The Delta

1-4

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 i***t!’

‘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.’

The citizen nodded dumbly; the sight of the helicopter in the middle of the road and uniformed men silenced any protest. Sibanda got in, rammed the gearstick into first and sped off. As he crashed through the gears and floored the accelerator, the best he could manage from the worn-out diesel engine was seventy-five.

The tourists were still in shock as their guide and driver, Mike Williams, pulled up at the customs and immigration office at Kazungula. He climbed down from the cab of the overland truck and shook his head. ‘I’m getting too old for this shit.’ He took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘Passports everyone. Now!’

It was odd, he thought, how easily he slipped back into army officer mode when he needed to. Someone had let off a grenade in front of them and a Zimbabwean air force helicopter had very nearly crashed on top of them. He’d thought he’d had his fill of danger on the road. Outstretched hands passed him the group’s travel documents. They seemed as keen as he to put Zimbabwe in the rear-view mirror.

‘Kanjane shamwari,’ Mike said to the immigration man, whom he knew by sight. He shook hands with the man and passed the stack of passports under the barred grille.

‘Kanjane. You are in a hurry today?’

Mike coughed. ‘First beer’s waiting for me at the safari lodge.’

The man smiled and began checking, then thumping each passport with his stamp. ‘Have a safe journey.’

‘I sincerely hope so, mate.’

On the Botswana side of the border-crossing the customs and immigration people made each of the passengers present themself so their passports could be checked. The group of Australians all knew each other – teachers, parents and senior students from a school in Coffs Harbour – and he’d taken them all the way to Kawalazi in Malawi, to visit a school they were sponsoring. Mike ran a hand through his close-cropped grey hair, then lit a cigarette while he waited outside at the back of the truck. The last of the teachers filed out and Mike ground out his smoke before he was halfway through. On the ground behind the vehicle he saw fresh wet spots. He made a mental note to check for oil leaks when they stopped, but the truck’s dodgy gearbox was the least of his concerns at the moment. ‘Right! Let’s make tracks.’

‘Stop!’

Mike turned. An African man in army uniform was ducking under the red and white striped boom gate on the Zimbabwean side of the short stretch of no-man’s-land – no more than a hundred metres – between the two border posts. A few of the teachers were gathered in a knot by the truck, watching the man.

‘Maggie, Lisa, Claudia … get on the truck, quick.’ The three women started to board.

‘What does that man want with …’ began another.

‘Don’t worry about him – get on board the bloody truck. Now!’

Mike started the engine as the last two teachers were hauling on the chain to raise the steps. He was moving before the door closed and a girl shrieked from the rear cab as she lost her balance and fell against another student in the aisle between the seats.

He heard shots fired and saw, in his wing mirror, the Botswana customs and immigration people running from their office, then doubling back inside. He didn’t know bureaucrats could move that fast. A Botswana Defence Force soldier in camouflage fatigues was pulling on the zipper of his trousers as he stumbled from the blue-painted toilet block behind the border post.

Mike changed up to second gear as he rounded a bend and gratefully put the diplomatic fracas going on behind him out of sight. The big truck lurched and slowed as he worked the gearstick, which gave Sonja Kurtz the chance she’d been praying for, to let go of the chassis and drop to the hot tar of the road. When the vehicle passed over her she rolled into the white powdery sand on the roadside, got up, brushed herself off, then fainted.