The Delta (50 page)

Sonja checked the GPS on her wrist and confirmed they were approaching the landing zone. She yanked back the cocking handle of her AK-47 and the others copied her. She looked at Gideon and winked. He smiled. She grabbed the carrying handle of her pack as she felt the nose of the helicopter rise and the machine's airspeed drop as the pilot flared her. She pulled off her headset and dropped it on the nylon troop seat beside her, then swung her legs out into the slipstream.

‘Go! Go! Go!' The pilot yelled over the scream of the jet engine.
Sonja's feet were already on the right skid. She dragged the pack off the floor and stepped off. She took three paces and dropped to her belly, facing out into the long grass down the barrel of her assault rifle, which rested on her rucksack. She scanned the bush at the fringes of the LZ and felt the tingle and jolt of the adrenaline pumping her heart faster. Behind her she heard the change in engine pitch as the helicopter started to climb, then felt the loose twigs, grass and small rocks sandblast her back through the thin fabric of the T-shirt.

Silence.

She looked behind her and Gideon gave her the thumbs-up. She stood and grunted as she hefted the pack onto her back. Gideon had wanted to carry the explosive charges, but Sonja wouldn't hear of it. She strode off the clearing into the bush, setting a brisk pace as the men fell in behind her.

The soft sounds of the bush replaced the alien clatter of the helicopter as Africa's night creatures slowly came to life. Sonja checked the red-lit face of her GPS and made a small correction to their route. She waved Gideon forward. Sonja would navigate and Gideon would take over as the lead scout, watching for people and animals. Sonja pointed ahead, slightly to their left, and Gideon nodded and moved off.

A Scops owl gave a high-pitched
brrr, brrr
, as it called to a nearby mate, and Sonja found the sound went a small way towards comforting her nerves. She wasn't scared, but all her senses were on edge as she waited for the adrenaline rush of the landing to slowly subside. They were in the Bwabwata National Park, two kilometres south of the main tarred B8, and four east of the military and police checkpoints on the bridge and crossroads at Divundu. According to their maps and the Caprivian soldiers' local knowledge there were no villages in the area, but there was still the remote but dangerous chance they might
come across poachers. Of greater worry was the presence of wild animals, particularly lion and leopard, which were more active at night, or elephant and buffalo, which she knew could be even more dangerous if surprised by humans.

Gideon held up a hand and Sonja stopped and mirrored the field signal so the men behind her would see it. One of them stumbled and nearly fell against her. She looked back in annoyance. They were not as well trained or bush-savvy as Gideon, it seemed. Gideon caught her eye and cupped a hand to his left ear. She heard the rustling in the bush and raised her AK to her shoulder, staring down the barrel into the darkness. Her thumb rested on the safety catch.

It – or he – was making a hell of a racket. Her right index finger slid inside the rifle's trigger guard. It wouldn't be an elephant, she told herself, as despite their size the giant beasts moved on their thickly padded feet with uncanny silence. Buffalo? she wondered. Or a man?

She drew in her breath as the snapping of twigs and brushing of leaves grew louder. Perhaps it was more than one man.

Gideon looked back and grinned broadly. Sonja craned her head and saw the two porcupines. They waddled like a pair of short fat brides with spiky trains trailing behind them. With their rear-most spines extended each animal was over a metre long. Stealth was no defence for the porcupine and their spines scraped along whatever lay on either side of their path.

Sonja exhaled and turned and smiled at the men behind her, who had been wide-eyed with fear just a few moments earlier when Gideon had called the halt. Gideon led off.

Her back was damp with sweat and her shoulders ached, but Sonja forced herself to remain alert, and watched every footfall to ensure she didn't make as much noise as a porcupine. Gideon called another halt when they heard a vehicle engine. It sounded
like a large lorry, she thought, and her GPS told her they were less than a kilometre from the road. She stopped and whispered to the men behind her to take off their packs and to sit. Sonja and Gideon also shrugged off their loads and, after warning the other two to keep watch for their return, she and the veteran guerilla moved off at a faster, but still cautious pace towards the road. The cool night air chilled her wet back, and it was a relief to be rid of the weight. She felt light on her feet and her heart started beating faster again as the bush thinned in front of her.

She checked the GPS and motioned for Gideon to turn a few degrees to the east. ‘It should be just ahead … a hundred metres,' she whispered.

‘There,' Gideon said a couple of minutes later. Sonja had to look hard to see the Namibian Police Force
bakkie
parked under the overhanging branches of a large tree and covered in a camouflage net laced with fake plastic leaves. A little further on, past the hidden vehicle, she saw the ribbon of tar road on the far side of thirty metres of cleared ground where the long grass had been scythed.

Sonja and Gideon lay down and watched and listened, to make sure they were alone.

‘I will go back, for your pack. You stay here,' Gideon said after a few minutes of silence.

Gideon returned with the other two and set the explosives down. Sonja pulled a satellite phone handset from her pocket. She dialled Martin Steele's number.

‘Yes,' was all he said.

‘Tiger,' she said. ‘White.' Tiger was the code word to let Steele and the Caprivian commander know that Sonja and her team were in position. The colour white told Steele that she was safe and not under duress.

‘Acknowledged. ETA is three; I say again, ETA is three.'

‘Acknowledged,' she replied, then ended the call. She clicked
her fingers to attract Gideon's attention, as he had been looking down the road. ‘The mobile clinic ambulance will be here in one and a half hours.'

Gideon nodded. Under the code she had worked out with Martin he would double the estimated time of arrival of the vehicle. The CLA had a watcher posted in Kongola and his job was to call headquarters as soon as the mobile clinic passed through the police and veterinary checkpoint on the Kwando River.

Half an hour later, Sonja stood and did some quick stretches. ‘Get up,' she said to the men dressed as police officers. One was dozing so she nudged him with the toe of her boot. As he woke he involuntarily lifted the barrel of his AK-47. Sonja snatched the flash suppressor and pushed it down. ‘Take your finger off that fucking trigger. Do you want to get us all killed?'

Defiance glittered in the man's eyes at being spoken to in such a way by a woman, but he lowered his gaze when he saw Gideon, standing beside her, shaking his head like an angry bull elephant. Sonja extended a hand to the man and he took it, allowing her to pull him to his feet.

‘Get the net off the
bakkie
and move into position,' she said.

‘It's early,' the sleeping man said, checking his watch.

‘Do as she says,' Gideon commanded.

The other fake policeman raised a hand. ‘Quiet.' He pointed. ‘Vehicle coming.' They all turned to the east and saw the approaching headlights.

Hans Kurtz kissed his wife and son goodbye, and wished he'd been able to do the same to his only daughter when she'd left on the same helicopter he was about to board.

There had been a reconciliation of sorts, but probably not enough to absolve him of all his past sins. It was as good as it could be, he told himself, though he would have liked to have
hugged her one more time. He remembered her as a baby; the clean, soapy smell of her before she started to grow up and the war changed everything. He remembered Sonja's mother's face when he was allowed in to see her in hospital, cradling Sonja in her arms. ‘Look what we made, Hans,' she had said.

Look what I made, he thought, as he gave the thumbs-up to the helicopter pilot and ordered his men to board.

‘I love you,' Miriam yelled over the whine of the jet turbine.

He nodded, shouldered his pack and turned. He took two steps and looked back at her. ‘I love you, too. Both of you.'

Miriam held his son in one hand but she moved the other to her face so he wouldn't see the tears. He was fairly sure he wouldn't see them again. He jogged to the open door of the Bell 412, threw his pack in and sat on the floor, with his feet on the skid. The pilot looked over his shoulder to check if they were all on board, and Hans gave the man another thumbs-up. The helicopter lifted off.

Martin Steele was with the general and they both craned their heads to watch the helicopter's departure. See you both in the next life, Kurtz thought. It would be even hotter there than the bloody Caprivi Strip.

‘Caprivi!' he shouted and raised and clenched the fist that wasn't gripping his AK-47.

‘CAPRIVI!' his young lions roared back at him, and he could hear them loud and clear and ominous as a big cat's call in the night.

Hans Kurtz was not a man given to deep philosophical thinking – he left that to his wife. He was a farmer who became a soldier who became a drunk, who became a Christian, who became a soldier again. In his dreams and his promises to Miriam he went full circle and ended his life as a farmer once more, teaching his little son how to work the land.

As a father and a Christian he knew in his heart of hearts that
if he truly wanted to atone for the way he had treated his first wife and child then he should do everything he could to gain their forgiveness, and then spend the rest of his life loving and caring for his new family. In the meantime, he would be going to war again.

The Ovambo had won their war and created their new country in their own image: Namibia. The whites who had stayed had not fared badly. Namibia was peaceful and, by African standards, prosperous, and while whites could no longer count on guaranteed access to easy government jobs with life tenure, they were generally treated equally and with respect. How, Hans wondered, could the new government treat its old enemies so right and its former allies, the Caprivians, so wrong?

He shuffled backwards on his bottom into the cargo area of the helicopter and a couple of his warriors dragged packs and machine-guns and an RPG 7 out of his way so he could get up on one knee. He pointed at the headset hanging on a hook between the pilot and copilot and one of his NCOs handed it to him.

He pushed the transmit switch on the small box on the cord and said, ‘Howzit?'

The South African copilot looked over his shoulder. ‘
Ja
, all fine, bru. We're in Namibian airspace. Going low, under the radar. Should be over M'pacha in,' he checked his watch and the glowing instruments in front of him, ‘twenty minutes.'

‘Sorry, man, but there's a change of plan. Turn west and I'll give you a new coordinate to head to.'

‘What?' The pilot shot a glance back at Kurtz, but quickly returned his eyes to the ground rushing close beneath the aircraft's nose. ‘No one briefed us about any change of plans.'

‘Trust me. I know what I'm doing. Turn to—'

‘I'm calling headquarters for confirmation,' the copilot said.

Hans thumbed back the hammer on the nine-millimetre pistol
he had already quietly drawn from the holster slung low on his right leg and pressed it into the copilot's temple. ‘Not a good idea,
bru
. Now, get out of your seat.'

The policeman yawned and prodded the fire in the cut-down oil drum with a stick. The music from the veterinary control officer's radio coming from inside the checkpoint building was tinny and blurred with static. Either her batteries were nearly flat or she hadn't tuned the station in properly.

‘Can't you do something about that tuning, sister?' he called to her.

‘What?'

He shook his head. She was a fine-looking woman, but so far she had resisted all of his charm and his best lines. She had a nice round arse and big tits that were still sitting nice and high on her chest. He would try asking her again if she would come to the bar with him on Friday night. She'd said no once, but she might just be playing hard to get.

He took a sip of warm Coke. Later, after his senior officer had done his customary ‘random' check on him at ten o'clock, just before going to bed, he would break out the beer. The empties would be gone before the sun rose. Perhaps the veterinary control lady would join him in a drink or two tonight. It was warm still, and hopefully it would get hot with her later on. He rubbed his face to stave off the tiredness that was already starting to grip him, even at this early hour. Too much beer last night, he thought, and not enough sleep in the heat of the day. Who could sleep in such weather?

The noise banished the fatigue. It was a siren. He stood and moved the red-and-white-striped boom. The wail was getting louder and he could see the lights flashing on top of the oncoming vehicle.

‘What is it?' the veterinary control lady said, poking her head out of the building. She had turned down her radio.

He walked to her and leaned inside, retrieving his AK-47 from where he had left it leaning against the inside wall. It was too heavy to keep hanging over his shoulder – especially at night and in between ‘random' inspections. ‘Police. He is in a hurry.'

‘Are all you policemen in a rush to get somewhere?'

He ignored her joke, but filed away her flirtatiousness for future reference. He stepped into the middle of the road, pulled out his torch, and turned it on. He waved the light slowly up and down so the man behind the wheel would see him. The vehicle slowed as it came up on him. He could see clearly now, as it approached, that the
bakkie
had police markings as well as the lights.

The
bakkie
stopped and the driver turned off the siren, but kept the lights flashing.