by Arthur Kerns
“What are we hunting for?” Sandra asked as she strapped the rifle across her back.
Colonel Frederick shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe elephants?”
Dirk Lange said, “No. The desert elephants are farther north. We’ll say antelope or gemsbok. We have a lot of game here,” Lange continued. “Lions and cheetahs. Watch out for the hyenas. They’re nasty.”
“You said we’d be here two days max?” Stone asked.
“No more,” Colonel Frederick said. “In a nearby country, which for the time being shall remain anonymous, we’re preparing to stage a takeout of the bomb.” Frederick held up the phone. “One thing I just learned that might complicate things. Last night the satellite people back in Virginia detected activity at the Bruin Karas airport. A plane landed and they saw a number of people on the airstrip.”
“What’s unusual about that?” Sandra asked.
“Planes don’t normally land there at night,” Lange said. “The airport is just a dirt strip with a windsock. No airport lights.”
“We have company,” Stone said.
“Yes,” Colonel Frederick shouted as he rubbed some dust from his eye. “We’re flying up to Windhoek. I’m bringing in people from the station in Pretoria and the base in Cape Town. By tonight we’ll be able to provide backup if you need it.” He slapped Stone’s shoulder. “Meantime, keep low and avoid contact with strangers.”
The technicians and Colonel Frederick climbed back into the plane and as the tailgate rose, Frederick yelled, “Good hunting.”
The plane took off, and at the moment the sun broke over the horizon, it dipped its wing to the east, and staying low to the ground, disappeared.
Following the last sounds of the plane’s engines, Stone took in the quiet of the surrounding land. The clear, dry air allowed an unobstructed view of nearly fifty miles to distant blue-tinted mountains. Even in the morning, an almost full moon bright in the hard blue sky prepared to drop below the horizon.
Stone and his two companions took a gray gravel road that ran to the base of a six-hundred-foot ridge. After a half hour their programmed GPS beeped the alert to turn. They left the road and proceeded cautiously over the countryside toward the ridge, and began a careful climb. At one point they had to dismount and push their motorcycles up the hill over boulders and rock ledges. An hour later, exhausted, Stone and his companions reached the crest and rested, cautious to remain out of sight.
On the other side of the ridge, in the valley below, Stone saw the hamlet of Bruin Karas scattered along a paved road and a parallel railroad track. Further searching through their binoculars, they found to the right the airstrip with a twin-engine plane parked off to the side. Turning to the far left, he spotted a lone brown boxcar sitting on an isolated rail siding about two miles from the main road.
“Pretty quiet down there,” Stone said. “No signs of activity.”
“Got a bakkie along the road to the right.” Lange pointed.
Sandra said, “Excuse me.”
“That pickup truck kicking up dust.” Lange touched her shoulder. “Hello. Look over at the landing strip. We have some people walking around that two-engine plane. Dark clothes and beards. Can’t quite see what they’re doing.”
“The plane Colonel Frederick talked about coming in last night.”
The three continued to scope the valley and saw another truck drive away from what resembled a general store. A lone Wahlberg’s eagle hovered below them, using the currents rising from the warming air.
Stone asked the question that always came to mind when passing through isolated towns and villages: “What do people do around this godforsaken place?”
Lange answered him. “A bit of mining. Mostly farming. Farmers drive in to buy petrol and goods.” He lowered his binoculars. “They enjoy the place like their fathers before them. Afrikaners have a need to plant things.”
“Where are the Bushmen?” Sandra asked.
“You mean the San people. They have settlements all about.” Lange searched again with his field glasses. “Can’t see any. Their villages look like clumps of thatched haystacks. Only rectangular in shape. They blend in with the countryside.” He stretched and looked at Stone. “What’s the plan, mate?”
“If we go down into the valley now, we may be spotted. Maybe we should wait for dusk. Just enough light to make our way without breaking our necks.”
After a moment, Lange said, “A suggestion. The locals hereabouts have sharp eyes. They can pick up movement in the hills because they hunt, but strangers like Wahab and Asuty probably wouldn’t. I would suspect that plane brought in those two along with Mr. Van Wartt.”
“If so, they’ll make a move on that boxcar,” Sandra said. “I haven’t seen any activity there, but we’re too far away.”
The breeze had become a light wind. The cloudless sky warmed Stone’s head. “If we walk our bikes down slowly and don’t kick up dust, we have a chance of not being seen,” Stone said. “I’d like to get closer to that boxcar.”
The others agreed and they started their descent using shrubs and boulders as cover. An hour later they were on the valley floor with line of sight to the settlement and airport gone, but with the advantage of using the low hills and vegetation as concealment. They drove the mini-motorcycles toward the railroad siding where the boxcar sat.
About a half mile away from their target, Stone signaled to make camp. “From here we have sight of the railcar and to the right, part of the village. We should be able to see anyone approaching.”
After settling in and checking their rifles, they opened MREs and ate. Lange laughed. “You Yanks certainly know how to do field rations. The South African Army’s rations are a bit less elegant.”
“Were you in the military?” Stone asked.
“Ja. Of course. I still hold a captain’s rank.”
“My God! What’s that?” Sandra said. An ugly piglike creature scrambled out of the brush, stopped when it saw them, then ran off.
“That’s a bushpig. You see a lot of them now that the leopard population is down.” Lange threw a rock in the bush where the animal had emerged, and a minute later three piglets scurried out and followed their mother. “No worry unless she thinks you’ll harm the kids.” He looked around. “Just be on the lookout for snakes. Some bad ones about here, I’ll wager.”
“I don’t especially care for snakes.” Stone eyed the nearby thornbushes. “Let’s set up a watch schedule on the boxcar. I’ll take the first one. How about an hour at a time?”
Stone positioned himself on top of a rise behind grasses where he could use his binoculars. He spent the first few minutes scanning the horizon, pausing on the hamlet’s buildings. Two figures, a man and woman, sat on a bench in front of what appeared to be the general store. From the looks of his shorts and her sundress, they appeared to be locals. A pickup truck passed them and they waved. Focused back on the boxcar, only an occasional bird broke the stillness. The smell of dry grass and brush drifted in with the intermittent breeze.
Stone kept up his visual routine while going through a mental checklist of things to do after his watch: recheck his rifle, make sure all magazines were loaded with .308 cartridges, check his Sig Sauer. He had to sharpen his knife. Also, check his radio. Odd. Frederick hasn’t checked in with us.
Having gone over the checklist twice, his mind wandered to the place he’d avoided since he left Cape Town. His renewed relationship with Contessa Lucinda.
Three months ago she had made it clear that she never wanted to see him again. Now, she flies down from the French Riviera and arranges with Patience, of all people, to reunite with him. What was he missing?
What resembled a hat or a head moved in the grass a hundred yards away from the boxcar. Stone wasn’t certain. He called to Lange and Sandra, who dropped on the ground next to him.
They remained still for a few moments. “Could have been an animal. It’s late afternoon. They start moving this time of d
ay,” Lange said. “I’ll take over the watch.”
Sandra followed Stone down the slope to their campsite. The two sat with their backs against the motorcycles. She remarked that when the sun went down it would get really dark. “Pitch black.”
“Ah, but we got a moon tonight, kid. Almost a full moon.”
Stone’s phone buzzed and he saw Frederick’s number displayed on the screen. “Stone here. What’s up?”
Colonel Frederick advised that personnel and equipment had arrived at the staging area. “We’re waiting for Department of Energy people to arrive. When they do, we’ll bring in two C-130s. That’ll provide some entertainment for the local folks.”
“What about our competition? Pick up any traffic on what they’re up to?”
“Why ask me? That’s your job to keep track of them. Our reports indicate they’re on the ground there.”
Stone looked at Sandra and mouthed a curse. Colonel Frederick could be a pain in the ass at times. Especially when he was right. “A plane is parked off the dirt runway. We saw a couple of men walking around it. Probably our bad guys. They appear to be waiting for something or someone. No activity at the boxcar.”
“That’s the runway we’re landing on. You saw only two men?”
“Thought you’d known that. Has the satellite spotted any others?”
“No. Keep me posted.” After a pause, he asked, “No activity around the boxcar. Right?”
“Affirmative.”
“I’ll get back to you with any updates.” The line went dead.
Sandra moved closer. “What’s wrong?”
“Let’s join Lange.”
Again lying prone next to each other, they searched the surrounding area with binoculars as Stone gave Lange the gist of the conversation with Frederick. While talking, they now observed four bearded men in dark pants and jackets walking around the parked airplane.
“What’s your take on the situation, Hayden?” Sandra asked.
“I think Colonel Frederick thinks we’re behind the curve. Van Wartt is about to hand over the bomb in that boxcar to Wahab and his buddies. Frederick’s worried he’s not going to get here in time.”
“So where does that leave us?” Lange asked.
“That leaves us hanging.”
They lay silent for a time, continuing to scope their targets. A light breeze rustled the grasses and bushes around them. Stone broke the silence. “I’m going to take a look inside that boxcar.”
“No. Hayden,” Sandra said.
“They may have already taken the bomb to the landing strip.” Stone rubbed his eyes. “We’ve got to know if it’s still there.”
“Think it over,” Lange said.
“We’ll leave the bikes here,” Stone said. “You two cover me.”
Sandra and Lange made sure their weapons were loaded. All three began crouching toward the railcar.
Sandra and Lange held back a few yards behind Stone. Their task was to provide cover. The three would communicate using their radios. At the spot where Sandra and Lange would station themselves, Stone paused for a couple of minutes.
The sun dropped fast and long shadows streaked the landscape. All appeared calm.
As Stone signaled he was advancing, Lange whispered over the air, “It’s too quiet. No animals. No birds.”
Stone hesitated. Lange was a hunter. He knew this land. Again in the fast-dimming light, he scoped the boxcar with his binoculars. The side door was open about two inches. Back at the original site, he had been too far away to detect this.
“Shit. Door’s open. We may have an empty boxcar,” Stone said to his companions.
He moved fast in a crab-like fashion toward the clearing that circled the railcar. Once he reached the open ground surrounding the boxcar, he stopped.
Still no movement. He raised his rifle to ready position, stood, and raced forward.
He slid to a stop, hitting his back against the boxcar. Rifle raised, he searched the surrounding bush over the gun sight.
Inching toward the open door, and without looking, he pushed open the door with his left hand.
As he did, from the open door the hard barrel of a pistol jammed the back of his head.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Two of Nabeel Asuty’s men jumped out of the boxcar and threw Stone to the ground. They bound his arms behind his back with duct tape. Kneeling on one knee at the open door of the boxcar, Asuty waved his AK-47 in the direction where Sandra and Dirk Lange lay hidden in the underbrush.
“Come out with your guns lowered,” Asuty shouted, “or Stone is a dead man.”
As Stone lay pinned to the ground, he knew odds were he was already a dead man. Before the tape could be placed over his mouth, he managed to yell, “Stay there. Open fire.” Stone knew the Browning rifles with telescopic scopes Sandra and Lange carried could easily take out Asuty.
Both Sandra and Lange opened fire. Thuds came from bullets penetrating the wooden side of the boxcar. Asuty leaped from the boxcar, rushed over to Stone, and had his men yank him up by his hair. He held the AK-47’s barrel under Stone’s chin.
“Surrender and Mr. Stone just might live,” Asuty shouted in a panic. “If you don’t, I kill him.”
Stone’s companions continued firing, and then the skull of the man on his left exploded from one of their shots. Bone and blood splattered on Stone.
Asuty and the other man now held him up as a shield. Asuty let off a few rounds from his machine gun.
Two bearded men jumped out of the brush behind Dirk Lange, guns drawn. Stone watched Lange curse and slowly stand, raising his arms. Asuty yelled at his men in Arabic to find the woman.
“Your choice,” Asuty hollered. “Lay down your gun or he dies.”
Sandra rose from the tall grass and swung her rifle back and forth from Asuty to the two men holding Lange. “Take as many out as you can,” Stone growled under his taped mouth. Do it. Do it.
Seconds passed. Finally, she tossed the Browning rifle in the grass and came forward. Stone hoped she had a trick up her sleeve, like shooting them with a hidden Glock, but she continued to walk, hands now raised, toward where Lange was held. She had her hands bound and both were marched to the boxcar.
As the three were pushed to the ground next to the wheels of the railcar, Asuty growled. “That was easier than I thought it would be. You CIA are not much of a threat after all.”
For a half hour the beatings continued until the sun had dropped below the horizon and the savanna colors faded. The blows were administered not to gain information or to avenge their dead comrade—merely for sport. Stone had read accounts from victims of jihadist torture. Always at some point the punishment administered shifted from a religious connotation—and this was from the victims’ recollections—to a sensual, even sexual enjoyment.
Stone took most of the abuse and he felt himself weakening from the assault. He tried to shift his consciousness to another realm as his Tibetan friend in Lhasa had taught him. Thank goodness he had met her and she had shared her wisdom.
No broken bones yet, but a good deal of torn flesh. Stone’s capturers repeated the blows to areas where blood appeared. Asuty enjoyed head kicks, but his attention turned to Sandra.
“Hit her stomach and legs. Do not mark her face,” Asuty ordered. “We will have fun before we kill them.”
His men became excited. Stone saw from Sandra’s expression that she understood what Asuty meant. He also knew if the opportunity arose, she would kill him.
“Remove her pants,” Asuty ordered. “And carry her over to the back of the truck.”
Stone saw the flatbed truck that had pulled up during the beatings. The jihadists lost interest in hitting him and moved over for the show. Stone flipped over on his stomach and went into a kneeling position. His feet were bound at the ankles, his hands behind his back. With his fingers he searched for the release switch on the heel of his boot. He found it and the inserted knife blade s
napped out. He easily slit the duct tape around his wrists and ankles, got to his feet, and lunged toward the men carrying Sandra’s prone body.
Stone used his body as a ramming device. He and three of the assailants tumbled to the ground. The other men seized Stone and dragged him toward the boxcar. Asuty tossed Sandra aside and yelled a long succession of Arabic curses, approaching Stone with a knife.
Stone’s pants were yanked down and as Asuty placed a knife to his genitals, two gunshots stopped him. Asuty and his men froze.
“Don’t we have more important tasks at hand, Nabeel?” came a hard voice speaking in Arabic.
Another voice in English sneered, “Bloody lowlifes your men are, Abdul.”
Stone twisted his head around and through swollen eyelids saw Abdul Wahab and Dawid van Wartt standing a few feet away. Wahab had a Beretta pistol leveled at Asuty’s stomach.
Van Wartt and his companion, Bull Rhyton, took little time gathering the guns from Asuty and his men. Bull threw them in the backseat of an old Land Rover.
“Nabeel, dear friend,” Wahab said, still pointing his automatic, “you may have these back when you leave with the bomb. For now, your hands will be full moving the bomb to the truck.”
Asuty stood expressionless and Stone wondered what he was thinking. What was more interesting, months before on the Riviera, Stone had seen Wahab at a party but never heard his voice—it was deeper and had more authority than he had expected.
Wahab continued, “Shall we look at what we’ve paid for?” He motioned with the gun toward the open door of the boxcar.
Bull came over to Stone and motioned for him to stand up. When he did, he yanked up Stone’s trousers and told him to go and sit next to Lange and Sandra. Bull cradled his submachine gun and used it to wave Asuty’s men over to their flatbed truck. He knelt down next to Sandra and closed her shirt, cursing low in Afrikaans. At that point Dirk Lange made a loud sound under his taped mouth and nodded his head.