an assortment of caps and balaclava helmets.
Sergeant-Major Esau Gondele was a full-blooded Matabele, an old comrade in a dozen desperate contacts and battles. He saluted Sean and then grinned as Sean punched his arm.
'You're out of uniform, Esau. Take it easy, brother.' Twelve of the twenty Scouts that Sean had chosen were Matabele, the others were young white Rhodesians - nearly all of them the sons of ranchers and game wardens and miners who had been brought up in the bush.
In the Scouts there was no awareness of colour. As Esau Gondele once remarked to Sean: 'The best cure for racism is have somebody shoot at you.
Man, it does not matter then what colour the arse is that comes to save yours -black or white, you're ready to give it a big fat kiss.' Sean had worried about the naval commandos from Simonstown who were handling the inflatables. They were all tough young Afrikaners. They might have trouble fitting into this multi-racial team.
'How are you getting on with the rock spiders?' Sean asked Esau Gondele, using the pejorative slang for an Afrikaner.
'Some of them are my best friends already, but still I wouldn't want one of them to marry my sister,' he chuckled. 'No, seriously, Sean, they're all right. They know their job. I told them they don't have to call me Baasie, and they saw the joke.' 'OK, Sergeant-Major. We are leaving port at nightfall. It's unlikely that there'll be anybody here taking an interest in us. But we'll take no chances. You and I are going to check equipment before we sail, and then we'll brief the boys as soon as we cast off.' The crew accommodation was cramped and spartan. The Scouts and the six commandos crowded into the mess, perched on the table and the bunks. Within minutes the air was fogged with cigarette smoke and Lancer pitched and rolled heavily to the thrust of the cold green Benguela current.
All the Scouts that Sean had chosen were proven sailors who had done boat patrols on the choppy waters of Lake Kariba. Mal de mer was the reason that he had not sent for Matatu. The little Ndorobo would have been puking his heart out by now. It felt strange going into an operation without Matatu at his side, like going on a journey without a St. Christopher. Matatu was his good-luck charm. He put that thought out of his mind, and looked round the crowded Mess.
'Can you all see?' Sean had tacked the maps up on the bulkhead. There was a chorus of assent.
'We are heading up here.' He prodded the map. 'And the mission is to pick up two prisoners, a woman and a child.' There were groans and raspberries of mock disappointment, and Sean grinned.
'It's OK, don't panic. There'll be plenty of gooks. It's hot guns all the way, gentlemen, and open season.' The groans turned to ironic cheers, and Sean waited for them to settle down.
'This is a sketch-map of the target area. As you can see, it's pretty rough, but it gives you some idea of what to expect. I expect to find the prisoners being held in this compound here, near the beach. Probably in this hut. I will lead the rescue party. We will go in with three of the boats.' He noticed Esau Gondele squatting on one of the bunks with a South African naval commando squashed up on each side of him. The three of them were sharing a cigarette, passing the butt from hand to hand as they listened to his briefing. 'What price apartheid now?' Sean smiled to himself, and went on.
'If there is going to be any serious trouble, it's going to come down this road alongside the. river from the terrorist camp near the airstrip, here and here. Sergeant-Major Gondele will lead the support unit up the river in the other three boats and set up a road-block to prevent any gooks coming through. You will have to hold there for thirty minutes after you hear the first shot fired. That will give us time to spring the prisoners. Then you pull out and get back down-river and hotfoot out to sea to RZ with Lancer.
It's simple, and it must be quick. We aren't going to hang around a second longer than necessary, but if you can sort out a few of the uglies while you are about it nobody is going to complain. OK, now we'll go over it again in detail and tomorrow we'll practise launching the boats and recovering them again in rough water. We'll do that every day, plus weapons drill and equipment checks - you aren't going to have much time to write home before we hit the beach on the night of Tuesday the thirteenth. Keep that date open. Write it down.'.
The commercial flight landed at Kinshasa in the middle of a tropical downpour. Rainwater cascaded down the windows as the aircraft taxied to its berth, and Isabella was soaked in the few seconds that it took to leave the aircraft and board the airport bus.
As she had been promised, there was someone to meet her as she came through the Customs and Immigration barrier. He was a good-looking young pilot in plain khaki flying-overalls without any insignia or rank. When he greeted her in Spanish she was able to detect the Cuban accent, now that she knew to listen for it.
He insisted on carrying her suitcase and the box of gifts for Nicky and flirted with her brazenly in the ramshackle* taxi that drove them from the main airport building down to the private and charter section of the airfield.
By the time they got there, the rain had stopped. Although heavy cloud still covered the sky, it was stiflingly hot and humid. He loaded her luggage into the back compartment of a small single-engine aircraft. She did not recognize the type. It carried no insignia other than an enigmatic number, and was painted an overall drab sandy colour.
'Are we going to fly in this weather?' she asked him. 'Isn't it dangerous?' 'Ah, sehora, if you die you will die in my arms - what a glorious passing!' As soon as they were airborne he placed his hand on her thigh, the better to point out the passing scenery.
'Keep your hands on the wheel. Keep your eyes on the road.' She lifted his hand and gave it back to him. He flashed his teeth and his eyes and laughed as though he had made a conquest.
She could not remain angry for long. Every minute they kept on this heading confirmed the fact that she was being taken to the base where last she had seen Nicky. Two hours later she made out the grey expanse of the Atlantic beneath the lowering cloud-banks ahead.
The pilot turned south along the coast, and then she sat up straight in the seat and her spirits took wing. She recognized the oxbows in the river and the open mouth to the sea. The pilot pulled on flap and lined up for a landing on the red clay strip.
Nicky, she thought. Soon now, my baby. Soon we'll be free again.
As they taxied in, she saw him. He was standing on the front seat of the jeep. He had shot up at least another two inches, and his legs seemed too gawky and coltish for his body. His hair was longer than she remembered and curled out from under his camo-cap, but his eyes were the same. That marvelous clear green that sparkled even at this distance. As soon as he recognized her behind the windscreen, he waved both hands over his head, and his teeth flashed in the darkly tanned and beautiful face.
In the jeep with him were the driver and Josd, the Cuban paratrooper. They were grinning as widely as Nicky as she climbed out of the front seat of the aircraft.
Nicky jumped out of the jeep and ran to meet her. For a heady moment she thought he might rush into her arms, then he got control of himself and offered her his hand.
'Welcome, Mamma.' She thought the strength of her love might choke her. 'It is good to see you again.' 'Hello, Nicky.' Her voice was husky. 'You have grown so much I hardly recognized you. You are becoming a man now.' It was the right thing to say. He hooked his thumbs into his belt and called imperiously to Josd and the driver: 'Come and take my mother's luggage.'
'Right away, General Pele.'Josd gave him a mock salute, and then to Isabella: 'Greetings, sefiora. We have been looking forward to your visit.' I'm everybody's favourite aunt now, Isabella thought cynically.
From her box of goodies she gave Jose and the driver each a two-hundred pack of Marlboro cigarettes, and her popularity was enhanced a hundredfold.
In Angola, Western cigarettes were hard currency.
As Nicholas drove them down to the beach he chattered happily, and though she showed flattering interest in everything he had done and achieved since their last meeting she was checking her surroundings with a much more businesslike eye than she had previously. She realized that she had made serious errors in the sketch-map that she had drawn for Sean. The training base had been enlarged since her last visit. There must now be several thousand soldiers here, and she saw some kind of artillery parked under camouflage-nets. They looked like long-barrelled antiaircraft guns. Further on she noticed parked trucks with dish-shaped radar antennae pointed skyward, and she thought of her father and Garry bringing the Lear in overhead. There was no way to warn them of these changes.
When they reached the beach compound, Isabella checked the distance registered on the speedometer. It was only 3.e kilometres from the airstrip to the beach - much closer than she had estimated. She wondered just how this might endanger the rescue operation. Reinforcements could be rushed in more swiftly than Sean had allowed for.
Josd carried her luggage into the guard-house. Waiting for her were the same two women who had met her before. However, their attitude was friendlier and more informal.
'I have brought you a gift,' Isabella greeted them, and gave them each a bottle of perfume which she had chosen for size rather than for subtle aroma. They were delighted and sprayed themselves so liberally that the air in the room was difficult to breathe. It was some minutes before they
