had done their job. The British were resolute. The crude never got to Rhodesia but then nor had the Georgio V’s crude been pumped through the pipeline to the Rhodesian refinery at Umtali. Rholon’s board would not permit this. They had Wilson and the British Government on their necks, the consequences of doing so too risky. After all, they were business executives of the highest standing. Still, Ian Smith had thumbed his nose at Great Britain and got away with it. Captain Le Clercq was a hero and it was only by applying pressure that the more moderate members of the French government were able to keep President de Gaulle from any utterances, which would have only widened the rift between Great Britain and France.
****
David had now spent three months alternating between South Africa and Rhodesia. There were import and the few export transactions requiring his attention, but they were uncomplicated and easy to deal with compared to crude oil and helicopters. Gisela had returned to her ranch where David would occasionally visit. Neither of them had ever raised the question as to where their relationship was heading. It seemed that they agreed that the current situation, and in particular their work, was not an ideal environment to contemplate advancing beyond the relationship they now had.
Gisela spent every available moment on the farm. In fact, there were two farms. The smaller one was situated no more than twenty-five miles out of Salibury in the Sinoia district, given over to tobacco cultivation and dairy farming. The other was just over a hundred miles from Salisbury towards the Mozambique border, it with a herd of over six hundred cattle. The farm was divided into fenced camps to control cattle movement and to optimise grazing. Each camp had its own borehole, reservoir and cattle pens, these really small ranches within a large ranch. The farm was near thirty thousand acres in size and was run by the farm manager and his family, assisted by a number of black employees. Gisela’s farmhouse was still the original house first built on the farm, now renovated and enlarged with a veranda along its one length with drop-down canvas awnings. This was generally referred to as the ‘owner’s house’. An assortment of rattan chairs, couches and matching coffee tables, complete with scatter cushions, transformed the veranda into a friendly, relaxing, family gathering area. A circular driveway bordered by flower and rose beds in full bloom led to the house. Tall trees and lush lawns completed the picture.
The manager’s house, sheds and barns, and the other employees’ abodes, were a good half a mile away, a stream flowing between them. A winding dirt road joined the two complexes. The employees’ houses adjoined the huge cattle pens where the cattle were held awaiting transportation to the railhead and on to the abattoirs. These were practical and unostentatious. Those who occupied them never put down any roots, treating the houses as a place to stay until they moved on.
It was Friday and Gisela had invited him to the ranch for the weekend. He left his offices, which were situated in the Trade and Industry ministry building, and at five drove to the Charles Prince Airport situated on the outskirts of Salisbury. At the flying club, he changed into clothing that was more suitable: shorts and a loose cotton shirt.
He threw his weekend tote bag behind the two seats of the Cessna 150 aircraft, securing it with a strap. Soon the aircraft gained speed down the runway. He gently eased her into the air, the airspeed indicator hovering between sixty and seventy knots as it slowly climbed, pointing the aircraft in the direction of the Centenary area. It had been a hot day and the small aircraft bucked in the near-ground turbulence. He levelled out just a thousand feet above the ground, the aircraft eventually settling down to a smooth flight. Salisbury was surrounded by numerous farms and, from the air, these were a patchwork of squares each dotted with a house and outer buildings, all joined by roads. As the distance from Salisbury increased so did the farms gain in size, the cultivated fields less numerous and the expanses of virgin bush far larger.
The picture tranquillity below belied the murmurs of dissatisfaction and underlying tensions that emanated from the indigenous population. African nationalism was the new catchphrase. To the north and east, the yokes of colonialism had already been cast off. To the east, Bechuanaland was now an independent Botswana; and Northern Rhodesia, an independent Zambia. Freedom was the rallying cry, most believing this to be the road to wealth and prosperity, an opportunity to be the masters of their own destiny. Already the tentacles of fear had invaded the farming community, ever since a ZANU terrorist squad had crossed the border and carried out night attacks on a few homesteads, killing farmers in their beds. The Rhodesian security forces had immediately responded, mounting an extremely successful pursuit-and-destroy operation, but all knew that this would not deter the nationalists, referred to as ‘terrs’.
The sun was low on the horizon, casting its last yellow-orange hue over the bush, the shadows long as the aircraft approached the farm strip. The wheels touched with a puff of dust, David taxiing towards the three people waiting for him at the end of the strip where a small corrugated-iron hangar had been built. Gisela was waiting with two servants. They embraced, sharing a short passionate kiss. She had an HK MP-54 submachine gun slung over her shoulder. She ordered the servant to collect his bag while he retrieved his HK from the aircraft’s passenger seat. The servants helped push the aircraft into the hangar, securing the sliding doors, after which they all piled into the open Land Rover for the short drive back to the homestead.
She drove at a fair speed, the vehicle trailing a cloud of dust. Although it was now dusk, she had a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose, her now-blonde hair streaming behind her in the wind. The few weeks in the African sun had worked wonders. Her long legs were tanned, as was her bare midriff, the blouse she wore tied in a knot below her breasts. She wore a pair of white shorts, but good sense had prevailed and her feet were shod in a pair of suede leather hiking boots.
‘So, how are things?’ he asked.
‘Great, but better now that you are here,’ she half-shouted above the noise of the Land Rover, a naughty grin on her face.
He looked down at the machine pistol.
‘The police said we were not to go anywhere without a weapon. I see you have yours as well. That’s sensible. Things are a little hairy at the moment,’ she said, reading his mind. Of course, he had read and heard about the attacks in the Centenary district.
If the homestead cast an aura of opulence from the outside, this was no match for the interior. The floors of both the lounge and adjoining dining room were of polished teak, as was the heavy and elaborately-carved furniture. Paintings of African bush scenes and the indigenous people adorned the walls. A well-stocked bar took up one wall and, next to it, a cabinet complete with locks and armoured glass contained a variety of exquisite hunting weapons. He knew that these had previously belonged to her husband.
She poured drinks while he freshened up and they retired to the veranda. A black servant already had a fire going in the barbecue built into the wall. Two huge steaks on a board covered by a square of white muslin could be seen. His mouth watering, he realised how hungry he was. He sat down on a sofa, Gisela sitting next to him, snuggling up close, placing a hand on his bare thigh, his leg jerking involuntarily. Both HK’s were on the floor next to them.
‘Have you heard of any terrorists near the farm?’ he asked.
‘I hope the police find and kill the whole lot of them.’
He was quite taken aback by the hatred and vehemence she displayed. It seemed abnormal.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he replied, ‘but I must admit that given my intelligence and were I in the same position as these blacks
, I’d probably also be hell-bent on killing you. ‘
Her face registered her surprise. ‘Really? Are you suggesting anything else?’
‘Not at all, but I think we need to be aware of something. These people are never going to give up. All this talk about Communists, Russians and Chinese, they really have nothing to do with this. They just help and supply weapons. These blacks, like the rest in Africa, just want to be free of the white man. We both know we are not going to stop them. Yes, we may for a while contain the situation, but stop? No, never. It’s not just Rhodesia. Watch, the same is going to happen in South Africa.’
They had been up this road before. The argument was going to lead nowhere.
‘But you fight them. Why, if that’s what you think?’
He couldn’t help smiling.
‘That’s because I’m stupid.’
‘What the hell’s that suppose to mean?’
‘I’m like everybody else here. I don’t want to change. I like what I’ve got.’ He then added as an afterthought, ‘Change will come at a price. They want what we’ve got and they will take it. Just as the Russians did when they captured Berlin. ‘
She thought the comparison strange but knew what he meant. It was a sobering thought.
The sound and smell of seared sizzling meat wafted through the veranda. Dinner was about to be served. Two servants had laid a small table covered by a white linen cloth, complete with wine glasses and candle sticks. An ice bucket containing an ice-cold, dry white wine stood on a small stand next to the table.
‘I thought we would have a romantic dinner. Hope you don’t mind the white wine. It’s too hot for red,’ she said, touching his arm and indicating the bucket.
The last remnants of the day disappeared as he sat down. He heard a generator start up in the distance, then the house’s security lights suddenly bathed the entire lawn for about a hundred yards in the distance in stark white electric light from its eaves. She saw his surprise.
‘I had this done straight after they murdered the Oberholzer family.’
‘Do you leave this on all night?’
‘No, I can switch it off from the bedroom. There are special motion sensors around the house which, when activated, will start up the generator.’
He nodded.
CHAPTER 24
He lay awake, his eyes open. Something had woken him. He lay naked beneath the bed sheet, as did she. They had fallen asleep after their lovemaking. She still slept. A tiny red light blinked on the bedside table next to her. He listened intently. Something bothered him and then he realised what – the insects in the nearby vicinity of the house were quiet. Had that woken him?
He gently shook her. As she woke, he gently placed his hand over her month issuing a faint ‘shh’.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he whispered, ‘Why is that red light blinking?’
‘Jesus, that’s an outer perimeter detector. It doesn’t activate the generator, but whatever activated it is not small,’ she said, already feeling for the machine pistols on the floor next to the bed.
He saw a faint shadow flick across the wall opposite the huge open window, the curtains drawn except for an opening a foot or so wide.
He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her towards him.
‘Come. Get out of the room.’ They had already had found their weapons. He pulled her as she slid across the bed on her backside, her feet groping for the floor. He realised he must be hurting her, his grip so tight on her arm but he was relentless, dragging her off the bed and through the open door into the passage.
The generator, why had it not started?
Suddenly the curtain billowed inward followed by a loud thump and then the sound of something rolling on the wooden floor. In a flash, he realised what it was.
‘Down!’ he shouted, dragging her to the floor and flinging himself on top of her.
The explosion was gigantic in the confined space of the bedroom, the shockwave lifting them both off the floor and flinging them back a few feet. The air was knocked from his lungs, his vision and hearing distorted, the dust thick in the passageway. Very faintly, he could hear her say something. His hearing had yet to return. Rifle fire, that’s what it was, realising that somebody was spraying the room from the window.
Miraculously still grasping the machine pistol, instinct took over. He slipped the safety and cocked the weapon in one smooth motion while crawling to the door, barely seeing the outline in the dust. The grenade had set something alight in the bedroom. He stuck the muzzle around the corner and pulled the trigger. The HK bucked in his hands as he wildly swept the room with the burst, hardly hearing the racket.
He crawled back to where she lay, reaching out to touch her. The moment his fingers closed on her, she sidled to him. With every second, his hearing improved. Now he could pick up gunfire in the distance followed by another explosion. Suddenly there was light, not much as this appeared to come from outside through the windows. He realised that the generator must have started up, as the security lights were now on. Dust still swirled in the passageway. He looked at Gisela. Although shocked and covered in dust, she appeared unhurt. Both of them were still completely naked. He heard more shots, these single shots fired from an automatic rifle. He also heard the sound of a vehicle engine. From the passage, he ran into an adjoining room to peer over the windowsill. The lawns were bathed in light. It dawned on him that with the security lights on, nobody from outside could look into the house, they would be blinded by the lights. He saw three men standing on the lawn, rifles in their hands. The AKs in their hands confirmed that they had to be terrorists. Gisela now stood next to him, also looking out.
She tapped him on the arm pointing towards the trio.
‘Look!’ he heard her say.
What’s it?’ he said, hardly hearing his voice.
‘God, it’s Jeremiah, the houseboy.’
Gisela grabbed a sheet off the bed in the room and wrapped herself in it. The towels, which had been laid out on the bed, now lay on the floor. He picked up a bath towel and put this round his waist. They had only one HK pistol between them. The other had been lost with the grenade explosion. Gisela disappeared from the room only to appear seconds later clutching a hunting rifle with a fitted telescopic sight. She worked the bolt action and he heard the cartridge slam into the breech.
The vehicle still approached although it was still not in sight. He thought it came from the sprawl of houses occupied by the management. The terrorists also heard the vehicle and took up position behind the trees, their weapons at the ready. Seconds later another two terrorists appeared gesturing to the trio, clearly indicating that the others were to follow. They promptly obeyed, running away from the house. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gisela lift the rifle and take aim. With a crack, the rifle jumped in her hands, she immediately worked the bolt action, the spent cartridge spinning into the darkness and clattering to the floor. He saw one of the fleeing men stop and fling both arms into the air and then fall backwards to the ground. By then, the others had disappeared in the darkness. Using the HK at that distance would have been a futile effort.
Gisela’s mouth was a thin line and pure hatred burned in her eyes. For a fleeting moment, he saw another person, somebody he did not know at all. Aware of an inner jolt of bewilderment, he did not know this strange woman wrapped in a towel.
‘That was Jeremiah, the houseboy. I had to kill the bastard. He was untrustworthy.’ She spat and then sunk to the floor turning, her back against the wall below the windowsill, her knees drawn up, her head bent between her legs. She started to cry.
Her revelation shocked him to the core.
A Toyota pickup swung into the driveway, skidding to a halt in front of the entrance to the house. Two men alighted, one black, one white both carrying FN rifles. David recognised them, the white man the farm manager, an Afrikaner named Botha, known as Kallie, and the other was Joseph, his overseer. Kallie saw David at the window and came run
ning over.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, taking in the fact that he was half-naked.
‘We’re all right. The main bedroom’s a mess. They tossed a grenade through the window. Fortunately, we were not in the room.’
Kallie stared at him. David began to feel uncomfortable. Eventually, he dropped his eyes and looked towards the lawn seeing the houseboy sprawled on the grass.
‘Christ! I see the bastards got Jeremiah.’
‘Not true,’ David hesitated for a second, ‘We did. He was one of them. Have a look, you’ll find his AK next to him.’
‘Hell, aren’t they full of surprises! The houseboy.’ Botha shook his head in disbelief, ‘He was a new recruit – has only worked here for a few months. He can’t be more than seventeen, eighteen.’ He turned his face away and spat at the ground, ‘It just shows you, you can’t trust these buggers – ever. We killed two of them. I reckon there were about twenty. We lost none of our own. This was a real hit-and-run operation, but it seems they were after the owner. The BSAP are already on the way and by first light you’ll see the first helicopters and trackers.’
‘Where are they going to look for them?’
‘Oh, they’re running north for the Mozambique border. You can be sure of that. It’s not too far, but they’ll start here, pick up the spoor. Where’s the lady?’
The Blockade Runners Page 16