Assault rifles held ready, the first South African paratroopers were already fanning out into the surrounding brush. A figure detached itself from the shadows and ran to meet them.
Bekker waved the soldier over to him. They shook hands.
“Kaptein, I’m glad you made it.” Sergeant van Myghen was as tall as
Bekker, but thicker, and much dirtier. He and his pathfinders had parachuted in hours earlier to secure the landing zone and scout their objective.
“Anything stirring?” Bekker asked.
“Nothing.” The sergeant’s contempt for their opponents was audible.
“But
I’ve got Kempler posted to keep an eye on the bastards all the same.
We’re about twenty-five hundred meters from the edge of town.”
“Good.” Bekker looked around the small clearing. His troops were assembled, ready to march in a spread column of twos with scouts and flankers thrown out to warn of any ambush. Two burly privates stood on either side of Nkume, each within easy knife reach. And nearby, the three lieutenants of his stripped-down company waited impatiently for orders.
He nodded to them.
“All right, gentlemen. Let’s get going. ”
Teeth flashed white in the darkness and they scattered back to their units.
The column started moving, threading its way through the tangled vegetation in silence. There were no voices or clattering equipment to warn of their approach.
South Africa’s raiding force was nearing its target-one hundred and sixty kilometers inside the sovereign Republic of Zimbabwe.
STRIKE
FORCE
COMMAND
GROUP
,
NEAR
GAWAMBA
,
ZIMBABWE
Bekker lay flat along the crest of a low hill overlooking the town of
Gawamba. His officers and senior NCOs crouched beside him.
The soft, flickering light of a waning moon bathed Gawamba’s houses and fields in a dim silver glow. Bekker smiled to himself. It was perfect. They would have enough light to kill by.
He scanned the valley floor. Small plots of corn, wheat, and cotton spread outward from the town, with cattle enclosures and storage sheds scattered between them. A single main street, paved with asphalt, ran straight through the center of Gawamba itself. Narrow, unpaved alleys broke rows of low, tin-roofed homes and shacks into blocks. Two large buildings dominated the north end of town-the police headquarters and the train station.
Bekker checked his watch again. They had less than three hours to get in and get out before the sun rose. He rose to his feet.
“Right. No changes to the plan. We’ve been given a good start, yentlemen, and I’m depending on you to make the most of it.
Bekker met the eyes of the lieutenant commanding his first assault section.
“How’s the black? Still holding up?”
Hans Reebeck was a little keyed up, but kept his voice even.
“Nkume’s unhappy, sir, but I’m afraid my men aren’t too sympathetic.” He forced a grin.
“Just watch the kaffir, Hans. Remember, he knows this country well.”
Reebeck nodded.
Bekker turned to his other officers.
“On your way then, boys. Send them to hell.”
Der Merwe and Heitman saluted sharply and loped back to their units. Bekker and Reebeck followed suit and took their places at the head of the column as it started moving flowing silently up over the crest and down toward the town.
Without any spoken orders, the column split into thirds.
One section of paratroops moved north, toward the police station. Another angled south, slipping quietly into a cornfield. Both were out of sight within minutes, invisible among the shadows.
The rest of the force trotted ahead, spread out into an arrowhead formation with Bekker and a radioman at the point. It was aimed straight at the raid’s primary objective.
The objective-code-named Kudu if it had to be mentioned on the radio-was a two-story concrete building one block off Gawamba’s main street. Its ground floor was occupied by a small, family-owned grocery store. But the top floor was an operations center for guerrillas of the
ANC
, the African
National Congress.
The existence of the Gawamba operations center hadn’t even been suspected by South Africa’s security forces until recently. In fact, they’d first learned of it from Nkume, an
ANC
guerrilla who’d been captured while trying to run a shipment of arms across the border with Zimbabwe. In return for his freedom, and probably his life, Nkume had spilled his guts about this
ANC
headquarters inside Zimbabwe.
Bekker scowled. Zimbabwe and the other border states had agreed to prevent the
ANC
from operating on their soil. The lying bastards. He didn’t care whether the
ANC
was operating here with or without the connivance of the Zimbabwean government. Blacks were blacks, and none of them could be trusted to keep an agreement or leave well enough alone.
Now they would learn that defying Pretoria meant paying a high price.
Bekker and his troops reached Gawamba’s outskirts and started working their way down a garbage-strewn dirt road, weapons out and ready. Houses lined each side of the narrow street, one-or two-room shacks with rusting metal screens covering their windows. A dog barked once in the distance and the South Africans froze in place. When it was not repeated, they moved on, staying in the shadows as much as possible.
One block to go. Bekker felt his heart speeding up, anticipating action.
His radioman leaned closer and whispered, “Sir, second section sends “Rhino.”
”
Good. Der Merwe’s men were in position-covering the north end of town, including the road, the rail line, and the police station. He kept moving, with his troops close behind.
Suddenly, they were there.
Bekker and his men found themselves facing the side of the building. a whitewashed wall that had no windows. Nkume’s information was right, so far. The radioman whispered another code word in his ear. Heitman’s third section was in place to the south.
Bekker checked his rifle, took a quick breath, and scanned both sides of the street. No movement, at least not yet.
He gestured, and the team crossed in a rush. Hopefully any observer would not recover from his initial surprise until it was too late and they were all out of view. Once across, his men took up covering positions while
Bekker headed for the rear of the building. Nkume, flanked by his two escorts, followed.
Reebeck met Bekker at the rear and pointed to the back door. It was solid steel, set in a metal frame, and had no lock or handle.
“A little much for a small-town grocery, Kaptein, ” Reebeck observed in a low, hoarse voice.
Bekker nodded abruptly. It was the first direct evidence that this building was more than it seemed.
“Wire it,” he ordered.
While a private laid a rope of plastique around the edge of the door,
Bekker heard a low rustling as the rest of his men readied their weapons.
Sergeant Roost, a short, wiry man with a craggy, oft-broken nose, crouched nearest the entrance and looked as if he couldn’t wait for the chance to go through it. Bekker waved him back and took his place.
The private with the plastique finished working and moved away. Bekker nodded to his radioman. The man spoke into his handset, waited a moment, then gave him a thumbs-up. Everybody was ready. Bekker motioned to the soldier holding the detonator and buried his face in his arm.
An enormous explosion lit the street for a split second, punctuated by a solid clang as the building’s steel door blew
inward and landed somewhere inside. Bits of doorframe and concrete flew everywhere.
Bekker felt the concussion rip at his clothing. Even as he held his breath, the blast’s acrid smell filled his nostrils. He dove through the still-smoking opening, followed by half the men of his first assault section.
He found himself in a single, large room. Canned goods from spilled stacks, smashed boxes, and shattered glassware littered the floor. He was expecting, and saw, a stairway leading up. Seconds were precious now.
“Two men to search this floor!” he shouted, and bounded up the stairs.
He took them two at a time and coughed as the exertion forced him to breathe smoke-filled air.
A wooden door blocked the stairs. Without stopping, Bekker fired a long burst into it, then hit the door with his shoulder. Shredded wood gave way and he landed on his side, rifle pointing down the length of the building.
Nobody in sight. He was in what could only be an office, a room crowded with tables and desks. Doors in the opposite wall opened into other rooms and corridors. His mind noted a picture of Marx prominently displayed over a desk in the corner.
Bekker kept moving, rolling for cover behind a desk and making room for the men behind him. He rose to one knee and leveled his weapon just as a black man carrying an AK47 came running into the office. Belcker fired a short burst, heard the man scream, and saw him crumple to the floor.
Sergeant Roost crashed into the room in time to see the kill. He raised an eyebrow at Bekker, who pointed to the open door. Roost nodded and with a single, smooth motion, tore a concussion grenade off his webbing, pulled its pin, and lobbed it through the doorway.
The sergeant dove for cover as his grenade exploded, sending a mind-numbing shock wave pulsing across the room. Both Roost and Bekker were up and running for the open door before the explosion’s echoes faded.
Roost was closer and made it first. Jumping over the dead man in the doorway, he flattened himself against one side while Bekker took the other. Roost took a quick breath, then snapped his head and rifle around the doorjamb. Bekker heard a startled shout from down the corridor-a shout that ended in a low, bubbling moan as the sergeant fired a long, clattering burst.
Bekker leaned out and saw Roost’s target lying twitching in a spreading pool of blood, hit several times by point-blank fire. The dying guerrilla had been caught coming out of the nearer of two other doors opening onto this corridor.
Footsteps sounded behind him. The rest of his men had cleared the stairs.
Keep moving, his mind screamed. Obeying combat-trained instincts, Bekker stepped carefully out into the corridor and covered by Roost, slid slowly along the wall toward the closest door.
He was halfway there when another black leaped out, swinging a rifle around at him. Bekker, close enough to tackle the man, threw himself prone instead.
Even before he hit the floor, he heard gunfire and felt bullets whip cracking overhead. The guerrilla’s eyes opened wide in surprise and pain, and stayed open in death, as the force of Roost’s fire threw him back against the wall. Bekker had time to notice the man’s bare chest and bare feet before fear and surging adrenaline brought him upright again.
He dove over the bodies and into the doorway as he heard Roost running down the corridor. He felt exposed, knowing nobody could cover him but wanting to move quickly.
Then he was through the door, rolling clumsily over the tangled corpses into a small room, and scrambling for any cover he could find. There wasn’t any within reach.
Bekker fired blindly, scanning for targets behind the hail of bullets tearing up walls, mattresses, and bedding. There weren’t any. The room was empty.
Roost crashed in behind him and the two men took a hasty look around.
They were in a small bunk room filled with five or six neatly arranged cots and footlockers. Militant political posters decorated all four walls. A wooden weapons rack, empty, stood in one corner.
More gunfire and grenade bursts echoed down the hall from other parts of the building. Roost paused just long enough to
replace the magazine in his assault rifle and then dashed back out through the door. Bekker picked himself up and with one last look for concealed guerrillas, followed his sergeant.
Dense, choking, acrid smoke swirled in the air. Bekker’s nose twitched.
Even after more than a dozen firefigghts, he still couldn’t get used to the smell. He looked around for his radioman. It was time to start getting control of this battle.
He found Corporal de Vries crouched next to a desk in the outer office, watching the stairwell.
“Any word from der Merwe or Heitman?” Bekker asked.
“Second section reports activity in the police station, but no…
They both heard ringing and turned around to stare at a phone on one of the desks. Belcker looked at his radioman, shrugged, and picked it up.
The voice on the other end shook, clearly shocked and more than a little frightened.
“Cosate? What’s going on down there? Are you all right?”
Bekker’s lips twitched into a thin, humorless smile as he heard the textbook-perfect English. He slammed the phone down hard.
The captain looked around.
“All right, the town’s waking up.” He shouted,
“Roost!” just as the sergeant trotted up with two other men, a half-eaten piece of chicken in one hand.
“Last room is a kitchen. The floor’s clear. No casualties,” he reported.
Belcker nodded.
“Good. Now take your squad and start Phase Two. Search the rooms, collect all the documents you find. And get Nkume up here.
Let’s move.” He turned to de Vries.
“The building’s secure. Send “Rooikat.”
”
As his soldiers started tearing the office apart, BeIcker heard the rattle of machinegun fire off in the distance. From the north, he judged.
Der Merwe’s second section must be earning its pay. Their job was to keep the local garrison busy and out of the fight. They were supposed to shoot early and often, pinning the Zimbabwean police in their headquarters and hopefully holding casualties on both sides to a minimum.
Nkume appeared at the top of the stairs, looking tense and reluctant.
Bekker put on a friendly smile and motioned him into the room.
“Come on,
Nkume, we’re almost done. Show us your hidey-hole and we’ll be out of here.”
The black nodded slowly and went over to the right-hand door, leading to one of the rooms Bekker’s men had cleared. He stepped in and then backed out, tears in his eyes.