Andrew Dawson - MiG-23 Broke my Heart

‘Where to?’ Thomas asked, pushing the dead terrorist from his mind and jogging his eyes along the bottom of the map, visiting peaceful seaside towns like Scarborough, East London and Port Elizabeth, trying to guess which one they would be sent to as their reward.

The Major stubbed a finger on a great swath of land above the green pin marking their base. ‘Angola.’

That didn’t sound like a reward to Thomas. Angola was the place the terrorists came from and where the base’s old hands, the ou manne in the faded uniforms, had done their fighting. But a truce had been declared, South Africa leaving the country to wage its civil war in peace. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘we’re not allowed into Angola.’

‘Not officially, no. But all those convoys that stop here to refuel, where do you think they’re going, boy? Disneyland?’ Major De Kock ran a finger in a north-easterly direction along the blue vein of a river just over the border. ‘I want you to find an old friend of mine.’ The finger stopped at a small mark, a pen-made scratch across the river. ‘He’s camped here, at this bridge.’

‘You can rely on us, sir,’ Skeletor said.

‘Good. His name is Colonel Stebbing.’ The Major strode over to sit behind his desk, the chair creaking from the strain. A drawer was opened, and a folded piece of paper withdrawn and slid across the desk. ‘Give this to him. It’s a message too sensitive to pass over radio.’

Skeletor lunged forward and claimed the paper.

‘You are to travel in civvies.’ The Major went back to rooting around in the desk drawer. ‘Take nothing that will incriminate you as South African soldiers. The UN is already whining about our nuclear weapons programme. The last thing we need is for them to find out we’ve sent more troops into Angola. So if you’re captured, I don’t know you.’ He found what he was looking for, a set of car keys that he tossed over the table.

With a metallic jingle, the keys landed on the floor.

‘I can’t drive, sir.’ Skeletor scooped up the keys and held them out to Thomas.

‘Me neither.’ Thomas kept his hands away, refusing the responsibility. ‘I’ve only just turned eighteen.’

The Major sighed deeply. He got up and reached over, snatching back the keys, his belly pressing down on the desk as he did so. ‘I’ll arrange for a driver to pick you up first thing in the morning, someone who knows the territory. Good luck, may God be with you, and whatever you do, don’t get caught.’ He stamped down hard, sending tears flying from his weepy eye, and treated them to another salute. Then he settled back into his chair. ‘Now get out. I’ve got work to do.’

Outside, Thomas muttered, ‘I don’t like this.’

‘You don’t like anything, surfer boy.’

After a sleepless night, Thomas stumbled bleary-eyed to the vehicle depot in a pair of jeans and a hibiscus-covered Hawaiian shirt. The jeans were his own but the shirt had been issued to him by the quartermaster with the assurance that it was the next best thing to camouflage – though Thomas couldn’t help feeling it was some kind of joke at his expense, a surf-style shirt for the kid from surf city.

Skeletor was already there, standing at attention in the semi-dark with his bedroll beside him on the tarmac. He was also in civvies, in worn jeans and a black shirt that hung loose over his gangly frame and didn’t quite reach his belt, and it was only when Thomas came closer that he saw what it was: the Bob Marley T-shirt.

Too tired even to be disgusted, Thomas lay down. He rested his head on his own bedroll and tried to squeeze some sleep out of the morning.

‘Up!’ Skeletor shouted.

Thomas rolled away from the impending boot and opened his eyes to take in the vehicle puttering out of the pre-dawn fog, a set of dim headlights doing little to illuminate the road. As it pulled up beside them, its engine suddenly cutting out, Thomas stood, gathered up his bedroll, and saw that the thing wasn’t exactly military issue. It didn’t even look roadworthy. It was a white Datsun bakkie, the pickup truck beloved of farmers on a budget and found on every South African road. This one was outlined in rust, bald around the edges of the tyres and minus a set of number plates. Worse, Thomas knew, was that it didn’t have four-wheel drive.

‘Great.’ Thomas pictured them stuck in a donga while those little wheels spun uselessly and vultures circled overhead, licking their beaks.

‘You get in first.’ Skeletor took both their bedrolls and hoisted them in amongst the jerry cans and boxes weighing down the back of the truck. ‘I’m not sitting next to the black. He probably stinks.’

‘Skeletor, bru. You’re wearing a dead man’s shirt and you’re worried about how someone smells.’

‘You think I’m some kind of animal?’ Skeletor looked hurt. ‘Feel.’ He grabbed Thomas’s hand and pressed it against the damp fabric of the shirt. ‘I washed it first.’

Thomas recoiled and rushed to get into the cab. Offering a friendly ‘Howzit’, he slid into the middle of the mock-leather bench seat and arranged his legs around the gear lever.

From the driver’s side came a heavy silence.

Thomas turned and said, ‘I’m Thomas.’

The man didn’t so much as blink. It was hard to get a decent look in the dim light, but he was old, possibly even in his mid-twenties, his cheeks lined with initiation scars and mouth surrounded by patchy, non-regulation stubble.

Slowly, in the manner of a Victorian explorer first encountering a native, Thomas repeated his name: ‘Tho-mas.’

‘I heard you the first time.’

Thomas kept smiling, eager to make a good first impression on his travelling companion. ‘Um, what’s your name?’

‘Maxwell.’ His hair was defiantly long, each frizzed strand maybe a full centimetre in length, almost forming an afro.

‘And where are you from, Maxwell?’

‘Durban.’

‘Hey, me too! That must mean you’re a Zulu. Sawubona . Unjani ?’

‘I speak English,’ Maxwell said, which was probably for the best because Thomas had just exhausted all of his Zulu.

‘Is it all right if I call you Max?’

‘No.’

Thomas accepted this with a nod. He could understand why Maxwell sounded a little bit cranky. After all, no-one in their right mind likes to wake up before the crack of dawn to do anything, let alone venture into terrorist country. But he had a feeling that once they were underway the guy would lighten up and become a friend, maybe even a smoking buddy. Before leaving, Thomas had transferred the rest of his weed into a plastic bag and tucked it into his right sock. He could feel it now, the bulge against his ankle: his escape plan for if things got too heavy.

Skeletor slid in and slammed the door.

‘This is Maxwell.’ Thomas threw a thumb to his right. ‘Maxwell, meet Skeletor.’

Skeletor kicked the underside of the dashboard, making the whole truck rattle. ‘Will this skedonk get us to Angola?’

‘I don’t know,’ Maxwell answered. ‘I came in last night from the main base, to bring the mail. When I got here they took away my truck. They told me to pick up an unmarked white bakkie in the morning, take two men over the border. And here I am.’

‘Do you know how to get there?’

‘I’ve been to the operational area many times. Too many times.’ He shook his head in exasperation. ‘But never from this direction. They told me there’s a map and compass in the cubby hole.’

‘Well? Then what are you waiting for, boy?’ Skeletor slammed his palms on the top of the dashboard. ‘Drive!’

Maxwell, his face expressionless, stared across at Skeletor.

Skeletor stared back.