Captive_A High-octane And Gripping African Thriller

by Tony Park

  ‘There’s a problem, Mr Maxwell.’ When he’d finished explaining what had happened, there was silence on the end of the line. ‘Mr Maxwell? Are you there?’

  After a few more seconds the man spoke, low and slow. ‘I am. But tomorrow morning I’ll be in South Africa on the late night flight from Perth. And then watch out, because if anything happens to my daughter in the meantime I’m going to kill you, Dr Baird.’

  Chapter 7

  Bruce Maxwell surveyed the dull browns and khakis of the bush below him as the SA Express aircraft turned and lined up for its approach to Hoedspruit’s Eastgate Airport.

  He was as alert as he could be after the international flight and domestic connection. He prided himself on his soldier’s ability to sleep anywhere, but his concern over Kerry had limited him to naps and nightmares. A wave of heat washed over him as the flight attendant opened the door, and Bruce was taken back instantly to a time forty-seven years earlier, when he was nineteen and had first set foot in Vietnam.

  A slovenly long-haired man in khaki, shirt half-in, half-out, boots scuffed, was waiting in the small terminal. ‘Baird?’

  Graham stroked his nicotine-stained grey beard nervously then thrust out his hand. ‘Mr Maxwell, it’s good to meet you.’

  Bruce didn’t move to return the greeting. ‘Any news about my daughter?’

  ‘I’ve been in touch with the Mozambican police. They’ve been searching for Kerry. They questioned the last person she was seen with, a local politician and businessman named Fidel Costa, but he says he has no idea what happened to her after he dropped her outside the local police captain’s house.’

  Bruce stared into bloodshot eyes. ‘You think he’s lying?’

  Graham nodded. ‘I killed Costa’s little brother, a poacher. I think he’s got your daughter.’

  Bruce tossed his camouflage hiking pack, his only bag, into the back of Baird’s Land Rover then squared up, eye to eye with the veterinarian. Bruce had risen in the ranks after Vietnam and later accepted a commission and made it to major. He closed the gap between them and used the low, even tone of voice that was far more menacing than parade-ground bellowing. ‘You’re responsible for my daughter being kidnapped and you’re going to help me find her. Understand?’

  ‘I . . .’ Graham began, stumbling over his words, ‘I’m sorry, but I think Costa wants me. If I cross the border, I think he’ll try and take me, as well.’

  Bruce was close enough to smell the stale alcohol and the fear coming off the man. ‘I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck.’

  Graham gave a small nod, but didn’t flinch. ‘If they take me, they won’t release your daughter. Costa thinks he’s untouchable.’

  ‘I’ve got money,’ Bruce said, ‘but I’m not interested in negotiating with amateur blackmailers. I’d deliver you to the man myself if I thought it would help get my daughter back.’

  Baird shrugged. ‘He thinks your daughter and I were engaged to be married. I think that’s why he took her, as a way of getting to me.’

  Bruce poked the other man in the chest and Baird was sensible enough not to try and resist. ‘If you laid a hand on her –’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Did you serve in the South African defence force?’

  ‘South-West Africa – Namibia. Military intelligence.’

  Bruce snorted. ‘Well then, you can help me plan, if nothing else.’

  Baird nodded.

  ‘I’m going to get my daughter back and you’re going to do what I tell you.’ From his shirt pocket Bruce produced a list he had written on the flight to Hoedspruit. ‘I’m going to shower and get a couple of hours’ sleep, and by the time I wake up I want you to have done some shopping for me.’

  Graham looked at the list and shook his head. ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or I’ll gut you and dump your body at Mr Costa’s front gate. Then I’ll kill him as well. Got it?’

  The veterinarian swallowed hard. ‘Got it.’

  Bruce clapped him hard on the arm. ‘Good man.’

  *

  Graham cleared the bachelor’s clutter of beer cans and a pizza box from his dining room table and spread out the map of the Kruger Park and adjoining Mozambique that Bruce had asked for.

  Piled on his sofa was as much of Bruce’s shopping list as he had been able to fill. He had Google Earth open on his computer on his work desk in the corner.

  Bruce emerged from Graham’s spare room, towelling his hair dry. Graham saw the firm pectoral muscles, the sixpack, the faded tattoos from wars past. Bruce cast his eye around the room. ‘Where’s my gat?’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘My rifle.’

  Graham threw his hands up. ‘A gun’s not that easy to find, even in South Africa. I’ve got you a camouflage uniform from a friend who runs the local anti-poaching unit, combat web gear, compass, hunting knife, even a set of night vision goggles that I must return intact under pain of death.’

  ‘None of that gear’s much good if I can’t shoot anyone. They tell me this country’s awash with guns. Get me a rifle, an R5 if possible.’

  ‘Eli’s sorting you a rifle.’

  ‘Who?’

  A knock at the door interrupted them. Graham opened it. The man who came in had dark curly hair and the top of his mop brushed the doorframe. His shoulders almost filled it sideways. He carried a big zip-up vinyl dive bag.

  The man walked in and extended his free hand, which Bruce shook. ‘Eli Johnston, sir.’

  ‘This is the other thing on your list,’ Graham said, ‘someone who knows the area around Massingir. Eli runs the anti-poaching operations on the Mozambican side of the border in the private reserves south of the Parque Nacional do Limpopo.’

  ‘How do you do, sir?’ Eli set down his heavy bag.

  ‘A Yank?’ Bruce said.

  ‘SEAL Team Six, retired chief petty officer, Mr Maxwell. Been in Africa going on three years now, most of that time in Mozambique. I’m sorry to hear about your daughter, sir.’

  ‘Call me Bruce. Baird’s told you what I need doing?’

  ‘He has.’

  ‘And you’re happy to help us mount an illegal cross-border raid. Mind if I ask why?’

  ‘Your daughter’s in trouble and a good pilot’s been killed, but I’ve also lost men across the border in Mozambique to these people. Added to that they’re slaughtering defenceless wildlife for cold hard cash. To tell you the truth, Bruce, I’m getting a little tired of playing by the rules.’

  ‘Fair enough. Now tell me something I don’t know.’

  Eli went to the map and bent over, a considerable way, to poke a long thick finger on the table. ‘Fidel Costa is one of three local kingpins running the rhino horn trade in this part of Mozambique. He’s recently branched out into elephant ivory.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  Eli pointed to the town of Massingir. ‘He has a villa here, big place, and what’s ostensibly a farm about ten klicks out of town, here. He’s got a big house there and accommodation for the poaching teams he runs.’

  Bruce rubbed his chin as he studied the map. ‘How many teams?’

  ‘Up to five teams of three or four.’

  Bruce shook his head. ‘A small bloody army. You know all this, so supposedly the local cops know it too. Why don’t they act?’

  Graham weighed in. ‘Costa is connected; he has a network of people on the take. The South African military has all this intel, but they’re not allowed to pursue poachers across the Mozambican border or mount operations there.’

  ‘Just like the Taliban scooting over the border into Pakistan from Afghanistan, or the North Vietnamese hiding in Cambodia and Laos,’ Bruce said.

  ‘Exactly.’ Eli went to the computer screen and clicked on the satellite picture, enlarging it. ‘You’ll see here the farm is accessed from a rough winding gravel road that leads to a tar road about two klicks away.’

  Bruce leaned in closer to the screen. ‘Hills there?’

  ‘Yep,’ Eli said. ‘Granit
e koppies, Afrikaans for rocky hills. Good place for an OP as you can see all the farm buildings from there.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking. How do we insert, that’s the question?’

  ‘Long walk from South Africa even if you jump off near the border, inside the park,’ Eli said. ‘And there’s a risk you could bump into a South African anti-poaching patrol or get eaten by a pride of lions.’

  Bruce nodded. ‘And the doctor here is too chicken to drive across the border in case he gets picked up.’

  Graham decided he’d had enough of the insults. ‘I’ll fly you.’

  ‘I was going to ask you about that, Graham,’ Eli said.

  ‘I’ve got access to a Bat Hawk, a light sports aircraft similar to an ultra-light, that’s used for anti-poaching operations on the local game reserves. I use it sometimes to look for injured animals and I fly the occasional patrol flight as a volunteer.’

  ‘You’ll be in even deeper shit in Mozambique if you get caught,’ Bruce said.

  ‘No worse than I would be if I went across as a tourist. Anyway, I owe it to your daughter.’

  ‘Too right you do,’ Bruce said, his face returning to his trademark scowl. He went back to the computer and studied the satellite image of the farm again.

  Graham looked over the older man’s shoulder. ‘I’ll put down on the road, then we can hide the aircraft somewhere.’

  ‘No,’ Bruce said. ‘You drop me on the road close to Costa’s farm then fly away somewhere safer and put down. We’ll have radios and I’ll call you when I’m ready for extraction.’

  ‘Too risky,’ Eli said.

  ‘Got a better idea, Yank?’ Bruce asked.

  ‘Yup.’ Eli unzipped the dive bag.

  Chapter 8

  Kerry cursed Graham Baird out loud as she finished the last of her maize meal porridge. She was still hungry, but pushed the stringy chicken to one side of her plate then dropped it on the floor of the prefabricated metal storage shed.

  As she had come to expect, she heard the clank of the padlock being unlocked and the squeal of the door as José, the young man who was guarding her, looked inside.

  ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘I’ve finished my food and I hate that man who killed your friends,’ Kerry said.

  José, who had confessed to her that he was just seventeen, nodded. Kerry had been deliberately trying to befriend him.

  ‘The boss says I am not to talk to you any more,’ José said.

  ‘I won’t tell.’

  José looked over his shoulder, as if checking for his master, then back at her. He frowned. ‘No talking. Please.’

  ‘I’m scared, José. I’m worried you’re going to kill me because that stupid South African man is too poor to bring the ransom.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Please, it’s not your life that’s in danger.’ She raised her hands to her eyes and coaxed out some sobs.

  José stepped into the room. It was dark, with no windows, but fiercely hot under the African sun. She peeked through her fingers and saw that the teenager was looking at her body. Good, she thought.

  Kerry sniffed. ‘You have to help me, José.’

  ‘I cannot do that. I would be killed. You should not have come to Mozambique to help that man. He is a murderer.’

  ‘I know, and I don’t care what happens to him.’

  José looked over his shoulder again. ‘Please, no more talking.’

  Kerry let her head hang down despondently, and it wasn’t all for show. She had felt helpless, alone and terrified when she’d first realised she was being kidnapped. She assumed that the politician who had helped her at the police station, Fidel Costa, was, in fact, her captor and José’s ‘boss’.

  After she had met Costa at the police station she had followed his Range Rover, in her rental car, to a house in the back blocks of town. They pulled over and got out then Costa told her that this was Captain Alfredo’s house and that he would also come in and see the police officer, but first had an errand to run. Costa had left and Kerry had knocked on the door of the house. There was no answer, but as she stood there two men in ski masks jumped from some bushes and grabbed her and put a hood over her head.

  Less than five minutes after she had last seen Costa, she was bundled into an air-conditioned vehicle with soft leather seats; it seemed clear to her the politician had lured her into a trap.

  The man who had questioned her also wore a ski mask, but she was sure the voice had been Costa’s. Her imagination had run riot, thinking she would be tortured, raped, perhaps killed.

  Kerry didn’t feel as badly towards Graham as she had made out to José, but she wanted to position herself as the innocent victim in all this, to try to win her guard’s sympathy.

  José was about to leave. ‘Please, may I have some more water?’

  He looked around her cell. Her water bottle was empty.

  ‘And I need to go to the bathroom.’ She stood up, defying him.

  He pointed to the corner of the room. ‘We gave you a bucket.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ she said, and it was not far from the truth.

  He squared up, his machismo returning. ‘Well, that is too bad for you.’ José walked out and closed the door behind him.

  Kerry heard the padlock being slotted into place. She leaned her back against the hot metal wall and slid down until she was sitting. She put her hands over her face and started to cry, for real.

  *

  The following day Eli drove across the border from South Africa to Mozambique, taking the long way, south to the Komatipoort border crossing, then to Maputo, and north to Massingir.

  Bruce and Graham waited for more word from Costa, but there were no more demands. It was time to act.

  When the sun was low, turning the grassy airstrip on a private game reserve outside of Hoedspruit into a ribbon of molten gold, they readied themselves for take-off and battle.

  Bruce slung the AKMS assault rifle, a modern version of the venerable AK-47 that Eli Johnston had sourced for him, over his shoulder, barrel pointing down. The AKMS had been designed with a folding metal stock, which made it easier for Soviet paratroopers to stow when jumping into battle, and Bruce would be doing just that.

  ‘A friend of mine’s been wanting to sell me his old ’chute for a long time,’ Eli had told Bruce the night before as he had unzipped the dive bag and pulled out the freefall parachute. ‘Hopefully it’ll be good for at least one more jump.’

  ‘You don’t need a few pointers or some sort of refresher about how to use a parachute?’ Graham had asked.

  Bruce fixed him with emotionless eyes. ‘Some things you just don’t forget.’

  The way Bruce had stripped, cleaned and reassembled the rifle was also testament to fact that there were some things age did not dull.

  ‘Eli will light up a stretch of road for you five kilometres from the farm. You can land there and wait for my call,’ said Bruce.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Graham said.

  Eli would be providing logistical assistance for the mission. He had a radio-controlled drone, funded by donations from abroad, to use against poachers. It was fitted with FLIR, a forward-looking infra-red camera. Eli would fly it over the farm to give Bruce real-time information. If something happened to Graham’s aircraft, Eli would pick up Bruce, and hopefully Kerry. If things went according to plan, Graham would pick up Kerry and fly her to South Africa. The Bat Hawk could only carry two people, so Bruce would meet up with Eli after the raid, spend the rest of the night with him and then Eli would drop Bruce close to the border of the Kruger Park. Bruce would walk through the bush to the South African side and Graham would pick him up in his vehicle and then smuggle him out of the park.

  Bruce adjusted the parachute on his back and tightened the buckles as much as he could.

  ‘This is crazy,’ Graham said.

  ‘Yes,’ Bruce said, ‘but my daughter’s life is at risk.’

  *

  A herd of elephants chur
ned the surface of the Olifants River white as they ran through the shallows, startled by the noise of the low-flying Bat Hawk as Graham flew over the border.

  We’re invading another country, he thought to himself. Bruce was stony-faced beside him, the old soldier betraying no emotion.

  Graham followed the river for a while, then turned off to the south to skirt the town of Massingir, whose lights glowed in the distant east. He started to climb.

  There was the occasional light below indicating a settlement of some kind in the bush, but Graham relied on the satellite navigation device in front of him to tell them when they were over a spot a kilometre from Costa’s farm. On Google Maps they had identified an open grassy vlei, which Bruce would use as his drop zone.

  Graham pointed to the screen and ahead through the windscreen. Bruce nodded. He had seen the clearing.

  Bruce unbuckled his seatbelt, turned to Graham, gave him a quick thumbs-up, then clambered out of his seat and tumbled into the night sky.

  *

  Fidel Costa drove with no lights on. He was close to the South African border and he knew the military and national parks people on the other side would have observation points on koppies and other high ground.

  The South Africans also operated helicopters fitted with FLIR at night.

  Fidel stopped his double-cab Nissan Navara, turned off the engine, got out and listened. His three-man team in the back of the truck knew better than to make a sound. They waited for his all clear, and Fidel was just about to give it when he cocked his head.

  He scanned the night sky over the Kruger Park but, oddly, the faint drone of an engine was not coming from across the border but from behind him. He turned one hundred and eighty degrees and confirmed his guess. That was strange. The Mozambican parks people or police were not operating aircraft in this area at this time.

  His men followed suit, another three pairs of eyes scanning the sky.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked Luiz. Despite his age, which was somewhere between sixty and seventy, Luiz had the best eyes and ears of all his men, which made him an invaluable tracker.

  ‘Aircraft. Like the one the American uses sometimes.’