Choice of Weapon

by Craig Marten-Zerf

  Chapter 23

  Seven Toyota High Ace people carriers and one Range Rover. Seventy four people. Sixty AK47 assault rifles. Thirteen Skorpion sub machine guns. Twenty seven TT30 Tokarev pistols. One hundred and twenty Chinese stick grenades and over eight thousand rounds of ammunition.

  When Texas decided to make a statement there was no such thing as overkill. He was going in with such a ridiculous show of force not because he needed it but because it was his version of the Red Army march past. And, for the intent of this particular exercise, he was the obligatory Russian dictator. A symbol of overwhelming power. Comrade Texas Zangwa.

  The cavalcade cruised down the highway. The Range Rover led. It did not exceed the speed limit. They arrived at the boundaries of Drummond in the mid afternoon. The Range Rover turned onto the dirt road that led to Chief Dlamini’s tribal area. After a mile or so they came up against a roadblock consisting of a row of forty-four gallon drums and a loosely coiled roll of razor wire. On either side of the road stood waist high green grass.

  In the middle of the road on a plastic chair sat an old man dressed in jeans, sandals and a faded red tee shirt. Arms folded; he had an unlit pipe in his mouth and a faraway expression on his face.

  The cavalcade ground to a halt. Texas leaned out of the passenger window of the Range Rover.

  ‘Hey! Move this shit, old man.’

  The old man in the plastic chair did not move. Did not acknowledge the presence of the armed men in any way whatsoever. Texas pushed on the horn.

  ‘Move, or we will move it for you.’

  Finally the old man looked at Texas. His face was crinkled and weather-lined, his hair frosted with white but his eyes were those of a youth. And they sparkled with wit.

  ‘Go away,’ he said and then he removed the pipe from his mouth, took a tobacco pouch from his pocket and started working on a fill.

  Texas leaned out again. ‘Fuck you, old man. Move or face my wrath.’

  The old man had packed his pipe and was now lighting it with a match. When he was satisfied with the burn he stood up and walked slowly over to the Range Rover. Smoke billowed from his mouth like a stream engine of children’s literature. I think I can, I think I can. He stopped at Texas’ window.

  ‘Go home, boy.’ Puff, puff.

  Texas literally started to vibrate with rage. His neck swelled up and his eyes became bloodshot. Such was his anger at being treated like this that he struggled to get his words out and when he did it sounded as though he were chewing on them and spitting them out as individual little packets of malice.

  ‘If you do not start moving this shit in the next ten seconds then I will get out of the car and I will cut your withered old cock off and choke you with it. Do I make myself clear?’

  The old man stared at the gang lord for a few seconds and then burst into laughter.

  ‘Hau, boy,’ he pointed at his crotch. ‘To cut this monster off you will need a very big knife. And a boy like you won’t have the strength to wield such a weapon. That is a man’s job. Now go away. Okay?’

  Texas grabbed the door handle, ready to jump out and teach the old idiot a lesson in respect. But he could not move. Dubula had grabbed hold of him and had pulled him back into his seat with a grip of iron.

  ‘Boss, look.’

  The urgency of his bodyguard’s tone cut through his anger and he stopped.

  ‘Take a look around, boss.’

  Texas scoped out the surrounding area. On both sides of the road stood ranks of Zulus. Hundreds of them. They were dressed in a variety of clothes but had one thing in common. All carried a five-foot shield and at least one assegai. And as Texas looked they started to rattle their spears against their shields. Softly at first and then with increasing volume. The sound of thunder rippled across the land, building until the hair on Texas’ neck stood up. The drumming louder than he could believe. The windows of the car shook. The doors shook. The very ground itself shook in sympathy. And then as one the impi raised their right foot and slammed it back onto the bare earth. A single crashing detonation of sound followed by a long drawn out expulsion of air.

  ‘Jeeeeeeeee.’

  And for the first time in a long while Texas was afraid. He could clearly hear the sound of his men in the cavalcade cocking their weapons. The metallic sound small and pathetic when compared with the primeval sound of the warriors that surrounded them. He held his hands up in supplication.

  ‘I am sorry for my rudeness, ancient one.’

  The old man nodded, accepting the change of address. The respect that it conveyed.

  Texas continued. ‘We do not come here to war with the people of the sky. We come on a personal mission.’

  ‘Yes, mister Zangwa,’ spoke the old man. ‘We know. You seek Petrus Dlamini.’

  Texas nodded his agreement.

  ‘He is not here.’ The old man noted the disbelief in the gang lord’s eyes. ‘He was here. He came to ask a boon of the chief. He wanted…’ The old man gestured at the impi that surrounded them. ‘This.’ He puffed again on his pipe and stared at Texas. ‘The boon was refused. He has left chief Dlamini’s lands.’

  ‘Where has he gone?’ asked Texas.

  The old man pointed at a mountain range in the far distance. Blue and gray and green. ‘He has gone there. To hide.’

  ‘And why do you tell us?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘It is not our battle. It is something that he has brought on himself.’

  ‘Thank you, ancient one. Tell me, how do we get there?’

  Again the old man shrugged. ‘The mountains are called, Qiniselani Manyuswa. Get there any way that you want but do not cross into Dlamini’s land or you will never leave it. Do I make myself clear, boy?’

  Texas swallowed his anger.

  ‘Yes, old man.’

  The old man chuckled and puffed his way back to his plastic seat.

  When Texas looked around him there was no longer any trace of the impi that had ranged before him and, when he turned back to the roadblock the old man had also disappeared. Texas shivered with superstitious dread.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to Dubula. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of this place, we’ve got some people to kill.’

  Garrett had parked the Jeep at the foothills of the mountain range. They had driven it in amongst a copse of thorn trees and then covered it with grass and cut branches to hide it. Afterwards the seven men took to foot. The four new Zulus carried a shield, an assegai and a burlap sack with a rope tied to it so it could be slung over a shoulder. Garrett, Petrus and Mandoluto also carried a sack each. Each sack contained a plastic two-liter water bottle, a bag of maize meal, salt, and sugar, cooking utensils, a canvas ground sheet and a few pounds of biltong or dried beef. Garrett had a few extra items in his sack as well as his machete in a sheath on his belt. Petrus had his assegai and the bishop his long gun.

  Taking lead from Petrus they formed a single file and jogged along a narrow track that headed into the hills. The track zigzagged upwards in an effort to keep the ascent from becoming too steep. But to anyone who was not in the peak of fitness it would still be a very hard race to run. After a few miles they came to the peak of the first of the foothills and stopped.

  Garrett looked back. ‘So, Petrus. You reckon this is the only way up here?’

  His friend nodded. ‘It’s the only safe way. There are other tracks but they peter out into dead ends. If you want to get into the heart of the mountains then this is your only choice.’

  Garrett nodded approval. ‘Perfect. Let’s keep going then.’

  The group loped on. Soldier’s strides eating up the miles. They ran into the early evening, stopping only once for a drink of water. Before it got too dark to see Garrett suggested they make camp. They broke from the trail, moving to the right for a few hundred yards and settled down in the lee of a large oblong rock. A granite loaf of bread. The Zulus started a small fire and cooked up some phutu pap, maize meal boiled up with salt until it achieved a stiff dou
gh-like consistency.

  Garrett organized the watch, taking the first hour for himself. They weren’t yet worried that Texas would be close to them but Garrett considered them to be at war, and when at war you set watches. The rest of the crew wrapped themselves in their canvas groundsheets and lay down on the earth.

  After almost an hour Garrett felt the presence of someone close and he whipped his head around to see Mandoluto approaching. The bishop moved silently, not through design but merely because that was how he moved. Rolling on the edges of his feet. Each step taken with innate care. A natural predator. He raised an eyebrow in greeting and sat next to Garrett. Neither of them smoked. Not on watch.

  ‘And then we were seven,’ he said as he sat.

  Garrett smiled. ‘Better than three.’

  ‘Yes. But not as good as three hundred.’

  ‘Three hundred would have been nice. In fact it would have been the only time that I would have been able to fight on the side of overwhelming strength.’

  Mandoluto laughed. A small sound. An expulsion of air rather than a true vocalization of mirth. ‘Me too.’

  ‘I wonder why those four chose to join us. Friendship? Duty?’

  Mandoluto stretched his arms above his head. Reached hard until his spine realigned with a series of tiny pops.

  ‘You know, Garrett, the British Empire has only been defeated three time. Once in the American war of independence and then two more times right here. In this very land that we sit. Firstly at Isandlwana, by a bunch of men with spears and the second time in the Boer war by a group of farmers on horseback. The people that live in this land are the fightingest bunch of people that you will ever meet. I suppose what I’m trying to say is; who knows why they joined us, probably they simply like a good fight. Don’t question it. Have faith, my friend. It moves mountains.’

  Garrett smiled his acceptance. ‘So, you good here?’

  The bishop nodded.

  Garrett stood up. ‘Right. I’ll get some shut-eye. Tomorrow it starts.’

  He walked off into the darkness leaving the bishop to watch over them.

  They woke early that morning, before the sun. Breakfast was similar to dinner except that the pap was not as stiff and sugar was added. By the time the sun had awoken they had been on the move for over an hour, moving ever up and into the craggy heart of the range. Into the broken ground where nature had formed hundreds of natural traps. Loose rocks. Grass covered pitfalls. Trails of scree and mud.

  Around mid morning the trail cut around the crown of yet another peak. The air had grown colder and a fine rain misted the atmosphere. Soaking and chilling. Garrett called a stop.

  ‘Here,’ he said and pointed up at the peak above them. ‘That’s the place. Come.’

  He headed off the track directly up the treacherous slope to the top. When they reached the top the surrounding vista was incredible. The savage folded, broken land stretched for miles around. Harsh and uncompromising. It reminded Garrett of the Scottish Highlands. He felt at home. This was a good place to start the fight. Here in this brutal landscape he would begin to bring Texas Zangwa to justice. This is where it would commence.

  He called the others in close and explained what was to happen. There were a few arguments and then they turned as one and jogged off, carrying Garrett’s sack and leaving him alone on the mountaintop. And when they were gone the soldier sank to the ground and became invisible.

  Texas had left three men with the cars. The rest, another sixty-four men, had been issued with their weapons. Each man carried either an AK with one hundred rounds of ammunition or a Skorpion with the same. Those that Texas considered as officers or long servers received a handgun as well. Everyone carried two Chinese stick grenades thrust into their belts. They had gotten directions from the locals to the bottom of the trail that headed into the mountains and had left the cars at the beginning of the track. And now they climbed, strung out like a baggage train of colonial proportions. The men carried full rucksacks, hurriedly purchased from a trading store in Drummond, containing tinned food, water, tea, coffee, tents, sleeping bags, torches, batteries, gas stoves and changes of clothing. The train stretched for almost two hundred yards with Texas and Dubula in the middle. The weather had turned and the air was frigid and heavy with moisture. Rain as fine as waterfall spray saturated all to the skin. Insidious and subtle. Whenever you stopped walking the cold crept into your bones and joints like symptoms of premature old age.

  But the men’s morale was high. There was much laughing and joking. After all, it was little more than a sporting excursion. One of the locals had told them that the three men they were searching for had been joined by four others. But still these were the sort of odds that appealed to the men in the train. Ten to one advantage. After all, no one hunts down seventy foxes with a single dog. No, the odds always work the other way. To the rulers go the advantages. This was not a war, this was an example. Texas was proud of his men. He felt like a marauding conqueror of old. Crossing the mountains with his army of warriors, ready to do battle. Ready to teach the foreigner and his friends a lesson. Hannibal must have felt the same when he set out with his elephants.

  And ahead of him, lying still in the grass, lay a single soldier. Waiting.