[center]----------------------------------------------------------------------------- April 30th, 1960, North Western Rhodesia -----------------------------------------------------------------------------[/center] Florence Chideya, born to a white mother and a black father, had been born in Rhodesia, considered herself Rhodesian, and like many in her generation, saw opportunity in the softening of Rhodesian laws around the employment of black and coloured people. She, for example, had been one of the first coloured people to attend the University of Rhodesia, graduating with a Bachelors Degree in Communications, majoring in Journalism. She worked first for a local Rhodesian Newspaper that had long gone out of business, moved to England where she began working for the BBC before being sent back to Africa as a local corespondent. Six years ago she had been approached by National Geographic, THE National Geographic, to begin free-lance writing for them. She had never looked back. On this particular day she was a guest, albeit a guest with a camera and writing a story, but a guest nonetheless. Her father, long dead, had been a member of the Chewa Tribe, near the border with Zambia. The Rhodesian Government had done its best to at least ensure public broadcast radio made it out that far and her fathers tribe had heard of her exploits on the BBC and, when she was hired by the National Geographic, they had purchased a subscription to the magazine. They had become avid fans of her adventures and sent a letter inviting her to return to witness a special event, Kuomboka. The word Kuomboka, when translated into English, literally meant "to get out of the water". The ceremony itself took place every year at the end of the rainy season and though it was primarily a Zambian Holiday, in which they celebrated the King of the Lozi People, it had maintained its importance in Rhodesia for the local tribes. Florence had originally been surprised when she learned of the celebration and openly questioned why the whites, who did not always appreciate such goings on, had not stopped the practice. The Elder she spoke to had smiled and shrugged. "If they take it away, we will find something else to celebrate. Why would they stop us celebrating a Zambian King, maybe they hope we will leave and go north?" Simple but elegant logic she supposed as she listened to the heavy drumming of the royal Maoma drums, which had been echoing around the region for a day before the actual event began. She was surprised to see a number of white faces in the crowd at the event, and only some of them were soldiers, and they seemed to be enjoying themselves. They flirted politely with the women, chatted amicably with the men, gave treats to the children, and kept time with the drums on the sides of their Land Rovers. She also noted that, if there were any of the feared Ridgebacks around, they were being kept tactfully out of sight. The replica of the Kings barge, also known as a Nalikwanda, painted black and white, was slowly sweeping around the river bend, powered on its way by strong young men who would soon be judged for their skill by the women of the tribe. The Chewa were unique in that sense, only women could inherit, so the young men must impress a wife rather than the other way around. A huge cheer greeted the barge and the crowd surged forward toward the water, children held high so that they could see the replica of a huge black elephant, the ears of which can be moved from inside the barge, as it balanced on top. Smoke poured from the top, letting everyone know that the Lozi King was alive and well. Florence glanced around for a vantage point, her camera hugged tight to her body, she wanted to get some photos of the whole crowd. She didn't think her editor would find the event very exciting, but her family would love to see it anyway. The closest high point happened to be an RSF Land Rover and she hurried towards it. The soldier on top glanced down at her and he smiled as she jogged up, his teeth incredibly white against his tanned face. "Ma'am." He nodded to her as she got closer and she realized, perhaps belatedly, why she had found the white soldiers so strange here. They were polite to everyone. Despite the divide between black and white here it wasn't a hostile racism like in the United States, or even in Britain. The whites, most of them, were hardly what you could call arrogant and treated the black population like equal citizens, even if that wasn't true on paper. "Hello!" She responded with her own smile. She was wearing a local dress, full necked and very colourful, it was in stark comparison to the drab green Land Rover and fatigues the soldiers wore. "May I come up there?" She hefted the camera to make her point and the soldier glanced at her, back at the crowd and the nodded. His two companions spared her a brief glance before turning back to watch the procession. The soldier on the top knelt down and extended a hand rough with callouses and scored with powder burns. She grabbed it and leaned back slightly as he dragged her up onto the roof of the Land Rover, taking care not to bang her camera against the metal sides. He steadied her for a moment and then, once she thanked him, he let her go and sat down on an ammunition box, gesturing for her to sit on a fuel can. "Thanks!" She said again and sat, the view was far better seven feet off the ground and she quickly began to snap photos. A young girl and her mother were at the waters edge waving madly to the Nalikwanda, several older men were seated on rough chairs, a polite space given to them. A black Police Officer was smiling and dancing in a circle holding the hands of a small child she took to be his son. Several young white people were standing with a crowd of young black people their own age, she pegged them for University students at once by their friendly manner, more modern clothes, and obvious prosperity compared to the locals "You're that Florence gal from National Geographic aren't you?" The soldier next to her asked, surprising her enough that she lowered her camera and turned to look at him. "What gave it away?" "The camera." He winked at expression of exasperation. "And I've read your articles. You do nice work." "You read my articles?" She asked. She didn't know why it surprised her that a white soldier read her work and she suddenly felt ashamed. "Yea, of course. You're a bit a celebrity in Rhodesia. Not many people here, white or black, worked for the BBC, let alone National Geographic." He seemed so earnest in his opinion that she had no reason to doubt "Well it's always nice to meet a fan." She recovered her composure and stuck out her hand. "Florence Chideya." He shook it with a smile. "Frazer Redekker." As he said it she glanced at his shoulders and realized, belatedly, that he was not an enlisted soldier. Not very observant for a world class Journalist. The patch on his shoulder showed a large bird with wings spread and the words "Alæ Præsidio Patriæ" beneath it. "You're a pilot!" She exclaimed. She had always loved flying and done a fair bit as a passenger. "What gave it away?" He replied with a laugh and nodded. "But yes, I am. These poor chaps are just along as my escort today." He nodded at the two heads below them. "I had some leave and wanted to come and watch this festival. I've only ever seen it from the air." She was excited now, the opportunity that was presenting itself was to good to pass up. "Would you take me flying?!" He looked at her for a moment and she saw a flash of... Suspicion possibly, cross his face but then he gave a slow nod. "I can certainly ask up the chain of command. Not every day a world renowned photo journalist wants to come for a ride." He reached into the front pocket of his fatigues and drew out a simple business card gave his name, rank, mailing address and a phone number. "Call my base on that number in the next couple of days, ask for me, and we'll make something work." She thanked him profusely before excusing herself and jumping off the Land Rover. She still had some photos to shoot and a story to write.