For the time being, there wasn’t much light at ground level. Through binoculars I could pick out the smooth, grey trunk of the baobab, and occasional pale-looking strips where a few yards of the sandy track were in view. But apart from them, the bush was a ragged sea of black. Provided the guys kept still, no intruder could possibly guess that thirty-odd armed men were lying in wait.
Whinger, Mart and I had agreed to share stags — two hours on, four off. I took the first, comfortably settled in a cleft between two big boulders. The floor of the little gully was about two feet wide, and the front end of it looked straight out over the killing ground — a perfect vantage point.
My time was nearly up before anything happened. The odd mozzie came whining past, but I’d smeared on a good dose of repellent, and nothing bit me. Then, out of the silence away to our left, came a deep, booming call that made the hair on my neck stir. Aoum! Aoum!
I heard a rustle in the grass behind me, and there was Whinger, crawling up the gully. ‘What the fuck was that?’ he whispered.
‘Lions.’
The call came again, closer.
‘There.’ I pointed. ‘Jesus!’ I breathed. ‘This’ll make the silveries’ bollocks shrivel.’
We lay there listening. The call sounded a third time, closer still. Then suddenly, as if the lions had summoned it, the wind got up. One moment the air was still; the next, we felt a vigorous gust. Then a loud roar came sweeping towards us through the trees from the west. The noise grew so fast that at first I thought a train or an aircraft was approaching, even though reason told me that was impossible. Next I reckoned that heavy rain must be falling and about to swamp us.
It turned out to be none of those things, only this violent, freak wind, which hit us with a cold blast. It blew for no more than three or four minutes, but the noise was so loud that it drowned out the lions, and we couldn’t tell if they were still moving our way. Then, quite quickly, the wind died, and silence returned.
The disturbance left me shuddering, not so much from cold as from the memory of the chill that had hit us at the witch doctor’s.
‘I bet the darkies are shitting themselves,’ I whispered.
Whinger nodded. I don’t think he was too happy himself. The sudden violence of the gust had been quite alarming. But before he could say anything, brrrrrrppppp! A burst of automatic fire ripped out from away to our right. In seconds every man in the right cut-off group was blasting off long bursts. Through the racket I heard Andy bellow ‘Fucking stop! Stop! Stop!’ And then in Nyanja, ‘Ima!’
With glasses I swept the river bank. The hail of rounds had kicked up dust in thick clouds. Apart from that, I could see nothing.
‘Green One to Green Three,’ I called on the covert radio. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘Something moved to the right of the killer zone,’ said Andy.
‘Those lions?’
‘Not big enough. Only one, anyway. I think it was a hyena.’
‘Get your commander to give them a bollocking.’
‘He’s at it already.’
‘Tell him to repeat: no firing until a Shamouli goes up.’
‘Will do.’
‘Make sure they all get properly stuck in. I’m resetting the ambush, as of now.’
After that little burst of excitement, everything went quiet, and the rest of the night passed without incident. Taking turns, Whinger and I got our heads down for good stretches; then, at 0515, just before first light, I left him and Mart on the Kopje and pulled back to find out what was happening about the presidential visit.
The Bergen cache was designed to be part of the exercise: the guys left in charge were supposed to challenge anyone who approached — so I was glad to find that one of them spotted me moving towards him through the half light of dawn. Correctly, he called out, ‘Two.’
‘Six,’ I replied. ‘Well done.’
I came in under the deep black shadow of the trees, found Genesis and said, ‘Any word from base?’
‘Nothing yet.’
‘Let’s get through, then.’
‘Sure.’
He led me across to where the signaller had slung his aerials. The 319 set was on listening watch, and in a couple of minutes we got a response.
The presidential visit was on.
FOUR
Bakunda’s chopper was due in to base camp at 1645. Our guys there could welcome him and bring him out to the cache on foot, but protocol demanded that I should go back to meet him there, give him a briefing, and escort him personally to the ambush location.
I spent a good deal of the day at the cache, chatting with Genesis in person and with Stringer over the Kamangan radio circuit.
‘I don’t know who he’ll have with him,’ I said. ‘There’s bound to be some aides and/or BGs. But the point is, we don’t want a shower of hangers-on up front. Tell the guy only one other can go forward with him. Okay?’
I knew I was sounding edgy — the result of too little sleep — but Stringer got the message and didn’t argue.
Once he’d told Mulongwe the score, and details were settled, I went forward again and sneaked up the back of the Kopje, taking Whinger and Mart a three-litre container of water to top up their bottles. I found them in good shape, comfortably ensconced in a tent of mozzie netting which they’d slung from some of the boulders.
‘Cushy bastards!’ I said softly. ‘It’s all right for you.’
‘And you.’ Whinger opened a flap of netting to admit me to the sanctum. ‘I’m sorry for those poor sods out there. The tsetses are fucking horrendous. Pavarotti and Andy reckon they’re being eaten alive.’
‘I expect they are. I knocked off a good few on my way in. Look at the bastards on the netting, too.’
The big grey flies were dotted all over the outside of our fragile canopy, crawling about, trying to get through, as they scented prey below.
‘How are the guys doing?’
‘Pretty well. There’s been practically no disturbance. Discipline’s good. The thing is, they’ve got a great cabaret to watch.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You know that outbreak of firing? Somebody killed a hyena. Now every vulture in Kamanga’s homing in on the body. Look through the gap in the rocks.’
I peered out through our observation channel and saw an amazing sight: on the far bank of the sand river a mass of feathered bodies was writhing and struggling, apparently all piled on top of each other in a heap. Binoculars revealed that the naked heads and necks of the vultures were shiny with blood and slime. As I watched, more heavy bodies came plummeting in to land on the outskirts of the group and hopped inwards to join the feast.
‘Jesus!’ I went. ‘Nightmare birds.’
‘Can’t be much left of the hyena,’ said Mart, matter-of-factly. ‘They only found it about an hour ago. Just two of them at first. We saw them circling, way up. Then they dropped down, and all the rest came bombing in.’
‘Sure it’s only a hyena?’ I asked. ‘Not one of the poachers?’
‘Nar,’ went Mart. ‘Before the birds arrived we could see it laid on its back with all four feet in the air, like a spotted dog, its stomach blown up like a balloon.’
‘At least it means some of the silvery spoons can shoot,’ said Whinger.