Chapter One

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The pilot had said we were going to have an emergency landing and eventually crashed the plane on an island, killing thirty-three of the thirty-six passengers and crew on board. I had suspected that the two pilots were kooky, but I didn't imagine they would go ahead to do something as crazy as crashing a plane, and by the time I realized what they were up to, it was too late to do anything to stop them. Shortly before they crashed the plane, one of them had announced that one of the engines had suddenly developed a minor fault but quickly reassured the passengers that it was nothing that can't be handled. However, he later warned that it was possible we might have to brace up for an emergency landing.

Before the loudspeaker went off, I was certain I had heard a laugh that sent a chill up my spine. These guys were slap-happy. I knew I've heard that cold, shrill laugh from a row of faces in the psych ward in the county jail. You couldn't mistake it once you'd heard it: the laugh of a paranoid schizophrenia. I tried to loosen my seat belt so I could go into the cockpit and find out what was going on, but the buckle had unbelievably jammed and would not undo. I desperately looked around and was shocked to find that all the passengers on board were asleep, and for a terrifying moment, it looked as if I was the only one alive in the plane. Beads of cold sweat broke out on my brows, and I felt my heart going cold. I was just going to call out to an attendant when they had gone ahead to crash the plane.

It was a small passenger plane, and I was on vacation in Africa, but I could neither remember where we were going nor where the plane took off. It was getting dusk by the time we had managed to leave the crash site, as it took us quite some time to help one another overcome the shock and also attend to some injuries we had sustained. The three of us had agreed that it was safer if we held toward the beach.

After an hour or so, we decided to take a rest, and we had barely settled down when eight hefty black men dressed in traditional Zulu warriors' attire appeared from nowhere with spears in hands and automatic pistols strapped on their waists. Several minutes later, we were led down a path in the forest and one of them suddenly began to tell the others that the sacrifice would be done tonight and that their gods would be extremely pleased to have a taste of foreign blood for a change. I was shocked to realize that I could understand their language, and I began to wonder if I wasn't already dead.

One of my companions suddenly collapsed. We had earlier pulled shrapnel from his right thigh; he had lost a lot of blood. That gave me the opportunity I was hoping for as the men gathered around him. I certainly would not be used as a sacrificial lamb, I thought, as I pushed against one of them, snatched his gun, and before they knew it, I fired three times in rapid succession and saw three of them go down as I darted into the bush.

Shortly afterward, three of the men came after me. Though I was going at a good pace, my strength had been far stretched, and just when I was thinking they would soon catch up, I saw a baobab tree and quickly ducked behind it. A few minutes later, they ran past, and I instantly retraced my steps, moving as silently as a ghost. When their footfalls had faded away, I increased my pace and later broke into a run as I took another path.

It was pitch black, and I stumbled repeatedly, gasping for breath, as I kept running through the forest. Though my assailants were no longer on my heels, I kept pushing on as far as my strength would allow. I eventually stopped short as I saw a lighted clearing some twenty yards ahead. I hid behind a thicket and quietly watched as some local indigenes perform a heinous ritual.

I had a clear view from where I was hiding. It was a square clearing of about nine hundred sq. ft., and it was lighted up by four burning torches mounted on six foot high bamboo sticks at each corner of the clearing. A woman was tied to a stake in front of a shrine at one side of the clearing. She was completely naked and her shaved head hung backward with her face pale and drawn with exhaustion, but for a remote heave of her bare breast as her breath came in short gasps, watching her motionless body at the stake, one would have thought she was already dead. Her dead husband lay on a wooden slab in the middle of the clearing while the chief priest stood over him, chanting some incantation. Eight elderly men in black and green robes stood in two groups on opposite sides of the clearing while six fierce-looking young men, dressed in traditional Zulu warrior attire with spears and shields made of reed in their hands, stood around in obvious anger.

The chief priest was dressed in a red robe with a hat made of ostrich feathers on his pale and emaciated head. He had a live snake coiled around his neck, an oblong tambourine in one of his hands, and a crude, wooden scepter in the other. He moved around the dead man in frenzied strides as he chanted away, and at intervals, would stop to curse the woman, who, according to him, had committed a sacrilege that had taken the life of the man and had brought an incurable plague on the village. My fear of being dead resumed as every word he said was clearly understood.

"You will surely die tonight!" the priest muttered as he continued to run round the dead man, while the old men hailed every frenzied move he made.

"We won't allow you to bring any more death into our village, as you have become an abomination unto us," he continued, "and we can't—" he was saying but broke off suddenly.

"I can see the eyes of the gods watching," he stated abruptly, while the men became more alert and excited. He sang, danced, and chanted more incantations, and then suddenly stood still as if he had seen a ghost.

"No! Not the eyes of the gods," he yelled, as abruptly as he had spoken his last words and shook his head in disgust to the amazement of the old men. They murmured among themselves but instantly kept quiet as the priest turned to stare at them.

"It is the eyes of a white man," he said contemptuously. I stiffened and felt cold sweat run down my back, a tightening cramp suddenly griped my stomach, and my breath hissed rapidly between clenched teeth. The men began to murmur again but kept quiet as he raised the scepter in his hand.

"The eyes of an American!" the chief priest exclaimed, as he turned and pointed to the exact place I was hiding.

Four of the six young men promptly left the clearing and surged into the bush as the chief priest ordered them to capture me. I felt my hip pocket for the gun and was extremely bewildered to find it missing. I looked around but couldn't find it, and then, without further delay, I ploughed into the bush again, hotly pursued by the men. They knew the jungle too well, and so I was finally outwitted, caught, and led back to the clearing. The eight elders stood waiting anxiously, and the chief priest paced up and down the clearing, deep in thought. The two young men left behind on guard stood rigid with their faces expressionless while the four men that caught me began to bind my hands and legs.

The chief priest suddenly ran to and fro as he chanted away. He stopped abruptly as a wry grin broke out on his dry, thin lips. He asked the men to move the woman and bring me before the shrine. I was forced on my knees and accused of having profaned their shrine and gods by watching a sacred ritual. Judgment was instantly passed, and I was sentenced to death. The priest ordered the men to hold me firmly as I was still on my knees while he uncoiled the snake around his neck. He took more frenzied steps, then stood before me and coaxed the snake to strike at me. It did, and I struggled with it as its fangs held tenaciously to my face.

I woke up with a start and actually found a snake hissing viciously at the corner of the bush, just some few yards from where I lay. Its sharp, flat black eyes glittered with menace as its head stood upright in the light of the half-moon. Our presence on its tracks must have startled it; just as much as it had startled me. I didn't want to wake the rest of the gang, so I had to let it go.

I sat up feeling boneless as cold sweat ran down my back in spite of the cold at that time of night; the nightmare had certainly taken a great toll on my nerves. I checked my wristwatch and noticed that it would still be another two or three hours before we could have enough daylight to continue our miserable journey, and since I couldn't go back to sleep, I began to recollect the events of the past two days. I never ceased telling myself, even as I got into the plane, that if I wasn't totally crazy, then I must have been out of my mind.

I came out to the Natal District of South Africa to help a friend who had been here long enough to have his head examined. I was astonished when I got his letter more than a week before. I had not seen or heard from him for ages. My decision, since we didn't see each other before I fled to Gabon and later back to the States, as it was obvious to me that there was no future with the Black Goose, was that he had been killed in the battle.

We were about the same age and former members of the U.S. Marine Corps. We had attended the same academy and excelled with some of the best young officers at that time. When the war in Vietnam took an unexpected twist, we were quickly promoted and drafted to command separate platoons. However, in the commandoes, we had worked together and carried out several successful operations.

After the war, we both resolved that we had had enough of the military, but an ex-colonel persuaded us to join his secret elite squad, "The Black Goose." He was a shrewd, intelligent, and hardworking soldier, who had felt unfairly treated by the authorities. His court-martial had shocked those of us who knew and worked with him. Though the reasons for the court-martial were neither made public nor made known to officers at our level, the secrecy and expediency with which it was executed left none of us in doubt that someone in there, for one reason or another, was tired of seeing the colonel's face and wanted him out immediately.

However, there was little or nothing to be done at first as new recruits, and it was neither clear what our roles were, nor what their major operations were, until trouble started in oil-rich West African states. Huge money exchanged hands, and before long, we found ourselves in Africa as mercenaries. The colonel had lied to us at the initiation that the squad was a secret agency that took care of the government's special assignments at home and abroad, and we had been so gullible as to have believed him.

Sitting up on my bed that morning and with unsteady hands, I turned the envelope around to examine the stamp and was more surprised to discover that it was posted somewhere in South Africa. This was insane, I had thought. What the hell was George doing in South Africa? With intense curiosity, I tore the envelope open, and while I was reading the neatly typed words, Sandra woke up behind me.

"Why, darling?" she exclaimed and began to rub my back with her hand and bare breast. "Did you have a nice time last night?" she went on, "I was thinking—"

"Will you keep your mouth shut," I snapped, interrupting her, "and get your lousy hands off me. Can't you see I'm busy?" She took the hint, shrugged her shoulders, and left me alone, knowing it wasn't anything else but that I wanted to be left alone.

A boy had handed the letter to me while Sandra and I were entering my apartment the night before, but I was rather too tired to bother with it until I woke up and found it by my pillow. George had written that he had made several efforts to get in touch with me in the past but all was to no avail. He went on to say that he was on to something tremendous in Vryheid, a big town in South Africa, and that he wanted me to be part of it.

I was puzzled because he mentioned movies and a number of other things that I couldn't make out much meaning from, as he didn't go into details. Although we had kidded with the idea and nursed the hope many years back of getting involved in moviemaking after military service, the events of the war and subsequent assignment with the Black Goose had prevailed, making it remain strictly an idea. He had concluded that all travel arrangements had been made and that he expects to see me soon.

I stared at the wording for several minutes and came to the conclusion that George must be in some kind of trouble but had refused to say so in clear words. I didn't know why I felt that way, but I had an unerring feeling that I couldn't be wrong. I read the letter once more and still couldn't make out anything different. I threw it into the side drawer by the bed, lay my head on the pillow, and hesitated just for a while, then began to make plans for the journey.

At the airport, everything was normal and in perfect order. Nothing around suggested that the country was often in turbulent crisis and seeing the genuine smile and excessive cordial attitude of even the black staff, I decided that anyone who assessed South Africa with the tranquil atmosphere at the airport would no doubt come to the conclusion that the incessant violence often reported in papers and other media were anything but facts.

After checking with exceedingly security-conscious and tough-looking immigration and custom officials, I came out of the terminal building and immediately recognized him as he stood beside a car with the driver behind the steering wheel. He wore a faded black shirt on deep red pants and a pair of old brown moccasin. Although it had been more than sixteen years, the familiar features were still obvious.

However, I couldn't believe what I saw as he came forward to shake hands and take my single piece of baggage, my backpack. George was something else, apart from the fact that he limped slightly on one leg; he looked like something of an alien creature. The right side of his face was bloated, and it was obvious that his right eye could be phony. In spite of this, though, he had quite a lot to show for his age.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and his skin had been excessively tanned, giving him a rather awful appearance. But for his slightly grown tummy that made him looked rather heavy, he would have had a perfect build. His sharp, hard eyes had the same steady determination, yet revealed his covert kindness and sometimes-excessive emotions. His abject, haggard, and depressed appearance confirmed my suspicion that he was indeed in trouble. I said nothing as I took his hand with disbelief in my eyes. He immediately wiped off the grin on his lips with which he was using unsuccessfully to blur his depressed look as he saw the expression on my face.

"Welcome, Mike! It's good to see you again," he said as I handed the backpack to him.

"It's good to see you too," I returned, nodded, and smiled at him as we walked to the car. He opened the backseat door and we both got in, and then he mumbled something to the driver in a local language and instantly the engine came alive.

"What was all these about, George?" I started as the car edged its way out of the parking lot. "And don't give me that crap about movies and actions."

"Yeah!" he exclaimed. "If I hadn't written that way, perhaps you wouldn't have bothered to come, would you?"

"That was some silly thing to say, and you know that," I returned hotly and shortly afterward, I went on calmly. "I came because I felt there was something wrong, and that I could be of help to you, and seeing the way you look now, I'm sure I'm not wrong," I stated, looking at him inquiringly.

"Really, Mike, I can't say much now. You will have to give me some time," he said, looking away from me.

I was going to put more pressure on him when the driver suddenly announced something in the local language. George looked back and said we were being followed. I turned around and noticed that two cars were indeed following us.

"What is happening, and who the hell are these guys?" I turned to George and also realized that the driver made no effort to shake them off his tail.

"I told you, Mike, I'm sorry. I just can't say much now. You will find out very soon," he answered and adjusted his bulk on the seat. I gave up bothering him. He must have been instructed not to talk to me and the driver was there to ensure that he kept the order. Although I hadn't the slightest inkling of what the problem was, I had the feeling that it could be worse than I had imagined. I felt I wasn't handling the situation right as I closed my eyes and relaxed back into the seat too, but what was there to worry about anyway? I thought. It was his funeral for getting himself mixed up with them.

Almost an hour later, we drove into a large, high-walled compound under the surveillance of the two cars behind. I could have done something at various police checkpoints or even before we arrived at the compound, but since George hadn't said anything to me, I reckoned any rash action might complicate whatever the problems were. The cars behind drove on as the driver stopped in front of a building where six armed men were waiting.

When we stepped out of the car, I noticed that the compound was larger than I had thought. There were big and small ranch house like buildings scattered around, and men with automatic rifles just walked aimlessly in the big compound. Two of the men took George away, while the rest led me into one of the halls in the building. I was searched and asked to sit on the only upright chair in the hall, which would have been empty except for some sleeping materials on the bare floor.

The men stood around as one of them had his gun pointed at my chest with his lean face expressionless. I reckoned any false move would be greeted with the prompt pull of the trigger, and the way they looked, I was sure they wouldn't think anything of it. I sat there feeling sorrier for George than I even felt for myself, as I said nothing and couldn't even think straight. I knew something terrible was happening to him, but why had he played me into their hands? Perhaps I shouldn't blame him yet until I found out what it was all about and the hold they had on him.

After several minutes that seemed like hours to me, a fat man with a belly on him a Sumo wrestler might envy walked into the hall with four armed men behind him, and he came toward me with a smile that made him look like a hyena. He was dressed in a cream safari jacket, navy-blue pants, and a pair of black brogues, while the rest of the men wore camouflage uniforms and military boots.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Tramell," he began, picking his words carefully but not really looking apologetic, "you had to be treated this way. I have repeatedly told this bunch to be more civil in their ways, but my words seem to fall on deaf ears." He said this with a frown, but he sure wasn't fooling me with his smarmy talks, so I kept mute.

"I suppose your friend hadn't the time to tell you why he had invited you down here?" he went on. "And I bet you had no idea either," he added tersely, grinning.

I looked up at him and his companions, and then noticed that one of the guards that came in with him was a woman, and she immediately caught my attention. She was a tall, fair, black woman. Her black eyes would have been beautiful but had, over time, become as hard as granite, though the whites were still incredulously clear, like fine porcelain. However, it was her bust line that caught more of my attention. It almost knocked me off the chair, and I bet it would make a parade of guards miss their steps. She had curves and hips that would tempt a bishop, and she was almost hairless, which made it difficult to notice she was a woman if you had seen only the upper part of her body from the rear. All through, she smelled and looked extremely dangerous, and I wasn't surprised she was hanging out with the bastards.

"Well, I guess it's time to let you know why you are here," the fat man continued after a long pause, still grinning. Just then, I dragged my eyes off the woman and stared at him. He was Dutch, thickset, with a large belly, average height and a broad-shouldered man of nearly fifty. His heavy face, fat chins, and almost round protruding, false, friendly looking eyes over a slightly beaky nose gave him a treacherous look that was oddly likeable. Although, a closer look at him should tell even someone in a stupor that there was nothing either friendly or likeable about him. He had thick, bushy eyebrows, a thin moustache, a sandy but receding hairline, and a remarkably tanned skin, but it was the grim way his mouth was set that gave his treacherous inclination, greed, and ruthless nature away. I said nothing, and really, there was nothing to say. I just hated him right away.

"I want something," he went on, forcing the words through clenched teeth, "and you will have to assist your friend and some of my men to get it for me. It will—"

"What made you so sure that I would be interested in whatever you wanted?" I interrupted.

"Look, man," he yelled with a murderous light in his eyes like you would find in a snake cornered by a mongoose, "I'm Chief Legion, the boss around here," he went on, waving his fat hand frantically at me, "and no one—repeat—no one speaks when I'm talking. You will talk when I ask you to. Is that clear?"

"What if I say I don't get it?" I returned with fury, but I ought to have known better. Before I had completed the words, one of his men hit me across the face, and I was lucky not to have lost a tooth, but my nose bled slightly and my jaw ached.

"You are a fool, just like your friend," he spat. "I don't see any reason why I should solicit your cooperation any longer. You are now my prisoner, and you will obey my orders without question. She will tell you what I want you to do for now and don't ever dare presume to try any tricks with me. I know you American boys always think you're smart; if you do, you and your friend will suffer."

I had hardly made out his words clearly when he stomped out of the hall, as rude and provoking as he had come in, with three men, leaving the woman and the rest behind. She didn't waste words or time. She told me that we would be going to Zululand to retrieve a box of diamonds belonging to Legion which George had delivered into the hands of an enemy and that the journey starts at dawn the next day. I wasn't even listening to her as I had my head bent over my chest, believing that I would soon wake up to find that the whole thing was a nightmare; but it wasn't, as we set out the next morning on the hopeless mission. How I had passed that night, I would never be able to tell.

The woman, three men, George, and I set out in an open Jeep the next morning before it was dawn, as the woman had said. She and the men wore khaki jackets and pants with black boots, while George had one of the jackets over his black shirt. However, I was quite comfortable in my brown chinos and denim, long sleeve shirt. As we proceeded silently on the long deserted, dusty road, I began to wonder how George had got himself mixed up with them.

We kept on for a long while and were nearly burnt by the blazing hot sun. Three hours later, we stopped just once to refill the gas from an old metal jerry can they had brought along and shortly afterward, the men began to eat tin foods they took along for the journey. I couldn't remember the last time I ate tin food, so I just handed the tin back even before I tasted it. Moreover, I hadn't any appetite, and my jaw still ached.

We had hardly driven for more than an hour from there when we almost ran into a gang of bandits. It had been amazing how the woman spotted them and had immediately ordered the driver to stop the vehicle. She took a closer look at them with her binoculars and decided that a confrontation would be fatal, so we picked up whatever we could, dumped the vehicle by the roadside, and made into the bush.

I would have shown the bunch the stuff I was made of as we ran in the bush, but since George hadn't told me what the excitement was all about and the hold Legion had on him, I decided it would be a wrong tactic. However, when I got closer to him, while we were still on the run, I asked him why they had left the key of the Jeep in the ignition. He said that the vehicle was a gift to the bandits so they would leave us alone.

"Why are we running then?" I queried.

"Well, they might want more than the Jeep, and as you can see, we haven't got anything else but our lives." He grinned, making a bitter joke of it. I wanted to find out more from him but one of the men who was close by shouted at me to keep quiet and move on. I looked at him angrily and barely restrained myself from hitting him.

We kept running and walking in the bush for nearly forty-five minutes, and as we had moved at a good pace, we slowed down to walking only. I presumed the whole effort was a blind and aimless run, but the woman seemed to know where she was leading the group. After another four hours or so, she announced that we were near Zululand, and that the journey will continue the next morning. I felt it was unreasonable to stop as the day was hardly far spent, but she was adamant in her decision and the men were glad to rest their tired bodies. I shrugged my shoulders, looked around, and found a log lying by a tree, some yards away from the circular clearing made by the men. I cleared the bushes around it, sat down, and leaned my back against the tree.

The woman sat on another log, away from everyone, a distant look on her face, with her gun on her lap. George deliberately stayed away from me, while the three men crouched together murmuring to themselves and occasionally throwing George and I furtive glances. An hour or so later, the woman, George, and one of the men left to comb the area, to ensure it was safe enough for us to spend the night. Shortly after they had gone, I snoozed off, and when I woke up, they were not back, so I took the opportunity to talk with the two men, and I found that they were not as unfriendly as the woman and her boss had been.

By the time the others got back, they had been gone for more than two hours, and as it was becoming too dark to do anything else, the men made a fire within the circle they had cleared and began to roast a young gazelle they shot earlier in the day. The atmosphere was incredibly exciting in spite of the precarious situation at hand as the aroma of the roasted meat hung heavily in the air. It brought back old memories, and even the pain in my jaw seemed to have disappeared as I ate my share of the meat. I also found the wild fruits I had collected in the day exciting to eat too. I was further surprised when the woman walked up to me and pushed an automatic pistol into my hands.

"You need this now," she said as I gaped at her, "but let me make it clear to you," she went on, "if you try anything funny, you will be sorry you did."

I stared into her eyes and felt a sudden chill in spite of the heat from the fire. I have never seen a woman's eyes look like that . . . old in suffered desire for something, perhaps vengeance. There were also marks of distrust, bitterness, and hatred, making her look extremely dangerous. I wondered what must have happened to her to have made her that hard and callous, and I had to warn myself to watch her closely. When she left, I examined the gun and found that it was fully loaded. Several hours later, the men put out the fire and covered the area with dry leaves as the night was then far spent. I watched them go to sleep, and then leaned my back against the trunk of the tree again and drifted into an uneasy sleep too.