In line astern, they churned through the heavy sand, following in the wheel ruts of Job’s Unimog, winding up the river-course for half a mile before they reached the first obstacle.

  It required the combined efforts of all forty men to heave and shove the trucks up the first rocky chute in the riverbed, and even then they had to cut twenty-foot-long mopane poles and use them as levers to prise the wheels up over the larger boulders.

  The powerful truck motors bellowed in high revolutions, blue diesel smoke billowed from the exhausts and Sean remarked to Job, ‘An open invitation to every Frelimo within twenty miles to join the party.’ Then he checked his wrist watch. ‘We are falling behind our schedule.’

  They tried to make up time along the easier stretches of the river-course, but the sunset and darkness caught them still almost twenty kilometres from the main east-to-west road between the sea and the border post at Umtali.

  Nightfall made the journey more arduous. Sean dared not use the trucks’ headlights, and they had to proceed in darkness alleviated only by starlight and a moon in its last quarter.

  It was after midnight before they could at last leave the riverbed by negotiating a low spot in the bank. With four men walking ahead of the lead truck to guide it around ant-bear holes and other concealed obstacles, they struck out directly southwards and within two hours had intersected the overgrown disused track that Alphonso had told Sean about.

  Sean called a halt and they spread the field map on the bonnet of the lead truck and by flashlight studied it anxiously.

  ‘We are here,’ Alphonso told him. ‘This track runs up to an old asbestos mine, it was abandoned by the Portuguese in 1963 at the start of the Frelimo war.’

  ‘We’ll rest up here,’ Sean decided. ‘Get the trucks off the road and covered with branches. We must expect the Hinds to over-fly us sometime tomorrow. No cooking-fires, no smoking.’

  At four o’clock that afternoon, they woke those still asleep and ate a hasty meal of cold rations. Sean ordered the journey to be resumed and they stripped the camouflage from the trucks. They boarded the entire raiding party except for the four men who walked ahead of the leading truck, examining the ancient overgrown wheel-ruts of the track for Frelimo anti-vehicle landmines, probing any suspicious lump or hollow with a bayonet before waving the column forward.

  The sun was just setting when they at last came in sight of the main road, its macadamized surface snaking through the open forest and winding around the scattered kopjes. Sean halted the column well back out of sight of the road and went forward with Job, leaving Alphonso in command.

  From the top of a commanding hillock they kept the road under observation until it was fully dark. During that time two patrols passed, both heading eastwards, each comprised of three or four battered and dusty Unimogs packed with armed men in Zimbabwean combat gear, and with an RPD light machine-gun mounted above the cab.

  They rumbled along with strict intervals of a hundred metres between vehicles and watching them through the binoculars Sean remarked, ‘Well, at least we look like the real thing.’

  ‘Except for your pale face,’ Job pointed out.

  ‘A birth defect,’ Sean apologized. ‘But I’ll keep it out of sight until it’s needed.’

  They scrambled down from the hilltop and trudged back along the track to the hidden trucks.

  ‘From here you are on your own,’ Sean told Ferdinand, the driver. ‘Do try to remember to put the clutch in before you change into bottom gear, you’ll find it a great help.’

  Dressed in the uniform of the deceased guards major, Sean climbed into the back of the cab, behind Job’s driving seat. The space was barely sufficient to contain him, he had to twist his shoulders at an angle from his hips and sit flat on the metal floorboards. It was uncomfortable to begin with, but Sean knew that within a few hours it would become agony. However, he was out of sight and yet able to communicate with Job merely by raising his voice.

  Without headlights, the column drove the last mile to the juncture with the main road. The scouts they had sent ahead whistled that the road was clear and they raced forward and swung onto the macadamized surface, heading westwards towards the border.

  As soon as they were safely onto the highway, they switched on the headlights and dropped their speed to fifty kilometres an hour, and adjusted their spacing to the regulation hundred-metre intervals. To an observer they were just another Zimbabwean mechanized patrol.

  ‘So far, so good,’ Job called over the back of the seat to where Sean was hiding.

  ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Seven minutes past eight.’

  ‘Perfect, we’ll hit the border post just after ten, when the guards are thinking of going off duty.’

  The hundred kilometres to the border seemed much further. The metal floorboards of the cab were corrugated and cut into Sean’s buttocks, transferring the impact of every pothole in the neglected highway up his spine into his skull.

  ‘Get under the tarp! Border post ahead!’ Job called at last.

  ‘Not too bloody soon,’ Sean assured him as the truck slowed and the overhead floodlights flooded the cab. Sean pulled the tarpaulin over his head and sank down as low as he could below the seatback.

  He felt the truck brake and trundle to a halt. Job switched off the engine and opened the door of the cab.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ he muttered, as he stepped down from the cab.

  Neither of them knew what to expect. The border formalities must surely be relaxed to accommodate the interchange of troops guarding the railway line. Job was dressed for the part and in possession of a genuine army pay book and ID. The truck’s registration papers were likewise genuine and yet they could be compromised by some small unforeseen detail or by an alert border guard.

  If anything went wrong, Job would give a single long blast on his whistle and they would shoot their way out. All the rifles and rocket-launchers were loaded, and the RPD machine-guns on the cabs were manned.

  As the minutes drew out so Sean’s nerves stretched tighter. He expected at any moment the shrilling of Job’s whistle and the shouting and the gunfire.

  Then at last there was the crunch of footsteps in gravel and the voices of Job and a stranger approaching the truck. Both doors of the cab opened and Sean tried to shrink himself as the truck tipped slightly under the weight of more than one man climbing aboard.

  ‘Where do you want me to drop you off?’ Job asked casually in Shona, and a voice Sean had never heard before replied, ‘At the edge of town. I’ll tell you where.’

  Sean turned his head a stealthy inch and through the gap between the seats saw the blue serge cloth of a customs inspector’s uniform. With horror, he realized that Job was giving an off-duty inspector a lift into Umtali.

  The truck pulled forward and the inspector lowered the side window and shouted to the guards on the barrier.

  ‘It’s all right, open!’ And as they accelerated ahead, Sean had a glimpse of the raised barrier through the window. He had to cover his mouth to prevent himself laughing aloud with relief and triumph.

  On the back of the Unimog, the troopers seemed infected by the same reckless spirit of abandon. They were singing as the column wound down the hill to the town of Umtali. Job was casually discussing with the customs inspector the merits of the Stardust Night Club, and the price of a short time with one of the bar girls.

  ‘Tell Bodo, the barman at the Stardust, that you are a friend of mine,’ the inspector advised Job when they dropped him off on the outskirts of the town. ‘He’ll get a special price for you, and tell you which of the girls have the clap and which ones are clean.’

  As they pulled away, Sean could at last crawl out from behind the seat and slump gratefully into the passenger seat.

  ‘What the hell kind of trick was that?’ he complained. ‘You damn nearly gave me a hernia.’

  ‘What better way to get VIP treatment,’ Job chuckled, ‘than to have the head of the customs service as a pal. You should have seen the guards at the border saluting us!’

  ‘Where is this night club?’

  ‘Not far, we’ll be there before eleven.’

  They drove in silence for a few minutes while Sean rehearsed the next order he had to give. He waited until Job turned the truck into a dimly lit side street and switched off the engine. In the side mirror, Sean watched the other two Unimogs pull in behind them, cut their engines and switch off their headlights.

  ‘Back home again,’ Job chuckled. ‘Nothing to it.’

  ‘Back home,’ Sean agreed. ‘And back home is where you are going to stay.’

  There was a long silence and then Job turned his head and looked at Sean thoughtfully.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘This is the end of the road for us, Job. You aren’t coming to Grand Reef, you aren’t high-jacking any Stingers, and you sure as hell aren’t coming back to Mozambique with me.’

  ‘You’re firing me?’ Job asked.

  ‘That’s it, pal. I’ve got no more use for you.’

  Sean took a small wad of Zimbabwe dollars, part of the expense money General China had provided, and offered it to Job. ‘Get rid of that uniform as soon as you can. If they catch you in it, they’ll shoot you. Take the next train back to Harare and go see Reema at the office. She’s holding about four thousand dollars in back pay and bonus for you. That will be enough to tide you over until Capo Monterro’s estate pays out the money it owes us. My lawyers will handle that. You will be entitled to half of it . . .’

  Job ignored the proffered money. ‘You remember that day on Hill 31?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Shit, Job, don’t pull that sob stuff on me.’

  ‘You came back for me,’ Job said.

  ‘Because sometimes I’m just a bloody fool.’

  ‘Me too,’ Job smiled. ‘Sometimes I’m just a bloody fool.’

  ‘Listen, Job, this is not your shauri any more. There is nothing in it for you. Get out. Go back to your village, buy yourself another couple of pretty young wives with Capo’s dollars. Sit in the sun and drink a few pots of beer.’

  ‘Nice try, Sean. Pity it didn’t work. I’m coming back with you.’

  ‘I’m giving you a direct order.’

  ‘I’m refusing to obey it, so convene a court-martial.’

  Sean laughed and shook his head. ‘She’s my woman, so it’s okay for me to risk my life.’

  ‘I’ve been nursemaiding you for almost twenty years and I’m not giving up now,’ Job said, and opened the cab door. ‘Let’s go and find Cuthbert in his Superman suit.’

  Sean left his cap and tunic on the seat, the insignia of a famous regiment would be out of place in a cheap night club. The Stardust was at the end of the lane in a converted furniture factory, a barn-like building with all its windows blacked out. They could hear the music from a hundred paces out, the hypnotic repetitive beat of the new wave African jazz.

  Women clustered around the entrance. In the overhead light their dresses were as colourful as butterfly wings. Their hairstyles were flocculant afros, or the intricate beaded dreadlocks of the Rastafarians, their faces painted into death masks of rouge and purple lipsticks with iridescent green eyelids like iguana lizards.

  They swarmed around Sean and Job, rubbing themselves against them like cats.

  ‘Hey man, get me in!’ they pleaded. ‘Give me five dollars to get in, darling, I’ll dance with you and jig-jig, man. Everything.’

  ‘Come on, whitey.’ A child with a tender immature body in a shiny dress of cheap nylon, the face of a black Madonna and ancient weary eyes, seized Sean’s arm. ‘Take me with you and I’ll give you something you’ve never had before.’ She reached down the front of Sean’s body and cupped her hand to fondle him. Sean took her wrist and restrained her.

  ‘What have you got that I’ve never had before, sweetheart? Aids?’

  They pushed their way through the rustling nylon skirts and clouds of cheap perfume and at the door paid their five dollars. The doorman stamped their wrists with an indelible dye in lieu of an entrance ticket and they ducked through the black curtain.

  The music was a stunning, painful assault, the lights were revolving strobes and ultra-violet. The dance floor pulsated with humanity transformed into a single primitive organism, like some gigantic amoeba.

  ‘Where is the bar?’ Sean bellowed into Job’s ear.

  ‘I’m a stranger here myself.’ Job seized his arm and they struggled through the engulfing sea of light and sound and gyrating bodies.

  The faces around them were transported as in religious fervour, eyeballs rolled glaring white in the rays of the ultra-violet lamps, sweat glistened on upraised arms and streamed in rivulets down jet-black cheeks.

  They reached the bar. ‘Don’t risk the whisky!’ Job yelled. ‘And make them open the beer in front of you.’

  They drank directly from the cans, besieged in a corner of the bar with the ocean of humanity pressing hard against them.

  There were a few white faces, all male, tourists and peace corps and military advisors, but most of the clientele were black soldiers still in uniform so that Sean and Job blended into their surroundings.

  ‘Where are you, Cuthbert, in your Superman shirt?’ Sean pushed away one of the more persistent bar girls, and peered over the heads of the dancers. ‘We’ll never find him in here.’

  ‘Ask one of the barmen,’ Job suggested.

  ‘Good thinking.’ Sean reached across and grabbed the front of the barman’s shirt to get his attention, and then stuck a five-dollar bank note into his top pocket and shouted the question in his ear.

  The barman grinned and yelled back, ‘Wait! I find him.’

  Ten minutes later, they saw Cuthbert working his way down the bar towards them, a skinny little man and the Superman tee-shirt was at least two sizes too large for him.

  ‘Hey, Cuthbert, anybody ever tell you that you look like Sammy Davis Junior?’ Sean greeted him.

  ‘All the time man, man.’ Cuthbert looked pleased, Sean had obviously picked out his pet vanity.

  ‘Your uncle sends his love, can we go somewhere to talk?’ Sean suggested as they shook hands.

  ‘Best place to talk is here,’ Cuthbert answered. ‘Nobody else going to hear a thing you say. Get me a beer, can’t talk with a dry throat.’

  Cuthbert downed half his beer at a draught and then asked, breathless from the effort, ‘You were supposed to be here last night. Where you been, man?’

  ‘We were delayed.’

  ‘You should have been here last night. Would have been easy, man. Tonight, well, tonight is different.’

  ‘What has changed?’ Sean asked with a sink of dread in his chest.

  ‘Everything changed,’ Cuthbert said. ‘The Hercules arrived 1700 hours. Come to pick up the goods.’

  ‘Has it left yet?’ Sean demanded anxiously.

  ‘Don’t know for sure. She was still there when I left the base at 2000 hours. Sitting out there in front of number three hangar. Perhaps she still there now, perhaps she long gone. Who knows?’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ Sean said. ‘That’s a great help.’

  ‘That’s not all, man.’ Cuthbert clearly enjoyed being the bearer of evil tidings.

  ‘Hit us with it, Cuthbert.’

  He finished the beer in another long swallow and held up the empty can. Sean ordered another and Cuthbert waited for it, drawing out the suspense masterfully.

  ‘Two full para-commandos of the Fifth Brigade came down from Harare in the Hercules. They real cool, those Fifth Brigade cats,’ Cuthbert said with relish. ‘They real mean dudes, no shit.’

  ‘Cuthbert, you’ve been watching too much “Miami Vice” on television,’ Sean accused, but he was worried. The Fifth Brigade were the elite of the Zimbabwean army, converted by their North Korean instructors into ruthlessly efficient killing machines. Two full para-commandos of a hundred men each, added to the standing garrison of Third Brigade troops, almost a thousand crack veterans on base.

  ‘Your uncle says you are going to take us in, Cuthbert. Pass us through the gates.’

  ‘No way, man!’ Cuthbert was vehement. ‘Not with those Fifth Brigade cats in there.’

  ‘Your uncle will be pissed off with you, Cuthbert. He’s a pretty cool cat himself, man, Uncle China is.’ Sean imitated Cuthbert’s hip jargon.

  Cuthbert looked worried. ‘Man, I’ve fixed your pass,’ he explained hurriedly. ‘You’ll have no trouble getting in. The guards are expecting you. You don’t need me, man. No sense I should compromise myself, no sense at all.’

  ‘You’ve got the pass here?’

  ‘Right on. The password too. You’ll have no trouble.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ Sean took Job’s arm and steered him towards the door. ‘That Hercules could take off any time.’

  Cuthbert hurried between them down the lane to where the three Unimogs were parked.

  ‘Here’s the pass.’ He handed the plastic-covered card to Sean, it was slashed with a scarlet ‘Top Priority’ cross.

  ‘The password is a number, “fifty-seven”, and your reply is “Samora Machel”. Then you show the pass and sign the book. Simple as a pimple, man. You in like Flynn.’

  ‘I’ll tell your uncle that you couldn’t bring yourself to come with us.’

  ‘Hey, give me a break, will you? No sense me getting culled, man. I’m more use to my uncle alive and kicking than dead meat.’

  ‘Cuthbert, you are wasted in signals, you definitely should be on television.’ Sean shook hands with him and watched him scurry back into the Stardust Club.

  There were clusters of women around the back of each of the three trucks, giggling and joking with the troopers who hung out over the tail-gates. One of the girls was climbing aboard, boosted by eager hands, her mini-skirt rucked up high on her long thin black legs.

  ‘Get those whores out of there, Sergeant,’ Job snapped at Alphonso, and the women around the tail-gates scattered and three or four others descended hastily from the backs of the Unimogs with their skimpy clothing in varying stages of disarray.