African Sky by Tony Park

himself into some kind of trouble.

6
    B ryant nearly drove straight past Pip Lovejoy in the dawn’s half-light.
    She stepped off the footpath outside the guardroom as the red-and-white-striped boom gate was raised by the African air askari on duty to let the convoy out. It was five after five in the morning and the sun was a hazy semicircle peeking over the horizon. She waved at the Humber sedan, which was followed by a Dodge lorry and a Bedford prime mover, towing a long, empty Queen Mary aircraft recovery trailer.
    Bryant put on the brakes, and the still-dozy airman driving the Dodge very nearly rear-ended him. ‘I didn’t recognise you,’ he said. It was the truth. He’d called the guardroom and asked if a female police officer was waiting for him. The duty NCO had replied in the negative.
    â€˜I left the uniform at home. I thought it might be easier for Mrs De Beers if I were a little less formal.’
    It was an understatement. He’d fleetingly noticed the young woman standing beside a bicycle as the gate opened, but she had been half turned away from him. Even if he’d seen her face, he thought, he still wouldn’t have recognised her. The loose, wavy blonde hair softened her face. He hadn’t even been able to see what colour it was when she waswearing it tucked up under her police hat. Her outfit, too, showed off a body no longer constrained by mannish tailoring. She wore flared beige pants and a cropped red jacket that accentuated a bottom that was hard to ignore. He heard whispers and a wolf whistle behind him and looked up to see ten pairs of male eyes staring out of the cab and over the wooden side rails of the Dodge, eager to know who the attractive young woman chatting to the adjutant was. The top two buttons of the white blouse under her jacket were undone.
    â€˜You’d better get in the car before you cause an accident.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
    He wore an old blue uniform shirt, its collar frayed on the edge, and, as it was cool that morning, a blue airforce battledress jacket that came to the waist and normally buckled up with an attached belt. The belt, however, was undone and the jacket had clearly seen better days. It was stained with oil and dried blood – some his, some not. The embroidered pilot’s wings on the left breast were little more than a faded tangle of loose threads. He wore old khaki trousers and suede desert boots. He noticed her staring at his stained jacket. ‘It can be a dirty business recovering a crashed aircraft.’ He turned back to the rest of the convoy and called, ‘Right-oh. Pull your heads in and let’s get weaving.’
    â€˜That’s quite a force you’ve got. Are you going to bring the aircraft back with you?’
    â€˜Once we’ve done an investigation the fitters will pull the wings off and partly disassemble her and lift her onto the Bedford. The askaris are along to provide some additional muscle.’
    â€˜I noticed a couple of them are armed.’
    â€˜I don’t want any of my blokes being taken by a lion while trying to unbolt a pranged kite. Also, there might be something worth shooting for the pot.’
    â€˜I love the bush,’ she said. ‘It’ll be nice to get out of town for a while.’
    Bryant led the convoy through downtown Bulawayo. Only the city’s earliest risers were stirring or working – black African street cleaners leaning into brooms, horse-drawn milk carts, a white policeman walking the beat, a straight-backed Matabele woman in a maid’s pinaforegracefully walking down the road with a sack of maize meal perched on her head. The bag must have weighed twenty pounds at least. Few heads turned to watch the vehicles rumbling down the wide jacaranda-lined street – the novelty of the colonial outpost’s wartime role had long since worn off. Bryant turned right at the