As she drifted off into uneasy sleep, a lone jackal howled its mournful moon-song. It seemed to Steve to be a very appropriate ending to a perfectly horrible day.
SIXTEEN
Joseph Tshuma had several hours headstart on the truck. However, after the initial adrenalin of packing up and giving chase faded, they realised that speed was not only unnecessary, it was foolhardy. They needed to follow the man, not catch him. Greg’s suggestion, once they had picked up Tshuma’s spoor, was that he and Samson would track the man on foot, with Richard hanging well back in the truck.
They had no idea if Tshuma would expect them to follow him. As far as the black man was concerned, he was simply being chased by an irate father. He would be alert, but he had no reason to suspect that Richard and Greg knew about UZIP. Of this, Greg was reasonably certain. Both men felt sure that, while Tshuma would take care not to be followed, he would not at first be alarmed if he spotted them. He would have probably heard the truck roaring around in the night. He would have expected that—he knew Richard’s temper well. They had to take care tomorrow. If he realised he was being persistently tracked he might start to wonder why, and then he would try every trick he knew to lose them. Greg was banking on the man’s bush experience to be that which he picked up during the war. That way, tracking him would be a matter of thinking one step ahead of him, a familiar task and one he was confident of being able to do. If Tshuma deviated from this method, Samson, one of the best trackers around, would be used to track the man, using the same skills he employed for tracking animals.
They expected Tshuma was armed and knew he would not hesitate to kill if he saw them, particularly if he thought that their chasing him had gone beyond that of a father’s revenge. They were going to need all their experience, and a great deal of caution, to stay on the man’s trail yet remain undetected. They had covered perhaps three kilometres when Greg said, ‘This is madness. Let’s stop before we run over the bastard.’
Richard agreed. Back in camp his anger over his daughter and the shocking revelation that Steve had slept with David had caused him to want to get away, as far away as he could. But now he was thinking clearly again, putting his anger and sorrow aside, burying it out of reach until he had time to face it properly. He realised the importance of clearing his mind of everything other than the task of tracking Tshuma. He had done it before, put his worry over Kathy away to be dealt with later in order to be efficient in the field. He could do it again.
While Samson and Greg scouted around to see if they could pick up Joseph Tshuma’s tracks, Richard set up a temporary camp, erecting two tents and lighting a tiny fire to heat their food. He found it all came back to him easily. By the time the others returned he had a large stew, peas and baked beans bubbling in a pot over a fire which barely smoked or sparked. ‘Any sign?’
Greg nodded towards Samson. ‘Where was he during the war? He picked up Tshuma’s tracks immediately. He says the bastard passed through this area an hour ago.’ He took a plate of steaming food from Richard and sat down.
Richard grinned at Greg. ‘Samson had a moral dilemma. Remember Velapi?’
‘Funny. I was thinking about him this afternoon.’
‘Yeah, well he was Samson’s half-brother and he was fighting with us as you know.’
‘So?’
‘Samson’s other half-brother was with ZANU,’ Richard named Robert Mugabe’s party. ‘His wife’s brother-in-law was with ZANLA. His own father was a conscientious objector and . . .’ he paused dramatically, winking at Samson, ‘and . . .’ he went on finally, ‘Poppie, his number one wife, got the other two wives on side and they all threatened him with no sex if he took sides.’
‘Jesus!’ Greg was only half amused. ‘It was a helluva war wasn’t it?’
Samson ignored them both. He knew the real reason he had not fought for independence was because he saw no reason for it. Life under the Smith regime was good to him. He had work, a roof over his head, a few cattle, a field of mealie, several wives and a boss who was fair and just and for whom he held a deep respect. Why unbalance the status quo? He had also drawn the line at fighting with the whites as well. So he stayed and looked after Pentland Park throughout the entire war.
‘I do not think this man will be too hard to find.’ He held out his hand for his plate of food.
Richard passed him a plate. ‘Why not?’
‘He is soft. He is not at ease in the bush.’
‘Don’t underestimate him,’ Greg advised. ‘He might be soft but he survived the war and he’s prepared for another one. He’s also cunning as hell.’
Samson chuckled. ‘Does not a wounded leopard leave a trail of blood for all to follow to his thicket? Does not a wounded buffalo find deep cover with all the other buffalo, making him easy to find? Does not a wounded elephant sing a song of death for all to hear?’
‘He’s not wounded,’ Richard said. ‘Yet.’
‘Yes he is, Gudo. He is limping.’
Richard did not insult Samson by asking how he knew. Samson’s ability as a tracker was uncanny. ‘This is not an animal, my friend.’ His head boy had yet to realise the full implications of Joseph Tshuma’s fleeing. ‘This man will not do what we expect him to. At all costs, he will try to stop us finding him because the men he is seeking are bad men who want to put this country back into war.’
‘Eeeiii!’ Samson shook his head. ‘What for this man want to do this thing?’
Richard knew he was entitled to an explanation but he also knew that the man did not have a political bone in his body. He kept his answer simple. ‘Joseph Tshuma and his friends want the whites out of Zimbabwe. They are determined to do this if it means killing every last white man, woman and child.’
‘Eeeiii!’ Samson said again. ‘Then this man is a fool. He will be easy to find.’
Richard and Greg exchanged grins. Samson’s simplistic beliefs were, in part, one of the reasons they both loved Zimbabwe. Gentle and honest, with an irrepressible sense of humour and a childlike belief that the white man would provide, deeply tribal and committed to farming techniques which went back to his great-great-grandfather’s day, Samson was the embodiment of yesterday’s Africa. The Africa which crept into the blood and thumped in the heart and lay, warm and solid, in the gut. Samson and his Africa were that for which both men had fought to keep and, as long as there was a fair sprinkling of Samsons in the new Zimbabwe, they could accept the changes and keep their love for their adopted country alive.
‘You will not take any chances, old one,’ Richard said in Shona. ‘You are as my father but you will do as I say.’ To this astonishing mixture of African deference and white baas authority, Samson merely said, ‘The little frog who hops too far will one day overshoot the lily pad,’ leaving Richard uncertain whether he had been reprimanded, whether Samson was agreeing with him, or whether Samson had been referring to Joseph Tshuma.
A sudden crackle in the bushes some thirty metres away had Richard and Greg grabbing for their rifles but they relaxed when they saw the dark bulky shape of a rhinoceros. The animal, curious at what he could hear so well and smell so acutely, but which his terrible eyesight did not allow him to identify, had come to observe them, standing a safe distance away, sniffing and twitching his ears. They expected him to stay there. But the rhinoceros, typical of all wild things, was not doing what he was supposed to do. Suddenly he was snorting and chuffing and his great head bobbed up and down.
‘You know that story about rhino stamping out fires?’ Greg began softly, so as not to startle the animal and precipitate a charge.
‘It’s not true,’ Richard whispered back.
Greg was watching the rhinoceros. ‘Are you sure?’ The animal appeared to him to be overly nervous.
‘It’s a myth.’ Richard was also watching the animal carefully. He had had rhinoceroses observing him many times. They usually stood quietly for a few minutes before melting back into the bush.
Samson jumped to his feet and, in one fluid mo
tion, had vaulted himself into the back of the truck.
‘Some bloody myth,’ Greg shouted urgently, sprinting for the truck.
The rhinoceros charged, head down, with incredible speed.
Richard made it to the truck a half second behind Greg. However, the rhinoceros ignored them, running straight at the small fire which it proceeded to destroy, using his back feet to scatter ashes and the contents of the cooking pot in a six metre radius, before thundering off into the night.
‘It’s supposed to be a myth,’ Richard said, incredulous, when the crashing of the fleeing animal had quietened down.
‘Doesn’t look like much of a myth to me,’ Greg was observing the ruins of their fire.
‘It is believed they only do this thing when they think the fire is the droppings of another rhinoceros,’ Samson offered shakily.
‘That’d be a bloody first,’ Greg swung down from the truck. ‘A rhino who shits like a stew.’
‘He must have feet of steel,’ Richard followed Greg out of the truck cautiously, getting his gun and keeping it ready in case the animal came back. ‘That fire didn’t bother him at all.’
Samson stayed in the truck. ‘If it is all right with you, Gudo,’ he said, ‘I will sleep here tonight.’
‘Want me to pass you your tent?’ Richard asked sarcastically.
‘Yes please, Gudo.’ He was no coward, and he had faced charging animals with Richard before, but the thought of sleeping on the ground with that big brute lurking in the area was too much.
Richard quickly dismantled Samson’s tent and bundled it over the side of the truck. Samson settled down for the night, curling his body around boxes and tin trunks and a large barrel of water and covering himself awkwardly with the tent.
‘Sweet dreams, you old rascal.’ Richard wished he had thought of sleeping in the truck himself.
Greg was noisily kicking the scattered dying embers back into place.
‘Why don’t you send the rhino an engraved invitation?’ Richard asked dryly.
‘Take your pick, a rhino or a bushfire.’
‘Some bloody choice.’ Richard picked up the cooking pot and shook out the remainder of the stew. He left the lid off. The ants would clean it out during the night, making the job of washing the pot easier and diverting their attention away from his tent.
Greg kicked sand over the fire. ‘That should do it.’
‘Never seen anything like it,’ Richard muttered. ‘What chance does this continent have? Even the bloody animals believe what they read about themselves.’
‘Didd?’
‘What?’
‘Shaddup.’
‘Okay.’
They settled down, smoking and sipping whisky from tin mugs. ‘Better not have too much of this stuff.’ Greg was pouring himself another healthy slug from the bottle.
‘Nice to see you’re taking this thing seriously,’ Richard grunted, watching the liquid gurgle into the mug.
‘Helps me to sleep.’
‘Yeah, right.’ He thought about the rhinoceros. ‘Here, give me another shot.’ He held out his mug.
A butter-yellow moon was rising and they could see quite clearly.
‘What about Steve?’ Greg asked finally.
‘Dunno.’ Richard didn’t want to think about it.
‘Tell me to mind my own business if you like.’
‘Mind your own business.’
‘You were good together,’ Greg went on remorselessly.
‘So were Samson and Delilah.’
‘Can’t you get ’round it?’
Richard sighed. ‘Shit, I don’t know. How do you get around something like this? It’s not just her and me, it’s David too. He’s hurt. I have to think of him.’
‘That’d be a first.’
Not a lot of men could get away with such a comment with Richard, but he and Greg had shared too many moments around too many fires for him to take offence. ‘This is different.’
‘Don’t make any hasty decisions. See how it feels when you get home.’
‘Yeah, it’s all I can do.’
‘What about Penny?’
Richard shook his head. ‘Buggered if I know. Penny has always been wild.’ He sighed again. ‘Bloody kids, Greg, bloody kids.’ ‘They’re hardly kids any more, old Didd.’
‘Yeah. And the problems get bigger with them. I wish Kath . . .’ He let it hang in the air.
‘You still miss her, don’t you?’
‘All the time. I think of her all the time. At least . . .’ He stopped, realising suddenly that since he met Steve he had stopped talking to Kathy in his head, ‘Oh Christ, I don’t know,’ he burst out. ‘Let’s drop the subject.’
They were up at first light and, after a hurried breakfast, started to track Joseph Tshuma in earnest. The man’s boot had a five-diamond design on the sole and a plain heelprint. He had not followed the road, striking further north-west, and was not bothering to cover his tracks. They tracked him easily all morning. The land was flat, dotted with kopjies and covered with acacia and mopane trees. Richard held back in the truck with Greg and Samson going ahead on foot. Greg would leave Samson at a prearranged high point of land, going ahead a kilometre or so to another kopjie. He would then signal back to Samson who, in turn, would signal back to Richard. Richard would drive to where Samson had waited but Samson would have left already for the place Greg had been and Greg would have gone on another kilometre or so. In this fashion, they crossed the vast Tuli flatlands, the noise of the truck always a good distance behind the rest.
Sitting in the cab of the truck, scanning the horizon through binoculars, was hot and boring work. The heat pressed down on Richard, as thick as a hairy blanket. He thought briefly of the lions he and Steve had seen yesterday and wished they were here now. They could terminate everyone’s problem by removing Tshuma’s need for fresh air. ‘There’s never a bloody lion around when you need one,’ he grumbled aloud, then laughed at himself.
Because Greg and Samson were travelling light they covered a surprising distance during the morning. They met up at noon. ‘How far behind him are we?’ Richard stopped the truck under some trees to try and cool it down.
‘Bugger must have walked all night. Couple of clicks back his tracks were about eight hours old.’
Samson nodded. ‘He is tired. See how he scuffs his left foot.’
‘He could be asleep just ahead of us, then.’ Richard was getting impatient. ‘This method of tracking him is hellishly slow,’ he complained.
‘We’ll dump the truck tomorrow,’ Greg squinted ahead. ‘We’ll be getting into rougher country by then.’ He grinned and clapped Richard on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up, you’ll get your chance. I don’t want to blow it now. Kobus de Klerk and his merry men have been hiding in the Matopos for nearly two years. The closest we’ve come to flushing them out was discovering a camp they’d left almost a month earlier. He keeps moving his men. This may be our one and only chance at him.’
‘Are we going in alone?’
Greg patted his pocket. ‘No way. I have a two-way.’
‘That’s a comfort. Hope it can shoot.’ Then, when he saw Greg was serious. ‘What’s your range?’
‘Son, I could talk to the Prime Minister of Australia if I wanted to.’
‘Bullshit!’
‘Damned close though.’ He patted his pocket again. ‘This little baby was designed in Pretoria.’
Richard folded his arms. ‘That’s supposed to make me feel good?’
Greg laughed. ‘It should. This represents a major breakthrough in this kind of communication. It’s linked to an airborne synthetic aperture radar system. It works on microwave energy, it has a built-in scrambler, digitised voice decoder and a laser-guided tracking device.’ He laughed again, delighted by the blank look on Richard’s face. ‘Let’s just say the features are many and varied.’
‘Like?’
‘It has us pinpointed. Harare know exactly where we are right now to within one metre.’
/>
Richard whistled. ‘Could have done with some of these during the war. Let’s have a look.’
Greg unbuttoned his pocket and handed him what looked like a perfectly ordinary transistor radio.
‘You’re joking!’ Richard turned it over in his hands. ‘This is it?’
Greg nodded.
‘Doesn’t look like much,’ he grunted. ‘What if we get caught? They’ll take it off you.’
‘Possibly.’ Greg sounded unconcerned.
‘They’ll figure out what it is.’
‘More than likely.’
‘They’ll turn it off,’ Richard said, exasperated.
Greg smiled. It was a crocodile kind of smile. ‘They can try.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Once it’s activated it’s impossible to turn off.’
‘What if they smash it?’
‘They can’t. It’s smash-proof.’
Richard raised the two-way over his head. ‘Can I put it to the test?’
‘If you like.’
He lowered his hand. ‘You’re serious. You can’t smash it.’
‘What I’ve been trying to tell you.’
Richard handed it back. ‘And it’s sending out our position now?’
‘As we speak.’
‘Can’t these signals be picked up by others?’
‘Nope. This technology is brand-new. You’re looking at one of two prototypes.’
‘The other one of which . . .’
‘. . . is in Harare,’ Greg finished.
Richard knew Greg well. ‘You bastard. You’re hoping we’ll be picked up, aren’t you?’
‘Would save us a lot of trouble.’
‘Yeah, and might get us killed.’
‘You in?’
‘You have to ask?’ He turned to Samson. ‘Did you understand?’ he asked in Shona.
Samson replied in English because the little black box containing magic was outside his experience. ‘I think so, Gudo. You want the bad men to find us so this little black box will tell everyone where we are.’ He sounded doubtful and scratched himself vigorously. ‘But I am thinking, what good is this little black box if we are dead?’
Storms Over Africa Page 29