Skeletor stared back.
Thomas, caught in the middle, tried to defuse the sudden build up of tension: ‘Skeletor, you forgot the magic word.’
‘Now!’ Skeletor screamed.
‘Yes, sir.’ Maxwell spoke evenly, betraying nothing as he turned the key in the ignition.
Like a chain smoker getting out of bed, the truck wheezed and spluttered to life. Then it coughed, shuddered and died.
‘Engine’s still cold.’ Maxwell tried the key again, this time revving repeatedly to keep the engine going, and jammed the gear stick into first.
They were off, crackling over gravel.
Skeletor settled back into his seat, pushing Thomas’s arm out of the way to get more comfortable.
Thomas made no comment. He hadn’t joined the army to fight with anyone.
They puttered past rows of bungalows where troopies were only now emerging for another day of patrols, boot polishing and 2.4-kilometre runs. A guard gave a half-hearted salute as they passed through the gates.
Then they were in the desert, rocks and sand speeding by.
As the sun rose, gently warming the cab, Thomas felt his tiredness begin to thaw. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. Here they were, three guys with a full tank of petrol, heading far away from Moon Base Alpha. He had weed. In his pocket was the mysterious pink envelope, a treat he was saving for when he had a moment to himself. With a little luck, he might even have time to do some drawing.
Skeletor may not have been the most sensitive soul in the world, but he must also have been touched by the significance of the occasion. He looked back over his shoulder and gave a wistful sigh. ‘I’m going to miss that place.’
‘Me too,’ Thomas murmured, ‘like I’d miss a hole in my head.’
It didn’t take long for the rising sun to make a sauna of the truck as they headed east, following the straight line of sand that was their road.
Thomas, stuck between Skeletor and Maxwell, was already sweating heavily, but at least he wasn’t out on patrol. To liven things up, he said, ‘Hey, do you guys want to play I Spy?’
Skeletor sneered. ‘No.’
‘How about we tell jokes to pass the time?’ Thomas launched into one: ‘An Englishman, an Afrikaner and a Zulu are driving in the desert. All of a sudden their truck breaks down.’
The cab was silent, an invitation, in army terms, for the story to go on.
‘They’re miles from anywhere,’ Thomas continued, ‘with no food, no water, nothing. So they get out and walk – it’s the only thing they can do. They walk for hours and as they’re about to collapse, the Zulu discovers a gold lamp in the sand. He rubs it and a genie appears. The genie tells him the lamp is good for three wishes. So the Zulu says, “I wish I was back home in Durban, drinking a cold beer and surrounded by beautiful women,” and, kazam!, he disappears. Then the Englishman rubs the lamp, wishing that he too was having a drink in Durban, surrounded by beautiful women, and, kazam!, he disappears. Finally, the Afrikaner is left on his own in the desert. He gets hold of the lamp and gives it a rub. He thinks hard before he says, “Ag, I miss my friends so much, I wish they were back here with me.”’
‘Very funny, surfer boy.’ Skeletor wasn’t laughing, and neither was Maxwell.
There was nothing left for Thomas to do but stare blankly at the scenery of scraggly farms and broken fences, and wait. He spent the time wondering about his letter, hoping that soon, maybe when they stopped for a toilet break, he would have enough privacy to read it. He should have read it last night, even if its bright pink presence provoked jeers from the barracks crowd. Growing impatient, he started tapping out a rhythm on the dashboard.
Skeletor slapped his hand away.
Turning to his right, Thomas said, ‘So, when were you last in Angola?’
‘Two years ago.’ Maxwell gave this answer without taking his eyes off the road. His SADF browns were faded and worn – anonymous. On the sleeves and chest were darker, rectangular patches surrounded by loose threads, places where badges and insignia had been torn off.
‘What’s it like there?’
‘Dangerous.’
Thomas waited for elaboration, but all that came from the driver’s side was the silence of a man in concentration. He didn’t know much about driving, but to him it didn’t look like there was much to concentrate on. The road shot straight ahead, all the way to the horizon. ‘Like how?’ he asked. ‘Is it full of landmines?’
An elbow dug into his ribs.
‘Leave him alone, surfer boy. He’s trying to drive.’ Skeletor craned his neck to read the speedometer. ‘And while we’re at it, you can go faster. We want to get there before the war is over.’
Maxwell kept the truck at the same speed. ‘We might hit a pothole.’
‘I’m not asking you to speed up, boy. I’m
‘Yes, sir.’ Maxwell coaxed the truck’s engine into a low roar, making a motion-blur of the fences marking the roadside.
‘That’s better.’ Skeletor went back to staring out the side window, but not before giving Thomas a conspiratorial smile.
Thomas cringed. He wished he’d had time to warn Maxwell about their companion. But then Maxwell, unsmiling and unblinking, looked like he’d encountered a few Skeletors in his time.
Maxwell spoke: ‘Why do you want to go to Angola?’
‘None of your business,’ Skeletor said.
‘We’re delivering a secret message,’ Thomas blurted out, because to him they were all on the same team, but he received an elbow from Skeletor as he said it.
‘And what is so important about this message that it cannot be transmitted over radio?’
‘Just keep driving,’ Skeletor said.
‘I was wondering the same thing,’ Thomas said, eager to use this opportunity, now that the guy was opening up, to get to know Maxwell. ‘I mean, what’s the point of having codes and things if we don’t use them?’
‘Communist spies are everywhere.’ Skeletor’s words came straight out of an army indoctrination speech. ‘They might be listening in on our radio frequencies.’ He arched his eyebrows at Maxwell. ‘They might even be sitting beside us.’
If Maxwell was rattled by the insinuation, he didn’t sound it. ‘I’ve been in this army six years.’
‘I thought you would have learnt a little respect by now,’ Skeletor countered.
It was left to Thomas to defuse the situation. Leaning between them, he said, ‘Guys, I’ve figured out why they won’t use the radio. It’s typical army logic, isn’t it? Why do something the easy way when you can send three men instead? This mission is one big rondvok.’
‘Watch your language!’ Skeletor’s voice detonated in the close confines of the cab. ‘All you need to know is that this mission is of the utmost importance to national security. You can be sure of that. Now I’ll have no more nonsense from either of you. Am I understood?’
‘Ja, whatever,’ Thomas muttered, feeling like a scolded child when they were the same age.
‘Yes, sir.’ Maxwell went back to keeping the speeding truck on the road.
‘And put your foot down, boy. Is this really the best you can do?’ Skeletor was answered with a terrible crunch.
Thomas was thrown forward, his nose smacking into the dashboard, his vision turning suddenly into a bright white wall of pain.
‘Jesus!’ Skeletor screeched. ‘What’s happening?’
The truck was spinning freely. From his precarious position, face pressed against the dashboard by centrifugal force, Thomas watched Maxwell’s forearms break out into knots of muscle as he wrestled with the wheel. A slithering noise rose up, a broken tyre struggling to grip sand.
As they bumped off the road, Thomas bounced back into his seat. They skidded to a halt between the goalposts of two gnarled trees. The smell of scorched rubber filled the air. Dust was all around them.
‘Now look what you did.’ Skeletor pressed his hands together and looked heavenwards. ‘You made me take
