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.
