Trial By Fire

“Where do you think?”

“You parachuted in.”

“You think?”

“From where?”

Bolan gave the hulking cadet a pointed look.

“South Africa?”

Bolan nodded.

“Why were you in South Africa?”

“That’s three questions, Huge.”

Cadet Hudjak smiled. “Sorry, Sarge. I beg forgiveness and ask that my multiple questions not impose on Snake’s rights of inquiry.”

Shelby gave the guy a winning smile.

“Forgiven. You got a question, Snake?”

“So we’re walking out of here, Sarge?”

“That is the long and short of it.”

Visible alarm spread down the line. King almost raised his hand and stopped himself. “Sarge?”

“Donger?”

“What happened?”

“You tell me.”

King did some math. “Terrorists figured out that the son of a U.S. senator was on a private flight to an international military leadership seminar in South Africa. They decided to shoot us down.”

“Look at him go,” Bolan said.

“And those…guys—” King shuddered “—who found us are not them. Who were they?”

Shelby spoke quietly. “I did a paper on the Congo Wars last quarter. Those guys were tribal militia, rebels…or worse.”

“Last call.” Bolan looked up and down the group. “Anyone else?”

Rudipu perked up. “Sarge?”

“Rude?”

“Do you always answer a question with a question?”

The ghost of a smile passed across Bolan’s face. “No.”

A few nervous laughs broke out. “Cold camp tonight. I don’t want any fires giving us away. Divvy up the food from the plane. Sandwiches, power bars, whatever snacks you brought with you. Eat half now, save the rest for breakfast. Long day tomorrow, and we’re going to have to start catching whatever we eat real soon.”

Bolan turned before a new round of questions started and went over to the crew. The copilot was in bad shape. His broken legs were swollen and smelled. There was nothing to be done about the bullets in his guts. “How’s he doing?”

The flight attendant just managed to choke back a sob.

The copilot opened red-rimmed eyes. They were lucid as he surveyed Bolan. He spoke in about the thickest Australian drawl Bolan had ever heard. “Heard your palaver with the kids, then. Reckon you got a nickname for me, too?”

Bolan gave the dying man a grin. “You prefer Bullet-stop or Brittle-bones?”

The copilot grimaced good-naturedly as a rale passed through his lungs, “You know it hurts when I laugh, then.”

The flight attendant mopped the bloody spittle from the copilot’s mouth. “And me? Do I get a name, too?”

“What is your name?”

The woman looked steadily into Bolan’s eyes. “Roos von Kwakkenbos.”

“The Rudester has nothing on you, and you and Hudjak may be related.”

Von Kwakkenbos laughed. “And?”

“We’re just going to stick with Blondie.” Bolan turned his attention back to the copilot. “How you doing?”

The copilot turned to Von Kwakkenbos. “Reckon you should take a look at the kids, get some tucker while the getting is good.”

The woman gave the copilot a long look and went to join the cadets.

Copilot Pieter Llewellyn sighed, and there was a bad gurgle at the end of it. “Reckon I’m done, then. It’s at least 150 klicks to the border.”

“The cadets are willing to carry you. So am I.”

“Fine bunch of lads. ’Preciate it. But those dipsticks following us? You’re not going to beat them in a footrace, specially toting my carcass about. ’Sides, we both know I’m gonna cark it long before we ever reach Uganda. Guess there’s nothing to be done.”

“I could give you some more morphine,” Bolan countered.

The copilot perked up. “Aw, that’d be bonzer, mate!”

Bolan readied an injector from the plane’s kit. “You know, you’re the only Australian I know who actually uses that word.”

“Well, then, you’ve never been to Maralinga, then, have you? There’s an—” Pieter’s eyes just about rolled back in his head as the morphine flooded his veins. “Aww, beauty…”

“Would you believe me if I said I had?” Bolan asked.

“Believe almost anything you tell me at the moment.”