by Tony Park
‘This is cyclone seven, alpha one … one hundred and fifty kilometres and closing. Any news, over?’
‘Negative alpha one,’ the Lynx pilot said. And that was the problem. He recognised the voice of the helicopter pilot and fully understood the man's urgent tone, and his reasons for asking the same question he had asked five minutes ago. It was George Bryant, the CO of 7 Squadron, and it was his ten-year-old daughter who was missing somewhere down there in the bush.
The pilot tried again to contact the RLI stick on the ground. ‘Echo one, echo one, echo one, radio check over …’ He waited a few seconds. ‘Echo one, if you are receiving me and unable to transmit you are to hold in place, repeat, hold in place. The boundaries of the frozen zone near your loc have been moved eastwards, I say again, moved eastwards. Hold in place and wait for reinforcements.’
The pilot sighed. It was going to be a long morning. Until reinforcements and the helicopters arrived, there was nothing more he could do.
*
Bright snapped his fingers, and Winston nodded. He'd heard the noise as well. The terrorists were making more noise than a herd of stampeding buffalo. They were running scared.
Winston felt the electric jolt as the adrenaline pumped from his heart to his fingertips. This was what he'd craved as a boy, the life of the warrior, and what he'd gradually come to learn over the past two years was a kind of sentence. He had proved himself, time and again, and learned that he could do this. He could kill. Whether the government of Smith-i was right or wrong, or whether the new man being touted as a successor, Bishop Abel Muzorewa, was a strong man or a puppet of the whites did not matter to Winston. He had known no life as an adult other than war.
Winston heard movement in the bush, then saw the white of the boy's singlet. His hand tightened around the pistol grip of his AK-47. ‘Stop,’ Winston said to the boy, his voice calm but authoritative. The headman's son came to a halt, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, and raised his skinny arms.
‘I have the comrades …’ The boy looked back over his shoulder.
Two men, one with an AK, the other with an RPD light machine gun, materialised from the screen of mopane leaves. The machine gunner kneeled and took up a firing position behind a tree. The other stood with his AK pointed in Winston's general direction, his nostrils flared and his breathing heavy from running or a hard forced march. His uniform shirt was mottled with sweat. These were the real terrorists that Winston and his men had been hunting, and the headman's son had served them up on a platter.
Winston heard muffled sobs and the sound of something falling to the ground. ‘Get up!’ a voice said. Winston licked his lips. He and his men were also behind the cover of an anthill and the stoutest trunks available. The two terrorists had stopped about fifty metres from them with the headman's son, who still stood with his hands up, quavering in the no-man's land between them.
‘Which one of you is in charge?’ a voice called from behind the two lead men.
Winston saw another flash of white through the bush. His eye was immediately drawn to the face of the terror-stricken child in a torn nightdress stained with blood and dirt. When he'd heard a little girl had been taken he'd felt relieved – Mr and Mrs Bryant were getting old now, and their daughter, Hope, was away most of the year at university. He'd assumed it was another farm that had been revved. But he recognised this girl instantly. George had showed him the photo. This was George's daughter, though he couldn't remember her name. Her abductor was holding her in front of him, as a human shield.
As Winston's eyes travelled higher he saw the Makarov pistol pressed to the child's temple, and the barrel and flash-suppressor of the AK-47 slung across the man's back, protruding above his shoulder.
Winston was in cover, his body mostly behind the tree trunk and his face obscured by a net of heavy, bright-green butterfly-shaped leaves. The terrorist commander couldn't see his face, but Winston could see the other man clearly.
It was his brother.
10
‘It's no good. Bloody radio's frot, man,’ Al said.
‘Shit.’ Braedan ran his hand through his sweat-dampened hair. One man down and the radio out, and a little girl disappearing further and further into the bush with every second. He'd passed all his army courses with flying colours and he was one of the youngest lance corporals in the troop. He played rugby for his RLI Commando and he had a reputation for never backing down, for being tough and aggressive on the field. He'd won far more fights than he'd lost and he'd learned how to play the chicks well enough that he scored on every leave. But nothing in his life had prepared him for this.
‘What do we do?’ Collins asked, looking up at him. ‘He's going to do a wheels-up unless we get him to a doc soon.’
Wally Collins was ten years older than Braedan – a good, solid soldier, but he was never going to be promoted. He was relying on Braedan, a twenty year old, to lead him and the rest of them to safety or victory.
Which was worth more – Andy's life or the girl's? Shit, the gooks might have killed her by now, and they had a good lead on Braedan and his men from the start. They were probably halfway to Botswana by now. Braedan looked down at Andy Hunter. The morphine had kicked in, but Andy's back was shredded. His skin was deathly pale.
‘He can't walk, not even with help,’ Collins said, as if Braedan needed to be reminded of their fellow soldier's condition.
Al stood up from the shattered radio. ‘I'll go, man. After the little girl. You and Wally look after Andy.’
That made up Braedan's mind. ‘No. There are too many of them, Al. Shit, man, I couldn't live with myself if I sent any of you okes on a bloody suicide mission.’
Al nodded, and Braedan saw he was unable to hide his relief. ‘Right,’ Al said, ‘so we all carry Andy back to the farmhouse and wait for the cavalry, ja?’
Braedan shook his head. He knelt beside Wally and Andy and took two grenades and two extra magazines from Andy's webbing. He clasped the wounded man on the shoulder. ‘Be strong, boet. I tune you, you're going to be fine.’ He stood and placed the extra munitions in his own pouches. ‘Al, you and Wally carry Andy back to the farmhouse.’
‘What about you?’ Collins asked.
Braedan grinned. ‘Myself, I have some work to do.’ He turned and jogged away from them, into the bush towards where the terrorists had gone.
*
Winston blinked away the drop of sweat that rolled down his forehead and into his eye.
‘Show yourself and prove who you are,’ said his brother, Emmerson Ngwenya.
Winston wanted to believe he was wrong, but George had shown him a photo not only of his daughter but also one of Thandi and Emmerson. It had been taken around 1972 or 1973. George had been vague when Winston had asked him how he'd come to be in possession of the picture. He'd said something about his mother getting a copy from Winston's mother. Winston thought that unless his mother had changed her opinion of the Bryants, then this was highly unlikely. Thandi was smiling, but Emmerson had sneered at the camera, with the arrogance of the youthful rebel.
Whether Emmerson knew whose child he had kidnapped didn't matter – the fact that he would kidnap a little girl for any reason was almost beyond belief. He had seen the atrocities ZANLA and ZIPRA had inflicted on people who sided with the government, but he could only guess what his brother had in store for George's daughter. Was it personal?
Bright looked at him from behind the neighbouring tree, and Winston blinked again. Winston saw Obert, from the corner of his eyes, shifting from foot to foot.
If Winston showed himself to his brother, he was sure Emmerson would recognise him immediately. What would his brother do then? Winston studied the wide eyes, the cruel set of Emmerson's mouth, and saw the way he did nothing to relieve the pressure of the gun on the girl's temple as her tears flowed.
Winston decided to do what he knew his brother would do. He drew a breath and aimed.
*
Natalie screamed into the gag as the man'
s blood spurted all over her.
He'd been holding the gun to her head but had relaxed his hold a little when one of his men asked him something. In turning to answer, her abductor had lowered the pistol's barrel. Natalie had squirmed and then the gunfire had started.
The man holding her pitched back as though he'd been slammed in the face with a sledgehammer. He still had his arm around her and she fell back on top of him. He was clutching at his upper body somewhere and blood jetted from him. Natalie could feel it on her back and she screamed again. She rolled over, and blood sprayed into her face. The man yelled in pain as she wriggled on him to try to get to her feet. It wasn't easy with her wrists tied behind her. She saw his gun in the grass, where he'd dropped it. She knew as soon as he could get to it he would shoot her. Even as she rolled to her knees she saw him scrabbling in the dirt for the pistol with one hand, while he held the other to a spot above his right lung. Blood was pumping out between his fingers.
Bullets were zinging and whizzing all around her, but all she wanted to do was get away from that foul man who'd been pushing and shoving and hurting her. There were flashes of fire from the mopane trees in front of her. If these men were shooting at the terrs, they must be army guys, she thought.
Her feet were bloody and pricked with thorns, and not having the use of her arms for balance made running even harder. She tripped and fell, crying and yelling into her gag. A big man stepped from the trees in front of her and she saw his canvas tennis shoes and camouflage trousers. She craned her head to look up at him.
‘Come,’ he said, motioning her towards him. He was black, and looked like another terrorist. Natalie had no idea what was going on.
The big man raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired another couple of shots, then changed magazines. Natalie got up onto one knee, and then to her feet. She wasn't going to run into the arms of another bad man. She turned to run away from the two sets of warring Africans.
‘Get down, girl!’ the man yelled. She stopped. Natalie was in the open, with bullets flying all around her. Another man cried out in pain. ‘Covering fire!’ the big man yelled. The sound of bullets seemed to increase in ferocity as the man ran to her. He wrapped a muscled arm around her and half-lifted, half-dragged her to a large tree. He sat her down. ‘I am a friend. I know your father. He is my friend.’
Natalie looked up at him and started to cry. She didn't know how this bloody terr would know her dad, or if he was here to help her or kill her. She was tired and sore and scratched and cut and all she wanted was to go home to Grandma Pip and her mom and dad.
The black man reached a hand out to her and she cringed into the rough bark of the tree. ‘I'm not going to hurt you.’ He hooked a finger in the gag around her mouth and pulled it free. ‘There, is that better?’
She nodded, trembling.
‘Winston!’ another man called. ‘They are running. What shall we do?’
‘Leave them, Bright. We have the girl. Jonathan?’
‘Here,’ called the third member of their stick.
‘Obert?’
Winston paused then tried the other man's name again. There was no answer. ‘Find him, Bright.’
‘All right.’
The man called Winston pulled out a knife from a sheath at his belt.
‘No!’
‘Hush, little one,’ he said to her. ‘I'm just going to cut the ties on your wrist. Turn for me. It's all right. I know your father.’
Natalie blinked back her tears and slowly turned. She tensed her whole body, waiting to feel the pointed blade pierce her back at any second. She whimpered as she felt the steel against the inside of her wrists.
‘Obert is dead,’ the man named Bright called.
Natalie felt the big man pause with the knife. ‘Don't hurt me, please!’ Thoughts raced through her mind, terrifying her even more … He's going to kill me; please, God, don't let him kill me; he just said he knew my dad so I wouldn't struggle. Natalie looked over her shoulder, eyes wide with fear.
The big man called to his men, ‘Leave him, but get his weapon. We'll pull back to the kraal and call for reinforcements there.’
Someone screamed from the bush. The man called Bright raised his hand and said something, then the gunfire started again.
Natalie saw her chance and leapt up and ran.
‘No! Come back!’ the man called after her.
*
Braedan had gone to ground behind a fallen tree when the rounds started coming down range in his direction. It was odd, but he thought he could hear fire going the other way, away from him, from off to his left.
Perhaps the gooks hadn't actually seen him and were just firing blind. He peered around the corner of the log and saw one of them, not thirty metres away. The man was firing an AK, but across Braedan's front, not at him. These guys … everyone said they were hopeless soldiers who couldn't shoot straight. Living proof, right before his eyes. The guy was jumpy as hell, too, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Just then he heard a high-pitched voice scream ‘No!’ Christ, he thought. The girl. She was still alive. What were the bastards doing to her?
Braedan had fired his weapon plenty of times before and he thought he had killed two men; however, other members of his troop had claimed the same kills, so he couldn't be really sure. He put the fidgeting floppy in his sights, drew a breath and squeezed the trigger. The man fell back behind his tree and didn't get up again. There was no doubt about that one.
Braedan knew he couldn't lie here. He heard voices. There were maningi gooks – plenty of them – and he knew he had to get up and into the fight.
‘Don't hurt me, please!’ a little girl's voice cried out.
Braedan swallowed hard. They were going to fucking kill or rape a ten-year-old girl. He planted his left fist in the dirt and pushed himself up.
He heard one of the gooks saying something about pulling back to a kraal, but then he drowned out their voices and his own fears with a primal, animalistic yell that came from deep down in his core. Braedan vaulted the dead tree and ran forward, the FN tight in his shoulder as he looked down the barrel for a target.
A young African in a Russian hat turned to stare at the noise he was making. He had an AK in his right hand and raised his left, palm out. ‘No, don't shoot. We are –’
Braedan fired twice. The double tap. Both rounds found their mark in the gandanga's chest. The man fell back, blood spewing from his mouth. He saw a flash of white through the dull greens and browns of the trees. Two down. He was fucking invincible. He searched for another target.
‘No, come back,’ called a man with a deep African voice.
‘I'm fucking coming for you, cunt,’ Braedan said.
Another terr stepped from behind a tree, dropped his rifle and raised his hands. Braedan spun and fired twice. His first shot missed, but the second caught the man in the guts. Braedan ran to him and stood over him; he was writhing in pain.
‘No!’ the man said.
‘Where is she?’ Braedan said, his chest heaving from the run, from the adrenaline, from the sheer rush of it all. He was almost there.
‘No!’ the terrorist said again through his pain. ‘We are … we are –’
He had no time to waste. He'd seen the girl running. He pointed the barrel of his FN at the man's forehead and finished him off. ‘Thanks for coming, China.’
He ran into the bush, following the sound of the little girl's screams.
*
Winston thought about letting the girl run. She was heading away from where Emmerson and his men had come from, although from the gunfire behind him it sounded as though they were in pursuit. No, he had to get her.
She tripped and screamed and he closed the distance between them in a few long bounds. He didn't waste his time trying to calm her. He drew his knife and reached down for her skinny little wrists. Perhaps if he freed her she might calm down and trust him.
‘Noooo!’ she shrieked.
‘Bastar
d,’ said a voice behind Winston.
Winston turned, knife in hand, and saw the RLI soldier standing there.
‘Thank God,’ he said, dropping his knife and rifle and spreading his arms wide.
*
Braedan stood in the clearing, the morning light filtering down through the mopanes, turning the dry grass a beautiful golden yellow.
The little girl was on the ground, her nightdress stained with dirt and blood. Her hands were bound behind her and she was scrambling in the dirt and grass like a centipede, trying to put as much distance as she could between herself and the filthy terr.
The man had spread his arms, like he was Jesus Christ himself, and had the hide to grin at him. ‘Bastard,’ Braedan said.
‘Thank God,’ the man said.
Braedan was breathing hard out of his nose, like a stallion blowing after a charge. The gook probably thought he'd spend time in gaol, or maybe swap sides, like they'd all heard some of the magandanga did. He had the guts to kidnap and try and murder a little girl, but not to stand and fight. The gutless prick started to say something, but Braedan had no time for his words.
He knew what he had to do. There would be no trial for this one, no comfy prison cell, no lawyers for this piece of filth. Sometimes he wondered if it was all worth it. Braedan was young, but he wasn't stupid. He knew the security forces' losses were mounting and the gutless, back-stabbing politicians were already working on a deal to put a criminal in charge of the country. Others were in the business of compromising and taking the path of least resistance.
Not Braedan Quilter-Phipps.
‘My brother –’ the terr started to say.
‘I'm not your fucking brother,’ Braedan said. He took aim and put two in the man's black heart.
11
Tate drove from Kariba to Salisbury for the medal ceremony, mostly because his mother wanted him there, but partly because he was genuinely proud of what his twin brother had done.