Chapter 22

At Newlands Estate.

All eyes in the room turned to me. I swear it felt like a spotlight had dropped from the ceiling and pinned me down — bright, hot, and unforgiving. The chatter died instantly. A wave of silence swept over the room like someone had hit mute. What struck me most wasn’t just the quiet — it was the look on their faces. Horror. Alarm. The cold realisation that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

“Let’s reconvene in the mission center,” Ash said calmly, but there was a bite of urgency in his voice. Just like that, the dining room emptied. Everyone moved quickly, purposefully, filing into the big mission control center.

I found myself wedged between Ash and Fiona, which was lucky for me — at least I had some grounding. Angie sat directly across the desk, her expression unreadable, with Mai-Loan beside her, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Everyone was waiting.

Then Roxy stood up, like a professor addressing a lecture hall full of overconfident undergrads. The glint in her eye said she knew exactly how much more she knew than the rest of us.

“Well,” she began smoothly, “let’s start with the properties of enriched uranium.”

The room locked in on her. Roxy had everyone’s attention. You could hear the hum of the monitors and nothing else.

“We’re dealing with weapons-grade uranium,” she continued, tapping on the display behind her. “If you examine the device we recovered, you’ll notice something critical. The beryllium neutron reflector is still in place — but the uranium core has been removed.”

She let that hang in the air for a moment. Classic Roxy — calm, surgical.

“The person who removed the uranium either didn’t know what the reflector was ... Or didn’t care.”

I leaned sideways toward Ash and whispered, “Roxy knows a hell of a lot about nuclear physics, doesn’t she?”

“She does,” Ash whispered back. “She has a honours degree in physics and is currently completing her master’s in nuclear physics.”

“Damn,” I muttered. “Wouldn’t have guessed.”

Before Ash could reply, Roxy cut in without even looking up. “Will you two cut it out, or leave the room. I’m not here to babysit.”

I blinked. Busted.

“Now, where was I?” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Right — the beryllium reflector ... Before I was so rudely interrupted.”

Next to me, Fiona scribbled something quickly on a notepad, nudged it over to Angie who grinned, then passed it across to me.

’If I were lecturing, I’d have kicked you and Ash out. Flunked you both. LOL!’

I chuckled, then immediately regretted it when Fiona squeezed my hand under the desk. A silent apology, maybe. Or solidarity. Or both.

Back at the front, Roxy gave us one final death glare before continuing.

“The uranium core, now in powdered form, is no longer a bomb,” she explained, pacing slowly. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. Especially if the people who took it believe they can replicate Hiroshima by spreading it over Tel Aviv — or wherever their target is.”

She raised a finger. Pointing at the screen behind her.

“Forget the mushroom cloud. No fission, no flash. You don’t need an actual explosion to cause damage. If you aerosol enough uranium — grind it into fine particles — and distribute it into the atmosphere, it becomes something else entirely.”

Roxy paused, and her voice dropped.

“When inhaled, those particles embed deep in the lungs. Alpha particles won’t penetrate your skin, but inside your tissue? They irradiate from within. It’s not instant. It’s not loud. It’s slow. Lethal. And worst of all — undetectable until it’s far too late.”

“This isn’t a dirty bomb,” she clarified, “not in the classic sense. It’s worse. It’s a long-term biological weapon. Cancer. Organ failure. Birth defects. Psychological terror. Entire areas stigmatised for generations.”

Mai-Loan folded her arms. “But can they really pull this off?”

Roxy turned to the screen again. “Let’s break it down. U-235 emits mostly alpha radiation, with limited gamma from decay products. Compared to caesium-137 or cobalt-60, it’s not ideal for an RDD — Radiological Dispersal Device.”

She clicked to a new slide.

“Even well-designed RDDs don’t kill thousands. They disrupt. They cause panic. But lethality? That requires scale. Tens of grams per person. With 56 kilograms of powdered U-235, you’re looking at 2,200 lethal doses, if conditions are ideal: high density, enclosed space, no wind.”

She looked around. “But outdoors? With wind, rain, humidity, urban dispersion? The effect drops drastically. They’ll cause contamination, yes. But they’ll also likely contaminate themselves while handling it. Friendly fire, in the worst sense.”

“So they didn’t do their maths right?” Mai-Loan asked bluntly.

“Exactly,” Roxy said. “They’re either desperate, or clueless. Maybe both. Honestly, it would’ve been more effective to detonate the damn thing. A 150-kiloton blast would be catastrophic — but clearly, they don’t have the technical know-how.”

“Thank God,” Ash muttered. “So it’s not Hiroshima 2.”

“Yeah,” Nadia chimed in. “But we still have to find them, stop them, and secure the uranium.”

I raised my hand. “So final verdict?”

Roxy nodded. “For chaos and fear? Yes. For actual, mass-scale death and military devastation? No. It’s a bluff — or a very flawed plan.”

She lowered her laser pointer and stepped back.

“Well, at least we know where to start looking,” Ash said, rubbing his chin.

Fiona looked at me, then back at Ash. “So ... Does this mean I have to cancel my trip to visit my parents?”

“Nope,” TC said from the far end. “You and Roy go on vacation. Leave the mess to me, the Rangers, and the Angels.”

“But I wanted to go with them!” Nadia groaned.

“Another time, another life, Flames,” Ash said with a half-smile, using the nickname that always made Nadia scowl.

Ash gave Fiona a side glance and a smirk. “Besides, Fiona, you’re supposed to be dead, remember? Maybe try staying dead for a few days. Just vanish. Lay low. I’m guessing Anderson’s trial is coming up soon, and when it does — boom — dramatic courtroom entrance. Put that scumbag away for good.”

Fiona rolled her eyes, but I caught the little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Typical Ash, always thinking three moves ahead like we’re in some weird spy-themed chess match.

“And the Star of Assisi?” she asked, lifting her brows. “When do I finally get to chase that?”

There was a pause, the kind where everyone knew the question meant more than just treasure-hunting.

“Is the Star really that important to you, Fiona?” Angie asked, casually, but with that half-knowing squint she gets when she’s digging under someone’s skin with velvet gloves. And being an archaeologist and geologist herself – she knew how the lore of the deep hidden secrets of history was.

Fiona exhaled, brushing her hair back. “I don’t even know anymore,” she said quietly. “Maybe it’s a myth. Maybe it’s real. Maybe I just want to know which it is.”

“If it’s there — if it exists — and it’s in that cave you mentioned, we’ll find it,” Angie said with certainty. Then she grinned, her tone turning mischievous. “Besides ... there’s a history professor position open at Maties.”

‘Maties’ — nickname for Stellenbosch University. Trust Angie to throw that in like she’s suggesting where to get coffee and not where to rewrite your entire life.

Fiona cocked her head, pretending not to take the bait. “And why exactly would that be important to me?” she asked, peeking through the blond strands falling across her face like a curtain.

Angie shrugged, playing the innocent. “Oh, you never know ... You might decide to move to the Cape. Stranger things have happened.”

And then, like some invisible signal had gone off, everybody turned to look at Fiona. Even Ash glanced up from his tablet. I tried to act interested in a random screen on the wall monitor — anything not to be caught smirking — but it was too late.

Fiona flushed red — full-on scarlet. She tucked her hair behind both ears like it would somehow hide the blush.

“And why do you think I’d want to do that?” she asked, in the most unconvincing innocent voice I’d ever heard.

Before anyone could answer, Rosie popped up with a grin and a wicked twinkle in her eye.

“Hey, milkybar chommie!” she teased, using that Cape Flats slang with all the flair of someone who knew it was going to stick. “We all know the why. You just gotta dala what you gotta dala!”

A few snorts escaped around the room. Ash actually chuckled. Mai-Loan cracked a grin. Angie covered her mouth, but I could see her shoulders shaking. Even Fiona gave Rosie a mock glare, but she was smiling through it.

And just like that, the meeting unravelled. The tension broke like glass under a warm boot. People stood up, stretching, talking, laughing again. The mission might not be over, but at least the room wasn’t frozen with fear anymore.

Me? I just looked at Fiona.

She caught me staring, gave me that look — the one that says, “Don’t you dare say a word.”

And I didn’t.

Not out loud, anyway.

With the meeting finally wrapped up and the Angels scattering like dandelion seeds in the wind — off to wherever it is the Angels go when they’re not busy playing puppet-master.

Fiona and I found ourselves back at Wolvenkopft Manor, with Nadia hovering close by. The grand old place was oddly quiet now, as if even it had exhaled after the storm of activity.

We ended up on the patio, mugs of lukewarm coffee in hand, leaning back in those old wrought-iron chairs that creak just enough to remind you of their age. A strong north-westerly breeze cut through the estate, tugging at the trees and whispering secrets of impending rain. The sun was doing its best to show its face, tossing golden light across the stonework and slate roofs, but the wind was the real star of the show — blowing hard through Houtkapperspoort and along the Constantia Neck ridge like it had something to prove.

The pines up on the ridge swayed like slow dancers, graceful but unyielding. The oaks along the driveway were a bit more dramatic, flinging their leaves about like confetti. Right where we were — on the south side of the manor — we had some reprieve from the bite of the wind, thanks to the house acting as a rather majestic windbreak.

Fiona was quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the darkening edge of the clouds. Then, casually, she dropped the bomb: “The Anderson trial is next week.”

I glanced sideways at her. “What bothers me,” I said, “is that your parents haven’t reached out. You’d think by now they’d have seen the news, maybe caught a headline or two. This thing’s been everywhere.”

She let out a soft chuckle, more amused than concerned. “Ash and Angie set the record straight before the media even caught a whiff.”

“They did?”

“Yes. All part of the plan,” she said, lifting her mug in a mock toast. “My parents knew what was going down before we even set off on that cursed walk. Even Brigadier Franks of the SAPS and your friend Colonel Smalberger was in on it. Saved them some money on a witness protection escapade.”

“That would’ve been nice to know,” I muttered. “They didn’t say a word to me.”

“I spoke to my parents directly. They were worried, sure, but not panicked. Ash had a long chat with them — laid everything out. Even told them I’d be coming up home for a few days until things settled down here.”

“That man really knows how to spin the manure,” I said, shaking my head.

“Exactly,” Fiona said with a grin. “So ... When are we leaving?”

“Preferably before this wind starts flinging branches at the rotors.”

“I just need to pack a few things,” she said, standing up and brushing the hair out of her eyes. Then she gave me a sly look. “I’ll leave the kitchen sink.”

“Oh, hilarious,” I said, grinning. She playfully slapped my biceps. “Ow! That was abuse.”

Nadia chuckled: “Serves you right for making fun of my friend. Make yourself useful — go wind-up the rubber bands on that eggbeater.”

We stood there for a second, just sipping and listening to the wind whistle through the gutters. Then I glanced at her and asked, “You said ‘we’ — as in the two of us. How exactly are you planning to explain me to your parents?”

She flashed that mischievous smile of hers. “Easy. You’re my chauffeur. And my helicopter pilot. And Nadia will be a friend that tagged along for the chance to fly in a helicopter.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Nadia is in on it too? And since when do junior professors employ helicopter pilots?”

“Since she is madly in love with said helicopter pilot. And yes, Nadia is in on it. Mai-Loan actually okayed it. She said Nadia will be my bodyguard. Boomer can blow up anything that Nadia can. The Angels can spare her for a few days so, that is settled.” Fiona clarified with a smirk. “No need to get into the details of ... Well, whatever this is between us.” She waved a finger between us in a vague little circle. “Last thing I need is for my mom to go full Pinterest board on us — start planning weddings and crocheting baby booties.”

“Oh boy,” I sighed.

“I’m twenty-seven, going on twenty-eight. In my mother, and some other people’s eyes, that practically makes me a derogatory spinster. Even in the eyes of the whole community on the West Coast.”

“You’re a career woman,” I countered. “A highly intelligent, fiercely independent — what did they call you again? ‘Respected archaeologist and professor of history, widely admired in academic circles for your ground-breaking work.’ That ring a bell?”

She rolled her eyes. “Maybe in the press releases. At the university, I’m still just another junior on the academic totem pole. The dean of archaeology still treats me like I’m fresh out of postgraduate school.”

“Well, for what it’s worth Doctor Fiona Reid, you’re priceless to me,” I said, dead serious for a moment.

“Ahhh!” Nadia replied and pouted her lips. Fiona answered that statement of mine with a kiss that made me forget all about wind and rain, overzealous deans, and Nadia as bodyguard.

“You too,” she said softly. Then, blinking as if returning from a daydream, she added, “Now let’s hit the sky before this wind decides to turn into a tornado.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll go get the bags and start loading up the eggbeater.”

And just like that, with the sun making a brave attempt to pierce the cloud cover and the wind still blowing through the trees, our next journey — just 161 kilometres this time — began with a few steps across an old stone patio.

Firing up the EC-145 was straightforward, almost routine by now. On the main panel, I flipped the battery switch to on — a solid click that kicked off our post pre-flight ritual. Next, I brought the inverters online, then reached for the navigation and strobe lights. Flick-flick. All glowing as expected.

Up on the overhead panel, I turned on the prime fuel pumps, then the main fuel pumps — a moment’s pause to listen for the faint whiz sound of the pumps working. Everything sounded healthy.

Back on the main console, I checked the electrical gauges and fuel on board. Satisfied, I switched the left engine starter to on. There it was that deep mechanical growl from the turbine spooling up. One of my favourite sounds in the world.

The rotor RPM needle began to climb, steady up to 80%. I repeated the process for engine two. Within seconds, both turbines found each other, syncing up with that satisfying low whir as they settled into ground idle. I brought the generators online and watched for any red flags on the glass panel sub-menu. Everything looked good. All the lights in the annunciator panel were green — or more accurately, none of them were red. Which is the goal.

I let the engines run for a bit, monitoring the turbine temps and gas temps as they stabilised. Nothing alarming. The bird was purring. A slight vibration through the airframe told us that she was ready to fly.

I turned to Fiona, who was strapped in on the left. “Well, we are good to go,” I said, giving her a quick grin.

“Then let us get underway, Captain,” she replied with a small smile — a little more relaxed now than she was during her first nerve-wracked flight in the Cessna two ten.

“I must say, Roy,” Nadia spoke from the back, “I like that stupid sticker on the back of your helmet.”

“Just take note of it and abide by it,” I shot back. The helmet sticker read: “STOP SCREAMING! I’M SCARED TOO...”

On the collective, I opened both throttles all the way from ground idle to flight idle. The engines responded instantly. Rotor RPM climbed to 103% — right where I wanted it. As soon as I pulled collective the RPM will drop to 98% as the rotors bit into the air, changing their angle of attract to lift us up. Time to dance.

I lifted the collective slowly. The helicopter got light on the skids, and then we were hovering — a few feet off the pad. A bit of right pedal to counter the torque of the counter-clockwise spin of the rotors, small cyclic corrections to keep us centered. She was stable. I adjusted for a touch of drift in the breeze and gently turned her into the wind. Smoothly, we rose in a climbing hover to 60 feet AGL, clearing the tree line without issue.

A slight nudge of forward cyclic dropped the nose, and we transitioned into forward flight. At 40 knots indicated, I pulled for altitude, climbing to 500 feet AGL to get above the ridge flanking the back side of Table Mountain’s infamous plateau.