"That might work," Craig agreed.
"This is it then." Tungata set it out quickly. "I will track UP to the head of the valley. You take the girls down to the edge of the clearing. Got it?" Craig nodded.
"Forty-five minutes from now," Tungata checked his wristwatch, nine, thirty exactly, I will start throwing grenades and firing with the AK. That should pull most of the Shana away from the clearing. As soon as the shooting starts, you head for the helicopter. When I hear the helicopter lift off, I'll run out on the open slope, there! He pointed up the valley. "Just below that rock sheet. The Shana will not have reached me by that time you can make the pick-up from there."
"Let's do it." Craig passed Tungata the AK 47 and the spare magazines. "I'll keep the Uzi and one grenade." He took the sub machinegun from Tungata.
"Take the diamonds also." Tungata shrugged out of the straps of the back pack and pushed it across to Craig.
"See you later." Craig slapped his shoulder, and Tungata slid away down the slope.
Craig led the two girls straight down along the spine of the hill, keeping in the scrub and broken rock. It was a relief to reach the tree-line, and discover a ravine that angled back along the edge of the clearing. They crept down it, Craig cautiously lifting his head above the bank to check their progress every few hundred feet.
"This is as close as we can get to the helicopter," he whispered and the girls sank down, resting below the lip of the bank. Craig slipped out of the heavy pack and had another look over the bank.
The helicopter stood out in the open, a hundred and fifty paces away. The pilot was squatting beside the landing-gear in the shade cast by the fuselage. The Super Frelon was a bulky, blunt, nosed machine, painted dull sage green. Craig sank down Again beside Sally-Anne.
"VA-iat range does it have?" Craig asked in a whisper.
"Not certain," Sally-Anne whispered back. "With full tanks about six hundred miles, I'd guess."
"Pray for full tanks." Craig glanced at his Rolex. "Ten minutes." From his pocket he handed them each another slab of chocolate. A Sally-Anne's sweat had streaked the blackening on her cheeks. Craig mixed dirt and water from the bottle into a muddy paste and repaired her make-up. Then she did the same to him.
"Two minutes." Craig checked the time, and glanced over the bank.
The helicopter pilot stood up and stretched, then he climbed back into the Super Frelon.
"Something is happening, "Craig murmured.
The helicopter partially obscured his view of the tent across the clearing, but he could see that there was activity over there as well.
A small group was leaving the tent. The guards were saluting and strutting about importantly, and then suddenly the rotors of the helicopter turned and the starter motor whirred noisily. Blue smoke fired from the exhaust vents and with a roar the main engine of the Super Frelon came to life.
A pair of officers left the group in front of the tent and started across the clearing, heading for the helicopter.
"We have got trouble," Craig muttered grimly, "they are pulling out." And then he started, "That's Peter Fungabera!" Peter was wearing the burgundy beret with silver leopard-head cap-badge, the bright rows of decoration ribbons on his chest, and the scarf in the opening of his battle smock Under one arm was tucked his swagger-stick. While he walked, he was in deep discussion with a tall, elderly white man whom Craig had never seen before.
The white man wore a plain khaki safari jacket. His head was bare. His hair was cropped to the scalp and his skin had a peculiarly repulsive pasty white texture. He carried a black leather attache case which was locked to his wrist with a steel chain. He cocked his head to listen to Peter Fungabera's impassioned discourse as they walked towards the waiting helicopter.
Halfway between the tent and the helicopter, the two of them came to a stop, and argued animatedly. The white man was gesticulating vehemently with his free hand. He was close enough now for Craig to notice that his eyes were so pale that they gave him the sightless stare of a marble bust. His skin was pocked with ancient scars, yet he was very much the dominating figure of the pair. His manner was brusque, almost contemptuous, as though he now regarded Peter Fungabera as superfluous, unworthy of his serious attention. Peter Fungabera, on the other hand, had the shattered look of a survivor of an air crash He appeared confused. His voice was raised so that Craig could hear its pleading tone, if not the actual words. This was hardly the man that Craig had known.
The white man made a gesture of dismissal and, turning away from Peter Fungabera, started once more towards the helicopter.
At that moment there was the crumping detonation of an exploding grenade and the two men in the clearing turned quickly to look up the valley in the direction from which the explosion had sounded. Now there was a burst of automatic AK 47 fire from the same direction and immediately the urgent shout of orders around the tent.
Troopers began doubling along the edge of the clearing, heading up the valley.
Another burst of automatic fire, and the attention of every man was focused in that direction. Hastily, Craig pulled the pack onto his back.
"Come on!" he snapped. "You know what to do! The three of them scrambled out of the ravine and moved out into the clearing.
"Don't hurry," Craig cautioned them softly. They kept in a compact group, moving quickly but purposefully over the open ground towards Fungabera and is companion.
Craig took the grena4e from his pocket and with his teeth drew the pin. Helheld the grenade in his left hand.
In his right he carried the Uzi, loaded and cocked and with rapid, fire selected. They were within five paces before Peter Fungabera, glanced around and his astonishment was almost comical as he recognized Craig, even under his mud mask.
"At this range I can cut you in half," Craig warned him, lifting the Uzi to the level of Peter's belly. "This grenade is armed. If I drop it, it will blow us all to hell." He had to shout above the sound of the helicopter's engine.
The white man spun to face him, and his pate arctic eyes were savage.
"Go for the pilot," Craig ordered the girls and they ran to the fuselage port of the helicopter.
"Now, both of you," Craig told the two men, "walk to the helicopter. Don't hurry, don't shout." Craig followed three paces behind them. Before they reached the helicopter, the pilot appeared in the open port, both his hands high above his head, and Sarah behind him with the Tokarev pistol in his back.
"Get oud" Craig ordered, and with obvious relief, the pilot jumped down to the ground.
"Tell them that General Fungabera is a hostage," Craig said. "Any attack will endanger him. Do you understand?"
"Yes," the pilot nodded.
"Now walk back to that tent. Walk slowly. Don't run.
Don't shout." The pilot set off gratefully, but as soon as he was clear, he broke into a trot.
"Get in!" Craig gestured to the port with the Uzi, but Peter Fungabera glared at him and his head sank down menacingly on his wide shoulders.