African Dawn (19 page)

Ahead of him he could see a sliver of Lake Kariba. Its waters glowed like lava in the sunset's reflection. Tate switched off the engine, opened the door and started to unlace his right boot.

It wasn't just Braedan and Hope, he told himself as he pulled off his boot and unpeeled his sweaty sock from his foot. The slight breeze on his toes felt nice. Funny, he thought, how he was noticing such things at a time like this. He paused to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. He hadn't wanted to cry, but the tears streamed out anyway.

Losing the only woman he had ever loved had forced him to contemplate his future. Even if he never saw them again he would be forever tormented by the thought, the mental images, of Braedan and Hope living together, getting married, going on holidays, making love and having children.

He would never be able to give his heart over to another woman, to dissect and dangle in front of his face. That was for sure. And what of his job? The blacks were not going to settle for Abel Muzorewa and Ian Smith in a phoney alliance; Mugabe and Nkomo would fight on, and they would win. The heart had gone out of the whites' war. Rhodesians would never die, as the popular saying went, but more and more of them were moving to South Africa or ‘taking the gap’ to Australia instead.

When the Africans took over Zimbabwe–Rhodesia, as the country was now known, the whites in government jobs, like Tate, would be expelled or, at best, passed over for promotion and relegated to menial positions. Other rangers had talked of going elsewhere in Africa and getting jobs as safari guides or professional hunters, but Tate didn't like people enough to follow either of those paths. He loved wildlife, and he had made the mistake of loving one woman.

Tate reached behind the Land Rover's seats to the gun rack and lifted out the FN. He grasped the cocking handle with his left hand, yanked it back and then released it, letting the working parts fly forward. At least he would do something right – he didn't want to get a double feed and jam the rifle when he needed it most. He flipped the safety catch to ‘fire’.

Tate placed the steel butt plate of the FN in the dirt, beside the open door of the vehicle and, still sitting in the driver's seat, dangled his legs out and inserted the big toe of his right foot into the trigger guard. He leaned forward until the soft skin under his lower jaw was pressed firmly against the rifle's muzzle.

He started to lower his foot and felt the pressure being taken up on the trigger, under his toe.

‘Hope,’ he said out loud.

*

Braedan checked his watch again. Hope's flight was late, but there had been no announcement. He went to the bar and ordered a beer while he waited for news about the delay.

A man in shirtsleeves and shorts and long socks walked in, went to the bar and ordered a double Scotch. When the barman served him the man raised the glass, drained it and then ordered another.

Braedan was ready for another beer, so he sauntered over to the bar. He noticed the Scotch drinker was ashen-faced.

‘Have you heard the news?’ the man asked.

Braedan shook his head.

‘The flight from Kariba … it's missing.’

*

Makuti was running, snapping branches and flattening small trees under his tonne of bone and muscle.

He had smelled human, which was cause enough for worry, but when the lights and the smoke had lit up the evening sky he had taken panicked flight in the opposite direction. He hated fire, and the smell of burning was still in his nostrils as he ran.

Makuti huffed and snorted as he climbed higher into the hills and the gradient became steeper. In the past few years he had had to move further and further inland from the lake where he'd been born. There were more humans, more death, more noise than ever before.

He wasn't built for the hills, but he had adapted. The climbing had kept him fit and he had become adept at seeking out the thickest stands of bush, more often than not in deep gullies, which were closer to the habitat he should have been living in, on the floor of the river valley that was now a lake. He'd learned the patterns of the humans as well. He liked to use the tracks they had cleared, for it allowed him to cover greater distance in his nightly feeding forays, and he had learned which pathways were busy and which were often travelled by humans on foot or in their machines.

He sniffed the air. There was more smoke; it was the kind he associated with men and machines. That was not normal for the steep path he made his way onto now, but he needed to climb higher and move deeper into his territory, and quickly. Behind him the sun was setting. He needed to get over the crest of this hill and into the protection of the thicket in the valley beyond. There he would be safe. For now.

Makuti made it to the top of the
gomo
as the glowing red ball was disappearing. He stopped. His eyesight was not good, but his sense of smell was excellent. There was something ahead, a blurred outline of a shape not natural to the land, and that terrible scent again: smoke, sweat and oil – the smell of man.

*

Tate heard the snort and raised his head. He could feel the circular impression of the tip of the rifle's barrel under his chin.

He'd waited until the sun was just about gone. The setting sun of his own life, he thought, and had enough of a sense of humour left to quietly chastise himself for being so melodramatic.

Tate knew that sound. There, silhouetted against the glow cast up by the disappearing sun, was
Diceros bicornis
. A black rhino bull. The rhino lifted his head and sniffed the air, his body tensed. He knew Tate was there, but Tate knew enough about rhinos to know that the animal probably couldn't see him.

Tate felt a jolt of adrenaline and pure fear zap from his heart out to his fingertips and toes. Odd, he thought. He lifted his toe slightly to release the pressure on the FN's trigger. Odd that his body would produce adrenaline at the moment he was about to end his life. Why be scared of a rhino when he was going to kill himself? He watched the beast for long seconds, seeing its indecision. It wanted to pass, to cross the top of the steep hill it had climbed, but he knew there was something in the way, something potentially dangerous.

He needed to get to the other side of the hill, Tate thought. If he shot himself he'd spook it and it would run back the way it had come, all the way down that bloody great hill. Tate had chosen the crest of this particular hill because of its beauty and inaccessibility. It was the highest for miles around, knife edge at the top, with barely enough flat space to park the Landy. There was a near-sheer drop-off on either side of the roadway. If the rhino wanted to pass him, it would be no more than two or three metres from him.

The rhino sniffed and snorted again, then took a couple of tentative paces forward and stomped the ground with his right front foot.

Tate kept perfectly still. Black rhino were notoriously aggressive and unpredictable. When in doubt, they usually charged. He was half out of the vehicle and any movement he made to get back in and close the door might spur the creature to action.

He gave a snort of his own as he contemplated the ridiculousness of his situation. The rhino heard him, tossed his head and blew more air out of his nostrils. He trotted forward and Tate eased his toe out of the trigger guard as carefully and quickly as he could, and slowly swung his leg back inside the Land Rover.

The rhino charged.

Tate slammed his door closed, although he knew the aluminium panels would be like cardboard to the long wicked horn. He struggled to bring his rifle up to bear, but just as he got it up to his shoulder he saw the bulk of the rhino flash past the bonnet of his vehicle.

He lowered the rifle. Tate's heart was thumping and he could feel the vein in his neck pulsing so hard he thought the blood might explode from it. He'd yet to be this close to one of these magnificent creatures. It could have killed him. He'd thought its reaction would be to come for him, to try to bulldoze him out of the way, but it had seen him, finally, as it closed on him and had veered away at the last second, seeing a way around.

The rhino had conquered his fears and his natural distrust of man, and if he could overcome these instincts then so, too, could Tate. He looked at the rifle in his hands and switched the safety catch back to ‘safe’. He opened the door of the Land Rover again and retrieved his shoe and sock, all of a sudden feeling foolish.

While Tate was tying his bootlace the radio crackled to life. It was national parks headquarters at Kariba.

‘Tate here, over,’ he said.

His boss, the senior ranger, identified himself by his call sign and asked for Tate's location, which he gave. ‘Tate, we need you on the ground. A civilian aircraft's gone down, not far from you.’

The bile rose in Tate's throat and he swallowed hard. ‘What kind of aircraft, over?’

‘A Viscount, en route to Salisbury.’

14

T
he girl was eight and her name was Sandra. She'd howled and screamed for her mother and now she sobbed, her head nestled against Hope's breast. Hope winced as the doctor tightened the makeshift bandage – someone's bath towel torn into strips – around her ankle.

‘That's the best I can do,’ the doctor said as he knelt in front of them.

‘I'll be fine,’ Hope said.

‘The girl?’

Hope shrugged. ‘Physically, Sandra's OK, but …’

The doctor nodded. He wiped his hands on his blood-stained shirt. ‘We're going now. I wish we could take you with us, but we have to move quickly. We'll be back in no time at all.’

‘I'll be all right,’ Hope said.

He nodded. ‘I know you will be.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Between you and me, the women are holding up much better than the men. Keep an eye on the others for me, won't you?’

Hope nodded. She had no idea why the doctor thought she would be any stronger than the other injured survivors. It had been a godsend having a doctor on board. He'd calmed the survivors and organised them, then set about bandaging bleeding heads, splinting a broken leg with a branch cut from a tree at the edge of the cotton field, and relocating a dislocated shoulder.

‘Take this.’ The doctor held out a snub-nosed revolver and Hope stared blankly at it. ‘I found it … I think you should keep it, for protection. It'd make me feel better about leaving.’ The surviving passengers had discussed their plight and decided that those who were able would set off on foot to try to find a farmhouse or village, or a main road to flag down a passing car.

Reluctantly she took the pistol from him, then laid it beside her in the furrowed dirt. The doctor stood and joined a group of a dozen men and women who were standing in the gloom by the severed tail section of the Viscount, waiting for him. They set off. Hope suddenly felt very afraid.

The hours dragged. An elderly man whose head had been gashed by flying shrapnel from the missile came and sat with Hope and Sandra. The six other injured passengers were all lying or seated nearby, amid the scattered wreckage and piles of bags, which the able-bodied survivors had taken from the baggage hold.

The man sat down next to Hope. ‘Do you think the rescue party will be coming soon?’

Hope had no idea. ‘I'm sure they won't be long.’ The man asked the same question a few minutes later.

Hope nibbled on some peanuts and tried unsuccessfully to get Sandra to eat something. The girl was curled up into the foetal position now under a thin airline blanket, her head pillowed on a backpack. Hope found a bottle of Coca-Cola, which she insisted the confused man drink.

Far off, she heard a dog bark. Hope eased herself away from Sandra. The girl stirred. ‘I'll be back in a few minutes – I just need to go check on the others.’

‘Can I come with you?’ Sandra asked as Hope stood.

‘No, my girl. Just sit there. I won't be long. Promise.’

Hope hobbled across to a pile of emergency equipment that had been salvaged from the Viscount. She found a torch and switched it on.

‘Don't go far,’ a male voice said from the knot of survivors.

‘I won't.’ She needed to pee, and she was curious about the dog barking. Did that mean someone was on their way? Rescuers perhaps?

Hope found a length of metal tubing, about a metre and a half long, lying in the dirt. It had once served some purpose on the aircraft, but she used it as a walking stick. The uneven ground made walking even harder, and she screwed her eyes shut with the pain of placing her injured foot down at a wrong angle. She walked towards the charred hulk that had been the front half of the aircraft. It was still smoking in places and the smell of it assaulted her. The doctor and a couple of the male survivors had speculated that the Viscount's nosewheel had gone into a drainage ditch that apparently ran across the cotton field, and that this had caused the aircraft to flip.

When Hope rounded the fuselage she wished she'd peed where she was and waited for the rescuers to find her. She dropped to her knees and threw up.

The beam of her torch had picked out three charred black lumps. It had taken her brain a few seconds to realise she was looking at the remains of human beings – people she'd been queuing with just hours before. She raised a hand to her mouth, gagged, then dry-retched. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Hope climbed to her feet and turned away from the horror. She had to get back to little Sandra. She started to walk, but froze when she heard voices. She listened to the noise on the faint breeze. They were men's voices, and they were speaking an African language.

*

The troop sergeant was issuing his orders as he tightened his parachute harness straps. ‘An Air Rhodesia flight's made a forced landing west of Karoi, and we're –’

‘The flight from Kariba, right?’ Braedan interrupted.

‘No, the fucking flight from Moscow,’ the sergeant said, his annoyance at being interrupted halfway through his briefing plain.

Braedan shut up and saddled up. Two RLI Fire Force teams and an SAS stick were being scrambled and the troop sergeant and troop commander, a newly graduated lieutenant, would be jumping with Braedan and his stick. It was an indication of the seriousness of the situation. Braedan barely registered the details of the orders. All he could think about was Hope.

‘Move it!’ the sergeant barked.

Braedan walked across the tarmac towards the rear of the Dakota. The air-traffic control tower was silhouetted by the first pinks of the new day. He bent his head as he entered the hot, oily-smelling prop wash of the aircraft's port engine. He grabbed the ladder and climbed up inside the ageing aircraft.

He told himself that she was alive, and that he would find her.

*

Tate stood on the Land Rover's brake and clutch pedals as the figure emerged from the darkness into the cone of his headlights and started waving. He'd been briefed to head towards the rough location of the crash site and the drive had given him more time to clear his head and think through what he would do next. People needed his help, and so too, he realised, did Hope. He'd been childish to leave her stranded at the airport. He needed to talk to her, and he needed to confront his bastard of a brother, but all that could wait. For now, he was still praying Hope hadn't been able to get on a flight back to Salisbury so soon.

‘Help us!’ the man called.

Tate climbed out of the vehicle. The man rushed to him.

‘We're survivors from a plane crash. My God, I'm so glad to see you.’ More wild-eyed figures emerged from the bush and crowded him. Tate leaned back into the cab and reported to national parks headquarters at Kariba that he had found thirteen of the passengers alive with a range of minor injuries. Nine more people were still at the crash site and they all needed medical attention.

‘Roger, Tate,’ the senior warden replied. ‘The army's on their way to the crash site. Police will meet you at the main road. Take the survivors there and wait for the cops, over.’

‘What about going to the crash site? I say again, there are injured people there, over?’

‘Negative, Tate. Leave it to the army. Those people have been through hell, man. Get them to safety.’

Tate held the handset and thought about what he should do.

He turned to the dark-haired man who seemed to be the leader of the group of stragglers, some of whom were climbing into the back of his Land Rover in anticipation of their ride to safety. ‘Was there a woman on the flight … blonde, about five-eight … very pretty? Her name is Hope …’

The man nodded. ‘Hope Bryant.’

Tate gripped the edge of the truck's door for support. ‘Is she …’

‘She's all right. She's got a possible fractured ankle, but Hope's very much alive.’

‘Thank God.’

‘Do you know her?’ the man asked.

Tate paused a moment. ‘Yes, she's my girlfriend, and I love her, and I've got to get to her.’

‘We should go to the crash site,’ the man said, loud enough for the rest of the survivors to hear. ‘It's about six kilometres from here, on a cotton farm.’

‘No, Doc!’ said another man from the rear of the Land Rover where the group was already crammed in, some having to stand. ‘You just heard the radio. The army guys are on their way. Let's get back to Kariba.’

Tate looked at the man, apparently a doctor, who shrugged at him. ‘The main road's straight ahead,’ Tate said, pointing down the rutted gravel track he'd been driving on. ‘You drive.’

‘But your orders?’

‘Just do it,’ Tate said. He reached behind the seats and pulled out his FN and a map. He had the doctor show him the approximate site of the crash. ‘Tell them I've gone in on foot.’

‘You're mad,’ the doctor said.

Tate didn't disagree.

*

Braedan steered his parachute into the negligible breeze and pulled down on the rear risers to flare the leading edge of his canopy. He brought his knees and ankles together and tucked in his arms. He tried to concentrate on his imminent landing, rather than the scene of carnage he'd witnessed from the air.

His boots hit the churned earth and he rolled onto his right side. The police had already arrived at the crash site, so there was no risk of an opposed landing.

Braedan and the rest of the men from the Fire Force and SAS sticks rolled their parachutes and strode across to the wreckage of the Viscount. He'd seen plenty of dead people in the past year, but his heart was pounding as he braced himself for what he might encounter.

Braedan slowed as he approached a group of police dressed in a mix of blue uniforms and camouflage fatigues. He could see the line of bodies at their feet, surrounded by opened suitcases and rucksacks. Clothing and personal possessions were strewn all around. A man knelt at the end of the line of dead passengers. He had his head in his hands, but even from this distance Braedan recognised the lanky frame of his own brother.

‘Jesus Christ.’

Braedan ignored the lieutenant's words and the sergeant's barked orders for the rest of the stick of troopers to stop gawping. He walked straight past the police to Tate and stopped a couple of metres from him.

Hope was lying on her back in front of him. Braedan saw the blood on her belly and her chest, and he knew immediately that she had not died in the aircraft crash. His right fist clenched around his FN. As God was his witness he would kill the cunts that did this.

Tate lifted his head from his hands and turned to look at him. His face was painted with tears and dust and a string of drool hung from the left side of his mouth. His hair was wild and he looked like what he was – a man who had had everything taken from him.

Braedan lowered his rifle, butt to the ground, and held the flash suppressor loose in his right hand. He looked down at Hope. Her eyes were wide with a look Braedan had seen before – the knowledge that what was happening to her was real, not a nightmare.

He said nothing. What could he say?

Tate's speed and strength surprised him. One second he was an incoherent dribbling mess and the next he was leaping like a lion, hammering both fists into Braedan's chest, punching the air from him and toppling him backwards. Braedan's FN clattered to the dirt. Someone shouted behind him.

Tate slammed a fist into Braedan's face and he yelled as blinding pain and the snap of cartilage told him his nose had been broken. Braedan grabbed a handful of his brother's uniform and tried to push him off. Tate lashed out with another wild blow, but Braedan half-rolled under him, avoiding the punch. Tate tried again, but as Braedan started to sit up he brought his knee up at the same time and drove it into Tate's groin. His brother gasped and rolled off him. He lay in the dirt, doubled with pain.

Braedan got to his feet and gingerly touched his smashed nose. He spat blood, then reached his hand out to his brother. ‘Come, sit up. Keep your head down, though.’ To Braedan's surprise, Tate clasped his hand. He pulled his brother up into a sitting position.

‘Quilter-Phipps!’

Braedan turned at the sergeant's bark this time.

‘What the fuck's going on. Who is that man?’ The sergeant was striding towards him, his face brick red with anger.

‘My brother, Sarge. He's –’

Braedan turned to gesture down at Tate and was too late to sidestep the swinging rifle. Tate was on his knees and was wielding his FN by the barrel, like a club. The pistol grip smashed into Braedan's shin and he howled with pain and dropped to one knee.

Tate was on his feet in a flash, spinning the rifle as he rose. When Braedan looked up he saw Tate was pointing the weapon at him. He spat more blood. ‘Put it down.’

‘No.’

Braedan got to his feet, but didn't close the distance between himself and his brother. He stood there.

‘What the bloody hell,’ the sergeant said. He raised his own weapon. ‘Put that rifle down, man. Now!’

Tate ignored the military man and aimed at Braedan's heart. He blinked away the last of his tears. ‘You killed her.’

Braedan shook his head. ‘Look, I'm sorry about what happened. I told her not to tell you, but she obviously did.’ Tate risked a glance back at Hope's body. Braedan didn't seize his chance. He just stood there, hands by his side. ‘She told me she loved you.’

‘Shut up,’ Tate said, barely audibly.

‘She sounded miserable when she called me. She said she wanted me to pick her up from Salisbury Airport.’ Braedan wiped more blood off his top lip.

‘I should kill you now,’ Tate said.

‘Put the gun down, son,’ the sergeant said, softer this time.

Braedan didn't turn, but sensed the experienced soldier was slowly circling closer. Tate paid the other man no mind.

Braedan thought, but didn't say, that his brother didn't have the balls to pull the trigger. Braedan didn't care. He'd faced stronger, tougher men in battle and lived. If he was going to die today, like this, then that was that. ‘She told you … and she asked your forgiveness, didn't she, Tate?’

His brother licked his lips and blinked a few times. The tears started rolling again. Braedan couldn't remember the last time he had cried. Fuck. It was embarrassing. ‘You cold, heartless bastard,’ he said to Tate. ‘She confessed to you and you rejected her, so she got on this bloody plane. She was coming to me not because of a one-night stand, but because you dumped her.’ Braedan turned, walked three paces and picked up his own rifle.