When two lives collide, p.20
When Two Lives Collide, page 20
So my score card was full. My next trip to Mexico City offered exactly what I expected. Crowds of American High School and College tourists, shunning the shackles from over sensitive parents. My ‘employers’ were good to their word. Every trip for the ‘employers’ also offering business opportunities carefully designed to cover my activities for them.
For almost nine months nothing was heard from my employers. When my phone eventually buzzed delivering my next instructions, a suitable reason to travel to Johannesburg was provided. I’d recently acquired a financial interest in a medium-sized engineering company on the outskirts of Portsmouth. Their speciality, the design and manufacturing of one-off heavy duty undercarriage systems for the mining industry.
In truth, I knew as much about engineering as brain surgery. With the assistance of my employers, I could genuinely make a sales trip to a South African target company. So far so good. Three trips completed, maximum conquests achieved.
Hidden away from the main concourse at Waterloo station, a redundant employees’ canteen had been recently converted to provide secure lockers for those wishing to leave unwanted cases. I’d been provided with keys, left exactly as the message suggested, together with a note confirming a rental contract covering one month’s rental in my name. It was apparent my new employers would only be using the locker for a one and only drop. My next trip would take me to South Africa.
Chapter 15
Didn’t Sign Up for This
Stored safely inside the locker was a club class South African Airways ticket to Johannesburg. Inside a further envelope, a voucher for seven nights at the Holiday Inn located in the centre of town. Also stuffed in the envelope, five hundred pounds in crisp twenty pound notes. My instructions simple and to the point. On arrival at Jan Smuts, after clearing customs look out for a name board stating Alan Ransom. Their man would introduce himself as Pik Smidtz, who would drive me to meet a courier, who in turn would hand over a small package. Complete my own business, then return the package unopened to the rented locker at Waterloo Station. It all seemed perfectly simple. Leaving me time to explore the night life of Johannesburg, seeking my next conquest.
Pik Smidtz dwarfed me, standing at least a foot taller blocking the morning sun. Pik was definitely not a conversationalist. Accepting his Afrikaans behaviour, I still considered anyone effectively working for the government should have a better working knowledge of basic English. As we drove from Jan Smuts’ airport, the early morning sun offered a sense of warmth seldom experienced in England. Without a trace of commentary or comment from Pik, I kept searching for signs to indicate where we were heading.
For over an hour, Pik continued speeding through an increasingly heavily-populated area. Wherever we were, it was congested by endless streets of low value housing, offered little indication of our final destination. Eventually, what I did notice was an increasing reference to Germiston, probably indicating the area we were now passing through. Slowly, the ageing Peugeot station wagon bounced its way across unmade junctions. With no apparent direction, we were now surrounded by makeshift housing. Colourfully clad women folk sitting amongst an array of fruits, hopefully awaiting any customer to provide today’s income.
At a stage where I was becoming uncomfortable, the silent Pik brought the rusting Peugeot to a halt, deep into a rail yard, where we were surrounded by empty freight cars. No words were required as Pik gestured me to leave the stationary Peugeot, carry my luggage and follow him between two lanes of track. From Pik’s demeanour and obvious disinterest in his passenger, there was no need to expect assistance with my leather suitcase and backpack. Pik, although a mountain of a man, had no intention to become a porter. Between the two rows of covered freight wagons, a short distance ahead, stood a large wooden workman’s hut. It appeared large enough for at least twenty men to hide away from the jobs set for their shift. Inside the windowless shed, a small oil lamp provided the only escape from darkness.
“Mr Gilbride, welcome to our humble meeting place,” a soft cultured South African female voice emerged through the dimmed light within the shed. “Sorry for dragging you away from the comfort of the Holiday Inn, time to enjoy its luxury later,” she continued.
I struggled to focus through the enforced darkness. Through the gloom, a tall black woman emerged, covered in a multi-coloured full length shawl. As my eyes grew even more accustomed to the level of light, the stunning features of the voice became apparent.
“Mr Gilbride, we’ll rest here for a short time then fly this evening to get the information you’ve been sent to collect. Like you, I only know it’s to be returned to your bosses in London.” She pushed on, attempting to convince me of the revised plans.
“Pik do we stay here or push on to the airstrip now?” She enquired of the mute who’d ferried me to the rail depot.
“Actually, I think we’re safer at the strip,” he articulated in perfect English.
His dumb ‘I don’t speak English game’ played out since our meeting at Jan Smuts confused me. Pik possessed a darkness, a man disinterested in the feelings of others. Probably aware and certainly enjoying the fact that he was making me decidedly uncomfortable. Although I was an experienced self-defence coach back in England, there was a growing suspicion building that soon firearms could become part of this experience.
“Right, let’s make our way there. At the strip Mr Gilbride there’s a cabin where we wait our instructions for take-off,” she offered as an order.
For over an hour, Pik drove in silence towards the setting sun. Eventually, the stark pitch black of the African night engulfed us as we moved farther out from the lights of the built up area. The French regulation yellow headlights jutting from the aging Peugeot, lit no more than ten yards of the road ahead. Eventually, we drew to a halt alongside a large black painted Nissen hut. Suggesting we’d probably arrived on ex-military property. Inside, the hut had been arranged with six single beds, a table sufficient to seat ten and what appeared to be a rudimentary kitchen. There were no signs that electricity lighting existed; any available lighting provided by two fuel-stained oil lamps. Both windows, each side of the entrance door, were completely blacked out, ensuring any occupants would be sheltered from any prying passer-by.
Pik and the unnamed African lady behaved as though the whole operation had been carefully choreographed. In the kitchen area, a large enamel saucepan filled with water was already placed on a single gas ring. Nearby were a dozen cups, ready for whatever hot drink was on offer.
“Mr Gilbride, as you may have realised, we have a small change of plan. The package due to be delivered to the railhead has not arrived, so we’re collecting it,” she went silent as though she’d already passed too much secret information.
“How about names? Pik I know, the mute that speaks. But what about you?” I was already feeling the entire mission was falling apart. I was a currier, not a freedom fighter.
“Mr Gilbride we don’t need names, but I suppose we’re on the same side; call me Gelda,” again she delivered her short statement as silence again took over.
I watched Pik very closely, aware his body language showed signs of distinct nervousness. With the question answer session complete, Pik’s facial unease was increasing. There was little I could now achieve with a cloudy sky blacking over any chance of moonlight. Wherever the two Africans had brought me, I would need daylight before leaving them. Then, I would make my way back to downtown Johannesburg and enjoy the relative comfort of the Holiday Inn. From the hotel, I would make contact with my employers. Like a bolt to the heart, a sudden awareness hit me. I had no way of making contact; all communications came from them, I was screwed.
I wandered to the end of the Nissen hut, needing space and solitude to consider my predicament. Having summed up the situation, I relaxed in the knowledge I was really in no danger. For I was key to whatever operation was planned. Unperturbed, I settled on one of the single beds, looking forward to the warmth of the early morning African sun. Armed with daylight I’d leave my guides and return to the Holiday Inn
“Please Mr Gilbride, time for us to make a move,” Gelda’s soft voice eased me from a deep sleep. “Here, I’ve made coffee, sorry but all I can offer for breakfast are salt biscuits,” she smiled for the first time.
Gelda was no longer dressed like a local market trader. Her colourful shawl and baggy trousers now exchanged for skin tight blue jeans, accompanied by a tight black tee shirt, emblazoned with a large white NY logo. Her long black hair now piled under a matching New York Yankees baseball cap. Last night’s duckling covered in traditional African clothing had morphed into a young, slim and extremely beautiful ‘African swan’.
Pik was nowhere to be seen. Mine was the only bed that appeared used. Early dawn sunlight was now attempting to force its way through the blinds tacked across the two windows. Gelda and I were alone. I moved across to the kitchen area where two cups had been filled with black coffee. Another cup close by stood half full, probably indicating that Pic had departed much earlier. Gelda moved around the hut with the grace of a panther. Even though dawn was only just allowing the morning to show its beauty to the world, the early light perfected the magnificent structure of Gelda’s lanky body.
“I believe we’re now both on first name terms,” she breathed out in her own inimitable way. “Mike please understand, plans have changed. The courier in Rhodesia has broken his leg, or so we’re told. So we’re going to take a short flight, collect the package and return here. Mike, I’ve seen your file, not an issue for you. Anyway, I’m a qualified commercial pilot and you, I understand, can fly single engine Cessnas.”
Gelda continued her briefing as I looked on spellbound, still unable to accept her overnight metamorphosis. I picked up the odd key word, Rhodesia—flying—broken leg—Cessna. Whatever concerns she was imparting, my eyes stayed fixed on her subtle movements as Gelda moved between the kitchen and dining table. Every sway, every swing of her hips, then slowly crossing her shapely long legs with a practised purpose that exposed the firm roundness of her inch perfect body. If Gelda was aware of my disinterest in the mission, she failed to express her thoughts. Again emphasising in flowing terms, the limited risk factor facing us and the unnamed courier in Rhodesia with the broken leg holding a package we were contracted to collect.
Finally, her one-sided briefing completed. Gelda collected a clip board to which was attached a folded aviation map. Parked no more than fifty yards from the Nissen hut, a twin engine Piper carrying South African registration was waiting. As a dutiful co-pilot, I trekked along behind Gelda as she made her way to the plane. From here, there was no escape; my priority from last evening’s thoughts of returning to the safety of the Holiday Inn now forgotten. Now the possibility of a flight into the unknown, with a stunning African pilot had caused an uncontrollable rush of adrenaline. My heart thumping as the excitement of the impending risk began taking hold.
Gelda quickly carried out a shortened external pre-flight check, climbing without comment into the left seat. There was little for me to check. But having clocked well over three hundred hours back in England, it was second nature to wander around the aircraft. Since leaving the hut, nothing had passed between us. I was first to blink.
“Ok, I’m here, so level with me, where is this beautiful lady taking me?” I attempted flattery.
“As I told you Mike, the courier who I assume is working for your side was to meet us this side of the Limpopo but not now. So we’re flying to meet him to an isolated farm airstrip fifty miles east of Fort Victoria, collect your package and bring you back to Jo’burg. Oh, one other thing, we’ll stop just north of Louis Trichardt to take on some fuel. My brother runs a small airstrip used by local farmers, miners, but mainly hunters, no questions asked. Ok shall we go? There’s no air traffic control here, so we’ll make contact when passing Pretoria.”
As Pretoria passed on our starboard side, having now climbed to five thousand feet, I began to relax in the company of the most attractive private pilot I’d ever seen. The intimacy of the cabin coupled to my sharing control of the Piper, brought about a warming to the atmosphere between us. Earlier stilted comments with uncomfortable silences changing to a limited flow of personal information. I’d never flown with a female pilot, or indeed one so intensely sensual. It had been more than twelve months since I’d last flown the club Cessna at Thruxton airfield, back in Hampshire. Although a little rusty, all the elements of private flying came rushing back. Even though Gelda retained control of our radio contact, required when leaving Pretoria military airspace, I was encouraged to fly us north towards Rhodesia.
Her brother’s airstrip, just north of Louis Trichardt, appeared out of the heat haze as we dropped through five thousand feet, aiming for the north pointing grass runway. On approach, we passed closely to another Nissen hut. It appeared to be the only sign of civilisation within several miles of the runway. Perfect for the clandestine nature of our mission and I guessed her brothers’ undercover activities. Gelda’s brother was waiting as she turned the Piper, parking it facing back towards the grass runway.
“Sister, to what do I owe this pleasure?” her brother ambled over to the parked aircraft, “surely this is not a social visit, don’t tell me that. What can your baby brother do for you? Don’t tell me, fuel. Am I right?”
“Thomas, this is my friend Mike; we’re just popping over to Fort Vic to see one of his friends. Quick visit then home. So I need fuel now and more on the way back.”
Thomas looked bemused, uncertain what to believe and who was the white stranger, Gelda was travelling with.
“Sister, no more fuel till this evening; you can’t fly into Rhodesia at night, no, no, you must wait until the morning.”
Thomas slowly warmed to me as the afternoon passed and evening arrived. Thomas appeared to have his life organised, a self-contained confident man. His Nissen hut almost identical to the hut back in Johannesburg but his having just two beds, with two long battered leather sofas. One bed within a room which Thomas had made his domain. Another larger bed towards the back of the hut kept for such as today’s eventualities.
Thomas proved to be skilled at cooking meat over an open fire, serving up delicious yet smoky game steaks. As part of the perks from his job, Thomas had stored copious quantities of weak bottled beer. Most he claimed, left with him by safari groups who used his runway as a starting and finishing point for their mostly illegal hunting expeditions.
As the evening progressed, the conversation gradually moved toward the actual reason for our trip. Thomas insisting we pay heed to his warnings of the inherent risks within Rhodesia. I pondered on what could be so important making his sister to fly into a country in the midst of civil conflict. Whatever Gelda did for the British government, I now understood she must be highly respected as an integral part of this mission. As the evening progressed, Thomas’s gifted beer was having the effect of warming relationships and loosening tongues.
From the evening’s conversations, I now understood the local implications caused by Ian Smith’s Declaration of Independence, cutting his country off from most of Britain’s allies. Within the country, civil unrest had taken the form of serious, frequently fatal incursions by some tribes against the government. Prime Minister Smith had formed a secretive group known as the PATU (Police Anti-Terrorist Unit). Drawn from white supporters and mercenaries from South Africa. Throughout the country, the secret activities of PATU were feared. Frequently, leaving no evidence of their resultant actions. Despite all the warnings Thomas offered, I could not turn back. Surely, a short flight into the backwoods of Rhodesia would cause no issues. As the evening moved along, speculation grew as to what the infamous package would contain.
“Gelda you take the bed. I’ll sleep on that old sofa. Sleep well my pilot friend,” I chivalrously offered.
As Gelda wandered toward the darkness at the end of the hut, my mind raced as I imagined the remote possibilities of waking next to Thomas’s sister. Thomas had lived in the Nissen hut for several years; his room decorated in his own distinctive style. His passion for English football obvious. Liverpool scarves, joined with greying pictures of Kenny Dalglish, Kevin Keegan covering any free wall space. With his pride and joy, Bill Shankley surrounded by his all-conquering team. Being away from civilisation, there was nothing emanating from Thomas’s hut to disturb the noises amplified through the African night. For a while, I lazed listening to the sounds of Africa, attempting to identify the various voices wafting on the night time breezes.
“You can’t sleep there,” Gelda placed her soft warm fingers on my hand, breathing her words silently against my ear. Slowly, she led me to the bed allocated for her, already warmed by her sensual body. I offered no resistance as I eased myself alongside Gelda. For the remainder of the night, soft passionate sounds emanating from one end of the Nissen hut, melodically combined with the hum of the surrounding African night.
Chapter 16
Let Battle Commence
Through the early morning mist, the flooded expanse of the Limpopo shone back reflecting the rising African sun. Gelda had decided to take a low approach, around 500 feet crossing the Limpopo. As we left the relative safety of South Africa airspace, an air of uncertainty flooded across us, unaware of what to expect, entering Rhodesia. Even before I’d woken from our active night, Gelda was preparing the Piper along with her brother for the next stage of our mission. Fuel was now loaded, sufficient to reach Fort Victoria and return to her brother’s air strip. As we crossed into Rhodesian airspace, I watched in awe as myriad animals scampering from the water’s edge. Disturbed from their early morning feed patterns by our Piper skimming low across the Limpopo, bordering South Africa with Rhodesia.
