?I will. Seven, eight??
?Okay, okay,? said the pilot as he and his colleague walked over the rim of the riverbank with their hands up.
?Stand away from the weapons,? said Mpayipheli, and they all moved back a few steps. He shoved Little Joe up the bank so he could see the helicopter better. The soldier was unsteady on his feet but still mumbled, ?Shoot him,? and Mpayipheli said, ?You don'?t want me to hit you again,? and the mumbling stopped.
They stood, the fugitive with his hostage, the other five in a bunch.
In his head a clock ticked.
Had the pilot got a message out? How much blood had he lost? When would he feel the light-headedness, the loss of concentration, and the loss of control?
?Listen carefully,? he said. ?We have a bad situation. don'?t make it worse.?
No response.
?Is his name Joe??
Da Costa was the one to nod.
He felt the armor of the Kevlar vest under Little Joe?s shirt. He chose his words carefully. ?The first shot goes in Joe?s shoulder. The second in his leg. You understand??
They did not answer.
?You three?? he gestured with the barrel??get the motorbike.?
They just stood there.
?Hurry up,? he said, and pressed the barrel against Little Joe?s shoulder joint.
The soldiers moved down to the bottom of the bridge.
?You haven?t got a chance,? said the pilot, and Thobela knew then for sure the man had used the radio.
?You have thirty seconds!? he screamed at the three at the motorbike. ?You?? he motioned to the copilot??fetch the helmet and my suit. They are over there. And if I think you are wasting time ??
The man?s eyes were wide; he jogged off, past the men struggling to push the motorbike up the incline.
?Help them to get it in the helicopter,? he said to the pilot.
?You?re fucking insane, man. I?m not flying you anywhere,? and that is when Little Joe suddenly jerked out of his grasp with a drop and a twist of the shoulders and dove toward the pile of weapons on the ground. Thobela followed him with the Heckler?s barrel as if in slow motion, saw him grab a machine pistol, roll over, fingers working the mechanisms with consummate skill. He saw the barrel turn toward him, saw everyone else frozen, and he said softly to himself, once, ?No,? and then his finger pressed the trigger as the choice was no longer to shoot or not, but to live, to survI've. The shots cracked; he aimed for the bulletproof vest, and Little Joe jerked backward, Mpayipheli moved toward Little Joe, right leg caving in (how much damage?), and jerked the weapon out of the young soldier?s hands, threw his own down, looked up. The others still stood transfixed; he looked down, three shots were harmlessly to the chest, and one was in the neck, ugly, blood spurting.
He took a deep breath; he must control himself. And them.
?He needs to get to the hospital. You determine how fast,? he said. ?Load the bike.?
They were shocked now.
?Move. He will die.?
Little Joe groaned.
The GS was at the open door of the Oryx.
?Help them,? he said to the pilot.
?don'?t shoot,? said the copilot, coming up the bank with the helmet and clothes.
?Put it in.?
The four battled with the heavy machine, but the adrenaline in their arteries helped them lift first the front and then the back.
?Do you have first aid equipment??
Cupido nodded.
?Put a pressure bandage on his neck. Tight.?
He walked to the Oryx, his steps wobbly, the pain in his hip throbbing and sharp, demanding. He knew he was nearly out of time.
?We must go,? he said, looking at the two air force pilots.
34.
In the second Oryx, which stood beside the R.64, halfway between Dealesville and Boshof, Captain Tiger Mazibuko was the one who heard the emergency signal. ?Mayday Mayday Mayday. They are shooting here below, I think we?ve found him??
And then it was quiet.
First, he shouted outside where the helicopter crew stood around, smoking and chatting to the other members of Team Alpha. ?Come!? he screamed, and then over the radio: ?Where are you? Come in. Where are you??
