Only when the woman was finished would he begin on Colonel Sean Courtney. He had not yet decided what it would be-there were so many possibilities. However, the man was tough; he could be expected to last for days, perhaps even weeks. Planning it, gloating over it, brought a smile to General China's bps and calmed his frustration enough to allow him to drop into his canvas chair, draw the lapels of his greatcoat around him, and sink at last into sleep.
He awoke in confusion, unable to orient himself. Somebody was shaking him urgently, and he threw off the hands and struggled out of his chair, glaring around him wildly. It was morning; the trees around his temporary base were gray skeletons against the paler gray of the dawn sky. The light bulbs still glowed on their poles above the squatting helicopter, and the radio on the rough table of hand-planed logs in front of him was squawking urgently.
"Contact! General China, we have a live contact!" It was the commander of the line of men he had placed on the hills at the approaches to the Limpopo. He was calling in clear language, proof of his agitation.
Still half asleep, China stumbled to the radio set and seized the microphone. "This is Banana Tree, report your position and status correctly," he snapped, and at the sound of his voice the distant patrol leader steadied himself and corrected his radio procedure.
The fugitives had run into his stop fine at almost precisely the point China had predicted. There had been a brief firelight, and then the fugitive band, had taken refuge on the crest of a small kopje, almost within sight of the Limpopo River.
"I have called for the mortars to come up," the patrol leader exulted. "We'll blow them off the top of that hill."
"Negative." China spoke very clearly. "I say again, negative.
Do not open fire on the position with mortars. Do not attack. I want them taken alive. Surround the hill and wait for my arrival."
He glanced across at thohelicopter. The titanium engine hatches were back in place, aD_d the Portuguese engineer was overseeing the last of the refueling. A line of porters, each of them with a twenty-five-liter drum balanced on his head, was queued up, waiting their turns to empty the drums into the helicopter's main tanks.
China shouted to the engineer in Portuguese, and he came striding across to the tent. "We must take off immediately," China ordered.
"I will complete the refueling in half an hour."
"That's too long. How much fuel have you got on board right now?"
"Auxiliary tanks are full, main tank is three quarters."
"That will do, call the pilot. Tell him we must take off right away."
"I must replace the debris suppressors over the turbo intakes," the engineer protested.
"How long will that take?"
"Not more than half an hour."
"Too long!" China shouted with agitation. The pilot was stumbeing along the pathway from his tent. Not yet fully awake, he was pulling on his leather flying jacket, and the flaps of his helmet dangled loosely around his ears.
"Hurry!" China yelled at him. "Get her started!"
"What about the suppressors?" the engineer insisted.
"We can fly without them, they are only precautionary."
"Yes, but-!"
"No!" China pushed him away. "I can't wait! Forget about the suppressors We fly at once! Get the engines started!"
With the tails of his greatcoat flapping around his legs, General China ran to the helicopter and scrambled up into his seat in the weapons cockpit.
Sean Courtney lay on his belly between two rocks just below the crest of the kopJe and looked out over the tops of the mo pane forest. Away toward the south, the dark green belt of trees was just visible in the uncertain light. It marked the position of the Limpopo River.
"So close," he lamented. "We so very nearly made it."
It was against all the odds that they had survived this far, almost three hundred miles through a devastated, war-torn land and two murderous opposing armies, only to be stopped here in sight of their goal. There was a burst of AK fire from down the slope of the hill, and a ricochet sang away into the dawn sky.
Matatu, lying among the rocks nearby, was still berating himself. "I am a stupid old man, my Bwana. You must send me away and get yourself a clever young one who is not blind and decrepit with age."
Sean guessed that a Renamo observation post must have spotted them as they crossed one of the open glades between the hills.
There had been no warning, no obvious pursuit, no set ambush.
Without warning a sweep line of tiger-striped figures had rushed at them from out of the mo pane
They had all been weary after traveling hard all night. Perhaps their concentration had been eroded, perhaps they should have stayed in the trees instead of cutting across the open vlei, but it was yarn to think about what they might have done.
for There had only been sufficient time to snatch up the children and drag the women up the side of the kopJe with poorly aimed Renaino fire whining off the rocks around them. Perhaps the Renaino aim had deliberately been wild, Sean thought. He could guess what General China's orders to his men had been. "Take them alive!"
"Where is China now?" he wondered. One thing was certain, he was not far away and coming as fast as the Hind would fly. He looked out at the Limpopo River again, and there was the foul taste of failure and disappointment on the back of his tongue.
"Alphonso," he called out. "Have you got the radio rigged?" It was more for something to occupy his mind than with any real hope of making contact.
Twice during the night he had attempted to make the prearranged radio schedule with the South African Army. Once he had even heard "Kudu" calling him very faintly; however, the batteries of their radio had finally begun to fail. The battery test needle had dropped back deep into the red quadrant of the dial.
"If I try to raise the aerial those baboons down there will shoot my testicles off," Alphonso growled from among the rocks.
"It's almost line of sight to the river," Sean told him brusquely.
"Give me the aerial." He raised himself on one elbow, threw the bundle of insulated wire as far out down the slope as he could reach, and then stooped to the radio set. When he turned on the power, the control panel glowed feebly.
"Kudu, this is Mosgie," he sent out his despairing call. "Kudu, do you read me? Kudu, this is Mossie!"
A stray bullet hit the rock above his head, but Sean ignored it.
"Kudu, this is Mossie!"
The two women, white and black, were holding the children and watching him wordlessly.
"Kudu, this is Mossie.:" He adjusted the gain knob. Then, unbelievably, so faintly he "&uld barely catch the words, a voice answered him. lp "Mossie, this ii Oubaas. I read you strength three."
"Oubaas. Oh, God," he breathed. "Oubaas!"
Oubaas, the grandfather, was General Lothar De La Rey's code name.