Chapter 1

November 07. 13:52 SAST.

Krugersdorp and Randfontein lay to the east south-east, hidden in the mosaic of the maize crop fields. With Lanseria airport just sliding out of sight to the back of the Pilatus PC-24 SVJ, we attained our cruising altitude of 28000 ft - just 39 nautical miles from where we took off from a nondescript, single-runway bush airstrip.

Taking off from a bush airstrip with a bizjet? How? Not just any bizjet could do that, but the PC-24 SVJ was designed for it. So, now you also know why it is called ‘SVJ’ or Super Versatile Jet. It’s a Swiss design, with method in their madness. Also, it is one of the few bizjets to have a rear cargo door large enough to load standard pallet-sized boxes and stuff. Yes, this jet is so private that even the baggage has its own door.

With the PC-24 you don’t fly first class or business class. No, you fly crystal class. The aircraft is as unique as the mountain crystals found only in the Swiss Alps.

Well, that nondescript single-runway airstrip does seem to place one’s mind in reverse. First, the runway is tarred; not something you would expect in the bush. Then the runway is 6562 feet long and 100 feet wide; also not something you would expect to find in the African bush. Throw in a tower and a Category Three Instrument Landing System (ILS), and you honestly need to frown at that setup. But there was nothing sinister about the airport. No, only some hard-ball aviators investing some hard-earned cash into what they proclaim as their hobby, flying old, well-maintained warbirds and running a profitable air freight company on the side.

That their “toys” were a Siddeley Hawker Buccaneer S2 and an Atlas Impala Mark one, was nothing to sneer at. I was just a little jealous. I also have “toys,” but mine were a little older and still had propellers and not jet engines. But one could not have it all.

Then to really raise your eyebrows, the air freight business? Well, it belongs to a twenty-one-year-old blond girl; lock, stock, and barrel! But more of that maybe later in the story.

So, here I was, 28000 ft high in the sky with two pilots I just knew from one or two fleeting meetings. One: Don Lambert, about my age and build, with striking blond hair. The second: Laura Lambert, Don’s wife. As with all stereotypical blond pilots, Laura had her long white-blond hair in a tight ponytail. With those damn Ray-ban Aviator sunglasses, she looked just like the poster for “Come-Fly-With-Us!” Not to mention the sunny 1000-watt smile that went with it.

Sharing the cabin of this immaculate Pilatus PC-24 Super Versatile Jet with me were five of the most beautiful girls I’d ever met. That is, discounting Angelique Rothman of course. Angelique Rothman is beyond beautiful, and one who crept deep into my heart.

The five girls, or rather should I say, women, could collectively and individually bust up the fashion world by just being there at the right place at the wrong time. But again, don’t let their looks and giggly chatter fool you. These beauties were all five of the Angels together. The Equalizing Angels; the reincarnation of death by skilled beauty, without any regret or a guilty conscience.

Some of them I had worked with before.

Leah Schultz and Olivia Davis were two highly trained fighter jet and helicopter pilots. Both blond; one American and one German. Leah at age thirty-two years and Olivia age thirty.

Then there was twenty-seven-year-old Darya Kalondarova from Tajikistan. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, radio navigation officer, weapons officer, and ... sniper. I met her on my last assignment. Cool as a cucumber while sighting through her Barrett .338 Norma Magnum scope at a soon-to-be terminated target. Ask her what she felt while depressing the trigger. Go ahead, ask her. She’ll most likely say: “Recoil.”

Next to her and paging through the latest Cosmopolitan magazine, was twenty-five-year-old ginger red-headed Nadia Dabrowska from Poland. Demolition expert and also skilled commando infantry soldier ... and wait for it ... skilled military armored tank driver. Also, as of late, adding Radar Intercept Officer (or as the US Navy aviators would say) RIO, to her curriculum vitae. Thanks, Dave, for giving her a ride in an Atlas Impala and a crash course as a backseater. She was the one with the call sign “Cheeky.” And cheeky she is, in the most adorable way. Lucky Dave, the one who won her heart.

Nadia was also, by near association, the other partner in the red-head, green-eyed duo called “Battery-acid and Dynamite.” Although this had nothing to do with Nadia as an Angel, but more because of the mischief and mayhem she and her nineteen-year-old redhead, green-eyed, “sister”, Tracy, could get into.

Polish Nadia and Irish Tracy, but beware when the two are in proximity of each other. Can you now see why I need to limit Angie’s interaction with these two? Two redheaded green-eyed rascals are more than enough. Three could reach critical mass in seconds. World domination and chain reactions might result, which could not be healthy for anyone in the vicinity.

Across the cabin from me sat Nguyen Thi Mai-Loan. With her long jet-black hair and slight figure, one would never expect her to be the Dark Angel; the leader of the pack. This small framed thirty-four-year-old Vietnamese girl I’ve come to know as the one who makes the plans; the one who always seems to get the info. She had more connections in places I did not even know where those places existed. She can be any of the nom de plumes she uses, from the Iraqi girl Amirah Rahal, or the shy Chinese girl Chao-Xing Chang. I could never establish her true nationality. Vietnamese? Don, the pilot, swears by it. Mai-Loan is Vietnamese. Don would know, so I abide by it.

As the PC-24 cruised at 28000 feet and seven hundred and fifty kilometres an hour towards the Southern Cape, Mai leaned over to me and handed me a thick file folder.

“It will be two hours until we land, Ash. Read this. It will help you understand where we are going and what we’ll do when we get there.”

“Thanks, Mai. It might ease the urge to go up to the office and fly this thing,” I said.

Giggle. “Yes, I saw the look in your eyes. This bird flies well, maybe Don will give you some stick time. In the meantime, get that file in your head. Know your adversaries and let’s get Angie back safe.” With that, Mai-Loan shifted back in her seat, kicked off her shoes, and reclined the seat. Folding her hands in her lap she closed her dark eyes and was instantly asleep; her face calm and at ease.

I sighed and opened the file and started to read:

“Cape of Migrants. The Story of Sleutelfontein Farm: Land of strandlopers and lime, “ I read the title. Here seems to be a historical overview of the economic climate in the Cape Colony a few hundred years ago and ties in with the phrase:

“The jagged rocks and cliffs of Cape Point may look dangerous and inhospitable to modern visitors who feel the waves battering the cliffs and smell the spray of the salt in the air. But for our Early Stone Age ancestors that lived on the southern tip of the African continent 600,000 years ago, it was a paradise.”

Six hundred thousand years ago! Is that how long this part of history goes back? Angie only needed to answer a question about 75000 years old. How come do we have to go back 600,000 years? We’ll answer that in a bit. I paged further into the file.

The second part of the file was more in-line with what I could relate to:

“SOCIAL AND ECONOMIC EMASCULATION AS CONTRIBUTING FACTORS TO GANGSTERISM ON THE CAPE FLATS.”

I sat back in my seat, and began to read:

“Gangsterism has been a part of the communities of the Cape Flats since the establishment of townships under apartheid laws such as the Group Areas Act (1950) and its “twin partner”, the Population Registration Act (1950).

Gangsterism is a systemic phenomenon, rooted in multiple socio-economic and political causes, and it affects the lives of individuals, families, and whole communities. This paper looks at two very particular aspects that contribute to the formation and continued existence of gangsterism, namely social and economic emasculation. A gender perspective provides a different angle that may broaden our understanding of gang formation in a new way.

The article also will show how easy it is for leaders of gangs and drug lords to gain authority and power in communities characterised by poverty and unemployment as a result of economic exclusion. Faith communities in general and pastoral carers, in particular, need a holistic understanding of these and other factors related to gangsterism in order to play any meaningful role in addressing or eradicating gangsterism.”

Smirking, I reread the last paragraph. Yeah, right. I know how to eradicate this plague! But I also knew that to be successful in my endeavour, I need to pay close attention to the dynamics that made this sub-culture a force to be reckoned with. This snake’s head you could cut off, but it will grow a new one within days. Maybe even more lethal than the original poisonous head. The Angels and I need to be vigilant and wide awake.

“Don’t worry, Captain, we’ll find her,” Nadia’s soft voice came to me. I looked up over the rim of the file and saw the green eyes looking at me. It could have been Angie sitting there, as much as Nadia looked like Angie. The same slight sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks, the same curly ginger red tresses falling over her slight shoulders. Yes, Nadia could have been Angie’s twin sister. They are even the same age.

It’s been five years since I met the little chili-pepper-pip, Angelique Rothman, out in Namibia. Five years since she up and went to finish her degree, with sponsorship from Grumpy old Charley, my boss. Five years in which I saw her a few times, and the reunions were epic. Sometimes we would go to her parent’s place in Swakopmund, Namibia, or sometimes just chill out at my penthouse in Southbroom, KwaZulu Natal south coast, or also known as the Hibiscus Coast.

Now, five years later, Doctor Angelique Adelheid Rothman was just a few months away from completing her mission for Grumpy old Charley. Just three months, and we could have been together, as we planned. Three months to the final answer; “What happened 75000 years ago at the cave at Smitswinkles Bay?

To me, Angie was the Aphrodite of Greek methodology; the Greek goddess of love, lust, beauty, pleasure, passion, and my soul-mate; the one and only. And now, Angie is gone. Disappeared, vanished, evaporated, whatever you want to call it. All I know is my Angie is somewhere; a frightened little girl, and I need to find her!

“Do you believe that the gangs have taken her?” I asked, not even contemplating the answer I might get.

“I don’t know, Ash. I honestly don’t know,” Nadia said and looked out the side window at the ground below. “I believe she, Angelique, is resourceful. She may have disappeared of her own free will to escape the gangs. One might never know, but we will find her.”

“You think so?” I asked.

“Yes! She took herself out of the scenario; she knows how to cover her back,” Nadia said and looked back from the window. Her green eyes sparkled as she said: “Angelique is a redhead. We are different. We know things ... Do things ... Get things done...”

Suddenly I got the feeling that this petite girl - woman - would herself be a force to be reckoned with. And the Angels chose her to be my backseater or RIO once we get to the airfield in the rolling hills of the South Cape.

The South Cape is still part of the Western Cape, but located on the south coast near Cape Agulhas, the most southern point of Africa. L’Agulhas, south of Hotagterklip and Struisbaai, is right on the edge of the continent, and 3947 kilometres straight as the crow flies to the ice-covered continent of Antarctica; across the roaring forties, with only the islands of Marion and Prince Edward in the way.

In the next couple of days “Cheeky”, and I would get to fly countless hours in an old/new aircraft. The same with Leah and Olivia, also partnering in flying an old/new aircraft. Old for the likes of countries defending their sovereignty, but new to us, who never get to play with these flame-asses. Or like the Afrikaans code name: “Vlamgat.” Meaning it’s got a flame burning in its ass.

“Nadia, how did it come about that you fly back seat, but never learned to pilot yourself?”

Giggle. “It is something new to me. Yes, I would like to pilot that, what did you say? ‘Farm gato,’ but I enjoy the back seat, getting you to the target, and then hitting it hard! It’s fun ... Looking back and seeing all the flames and crap flying.” And Nadia’s eyes sparkled a green fire. “It was something Dave taught me while we were gallivanting in Botswana.” I smiled at her Polish pronunciation of “Vlamgat,” the words coming out as “farm gato,” or something illegible and cat. Spanish for a cat is, “gato.” A male cat is gato. Female, gata. Nope, I don’t speak Spanish, but one day I would like to name one of my aircraft “El Gato Diablo,” with nose art of a red cat with a forked tail and horns on its kitty head.

“Well, that “Vlamgat” we will be flying has got dual controls. I’ll let you play with it sometimes,” I said, and I could see the excitement in Nadia’s body language as she sat up in her seat, eyes sparkling, and a slightly shy smile on her lips.

“Don’t interfere with Dave’s girl. He might not take it so well ... And before he messes you up something terrible, I still need you to run some errands for me...” Mai-Loan said without opening her eyes. Both Nadia and I looked at her. Then Mai-Loan opened her eyes and smiled, “Now, be a good boy and read the rest of the folder. It may be beneficial to your health and your survival on the flats.”

“So, we are going out on the flats to look for Angie?” I asked.

“Let’s first consider all the evidence. We need to visit that cave at Smitswinkles Bay, first. Split up and look for clues, dear Shaggy.” Mai said, looking at me with a smirk, and she knew I got the reference to “Scooby-Doo,” and the Mystery Incorporated gang. Then Mai shifted position and was asleep again. Just like that.

“How does she do it?” I whispered to Nadia.

“She’s a spirit, I believe,” Nadia said and giggled. “A ghost in the night, and an Angel...”

“Well, if she’s a spirit, why can’t she just tell us where Angie is at?” I said and closed the file, dropping it on the floor of the cabin next to my seat. “You want coffee? I am going to see if that coffee thingamajig in that little galley is working.”

“Yeah, let me go help you. Just now you burn your fingers, and I’ll never get stick time in the flamey-ass thingy.” Giggle.

I smiled and thought of the Dassault Mirage 2000 multi-role fourth-generation jet fighter that we would be flying, and Nadia calling it a “thingy!”

November 07, 13:52 SAST.

Rashaad Williams sat motionlessly and listened to the report from his second in command. Ahmed Jacobs was relating the latest status of all the business transactions to Rashaad; mainly focused in and around Manenberg, just north of Philippi, and east, next to Hanover Park. The “Hard Livings” is expanding out of a street gang to a more sophisticated “syndicate of business enterprises.”

There was the merchandise that needed to be shifted from the docks to the Browns Farm group. This will need to be shifted during the small hours of the morning.

Then there are the ten luxury SUVs and four-track utility vehicles that needed to be shipped to customers in Gauteng and the Eastern Cape. That consignment will bring in a handsome sum of quick cash to help the cash flow go well into the green.

Not only does Rashaad, as leader of the “Hard Livings,” control the sale of alcohol in his areas of influence, but he controls the local sex industry, the export of stolen cars, and the sale of firearms as well. Arranging the theft of goods out of warehouses and factories to be sold in the domain of the gang is part and parcel of how the “Hard Livings” operate. Nobody does anything without the knowledge and approval of Rashaad Williams.

The “Hard Livings” business portfolios further include hotels, nightclubs, public transport (like minibus taxis), service stations and fuel garages, shops, and commercial fishing boats. They even went over the railway track and invested in some property in the more affluent areas of the city. In Constantia, Bergvliet, Meadowridge, Rondebosch and Newlands.

To be able to understand how Cape Town works, one must understand where the invisible border between poverty and rich capitalism lies. That border is the railway track running from Cape Town station all the way down to Simon’s Town in the South. All along the west side of the track are the rich white capitalists. On the east of the track is where the underprivileged stay, in slums created by the apartheid regime in the 1950s. This, is the Cape Town that the overseas tourists don’t see or know about. East of the track is where Rashaad builds his empire and lives the good life, no matter what it takes.

When apartheid was the law of the land, he and his family were not white enough. Now with the so-called “New South Africa” and the ANC, he and his family ain’t black enough. Always left out, always the ones to not get the good things in life. So, he will create his own good life for him and his brothers on the Flats.

Then there’s the question of an area dispute to be settled in Hanover Park. Here the “Fancy Boys” are trying to gain the upper hand and take over distribution of the merchandise. This needs to be handled with haste. The “Hard Livings” will not cede any of their territories.

Rashaad had an agreement with Abdulla Staggie of the “Mongrels,” whereby Abdulla would help in the distribution and the day-to-day management of the taverns in Long street in the city centre. For this, the “Mongrels” will be allowed to trade in Wetton, Ottery, and Barron’s Estate. One hand washing the other.

So far, the “Hard Livings” was doing well. Funds were rolling in, and soon it will be time to go out on a “stroll” again. Rashaad smiled to himself. He did not invent the “strolling” part of the business; no he just copied it from various others who started it a long time ago.