The Watchman

Thirty-Five

The shot was a fluke, Piet de Bont figured. Nobody got that good first time, not against a moving target high overhead. It zinged off one of the wheel struts and set off a vibration through the framework, and that was close enough for him.

‘Bastard!’ He automatically put the nose down, taking the microlight to starboard while searching below for signs of drifting gun smoke. He’d been shot at enough times by poachers to know the signs, and most were merely a warning to stay away. The poachers knew he was in no position to shoot back. They also knew he had radio contact with his base at the KWS and experience told them that it would take time for an armed patrol to get out here. By then they’d be long gone.

But this was different. There were no poachers in this immediate area so close to the border — he’d already checked. And the sudden appearance of a bullet hole in the fabric of the wing just above his head meant this was no warning. They were shooting for real.

They wanted him dead.

The engine howled as he struggled to lose height fast enough while getting as far away from the shooter as possible. Over-committing and folding everything around him wouldn’t do him any good; with over a thousand feet to go he’d be dead. He looked down, checking for signs of a vehicle; the poachers didn’t walk in to pursue their trade, but drove in and out, ready to move fast if a patrol showed up.

Nothing. The heat haze was making everything shimmer, and although he thought he caught a glimpse of a pickup at one point, he’d shifted position before he could zero in on it.

He aimed for a point about a kilometre away, dropping as fast as he dared to give the shooter the impression that he was damaged and going in hard. He wasn’t too concerned about the hole; the fabric was unlikely to tear unless it got hit on the trailing edge, then it would rip right through. But damage to the frame was more serious. No frame, no flight.

End of game.

As he coasted in above a section of narrow track, he felt his cell phone buzzing in his breast pocket. Not his base, then; they’d have used the radio. Had to be Portman. He focussed on the ground ahead as the wheels clipped some long grass at the side of the track. It was safe to land here and he’d got a fuel and water cache nearby for emergencies. He came to a stop and leapt out, reaching for his rifle. If the shooter decided to come visit and finish him off, he’d be in for a surprise. Piet knew the bush and was expert at using the most minimal of cover as camouflage. After spending a couple of years on border patrol with the South African NDF, dodging poachers, smugglers and groups of armed intruders, often out for a couple of weeks at a time, he could vanish as effectively as any wild game.

He took out his cell phone and rolled beneath the cover of a dried thorn bush.

‘Yeah, what?’

‘You OK? I heard shots.’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. What makes you think they were firing at me?’

Portman relayed the brief conversation he’d overheard in the villa.

Piet muttered an oath. ‘I thought it was poachers. What the hell are these people doing? The moment I get on the radio, they’ll have the KWS, army and border patrols all over them.’ He took the phone away from his ear for a moment to listen for sounds of an approaching vehicle, but everything was quiet save for the buzz of insects.

‘I don’t think they were giving it much thought. There’s a man named Xasan, a middleman, whose nominally in charge but he doesn’t look like he’s getting much respect from the men. He was probably trying to show how tough he is.’

‘Well, my wing’s got a hole in it and I’m pretty sure there’s a dent on one of my struts, so your Mr Xasan had better get ready; if I get him in my sights he’s a dead man. Daisy cost me good money!’

Portman’s dry chuckle echoed down the line. ‘Good to hear you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’

‘Not yet, I haven’t. So what’s happening with you?’

‘Not much. A lot of talk, but I think somebody else is due to come in. Could be why they’re jumpy. Stay in touch.’

‘Will do.’ Piet switched off.