I've hit a rock in your Land- Rover and knocked out the sump. She's had
it, pouring oil all over the place.
How the hell did you do that? David demanded.
I was trying a short cut. Conrad's chagrin carried clearly over the
ether.
How far are you from the Luzane stream? About three miles. God, he'll
beat you to it, David swore. He's two miles from the truck and going
like he's got a tax collector after him.
You have not seen old Connie move yet. I'll be there waiting for him,
Berg promised.
Good luck, David called, and the transmission went dead.
Below them Akkers was skirting the base of the hills, his black hat
bobbing along steadily amongst the trees.
David kept his starboard wing pointed at him and the Navajo turned
steadily, holding station above him.
Other movement caught David's eye on the open slope of the hill above
Akkers. For a moment he thought it was an animal, then with an intake
of breath he realized that he was mistaken.
What is it? Debra demanded, sensing his concern.
It's Sam, the damned fool. Connie told him not to leave his post, he's
unarmed, but he's baring down the slope to try and cut Akkers off. Can't
you stop him? Debra asked anxiously, and David didn't bother to answer.
He called Conrad four times before there was a reply.
Conrad's voice was thick and wheezing with the effort of running.
Sam is on to Akkers. I think he's going to confront him. Oh God damn
him, groaned Conrad. I'll kick his black ass for him.
Hold on, David told him, I'm going around for a closer look. David saw
it all quite plainly, he was only three hundred feet above them when
Akkers became aware of the running figure on the slope above him. He
stopped dead, and half-lifted the rifle; perhaps he shouted a warning
but Sam kept -on down, bounding over the rocky ground towards the man
who had burned his children to death.
Akkers lifted the rifle to his shoulder and aimed deliberately, the
rifle jumped sharply, the barrel kicking upwards at the recoil and Sam's
legs kept on running while his upper torso was flung violently backwards
by the strike of the heavy soft-nosed bullet.
The tiny brown-clad body bounced and rolled down the slope, before
coming to a sprawling halt in a clump of scrub.
David watched Akkers reload the rifle, stooping to pick up the empty
cartridge shell. Then he looked up at the circling aircraft above him,
David may have been mistaken but it seemed the man was laughing, that
obscene tooth-clucking giggle of his, then he started off again at a
trot towards the truck.
Connie, David spoke hoarsely into his handset, he just killed Sam.
Conrad Berg ran heavily over the broken sandy ground.
He had lost his hat and sweat poured down his big red face, stinging his
eyes and plastering the lank grey hair down his forehead. The
walkie-talkie set bounced on his back, and the butt of the rifle thumped
rhythmically against his hip.
He ran with grim concentration, trying to ignore the swollen pounding of
his heart and the torture of breath that scalded his lungs. A thorn
branch clawed at his upper arms, raking thin bloody lines through his
skin, but he did not break the pattern of his run.
He turned his red and streaming face to the sky and saw David's
aircraft, circling ahead of him and slightly to his left. That marked
for him Akkers position and it was clear that Conrad was losing ground
in his desperate race to head off the escape.
The radio set on his back buzzed, but he ignored the call, he could not
halt now. To break his run would mean he would only slump down
exhausted. He was a big heavy man, the air was hot and enervating, and
he had run three miles through loose and difficult going he was almost
finished. He was burning the last of his reserves now.
Suddenly the earth seemed to fall away under him, and he pitched forward
and half-slid, half-rolled, down the steep bank of the Luzane stream, to
finish lying on his back in the white river sand, clean and grainy as
sugar. The radio was digging painfully into his flesh and he dragged it
out from under him.
Still lying in the sand he panted like a dog, blinded by sweat and he
fumbled the transmit button of the set.
David - he croaked thickly, I am in the bed of the stream, can you see
me? The aircraft was arcing directly overhead now, and David's answer
came back immediately.
I see you, Connie, you are a hundred yards downstream from the truck.
Akkers is there, Connie, he has just reached the truck, he'll be coming
back down the river bed at any moment. Painfully, gaspin& choking for
breath, Conrad Berg dragged himself to his knees, and at that moment he
heard the whirr and catch and purr of an engine. He unstrapped the
heavy radio and laid it aside, then he unslung his rifle, snapped open
the breech to check the load, and pulled himself to his feet.
Surprised at the weakness of his own massive body, he staggered into the
centre of the river bed.
The dry river bed was eight feet deep with banks cut sheer by flood
water, and it was fifteen feet wide at this point, and the floor was of
smooth white sand, scattered with small water-rounded stones no bigger
than a baseball. It made a good illegal access road into Jabulani, and
the tracks of Alkkers truck were clearly etched in the sol t sand.
Around a bed in the stream Conrad heard the truck revving and roaring as
it came down a low place in the bank into the smooth bed.
Conrad stood squarely in the middle of the river bed with the rifle held
across his hip, and he fought to control his breathing. The approaching
roar of the truck reached a crescendo as it came skidding wildly around
the bend in the stream, and raced down towards him.
Showers of loose sand were thrown out from under the spinning rear
wheels.
Johan Akkers crouched over the steering wheel, with the black hat pulled
down to his eyebrows, and his face was grey and glistening with sweat,
and he saw Conrad blocking the river bed.
Stop! Conrad shouted, hefting the rifle. Stop or I shoot!
The truck was swaying and sliding, the engine screamed in tortured
protest. Akkers began to laugh, Conrad could see the open mouth and the
shaking shoulders. There was no slackening in the truck's roaring
rocking charge.
Conrad lifted the rifle and sighted down the stubby double barrels, At
that range he could have put a bullet through each of Johan Akkers
deep-set eyes, and the man made no effort to duck or otherwise avoid the
men ace of the levelled rifle. He was still laughing, and Conrad could
clearly see the teeth lying loosely on his s. He steeled himself with
the truck fifty feet away, gum and racing down upon him.
it takes a peculiar state of mind before one man deliberately and
cold-bloodedly shoot down another. It must either be the conditioned
reflex of the soldier or lawenforcement officer, or it must be the
terror of the hunted, or again it must be the unbalanced frenzy of the
criminal lunatic.
None of these was Conrad Berg. Like most big strong men, he was
essentially a gentle person. His whole thinking was centred on
protecting and cherishing life, he could not pull the trigger.
With the truck fifteen feet away, he threw himself aside, and Johan
Akkers swung the wheel wildly, deliberately driving for him.
He caught Berg a glancing blow with the side of the truck, hurling him
into the earthen bank of the stream.