Chapter 1

5 February 1988, Oshakati Military Base, South-West Africa

Lieutenant Owen Able walked down a corridor on the second floor of the military base. Rows of neatly spaced wooden office doors lined both sides of the hallway. The tan-colored doors were precise, identical, and pristine, like soldiers standing at attention. Nothing less could be expected from the military. Beneath the white-tiled ceiling, gray laminated floor tiles gleamed under the glow of fluorescent lights. Every step of Owen's leather boots produced distinct squeaking noises against its immaculate surface as he went. The upper hierarchy reserved this part of the building for the esteemed high-ranking officers, the commanding voices of authority, and the architects of pivotal decisions. For a lower-ranking officer like Owen to be summoned to this domain could only mean one of two things: he was in deep trouble or important and possibly unwelcomed orders would be bestowed upon him. It is rarely good news, but there is a slim chance that it might even be a third likely option.

Owen stopped in front of the door marked with a polished plaque that bore the inscription: "Gen. A.J. Hills". He confidently knocked on the door.

"Enter!" a voice boomed from inside the office.

Owen entered, jerked to attention, and saluted the General.

"Lieutenant Owen Able reporting, sir!"

"At ease lieutenant," the General said without looking up from the paperwork he was staring at on his desk.

Owen closed the door before returning to his previous position, standing in a more relaxed stance with his hands behind his back.

The office was minimalistic and dark. Dark desk, dark chairs, and a dark carpet. A Copenhagen carpet from Nouwens from Owen's deduction. Only three things brought a bit of brightness: the analog clock on the wall, the wall itself, and the stack of papers on the desk. Even the telephone next to the pile of papers was black. Closed Venetian blinds blocked out the deadly South-West African (now called Namibia) sun and, you guessed it, it was also a dark color. Owen could not help but wonder if all this darkness did not perhaps contribute to the mood of the second-floor occupants.

Briefly, the General raised his gaze from his desk, his wise eyes meeting Owen's. He pointed at a chair across from him. "Take a seat."

Owen took a seat while General Hills buried his nose in a dossier.

"It says here that you are part of the 5 RECCE regiment, yet it states that you are only nineteen years old," the General said. He looked at Owen with questioning eyes. "That is unusual, as you need to be twenty-one or older to qualify for the RECCE commandos."

Owen replied, "The special forces had a shortage of men, as there was but one soldier who passed the Selection two years prior. I felt it was my duty to volunteer, sir."

General Hills inspected the dossier further while cramming a handful of peanuts in his mouth from a small bowl on his desk. His black, bushy mustache, patched with streaks of gray that mirrored his short hair, wiggled up and down as he chewed. After some chewing, swallowing, nodding, and affirming noises, he fixed his gaze back toward Owen.

"I can see you passed Selection with flying colors and completed all the advanced courses, including medical."

"Indeed, I did, sir."

"So if I choke on a peanut, you will be able to save me from flopping around on the ground like a fish out of water and possibly pooping myself before kicking the bucket?"

An involuntary smile sweeps over Owen's face.

"This is no joke, soldier! Which part is funny to you?" General Hills shouted, sending spittle flying all over the place. "A peanut stuck in my throat or me dying? So what will you do if that happens, Lieutenant?"

With a straight face, Owen answered calmly, "I will assess the situation and if you are indeed choking, I will encourage you to cough, as that may dislodge the object stuck in your throat. If that does not work, I will perform the Heimlich Maneuver. Assuming that does not work, which is highly improbable, it is time to dispatch medical and perform CPR on your most likely unconscious body, sir!"

General Hills spat out a peanut shell and shoved the peanut bowl to one side.

"Now you listen to me, soldier. If it ever comes to that, you will not come near me with your lips!" He pulled a face and gestured with a hand in the air in search of the right word. "What do they call it? Kiss of life...rescue kiss..."

"Rescue breaths, sir," Owen corrected him.

"Yes, that!" The general gestured with his finger towards Owen. "You will not ever do that to me. Leave me to die. I insist. In fact, that is an order!"

"Sir, yes sir!"

General Hills slammed a folder crammed with documents down on the table and sat back in his chair. "This mess called Operation Bingo landed on my desk, and they recommended you, a child not yet serving two years in the army, to clean this up," he said. "There is no time to waste. I will therefore abide by this decision against my better judgment."

He got up from his chair and briskly walked over to a map pinned on the eastern office wall.

"Here is the situation, pay attention," the General instructed, pointing to a location in Angola on the map. "Intelligence shows a large presence of MPLA party members that entered Cuvelai recently. This means that enemy military forces may not be far behind. We need to determine if there is any SWAPO activity at Cuvelai, and if so, to what extent. If the area poses a threat, 32 Battalion stands at the ready to move in and mop up."

Owen got up from his chair and moved closer to get a better view of the map. "A straightforward recon mission then, sir? Sounds simple enough."

"You may want to hold back on that thought. We already sent out a four-man RECCE company to investigate the situation under Team Leader Captain Sean Brits."

"Then I am confused, sir," Owen said.

"You will be if you interrupt me before giving you your orders!"

"My apologies, sir."

"Now, Captain Brits and his men's last known location was ten clicks northeast from Xangongo," General Hills said, pointing to a location on the map. "They are now MIA since two days ago. A Buschbuck (an AM.3 light aircraft) was dispatched to look for them but returned empty."

The General went quiet for a moment, his face glowed a brighter red with each passing second, "You youngsters think it's a bloody game of cowboy and crooks in the Bushveld and then get lost or get yourself killed! Then I have to go and find you! Do I look like your mother, Lieutenant?"

"No. sir!" Owen said.

He paused for a second to calm down. The color on the General's face returned to normal before he continued, "Your primary mission, Lieutenant, is to complete the mission Captain Brits failed to accomplish and your secondary mission is to find the whereabouts of the missing men. With no soldiers to spare, this will be a two-man operation. This means little sleep and no radio operator on your team."

"Understood, sir!"

"Does this scare you, soldier?" The General said.

"We fear naught but God, sir!" Owen replied.

"So, who is the lucky individual that will accompany you?"

"I nominate Shorty, sir," Owen said.

"Shorty?"

"He is a bushman with excellent tracking and hunting skills. I believe the correct term these days is a Khoisan person."

"Yes, I have heard that they made exceptional soldiers. It is said that they lived off the Bushveld for centuries," General Hills said.

"Correct, sir. Shorty also knows a bit of English and a few other useful languages."

"Then it is settled. You and Shorty will report to Hangar zero-two at one hundred hours tomorrow morning, where a chopper will take you across the border. You will deploy two clicks north of Xangongo and make your way up to Cuvelai. Speak to Captain Price when you get to the hangar," the General said. "I made provision for twelve days in which to complete your mission. Extraction will be waiting for you at the deployment point on Thursday the eighteenth of February at two hundred hours sharp. Is that understood?"

"That's a long way to travel by foot, sir!" Owen said.

"I am fully aware that it is a recon mission, soldier, and not a survival expedition. Do you think I am an idiot, Lieutenant?" The General said.

"No, sir!"

"Do you think I gave you twelve days to have a barbecue and a party in the bush?"

"No, sir!" Owen said.

"Well, then. We cannot risk deploying deeper into Angola. We count on a small footprint," the General said. "Can you do this, soldier?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"Or are you crippled in some way I do not know of?" the general shouts.

"No, sir!"

"Did we not provide you with survival training, soldier? Or do you find it imperative to stop at a supermarket to stuff that hole in your face?"

"Yes... I mean, no, sir!"

"Oh, and Lieutenant. If this paperwork is still on my desk twelve days from now or if you decide to get lost in the bush, I will find you and string you from a tree using your shoelaces!"

"I won't fail you, sir. You can count on me," Owen said.

"Two more things I would like to press on you before you take your leave: This is a top-secret mission. Only I know of your deployment in Angola. Keep it that way. Secondly, if you do not find our missing men, you will need to explain your incompetence to their mothers."

"Yes, sir. Understood, sir!"

"Now get out of my sight and inform Shorty of his good fortune." The General said.

Owen saluted, turned around, and left the office.

* * *

It is the evening before the mission. The officer's barracks were empty and quiet. Owen was sitting on his bed with his back against the wall, scribbling something on a piece of paper that rested on a field manual that, in turn, rested on Owen's drawn knees. Shorty walked in, stopped in front of Owen's bed, and saluted.

"Shorty reporting, sir!" He said with a heavy accent.

"At ease, soldier," Owen said. He pointed to a wooden chair standing in front of his desk, next to his bed. "Please take a seat."

Not fully understanding the word "seat", Shorty hesitated for a moment, unsure whether he should take the chair or sit on it. Weighing the options, Shorty decided on the choice that made the most sense. He pulled out the chair from under the desk and sat down. With questioning eyes, Shorty pointed to the piece of paper Owen was scribbling on.

"Oh, this?" Owen said. He placed the pen on his lap and pointed to each of his nipples in turn with his index finger. "It is a letter for my woman back home." Although he would never use such a phrase to describe his girlfriend in polite society, it was a language that Shorty understood well.

"Wait, let me show you," Owen said. His eyes lit up as he pulled out a picture of Nicole, his girlfriend, living in South Africa, from his shirt pocket. He handed the picture to Shorty.

"Have a look. This is her," Owen said.

Shorty examined the picture, and a big smile spread across his face. He raised a thumb into the air.

"Nice!" Shorty said.

Owen politely pulled the picture from Shorty's grip. "Let me put the picture away. I do not want to have your drool all over it," he said with a smile.

Shorty unbuttoned his shirt pocket and also retrieved a photo from it. He held it out to Owen, "My woman and small one. Sargeant Staley gave me," Shorty said in broken English.

Owen took the picture from Shorty and inspected the image. A woman with her young daughter, only dressed in loin cloth, stood smiling in front of a traditional Khoisan hut.

"Very nice, Shorty. Sargeant Staley took a nice picture," Owen said.

Shorty gently pried the photo from Owen's hand. "Give back. I do not want drool all over my picture."

Owen burst out laughing, with Shorty following suit. What made it even funnier was the unexpectedness of Shorty's comment, as well as the fact that Shorty actually understood what was said.

As the laughter died down, Owen's face grew more serious.

"The reason I summoned you, Shorty, is that we received orders to deploy in Angola for a recon mission," Owen said while looking Shorty in the eyes.

"How many men?" Shorty said.

Owen pointed towards Shorty and then back to himself. "It will only be you and me, brother."

Your closest friend was the one fighting alongside you--an unbreakable bond built on trust, formed between you and your buddy who had your back. "Brother" was commonly used to express this camaraderie. Brothers in arms is what you were.

Shorty shot a thumb in the air. "No problem," he said with a smile.

Owen got up and pulled out a topographical map from his desk drawer. He rolled the map out on the table and pinned one edge of the map down with a mug and the other end with his RECCE dagger to prevent it from rolling up. Owen went over the mission details with Shorty indicating the deployment point and the target objective.

"Yoh! That is far," Shorty said. "How many days?"

"We have twelve days to complete the mission. A far cry from the normal one or two-day recon missions," Owen said.

"That is good. Very easy," Shorty said.

"Yes. I estimate about 30 clicks a day going back and forth. That will provide two days' leeway," Owen said. "Now that you know all the details, show me the best route to take."

Shorty drew from his knowledge of the area while staring at the map for a moment before he pointed to various locations. "We go towards the Kunene River to this hill. From there, we keep between the river and the road up to Cafu. Then the difficult part of going through dense bush until we reach Cuvelai." Shorty locked eyes with Owen. "The tree canopy will keep us safe from MiG 21 aircraft and HIND helicopters. It is the wet season. There will be plenty of food and water along the way."

"Well, Shorty. My definition and your definition of 'plenty' differ vastly. No, I will be sure to bring some food along," Owen said with a smirk.

Owen removed his Lensatic compass from the desk drawer. Remembering that the back of the map showed a six-degree offset to the west between grid north and magnetic north, he adjusted the compass for the declination and placed it on the lower left corner of the map. Next, Owen rotated the map until the red was in the shed, an expression used to adjust the north-bearing compass needle to the north indicator on the outer compass ring. With the compass adjusted to the map, Owen plotted the waypoints along their route, making a mental note of the direction in degrees, the reverse azimuths, and any features at that location.

Owen realized at an early age that he differed from other people. Not physically, but mentally. He never needed to make notes to remember a lecture in class, not once. Recalling anything and everything he saw, heard, or read before was the most natural thing to him. He sometimes found it very frustrating to understand that the typical person cannot accurately recall minor details the way he could. The phrase he detested the most was, "I can't remember saying that."

Shorty has traveled the Kalahari Desert and surrounding areas all his life without the need for a map or compass. Complex landmarks and the less obvious horizon made navigating the Bushveld difficult at times. This made Shorty the perfect companion.

Chapter 2

It was 12:55 am on the sixth of February. Millions of the brightest stars pinned the cloudless skies, creating the illusion of closeness as if one could simply reach out and touch them, while the full moon bathed the Oshakati military base in a cool, silvery-blue glow. Owen and Shorty, dressed in Browns (the general camouflage uniform worn by the South African military) and anti-tracking boots, walked across the airfield's tarmac towards Hangar Zero-two, their fuzzy, elongated shadows trailing behind them. Shorty only brought a knife, a leather pouch containing some essentials, his rifle, and a water bottle. Owen, outfitted with a full kit and Niemoller webbing housing extra ammunition for his AK-47 rifle, effortlessly shouldered the twenty-five-kilogram MALICE rucksack on his broad muscular frame. An Alouette III G-Car helicopter sits on the tarmac in front of the Hangar. Captain Price walked over to Owen and Shorty.

"Morning, boys," he said friendly.

Owen and Shorty saluted the Captain, "Good morning, Captain."

"Lieutenant Able, you will man the side-gun. Shorty, you are in the front with me," the Captain said.

They all climbed on board and took their respective positions. Captain Price switched on the battery master between the pilot seats and flipped the booster pump switch to its on position to get some fuel pressure before he went over the preflight checklist. He then hit the start button. The engine's high-pitched noise filled the cockpit, steadily growing louder each second.  At seventy-nine seconds, ignition occurred. Blades whirred at 9000 rpm with the exhaust temperature rapidly rising. A few minutes later they were airborne. Captain Price enabled the communication system.

"Is this your first deployment in Angola, Lieutenant?" Captain Price said over his headset.

"No sir," Owen said. "But it is my first two-man mission."

"Have you seen any action?"

"No sir. Unlike popular belief, there is not an enemy behind every bush across the border. I will wager that only ten percent of all soldiers will experience hard contact," Owen says. "What about you, sir?"

"Let's not kid one another, Lieutenant. It is every young man's dream to take out a few targets. Right up to the point where they find themselves in the thick of it. As for me, it's the sole reason I am flying gunships in the army," Captain Price said. "So, yes. I saw a bit of action. No drug in the world can compare to that rush, and no amount of shrapnel will keep me away from chasing it."

"Another good reason I think drugs are bad for you," Owen said with a smile.

* * *

An hour and a half passed when they finally reached their destination. Captain Price expertly set the helicopter down on a fairly even piece of land just beyond Xangongo village.

"OK boys, this is your queue. Good hunting!" Captain Price shouted over the headphones. "I will see you in twelve days!"

"Thank you, Captain!" Shorty and Owen replied.

They grabbed their gear and got out of the helicopter. Moments later, Captain Price took off. The thudding of the helicopter blades slowly faded in the distance until it became inaudible. The starry night was quiet, void of any human activity. Unsettling Lion roars and Hyena laughs occasionally broke the silence. That is when the nocturnal creatures of the night came out to hunt after all. But for unknown reasons, the enemy never navigated the sky after dark. Owen and Shorty would be safe from prying eyes from above. At least until dawn. Owen retrieved the night vision goggles from his backpack, activated a faint, red light located on his shoulder, and checked the compass for the precise heading. Content with the direction, he clasped the compass closed and tucked it away in a utility pouch on his belt.

"Follow me, Shorty. I will take point," Owen said.

Shorty shadowed Owen's footsteps through the grassy terrain under the sparse, low-hanging tree canopy, occasionally placing his hand on Owen's shoulder for guidance in the darkness. They headed northwest, making steady progress toward their first marker near the Kunene River. After roughly an hour and five kilometers, Shorty signaled Owen to halt with a tap on his shoulder. They crouched down.

"What's wrong?" Owen said.

Shorty tapped his nose with pursed fingers and said, 'Smoke. People nearby.' Next, he inserted his index finger into his mouth before withdrawing it and holding it steady above his head to determine the wind's direction. After a moment, Shorty pointed and said, "It's coming from there."

They cautiously navigated the terrain in the smoke's direction. A few hundred meters to the northeast, the crackling and glow of a campfire came into view standing in a clearing among five Mopane trees. Four men sat on logs around the fire, staring into the flames, chatting. Owen carefully surveyed the camp. A small shovel leaned against one tree with disturbed ground directly beneath it. He recognized their attire. They were unmistakably a RECCE squad.

This does not make any sense, Owen thought. Either they forgot their training or they have no problem being spotted.

"Friendlies, Don't shoot!" Owen said while slowly moving out from behind a tree where he was hiding, hands raised.

He signaled Shorty to come out as well from his hiding spot. Shorty cautiously complied.

The four soldiers sitting around the campfire scrambled to their feet, grabbing their rifles next to them.

"Who goes there?" the Captain demanded.

"Lieutenant Able. 5 RECCE battalion, sir!"

"Yes, I recognize you. Where are the rest of your men, and what's up with the Bushman?"

"Private Shorty is a friend. It is only the two of us," Owen said.

"Lower your weapons men," the Captain said with a gesture of his hand. He approached Owen, gesturing towards the squad members standing in the back. "I am Captain Brits and these are my men. You are welcome to sit at our fire."

Owen extended both of his arms forward in recognition of the Captain's rank. They casually walked up to the campfire and placed their equipment down at the base of a nearby tree. Owen and Shorty took a seat on a log next to the Captain with their backs facing the fire. Staring into flames delays eye adjustment to darkness, making surprise attacks possible. Besides, making a campfire behind enemy lines was not the brightest of ideas.

It is hard to believe that the search party could not find them, Owen thought.

Captain Brits looked over his shoulder at Owen. "Relax, Lieutenant. This is a quiet area," he said, then got up and sat down on the log again, facing the same direction Owen was. "So, what are you doing in this neck of the Bushveld, anyway?" He grinned. "If they have sent you to complete the recon mission at Cuvelai, then I can save you the trip. We have the full report with us."

"You may not know this, Captain, but two days ago, they declared you and your squad MIA," Owen said. "A search party was dispatched, but they returned empty-handed," Owen said.

"Yes, we were supposed to at least have radioed in a few days ago, but we ran into some trouble and our radio got damaged," Captain Brits said. "The enemy chased us for days before we could shake them. Now we are slowly making our way back over the border." He looked at Owen. "That is why I asked where the rest of your men were in the hopes that you may have a radio with you."

"Can I have a look at the damaged radio?" Owen said. "I'm pretty good with repairs. Perhaps I can get it working again."

The Captain was silent for a moment, then said, "I cannot find a reason why not."

Owen got up and walked over to a neat pile of backpacks that lay in the clearing at a safe distance from the campfire. The backpack that contained the radio was easy to spot, with the radio's flexible metal antenna sticking out from its side. Just as Owen was about to take the radio from the backpack, a gunshot sounded. Crackles and sparks popped from a bullet hole in the backpack Owen was about to open.

Bewildered, he looked back at the Captain. Shorty nervously glanced over at his rifle, which stood against a tree about five meters away, and slowly started shuffling toward it.

The Captain pointed his pistol at Owen. "As I said, our radio got damaged." He briefly glanced in Shorty's direction, then back at Owen. "Men! Detain our two friends here," he ordered.

Owen raised his hands. "What is going on, fellas?"

They said nothing.

Shorty stood frozen as two of the men advanced towards him, their weapons aimed at his chest. Meanwhile, Sergeant Rigby moved swiftly to apprehend Owen.

He halted less than an arm's length away from Owen. "Don't move, and keep your hands where I can see them!" Rigby said.

Owen deflected Sergeant Rigby's rifle barrel away from himself, then plunged down, lifted Sergeant Rigby over his head, and hurled him into the campfire like a small bean bag before diving for cover behind the stack of backpacks. Rigby landed with a thud in the fire, causing an explosion of sparks and burning logs that shot out of the fiery pit into the clearing. Captain Brits, taken by surprise, managed to fire off two gunshots in Owen's general direction, but both bullets missed and lodged into the pile of bags. While Sergeant Rigby tried to come to terms with what had just happened, his clothes started smoldering while still lying flat on his back on top of the glowing coals. His rifle was no longer in his hand anymore and must have flown in a random direction during Owen's unexpected attack. To his horror, he realized his pants were on fire. His distressed screams seemed to power his energetic fire dance, consisting of heel kicks digging up dirt and burning coals, rolling back and forth, and squirming like someone being electrocuted. Red embers lay scattered in the clearing from Sergeant Rigby's desperate fire escape. The two soldiers who went to detain Shorty turned around and rushed to Sergeant Rigby's aid. Capitalizing on this distraction, Shorty dove toward his rifle that leaned against a tree. Another gunshot echoed through the morning air. Shorty fell to the ground, clutching his knee, screaming in agony.

Owen peered over the backpacks and saw a wispy trail of vapor rising from Captain Brits's pistol barrel.

"Shorty!" Owen shouted, "Talk to me, Shorty!"

"Stop!" Captain Brits demanded, "Or my next bullet will be in your friend's head!"

Owen raised his hands and slowly rose up from behind the stack of backpacks.

The Captain addressed his men, annoyed, "Now if you ladies are quite done playing around, tie our guests to a tree of your choice."

Sergeant Rigby adjusted his still-smoldering outfit and confidently approached Owen again, but this time with the accompaniment of Corporal Wheeler. Wheeler stooped down and removed Owen's bootlaces while Sergeant Rigby held him at gunpoint, at a safe distance this time. They made sure to remove Owen's RECCE dagger and webbing before shoving him toward a tree. Disappointed in himself, Owen wondered if he could have prevented it all.

Things could have worked out differently if he simply took Rigby's rifle from him instead, he thought. It was a maneuver they practiced tirelessly in Krav Maga after all.

Meanwhile, Captain Brits kept an eye on Shorty and his men, making sure that no surprises surfaced again. Shorty is still lying on the ground, clutching his knee in agony. The remaining soldier removed Shorty's bootlaces and dragged him by the collar to a nearby tree.

"Sit down against the tree with your hands at your side," Rigby demanded, shoving his gun barrel in Owen's gut. He enjoyed this moment. The feeling of power and importance being in command and having the upper hand.

"Wait!" Captain Brits said to the soldier dragging Shorty by the collar. "Tie the Bushman to the tree opposite Lieutenant Able."

The soldier complied, wrapped Shorty's arms around the sides of the tree trunk, and tied his hands to the tree with his bootlaces. Captain Brits walked over towards Owen and crouched down, looking him in the eye.

"The way I see it, you have two choices," the Captain said. He rested his pistol on his knee, the barrel pointed at Owen. "You get rid of the Bushman and deliver the recon report we have on Cuvalai, and I might just let you in on our small business we are running here."

"Or?" Owen said.

"Or you will be of no use to me."

"I will gladly die for Shorty. He is a true soldier, unlike you and your merry band of bandits here."

"Before you get all holy on me, soldier, remember why you are here." The Captain got up and pointed at Owen, "You are here on order of the president to kill and destroy--"

"It is called defending our country," Owen interrupted.

"I agree," Captain Brits said. "We, the South African military, got extremely good at doing exactly that. But now, that same president sent word that we should retreat from the border, giving victory to our foes."

"Are you sure?" Owen asked.

"Quite sure. By next year this time, the South African army will be a mere memory in these parts." Anger wells up in the Captain. "We bled for this country! Many a time sent to our deaths! But we somehow always managed to defy all odds. For what?" He turned briefly before whirling back to face Owen. "If given the order today, we'd surely and swiftly wipe the enemy from existence! Instead, we are handing our country to them!" The Captain's tone softened slightly. "I have no life back home, and I refuse to serve under the communist regime we fought to prevent." He paused for a moment, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "So we are collecting our pension while we can. Nothing wrong with that. The army will anyway fall apart after this is over." He leaned in, delivering a firm double-tap to Owen's cheek. "I will give you until sunrise to think about my proposal."

"Or else you will kill me?" Owen said.

"You didn't think I'd just let you walk out of here, jeopardizing my livelihood, did you, soldier?" He stared Owen dead in the eyes, awaiting a response, but Owen remained silent.

The Captain rose to his feet. "I did not think so," he said as he walked away.

Captain Brits glanced over at Shorty, still groaning from the pain where he got shot in the knee.

"Hmm, Bushmen. I detest them for reasons I just can't quite pinpoint," he muttered.

He walked toward Shorty, stooped down, and firmly grabbed him by the chin, squeezing Shorty's cheeks with his fingers and thumb. Captain Brits brought his face close to Shorty's and forcefully shifted Shorty's face from side to side.

The Captain's eyes widened and his mouth twisted into a snarl as if he were overcome by madness. "I don't like the way they smell! I don't like the way they talk, and I don't like the way they look!" Glancing over at his comrades, he said, "But we can fix that with a bit of cosmetic surgery, right boys," followed by a menacing laugh.

The men replied with scattered chuckles.

The familiar audible ring of metal against leather got everyone's attention as Captain Brits pulled a knife from a scabbard on his belt.

"You touch him and I will kill you!" Owen shouted as he struggled against his restraints in desperation.

The Captain turned his head sharply towards Owen, pointing the knife in his direction. "You wait your turn, cowboy," he sneered. "What is our slogan, men?"

"We fear naught but God!" they chanted in unison.

"That's right," the Captain replied. "And around these parts, I am god."

Returning his attention to Shorty, he grasped the tip of Shorty's right ear between his left index finger and thumb. With precision, he brought the knife's edge between Shorty's head and his outer ear, slicing into the flesh. Blood gushed from the wound. Shorty jerked his head away, screaming in pain.

"Rigby, don't just stand there, hold his head!"

Rigby jumped into action, positioning himself behind the tree, gripping Shorty's head firmly against the trunk with both hands.

"You coward! On my word, you will die an agonizing slow death," Owen's enraged cry echoed through the clearing.

He violently yanked against the tight bindings of the bootlaces, which only dug deeper into his wrists with each desperate tug.

"Now hold his head tight, Rigby. I am almost done," the Captain said as he continued to slice through cartilage and flesh.

With a final scream, Shorty's eyes turned around in their eye sockets as he passed out from the excruciating pain. Captain Brits roared with satisfaction while he waved the severed ear triumphantly in the air. Rigby let go of Shorty's head, which silently slumped to one side.

"No!" Owen screamed. "Shorty, hang in there, buddy!"

"Wheeler!"

"Yes, Captain!"

"Hang the ear on a branch to dry and hand me that bag next to my backpack."

"Yes, sir," Wheeler said. He took the ear and went to fetch the bag as instructed.

The Captain shook Shorty by the shoulders and tapped him repeatedly in the face. "Wake up, boy!"

Shorty opened his eyes in a daze.

"Good, good. There you are," the Captain said.

Groaning sounds escaped Shorty's lips.

"Shush. It is okay," Captain Brits said. "We're not done yet and I would hate for you to miss the show," he said with a grin.

Wheeler returned with the bag and handed it to the Captain. Inside, the contents of the bag moved and wriggled. Brits untied the string at the bag's top and plunged his hand inside. Moments later, he retrieved a slender, bright green-colored snake with large eyes from the bag, gripping it firmly by the head between his fingers. It was the notorious Boomslang. The Afrikaans word directly translates to "tree snake," accurately portraying its arboreal behavior.

Mesmerized by his admiration of the snake, the Captain mumbled, "Dispholidus typus. What a marvelous creature. A predator, deceptive and deadly." He gazed into Shorty's dull eyes with excitement on his face, "Did you know it was first believed that the Boomslang was harmless? All of its outer features mimic that of non-venomous snakes. Deceptive indeed. Almost like us RECCES that disguise ourselves to look like the enemy when doing infiltration missions." With gentle pressure, he coaxed the snake to open its jaws wider. "Notice the large fangs at the rear. This fooled experts into believing that it could only deliver a venomous bite to small parts of the body, but what they soon realized was that the Boomslang can open its jaws to almost one hundred and eighty degrees."

"What's your deal, Sean?" Owen said from across the clearing. "Did your daddy beat you or did your mother drop you on your head as a child? What's your excuse?"

Captain Brits snapped his head toward Owen, eyes blazing. "Captain Brits to you, soldier! And you'll keep your mouth shut unless you want me to make things far worse for your friend over here!"

Brits turned his attention back to Shorty and carefully dropped the snake's head on Shorty's face. The Boomslang desperately tried to make its escape up the tree, but Captain Brits kept pulling it back by its tail, keeping the Boomslang's perimeter confined to Shorty's body. Frozen in terror, Shorty's body remained motionless, eyes wide with fear. Only high-pitched groans escaped his lips like a siren running out of power. It did not take long before the snake locked its jaws around Shorty's nose and sank its fangs into the fleshy part. Shorty let out a bone-chilling scream. Releasing his grip, Captain Brits allowed the snake to quickly vanish up the tree.

"You sick, twisted, sadistic psycho!" Owen's angered voice rang across the clearing.

"No, no. You've got me all wrong," the Captain said calmly while slowly making his way toward Owen with a slight bounce in his step. Like someone proud of an achievement. He came to a halt in front of Owen and hunched down. "I see myself as a bit of a scientist..."

"There's no mistake. You are seriously messed up!" Owen interrupted.

With a grin on his face, the Captain peered into Owen's eyes, "The fascinating thing about the Boomslang's venom, even though not unique, lies in the fact that it causes the rapid formation of many small blood clots to the extent that the body loses its blood-clotting ability. In turn, the victim will start bleeding internally and externally until they bleed out and die. On the other hand, we have the possibility of an infection taking place from the knife wound. Lastly, it is said that a person will die after three days without water," Captain Brits shot a glance over at Shorty, "The question is, which deadly symptom will win? You see...," he paused for a moment, licking his lips, before continuing, "...in my research, I found that it can take up to five days for a victim to bleed out from the snake venom. Going without water for three days is more or less accurate. This is, of course, only true if you do not let them eat anything during that time, or else the body will extract moisture from the food. Some of these Bushmen are quite resilient. There were a few cases where they lasted for five days without water."

Owen grunted and tugged at his restraints with no result. The Captain gave a menacing laugh as he stood up.

"OK, boys! Enough fun for now. Let's have a drink," Captain Brits said.

Sergeant Rigby grabbed the small shovel that leaned against the tree and started digging at its base. Within a short time, a thud of metal on wood sounded. He carefully scraped the bulk of the dirt off the wooden chest lying below the ground and out of the hole before discarding the shovel to one side. Rigby then dropped to his knees and cleared away the rest of the sand with his hands. The wooden chest opened with a creak. Its contents overflowing with various valuable items comprising of documents, canned food, dried meat, money bags, and more. Sergeant Rigby removed three bottles of fine whiskey from the crate and then closed the lid.

Chapter 3

It was an hour before sunrise. Captain Brits and his men indulged in drinking whiskey and telling jokes around the campfire with sporadic bursts of laughter that echoed through the night air. Shorty was not moving, but Owen noticed he was still breathing from the slow heaving of his chest.

"Don't give up on me buddy, I will get us out of here," Owen said with a loud whisper.

He glanced over at his captives. No one was standing guard, and they were all preoccupied with having a good time. Lifting his knees and planting his heels into the dirt, Owen pressed his back firmly against the tree trunk. Wiggling from side to side, his body slowly crawled up the tree until, finally, he stood upright. Kicking his right leg backward and up like a jackknife, Owen caught the tip of his boot with his right hand. The many years of martial arts training made him surprisingly flexible despite his big frame. His interest in martial arts was fueled by his late father who owned a Dutch kickboxing dojo, and early morning training from a very young age was part of Owen's disciplined upbringing. With the bootlaces removed, it only took a couple of light shakes for the Angus Arbuckle boot knife to dislodge from between the boot collar and his ankle. The blade and scabbard slid silently into the leg opening of his camouflaged pants. Where most would clasp the knife to their boot using the clip on the scabbard, Owen preferred concealment above all. With the metal clip on his scabbard removed, he relied on tightening his shoelaces to secure the sheath and knife in place while kept concealed underneath the fabric of his pants. Owen let go of his boot, allowing his leg to return to its original position, with his foot planted on the ground next to the tree trunk. The Arbuckle knife tumble-dropped to the ground with a muffled thud, finding its final resting place a few centimeters off to the side of the Mopane tree he was bound to.

"I do not know about you guys, but I love eating fish eyes," Owen heard Captain Brits said in the distance by the campfire.

Wheeler chuckled and threw another log on the fire. "That's a pretty random statement. What made you think of that?"

"The Bushman's eyes. It looked just like dead fish eyes," Brits giggled. "Funnier yet, was his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water."

The men burst out laughing.

"I wonder if Bushmen's eyes are equally as tasty," Captain Brits said. "How about we test that theory?"

He got up from his seat and drew his knife. Owen was still trying to drag the Arbuckle blade closer to the back of the tree with his foot so he could reach it with his bound hands. He kept a close eye on Captain Brits, who was about to turn around, facing his direction. Just as Captain Brits turned around, Owen kicked the knife into the desired position. The problem was that he still stood upright.

I have another few seconds before his eyes can adjust to the darkness, Owen thought to himself.

He bit down on his teeth and slid down the tree trunk. The rough bark texture and the sharp edges of broken-off twigs along the way, scraped and sliced into his back and arms, but Owen did not make a sound.

On hearing movement in Owen's direction, Captain Brits squinted and inquisitively looked into the darkness. "Are you okay there, soldier?"

"Just getting comfortable," Owen said.

"Do you want me to come over there and tug you in?"

The men around the campfire roared with laughter.

"I am sure you have better things to do. Let me not keep you," Owen replied.

"Yeah, I think let me just make sure you are still comfortably hugging the tree over there."

With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Captain Brits cautiously approached Owen, knife in hand. The Angus Arbuckle boot knife was just outside Owen's reach. His fingers stretching, feeling, reaching, but his fingertips kept sliding off the edge of the knife's smooth leather scabbard. Captain Brits stopped in front of Owen, tilting his head to one side.

"You seem a bit twitchy there, soldier. Trying to free your hands by any chance?"

"What tied-up person wouldn't?" Owen said. "But it seems Rigby did a good job with the knots."

"I better check. We don't want you wandering off into the wilderness. It is dangerous out there."

Just as Captain Brits was about to walk around to the back of the Mopane tree, Owen shouted, "Sean!"

Sean Brits stopped dead in his tracks and looked at Owen with fiery eyes. "What did I tell you about calling me by my name? You need to learn a bit of respect, soldier!" He crouched down to Owen's eye level.

"What is up with the knife? Are you coming to cut me loose?" Owen said.

A crooked grin forms on Brit's face. His eyes were wide like a bull on the attack.

After what felt like an eternity, Owen's middle finger finally found a slight grip on the boot knife's scabbard. He inched the knife closer to his palm while staring expressionless at Brits, who slid the flat slide of his knife across Owen's face in a threatening manner.

"Wait until you see what I have in store for you," he said. "But that depends on your decision, of course. I said I would give you till sunrise..." He looked at his watch, "...which I guess is in another twenty minutes, give or take." Brits licked his lips and then said, "I am a patient man. Besides, you just reminded me why I came this way in the first place."

Meanwhile, Owen removed the Arbuckle blade from its sheath. The razor-sharp blade cut through the bootlaces like a warm knife through butter. He looked on as Captain Brits slowly made his way toward Shorty. The men around the campfire broke out in a slurry song inspired by their alcohol intoxication, making up their own words to What shall we do with a drunken sailor and replacing it with What shall we do with a drunken soldier.  They lost all interest in Captain Brits's sadistic mission, trapped in their world of song and dance. Fiery sparks erupted into the night sky, glowing fiercely before dissolving into the darkness as Wheeler threw another log into the heart of the furnace while doing a silly dance circling the flames.

Rigby raised his hand. "Listen, listen! I've got a joke for you."

"What? Do you want to tell us about how you almost became a s'more? Because that was funny as hell," Wheeler chortled.

"No," Rigby said with hazy eyes.

Wheeler gave a hiccup and raised his whiskey bottle towards Rigby. "Okay then. Melt me with your flaming hot comedy prowess."

The normally silent Lance Corporal Fourie burst out laughing, followed by the rest. When it finally quieted down, Rigby cleared his throat.

"Okay, so listen," he said.

"I'm listening," Fourie said.

Rigby said, "So, the dumb blonde's friend saw she looked worried. 'What's wrong?' she asked her blonde friend. 'I am pregmint,' the blonde replied."

"Pregmint?" Wheeler chuckled.

"Wait," Rigby said, raising his hand, and continued to tell the joke,  "'What did you say?' she asked the dumb blonde. 'I am pregmint,' the dumb blonde said again. Her friend started giggling and said, 'It's pregnant, not pregmint you idiom!'"

Fourie, overcome by laughter, spat his mouth full of whiskey into the naked flames. The liquid erupted into a brilliant cascade of vibrant blue and orange. Tongues of fire surged outward, knocking him off his seat, but not before singeing away half of his fringe. This sent Riby and Wheeler into a frenzy of chuckles.

Owen glanced over at the drunken party and then at Captain Brits, on the verge of poking Shorty's eye out.

"Wait!" Owen shouted, tightly gripping his blade's handle behind the tree trunk, ready to jump into action if the Captain did not comply.

"What now, soldier?" Captain Brits said, while pausing his actions.

"I thought you were a patient man. Are you unable to wait another ten to fifteen minutes? Why not save your energy for what you have in store for me? Besides, inflicting more damage on Shorty will ruin the scientific experiment. Are you not a man of science?" Owen said. "You may rather want to attend to your unorderly crew over there."

Lowering his knife, Captain Brits said, "I believe you make a good argument, soldier." Clapping his hands mockingly at Owen, he said, "Bravo! If you meant to buy more time for your friend over here, then mission accomplished."

He stood up and walked toward Owen. "Ten minutes, twenty minutes. It makes no difference. It won't stop what is inevitable." Brits came to a halt a few meters from Owen. "I will see you in ten minutes, soldier. We will have a nice chat then."

He then turned towards the camp and walked over to his squad. "Rigby, Wheeler, Fourie!"

The men stumble to attention. "Yes, sir!"

"I detest a lack of discipline. You are like a bunch of children that do not know when to stop."

"Can I say something, sir?" Wheeler said.

"What is on your mind, Wheeler?"

"Have you heard the one about the pregnant blonde?"

Fourie and Rigby struggled to maintain their giggles.

"Shut up!" Captain Brits demanded. "Get some coffee going and get rid of the booze. "

Wheeler rubbed his eyes and stared out in front of him. "Sir."

"Get the coffee pot going on the double Wheeler!"

"But sir...," Wheeler protested.

"Move Wheeler," the Captain said, annoyed.

The sun peaked its head over the horizon in the east, spilling its first rays of light across the camp.

"Look over there, sir," Wheeler said.

"I am not in the mood for your jokes, Wheeler!" Brits brought his face close to Wheeler's. "If you are still standing here by the count of three, you will be next hugging a tree!"

Wheeler pointed out in front of him, "Just look, our prisoner is gone!"

Captain Brits spun around. To his surprise, Shorty's weak body was still slumped against the tree, but Owen was nowhere to be seen.

"Gear up, men! But leave the backpacks. He could not have gone far," he said.

Wheeler rummaged through the pile of equipment and swiftly handed out a two-way radio to Rigby and Fourie before strapping one to his chest. They grabbed their weapons and rushed over to where Captain Brits already sat on his haunches, inspecting the area where Owen was detained.

"What do you see, men? Where did he go?" The Captain asked.

"By the look of the deep footprints he left behind and the space between them, he was running towards the river," Rigby said.

"Look again. Remember, he is skilled in anti-tracking, and he will not just leave his buddy behind," Captain Brits said. "No, he is still here."

"If you look closer, you can see he doubled back," Wheeler said.

Captain Brits got up and walked towards the tree, "This means, that if he backtracked on his footprints originating from the tree where he was bound, then he can only be in one place," he paused for a spell, "Up in the tree!" He grinned confidently and nonchalantly leaned his shoulder against the tree, "You can climb down now, soldier. It is time for that chat I promised you."

There was no answer.

Surprised, Captain Brits looked up. His eyes carefully scanned the branches for any human presence. To his disbelief, Owen was not hiding in the tree. The rest of the men also took a closer look.

"Where can he be?" Wheeler said.

Rigby panicked. "This is not good. What if he makes it to the border?"

"Calm down, Sergeant!" The Captain said.

"But he knows where we buried our supply cache, Cap. Let me have my cut of the profit. I will take my chances across the border," Rigby said.

The Captain grabbed Rigby by the shirt. "You are not going anywhere. We are in this together!" Letting go of his shirt, he firmly placed his hands on Rigby's shoulders. "If we do not find him by this afternoon, we will move the stash to another location and get rid of the Bushman. It will be his word against ours. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Rigby said.

He removed his hands from Riby's shoulders and addressed his men. "It seems that our knowledge of anti-tracking was used against us. Lieutenant Able made it look like he backtracked, but then actually made his way to the river," the Captain said. "Let's spread out. We will go east, Fourie to my left, Rigby to my right, and Wheeler, you keep guard at the camp on the off chance that Lieutenant Able returns to rescue his friend."

"Can I swap with Wheeler, Cap? I would prefer keeping an eye on the camp," Rigby said.

Captain Brits fixed Rigby with a stern gaze. "So that you can disappear with the cash? No. Get in line, soldier. That is an order."

"Yes, sir!" Rigby said.

After a quick radio check, Captain Brits said, "Wheeler, check in with me every ten minutes. The rest of you, let's move out."

"Yes, sir!" the men said in unison.

* * *

Wheeler patrolled the camp, rotating guarding positions every ten minutes, rifle at the ready.

Slanting his head to the right, he pushed the PTT button on his two-way radio strapped to his chest, "Charlie Bravo, Charlie Bravo, this is Charlie Whiskey checking in. Over."

Captain Brit's four-man company was assigned the call name, Charlie with the following NATO phonetic alphabet name representing the first letter of their respective surnames. Bravo was for Brits, Romeo for Rigby, Foxtrot for Fourie, and Whiskey for Wheeler.

"Roger, Charlie Whiskey. Carry on. Over and out," a voice crackles back over the radio.

A sudden sharp clapping sound broke the silence as Wheeler slapped the back of his neck harder than was necessary, leaving behind a red handprint.

"Darn mosquitoes. I can't wait to get out of this bush," he mumbled.

Going unnoticed, a large figure silently dropped from the tree behind him onto the soft, freshly dug-up soil to the side of the buried supply stash. Wheeler stared out in front of him.

"What a waste of tim--" With a sickening snap and the sound of crunching bones, Wheeler's words got cut off mid-sentence as his neck was forcefully twisted.

Owen gently laid Wheeler down on his back, yanked off his dog tags, removed his bootlaces, and threaded them through the eyelids of his own boots. Grabbing a nearby water bottle, Owen rushed over to Shorty.

"Shorty! Shorty!" Owen whispered loudly.

There was no response.

He tapped Shorty on the cheek, then brought his ear close to Shorty's lips. Weak puffs of air blew against Owen's ear.

Good. He was still alive.

After another few smacks in the face, the Bushman eyes groggily opened.

"Lieutenant...," he said faintly.

Owen unscrewed the water bottle cap and brought it to Shorty's lips. "Shush. Here drink," he said.

Shorty took a few small sips of water before slipping back into unconsciousness. Blood trickled from his nose, mouth, and ear openings. His sweaty body was limp and weak. Owen inspected Shorty's busted knee. It did not look good. The bullet remained lodged inside the leg since there was no exit wound, and the kneecap felt fractured. Infection already sat in and most likely attributed to Shorty's fever. Owen knew he had to tend to the wounds soon, before it was too late.

The infection in Shorty's knee needed to be drained, and the bullet removed. I can use my knife for that, Owen thought. Whiskey will do well for disinfecting the wounds and utensils. Draining and cauterizing the bullet wound would be good, and clean bandages for his ear and knee will be the last piece of the puzzle to nurture Shorty back to health. Best of all, everything needed is available in the camp.

A hissing sound followed by a crackling voice sounded over the two-way radio on Wheeler's body. "Charlie company report. Any trace of the target?"

"Negative. Charlie Foxtrot out."

"That's a negative for me too. Charlie Romeo out."

A few seconds passed in silence.

"Charlie Whiskey, Charlie Whiskey come in."

Owen rushed over to Wheeler's dead body, removed his walkie-talkie, and fixed it to his belt.

I do not have much time. They will come looking for Wheeler, Owen thought. Shorty will need to hang tight for a bit longer.

"Charlie Whiskey, this is Charlie Bravo, come in." A voice sounded over the radio again.

Retrieving his RECCE dagger from the equipment pile and a half bottle of whiskey, he stuck down his shirt, Owen dashed over to Shorty and cut him loose. He easily lifted the small bushman across his broad shoulders, holding onto a leg and an arm around his neck in front of his chest. The obvious course was to increase the distance between him and Charlie company rapidly by heading westward away from the river.

They know the camp too well. Setting up an ambush here will likely fail, he thought. I need time and less familiar territory.

Owen took a deep breath before picking up speed from a fast walk to a jog, moving deeper inland. He had no intention of covering his tracks. He wanted to be found.

"Charlie Foxtrot, Charlie Foxtrot. This is Charlie Bravo. Come in."

"This is Charlie Foxtrot. Proceed."

"Go check on Charlie Whiskey and give him a slap up the head if he decided to doze off."

"Roger that, Charlie Bravo. On my way. Over and out."