Far Horizon (39 page)

Mike held Sarah in a lifesaver's grip, one hand under her chin to keep her head above water as he paddled with his free arm. He looked up at the bank and saw
faces straining as the human chain was dragged downstream with the weight of two people on the end of the line. The girls at the end of the chain were sitting or kneeling in surging water up to their necks. Linda's face was red, her mouth open and contorted with pain as the rope cut into her slim, wiry body. Mike flailed for the shoreline, to relieve the strain on the others as quickly as possible. Sarah kicked her legs hard, which helped them inch towards shore.

Mike's feet touched bottom and he dragged Sarah to a point where she could finally stand. The water was still at his chest and her neck, but the pull was less now as they had swung around into the lee of a small spit of land, which had not yet been submerged. He felt relief as the lifeline around him went slack again.

The rest of the team gathered around them, Nigel and Terry supporting Linda, who had taken the strain of the tow rope biting into her body as they pulled Sarah and Mike into shore.

Sarah's hand was in Mike's as they waded ashore. Once on land he took her other hand and looked into her eyes. ‘What are you doing here?' he asked.

She coughed, then said, ‘I had to warn you. Hess and Orlov . . . they're on their way. They're looking for you.'

Mike was shocked, but also amazed, proud and touched that she had made it through to warn them. He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her.

‘I'm scared, Mike,' she whispered as she buried her face in his chest.

‘T
hey're coming. The poachers. They're looking for Mike,' Sarah said to the circle of people surrounding her. Her hands were wrapped around a steaming hot mug of tea and a sleeping bag was draped about her shoulders. She had changed into one of Mel's sweatshirts and a pair of Linda's tracksuit pants.

As chilling as the news that she brought was, it lifted Mike's heart to see her again. Sarah had already told him, as they drove up the track looking for a campsite for the night, about how she had overheard Hess and Orlov at Lusaka airport. He marvelled again at her bravery and her decision to abandon her flight to come and find him. He guessed that part of the reason she had turned back was because she was a reporter in search of a grand finale to a good story, but he also knew it would have been very easy for her to cut and run with what she already had.

With the news that the poachers were on their trail he had selected a campsite not only for its ease of
access, but also for its tactical advantages. He had stopped just below the crest of a hill, on a fairly level area that might have once been a stores dump or truck parking place when the track was first cut through the virgin bush. The level patch was set back about fifty metres from the road and surrounded on three sides by tall trees. The once-cleared land was now covered with low scrubby trees that grew to about the height of a man's chest, interspersed with waist-high grass. Mike had knocked a path through the bush with Nelson and they then cut down just enough saplings to make a cosy clear patch.

As soon as the campsite was set up George and Terry made a fire, mostly using dry charcoal from one of the bags Mike kept in the truck. The fire was warm and glowing, but didn't give off much smoke once the charcoal was alight – another advantage if someone was tracking them.

Mike wanted everyone to know exactly what Sarah had learned. His days of keeping secrets from the people around him, people who depended on him and who had just saved his life, were over. As she sipped her tea, Sarah relayed everything she had told Mike to the rest of the group.

‘What do you mean, “they're looking for Mike”, Sarah?' Linda asked.

‘I mean they want to kill him,' Sarah said. ‘These people do not like witnesses. Isn't that right, Mike?'

It sounded like a melodramatic summation, but it was a true one. Mike nodded.

‘Well, it's not like any of us can just pack up and leave, is it?' Mel said.

‘Not yet, anyway,' Mike said. ‘But as soon as we get to Mfuwe, near South Luangwa National Park, everyone is flying out. No arguments this time. I'm not going to risk anyone's life on this trip.'

‘So what happens between now and then?' Kylie asked, rubbing tired eyes. The sun was setting behind the clouds and it would be dark in a matter of minutes.

Mike stood and, while there was still light, kicked some grass aside to make a clear patch on the ground. He took a stout stick and sketched a crude map of the triangle made by the main road from Petauke to Chipata; the road from Chipata up to Mfuwe; and the long side of the triangle, the track they were on from Petauke to Mfuwe.

‘The bad guys have probably stuck to the main road, via Chipata, and are possibly in Mfuwe already. They'll have been looking for us and asking about us as they drove. There aren't that many towns and service stations on the way and Mfuwe itself is nothing more than a couple of shops, half-a-dozen goats and a petrol pump. They'll soon know we haven't arrived.' Mike paused and sipped on his mug of steaming coffee.

He continued. ‘What they'll do then is have a look at the map and work out that we've taken this road, through the bush, from Petauke. They can either wait for us in Mfuwe, or come looking for us.'

There was silence in the circle of faces around him. Silence and fear.

Mike remembered the South African tourists in the Land Rovers. They had taken a GPS reading of the
place where the truck had been bogged. With so few vehicles taking the long, arduous track from Petauke there was a chance Hess and Orlov would meet them. Mike didn't voice his fears to the others. They were scared enough.

‘Our advantage,' Mike said with as much force and assurance as he could muster, ‘is that we have a pretty good idea where they are, we'll be able to see them coming, and we can get ready for them.'

‘Can't we turn around and go back to Lusaka? Surely we'd be safer there?' Nigel ventured.

‘We would, if we could make it back across that river behind us. There's no way now we can cross until the river drops, and that could be a day or two. We're closer to Mfuwe than we are to Petauke and Lusaka and, as I said, the closest airport's at Mfuwe.'

‘What about pushing on to Mfuwe now, Mike, tonight?' George asked.

It was a valid question. ‘I've thought about that, but we just can't risk any more river crossings in the dark. Besides, if we can't cross a river to get out, Hess and Orlov can't cross a river to get to us. We wait until morning and travel then.'

‘So we stand and fight,' Sam said.

‘Let's hope it won't come to that,' Mike said, looking at each of their faces. ‘But in case it does, this is how we'll be ready for them.'

The last job of the night, for it was pitch-black and nearly ten o'clock by the time they had finished the preparations around the campsite, was to set up an
OP – an observation post. Also, Mike wanted to arrange a welcoming present for their expected guests.

Everyone else would sleep together, but two people would have to be their eyes and ears, keeping watch on the most likely avenue of the enemy's approach. Mike picked George and Terry to man the OP, mainly because he remembered George saying he was a soldier in the Territorial Army, Britain's reserve military force. Weekend army training was better than no army training for the job he needed George to do.

He led them through the bush, to the crest of the hill above the campsite, and over the other side. They walked downhill for a while, Mike in the lead holding back springy branches and pointing out burrows and other holes in the ground so nobody got a whack in the face or twisted an ankle. Mike carried the axe over his shoulder and had a machete in a scabbard attached to an old army web belt around his waist. He kept the machete for clearing grass around camping sites and for protection against invading snakes. In addition, he had the Browning stuffed in the waistband of his shorts and the box of spare ammo in his shirt pocket. He thought he must have looked like a bedraggled pirate, but no one was laughing. Terry carried the bow saw.

‘What do you do in the Territorial Army, George?' Mike asked softly. He didn't think there was anybody out in the bush listening, but he wanted the two young men to get used to whispering from now on.

‘I'm in the Parachute Regiment,' George said.

‘I'm impressed. What's your rank?'

‘Private,' he said, stepping over a fallen log Mike had just pointed out to him.

‘Rifleman, medic, machine-gunner?'

‘Cook,' George whispered.

Mike stopped, and George nearly bumped into him. ‘A
cook
?'

‘Yes, a cook.'

‘Is this a joke?'

‘No,' he said defensively, ‘I'm a chef.'

‘I thought you said you were a lorry driver?' Mike said.

‘I am, in my civilian job. I'm trying to get a job as a chef, but until then the TA's the only chance I get to do what I really love.'

‘But you
are
a para, right? You did P Company, right?'

‘Yes. Of course I did. We all have to do P Company to get our wings. And infantry training, so I do know what I'm doing, OK?'

Mike believed him. P Company was the British Army's gruelling training course for would-be paratroopers. It involves long-distance running and marching with brutally heavy packs and weapons, punishing obstacle courses and navigation exercises. There is a high drop-out rate, making those who get through some of the toughest soldiers in the world – including the cooks. Mike knew enough about the course to respect anyone who had passed it.

He put a hand on George's shoulder. ‘Think back to your basic infantry training, George. Try and remember everything you were taught.'

Mike had been out for a walk earlier in the evening
by himself to reconnoitre the surrounding area, and he pointed out to George and Terry the position he had chosen for the OP. It was two large trees, lead-woods, growing close together. The trees were set back a few metres from the road. From their base there was good visibility down the hill where the track crossed a small creek and then rose again to a lower hill across the valley. The trees were taller than any in the immediate area and Mike would be able to pick out the position from the crest of the hill that the rest of the group were sheltered behind.

Before setting up the OP, though, he led Terry and George to the bottom of the hill and halfway up the side of the opposite knoll. They walked along the edge of the track.

‘This should do it,' Mike said, slapping the trunk of a tall tree at the edge of the road. Its trunk was about two feet in diameter. He spat on his hands, hefted the axe and cut a notch on the side of the tree closest to the road. ‘Terry, you start on the other side with the saw. George, take a walk up the road to the top of the hill and keep watch for vehicles or people.'

Mike figured that at this time of night it was unlikely there would be any legitimate traffic on such a treacherous, isolated road. By blocking it he might buy them some time if Hess and Orlov did show up. It would take the poachers time and energy to find the overlander, although Mike didn't believe they could hide from them completely. At the very least, they would be hot and tired by the time they climbed the steep hill and discovered the camp. Also, by then the boys in the OP would have had a chance to get a
good look at them and report back on their numbers and weapons.

Mike was sweating heavily when the tree at last began to creak. They stood back as it crashed across the muddy road. He gave a low whistle and a couple of minutes later George was back with them. George took the lead on the walk back up the hill to the lonely place where he and Terry would spend most of the night. Mike brought up the rear, dragging a leafy branch from the fallen tree behind him to obscure their tracks.

‘You stay as a pair and you never leave your buddy, OK, Terry?' Mike whispered as they crouched at the base of the twin trees. The big man looked nervous. They were all soaking wet, but he could still make out beads of perspiration on Terry's forehead. ‘If you have to shit or piss you do it here, and you bury it. OK, now cam up.'

Camming up, as Mike explained to Terry, was slang for ‘personal camouflage'. George was already thinking about concealment. He had worn a green T-shirt and dark grey shorts and had borrowed a black baseball cap from one of the girls to hide his bright ginger hair. He'd organised for Terry to wear green and khaki as well – everyone on the trip carried neutral-coloured clothing in case they went on an organised walk in one of the national parks. They had been warned that whites and bright colours that draw attention to the wearer are dangerous around wild animals. George took a lump of charcoal he had selected from the camp fuel supply and rubbed black smears on his friend's pasty white face. He then did
the backs of his own hands and made Terry blacken his face for him.

‘Remember what I said before,' Mike said, and they both nodded, their faces now blackened like commandos. He repeated his instructions anyway. ‘I need to know how many of them there are and what weapons they're carrying. George, you should be able to identify their guns. Pay attention to how they are dressed and what kit they're carrying. Let me know if anyone stays with the vehicle or vehicles, and try and work out who is giving the orders. If they start heading this way, we've got to assume that they'll find our camp.'

‘What do we do then?' Terry asked.

George answered for him, for they had already gone over this part of the orders. ‘We pull on the communication cord – two tugs for bad guys approaching. Remember, Terry?' George held up a stick to which he had tied the free end of a reel of fishing line. Mike would keep the other end of the hundred-metre line near him or tied to him if he slept.

‘That's right, two tugs,' Mike said. ‘Then, if you can, get back here without being spotted or heard. If you can't get back –'

‘We cover ourselves with bushes and leaves and lie still here,' Terry said, remembering the rest of the plan.

‘Good man,' Mike said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Remember, guys, one sleeps, one awake at all times, OK?'

They nodded. Mike unbuckled his belt and handed the machete to George, who accepted it with a
solemn nod. Mike thought the weapon provided more of a psychological benefit than a serious means of self-defence. If the likes of Hess and Orlov or their cronies got close enough to George and Terry for them to unsheathe the machete, then things would already have gone horribly wrong.

Mike had considered leaving the pistol with George and Terry, but there were six other people under his care back at the main camp. This was one of those unenviable times when, as a commander, he had to leave two men out on their own, to their own devices, for the greater good of the group. While it was not fair on Terry or George, there was no other option.

‘And chef . . .'

‘Yeah?' George said, as he slid the machete half out of its scabbard and tested the sharp blade with his thumb.

‘No heroics.'

Hess and Orlov were dressed for war. Hess wore a dark green bush shirt and matching trousers. He took a twenty-round magazine from a pocket on his green canvas hunter's vest and clipped it to his M-14 rifle. He pulled back the cocking handle and then let it fly forward, chambering a round. His Glock pistol was tucked under his left armpit in a shoulder holster. On his belt he carried a water bottle and a hunting knife with a carved bone handle and a wicked twenty-five centimetre blade. The knife scabbard was tied to his right thigh to stop it from catching on low-lying
branches. Again he wore the black woollen watch cap to camouflage his blond hair. He jumped on the spot a couple of times to double-check that nothing in his vest or pockets would rattle and betray his position in the bush. He was ready.