Golden Fox

by Wilbur Smith

‘I trust you,’ she said. ‘There will be conditions attached, but I will give you the blueprint for the plant and the formula for Cyndex 25.’

  He drew a slow breath. ‘I will try to be worthy of your trust.’

  That evening, as they sat at the camp-fire withdrawn from the rest of the party, she set down the conditions.

  ‘You will give me your personal guarantee that Cyndex will never be used except on the express authority of the prime minister or his successors in office.’

  Shasa glanced across the flames to make certain that they were not overheard. ‘I swear that to you. I will obtain the prime minister’s written agreement.’

  ‘Now, as to the rules of engagement, Cyndex will never be used on any section of the South African people,’ Elsa went on carefully. ‘It will never be used in internal political or civil conflict. It will never be used to quell an uprising of the populace or in a future civil war.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘It may be used only to repel a military invasion by troops of a foreign power. Then only when the use of conventional arms fails.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘There is one other condition – a little more personal.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘You will come to Lausanne personally to arrange the details.’

  ‘That will be my particular pleasure.’

  It was the last morning of safari. The guests had packed and were ready to leave Chizora. Their luggage was stacked outside each tent, ready for the camp staff to collect.

  The business was done, and the contracts signed. Elsa Pignatelli had agreed to assist with the marketing of Rhodesian tobacco and chrome – for a princely fee – while Garry Courtney had undertaken to provide shipping and false documentation for these materials from South African ports. His rewards for these services would include extension of the Chizora hunting concessions as well as his monetary commissions.

  The entire party was due to be ferried back to Salisbury in the Rhodesian air-force helicopter. The helicopter had already been in radio contact with the camp when it was airborne and only a hundred nautical miles out. They had expected it to land in the glade in front of the camp thirty minutes ago. It was overdue, and they were worried.

  In small groups they stood around the camp-fire in the boma sipping a final Pimm’s No.1. Instinctively they kept glancing to the sky and listening for the sound of the Alouette’s rotors.

  Sean and Bella were together. ‘When are you coming to Cape Town?’ she asked her eldest brother.

  ‘I’ll try to get down at the end of the season, if you promise to line up some crumpet for me.’

  ‘Whenever did you need help?’ she asked, and Sean grinned and kissed her.

  ‘I’m not as bad as Pater,’ he protested. ‘Look at the old dog. He’s off to Europe with the widow, I hear.’

  They both looked across at Elsa and Shasa.

  ‘It’s puke-making at their age,’ Sean teased, and Isabella came loyally to her father’s defence.

  ‘Daddy is one of the most attractive—’

  ‘Cool it, Bella.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘Worry about Sir C. You’ll be lucky to escape with your virtue. They don’t call him Cantering Clarence for nothing.’

  As if in response to his name, Sir Clarence drifted across to Isabella and quietly spirited her aside.

  ‘We’ll drop the others off at Salisbury,’ he murmured, leaning over her solicitously. ‘Then the helicopter can take the two of us on to my ranch. We don’t have to make a fuss about our little excursion, do we?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Isabella agreed sweetly. ‘We don’t want my papa – or Lady Van Wyk – spoiling our innocent interlude of horse appreciation.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he agreed. ‘Some things are best. . .’ He broke off as the radio in Sean’s tent crackled urgently and then burst into life.

  Sean bounded from the boma and disappeared into his tent. More than any of them, he had been worried by the overdue helicopter. They heard him acknowledging his call-sign from the approaching helicopter.

  ‘Tugboat, this is Big Foot. Go ahead.’

  ‘Big Foot. We have a change of plan. Please inform the minister that this flight is being diverted to hot-pursuit operations. We will pick you up with your recce team in sixteen minutes. I have ten Scouts on board. Alternative arrangements will be made for ministerial transport as soon as possible. Over.’

  ‘Roger, Tugboat. We will be ready for pick-up. Standing by.’

  ‘War is such a damned nuisance,’ Sir Clarence sighed. They had overheard every word of the radio exchange. ‘We will have to sit around here until they can send another chopper to fetch us.’

  ‘What has happened?’ Isabella demanded.

  ‘Terrorist action,’ Sir Clarence explained. ‘Probably an attack on a white farm somewhere. Our helicopter is being diverted. The pursuit takes precedence over all other traffic. Can’t let these murderous swine get away with it – have to keep the morale of the farmers up.’

  He didn’t mention how desperately short of military helicopters the Rhodesian air force was, but shrugged instead.

  ‘It does look as though the Fates are conspiring against us.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll just have to postpone our little arrangements—’ She broke off as Sean came out of the tent shrugging on his light pursuit-harness, with its canvas pockets for ammunition and grenades and water-bottles. His FN rifle was slung over one shoulder, and he was bellowing.

  ‘Matatu, come on, you skinny little bugger. We’ve got real work to do now. Hot pursuit.’

  The diminutive Ndorobo tracker appeared like a grinning black jack-in-the-box.

  ‘Hai, Bwana,’ he piped in Swahili. ‘We will roast some ZANLA testicles on the campfire tonight.’

  ‘You bloodthirsty little devil. You love it, don’t you,’ Sean grinned with his own fierce joy, and then turned to the others clustered in the centre of the boma.

  ‘Sorry, folks. Have to leave you to make your own way back to Salisbury. Matatu and I have a date.’ He singled out Garry in the group. ‘Why don’t you ferry them up to Salisbury in the Beechcraft? With all that luggage it will take you a couple of trips, but it’s better than sitting around waiting for the chopper to be free.’

  He broke off and cocked his head to listen. ‘Here she comes now.’

  He moved quickly amongst them, shaking hands in brief farewell.

  ‘Will we see you again next season, signora? Next time, I promise you a big leopard . . .’

  ‘Sorry to bump you off the flight, Sir Clarence.’

  ‘Cheerio, Dad. Keep out of mischief . . .’ This with a wink and a glance at Elsa Pignatelli.

  ‘’Bye, little sister.’ He kissed Isabella, and she clung to him for a moment.

  ‘Be careful, Sean. Please don’t let anything happen to you.’

  He hugged her and laughed at the absurdity of that idea. ‘You are in more danger of receiving incoming fire from Sir C,’ he chuckled.

  He looked up at the sky, and the helicopter was a black insect shape above the trees.

  He crossed to shake his younger brother’s hand. ‘Damn it, Garry. Who wants your job – when I can be doing this?’

  While they waited for the helicopter to settle Sean stood in the gateway of the boma with Matatu.

  Isabella felt her throat close up and tears prickle her eyes. They made such an incongruous pair, the tall heroic figure of her brother with flowing locks and tanned muscular limbs and the wizened black gnome at his side. As she watched, Sean dropped one hand on the little man’s shoulder in an affectionate embrace, an affirmation of the trust bred between them in a hundred desperate adventures and the mark of the special bond between these two warrior hunters.

  Then they were racing forward into the blown dust-cloud of the hovering helicopter, ducking low under the spinning blur of the rotors, and scrambling into the open hatchway.

  Immediately the machine rose and went boring away into the south-east, keeping low over the tr
ee-tops, not wasting a moment in the climb for altitude.

  The ten Scouts were seated along the benches in the main cabin of the helicopter, each of them heavily pregnant with their body harnesses and packs, draped with belts of ammunition and grenades and water-bottles, their bare arms and legs blackened. Only their teeth sparkled in faces that were either smeared with camouflage cream or were naturally dark. At least half the Ballantyne Scouts were loyal Matabele.

  It was well known that blacks and whites fighting together as comrades tended to bring out the best qualities in each other as warriors. The Ballantyne Scouts were the crack unit of Rhodesia’s fighting forces, although the Selous Scouts and the Special Air Services and the Rhodesian Regiment would split your crust if they heard you say it.

  As Sean clambered into the cabin, he recognized every man of them, and greeted them by name. They returned the greeting with a laconic economy of words that belied their awe and respect. Sean and Matatu were already a living legend in the Scouts. The two of them had trained most of these tough young veterans in the subtle skills of bushcraft.

  Roland Ballantyne, the founder and commanding colonel of the Scouts, had tried every ruse to inveigle Sean in as his second-in-command – so far without success. In the meantime he called upon Sean and Matatu whenever there was a heavy contact in the offing.

  Sean dropped on to the seat beside him now. He snapped on his seat-belt. While he began rubbing camouflage cream into his face he shouted above the clatter of the rotors: ‘Greetings, Skipper. What’s the rumble?’

  ‘Bunch of terrs hit a tobacco farm outside Karoi yesterday evening. They ambushed the farmer at the homestead gate. Shot him down as his wife came out on the veranda to welcome him. She held them off alone all night in the farmhouse – even under rocket-fire. Gutsy bird. Some time after midnight they pulled out and gapped it.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Twenty Plus’

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘North into the valley.’

  ‘Contact?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Roland shook his head. Even under the camo cream he was lantern-jawed and impressive. He was probably five years older than Sean. Like Sean he had built a hell of a reputation in the few short years since the bush war began.

  ‘Local unit is following up but making heavy weather, losing ground every hour. The gooks are running hard.’

  ‘They’ll bombshell and try to lose themselves amongst the local black population in the Tribal Trust area,’ Sean predicted as he bound a grubby scrap of camouflage-net over his shining shoulder-length locks. ‘Get us to the follow-up unit, Skipper.’

  ‘We’ll be in radio contact any minute—’ Roland broke off as the flight engineer beckoned him to the radio handset. ‘Come on.’ He unbuckled his safety-belt and led the way down the vibrating, bucking aisle between the benches. Sean followed him. He stood beside Roland, bracing himself against the bulkhead and craning his head to listen to the tinny disembodied voice in the microphone. ‘Bushbuck. This is Striker One,’ Roland spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘Do you have contact?’

  ‘Striker One. This is Bushbuck. Negative. I say again negative on contact.’

  ‘Are you on the spoor, Bushbuck?’

  ‘Affirmative, but chase has bombshelled.’ That meant that the terrorist gang had split up to hinder the pursuit.

  ‘Roger, Bushbuck. As soon as you hear our engines give us yellow smoke.’

  ‘Confirm yellow smoke, Striker One.’

  Forty-five minutes later, the helicopter pilot picked out the smoke-signal, a canary-yellow feather drifting over the dark green roof of the forest. The helicopter dropped towards it, and hovered above the grass-tops in an open glade between the trees standing in the tree-line. They saw the police unit who had pushed the pursuit thus far. It was obvious at a glance that these were not élite bush fighters, but garrison troops from Karoi. They were townies and reserves doing their monthly call-up duties and not enjoying the chase one little bit.

  Sean and Matatu exited together, jumping the six feet to earth and landing like a pair of cats, in balance with hot guns. They spread out swiftly and took cover while the helicopter soared and hovered two hundred feet above them.

  It took them fifteen seconds to make certain that the police had the drop area secure, then Sean ran across to the leader of the pursuit unit.

  ‘OK, Sergeant,’ he snapped crisply. ‘Hit your bottle. Drink, man, drink.’

  The sergeant was red-faced, burnt by the sun, and overweight. Even in the valley heat, he had stopped sweating. It had dried on his shirt in irregular white rings of salt. He didn’t know enough to keep himself from dehydrating. Another hour and he would be a casualty.

  ‘Water is finished.’ The sergeant’s voice was hoarse. Sean tossed him a precious water-bottle and, while the man drank, asked, ‘What’s the line of spoor?’

  The sergeant pointed to the earth ahead of him, but already Matatu had picked up the sign left by the fleeing gang. He scampered along it, cocking his head to study the fine details which were invisible to any but the truly talented eye. He followed it for a mere fifty paces and then doubled back to where Sean waited.

  ‘Five of them,’ he chirped. ‘One wounded in the left leg . . .’

  ‘The farmer’s widow must have given them a good run.’

  ‘. . . but the spoor is cold. We must play the spring hare.’

  Sean nodded. The ‘spring hare’ was a technique that he and Matatu had worked out between them. It could only be effective with a tracker of Matatu’s calibre. They had to be able to guess where the chase was heading. They had to have a good idea of the line and rate of march before they could leap-frog – or spring-hare – down the line.

  Here there was no doubt. The band of terrorists must keep northwards towards the Zambezi and the Tribal Trust lands where they could expect to find food and shelter and some rudimentary medical treatment for their wounded. There were many sympathizers amongst the black Shona and Batonka tribesmen who lived along the valley rim. Those who would not co-operate willingly would be forced to do so at the muzzle of an AK 47 assault-rifle.

  All right, so they would keep on northwards. However, the wilderness ahead was vast. There was hard going and broken terrain, rocky valleys and jumbled granite kopjes. If the fleeing band turned only a few degrees off the obvious line of march, they could disappear without trace.

  Sean ran out into the open glade and signalled the circling Alouette, holding his arms in a crucifix. The helicopter responded instantly.

  ‘OK, Sergeant,’ Sean called. ‘Keep after them. We’ll go ahead and try to cut the spoor. Maintain radio contact – and remember to drink.’

  ‘Right on, sir!’ the sergeant grinned. The brief meeting had given him and his men fresh heart. They all knew who Sean was. He and Matatu were legend.

  ‘Give them hell, sir!’ he yelled up at Sean, and Sean waved from the open hatch of the Alouette as they soared away.

  Sean swallowed half a dozen codeine tablets for his ribs, which were beginning to ache, and washed them down with a swig from his spare water-bottle. He and Matatu crouched together in the opening of the hatchway, peering down at the canopy of the forest five hundred feet below. Only at moments like these, when the hunt was running hot and hard, could Matatu subdue his terror of flying.

  Now he leant so far out of the hatch that Sean had an arm around his waist to hold him from the drop. Matatu was positively shivering in his grip, the way a good gun-dog shivers with the scent of the bird in his nostrils.

  Suddenly he pointed, and Sean yelled to the flight engineer: ‘Turn ten degrees left.’

  Over the intercom the engineer relayed the change of course to the pilot in the high cockpit.

  Sean could see no possible reason for Matatu’s turn to the west. Below them the forest was amorphous and featureless. The rocky kopjes that broke the leafy monotony were miles apart, random and indistinguishable one from the other.

  Two minutes later Matatu pointed agai
n, and Sean interpreted for him: ‘Turn back five degrees right.’

  The Alouette banked obediently. Matatu was performing his special magic. He was actually tracking the fugitives from five hundred feet above the canopy of trees, not by sight or sign, but by a weird intuitive sense that Sean would not have credited if he had not seen it happen on a hundred other chases over the years.

  Matatu quivered in Sean’s grip and turned his face up at his master. He was grinning wickedly, his lips trembling with excitement. The blast of the slipstream had filled his eyes with tears, and they streamed down his cheeks.

  ‘Down!’ he yelped, and pointed again.

  ‘Down!’ Sean yelled at the flight engineer. As the helicopter dropped, Sean looked across at Roland Ballantyne.

  ‘Hot guns!’ he warned, and Roland signalled his men. They straightened up on the hard benches and leant forward like hunting dogs on the leash. As one man they raised their weapons, muzzles high, and with a metallic clatter that carried above the roar of the turbo engines they locked and loaded.

  The helicopter checked and hovered six feet above the baked dry earth. Sean and Matatu jumped together, and cleared the drop zone.

  As soon as they were clear they went down into cover, facing outward. Sean’s FN was at his shoulder as he scanned the bush around him. The Scouts came boiling out of the hatchway, and scattered to adopt a defensive perimeter. The helicopter climbed away empty.

  The second they were in position Roland Ballantyne signalled across to Sean with clenched fist ‘Go!’

  Well separated, Sean and Matatu went forward. The Scouts spread out and covered them, eyes glinting and restless trigger-fingers cocked. Matatu had brought them down in a bottle-neck where a series of steep rocky ridges formed a funnel. The apex of the V was cut through by a dry riverbed. Storm water over the millennium had sculpted a natural staircase that climbed the ridge, and the elephant herds that used this natural pass had worn the contours and levelled the gradients.

  Would the fleeing band have traded time for stealth? Would they have chosen the elephant highway, rather than toil up the jagged rocky ridge at another, less obvious point?