The Kill Switch (Page 60)
Anya was right. Once in America, she would be alone. Rudderless. She would need friends.
With a sigh, he reached across and squeezed her hand.
“You’ll know at least one person in the States,” he reassured her.
Kane thumped his tail.
“Make that two,” he added.
28
March 19, 12:02 P.M.
Cape Town, South Africa
As Tucker set foot off the plane’s stairway and onto the hot tarmac of Cape Town’s International Airport, a shout rose ahead. They had landed at a private terminal, shuttled here by corporate jet—a Gulfstream V—arranged by Harper.
“Mr. Wayne, sir! Over here!”
He turned to see a tall, thin black man in his midtwenties trotting toward him. He wore charcoal slacks and a starched white shirt. He gave Tucker a broad smile and stuck out his hand.
“Mr. Tucker Wayne, I presume.”
He took the man’s hand. “And you are?”
“Christopher Nkomo.”
Kane came trotting down behind him, sliding next to Tucker, sniffing at the stranger, sizing him up.
“My goodness,” the man said, “who is this fine animal?”
“That would be Kane.”
“He’s magnificent!”
No argument there.
Bukolov and Anya came next, shielding their eyes, as they joined him. Introductions were made all around.
“What tribe are you?” Anya asked, then blurted out, “Oh, is that impolite to ask? I’m sorry.”
“Not at all, missus. I am of the Ndebele tribe.”
“And your language?”
“We speak Xhosa.” He waved and guided them across the tarmac toward a nest of parked Cessnas and other smaller aircraft. “But I went to university here, studying business administration and English.”
“It shows,” said Tucker.
“Very kind of you.” He finally stopped before a single-engine plane, a Cessna Grand Caravan. It was already being serviced for flight. “With your patience, we will get all your baggage loaded quickly.”
Christopher was a man of his word. It was accomplished in a matter of minutes.
“Your pilot will be with you shortly,” he said, clambering up the short ladder and through the Cessna’s side door. A moment later, he hopped back out, his head now adorned with a blue pilot’s cap. “Welcome aboard. My name is Christopher Nkomo, and I will be your pilot today.”
Tucker matched his grin. “You’ll be flying us?”
“Myself and my older brother, Matthew.”
A thin arm stuck out from the side window next to the copilot’s seat.
“No worries,” Christopher said. “I am a very good pilot and I know this land and its history like the palm of my hand. I hear you all are Boer historians, and that I am to assist you however I can.”
From the tone of the man’s voice, he knew they weren’t historians. Harper clearly must have debriefed Christopher about the goal of their mission here.
“I am especially familiar with Springbok. My cousin has a home there. So if we are all ready, let us get aboard.”
Bukolov and Anya needed no coaxing to climb out of the sun and into the dark, air-conditioned interior. Bukolov took the seat farthest from Anya. The doctor was not happy to have her along, but back in Istanbul, Tucker had left him no choice.
Tucker hung back with Christopher. “The supplies I asked for?”
“Come see.”
Christopher lifted a hatch to reveal a storage space neatly packed with supplies. He pulled out a clipboard and handed it to Tucker. It listed the contents: potable water, dehydrated meals, first-aid kits, maps and compasses, knives, hatchets, a small but well-stocked toolbox.
“As for weapons and ammunition,” the man said, “I was not able to provide all the exact models you requested. I took the liberty of using my own judgment.”
He pulled that list out of a back pocket and passed it over.
Tucker scanned it and nodded. “Nicely done. Hopefully we won’t need any of it.”
“God willing,” Christopher replied.
1:38 P.M.
Tucker stared at the passing landscape as the Cessna droned toward their destination. Buckled opposite Tucker, Kane matched his pose, his nose pressed to the window.
The scenery north of Cape Town was hypnotically beautiful: a dry moonscape of reddish-brown earth and savannah, broken up by saw-toothed hills. Tiny settlements dotted the countryside, surrounded by brighter patches of green scrub.
At last, Christopher swung the Cessna into a gentle bank that took them over Springbok. The town of nine thousand lay nestled in a valley surrounded by rolling granite peaks, called the Klein Koperberge, or Small Copper Mountains.
The plane leveled out of its banking turn and descended toward Springbok’s airstrip. As they landed, the tires kissed the dirt tarmac without the slightest bounce. They rolled to the end of the runway and turned right toward the terminal, administrative offices, and maintenance hangars.
Christopher drew the Cessna to a smooth stop alongside a powder-blue Toyota SUV. A man bearing a striking resemblance to Christopher and his brother waved from the driver’s seat.
Tucker called toward the cockpit, “Another brother, Christopher?”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Wayne. That is Paul, my youngest brother. He flew up here last night to arrange things and make inquiries.”
When the engines had come to a complete stop, Christopher walked back, opened the side door, and helped them out.
A palpable blast of heat struck Tucker in the face.
Anya gasped at it.
Bukolov grumbled his displeasure. “What is this fresh hell you have brought us to, Tucker?”
Christopher laughed. “Do not worry. You will get used to the heat.” He stepped away, embraced his brother Paul, and motioned them into the SUV. “My brother has arranged accommodations at a guesthouse not far from here.”
“Why?” Bukolov said. “How long will we be staying here?”
“At least the night. Matthew will remain here and guard your supplies. If you’ll climb aboard, please.”
Soon they were heading north on a highway marked R355. Barren foothills flanked both sides, their eroded reddish-orange flanks revealing black granite domes.
“This place looks like Mars,” Bukolov said. “I’ve seen no water at all in this godforsaken land. How are we supposed to find a well out here?”
“Patience, Doc,” Tucker said.
They finally reached the outskirts of Springbok. It could have passed for a small town in Arizona, with narrow, winding streets bordered by modest ranch homes.