Ilse nodded. 'There are a lot of really nice species here.' She'd seen a crested guinea fowl once, and an osprey nest full of young.
'I feel like we oughta say something,' Jeffrey said. 'As far as I know we're the first Allied troops to land in occupied southern Africa.'
'Lafayette, we are here, or something,' Clayton said. 'Anyway, Ilse,' Jeffrey said, 'for what it's worth, welcome home.'
Ilse's breathing was steady and hard, and so was her perspiration. The grade averaged 10 percent as they worked their way inland, and her equipment weighed forty pounds. She couldn't complain, though — the men were all carrying twice that. They formed single file on a trail, one of the reserve's walking paths — this would mean fewer surprises. Sight lines were still short, from the rain and the plant life. If they moved through the sandy underbrush instead — normal tactics in bush — with the noise of the wind and flailing branches they could blunder into a patrol, triggering a chaotic encounter battle. A stand-up fire fight now would ruin everything.
In a few minutes they did hear a patrol coming, from the other direction, upwind. The men were talking in Afrikaans, not happy being out in the storm. Ilse and Jeffrey and the SEALs moved off the trail at a bend. They blended with the terrain, using dips in the ground and deadfall. Jeffrey found her a good spot behind a broad strelitzia tree, then he silently crawled away. Ilse pressed her cheek low, trying to meld with the dune. The smell of the mulch was intense. Heavy raindrops pattered her backside, falling through leaves overhead.
'A perfect L-shaped ambush site,' she heard Jeffrey say, just audible on the circuit.
'I know,' Clayton whispered inside her helmet. 'It's a shame to just let them go by.' The patrol got closer and closer. Ilse tried not to breathe. One Boer said something vulgar, another snickered coarsely. Ilse was sure she'd be spotted, her heart was sending such hammerblows through the ground. An insect stung her neck, a burning that grew sharper as it fed. A snake slithered over her ankles. She waited to feel the kick of a boot, the prodding of a gun barrel, the jab of a bayonet. She waited for the stutter and flash of assault rifles, the full-auto spray of hard pointy bullets that would shred foliage and her flesh.
Soon the enemy squad was past, oblivious to their presence. The gale broke too many stalks and twigs, and the rain flushed the gravel-strewn trail — the SEAL team's spoor went unnoticed.
'Nine, Six, status,' Clayton said when the soldiers could no longer be heard.
'Six, Nine, wait one.' Then, 'They're not sneaking back. Rear is secure.'
'Be careful,' Jeffrey said. 'They might have been noisy on purpose. There may be another squad further on, hoping they've put us off guard.'
'I concur,' Clayton said. 'You all heard the man, stay focused.' On Clayton's word they each drank an entire canteen so the water wouldn't slosh. They moved out again, cautiously, falling in line by the numbers. They headed west, paralleling the river. After a measured number of paces they turned south, into the Hawaan Nature Reserve. The way grew even steeper, the ground more soil than sand. Ilse's breathing came hard.
'Six, Four,' Jeffrey said, 'a helo's coming.'
'Four, Six, I don't hear it yet.'
'Six and Four, Five,' Ilse said, 'shouldn't we just ignore it?'
'Five, Four,' Jeffrey said, 'you're right. We'll look like a normal patrol, an extra because of the storm. I doubt they have the connectivity to validate us or not.'
'Concur,' Clayton said. 'All numbers keep moving.' SEAL One, Ilse knew, had the point. He carried a small ground-penetrating radar, for detecting land mines and booby traps, buried or fastened to trees. It would also give some indication of metal weapons to the flanks or the front, and by changing modes One could scan for tunnels and foxholes.
So far they'd bypassed ten mines, all plastic, sweep-resistant types sized to maim, not kill. Each time SEAL One found a mine the person behind him would kneel by it to warn all the others. That person let everyone else go by, resting in the meantime — if you could call that resting. Then he took position in front of Nine, who constantly brought up the rear.
Jeffrey had just had mine guard duty again, so Ilse walked behind SEAL One. The next booby trap would be hers. The helo passed low overhead, hovered up there past the acacia tops, then tore away in the dark. 'Eight, Six,' Ilse heard, 'did you copy their traffic?' 'Six, Eight, negative. Everything's deeply encrypted.' 'Pick up the pace,' Clayton said.
The terrain was getting rocky, and Ilse's legs were very sore. She reminded herself the whole hike to the Sharks Board was barely three miles — it seemed like forever already. She passed some eucalyptuses, then erica, protea, heather. She finally broached the plateau. Suddenly Ilse saw One freeze. She paused and then moved toward him, since he didn't give her the danger sign. All she had to do now was crouch and point at the mine, as she'd done once before, but she still felt nervous as hell.
SEAL One hit the deck and crawled forward, his mine detector abandoned, his machine pistol gripped in both hands. 'Contact, contact, contact,' he whispered. Ilse dropped to the ground. She knew he hadn't been spotted, since she didn't hear any shots. But then she remembered their weapons were silenced — could the Boers have silencers too?
'One, Six, report,' Clayton said.
'Six, One, disregard, clear.' Then One added, 'Oh Christ.' Ilse crawled up and joined him behind a wild almond tree, lugging the mine detector, her pistol out in her hand. Through her visor she saw what One had spotted. Ahead was a clearing with benches, one of the arboretum's picnic areas. Near its center some mannequins twirled in the wind. Then she saw they weren't mannequins. Each body hung a half meter or so from the ground. All of them were naked. Three were men, two were women, all Caucasian. Their hands were tied behind their backs. Nooses were tight round their necks, simple slipknots, nothing fancy, the ropes fastened to a stout oak tree branch. The heads were cocked inanely at different angles, one woman looking down with her chin near her chest, as if she were shy or had watched herself as she died.
Both women's hair had been braided, crudely, to keep it out of the way. Their legs were also bound snugly at knees and ankles, so they bent slightly. For some reason the men's legs weren't tied — they pointed straight down toward the ground, their now-useless genitals dangling between. From the way each corpse twisted and swung, Ilse could tell they were stiff, though the women's breasts jiggled strangely as their feet jostled each other, no rigor mortis in the fat underlying their nipples.
From the look of the bodies their flat bellies, they all appeared fairly young, fit. Maybe they were troops who'd spoken out one time too often. Maybe the others in their unit had been made to watch in the clearing, or even to yank the benches out from under them. Did they hang them all at once, or one at a time so the remaining victims could watch and listen? Ilse knew it could take five or ten minutes before each stopped struggling completely, and then they'd hang limp, hips cocked slightly forward, buttocks and members relaxed. As Clayton and SEALs One and Seven scouted, Ilse moved toward the corpses. Their faces were horribly swollen and dark, eyes bulging blindly, tongues sticking out, giving them from the neck up an odd uniformity, androgynous, sexless. Ilse looked farther down, fascinated in spite of herself. From the length of one woman's pubic hair, either she trimmed it frequently or she couldn't be more than sixteen — Ilse could make out the cleft of her crotch, as rainwater streaked down her thighs.
Ilse realized Jeffrey was standing next to her now, also staring. This had happened recently, probably the evening before — the bodies weren't bloated yet, and there wasn't much of a smell. If they'd lost control of their bowels and bladders while led to the gibbet or on it, the deluge had washed it away. If the men came hard like some did, there wasn't a trace of it now. But the associations were too strong for her. Ilse turned to Jeffrey and buried her head, helmet and all, in his chest.
'Use the anger,' Jeffrey said, holding her, stroking her back. 'Feel it stirring your blood.'
DOWNTOWN DURBAN
Gunther Van Gelder ordered another straight gin. This wasn't recommended for people recovering from heatstroke, but he needed something to deaden his mind. The cabaret was noisy and crowded, full of tobacco smoke and wild people, and the raunchy floor show music blared. Given the late hour and very strict curfew, the customers were all military officers, high-powered politicos, and women they'd brought as their dates. Several
