A Time to Die - Smith Wilbur (читать книги полные .txt) 📗

There would be no haste then. He would draw out the pleasure, eking out their suffering and pain as jealously as a miser his shekels.

He would begin with the woman, of course, and the white man would watch it all. After Tippoo Tip had enjoyed her to the full, they would hand her over to the men. China would personally select the most repulsive, those with hideous features, deformed bodies, and elephantine members. Some of his men were truly remarkable in their physical development. He would let them have the woman after Tippoo Tip, and when they were done, he would bring on the sick and diseased, the men with open venereal ulcers and virulent skin disorders, covered with scabs and tropical sores.

Then at last he would give her to the men with the slim sickness, the most dreaded of all. Yes, it would be marvelous sport. He wondered how strong the American woman was, how many she could take. Would her mind go before her body? It would be fascinating to find out, and of course the white man would be forced to watch every second of it.

Only when the woman was finished would he begin on Colonel Sean Courtney. He had not yet decided what it would be-there were so many possibilities. However, the man was tough; he could be expected to last for days, perhaps even weeks. Planning it, gloating over it, brought a smile to General China's bps and calmed his frustration enough to allow him to drop into his canvas chair, draw the lapels of his greatcoat around him, and sink at last into sleep.

He awoke in confusion, unable to orient himself. Somebody was shaking him urgently, and he threw off the hands and struggled out of his chair, glaring around him wildly. It was morning; the trees around his temporary base were gray skeletons against the paler gray of the dawn sky. The light bulbs still glowed on their poles above the squatting helicopter, and the radio on the rough table of hand-planed logs in front of him was squawking urgently.

"Contact! General China, we have a live contact!" It was the commander of the line of men he had placed on the hills at the approaches to the Limpopo. He was calling in clear language, proof of his agitation.

Still half asleep, China stumbled to the radio set and seized the microphone. "This is Banana Tree, report your position and status correctly," he snapped, and at the sound of his voice the distant patrol leader steadied himself and corrected his radio procedure.

The fugitives had run into his stop fine at almost precisely the point China had predicted. There had been a brief firelight, and then the fugitive band, had taken refuge on the crest of a small kopje, almost within sight of the Limpopo River.

"I have called for the mortars to come up," the patrol leader exulted. "We'll blow them off the top of that hill."

"Negative." China spoke very clearly. "I say again, negative.

Do not open fire on the position with mortars. Do not attack. I want them taken alive. Surround the hill and wait for my arrival."

He glanced across at thohelicopter. The titanium engine hatches were back in place, aD_d the Portuguese engineer was overseeing the last of the refueling. A line of porters, each of them with a twenty-five-liter drum balanced on his head, was queued up, waiting their turns to empty the drums into the helicopter's main tanks.

China shouted to the engineer in Portuguese, and he came striding across to the tent. "We must take off immediately," China ordered.

"I will complete the refueling in half an hour."

"That's too long. How much fuel have you got on board right now?"

"Auxiliary tanks are full, main tank is three quarters."

"That will do, call the pilot. Tell him we must take off right away."

"I must replace the debris suppressors over the turbo intakes," the engineer protested.

"How long will that take?"

"Not more than half an hour."

"Too long!" China shouted with agitation. The pilot was stumbeing along the pathway from his tent. Not yet fully awake, he was pulling on his leather flying jacket, and the flaps of his helmet dangled loosely around his ears.

"Hurry!" China yelled at him. "Get her started!"

"What about the suppressors?" the engineer insisted.

"We can fly without them, they are only precautionary."

"Yes, but-!"

"No!" China pushed him away. "I can't wait! Forget about the suppressors We fly at once! Get the engines started!"

With the tails of his greatcoat flapping around his legs, General China ran to the helicopter and scrambled up into his seat in the weapons cockpit.

Sean Courtney lay on his belly between two rocks just below the crest of the kopJe and looked out over the tops of the mo pane forest. Away toward the south, the dark green belt of trees was just visible in the uncertain light. It marked the position of the Limpopo River.

"So close," he lamented. "We so very nearly made it."

It was against all the odds that they had survived this far, almost three hundred miles through a devastated, war-torn land and two murderous opposing armies, only to be stopped here in sight of their goal. There was a burst of AK fire from down the slope of the hill, and a ricochet sang away into the dawn sky.

Matatu, lying among the rocks nearby, was still berating himself. "I am a stupid old man, my Bwana. You must send me away and get yourself a clever young one who is not blind and decrepit with age."

Sean guessed that a Renamo observation post must have spotted them as they crossed one of the open glades between the hills.