The Delta (25 page)

From the air she could see even more evidence of the river's strangulation, of the slow death of an ecosystem, but it was cold comfort to her, knowing there might be some good in the mission she was embarking on. Her life, her future, was as barren as the parched Kalahari sandveld passing below.

She leaned her head against the perspex window of the Mack Air Gippsland Airvan, which had all the charm of a flying caravan. The noise and vibrations from the engine almost, but not quite, drowned out the sound of Cheryl-Ann heaving into a paper bag behind her, but they couldn't kill the smell. Sonja stared down at Africa below her, filtered grey through a haze created by far-off but ever-present fires. Traditionally, African farmers burned their lands to clear them before the rains came. But what if the rains didn't come? Ash and dust blanketed the countryside, the first symptoms of a slow painful demise.

Stick figure shadows gave away tiny giraffes on the ground and the elephants were dark ink blobs on dirty parchment. As they crossed the cut line that marked the southern border of Moremi there were more and more signs of human habitation. Long mekoros, traditional canoes made of hollowed sausage trees, lay encased in dried mud, waiting to be floated by the rains and water that might never come. Likewise, the woven reed walls that were laid by villagers to trap fish moving down the delta's tendrils now looked like cattle fences on some barren grassless farm.

Martin had done as his snide remark to her had implied. He'd told Stirling about Emma before she could get to him. In a way, she didn't mind too much, as it saved her from broaching the subject with Stirling.

‘Why didn't you say something, about your daughter?' Stirling had said to her the previous day when she'd found him by the shallow-draft aluminium boats. He was supervising the loading of fuel and a cold-box full of drinks onto the craft. ‘Thanks, Paul,' he said to the African guide, who stepped off the boat and retreated back to the deck, where a big black metal tea pot was boiling on a brazier of hot coals. Paul would serve the guests – Cheryl-Ann and her crew in this case – tea, coffee and biscuits before their afternoon cruise on the river and out into the Xakanaxa lagoon.

‘I didn't get the chance. Tracey whisked you away before I could tell you. I told you I wanted to talk to you in private.'

‘Tracey? Don't drag her into this, Sonja.'

She flared, her limited stock of patience exhausted. ‘I'm not dragging anyone into this, Stirling. Who told you – Steele?'

‘What if he did?'

She wanted to tell him the truth, as she saw it, that Steele was trying to drive a wedge between her and Stirling, so that he wouldn't want her to stay at Xakanaxa. How could she tell him all that without sounding paranoid?

‘Stirling, please. Emma, my daughter, was …' She stopped herself before she said ‘an accident'. ‘Unplanned. I've wanted to tell you about her since she was born. She was part of the reason, though, why I haven't come back before now.'

‘Who's the father?'

She took a deep breath. It was actually none of his business. ‘It's complicated.'

‘Jesus, Sonja, what did you get up to in the army?'

She resented him inferring she was some kind of slut. To many soldiers in the army women were either sluts or bitches. Sluts slept with everyone, while bitches slept with everyone except you. Sonja always knew it would be difficult, telling Stirling, but this whole scene was going pear-shaped. She ignored his remark. ‘I've told Steele that I'm not going to Namibia with the Americans. They can find their own guide and bodyguard.'

‘I'm pleased about that, at least,' he said, dragging the boat a little further up on to the riverbank, then wiping his hands on his shorts. ‘I can't believe that the overwhelming majority of the defence committee's members voted to employ a bunch of mercenaries, Sonja. Even Sabrina Frost, the environmentalist, went along with Steele's hare-brained bloody scheme in the end. Starting a war is no way to save the Okavango. I'm going to try to get some of the other lodge owners to change their minds about the whole thing. It's crazy.'

Frankly, right then she didn't care about the dam, the liberation of the Caprivi Strip, or how much money a bunch of rich foreign investors stood to lose if the river dried up for good. All she wanted to talk about was her and Stirling, but she couldn't find the words. Facing gunfire was easier.

‘What will you do? Where will you go?' He stood in front of her, his hands on his hips, the distance between them as wide as an ocean.

‘Um … I thought perhaps we could take it slow, catch up on old times. Talk about what we've been up to, and—'

‘I know what you've been up to, Sonja. You're a mercenary and a single mom. Me, I'm still the same old Stirling, stuck out here in the middle of the bush. You got your adventure, and then some.'

She gritted her teeth, chomping back the retort. He was acting like a spoilt child. She exhaled. Behind her she could hear the
twang of the Australian cameraman's voice, followed by raucous laughter. Time. She needed more time. ‘I was hoping I could stay here for a couple of days.'

The mournful cry of a fish eagle gave Stirling an excuse to look away from her, out over the forest of grass that almost choked the river. ‘I'm sorry, Sonja, we've got no room. Also, you know the camp rules. If you're not on staff then we have to organise payment of park entry fees et cetera.'

‘Well, put me on staff then. I'll clean the fucking tents for you if you want, Stirling.'

He looked at her now, emboldened. ‘You didn't talk like that when you were younger and you didn't want to work here then. What changed you, Sonja?'

‘Stirling!' They both turned and saw Tracey striding along the deck, waving. ‘Call for you, at reception. It's Bernard, following up on your meeting.'

‘Coming,' he replied. He looked back at Sonja. ‘I'm sorry.' He walked off.

Sonja could have sworn that Tracey was smiling at her, but she found herself surrounded by the film crew a moment later, as they started loading cameras, tripods, spare batteries and cases onto the boat.

Sam had invited her to accompany them on the cruise, but she figured she would be spending enough time with the television people over the coming week, so she declined. Stirling had rejected her and Tracey had made sure Sonja didn't get the opportunity to have another shot at winning back his affection. Sonja had called Emma from the camp and the monosyllabic responses she'd come to expect from her daughter reminded her, to her shame, that she had nowhere else in the world to go right then except where Martin Steele chose to send her. She'd sought out Steele and told him she would take the CTR job. At
least he'd been kind enough not to say he knew she would come around.

She felt miserable and stupid. What right did she have to expect Stirling would open his arms, and his safari camp, to her? She'd returned to the only place in the world she could imagine herself living, long term, to find herself locked out – an unwanted guest. She'd gone back to her tent and started packing. Afterwards, she'd gone to find old Amos, who had been the chef when she was a kid and was still working in the kitchen. He'd hugged her, dampening her bush shirt with his perspiration, but she hadn't minded. It was nice to be held by someone. He'd fixed her dinner early and she'd eaten it with him and his wife, Hope. She couldn't face Tracey's gloating or Stirling's aloofness over dinner.

Sam leaned around his seat on the aircraft. ‘OK?'

‘Sure,' she said. ‘Why wouldn't I be?' Sonja heard Cheryl-Ann dry-heaving into her airsickness bag behind her.

Sam was nearly yelling over the buzz and drone of the small aircraft. ‘You said you skipped dinner last night because you weren't well. Just wanted to see how you were, is all.'

She nodded, remembering the lie. ‘Probably dehydration. I drank lots of water. Your face is red – it looks like you might peel from the sunburn.'

He grinned. ‘I can always cover it with makeup.'

Despite her misery and self-pity she smiled. He looked forward again. He was a harmless fool, she thought, a product of a society where people thought they were doing something for the environment by paying their monthly DSTV subscriptions and watching handsome lightweights wax on about endangered species. She forced her thoughts away from the harridan behind her and the himbo in front. Even though she had told Martin she was only going along for the CTR Sonja couldn't help but wonder
how she would go about blowing up a dam and what the explosion and release of water would look like.

The engine note changed and she felt and heard things moving around her. They were starting their descent into Maun. The haze grew thicker as they entered the shroud of dust and smoke that always made the safari town just that little bit hotter and less comfortable than anywhere else in Botswana.

Brittle yellow grass flanked the shimmering ribbon of dark tar below. The turbulence increased as they met a final barrage of hot updrafts from the baking runway. Cheryl-Ann moaned. Sonja almost felt sorry for her. It had only been a half-hour flight, but the woman sounded like she was dying back there.

The Airvan's wheels kissed the tarmac; then, as though the surface was too hot to touch, it bounced once before settling. The pilot swung hard to starboard and hooked around into the taxiway. There were three other light aeroplanes queued for takeoff. Maun Airport only received and dispatched a couple of jet airliners a day – the Air Botswana Flights to and from Gaborone – but with its constant stream of light charter aircraft shuttling tourists in and out of the delta it could seem as busy as Heathrow or JFK in its own shabby little way.

On the ground, and without the rush of air from the small vents over their heads, the passengers started sweating as the temperature spiked inside the cabin during the short taxi.

‘Oh, my god, let me out of here!' Cheryl-Ann said.

Sonja breathed through her mouth to avoid the stench.

‘Welcome to Maun,' the pilot said, finally audible as he switched off the engine. ‘Mind how you go outside and wait for me before crossing the runway, please.'

‘Thanks,' Sonja said, ignoring the pilot's proffered hand to help her down the steps from the rear hatch. Once she was on the tarmac she adjusted the Glock in the waistband of her pants,
hidden under her shirt. She'd left her M4 behind with Martin as it would have been too difficult to conceal and she didn't expect to need it on her recce mission.

The smell of burning avgas and the silhouette of the drooping wings of the Air Botswana jet brought back memories of the Russian-made IL76 parked on the runway at Sierra Leone. She saw, again, the bodies being loaded for shipment back home to South Africa. There was no guard of honour, no national mourning, for dead mercenaries, and no welcome-home parade for the live ones. Just money, and always another war.

‘Sonja, will you go get the four-by-four?'

Cheryl-Ann had recovered quickly from her bout of airsickness now that she was back on terra firma, though she was still pale and her words wafted a foul smell. Sonja knew she was wound tight because of Stirling's words, and Steele's conniving, but she suppressed the urge to tell Cheryl-Ann to fuck off, that she was not the woman's slave. For the time being, she was. ‘Of course. There's a cafe across the road from the entrance to the airport. It's called the Bon Arrivee. I'll see you there. Order me a double shot espresso.' She would do what was required to play the part of guide-cum-bodyguard, but she would also let Cheryl-Ann know she would not take any shit on the way.

‘Deal. Jim, Gerry, get those cases loaded on to the trolley,' she barked at the men. ‘You, stay away from that, it's valuable.'

Sonja smiled as she saw the porter shake his head and turn his back on the Americans. The pilot ushered them across the runway, at a trot to avoid a Cessna hurrying past to make its departure slot. On the edge of the taxiway a white pilot strained as he single-handedly pushed his aircraft up to a fuel bowser. Sonja wondered how many people were diced by propellers here each year.

The terminal had grown in her absence, as had much of the
town, judging by the sprawl she'd seen from the air on approach. The building was now two storeys, brick, and bustling with people dressed in floppy safari hats and khaki ensembles. There was a menagerie of animal-print scarves and puggarees and a jumble of languages in the stuffy room. The tourists reminded her of a herd of wildebeest. She was glad to break free of the crowd, and the film people, if only for a few minutes.

She walked across the road from the airport entrance gate to the blue-and-white painted Natlee shopping and office complex. As the TV crew's guide she was also doubling as their driver and Cheryl-Ann had told her the keys to the rented vehicle would be at the Mack Air office.

Sonja opened the office door and paused for a second, with eyes closed, to savour the chilled air. When she opened them, she saw a weathered face she remembered well. The blue eyes were framed by racoon white patches left by his sunglasses.

He stared at her, from over the shoulder of a woman sitting at a desk.

‘Laurens?'

‘Sonja? Is that you?'

She nodded. He walked around the desk, took her hand and kissed her cheek. He kept hold of her hand for a few seconds. ‘My god, you were just a girl last time I saw you.'

‘I was eighteen,
Oom
Laurens.'

He laughed. ‘You don't have to call me uncle any more.'

‘Why not, you're still old enough.'

‘You always were a cheeky girl. But, yes, we're all getting old. Hey, I saw your father about a month ago. Up country, way up to hell and gone, near Linyanti. I was taking some mining people up there – at least they said they were miners.'

Laurens was Dutch, and had been in Maun for thirty years or more. He'd come, like so many young Europeans, Australians,
New Zealanders and South Africans, to accrue hours as a bush pilot and had ended up staying. He still looked as fit and handsome as she remembered him. She'd had a tiny crush on
Oom
Laurens before she and Stirling had discovered each other. ‘We're not close, Laurens.'