Another feature that confirmed our choice of site was a small hill, no more than a mound, made up of enormous lumps of smooth black volcanic rock, with grass growing between, about fifty metres behind the centre of the killer group’s position.
‘Look at that!’ exclaimed Whinger. ‘What a treasure.’
I knew his rhyming slang well enough to realise he meant ‘made to measure’, and so it was. The mound would make us an ideal tactical headquarters and OP. From there we could oversee the whole of the exercise area; even better, we’d be able to move around a little without causing any disturbance. By crawling away along the grassy hollows among the rocks, we could withdraw on to the back of the hill without being seen, and kip down, one at a time. In deference to the fact that we were in southern Africa, we called the hill the Kopje.
In a line straight across country, the ambush location was no more than six or seven kilometres from camp, but because the direct route was severed by two deep gullies, the only way to drive there was along thirty kilometres of roundabout dirt tracks, and the trip took a good hour. Therefore I decreed that, once we’d finished our planning, the whole of Mantrap would be carried out on foot.
First, though, we needed to ferry out the remaining targets and set them in position, and we had so much kit that we needed to go by vehicle. Whinger, Genesis and I went in one of the pinkies, and the Kamangan O-group followed us in one of their Gaz trucks, bringing a selection of home-made claymore mines loaded with nails and ball-bearings. Joss had two of his junior ruperts and three sergeants with him, so they were quite a crowd. The ruperts looked very young — in their mid-twenties, I guessed — and very nervous. They had note-books and ball-point pens tucked into the breast pockets of their immaculately ironed bush shirts, and were trying to appear efficient, but I could see they felt they were very much on trial.
For most of the way we followed a track of sorts, but for the last few minutes, once we were beyond the second ravine, we struck off on a bearing through the bush, weaving between trees and jolting over hard, dry ground until the open stretch of river bank came into view. Towards the left-hand side of our theatre stood a single baobab tree, huge and old, with its great mop-head of branches looking like roots, as though it had grown upside-down. Its massive trunk, at least six feet across, acted as a natural goal-post on that side of the playing field.
‘There you are, Joss,’ I said as we walked forward. ‘It’s all yours.’
‘Oh, wah!’ he went. ‘I like it. Great location! Enemy coming along the far bank, left to right, heh?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Okay.’
Quickly I suggested how he might dispose his forces: killer group in front of the Kopje, the others, within certain limits, where he chose. He’d never set a full-scale ambush before, but he got the idea quickly, and his questions were sensible.
‘Take the baobab as your left-hand marker,’ I told him. ‘The task of the left cut-off group’s just what it sounds: to cut off anyone trying to escape to the left of the main killing area. Their arc of fire can be from the baobab outwards. The right cut-off group has the same task on the other side. Their marker’s that side channel running away from us. Okay?
‘Fine, fine.’
‘So, while you’re sorting your plan, us lot will go forward to set up these extra targets straight out in front of us, in the middle of the killing ground. That’s where I want your guys to place their claymores when we’ve done. Back in a few minutes.’
With Whinger driving we lurched on as far as the edge of the river, then walked down the bank and out across the burning sand. We were carrying four figure-eleven targets and a crowbar with which to dig holes for their mounting posts. On the track at the far side we already had eight hinged targets laid out ready, flat on their backs, set so they’d come upright, facing the killer group, at a pull of the cords. Another three were fastened to the trunks of trees, so that a tug would swing them round into view.
Our task now was to place four static targets upright, edge-on to the firing party, so that they’d be virtually invisible at night; their purpose was to test the accuracy with which the Kamangans set their claymores, which would blast their contents horizontally into the killing zone. In a live ambush the claymores would be detonated by enemy walking into trip-wires, but for the purposes of the exercise, we’d set them off ourselves.
Genesis was first up the bank on the far side, and he’d hardly reached the road before he exclaimed, ‘Eh — what’s this?’
He stood staring down at the dusty surface. In a second Whinger was beside him, muttering, ‘Firekin’ ’ell!’
‘What’s the matter?’ I called.
‘Footprints.’
‘Ours, probably.’
‘Come off it. Our guys wear boots.’
The sandy dust all round the prostrate target was printed with the patterns of our boot-soles from the day before, but on top of them, superimposed since the previous evening, were the smooth indentations of bare human feet.
‘Keep off,’ I said. ‘Don’t spoil them. We’ll get Jason to suss them out.’
Jason Phiri, one of Joss’s sergeant-majors, had worked as a forest ranger in a game-park, and was an ace tracker. An incredibly thin man, with arms and legs like charcoal sticks, he was known to his mates as Mabonzo — Bony Person. He stood out from the rest of the Kamangans partly because of his shape, partly because of his colour: whereas the rest were various shades of brown and black, he was more grey, as if he’d been dusted with wood ash. Joss told me he was a Bididi, from the west of the country, on the fringes of the Kalahari desert, where his tribe were akin to the Bushmen. Although his English was limited, he was the friendliest of the Kamangans, always grinning, always in a sunny temper. At the same time, he was quiet and rather shy, reluctant to push himself forward, and had an annoying habit of not letting on that he knew something until it was too late for the knowledge to be of any use. Behind his good humour there was a sense of strain, as if he was being driven by some deep sorrow or anger, which was what made him so eager to please us.
Now I shouted back to Joss to bring him over.
‘Hey, Jason,’ I said, as he approached. ‘What d’you make of this?’
He looked hard at the tracks, then crossed to the next target, five metres away.
‘Here also.’ He pointed down.
‘How many people?’
‘Five, six.’
‘When were they here?’
‘Late in the night. Four, five o’clock this morning.’
‘What were they doing?’
Jason shrugged. ‘Poaching, looking for food.’
‘I thought there weren’t any people in this area.’
‘Officially, there aren’t,’ said Joss. ‘But some guys are always wandering about. These are on the move from one place to another.’
‘What weapons would they have?’
‘AKs, probably, nicked during the war. But mainly they’ll be setting snares for antelopes and stuff.’
‘They’d better look lively if they come back tonight,’ said Whinger. ‘If they walk across here in the dark, they’ll get a fucking surprise.’
Joss gave one of his high-pitched laughs, reminding me of the witch doctor’s twittering. ‘They won’t be back. I bet these targets scared the shit out of them. Cardboard men lying flat on the ground? Oh, wah!’ He rolled his eyes extravagantly. ‘Witchcraft, you betcha. Somebody making a juju. They’ll think some big fiti has been here.’