Jackal's Dance (49 page)

‘M . . . M . . . Megan.'

‘Okay, Megan. You're safe now.' He moved closer. ‘I'm going to help you back to my car, okay?'

She nodded again.

As Buster put an arm around her she gave a sharp gasp of pain. ‘Sorry.'

She was looking at him finally. Her face a terrible mess – horribly bruised, one eye closed. What could have caused such injuries? Sunburned as well. Her head and neck were burned red. This girl was suffering from exposure on top of everything else.

‘Megan, come with me. I'll take you to the lodge at Logans Island. You'll be safe there.' Buster's own condition forgotten, his mind was working quickly. He'd radio base and Megan could be airlifted out.

She began to shake. Her lips quivered and she was struggling to speak.

‘You need help, Megan. Medi Rescue can have a plane here within the hour.'

‘Not the lodge,' she managed.

‘It's the best place to wait. It's closer than Okaukuejo.'

‘No,' she shouted. ‘You don't understand. No-one there. Dead. All dead.' The fear and horror she'd been suppressing burst from her in hysterical babbling. ‘Murdered. Vultures. Hundreds of them. The professor. The pillow . . .'

Buster turned cold. What did she mean? Was the girl all there? He broke into the disjointed jabbering.
‘Come to the car, Megan.' She seemed unable to move. Sweat trickled down her face. ‘Take the jacket off. You don't need it. Can I help?'

‘No.' Megan shook her head vigorously, as if trying to clear it. She was hyperventilating, shaking, but reason was coming back. With a small moan she handed him the walking stick. It clearly hurt trying to get her arm out of the sling and remove the garment, but she persevered and finally managed. Her hand went out for the stick and Buster passed it back.

‘Give me the jacket, I'll carry it.'

Megan let him take it. He was surprised at its weight.

‘Come on. Into the car.'

It was only when she moved that he realised why she needed the stick. Her walk was not of a person favouring an injury. One leg was shorter than the other. He wanted to help but was scared of hurting her again. Megan's face was set with determination as she climbed into the vehicle.

Buster was anxious to ask about the lodge but realised that Megan was at the end of her endurance. She needed time to pull herself together.

In the Land Rover he helped her with a drink of water. She took a long swallow, leaned back against the seat, eyes shut, gave a shaky sigh and slowly, with infinite caution, slipped her arm back into the sling.

Buster watched, not pushing her. She was young. Been to hell and back by the look of it. A
fighter, though. Taking deep, slow breaths, trying to calm herself. Lips trembling. Gulping back sobs. Finding control. What had this girl been through?

Finally, Megan opened her eyes and looked at him.

‘I've got to report this.' He unhooked the radio mike on the dashboard. ‘You up to telling me what happened?'

Megan nodded.

‘What did you mean about everyone being dead?'

She took a deep breath.

Fifteen minutes later, an ashen-faced and shaking Buster called head office on his two-way. ‘Sounds like UNITA,' he concluded.

The tinny voice of his boss came back down the line. ‘Bastards! They'll deny it, of course. Always do. Claim it's government troops wanting it to look like UNITA.'

‘Megan won't go back to the lodge.'

‘Can't say I blame her. What about medical attention?'

‘She should be in hospital. Two bullet wounds, both superficial by the sound of it but one more serious than the other. Exhaustion and exposure.' He glanced at Megan who was staring vacantly at the road. ‘Counselling probably.'

‘How many hostages were taken, does she know that?'

‘She thinks about twenty.'

‘How many were murdered?'

‘Twenty-seven on the pan. One at the lodge.'

‘Jesus! Okay, I'll get onto Windhoek and alert the authorities. You bring the girl in, Buster. There's a doctor staying here at the moment, we'll see if he can be located.'

By the time Buster drove back through the gates of Okaukuejo, the army, police and a private paramedical group, Medi Rescue International, had all been notified. The details provided by Megan were being taken extremely seriously and nothing left to chance.

A Namibian Defence Force military base inside Angola was on red alert. Officers were attending an urgent strategic meeting to prepare plans for intercepting the terrorists. Armed incursions into Namibia would not be tolerated. The colonel-in-chief of the army sent a coded message from Windhoek giving his men in Angola permission to use whatever force was necessary to seek out and destroy a suspected UNITA unit illegally on Namibian soil. If the hapless tourists were hurt in the process, so be it. Jonas Savimbi and his arrogant dismissal of international boundaries would be taught a lesson he'd not forget.

Military headquarters in Windhoek scrambled a task force of just over one hundred men. Led by a Major Eric Tully who had recently returned from a tour of duty in Angola, their brief was a search and rescue mission. The entire northern section of Etosha and beyond would be combed from the air and on the ground.

The police were already en route to Logans Island. Two vehicles, carrying four armed constables
and a detective. Until it was known for certain that they were dealing with a military crisis, the police were treating matters as civilian, the crimes murder and kidnapping.

MRI – Medi Rescue International – had both their fully equipped and staffed Beechcraft King Airs airborne – one from Eros, the domestic airport in Windhoek, the other from its base in Walvis Bay. The private hospital, Medi Clinic, in Windhoek was on stand-by with extra specialist staff ready to report for duty if the need arose. MRI's funeral service was in a state of readiness to repatriate any bodies to their countries of origin.

Heading for Etosha in independent vehicles, having picked up news of the unfolding drama by routine monitoring of police and MRI radio messages, were television, radio and newspaper journalists eager to get there before the international media arrived.

Preliminary Reuters reports had gone out to all corners of the globe. Namibia wasn't strategically important enough for any but neighbouring countries to have permanent secret service staff, but each embassy and high commission had their ‘sleepers', non-active personnel if it came down to the wire, but people who nonetheless kept an ear to the ground and reported any unusual activity back to their country's government agency who dealt with the covert and the classified. Coded missives fanned out, spreading the word. Around the world, their recipients weighed the ramifications. Most passed a low priority message to their
superiors but flagged the situation as potentially explosive. A ripple of alarm flowed smoothly through the networks until every major and minor power was aware that something was happening in Namibia which possibly implicated UNITA and more than likely involved foreign hostages. But since no-one, as yet, could say for certain who had been taken hostage, or even who was responsible, governments held their breath.

International blackmail, no matter how high the ideals, inevitably caused severe political headaches. Private lines ran hot from continent to continent, country to country, as heads of government foraged for each other's policy in such matters. Britain, Australia and South Africa were united. They would not bow to demands for ransom. France, Germany and a handful of other European countries held an opposing view. America sat on the fence. Most African countries spouted ambiguous rhetoric. And the country hosting this particular crisis, Namibia, remained tight-lipped.

As the news broke around the world, possible relatives and ambitious journalists made urgent travel plans. The eyes of the earth turned quite suddenly to a country that only achieved independence in 1990. But most turned first to an atlas to discover where the bloody place was.

Megan knew nothing of this. Exhausted, she was aware of only one thing. She was safe. Tucked into bed in one of Okaukuejo's bungalows to await the visiting doctor and the arrival of the MRI
aeroplane, her shocked system shut down and took refuge in the oblivion of sleep.

Ace deliberately kept the pace slower than yesterday. He'd left nothing to chance and felt relaxed. They were well and truly away from roads now. Even if some tourist had ignored the ‘Residents Only' sign at Logans Island, they'd be unlikely to discover any bodies. They might find the one in the bungalow, but so what? It would mean a drive to Okaukuejo to raise the alarm. The police would eventually come and investigate. By the time anyone worked out that they were dealing with an armed military incursion, Ace and his hostages should be long gone. Tomorrow would take them through some of the most desolate country in Namibia where there were no roads and very few people. Tough going on everyone. Might as well have an easy day today.

Their hostages were holding up well. Most of them seemed pretty fit. The English actress had a problem with blistered feet and the German's breathing was a bit laboured. Other than that, they were doing all right. Ace couldn't actually have cared less about their wellbeing. If it became necessary to hurry them along he simply wanted to know that no-one would hold them back. The young girl showed no serious ill-effects from last night. Ace grinned. She was, by far, the men's favourite. No doubt she'd be first choice tonight as well. Maybe this time she might enjoy it.

Desire stirred at the memory. The little virgin
had been very satisfying. Knowing that she had never been touched before gave Ace a feeling of power. He'd have liked a second go at her but she'd been much in demand. The man was almost as good. Tonight they'd take a few more for their pleasure. No reason why not.

Once inside Angola, trucks would take them the near six-hundred kilometres to Bailundo, until recently a UNITA garrison town about two hundred kilometres inland from the coastal port of Lobito. Because of its drier climate, the Central Highlands town of Bailundo had once been favoured by the Portuguese colonials as a weekend retreat. Jonas Savimbi's troops captured it in 1992. In September 1999, the Angolan government launched three major military offensives against UNITA in order to recapture the town. There was little left these days save for a few crumbling villas and shelled out buildings, but Bailundo was in the planning stages of reconstruction with ambitions of turning it into a tourist destination. The fact that UNITA guerrillas were still operating in the area, ambushing vehicles and laying new landmines made the chances of realising this dream slim indeed, even though the town was now protected by government soldiers and police.

An infrastructure of sorts, however, meant access to telephones. A successful counteroffensive would get rid of the armed guard and drive away the builders. Any residents who had been brave enough to return would quickly switch allegiance in order to save their skins. They'd done it, after all,
several times already. The hostages would be held there while negotiations for their release were conducted. For Ace and his men, tonight would be the last chance to enjoy themselves at their captives' expense. Might as well make the most of it.

They reached the place where they'd camped nearly a week ago on their way south. Three days had been spent here, biding their time, before moving closer to Logans Island. It was here that elephant had charged with no warning. Ace wondered idly if she was still alive. Since then, he'd only seen that one at the lodge's waterhole. They'd heard lion at night, seen herds of springbok, zebra and the occasional gemsbok, but nothing else. To Ace, a reserve this size for animals, most of which didn't appear to use it, was a shocking waste of land. Crops could have been grown here, enough to feed the entire UNITA army.

Thinking of food made him hungry. He pulled an orange from his pocket. Had it occurred to him that his hostages might also need something to eat, he still wouldn't have offered it. Such was Ace's nature that the thought didn't cross his mind.

Fortitude, as history has demonstrated time and again during a period of crisis, comes to those in need. The human psyche has a remarkable ability to deal with disaster. Some people become extremely efficient, taking comfort from action. Others resort to humour as a way of coping. There are those who find release by divulging hitherto closely guarded secrets. Acts of bravery, compassion
or simply endurance visit ordinary men and women who never suspected such strength existed within them.

Philip, Thea and Sean were of like mind, behaving as if they were enjoying a casual bushwalk. The danger faced didn't go away, they hadn't forgotten the terrible acts witnessed, but by shelving everything for a while, flagging spirits had a chance to recover.

‘Lion.' Sean pointed to the ground.

Philip glanced down. The unmistakable doglike stool containing chunks of white matter didn't appear to be fresh but he wasn't inclined to have a closer inspection.

‘Couple of days old,' Sean volunteered.

‘Many of them up here?' Philip asked.

‘A few. There's only one resident pride, the rest come and go following the migrating herds. At this time of year you'd expect a few interlopers.'

‘I haven't seen much game.'

‘It's here.' Sean indicated tracks that Philip hadn't noticed. ‘Impala and hartebeest passed this way not long ago.'

‘I suppose they hear us and make themselves scarce.'

Sean nodded. ‘They're pretty skittish.'

‘Nothing like having your own private ranger,' Philip commented.

Thea stumbled and both men were quick to steady her. It brought reality back.

‘Thanks. I'm okay. Not watching where I was walking.' She looked flushed.

Sean felt her forehead with the back of one hand. She was warm to his touch but no more so than could be expected in the heat. ‘How do you feel?'