Storms Over Africa (38 page)

‘You know that story about rhino stamping out fires?' Greg began softly, so as not to startle the animal and precipitate a charge.

‘It's not true,' Richard whispered back.

Greg was watching the rhinoceros. ‘Are you sure?' The animal appeared to him to be overly nervous.

‘It's a myth.' Richard was also watching the animal carefully. He had had rhinoceroses observing him many times. They usually stood quietly for a few minutes before melting back into the bush.

Samson jumped to his feet and, in one fluid motion, had vaulted himself into the back of the truck.

‘Some bloody myth,' Greg shouted urgently, sprinting for the truck.

The rhinoceros charged, head down, with incredible speed.

Richard made it to the truck a half second behind Greg. However, the rhinoceros ignored them, running straight at the small fire which it proceeded to destroy, using his back feet to scatter ashes and the contents of the cooking pot in a six metre radius, before thundering off into the night.

‘It's
supposed
to be a myth,' Richard said,
incredulous, when the crashing of the fleeing animal had quietened down.

‘Doesn't look like much of a myth to me,' Greg was observing the ruins of their fire.

‘It is believed they only do this thing when they think the fire is the droppings of another rhinoceros,' Samson offered shakily.

‘That'd be a bloody first,' Greg swung down from the truck. ‘A rhino who shits like a stew.'

‘He must have feet of steel,' Richard followed Greg out of the truck cautiously, getting his gun and keeping it ready in case the animal came back. ‘That fire didn't bother him at all.'

Samson stayed in the truck. ‘If it is all right with you, Gudo,' he said, ‘I will sleep here tonight.'

‘Want me to pass you your tent?' Richard asked sarcastically.

‘Yes please, Gudo.' He was no coward, and he had faced charging animals with Richard before, but the thought of sleeping on the ground with that big brute lurking in the area was too much.

Richard quickly dismantled Samson's tent and bundled it over the side of the truck. Samson settled down for the night, curling his body around boxes and tin trunks and a large barrel of water and covering himself awkwardly with the tent.

‘Sweet dreams, you old rascal.' Richard
wished he had thought of sleeping in the truck himself.

Greg was noisily kicking the scattered dying embers back into place.

‘Why don't you send the rhino an engraved invitation?' Richard asked dryly.

‘Take your pick, a rhino or a bushfire.'

‘Some bloody choice.' Richard picked up the cooking pot and shook out the remainder of the stew. He left the lid off. The ants would clean it out during the night, making the job of washing the pot easier and diverting their attention away from his tent.

Greg kicked sand over the fire. ‘That should do it.'

‘Never seen anything like it,' Richard muttered. ‘What chance does this continent have? Even the bloody animals believe what they read about themselves.'

‘Didd?'

‘What?'

‘Shaddup.'

‘Okay.'

They settled down, smoking and sipping whisky from tin mugs. ‘Better not have too much of this stuff.' Greg was pouring himself another healthy slug from the bottle.

‘Nice to see you're taking this thing seriously,' Richard grunted, watching the liquid gurgle into the mug.

‘Helps me to sleep.'

‘Yeah, right.' He thought about the rhinoceros. ‘Here, give me another shot.' He held out his mug.

A butter-yellow moon was rising and they could see quite clearly.

‘What about Steve?' Greg asked finally.

‘Dunno.' Richard didn't want to think about it.

‘Tell me to mind my own business if you like.'

‘Mind your own business.'

‘You were good together,' Greg went on remorselessly.

‘So were Samson and Delilah.'

‘Can't you get 'round it?'

Richard sighed. ‘Shit, I don't know. How do you get around something like this? It's not just her and me, it's David too. He's hurt. I have to think of him.'

‘That'd be a first.'

Not a lot of men could get away with such a comment with Richard, but he and Greg had shared too many moments around too many fires for him to take offence. ‘This is different.'

‘Don't make any hasty decisions. See how it feels when you get home.'

‘Yeah, it's all I
can
do.'

‘What about Penny?'

Richard shook his head. ‘Buggered if I know. Penny has always been wild.' He sighed again. ‘Bloody kids, Greg, bloody kids.'
‘They're hardly kids any more, old Didd.'

‘Yeah. And the problems get bigger with them. I wish Kath . . .' He let it hang in the air.

‘You still miss her, don't you?'

‘All the time. I think of her all the time. At least . . .' He stopped, realising suddenly that since he met Steve he had stopped talking to Kathy in his head, ‘Oh Christ, I don't know,' he burst out. ‘Let's drop the subject.'

They were up at first light and, after a hurried breakfast, started to track Joseph Tshuma in earnest. The man's boot had a five-diamond design on the sole and a plain heelprint. He had not followed the road, striking further north-west, and was not bothering to cover his tracks. They tracked him easily all morning. The land was flat, dotted with
kopjies
and covered with acacia and mopane trees. Richard held back in the truck with Greg and Samson going ahead on foot. Greg would leave Samson at a prearranged high point of land, going ahead a kilometre or so to another
kopjie.
He would then signal back to Samson who, in turn, would signal back to Richard. Richard would drive to where Samson had waited but Samson would have left already for the place Greg had been and Greg would have gone on another kilometre or so. In this fashion, they crossed the vast Tuli flatlands,
the noise of the truck always a good distance behind the rest.

Sitting in the cab of the truck, scanning the horizon through binoculars, was hot and boring work. The heat pressed down on Richard, as thick as a hairy blanket. He thought briefly of the lions he and Steve had seen yesterday and wished they were here now. They could terminate everyone's problem by removing Tshuma's need for fresh air. ‘There's never a bloody lion around when you need one,' he grumbled aloud, then laughed at himself.

Because Greg and Samson were travelling light they covered a surprising distance during the morning. They met up at noon. ‘How far behind him are we?' Richard stopped the truck under some trees to try and cool it down.

‘Bugger must have walked all night. Couple of clicks back his tracks were about eight hours old.'

Samson nodded. ‘He is tired. See how he scuffs his left foot.'

‘He could be asleep just ahead of us, then.' Richard was getting impatient. ‘This method of tracking him is hellishly slow,' he complained.

‘We'll dump the truck tomorrow,' Greg squinted ahead. ‘We'll be getting into rougher country by then.' He grinned and clapped Richard on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up, you'll get
your chance. I don't want to blow it now. Kobus de Klerk and his merry men have been hiding in the Matopos for nearly two years. The closest we've come to flushing them out was discovering a camp they'd left almost a month earlier. He keeps moving his men. This may be our one and only chance at him.'

‘Are we going in alone?'

Greg patted his pocket. ‘No way. I have a two-way.'

‘That's a comfort. Hope it can shoot.' Then, when he saw Greg was serious. ‘What's your range?'

‘Son, I could talk to the Prime Minister of Australia if I wanted to.'

‘Bullshit!'

‘Damned close though.' He patted his pocket again. ‘This little baby was designed in Pretoria.'

Richard folded his arms. ‘That's supposed to make me feel good?'

Greg laughed. ‘It should. This represents a major breakthrough in this kind of communication. It's linked to an airborne synthetic aperture radar system. It works on microwave energy, it has a built-in scrambler, digitised voice decoder and a laser-guided tracking device.' He laughed again, delighted by the blank look on Richard's face. ‘Let's just say the features are many and varied.'

‘Like?'

‘It has us pinpointed. Harare know exactly where we are right now to within one metre.'

Richard whistled. ‘Could have done with some of these during the war. Let's have a look.'

Greg unbuttoned his pocket and handed him what looked like a perfectly ordinary transistor radio.

‘You're joking!' Richard turned it over in his hands. ‘This is it?'

Greg nodded.

‘Doesn't look like much,' he grunted. ‘What if we get caught? They'll take it off you.'

‘Possibly.' Greg sounded unconcerned.

‘They'll figure out what it is.'

‘More than likely.'

‘They'll turn it off,' Richard said, exasperated.

Greg smiled. It was a crocodile kind of smile. ‘They can try.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Once it's activated it's impossible to turn off.'

‘What if they smash it?'

‘They can't. It's smash-proof.'

Richard raised the two-way over his head. ‘Can I put it to the test?'

‘If you like.'

He lowered his hand. ‘You're serious. You can't smash it.'

‘What I've been trying to tell you.'

Richard handed it back. ‘And it's sending out our position now?'

‘As we speak.'

‘Can't these signals be picked up by others?'

‘Nope. This technology is brand-new. You're looking at one of two prototypes.'

‘The other one of which . . .'

‘. . . is in Harare,' Greg finished.

Richard knew Greg well. ‘You bastard. You're hoping we'll be picked up, aren't you?'

‘Would save us a lot of trouble.'

‘Yeah, and might get us killed.'

‘You in?'

‘You have to ask?' He turned to Samson. ‘Did you understand?' he asked in Shona.

Samson replied in English because the little black box containing magic was outside his experience. ‘I think so, Gudo. You want the bad men to find us so this little black box will tell everyone where we are.' He sounded doubtful and scratched himself vigorously. ‘But I am thinking, what good is this little black box if we are dead?'

‘No good to us, my father, but very good for the people of Zimbabwe.'

Now he understood. He replied in Shona. ‘It is always so. The old lion dies and the young lion takes the pride. We are like the old lion and, if we have to die, our sons will carry on.'

Richard did not want this grand old man to die. He knew if they were captured Samson would provide some great sport for the Matabele members of UZIP. He realised, however,
that Samson had accepted the possibility of his death with a fatalistic and dignified pronouncement of what was right. To stop him coming with them would be an insult. ‘I am glad you are with me, my father. May good fortune smile on us so that we do not have to die.' He slapped Samson's shoulder. ‘You and I have many sons left in us.'

Samson laughed. ‘Eeeeiii, I have proven my ability to have sons but I am thinking that your manhood has shrivelled. I have twelve sons, you have one. One son is not enough for old age. I am thinking that your manhood hangs like an old woman's dugs. Your manhood is like the ears of a lion cub. Your manhood—' he was warming to the enjoyable task of insulting Richard, a perfectly acceptable pastime in African friendships. The worse the insult, the more you liked the person you were insulting, although, if misused, the practice was likely to bring instant retribution. Richard never adopted the habit, not understanding the fine line between friendly disparagement and asking for a clip over the ear.

‘My manhood stands like the great Zimbabwe Monument,
shamwari
,' he retorted crisply. Samson fell on the ground clutching his stomach and howling with laughter.

Greg was laughing too. ‘I will cut off both your manhoods if you don't shut up,' he said.
‘You're making enough noise to wake up Cecil Rhodes.'

The reference to the dead had the desired effect on Samson, who would have gone on and on with no thought to the noise he was making. However, his respect for the spirit world was steeped in superstitious fear and so, with a final chuckle, he stood up, dusting himself off.

They went to study Tshuma's footprints. ‘I think this man cannot walk much more today. He is very tired now.' Samson had squatted down and was reading the ground effortlessly.

Greg bent over the spoor. ‘He's unfit,' he agreed. ‘He's carrying a heavy pack and the temperature must be in the mid-thirties.'

‘You mean he hasn't stopped to rest?' Richard squatted next to the others.

‘He rested back there.' Samson waved his hand back the way they had come.

‘Christ! We might have stumbled over him.'

Samson shook his head. ‘He has finished sleeping.' He pointed to the ground. ‘He is maybe an hour ahead of us.' He was watching an ant-lion busily repairing his nest. The diamond shapes of Joseph Tshuma's shoe showed clearly and squarely on the entrance. Ant-lions, small spider-like beetles, bury themselves, leaving a well of sloping sand on top of the ground so that unwary ants slide down the well and into the nest. Any disturbance to the
nest is met by frantic digging and scraping and pushing unwanted sand outwards until the well is again to their liking.

They ate cold tins of spaghetti, washed down with warm water. Then, sucking on oranges, Greg and Samson left Richard with the truck to continue their relay-style tracking.

In this manner they remained an hour behind Tshuma until they called a halt at 6 in the evening. They reasoned that, even if Tshuma walked all night—which was unlikely given his condition—there was still plenty of time to catch up with him before he reached the Matopos.