by Deon Meyer
None of us realised he meant it as a promise.
Then, my father.
He spoke from the heart. He began by thanking Pastor Nkosi and his party for the manner in which they had taken part in the election. He quoted from Plato’s Republic: ‘Democracy is a charming form of government, full of variety and disorder, and dispensing a sort of equality to equals and unequals alike.’ He said equality had been one of the cornerstones of democracy for hundreds of years; in 1790 Maximilian Robespierre made it part of his motto of Freedom, Equality and Fraternity. The problem was that true equality, in the fullest sense of the word, was a rare and evasive phenomenon. Everywhere in the world, but especially in South Africa, the Fever had wreaked terrible devastation, but it had at least one positive outcome – it made us all truly equal. In Amanzi there were no rich and poor, there were just people. And it was an honour and a privilege to serve them as the democratically elected leader.
Pa said he would like in all humility to add a short piece to Plato’s view on democracy. He would like to say that democracy not only afforded a kind of equality to the equal as well as the unequal, but also a freedom to the believers and the unbelievers, to the Christians and the Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists, ancestor worshippers and agnostics.
Everyone knew he was talking to the pastor.
‘I want to invite every member of our community tonight: embrace this freedom. Enjoy this freedom. Use this freedom. And come, work together to make it bigger and stronger.’
For the past four months Hennie Fly had been flying with his first trainee pilot, twenty-year-old Peace Pedi. Peace’s first name was a misnomer, because he was anything but peaceful. He was skinny and slightly stooped, leaning forward so far when he walked that it seemed that at any minute he would tumble forwards into perpetual motion. Peace had a full, wide mouth curved in a permanent smile, and he was practically never silent. He talked, to everybody, about everything, he was a social dynamo.
He and Hennie were unlikely bosom buddies, united in their great passion and unquenchable love of talking. There was much speculation over how and when each got a chance to talk as they flew about in the small Cessna.
They flew patrols every morning, when the weather allowed. For four months they saw nothing, except livestock and game and our people, and migrants on their way to Amanzi.
Until 27 January. January was supposed to be the rainy season and the time for thunderstorms, so they took off in the early morning, just after dawn. But the clouds stayed away. Hennie chose a different route each day, so there was no predictable routine to his flights. Just in case Domingo’s spy theory was true. They flew at varying altitudes.
On 27 January they flew above the R717 east of Amanzi before 07.00. About sixty kilometres from Amanzi, just outside the completely lifeless and deserted town of Philippolis, Peace spotted the motorcycles: four of them, at a distance just far enough away to allow for some doubt. He pointed them out to Hennie Fly and they both stared hard at the specks riding into Philippolis. They saw the motorcycles for about twenty or thirty seconds, until they disappeared under the big trees along the main road.
Hennie kept his head. He didn’t deviate from his route, he didn’t change altitude, fly slower or faster. He didn’t want the bikers to realise they had been seen, but he reported it to Minister Xaba’s radio operators in Amanzi. Sarge X let Domingo know, and eleven minutes after Peace’s sharp eyes had seen them, the SpOT commander left for Philippolis with Team Alpha in the Volvo.
Fourteen minutes later Alpha found the imprint of a dual-purpose motorcycle’s front and rear tyre in a strip of sand that had washed across the tarmac of the town’s main road.
It was the first sign of gang activity we’d seen in nearly a year.
The next day the Volvo and the ERF, with Team Alpha and Bravo, drove to Philippolis and Jagersfontein, Bethulie and Springfontein, Trompsburg and Reddersburg.
They found nothing.
On 30 January Domingo asked Hennie and Peace to fly patrols at night too. Because he had his suspicions.
Chapter 82
February: I
During the night of 2 February at 00.23 Hennie and Peace spotted lights between Koffiefontein and Fauresmith. Strange lights, single lights, it looked like six or seven motorcycles racing at high speed, but according to the pilots’ calculations that was just veld, there was no road there.
They flew towards the lights, which were suddenly extinguished.
Very early on 3 February Team Alpha drove out in the Volvo to investigate. No road, but an old railway line, near Bellum Station. With clear motorcycle tracks running alongside. Perhaps up to ten bikes.
They followed the tracks until they disappeared on the tarmac road near Koffiefontein. Domingo summoned Team Bravo, and Hennie and Peace in the Cessna too, and sent them out to fine-comb the entire area all day and all night, all the way from Ritchie to Jagersfontein.
They found nothing.
But it was clear now: there was definitely something brewing in this scorching hot summer.
The four Special Ops Teams consisted of fourteen people each – two sergeant-instructors and twelve troops. Aram and Taljaard were the sergeants who trained Team Charlie. They had been ordinary soldiers with me in Bravo before their promotion. I was the only regular soldier in Charlie with previous experience. The rest were all new recruits.
When we heard the news of the motorcycle tracks and watched Alpha and Bravo drive out of base, Aram and Taljaard looked at each other, and then at me. All three of us longed to be with our old comrades, but we were busy with manoeuvres, preparing Team Charlie for operations. And I was enduring my punishment, though the nature of my offence was still not entirely clear to me.
On 3 February, precisely one year and two days after our last skirmish – with the Marauders – Sarge X’s radio eavesdroppers heard voices for the first time on the forty-metre band of the ham radio.
‘Clan Victor, Clan Victor, this is Number One, come in.’ Our radio room had no idea how long Number One had been calling on this frequency. They heard the voice at 10.03 and immediately sent for Sarge X, Pa, Birdy and Domingo. The chorus continued for another fourteen minutes: ‘Clan Victor, Clan Victor, this is Number One, come in.’
‘It’s him,’ said Domingo. I knew he would never forget that voice. ‘It’s Trunkenpolz.’
At last the reply came: ‘Number One, this is Clan Victor, repeat, this is Clan Victor. QRI.’
‘Tone is good, Clan Victor. QRM?’
‘Negative, Number One, negative. QRU?’
‘Roger, Clan Victor, roger. I have an invitation for you. Sierra Charlie at Maseru on 6 February, Clan Victor, repeat, Sierra Charlie at Maseru on 6 February. QRV.’
‘Roger, Number One, copy that, Sierra Charlie at Maseru on 6 February.’
‘Number One, over and out.’
It took a whole hour to reach consensus on the meaning of the conversation. Domingo, Birdy, the engineer and Minister Xaba worked on the translation, which ran:
Vikings gang, this is Number One, come in.
Number One this is the Vikings gang, how is the tone of my signal?
Your tone is good, Vikings. Are you experiencing any interference? Which Domingo interpreted as: are you experiencing any enemy actions, or eavesdropping?
No, Number One. Do you have anything for me?
Yes, I have an invitation. There is a Sales Club meeting on 6 February at Maseru. Are you ready for it?
Yes, we are.
Then they confirmed the date and place, and signed off.
Much later Nero Dlamini told us of the big debate that followed this radio message at a special meeting of the new, expanded Cabinet, which, according to the constitution, replaced the old Committee. They called Domingo in to hear his opinion too. Pa, as President of Amanzi, was the chairman of the meeting.
The big question they argued over was: should Amanzi send Special Ops to Maseru for the meeting, to try to capture or kill Clarkson and Meyiwa/Number One a
nd the Chair?
Surprisingly, Pastor Nkosi Sebego was the aggressive one: ‘It’s been a year. They feel safe. We can’t afford to let them slip through our fingers. Let’s send in the soldiers. Let us take the war to them.’
Ravi Pillay gave his cautious support: ‘I have to agree. There is no evidence to the contrary. I say we send SpOT.’
Beryl and Birdy found the coincidence troubling: within the space of one week there had been signs of gang activities within a hundred kilometres of us, followed by the conversation over the radio. All of a sudden, out of the blue, after a year of silence. And not just a how-are-you radio chat, but one that, in between all the Q-codes, made the date and place of a trade meeting crystal-clear. ‘It’s just too easy,’ said Birdy. ‘Too much of a coincidence.’
‘Please,’ said the pastor. ‘Not everything is a conspiracy. I just don’t think these terrorists, these devil’s spawn, are that smart.’ And so they argued back and forth, until eventually Pa called the Cabinet to order, and asked Domingo – who till now had sat listening poker-faced – what he thought.
‘I think they got a big fright when they killed Mbalo in August. They must have thought then, let’s wait six months, let the dust settle, let’s not make these idiots suspicious. The dust has settled now. I think they’re coming for us. ’Cause our harvests are coming in, and lots of canning and preserving is being done, and it’s a very dry season, there will be hunger out there. I think the radio broadcast is a trap. They want us to send soldiers to Maseru. They want our Ops Teams away from here, so they can attack Amanzi.’
‘Oh, please,’ said Pastor Nkosi. ‘It seems I’m the only one who isn’t a coward. Give me a SpOT team. I will lead them.’
Domingo stood up before Pa could respond. Nero Dlamini suspected he was going to give the pastor a cuff on the ear. Instead he said, ‘Mr President, I have said my piece. It’s for this Cabinet to decide.’ And he walked out.
They voted on the matter and decided the Special Ops Teams should stay home for now. If it wasn’t an ambush set by Number One, there would be more radio calls and Sales Club meetings.
The next four days were ominously quiet. There were no further radio chats on the forty-metre bandwidth, nor any suspicious activity seen by scouts.
On 8 February all hell broke loose.
At 04.41 Domingo woke the entire Special Ops unit. It was still pitch-dark. He ordered us to fall in on the parade ground, said there had been an attack on our settlement at Hopetown just after midnight. Of the sixty-six people who lived and worked there, sixty-three were killed. Three girls of twelve and younger survived. When the first shots were fired, an adult told them to go and hide in the old graveyard across the main road. They listened in fear and trembling to the shots, explosions, the screams, the roar of engines, and the crackling of fires raging through their houses. They saw the flames, thought it was all over, and crept nearer. And they saw the attackers leave. On motorcycles, led by one pick-up, with a large machine gun mounted on the back.
The oldest of the children knew how to work the radio, and she had let Amanzi know when they were sure the attackers had all gone.
‘The girls say the attackers came from the north, and left in that direction. Hennie Fly is in the air, combing the area. Alpha and Bravo, we are moving out immediately. Charlie and Delta, you are operational as of this morning. In my absence, your team leaders will be taking orders from Sarge X. He will be following our emergency defence plan, and I expect you to perform to the very best of your abilities.’
The big attack on Amanzi came in the darkest hours of 9 February.
Our best units, Alpha and Bravo, were near Kimberley, along with our best military brain: Domingo. They were hunting gangs that had disappeared like smoke into the wide, wild veld. Hennie Fly and Peace Pedi were providing air support.
Amanzi’s big emergency defence plan was set in motion. It meant that Sarge X’s entire defence force – the so-called Dad’s Army – was deployed. Supported by reservists, about a hundred residents who were not officially part of Dad’s Army, but at least had a bit of training in guard duty and firearms. They happily and in self-mockery called themselves Mom’s Army. They had never been called up, as we had never had a true emergency. Until now.
On that night of 9 February there were more than two hundred people in and around Amanzi who stood ready to defend the town and community.
There were twenty heavily armed guards posted at each of the Petrusville and Havenga gates. Thirty were on duty at the heavily fortified main gate. Ten mounted sentries patrolled on horseback on the other side of the dam, the north bank.
And the rest, a force of fifty of Sarge X’s best (middle-aged) soldiers, plus another fifty reservists, were in trenches and barricades back in the reserve, in Sector 3, the ‘soft underbelly’ of our natural mountain fortifications – the little valley that stretched from the dam up to the mountain.
The plan was one day to secure Sector 3 with a wall and a gate. It would have to be a long wall and gate. The scope of such a project required a great deal more resources than Amanzi had access to now, because the terrain was extensive and rough. Consequently, the defence force of one hundred people sheltered in a network of trenches and stone barricades. Sector 3’s ‘lines’.
Both the sergeants from Team Charlie and I had more than a year of intensive military training behind us. We had survived a KTM battle, we had gone to capture the Marauders’ radio base. My fellow troops, the newer members of Team Charlie, could boast of four months of Domingo’s relentless instruction. Despite our advanced skills, Charlie had the singular honour and privilege of standing guard with the weak reservists, the rest of Mom’s Army, in Disa Street. We were the last line of defence around Amanzi’s food warehouse, bottling factory, mill, bakery and police station – the heart of our community. We were deployed in pairs in strategic positions between the buildings, alternating with the reservists.
It was hard not to see this deployment as a slap in Charlie’s face. But we knew it wasn’t meant that way. The emergency defence plan’s original blueprint placed Team Alpha at the main gate and Team Bravo in Sector 3. But they were with Domingo, somewhere near Kimberley now.
Sofia Bergman was with Team Delta.
I thought of her where I lay waiting. I thought of her and wondered whether she ever spared a thought for me.
Team Delta’s orders were only fractionally more exciting. They were up there, in the heart of the reserve. They served as support for the hundred brave defenders of our soft underbelly. They waited at the old game ranger’s storage shed and offices, halfway between Sector 3 and the gate that separated our town and the reserve.
The attack on Amanzi came precisely as Domingo had predicted. They struck back in the valley.
The assault force was large. Larger than we had made preparation for. More than two hundred vehicles. About three hundred bloodthirsty fighting men. They fell on us two hours before dawn.
Chapter 83
February: II
The Enemy. I remember: that’s how we referred to them at the time, with a measure of frustration. An enemy without a name is a less hated and less feared enemy. Where were the days of the KTM?
The amorphous, amalgamated terrorists, the evil slave-trading partnership, the alphabet soup of motorcycle and pick-up gangs and the unfathomable Sales Club and other criminal, warmongering splinter groups metamorphosed in the Amanzi parlance to an unimaginative ‘Enemy’. They had hidden from our Cessna and our patrols in the folds of the mountains and ravines of the valleys near the furthest upstream point of the dam, fifty kilometres from our town. It must have cost them many nights of slowly creeping closer to get them all there unseen.
They had evaded our best scouting attempts due to the amateur status of our defence force and the wide expanse of the Karoo. Last night after sundown they must have mobilised the massed vehicles and fighters to drive silently, slowly and carefully to their nearest gathering point, the place where they were stil
l invisible and inaudible to us. It was about four kilometres from Sector 3, down the soft underbelly valley.
From there, at 03.25, just over two hours before dawn, they set off, in a mad rush, a race against time to confront the smallest possible defence force and utilise their strategic advantage best: the element of surprise, their superior numbers, their armour-plated pick-ups – four with the relatively heavy ordnance of twenty-millimetre cannon – and the cover of darkness.
They also had four problems. The first was what we now called Sector 3: the valley itself. The road from the plains below up to the reserve was a Jeep track up the steep slope – mountain on one side, valley on the other, along a treacherous canyon. There was no space for more than two motorbikes side by side. Four-wheeled vehicles had to drive in single file. Their assault convoy was thus a very long, winding worm.
The second was that the length of the Jeep track from bottom to top was two kilometres where they were completely exposed. There was no shelter for the long procession of vehicles.
The third: if they made it past the lines and trenches of Dad’s Army in Sector 3, they had to pass through the rock fields. The mountaintop was strewn with extremely inconvenient, round rocks. Not small rocks. On average the size of a melon, the largest like soccer balls. Hundreds of thousands of them. It was hard to walk there on foot; horses hated the terrain. You could race over it with a four-by-four vehicle, but it would shake and rattle and break both man and machine. In the dark the damage would be severe, as they could not dare turn on their headlights. With a motorbike you could only ride at speeds of less than twenty kilometres per hour, picking your way very carefully over the stones. The only solution was to stay in formation on the sole vehicle track. Which made it much easier for your opponent to hit you. Team Delta, Sofia Bergman’s team, lay beyond the rock field waiting.
The fourth: the old main gate of the reserve. It was the only place where any vehicle coming through the reserve could enter Amanzi. It was a strong steel gate. A motorcycle could not crash through it. A pick-up perhaps. But thanks to the rough terrain and the gate buildings, only one vehicle could pass through there at a time.