The Pride, page 10
She was a few kilometres from Zimbabwe’s unfenced border with Botswana, in the Matetsi Safari Area. Looking through the telescopic sight atop the Barrett .50-calibre anti-materiel rifle, she watched the dirt road from the Pandamatenga border post.
She lay on a carpet of red-gold mopane leaves, which had fallen during the long, dry, sunny winter months. Through her scope she watched an elephant feeding by the roadside.
The rifle had been an unlikely, but lucky, find. Its owner, Johnsy, was an old soldier she had served with as a private military contractor in Afghanistan. Needing somewhere to stay in Victoria Falls after finishing with Platt, she had called him.
‘Sonja, howzit!’ Johnsy had bellowed into his phone when he answered the call. In the background she could hear ancient music, Engelbert Humperdinck, blaring. Clearly, she hadn’t woken him. ‘Lekker to hear from you, my girl, where the flip are you?’
‘Vic Falls.’
‘All right. Party. My place, now.’
She’d followed his directions, moving through the night, skirting the main street and the extra two police Land Rovers that had appeared after she left Platt.
Johnsy was wearing a pair of too-short denim shorts, sandals and a Springboks T-shirt. The rugby had been on that night, she recalled. He had a cigarette in one hand and a bomber, a 750-millilitre bottle, of Lion Lager in the other. ‘Give me a kiss, my girl.’
She navigated away from a mouth-to-mouth kiss and allowed him to hug her. ‘Hello, Johnsy,’ she said.
‘Come in, come in. Klippies and Coke Zero, right?’
‘Sure,’ she’d said.
The sixties music was blaring from an LP on the turntable of a radiogram in a wooden cabinet. ‘Vintage,’ Johnsy said as he turned the volume down to a bearable level, ‘like me, babe. Sheesh but it’s mushi to see you, my g–’
‘Call me “my girl” again, Johnsy, and I’ll shoot your balls off.’ She lifted her blouse a little to show him the pistol grip of the Makarov in her belt.
‘Yeah, baby.’ He lifted the bottle to his lips, swigged, then burped. ‘Pistol-packin’ momma, that’s my . . . Sonja.’
Johnsy’s whole house was mid-twentieth-century vintage, though Sonja suspected that rather than being a collector he’d never moved out nor seen the need to update the home he’d had since he served as a horseman in the Rhodesian Army’s mounted infantry unit, Grey’s Scouts. The scouts had patrolled the border with Zambia and Botswana during the Bush War, which later became known as Zimbabwe’s war of liberation, and took part in incursions in Mozambique. Sonja glanced around the living room. On the nicotine-stained walls were pictures of young men in uniform, and their horses.
‘How have you been?’ she asked.
He’d shrugged, suddenly more sober and sombre. ‘All right, I suppose. Not many wars these days.’ He sounded regretful. ‘I got on one of the last C-17s out of Afghanistan.’
‘Ja.’ The gravy train for contractors had ground to a halt with America’s decision to pull out the last of its combat troops in Afghanistan and Iraq.
‘Some action brewing in Mozambique,’ he said, hopefully. ‘I’m heading there in a few days’ time. Those Islamic State gooks are tearing up the north of the country, cutting off heads and stopping fuel and gas production. You should come, join the party. It’ll be a jol, just like old times, hey?’
‘I’m getting sick of being asked,’ Sonja said.
‘Sure. What do you need, Sonja? Somewhere to stay? I heard you were hooked up with that old 32 Battalion Yankee, Hudson Brand, down at Nantwich.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Trouble in paradise?’
‘At ease, soldier,’ she said. ‘All is good between me and him. I’m stuck here in town tonight . . . on business. So, I wouldn’t say no to a bed. Oh, and I need a weapon.’
He nodded to her belt. ‘Seems like you’re already partnered up.’
‘I mean a proper gun, Johnsy.’
‘Lekker.’
He’d led her outside, to the garage in his backyard. Inside, behind the flaking paint and rusty hinges of the battered wooden swing doors, was a new, purpose-built concrete strongroom. Johnsy used his body to shield a combination lock in a stout steel safe door from view and spun it until the lock released.
‘Come into my parlour.’ He grinned, reached inside and pulled on a light switch cord, then stepped aside.
Inside, in hand-crafted wooden racks lining the walls, was a collection of modern military weaponry which would have done an armaments museum proud.
‘Mauser K98, .303, AK-47s, RPD machine gun, FNs.’
She’d been tempted to pick one or two up, but didn’t fancy her fingerprints ending up at some future crime scene. The vault smelled of gun oil and tobacco. ‘Where did you get all this shit, Johnsy?’
‘Some of it’s stuff I souvenired during the Bush War, also from Angola.’
Sonja had stopped at the end of one of the racks. There, like a giant exclamation mark at the end of this death sentence, was the granddaddy of all rifles, the Barrett. ‘How the fuck did you get this into Zimbabwe?’
Johnsy had grinned. ‘You know how to eat an elephant?’
She shook her head at the old joke.
He winked at her. ‘One piece at a time. In my kitbag, every time I came home from the Middle East. I bought it off an Afghan Ktah Khas special forces dude. Hardest thing was getting the barrel back – I put it in a set of golf clubs I bought in Kuwait.’
Sonja picked the monster up. It weighed nearly fifteen kilograms. She brought it to her shoulder.
‘Effective range, eighteen hundred metres, but it’ll reach out to four kilometres or so,’ Johnsy said. ‘Semiautomatic, ten-round magazine, but those .50-calibre rounds are like gold here in Zimbabwe.’
‘How many rounds you got?’ Sonja asked.
‘About thirty.’
‘That should do me. I’ll take them all.’
‘Sonja, no . . .’
‘Johnsy, yes. Remember Kandahar? I saved your life in that ambush.’
He’d rubbed his nicotine-stained goatee beard. ‘True that, but if you’re caught with that thing in this country you’re going to prison and the Zimbabwe Republic Police and the Charlie 10s will beat a confession out of you. They’ll put me away for life, too, I’m telling you.’
She lowered the massive rifle. Sonja had tangled with the CIO – Zimbabwe’s Central Intelligence Organisation, also known as ‘Charlie 10’ – in the past and thought she could evade them easily enough. ‘Why do you even have this cannon?’
Johnsy had shrugged. ‘Because it’s there?’
‘Borrow me this thing, Johnsy. How much?’
‘I can’t –’
‘You said it yourself,’ she’d pushed, ‘there’s no work for the likes of us any more. I’ve got cash.’
‘You’re not going to shoot any humans with this, are you?’ Johnsy had asked.
‘It’s an anti-materiel rifle, Johnsy. I’m going to shoot the shit out of stuff, not people.’
‘Ja, but you and me both know it’s one of the best sniper rifles in the world. There were Yanks slotting terrs at two kilometres-plus in Afghanistan and Iraq.’ His eyes suddenly widened in a moment of apparent horror. ‘Hell, you’re not going to shoot an elephant with it, are you?’
She smiled. ‘No, you big softy. No animals, no people. I’ve just got a little long-range payback in mind.’
‘I heard Brand got arrested and has been charged with poaching.’
‘That was quick-moving news,’ she said, pulling back the rifle’s cocking handle to look inside the breech. The action was smooth; the weapon was clean and lightly oiled, no rust.
‘Small town,’ Johnsy had scoffed. ‘I also heard Al Platt caught Brand red-handed in the bush, near the carcass of the dead elephant.’
‘You believe Hudson Brand is an elephant poacher?’ Sonja looked at him over the rifle.
Johnsy laughed. ‘No. That Yankee’s greener than the army, babe. He’s a bloody tree hugger; he wouldn’t kill a mosquito. I’d say his big mouth, complaining about the mining exploration and the Chinese and causing a big Hondo – a war to you – has probably got him in too much kak. He’s a big broad-shouldered target and he’s not afraid to speak his mind on social media. That can be dangerous in a country like this. Also, Platt’s got it in for him.’
‘Well, trust me, Platt won’t be testifying against Brand, Johnsy,’ Sonja said.
Johnsy had said nothing to that, just looked her in the eye and given a small nod.
Now, up on the hill, Sonja let the tiny mopane flies have free rein on her face. Moving a hand could give away her position.
Johnsy had dropped her five kilometres to the east of her current position and then carried on. He’d never lost his interest in horses, and worked part-time at horseriding safari operations at Victoria Falls and for a lodge offering riding just outside Hwange National Park’s Main Camp, about a hundred and fifty kilometres southeast of where she was now. Johnsy was towing a horse float, transporting a horse from the Falls to the lodge.
The walk in was not long, but burdened with the Barrett rifle, ammunition, water and some rations she’d prepared for herself, she was reminded of every ache and pain and old injury she was also carrying. She could feel, even lying down, that her knee had swollen again.
She hated getting old.
Sonja knew she could have done better, by Emma and by Hudson, and probably by Sam, her late husband. She’d made some bad decisions in her life, including one she’d tried to bury for many years, but which for some reason had come bubbling up again at Silver Sands. The one thing that did continue to give her purpose was protecting those she loved, and being here was a way of doing that.
Before her, stretching away on either side of the road, was a wide-open vlei. The floodplain was dotted here and there with pools and rivulets of water that glittered in the sun’s rays. In the distance was a herd of sable antelope, little more than a grouping of black spots to the naked eye, classed as rare across Africa but plentiful in this part of the continent. She wondered if they were the same herd that sometimes visited Nantwich Lodge.
Closer, a warthog dragged his bottom blissfully through some mud, scratching and cooling himself at the same time. Off to her right a herd of waterbuck, dark grey with white ‘toilet seat’ markings on their rumps, grazed on the grass. Here, as opposed to the dry country either side of the lowland, the grass was bright emerald against the dull browns stretching to the horizon.
She heard the far-off hum of an engine, the grinding of an ageing gearbox. Peering through the scope she saw the truck come around the bend. On the side, as it came into view, was the logo of the travel company that Platt had mentioned to her.
Sonja checked the range and shifted her gaze to an ilala palm tree, checking its fronds for any wind movement. There was none. She focused on the vehicle again. She had chosen this particular rise as it allowed her to look more or less straight down the road, giving her a clear shot at the front of the truck without having to aim off to allow for the vehicle’s movement.
She focused the crosshairs on the centre of the vehicle’s radiator and took up the slack on the trigger. She inhaled, released half a breath, and squeezed. The giant rifle bucked into her shoulder, but she was leaning into it, expecting the recoil.
The crack of the shot rolled across the plain, sending antelope and the startled warthog fleeing for their lives. As residents of a hunting area, they knew that sound all too well. A jet of steam erupted from the front of the truck and the panicked driver slewed from side to side. Sonja shifted her aim and, as the driver turned the wheel in order to pull over, she squeezed again, sending a copper-jacketed projectile into the fuel tank this time.
Sonja got up, leaving the Barrett resting on its bipod – speed was of the essence now and the heavy weapon would slow her down. She ran, her right knee protesting at every jarring downhill step. She dodged mopane trees, shredded to splintered bushes by elephants, and jumped over the larger rocks. She drew the Makarov pistol as she ran.
The driver of the truck climbed down out of the cab and took a quick look at the hole in his external fuel tank. Diesel was gushing out of it and splattering on the dusty road below. Realising that this was no accident, and no doubt having heard the slug hitting the tank, if not the radiator, the driver simply turned tail and ran down the road in the direction he’d just come from, towards the Botswana border. Sonja knew this was lion country, and although the driver was probably aware of that too, he must have figured that he was better off running from a gunfight than worrying about the old African adage of not running from natural predators. Sonja hoped, for his sake, there were no big cats lurking in the shade of the trees fringing the floodplain.
Sonja slowed, pistol raised on the off-chance there was a braver co-driver lurking somewhere. The vehicle, however, was empty when she arrived. She looked in the front. In a folder she found the vehicle registration document. The truck was owned by Giraffe Holdings Private Limited.
She clambered into the back, where the tourists would normally sit, two to each side of the passenger compartment. There was no cargo immediately visible, but when she lifted a rubber mat running down the centre aisle between the pairs of seats, she found a latched, hinged hatch. She opened the door to the hidden compartment; inside were a dozen cardboard boxes, and when she ripped one open she found plastic packets full of dried abalone. The little sea creatures had shrivelled up in death. Sonja shook her head. Fixed to the rear of the truck were two jerry cans. She popped the lid on one and found it was filled with spare diesel fuel.
Sonja took a moment to consider reporting the crime to the Zimbabwean police. She shook her head – Wu was well connected and as it was not illegal to export abalone from the country. She couldn’t help but think this valuable consignment would not spend long in an evidence lock-up, if she reported it. As much as she hated the idea of wasting food, she was here to send a message. She took a can from its cradle, climbed into the rear of the truck again and emptied the contents over the boxes.
Sonja had chosen the site of her ambush with care. This was a low-lying area and even though it was the end of the dry season, this area was green and boggy with year-round water that seeped up from underground. A fire would not catch and spread here. She used her cigarette lighter – she always carried one – to get the diesel going, and soon the storage boxes were alight, spewing foul chemical smoke. Even if the vehicle didn’t burn down to its axles, the cargo would be ruined and the message sent.
Sonja backed away from the radiant heat of the growing blaze in the back of the truck. Then, over the crackle of the flames she heard another engine. Looking towards Botswana she saw a white Land Rover appear. Quickly raising the binoculars she’d borrowed from Johnsy to her eyes, she saw the blue and gold stripes on the bonnet and roof that marked it as a police vehicle.
‘Shit.’
She ran, but stumbled in the marshy ground by the road as her weak knee gave out. She yelped in a moment of pain. The police driver put on his siren and lights and accelerated.
Sonja hauled herself to her feet again and set off. She cursed herself for being rash. She could have just left the vehicle stranded, or waited a little longer to make sure the coast was clear. The cops were bearing down on her and it was uphill all the way to the rifle.
She did not want to get into a gun battle with the police, but nor did she want them to find the Barrett. It would have been easy for them to deduce where she had fired from, and to follow her clear-as-day trail down the hill. Sonja couldn’t tell if she was getting lazy or crazy in her advancing years.
She figured, also, that even the hardy Land Rover would make slow work of the swamp and then the loose rocky surface of the knoll. She stumbled again as she ran on.
Bloody knee. She picked her way as carefully as speed would allow, avoiding rocks the size of softballs; if she stood on one of them that would be the end of an ankle in a split second.
The police driver was abreast of the burning truck now, swerving to avoid the smoke and flames. He turned off the road. As she had hoped, the vehicle was slowed to walking pace by the muddy ground as soon as it left the raised embankment of the sometimes-graded dirt and gravel road.
The doors opened and two officers got out. Younger than her, they made easy work of the marshy ground, their boots sending up geysers of mud as they ran. One carried an AK-47; the other drew a pistol as he moved. They wore the dark blue fatigue trousers and lighter shirts of the Zimbabwe Republic Police and old-style brown leather boots with buckle-up gaiters. Sonja could see there was another man in the Land Rover, besides the officer still at the wheel; she imagined it was the truck driver. Unluckily for her the police must have been on a regular patrol or responding to a call-out when they came across the trucker fleeing on foot down the road.
‘Hey, stop! Police!’ one of the officers called.
Sonja was breathing heavily, trying to ignore the spreading pain in her knee as she focused on putting one foot in front of the other. She decided not to turn and fire on the police – she had no beef with them and could only imagine her fate if she shot one of them. She could, she imagined, be shot on sight as it was, being armed and fleeing from them after setting a truck alight in a wildlife area.
Glancing back, Sonja could see that the men were clearly gaining on her. She pushed on, the crest of the low hill in front of her. She heard the Land Rover’s engine rev hard as the driver coaxed the four-wheel drive out of the bog. It would be bouncing through the mud now – the muddy layer was not too deep – and trundling up the hill after her any minute.
Sonja felt the slope start to ease and tried to think of a way out of this mess. This was not like her. She’d been foolish, impetuous, blinded by her desire to seek revenge for Hudson, just as she’d gone after the boy at Silver Sands. This was the work of a madwoman, not a trained professional soldier. She felt rage building inside her, not at the men following her, or those who had wronged the people she loved, but at her own stupid self and her failing body.
