by Tony Park
But they had stayed and, worse still, another team of police officers had arrived from Johannesburg shortly after the pair of pied Hawks. Sindisiwe felt professionally insulted that the commissioner in Joburg had sent a team from a new specialist mine-security unit to go underground in search of the missing girl. It was all for PR, she knew. There was no way they would find Jessica McMurtrie, certainly not by making a full-frontal assault down into the mine via the cage. Wellington would have the girl well hidden in his labyrinth. Even though she had deliberately not agreed to any requests from Eureka for police operations to be mounted underground, she still felt slighted that the commissioner had sent his own team.
They all pulled up at the security checkpoint at Eureka and showed their IDs. The Hawks led the way, followed by a doublecab bakkie groaning under the weight of four spectacularly built Zulu policemen and their arsenal of weapons and kit in the back. Sindisiwe couldn’t help but admire them again as they got out of the vehicle and began readying themselves for battle.
A photographer and journalist Sindisiwe knew from the Lowvelder had also arrived. The commissioner might have sent these warriors, to try to prove the force was taking the problems in Barberton seriously, but Sindisiwe was determined to ensure that if there was any positive PR from this pointless operation then she would benefit from it. The photographers took mock candid pictures of her talking to the underground assault team members.
A Global Resources bakkie pulled up at the entrance to the headgear and Chris Loubser got out. He was wearing blue overalls, gumboots and a hard hat with a miner’s lamp attached. She was surprised to see him here.
Sindisiwe went back to her car as the men moved into the cages. There was nothing she could do, and the journalist and photographer had packed their gear and left. Sindisiwe decided she would do the same, and perhaps invent a meeting in Nelspruit so that she could go shopping at i’Langa Mall.
*
Chris closed his eyes and prayed as the rope, as miners called the cable connected to the cage, spooled and whined. His stomach lurched as the cage dropped and he felt the dread and the darkness engulf him.
The four policemen accompanying him had been full of bravado as they had done their final checks, tapping magazines on their helmets to ensure the springs inside weren’t jammed and then ramming them into their rifles. They yanked on the cocking handles of their R5s and bumped fists. They’d been bristling with attitude, but now, as they descended, all of them were quiet. The cops would have had experience underground, perhaps as former miners, but none of them was boasting now.
Chris fought to control his breathing as the rock face of the shaft whizzed by, just inches from him. He wrapped his arms around his body and squeezed, imagining Tertia holding him. He was doing this for her, for them, and for Lion Plains and its helpless wildlife. He had to be brave for all of them.
Two of the policemen were talking softly, discussing tactics for when the cage stopped. Chris hoped the crooked Colonel Radebe had tipped off the zama zamas and they’d be hidden deep within the mine. This was a show raid, put on to make it look like the force was doing something, and no doubt provoked by the front-page outrage in the media. It had even made the national papers, the killing of the dominee and Cameron’s daughter. Chris prayed the criminal miners were not stupid enough to take on a police team.
The cage started to slow. It jerked to a halt and Chris, who was acting as the onsetter, operated the door to open it after the all-clear bells had rung. The first officer switched on his lamp and stepped onto the level, his rifle raised to his shoulder, as if he was expecting someone to emerge from the gloom.
‘Clear!’
He took two steps forward and a single shot rang out. Sparks flew off the rock side wall and the policeman fell back, screaming. He must have had his finger on the trigger because a burst of bullets ricocheted off the wall.
A second officer provided cover, firing blindly into the darkness, while a third dragged the injured man towards the cage. The fourth was futilely trying his radio. Chris rang the bell furiously to signal the hoist driver to bring them up immediately. Another two shots erupted from the darkness and the officer who had been firing fell backwards onto the floor of the cage. Chris put his hands over his ears and started screaming. Two of the police were down, a third was still giving first aid, trying to slow the bleeding of his fallen comrades’ wounds. Three shots were all it had taken. The fourth policeman had given up trying to make his radio work and held his R5 above his head in surrender and emptied the rest of his magazine. When the breech locked open he ejected the magazine and fumbled in a pouch of his bulletproof vest for a fresh one.
Chris felt the hot gush of urine down his leg. Again and again he rang the bell and he finally felt the cage jerk as the winding gear was engaged. The officer giving first aid had his head lamp on and as his eyes moved from one injured man to another the beam of his light bounced off the tunnel walls. The fourth policeman’s rifle was jammed and he was frantically trying to clear the obstruction.
Chris looked up towards heaven and the surface of the earth, unseen in the darkness. ‘Come on, come on!’
The cage jolted and started to move upwards at last. The policeman who had been firing had gone back to his radio and was speaking rapidly into it in Zulu.
Chris glanced at the tunnel and saw a man emerge from a cubby, an alcove in the side wall where he had been hiding. He was wearing a black balaclava, but his height and posture gave him away immediately. He had on night-vision binoculars. ‘No!’
Wellington raised his AK-47 and pressed the button on the night-aiming device attached to the fore grip. Chris looked down in horror at the pinprick of red light resting on his chest. The Lion shifted his aim slightly to the right so that the glowing dot was over Chris’s heart.
A shot echoed up the shaft. Chris fell to the floor of the cage. The last thing he saw in life was a bright light far above as he felt himself being carried up.
*
The helicopter came up the valley, low and fast, and circled the mine once before the pilot began his descent. Jan Stein looked up, shielding his eyes from the hot African sun. The noise of the aircraft and the smell of the fresh blood brought back memories.
He peeled the sticky latex gloves from his hands and turned his back to avoid the rotor wash as the aircraft settled onto Eureka’s emergency helipad. Eight of his own men, four to a stretcher, carried two wounded policemen to the helicopter. A crewman stepped out, connected to the machine by an umbilical radio cable. He waved the stretcher bearers forward.
Jan nodded to the surviving officers and they waved their thanks. He had assisted with stabilising the shot officers, drawing on skills he hadn’t used in twenty-five years. They were brave men, fighting back the pain, and Jan knew that the police would not be hurrying back to try to shut down the zama zamas.
He walked to the mine bakkie and looked into the load area. He pulled back the plastic tarpaulin and saw Chris Loubser’s white face, drained of life. His eyes were wide open, still showing the shock of the realisation that he was about to die. Jan had seen that look too many times. He reached down and closed the boy’s eyes.
‘Go with God.’
He wondered if it was all worth it; the things men did to crush these comparatively miniscule amounts of yellow particles from the grip of the earth. It was over now, he realised. Wellington was firmly in control of Eureka and there seemed little chance the independent monitors would be allowed underground any time soon. Without their report the government and the unions would still assume that Cameron McMurtrie had been neglectful of the safety of his men, and that Eureka was a deathtrap. Following the ambush of the police officers, the board in Australia would countenance no more paramilitary action to root out the criminal miners.
On top of all that, Tertia had discovered a rare bird and that had apparently scuttled Global Resources’ bid to enter the coal market in South Africa. Things couldn’t be worse for the company.
; He pulled the plastic sheet up over Chris’s body. Looking down the hill from the helipad he saw an undertaker’s van coming through the security checkpoint. He took out his cigarettes and lit one as the helicopter lifted off, taking the wounded policemen to the Nelspruit Mediclinic. At least they would live.
Coetzee came out of the office block and walked down the stairs and over to him. Jan offered him his packet of cigarettes, but the mine manager shook his head. ‘No thanks, I gave up.’ He glanced down into the back of the pickup, then averted his eyes to watch the fast disappearing helicopter. ‘So, what do we do now, boss?’
Jan kept staring out over the valley. The fading whine of the helo’s engines took him back in time, again. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I was just online. The company’s share price in Australia has gone into freefall. A lot of the boys here are worried. Most of them don’t want to go on strike. It’s only the union bosses who are whipping up this pollution thing. The guys know the mine’s safe and some of them are talking about going underground and taking on the zama zamas themselves. There’s a rumour going around that Global Resources might try and sell Eureka. There’s speculation on the internet that there’s a Chinese company that’s going to try and buy it. Do you think that would happen?’
Jan exhaled a stream of smoke and didn’t make eye contact with Coetzee. ‘The way things are going the company might pull out of Africa altogether. The Chinese might pick up all our operations for a song.’
‘You can bring us back, boss. You can sort this mess out. Shit, man, I’ll go and find that bladdy owl at Lion Plains and shoot it if you want me to. We’re miners, boss, we’ve got to work, we’ve got to keep the country going.’
Jan shook his head. ‘No. Leave the birds alone. I can’t sort this out. I’m going to have to resign before the board sacks me.’
‘You can’t, boss.’
Jan walked slowly back to the office block, leaving Coetzee with the bakkie to greet the undertakers. He knew it was weak of him, but he couldn’t watch them load Loubser into the back of the van like a side of beef.
*
Jessica heard the echo of the far-off gunshots and tried again to sit up on the stinking bed. The muscles in her arms were on fire, thanks to her hands being tied behind her and her constant efforts to break out of the cable ties.
She had failed and, unlike in the movies and books, there was no jagged piece of metal or broken glass for her to saw through her bindings. Instead, her wrists also burned and felt sticky where the plastic had cut into skin. She heard footsteps running down the tunnel. The door to the refuge chamber opened and Wellington’s mining lamp illuminated the room. He held a rifle in one hand and a balaclava and night-vision binoculars in the other. He grinned.
‘They came looking for you, but they’re not coming back.’
She prayed it wasn’t her father that Wellington had been shooting at. She still refused to believe he was dead.
‘I have good news for you.’
She tried to be defiant, glaring up at him, but the truth was she was terrified he was going to rape her before he killed her. He couldn’t ransom her, as a kidnapper would, because he would know that her father would catch him and kill him. The thought that her father might still be – no, the thought that he was – alive was the only thing that kept her from bursting into tears.
He reached for her and she screamed.
‘Shush, my precious girl.’
She wriggled away from him as far as she could, her back against the warm rock wall.
‘What are you going to do with me?’
He smiled and sat on the bed, which squeaked under his weight. She tried to burrow into the rock. ‘I’m taking you away from here. To somewhere nice. You will be cared for.’
She couldn’t allow herself to believe him. ‘Where’s my father?’
‘He’s dead. I killed him. I put a bomb on the plane he and the Australian woman were flying on in Zambia.’
‘No! You’re lying.’
He shrugged. ‘Why would I lie? And why would I confess a murder to you?’
Jessica swallowed back her tears. She thought it was because he was going to kill her, but she didn’t want to play his games.
‘I’ll tell you why. You are valuable to me.’
She felt the tears welling and sniffed them back. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You can die, or you can live. There is a man I know who has offered to buy you. You will leave Africa with him and live as his woman. You will be prevented from escaping, but you will live, probably in luxury.’
Jessica thought she would rather die than become some foreigner’s slave. There had been stories about this kind of thing in the media every now and then, but she had never known how true they were. Being sold into the slave trade was something that happened to poor black kids, not to her. Her world had descended into a nightmare.
She blinked into the light on his head. All she could see was his maniacal eyes. He was enjoying teasing her, torturing her. ‘You’re sick.’
‘No, the man who wants to buy you is sick. I am a businessman. You are a virgin, yes? I have told him you are, but it will have to be verified. He won’t want you otherwise.’
She thought him the most revolting creature she had ever seen. She shivered, then nodded, slightly. ‘I want to live.’ She had to stay alive long enough for her father to find her.
And long enough for him to kill this prick.
34
The horizon spun crazily, making her feel sick. She glimpsed a dry grassy plain and shimmering pools of water. The vista was studded with black dots. When she focused on them, not without pain, she recognised them as antelope, a long way off.
The sky was marbled with grey clouds, hiding the sun, but it was hot. She felt a sheen of sweat all over her body. Her head throbbed with pain, the blood pooling in her cranium because, she vaguely realised, she was very nearly upside down. Her leg hurt too.
She passed out.
When she awoke again she was lying down. She blinked her eyes. A fly buzzed around her and she felt a sharp sting on her arm. ‘Ow!’
She had no idea where she was. Her vision was blurred, but she could make out leaves. The ground was damp under her, soaking up through the back of her shirt and her skirt. She tried to sit up and felt nauseous, so lay back down again.
‘Hey.’
She turned her head a little and saw a man. He knelt beside her and mopped her brow with a damp cloth. He pursed his lips. He looked worried. ‘Do you know your name?’
She coughed on the first attempt. Her mouth was so dry. ‘Kylie,’ she croaked.
He smiled again. ‘And my name?’
‘George Clooney?’
‘No, you’re not dead. This isn’t heaven.’
Kylie coughed again. ‘What happened?’
He sat and put his arm under her as she tried to sit up again. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I feel woozy.’
‘Rest.’ He laid her back down, her head supported by a backpack that smelled of smoke.
‘Fire. I remember fire.’
Cameron nodded. ‘We crashed, Kylie. We were blown out of the sky.’
‘Blown … bomb?’
He reached for a water bottle and tipped it to her lips. She slurped the warm water greedily and it ran out the side of her mouth. She tried to wipe it away, feeling strangely self-conscious. He mopped her mouth for her and put a finger on her lips. ‘Don’t exert yourself.’
She felt the tenderness of his touch, heard it in his words. They had made love. She remembered. But where were they? What had happened? She closed her eyes and felt his hand on her cheek in response. She opened them again and saw the relief wash over his face.
‘There was a bomb, Kylie. The blast came from underneath, in the aircraft’s cargo compartment. The fuel tanks are in the wings, so it wasn’t a problem there. It was something stored with the bags.’
Kylie looked from side to side. ‘The pilot … Dougal. The others?’
&nbs
p; Cameron shook his head, then closed his eyes to try to blot out a memory. ‘They’re dead. It’s just you and me.’
She recalled the deafening bang, the smoke, the screams of the couple seated in front of her. The smell of old smoke brought back an image in a flash. ‘They burned.’ He wrapped both his arms around her as the sobs rose up from deep inside her. ‘They were on fire, Cameron.’
‘Yes. But you’re alive, Kylie. I was so worried about you. You were knocked out. Your leg was badly cut as well.’
She sniffed back her tears and felt for the source of the pain in her head. She felt the padding of a bandage. Kylie raised her head a little and looked down at her right leg. The calf was bandaged.
It flooded back now, swamping her with visions of horror as she screwed her eyes shut. The flash of light, the terrible noise, the smoke filling the cabin. Dougal, the pilot, kept looking back at the couple behind him as he fought to control the stricken aircraft. Cameron managed to find a fire extinguisher and sprayed it on the young man and the woman.
Their screams.
The terrible sound stayed with them until Dougal spotted a clearing and brought the Cessna down. All the way, though, the young couple, burned black, screamed and screamed. She tried to put the memory of the smell out of her mind.
Cameron had made sure she was strapped in tight and he’d returned to his seat, just seconds before the belly of the plane bumped the ground. Kylie had thought the pilot would make it, but he had hit something on the second bounce and the nose of the aircraft had crumpled in on Dougal and they had flipped upside down. Kylie had hit her head and passed out.
She looked up at Cameron.
‘Dougal almost made it, but we hit a termite mound,’ he said. ‘You were out cold and I carried you about thirty metres from the aircraft. I went back, but a fresh fire had started. Dougal was killed outright. The others …’
She felt his hold on her relax and she gripped him with her hand as the faces of the other passengers, the couple who were already on the aircraft when they boarded, came back to her. ‘No, Cameron. There was nothing you could have done for them. I remember. They must have been nearly dead by the time we crashed.’