Chapter 11

There was a storm brewing across the valley with clouds rolling in from the north. The morning was heavily laden with the scent of the coming rain, and the wind from the north had an edge to it. It wasn’t blowing hard, just rustling a few leaves on the acacia trees. On the grasslands, the tops of the yellow grass were rippling in waves, as the cool wind blew over them, creating the illusion of ocean swells.

The sun crested from behind a hill, bringing only a slight warming to the body. It was still only a dull red orb, not firing with all its intensity, lazily rising above the grey clouds drifting by it to the south.

On the plains below the flat top hills, herds of antelope grazed in the serenity of the day. An old buffalo bull raised his nose to the wind, smelling the promise of rain. Elsewhere, on the plains and the valleys between the hills, the wildlife of Africa basked in the promise of the coming rain.

Zebra danced and played their catch-my-tail games, excited in the cool air breaking the blistering heat of the last few days. Some of them stopped and stared at the passing dust trail, far out on the gravel road leading out of Botswana to Zimbabwe.

A leopard jumped from the tree it was resting in. Sensing the coming rain on the wind, it knew that the hunt for the day was over. Soon the leopard will be drenched by the driving rain, and needed to seek shelter there in the hills under an overhanging rock. It knew the place and started to walk that way. No one will find it because no human ever came there. The overhang is away from the known bush trails used by the grazing and moving wildlife, and covered from three sides, like a cave.

Many generations ago, humans lived there, leaving their drawings on the rock-face. Drawings in red and brown and yellow, testament to their day-to-day living in the area. To the leopard they had no meaning, no significance. Also, yet undiscovered by modern humans. The leopard only knew it was safe there.

A truck out on the gravel road was a mile or so away from the leopard’s cave, stuttering and grinding its way to Zimbabwe. It was heavily laden with grass cut from the plains and bound in bundles, destined for Maputo in Mozambique.

The bundles of grass were to be used as thatch on the roofs of game lodges, guest huts, and houses of the rich. The grass is a prized product from Botswana with just the right moisture content to keep it from degrading too quickly so roofs thatched with it did not be re-done as frequently.

Slowly the truck wound its way along the dusty gravel road. The road was flat here, no rises in the landscape, bush on either side.

Out of sight around a bend, a green coloured Land Rover was sitting parked across the road. As the truck approached the dilapidated bridge over the Shashe River just before rolling into Zimbabwe, the driver rounded the bend and saw the Land Rover.

Perplexed about the vehicle across the road, the truck driver hit the brakes to stop in a cloud of dust. As the truck stopped, another Land Rover drove out from the surrounding bush and stopped across the gravel road behind the truck, boxing it in solid with nowhere to go; bush on both sides, vehicles blocking the road to the front and back.

Several armed men in camouflage uniform swarmed from the two vehicles. Botswana Border Police. The truck driver had no idea what was going on, and just got out of the truck.

“Good morning sir, may we see your manifest for your cargo?” The obvious leader of the group said, in greeting to the truck driver.

“Yes. No problem.” The driver said as he reached into the cab of the truck to retrieve the requested documents. He got the folder with the dust-laden documents and handed it to the policeman.

In the meantime, four of the policemen climbed onto the back of the truck and started to probe into the bundles of thatch grass, picking the bundles from beneath the cargo net. Searching.

The policeman in charge opened the folder and scrutinised the documents inside.

“You’re taking a cargo of thatch grass to Maputo. Why?” He asked.

“It’s to be exported to Japan.” The driver responded.

“I can see that. It’s here in the documents. But why from Botswana? Doesn’t Mozambique have their own grass?”

“I don’t know sir, I only drive the truck.” The driver said. The policeman knew it was the truth; this guy was only a courier.

“Sir!” Came from the back, on top of the truck, as a policeman called his leader. “You better come look here.”

The Botswana police lieutenant stepped to the back of the truck, calling on to the men still surrounding the truck to watch the driver. The lieutenant got onto the truck and whistled. Five tons of ivory elephant tusks were hidden inside the bundles of thatch grass, neatly stacked end to end in the middle of the cargo of thatch grass.

His information was correct. Now he owes his brother Samson, a ranger in Mapungubwe, a few bottles of whiskey! One bottle for every truck coming this way. Samson said there were to be five trucks. Twenty-five tons of ivory. What a bust!

Ivory is being collected from all over South Africa, Botswana and Zambia. The syndicate is here in Botswana, but where? His brother has people helping him, patrolling the nature reserve with aircraft. Samson also said that the poachers shot at the aircraft and that the aircraft returned fire and killed some poachers. Maybe, just maybe, Samson and his people could come help him get this syndicate. It would not hurt to ask...

Elsewhere in Botswana, in a camp in the bush resembling a military post, a man was pacing up and down the floor of his hut. The Major was not happy; not happy at all, because Tshepo went missing. A day or so ago he had been tasked to search for the attack helicopter base. Now, no word from Tshepo.

The Major cannot risk sending a search party after Tshepo. They would not know where to look. Yes, they can track his footprints in the bush, but it was too late. A storm is brewing and can hit around midday. No way of getting them to track Tshepo then; the downpour will wipe out any sign of Tshepo.

The Major stopped in front of the large-scale map of the area and looked at it intensely. Maybe, just maybe he can transport the tracker team to the Limpopo river. It will take an hour, then the team can cross the river on foot and go into South Africa. It will take them two to three hours to get to Kwela camp, the closest to here.

Tshepo had crossed the Limpopo at the usual place. It will be easy to spot his tracks there and then follow them to where Tshepo went. The Major was positive that Tshepo would have gone to Kwela camp first. If the team moved now, they would have enough time to find Tshepo’s tracks before the storm hit. Yes, he will send out a tracker team now.

The major sprang into action. He opened the door to his hut and called his runner, waiting outside the hut.

“Get me Bravo team. Pronto!” The Major instructed the runner. “Let them get ready for a tracking mission and report to me. Now.” The runner turned around and ran to the cluster of huts about seventy metres away: the encampment of the Bravo team.

The major stood in the doorway of his hut, looking up into the sky where the thick grey clouds were starting to obscure the sun. Yes, just maybe they can find out what happened to Tshepo. The major hoped that Tshepo was not caught by a lion, or worse, caught by the little people. No, Tshepo was too good for that to happen. There must be some other reason.

In the north-west province, halfway between the north-western reaches of Pretoria in Gauteng, and the town of Brits, Don Lambert stood on the apron of a medium-sized airfield.

Two large steel hangars at his back, Don looked out to the east, past the hill on his right, expecting to catch a glimpse of a silver jet. On the air-band radio strapped to his reflector jacket, he heard the jet’s departure from Wonderboom. The jet should have been here long ago; it’s only a nine-minute flight.

The runway of this airfield was 6562 feet long and 100 feet wide, longer by 565 feet than Wonderboom airport’s runway 11/29. It was also two feet wider than the Wonderboom runway; more than enough room for the Impala.

The runway was so long because the “Old Boys Club” flies their perfectly restored Boeing B17G “Hikin for Home” out of here on some good days. The next project would be “Pelican 22,” the Avro Shackleton MR3 with its four Rolls-Royce Griffon 57 V-12 liquid-cooled engines and contra-rotating propellers. The Shackleton, presently stored in hangar 02, waiting on the refurbishment of its engines.

The little welcoming party stood by the fence separating the runway from the apron, next to the fuel station. Don, Mai-Loan, Laura and Tracy were waiting on Dave to bring the Impala. The air-band radio clipped to Don’s reflector jacket broke squelch.

“Juliet Golf, India Mike Papa, out twelve miles west for landing zero niner.” Don smiled. The rascal! He dropped low down behind the Magaliesberg Mountains and comes in from the west. Smart combat move! This guy, Dave, can think tactical.

“India Mike Papa, cleared to land runway zero niner. Fly straight in.” Don said into the microphone.

“India Mike Papa, rodger, fly straight in, runway zero niner.” Dave’s voice came over the air-band radio. Don keyed the mike.

“Permission to buzz the tower, granted.” Don said, and chuckled.

“India Mike Papa. Are you sure?”

“Rodger, India Mike Papa. Give us your best!” Don said. Don heard the tell-tale low rumble, growing in intensity as the silver Impala came in. Moments later the Impala came screaming down the runway at 200 feet AGL, INVERTED! Just like the age-old salute of the combat Impala pilots during the bush war, flying inverted over the tower after a sortie.

The Impala, doing about 350 knots indicated air speed, lifted its nose slightly, flipped upright, and climbed away into the blue sky, getting smaller and smaller as it clawed for altitude. Going like a homesick angel. Don felt a tremble in his body as he saw the silver bird perform for the first time.

“WEEE! Way to go, Dave!” Mai-Loan said at Don’s elbow. “I think he has mastered the art.”

“And I just about wet me self!” Giggle. Tracy said in her unmistakable Irish accent.

Don stood watching as Dave did a wing-over at the top of the climb, bringing the Impala down and lifting the nose level with the under-belly air brake out to reduce speed.

“Come on, Mai, Tray, let’s go meet and welcome our guest.” Laura said, still feeling the rush of the fly-by, thinking back on her first flight in the Buccaneer.

About three minutes later, the Impala came in at about 120 knots with flaps full down and air brake out, flashing sunlight off her dull silver-grey fuselage and wings. At 80 knots, the wheels kissed the tarmac with a little squeal of protesting rubber, no bounce, just kissed and stuck. The nose came down; nose wheel touched. She was down. Decelerating on brakes, the Impala has no reverse thrust. Dave was here. A textbook landing for a rookie Impala pilot.

Don, Laura, Tracy and Mai-Loan walked over to the spot that would be Dave’s tie-down. They heard the roar of the Rolls-Royce Viper engine, halfway down the runway, as Dave gunned the aircraft to turn around. Sorry, no taxiway here, Dave has to taxi the aircraft back along the runway to get to the apron. All can’t be utopia; darn money constraints!

Brigadier Joe Franks sat in the office of Major General Mashanganye on the top floor of the inconspicuous red brick building, South African headquarters of Interpol. He was summoned a little while ago. The General was paging through a document before him on his desk, his face not reflecting any hint of his mood.

“Well Joe, what do you think?” The General asked. Only the two of them were in the office.

“It’s a risk, General. I would be of the opinion to not consent to the request,” Joe said.

“And why would that be, Joe?” The General asked.

“I feel that it would open us up for an international incident.”

“If we were requested to lend a hand, why should we not? These people have had success already,” the General stated flatly.

“It will involve us with collaborating with known criminals in an over-border conflict, if word gets out.”

“Who said we are collaborating? We are not sending out invitations. We only communicate. Bring the concerning parties together. What they do is their problem,” the General said.

“Plausible deniability?” Joe said.

“The Botswana government requested the contact details of one Don Lambert. Contact Don and give him the information. What he and the Botswana government do on Botswana soil is their own problem. As long as we get some royalties, no problem,” the General said.

“If you put it like that, General, I will comply with your instruction,” Joe said.

“Joe, lay off Mai-Loan. You can’t prove anything sinister about her; it’s only hearsay evidence. Give her the benefit of the doubt. It will be much better for your health,” the General said.

“You’re not the only one to tell me that,” Joe sighed. “Maybe I should take her at face-value.”

“You do just that, Joe. You do just that,” the General said.

“What did you mean by getting some royalties, General?” Joe asked.

“Arrests, boy. Arrests,” the general said, and smiled.

“You know, General, this Don Lambert has his own air-force.” Joe said.

“What, you mean that old Buccaneer relic of his?” The general asked.”He has a buddy who just added a fully operational MB326M Impala to the stable, guns and all!””God help the poachers! If he needs to have ground crew, tell him I’ll come sweep the hangar floor,” the General said and smiled.

“And the USA maintains, ‘In God, we trust,’ ... don’t we all?” Joe asked.

“Yeah, Joe, yeah...” The General said. “Go, get with Don and his new buddy. I think we’re in for some fun.”

“Yes, General, I think we are. I’ll have a mop-up team standing by at the border,” Joe said, getting up to leave.

“And Joe, Mai-Loan and all the others ... they’re plausibly deniable assets right now. Don’t screw it up,” The General said.

“Yes General, Sir. I’ll do my part,” Joe said and turned to leave. “I think I’ll help you sweep that hangar floor, just in case...”

We five, two guys and three girls, sat around a fold-up camping table on canvas camping chairs inside one of the huge steel hangars. One side of the hangar was occupied by a dark grey and blue Hawker Siddeley Buccaneer, the other side, an Atlas MB326M Mark I Impala. In the back of the hangar stood the MD 530 helicopter.

On the table between five coffee mugs laid a few A3 size colour and grey-scale satellite photographs. The focus of the photographs was a cluster of buildings, surrounded by bush. There was a faint trail of a two-wheel track leading off the north side off the encampment.

A radio mast was also noticeable on the roof of one of the buildings. A few vehicles, looking like surplus Russian or Chinese-made artefacts from a bygone era were visible too. There were people in ones and twos and a group of six to be seen, but too grainy and faint to identify. In the group of people, there was evidence of firearms carried, but again, unidentifiable.

“How can we be positive it is the place?” I asked.

“We don’t know. We need to get near enough to identify the possibility,” Mai-Loan said, sitting hunched forward in her chair and taking a sip of her coffee. “We need to get IN there.”