The Delta Read Free Page B

cowling and into the screaming turbine engine.
    Sibanda didn’t spare the dying machine a second glance as he pulled himself to his feet and ran.
    Pieces of rotor blades, panels and a human limb sailed past him as the Hind exploded and crashed.
    The ground on which he ran felt hot through the soles of his shoes, and the grass was black here, already consumed by the fire which the rocket attack on the truck had started. He stumbled towards the now charred hulk of the Land Rover. Its driver’s side door had been blown open by the force of the explosion. Sibanda drew the Tokarev pistol from the canvas holster on his belt. He wanted to empty the magazine into the body of the would-be assassin before he reloaded and went looking for whoever had fired the anti-aircraft missile.
    Sibanda raised his right hand as he walked and curled his finger around the trigger.
    â€˜Empty,’ he said out loud, as his eye line followed the barrel of his weapon, sweeping the inside of the burned vehicle. Moving closer he saw a partially burned and melted strand of nylon rope dangling from the steering wheel, and the other end of the severed cord hanging from the brake pedal. It had been lashed. He swore in Shona and looked around him, suddenly feeling very exposed.
    Sonja was up and running before the missile had hit its target. Whether it brought down the helicopter or not, she had to get moving.
    â€˜Fucking set-up,’ she breathed as she returned her attention to the uneven ground in front of her.
    The Javelin was much lighter now that her last remaining projectile was gone, but she couldn’t dump the CLU and empty tube just yet. It dug painfully into her back and kidneys with each jolting step, but she ignored the discomfort, as she had been trained to do so many years earlier by the SAS instructors.
    She held the M4 out in front of her, safety off, and set to semiautomatic. She raised the butt to her shoulder as she approached the pile of branches that covered the Yamaha trail bike. She slowed and circled the hiding place, but saw no sign of any recent approach or departure.
    Sonja slung her rifle across her chest, cleared the branches away, climbed on the motorcycle and kick-started it to life. Releasing the clutch she powered off through the grass, savouring the feel of the breeze and turning her mind to the situation at hand. At the same time she kept a wary eye out for ant-bear holes and other hazards in front of her.
    The Zimbabwean Air Force, to the best of her recollection, had only two serviceable Hind helicopter gunships, of which just one was regularly in service. Both were based in Harare, on the air base that adjoined the international airport. With the country plagued by critical shortages of petrol, diesel and aviation fuel, nothing drove or flew without a very good reason these days. She had been told during her briefing on the country that the air force’s ageing MiG 21 fighter jets were grounded as there was not enough fuel for them to fly from Thornhill Air Base at Gweru in the centre of the country to Beitbridge on the South African border and back again. How had this helicopter miraculously appeared, then, just minutes after her attack on the convoy?
    The president was not in any of the three armoured saloon cars, of that she was sure. The fact that the military escortignored the limousines, and that only the drivers had run from each car, confirmed her theory. The men in that convoy – or at least those doing the driving – knew they were decoys, even if they suspected the president was sitting in one of the other cars. Each had acted to save himself, with no thought for any passengers. It was she who had been ambushed that day, not the president.
    Sonja crested a hill, both wheels airborne for a second. She pulled on the brakes once she was halfway down the reverse slope and stopped next to a mound of grey earth that rose to a peak nearly twice her height. It was a termite mound and,