by Tony Park
The green flare whooshed towards heaven.
*
Emmerson Ngwenya, known to the men who served under him as Comrade Beria, saw the flare, even before his spotter confirmed it. Emmerson felt his heart start to beat faster, but he told himself to remain calm.
He lifted the SA-7 Grail man-portable surface-to-air missile launcher onto his shoulder. He licked his lips. Three months on since the bloody contact with the Skuz'apo stick west of Bulawayo this was his reward for orchestrating the annihilation of those jackals. Emmerson had risen in the ranks and the esteem of the senior comrades of ZIPRA when he finally made it back across the border to Zambia.
His tale of survival was already being taught to new recruits to the struggle. Ngwenya, it was said, had recognised the traitors of the feared Selous Scouts as soon as he had seen them and had bravely opened fire. Even though he had been wounded, he had engineered the Skuz'apo patrol's demise by cunningly firing on a Rhodesian Light Infantry force that was on its way to link up with the scouts. In the confusion that followed, the kanka fired on each other. The white racist regime called it a victory, but everyone in Lusaka knew that the security forces had blundered, that Skuz'apo were not invincible, and that Emmerson Ngwenya was a hero.
This Ngwenya, the wide-eyed volunteers were further told, crawled away into the bush from the scene of his brilliant work and hid, bleeding from his wound, in the heart of an old baobab for two days. After that he made his way to a rural store, broke in and liberated a bottle of Dettol and some bandages. A bullet had entered his body, after ricocheting off the wooden stock of his AK-47. Its progress slowed, the round entered below his left clavicle, narrowly missing his brave heart and strong lung, and then lodged beneath the skin of his back. This man Ngwenya, the recruits learned, stripped the bark from a thin mopane stick, then reached around to where he could feel the bullet and sliced his own skin. This fearless lion of a warrior tipped Dettol over the stick and then rammed it into the entry wound and pushed until the bullet came out of the fresh cut on his back. It was said Ngwenya nearly passed out as he tipped the burning liquid into the wound, and if a man had stood behind Ngwenya at that moment he might have seen the antiseptic pouring out of the newly created exit wound.
Emmerson rolled his shoulder, the movement an involuntary reflex. His own brother. That was not part of the story, not part of the legend of Emmerson Ngwenya. The comrades would have suspected him, if they knew that Winston had served in Skuz'apo. No matter that Emmerson had tried to kill him. At least his traitorous older brother was dead and Emmerson had had the satisfaction of watching the white man, who he now knew from the Rhodesian newspapers to be Corporal Braedan Quilter-Phipps, shooting Winston without knowing his brother was a member of the security forces. Naturally the government had covered up the affair, but Emmerson wondered if Quilter-Phipps – the same boy who had caused him so much trouble at George Bryant's wedding by yelling out in alarm when he had tried to silence Hope – had been told of his mistake.
Emmerson had planned the attack on the Bryant farm out of revenge, and he had hoped to find Hope Bryant, who had cost him long months of freedom, at home. The child would have been a fitting substitute for her aunt, if his mission had succeeded, but Emmerson had taken solace and satisfaction at the private pain the raid had caused the family.
‘My brother …’ Emmerson would forever recall Winston saying, just before the ma-brooka troopie shot him. My shame, thought Emmerson.
‘There it is,’ said the spotter.
Emmerson nodded. He had heard the Viscount approaching, the engines still running hard and hot as it climbed towards the southeast. He was in a perfect position for the shot. The setting sun was behind him, which meant the missile would not inadvertently lock on to it, like a mindless Icarus.
Emmerson took a breath and flicked on the thermal battery. He peered through the optical sight and found the growing spec of the aircraft. The infra-red seeker locked on almost immediately and Emmerson heard the buzzing tone from the grip stock and saw the green light appear in the optical sight.
‘Fire,’ said the spotter, another particularly devoted comrade who was known for his willingness to dish out swift and savage beatings to comrades who were found guilty of laziness in training, cowardice in battle or reactionary talk. Emmerson wondered if the younger man's sole purpose on this mission was to make sure Emmerson went through with the firing and didn't get any pangs of doubt about shooting down a civilian airliner.
The hated war criminal General Walls was on board this aircraft, and he was ZIPRA's prime target. Emmerson, like the comrades in Lusaka, knew that the deaths of the civilian passengers would also have tremendous repercussions. White resolve, already weakened by years of war, would crumble, and what was left of the Rhodesian tourism industry would collapse. The puppet Muzorewa would see which was the strongest force in Rhodesia, and it was not his army of black and white jackals. And ZANU, headed by the newly crowned Robert Mugabe, would see who had the biggest balls and the strongest stomach for war.
‘Quiet,’ Emmerson said, ignoring the spotter. The fool probably wanted to be able to tell his children and grandchildren that he gave the order. Emmerson was too smart to shoot too soon. He tracked the aircraft, waiting for the perfect shot. The tone still sounded and Emmerson knew he had sixty seconds of battery time. Plenty.
Emmerson swivelled as the aircraft climbed high and passed over him. When he was facing towards its right-rear quadrant he depressed the trigger on the grip stock halfway. He heard the gyro inside the missile start to spin up, as the seeker was uncaged. He counted the seconds … four, five, six …
Emmerson pulled the trigger and the ejector charge fired the missile from the launcher.
*
Hope was staring out the window, again trying to ignore the passenger next her – this time a matronly woman who'd drunk too much before boarding the aircraft and wanted to tell Hope about her stay on Fothergill Island, one of the larger hilltop islands in Lake Kariba, which boasted a safari lodge and bountiful game.
Hope had taken a seat near the rear of the aircraft, on the right-hand side, and thought she might be able to sleep if she could lean her head against the window. It was pointless, though. She kept replaying every word, every second of her unspoken confession to Tate. He'd known straightaway. Unbidden, Braedan intruded into her gloom. She could still feel him, for God's sake. She wanted to cry again, but a bright flashing comet of light caught her eye.
Hope lifted her forehead from the window. The woman next to her was talking about a close encounter with an elephant, but Hope wasn't listening. The light raced towards them.
The two hostesses on board, one white and one black, had just got out of their seats and had started to wheel out the drinks cart. ‘Hey!’ Hope yelled, waving to one of them. The white woman looked up, mildly annoyed, and Hope saw the heads of a few other passengers ahead of her who turned to look at her.
A man yelled something, but Hope couldn't register what it was before the aeroplane erupted. Hope was thrown against the woman next to her as an explosion opened a hole in the right-hand fuselage wall, three rows in front of her. Chunks of metal blasted through the aircraft's skin and punched out the other side. People were screaming and the cabin was filling with smoke. The hostesses were running down the aisle.
Her ears rang. She looked out her window and saw the right inboard engine was on fire, the propeller not turning. Air was whistling in through the multitude of holes ahead of her. Hope felt something wet on her face. When she touched her forehead and inspected her fingers she saw blood. The woman next to her was screaming. Hope ran her fingers over her face again. She felt no pain, no cuts … It took her a few seconds to realise the blood had come from someone else. In front, in the rows near where the bomb had hit, she saw blood running from the top of a man's head, which lolled against his seat rest. The man next to him was out of his seat, screaming to the hostess to find a fire extinguisher.
‘Get back in your s
eats!’ the white hostess was saying. The black girl was running to the rear of the aircraft.
Hope felt the aircraft lurch and bank, as if it was sliding sideways out of the air. ‘My God, my God,’ the woman next to her keened, ‘we're going to die!’
Hope put her head in her hands. I deserve to, she thought. Hope looked out the window again and saw the fire had spread further out along the wing and that the other engine had now stopped. The aircraft shuddered.
*
On the flight deck of the Viscount the pilot radioed a Mayday and told anyone who was listening what he was planning on doing. He knew he had to try to extinguish the fires in the two right-hand engines, and to get the aircraft down as quickly as possible. Ahead he could see wide-open tracts of land.
‘Cotton farms,’ said his co-pilot.
They were west of Karoi, over the Urungwe tribal trust lands. ‘Undercarriage down,’ the pilot said, moving his hand to the lever. The landing gear apparently hadn't been affected and there was the reassuring clunk and attendant confirmatory lights to tell him the wheels were down. Thank God for something, he thought. ‘Brace, brace, brace,’ he said over the aircraft's internal intercom system. There was no time for anything else.
*
Emmerson Ngwenya watched the Viscount turn and lose altitude. Through the spotter's binoculars he saw smoke trailing from the right wing. The hit had been good.
‘Come,’ he said to the spotter and the ten-man security detail that had been fanned out around the firing point and had now regrouped around Emmerson. ‘We must go to the crash site. We have our orders.’
One of the men raised his AK-47 and cheered. It was too soon to celebrate, Emmerson thought. There would be time for that once he knew the job was done properly. They set off at a jog through the bush.
*
The aircraft bounced back up into the air as soon as its wheels touched the uneven farmland and Hope's stomach was left behind. I don't want to die, she told herself. She grabbed her legs tighter and kept her head down on her lap. I don't want to die.
The Viscount settled again and when the wheels touched again they stayed on the ground. Hope felt her spirits soar. They were hurtling along and the aeroplane was jiggling and bouncing, and things were raining down out of some overhead lockers that had popped open, but they were on the ground.
Someone cheered.
Then the aircraft cartwheeled and broke in two.
*
When Hope regained consciousness she felt as though her head was about to explode. It took her a moment to realise she was upside down. Someone near her groaned. She smelled smoke and started to panic.
She fumbled for the clasp of her seatbelt and before she could think through the consequences she crashed head-first into the overhead locker and crumpled to a heap on the aircraft's ceiling. It was gloomy, partly from the encroaching twilight but also from the pall of sickly smelling smoke that had filled the cabin. It was a mix of oily, chemical smells and, oddly, the odour of cooking meat.
Hope put out a hand and shrieked. It was the woman who'd been sitting next to her. Her head was bent at an unnatural angle. Her skin was cold and her eyes lifeless. ‘Help me,’ Hope coughed, her lungs suddenly full of the smoke. The woman must have undone her seatbelt too early and had broken her neck.
Hope crawled towards an orange glow. It appeared the entire aircraft had broken in two, somewhere near the rear of the fuselage, not far in front of where Hope had been sitting, near the spot where the bomb – or whatever it was – had gone off. Other people were stirring around her. Someone behind her brushed past. It was a man. He was barefoot and he trod on her hand in his rush to get to the light. ‘Ow!’ Hope protested. She tried to stand herself, then winced with pain as her right ankle refused to take her weight. She dropped to her knees. The man who had pushed her paused, then turned back to her and offered her his hand.
‘Sorry,’ he said belatedly. He lifted her to her feet.
‘My ankle.’
He draped her arm around his shoulder and together they hobbled out of the cabin and into a vision of hell.
*
Tate had done what he always did when he needed to think. He had driven out into the bush, away from Kariba and up into the hills near Makuti.
He pulled off the road onto one of the firetrails that crisscrossed the Charara Safari Area. As a local ranger he didn't need signs to tell him which path to take. If only life had been the same, he thought, already thinking of it in the past tense.
The track deteriorated as he climbed higher. He stopped the Land Rover and pulled down on the gear lever with the red knob, engaging low-range four-wheel drive. The engine groaned in protest, but slowly he climbed a flight of naturally eroded rock steps to the top of the hill. The sun was just about to hit the horizon. Somewhere off to the west he saw a pall of smoke rising. Probably some native farmer burning his lands.
Ahead of him he could see a sliver of Lake Kariba. Its waters glowed like lava in the sunset's reflection. Tate switched off the engine, opened the door and started to unlace his right boot.
It wasn't just Braedan and Hope, he told himself as he pulled off his boot and unpeeled his sweaty sock from his foot. The slight breeze on his toes felt nice. Funny, he thought, how he was noticing such things at a time like this. He paused to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. He hadn't wanted to cry, but the tears streamed out anyway.
Losing the only woman he had ever loved had forced him to contemplate his future. Even if he never saw them again he would be forever tormented by the thought, the mental images, of Braedan and Hope living together, getting married, going on holidays, making love and having children.
He would never be able to give his heart over to another woman, to dissect and dangle in front of his face. That was for sure. And what of his job? The blacks were not going to settle for Abel Muzorewa and Ian Smith in a phoney alliance; Mugabe and Nkomo would fight on, and they would win. The heart had gone out of the whites' war. Rhodesians would never die, as the popular saying went, but more and more of them were moving to South Africa or ‘taking the gap’ to Australia instead.
When the Africans took over Zimbabwe–Rhodesia, as the country was now known, the whites in government jobs, like Tate, would be expelled or, at best, passed over for promotion and relegated to menial positions. Other rangers had talked of going elsewhere in Africa and getting jobs as safari guides or professional hunters, but Tate didn't like people enough to follow either of those paths. He loved wildlife, and he had made the mistake of loving one woman.
Tate reached behind the Land Rover's seats to the gun rack and lifted out the FN. He grasped the cocking handle with his left hand, yanked it back and then released it, letting the working parts fly forward. At least he would do something right – he didn't want to get a double feed and jam the rifle when he needed it most. He flipped the safety catch to ‘fire’.
Tate placed the steel butt plate of the FN in the dirt, beside the open door of the vehicle and, still sitting in the driver's seat, dangled his legs out and inserted the big toe of his right foot into the trigger guard. He leaned forward until the soft skin under his lower jaw was pressed firmly against the rifle's muzzle.
He started to lower his foot and felt the pressure being taken up on the trigger, under his toe.
‘Hope,’ he said out loud.
*
Braedan checked his watch again. Hope's flight was late, but there had been no announcement. He went to the bar and ordered a beer while he waited for news about the delay.
A man in shirtsleeves and shorts and long socks walked in, went to the bar and ordered a double Scotch. When the barman served him the man raised the glass, drained it and then ordered another.
Braedan was ready for another beer, so he sauntered over to the bar. He noticed the Scotch drinker was ashen-faced.
‘Have you heard the news?’ the man asked.
Braedan shook his head.
‘The flight from Kariba … it's
missing.’
*
Makuti was running, snapping branches and flattening small trees under his tonne of bone and muscle.
He had smelled human, which was cause enough for worry, but when the lights and the smoke had lit up the evening sky he had taken panicked flight in the opposite direction. He hated fire, and the smell of burning was still in his nostrils as he ran.
Makuti huffed and snorted as he climbed higher into the hills and the gradient became steeper. In the past few years he had had to move further and further inland from the lake where he'd been born. There were more humans, more death, more noise than ever before.
He wasn't built for the hills, but he had adapted. The climbing had kept him fit and he had become adept at seeking out the thickest stands of bush, more often than not in deep gullies, which were closer to the habitat he should have been living in, on the floor of the river valley that was now a lake. He'd learned the patterns of the humans as well. He liked to use the tracks they had cleared, for it allowed him to cover greater distance in his nightly feeding forays, and he had learned which pathways were busy and which were often travelled by humans on foot or in their machines.
He sniffed the air. There was more smoke; it was the kind he associated with men and machines. That was not normal for the steep path he made his way onto now, but he needed to climb higher and move deeper into his territory, and quickly. Behind him the sun was setting. He needed to get over the crest of this hill and into the protection of the thicket in the valley beyond. There he would be safe. For now.
Makuti made it to the top of the gomo as the glowing red ball was disappearing. He stopped. His eyesight was not good, but his sense of smell was excellent. There was something ahead, a blurred outline of a shape not natural to the land, and that terrible scent again: smoke, sweat and oil – the smell of man.
*
Tate heard the snort and raised his head. He could feel the circular impression of the tip of the rifle's barrel under his chin.