The Delta (3 page)

Sonja slung her rifle across her chest, cleared the branches away, climbed on the motorcycle and kick-started it to life. Releasing the clutch she powered off through the grass, savouring the feel of the breeze and turning her mind to the situation at hand. At the same time she kept a wary eye out for ant-bear holes and other hazards in front of her.

The Zimbabwean Air Force, to the best of her recollection, had only two serviceable Hind helicopter gunships, of which just one was regularly in service. Both were based in Harare, on the air base that adjoined the international airport. With the country plagued by critical shortages of petrol, diesel and aviation fuel, nothing drove or flew without a very good reason these days. She had been told during her briefing on the country that the air force's ageing MiG 21 fighter jets were grounded as there was not enough fuel for them to fly from Thornhill Air Base at Gweru in the centre of the country to Beitbridge on the South African border and back again. How had this helicopter miraculously appeared, then, just minutes after her attack on the convoy?

The president was not in any of the three armoured saloon cars, of that she was sure. The fact that the military escort
ignored the limousines, and that only the drivers had run from each car, confirmed her theory. The men in that convoy – or at least those doing the driving – knew they were decoys, even if they suspected the president was sitting in one of the other cars. Each had acted to save himself, with no thought for any passengers. It was she who had been ambushed that day, not the president.

Sonja crested a hill, both wheels airborne for a second. She pulled on the brakes once she was halfway down the reverse slope and stopped next to a mound of grey earth that rose to a peak nearly twice her height. It was a termite mound and, judging by the hole in its side, a disused one. Animals such as cheetah, hyena and ant-bears made their homes in abandoned termite mounds. She dismounted and put the bike on its stand. Without stopping to see if anything was living inside, Sonja unslung the Javelin from her back and tossed it inside the natural cavern. Too bad, she thought, if the Zimbabwean police or army discovered the launcher now. If her suspicions were right, they probably knew all about her and her weaponry already. She walked back up the hill, stooping as she approached the brow, then dropped to her knees and crawled through the grass.

She took the binoculars from the pouch in her vest and scanned the horizon. The twin pyres that marked the graves of the Land Rover and helicopter seemed a long way off, but Sonja knew the gap could be closed in seconds if her pursuers had access to another helicopter.

‘Think,' she ordered herself.

Exfiltration from this godforsaken country was always going to be the hardest part of the mission. Even if all had gone according to plan, the assassination of a president was news that spread fast. Borders would be sealed in hours, if not minutes, and all westerners – even women – would come in for extra attention
from the police, army, and customs and immigration officials.

Being female was an advantage, and clearly part of Martin Steele's reason for choosing her for this mission. A lone western man might attract the attention of police, but she had passed through several roadblocks in Zimbabwe, easily playing the part of a German nurse. Only once did she have to show her forged letter of introduction from a German development fund.

Sonja pulled the satellite phone from a pouch on her combat vest. She dialled Martin's number. He would be waiting at Francistown Airport, in Botswana, a few hundred kilometres from where she was crouching in the grass.

‘Sorted?' he asked.

‘No. It's turned to shit here. We've been compromised. There was no package and there was a surprise waiting for me.'

‘A surprise?'

‘A fucking Hind gunship.'

‘Oh.'

‘Oh, indeed.'

‘Where are you? Should I come get you?'

The grass airstrip, their prearranged meeting place, was on an abandoned farm, about fifty kilometres from where she was, as the crow flew. She could be there in less than an hour, even if she drove cross-country, rather than on the secondary road that linked the property to the main Bulawayo Road. Every fibre of her being wanted to say ‘yes, please come get me'. She looked down at her left hand. It was shaking, as the adrenaline began to subside.

‘No. Does your contact know about the pick-up location?'

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

‘Shit,' she said. ‘Then that does it. I'll come by road.'

‘Which crossing ?'

Sonja thought for a moment. ‘Not over the phone. I'll call you when I get there. Got to run.'

She put the phone away and lifted the bike's seat. From the cavity made for a helmet she extracted a rolled-up nylon hiking rucksack. She slid her M4 into the pack and put it on her back. Also in the helmet well were two more hand grenades, which she put in pouches in her vest.

Sonja lowered the seat, got back on and kicked the bike into life again. She revved the throttle hard and rode down the hill, around its base and onto the main road. Speed was of the essence now.

The wind whipped her ponytail behind her as she rode. She watched the speedometer needle climb to a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour. It was good to be moving again. Outside of Victoria Falls was a police checkpoint and veterinary control post. If someone asked to look in her backpack there would be blood spilled. Her vest resembled a photographer's and she was counting on the novelty of being a white woman on a motorcycle being enough for her to distract the police on duty.

‘Where are you going?' the male constable asked her when she pulled up.

‘The Falls. It's hot today, isn't it?'

‘Ah, yes, it is very hot.'

‘You are from South Africa?' he asked her.

‘I am from Germany.'

‘Ah, that is very far. What have you brought me from Germany?' He craned his head theatrically to look at her backpack.

‘Goodwill and a sunny disposition.'

The policeman laughed and waved her through. She had been afraid the roadblock would have been alerted of the event happening not eighty kilometres distant, but this was Zimbabwe and few things worked here, least of all communications.

She raced past the Zambezi Lager billboard welcoming her to Victoria Falls, and turned left before entering the tourist town,
following the sign to the border post with Botswana at Kazungula. This distance was about seventy kilometres – most of it through the Zambezi National Park, which ran along the river of the same name, upstream from the magnificent waterfalls. There was little traffic on the road and she overtook only a solitary overland tour truck, a converted lorry full of backpackers. The tour vehicles tended to avoid Zimbabwe these days, because of food and fuel shortages, but there were enough attractions in the country still to tempt the odd group of hardier tourists. The view of the Falls was better from the Zimbabwean side than across the chasm from the Zambian side.

She rode hard, not even slowing to watch a bull elephant feeding by the side of the road. A sign said
Kazungula twenty kilometres
. Sonja dared to hope. She looked over her shoulder at the disappearing blue blob of the truck. The sky seemed clear.

Ahead, the midday sun was sucking waves of heat haze from the black tar as she approached the crest of a hill. As she approached the peak she saw a dark shape shimmering through the curtain of hot air. Instinctively she pulled on the brakes, slowing her speed to eighty. She didn't want a head-on with a truck passing a slower vehicle.

The helicopter materialised in front of her, hovering just above the road. It was an Alouette and it had obviously been waiting for her, on the other side of the hill. How long had it been watching her?

The road was in a cutting, with steep banks on either side. It was, ironically, the same type of terrain she had chosen to ambush the convoy. Her enemy had turned her own strategy against her. Behind her was the overland truck, slowly gaining. If she turned she might bring harm into its way.

A man leaned out of the open cargo hatch and Sonja gunned the throttle as she saw an AK-47 barrel.

Rounds ricocheted and slapped into the tarmac on either side of her as she drove straight at the hovering helicopter. She couldn't reach the M4 in her pack and her nine millimetre Glock 17 pistol was stuffed inside her vest. While keeping her right hand on the throttle, she unfastened one of her vest pouches and pulled out a grenade. Lifting it to her mouth she pulled out the pin with her teeth. It was a lot harder than it looked on the old war movies, especially when riding a bike. She spat the pin out; Lee Marvin, eat your heart out. The Alouette descended and it looked like the pilot was going to land on the road.

Sonja relaxed her grip on the grenade and rolled it in her palm, allowing the spring-loaded safety lever to fly clear. She had somewhere between five and seven seconds before it detonated, but she kept it in her hand. As the helicopter came down it turned broadside on, to make a better roadblock and to give the uniformed gunner in the back a clearer shot at her. He opened fire again and Sonja veered off the road. The motorcycle tipped and went into a skid in the dirt. She came off and slid through the gravel, following close behind the bike. Above and beyond the scraping of her skin on the unforgiving ground she felt the burning lance and jarring smack of a bullet hitting her right thigh.

The pilot turned the machine to get a better view.

Sonja came to rest near the bike, her khaki trousers and long-sleeved shirt torn and blood pumping from her leg. She released the fingers of her left hand, as unobtrusively as she could, and flicked the grenade away from her. As she did so she rolled through the dirt until she was pressed hard up against the motorcycle.

‘What's that?' the pilot yelled into his intercom.

‘Grenade!' Sibanda pulled the trigger on the AK, emptying his magazine into the motorcycle as the pilot hauled on his controls and fought to bring the Alouette back up into the sky.

The orb exploded and the machine rocked and bucked.

‘Put her down! Land this bloody thing!' Sibanda ordered.

‘No way.'

The pilot had been diverted from the president's flight to collect Sibanda, but he lacked the aggression and bravery of the deceased gunship captain. The young man had initially refused to land on the road for ‘safety reasons' until Sibanda had waved the barrel of his AK-47 in the man's general direction. He would see the pilot court-martialled after this was all over.

It was too high for him to jump to the road and he thumped the hatch frame in frustration. ‘Do as I tell you!' he barked into the intercom.

‘Major, I am in control of this aircraft,' the pilot said back. ‘We have taken shrapnel damage and there is now a civilian vehicle on the road below. I am not going to land.'

‘Then come around, damn you. I want to see if she is still alive.'

The pilot flew straight and level for a few more seconds, away from the scene of the explosion, ostensibly studying his instruments and experimenting with the controls to satisfy himself there was no serious damage. Sibanda knew the protocols were a mask for cowardice. ‘Now, lieutenant!'

The pilot looked back at the rifle pointed at him and pushed the stick over. Sibanda tossed the empty AK-47 on the floor of the helicopter. He had neglected to take a spare magazine from the dead soldier's body by the
bakkie
. He still had his Tokarev, though, and he drew the pistol. It was a fitting weapon to administer the
coup de grâce
. He leaned out of the hatch as the pilot cautiously circled the crashed motorcycle.

Below them, a big blue tour truck headed for the border. Sibanda had seen it slow, but the driver was wisely continuing on past the cycle.

‘Where is she?' Sibanda asked out loud. He could see the fallen trail bike, but no sign of the woman.

‘She?' said the pilot.

Sibanda ignored the question. ‘Follow that truck. She must have jumped on board somehow. Can you radio the border post at Kazungula?'

‘I'll try.' The pilot fiddled with a knob and spoke into his headset microphone. ‘Ah, it is not working, Major.'

Sibanda wanted to shoot the man, but as he didn't know how to fly, that wasn't an option. ‘Fly me to the border, now, you idiot!'

‘Sir.'

They circled the site of the crashed motorbike once more, but there was no sign of the assassin. The pilot lowered the nose and proceeded along the black ribbon of tar that sliced through the dry mopane bushveld of the national park. A herd of a dozen kudu took fright at their low passage and bolted across the road, their white tails curled protectively over their rumps as they jumped high to avoid the unseen threat.

The Alouette started vibrating, the tremor growing in a matter of seconds from a hum to a shudder. ‘What's that?' Sibanda asked.

‘Oil pressure is dropping.' The pilot tapped a gauge. ‘I'm putting her down before the engine seizes.'

‘Mother of God!'

Sibanda was out of the aircraft as the wheels touched the ground. If he didn't get away from that bloody pilot he would kill him, and he was in enough trouble already this day. His dreams of glory were turning into a waking nightmare. There would be no promotion, no more land, no spot on the politburo, and no money if this woman got away and exposed them. To make matters worse, he had deliberately not informed the police or border authorities of the bogus assassination plot. A vehicle was coming towards them, an ageing red
bakkie
with a trailing cloud
of black diesel smoke. As the vehicle approached Sibanda walked into the middle of the road and drew his pistol.

The driver was wide-eyed as Sibanda barked, ‘Get out!'

Speechless with fear, the thin man in blue workman's overalls did as ordered. Sibanda saw the four empty two-hundred-litre drums in the back. The man was on a fuel run to Botswana to bring back diesel or petrol for the black market. ‘I am commandeering this vehicle.'