Zambezi (42 page)

‘One more picture, please, Mr President.’

Both men smiled. It was a closed photo opportunity. The pictures were being taken by a Government-paid photographer and, by mutual agreement, would not be released to the local press for a couple of days in order to give the high-profile American time to reach his hunting destination unmolested by the media. The name of the lodge, and the real purpose of his visit, would also be withheld. The press release would say the American dignitary was ‘taking time to enjoy Zambia’s unique wildlife’. It wouldn’t fool the American media, he realised as he held the handshake and smile. The US press knew he was a sports hunter, and while Pentagon correspondents couldn’t have given two hoots about his chosen sport – some of them hunted themselves – he knew the Washington press gallery and animal rights groups would be incensed. Sooner or later he would have to face a barrage of questions about the ethics of hunting. But, for now, the hell with them. He was here to enjoy himself.

‘I wish you good luck and safety on your hunt, General,’ the Zambian head of state said.

‘It was good to meet you, sir, and I wish you and your country well with the outstanding economic and developmental initiatives you’re working on.’

‘We have a long way to go, but we are getting there,’ the African leader said.

The general smiled and nodded. Things appeared to be looking up for the poverty-stricken country.

Tourism in Zambia was moving ahead in leaps and bounds and the Europeans were pouring aid money into rebuilding the country’s road and rail network.

That was the funny thing about Africa, Calvert mused. Yesterday’s political and economic basket case was today’s powerhouse – and vice versa. Mozambique had been plagued for years by civil war, with warring factions propped up by neighbouring countries with vested interests, but now the shattered country was back on its feet with its tourism and farming sectors booming. Zambia was the same. He would get a more detailed briefing on the situation in sub-Saharan Africa in a couple of days. A female operative would be delivering it, he had noted from his program, and he genuinely looked forward to learning more about the current state of play on the continent – but not as much as he looked forward to tomorrow’s hunt.

He waved goodbye to the President, saluted the smartly turned-out honour guard of tall African soldiers lining the driveway, and climbed into the shiny black American embassy four-by-four. The airconditioning inside was a relief from the early afternoon glare.

‘We’re moving,’ the secret service agent said into a microphone taped to his wrist.

‘That we are, Johnny, and not before time,’ Calvert said to the tall, broad-shouldered bodyguard.

With his aviator sunglasses and blond crewcut he was every bit the Hollywood stereotype of his profession.

Calvert loosened his tie and shrugged off his sports coat. ‘This is your first time in Africa, isn’t it Johnny?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Agent John Wozak said from the front seat of the SUV.

‘What do you think so far?’

‘Airports, hotels and presidential palaces all look the same, sir, but I’m looking forward to getting out into the bush.’

‘There’s nothing like it. The colours, the sounds, the smells – it gets to you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Ever hunted?’

‘Deer when I was a kid.’ John Wozak practised once a week on the pistol range and was trained to use lethal force to protect his charges. He often wondered, though, how he would feel if he had to kill a human being. The thought of killing an animal for fun just left him cold.

‘Nothing like it. God, I’m looking forward to this.’

Their aircraft, a twin-engine Piper Comanche, was waiting on a quiet apron on the edge of Lusaka Airport. An escort of two police motorcycles and a patrol car, all with flashing lights, led Calvert’s party through a private entry gate on the airport perimeter, well away from the main passenger terminal. The three policemen on duty at the gate saluted as the motorcade covered their starched uniforms, oiled weapons and spit-polished shoes in a thin layer of African dust.

‘Good morning, General, I’m Rob Westcott. I’ll be flying you this morning,’ a tall grey-haired man said as Calvert strode up to the aircraft.

Calvert extended his hand in greeting. ‘Pleased to meet you, Rob. Mind if I sit up front with you?’

Westcott shook the hand and said with a grin, ‘I wasn’t sure whether to salute or not.’

‘I’m done with saluting. Are you ex-military, Rob?’

‘Rhodesian air force. I was a pilot during our bush war. You mightn’t have heard of it.’

‘Matter of fact, I had a couple of friends from my Vietnam days who signed up to help you guys out. One of them didn’t make it back.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it. We all lost friends. It was a long, bloody fight. You were best out of it, General.’

Calvert smiled. ‘Oh, I’ve ducked my share of lead over the years. But it’s good to know I’m in the hands of a combat pilot – even if you were air force.’

‘Well, it’ll be a pleasure to have you up front, General. But, as I always used to tell the army guys, touch any of the pretty buttons and I’ll shoot you.’ The two men laughed in instant camaraderie.

‘I want to see as much of the bush as I can while I’m here, even if it’s from the air,’ Calvert said as he climbed into the aircraft and took the seat next to Westcott.

‘The best way to see it in my book, General,’ Westcott said, as he showed Calvert how to attach his safety belt.

‘Don’t like it on the ground?’

‘I was shot down by anti-aircraft fire over Mozambique in seventy-nine. Spent a day and a night eating dirt and trying not to get killed. I’ve tried to stay above the trees as much as possible ever since.’

‘You’ll be at dinner with us tonight, Rob?’

‘I’ll be staying at the lodge, yes, General. I’ve been booked to be on stand-by the whole time you’re on safari, in case …’

‘Don’t worry, Rob, I know what it’s in case of. If my staff can’t have me stay five minutes away from a hospital they at least want to know that someone can fly me to one. Please make sure you join us for the meal this evening. I’d like to hear some of your stories from the bush war, if you don’t mind telling. And stop calling me General. It’s Don, if you must, but everyone calls me Crusher.’

‘Well, Crusher, I’d be happy to swap war stories with you tonight.’

Wozak, another secret service agent, Stu Wardley, and the general’s aide, Mike Treble, took their seats in the back of the aircraft.

‘Mike, when’s that lady coming to brief me?’ Calvert asked over his shoulder as the pilot began his pre-flight checks.

‘Day after tomorrow, sir.’

‘Good, good. What do you know about her?’

‘Ex-military, degree in science with a major in zoology, respected in her academic field and a real asset according to the embassy people in Johannesburg. Oh, and they also tell me she’s a looker.’ The aide smiled.

‘Sounding better all the time,’ Calvert called over the engine noise.

‘Clear skies and very little turbulence all the way,’ Rob said as they left the grey-brown scar of Lusaka behind them. ‘It’s only a short flight, but you’ll get a good view of the Zambezi before we land.’

Calvert scoured the landscape below him, revelling in the vista of untamed expanses. ‘Do you fly down to the valley often?’ he asked the pilot through his headphones.

‘Once a month or so. I’ve been into Willy Wylde’s place quite a few times. Plenty of game down there. I usually have to buzz the strip to clear the animals off. One time there were four lion on a zebra kill in the middle of the runway. I buzzed them three times, but they weren’t moving for anyone.’

‘What did you do in the end?’

‘Landed at another strip nearby. Place is owned by an Arab chappie. Hell of a nice guy. He drove the tourists to Wylde’s place and they were treated to a close-up view of the lions.’

And that was why Calvert loved Africa. Where else in the world would an airstrip be closed because of the presence of man-eating predators?

‘That’s the Kafue River below us now,’ Rob said, dipping the wing slightly so the general could get a better view.

Calvert stared down at the dry bush flanking the river. The nose of the aircraft started to dip.

Westcott continued his commentary. ‘That’s Kanyemba Island in front of us. Zimbabwe is on our right, on the other side of the river. We’re passing over the Chiawa Game Management Area now – some tribal lands and a few farms and villages, but you’ll see fewer people and more game as we get closer to the Lower Zambezi National Park. We should start seeing some animals soon.’

Juma pointed skywards.

‘I hear them, but I can’t see them,’ Hassan whispered.

‘At ten o’clock, boss,’ Juma said, trailing his finger across the clear blue sky.

‘Got them.’ Hassan lowered the binoculars slung around his neck.

He picked up the first of the missile launchers, which he had readied for firing. He quickly checked again that the covers were off each end of the tube and the conical-shaped combined battery and gas unit was screwed in tightly under the front of the launcher.

Given the abundance of game on Willy Wylde’s well-managed ranch, Hassan assumed the pilot would overfly the airstrip to ensure it was free of game and other obstacles. Hassan’s firing position was roughly a kilometre east of the end of Willy Wylde’s landing field. He would fire at the Comanche as it passed over his head, after the pilot had made his inspection but before he began his turn to come around again. The best position for firing the surface-to-air missile was from the rear, so that the heat-seeking warhead could get an unobstructed fix on an engine’s exhaust.

Juma stood by Hassan’s side, the other missile launcher ready in his hands in case of malfunction.

They could have fired both missiles simultaneously, but Hassan was sure he could bring down the light aircraft with one. Also, he wanted to keep the second in reserve. The spare warhead would not go to waste if the day unfolded in the manner he assumed it would.

Hassan rested the long, tubular tail of the missile launcher on his shoulder. ‘Remember, don’t stand behind me when I fire, Juma.’

‘Yes, boss.’ He was not stupid. He had fired RPG 7 rocket-propelled grenade launchers during a brief stint in the Tanzanian army and knew full well not to get caught in such a weapon’s back blast.

Hassan pointed the missile towards the approaching aircraft. He thumbed the switch which energised the launcher, activating its battery and, at the same time, allowing a stream of Argon gas to cool the infrared seeker unit. With its temperature much lower than the air around it, the seeker would be better able to lock onto the inviting infra-red emissions from the approaching aircraft’s hot engine exhaust ports. He tracked the Comanche through the crude optical sights on the exterior of the tube.

Immediately, he heard the tone in his right ear which told him the missile had locked onto the aeroplane’s engines. He could have fired now, but then the pilot would have seen the missile coming towards him and might have been able to outmanoeuvre it. He resisted the urge to send the rocket on its way and run from this place. He drew a deep breath and turned to track the aircraft as it approached.

‘Looks clear below, General,’ Westcott said. ‘That’s Willy Wylde’s landing field ahead.’ The pilot pointed to a dirt airstrip carved out of the virgin bush.

‘Just a couple of vehicles on the side,’ Calvert said.

‘That’ll be Willy and his troops. They’ll probably have an honour guard and red carpet laid on for you.’

‘That I don’t need.’

‘Willy’s all right. He’ll be all nerves for the first day, but once you get him out into the bush you’ll see why he’s rated the best hunter in these parts.’

‘I’m counting on it.’

‘I’ll take her down a bit, see what we can see before I turn back for the landing,’ Westcott said into his headset microphone.

‘Buffalo!’ Crusher Calvert exclaimed, seeing a stretch of verdant flood plain peppered with black dots.

The animals started to run at the sound of the droning engines. ‘Big herd. Maybe three or four hundred.’ Rob levelled out and banked away so as not to disturb the animals overly. ‘Black death, they call them.’

‘So I understand. I’m gunning for one on this trip. A big bull.’

‘Good for you. I’d rather face down a lion than be charged by one of them. Elephant in the river, over there.’

Calvert nodded as the wide, silvery expanse of the Zambezi came into view. Four elephants – all mature bulls judging by the length of their tusks and big rounded heads – were grazing on a reedy island near the Zambian shore.

‘That’s all hunting concessions you can see across the river in Zimbabwe. Mana Pools National Park is on the opposite bank to where we’re heading. You’re much better off on this side of the river these days, General.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘Yes, you’re safe as houses over here, Crusher.’

Hassan released half of the deep breath he had drawn. He felt the adrenaline surge through his veins.

He would remember this moment for the rest of his life. The rest of his life, of course, might only be a matter of hours.

The tone was loud and strong in his ear. He aimed for the port engine. He squeezed the trigger and felt the heat on his cheek, heard the roar of the launch motor. The missile sprang from the tube.

John Wozak bumped his head on the little Perspex window at the back of the aircraft as he flashed his head back around. Something on the ground had caught his eye. He pressed his cheek against the Perspex to peer down at the stretch of riverbank they had just overflown. It had looked like a puff of dust. But now he saw a streaming tail of smoke led by a fiercely burning bright light as the missile’s motor ignited.

‘Missile!’ he screamed.

Westcott had been preparing to turn to port, to head back for his run-in to the airstrip. Someone yelled something from the rear compartment. Most likely one of the secret service types had seen his first elephant in the bush below. He looked back over his shoulder.

The agent was yelling at him and pointing out the rear window.

‘It’s a fucking missile!’ the man screamed. ‘Left-hand side!’