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.
Bekker moved to the doorway and looked in at a large apartment, complete with its own bathroom. A middle-aged black man with gray pepperingbis close-cropped black hair lay half in, half out of bed, his chest torn open by rifle fire. The captain stared hard at Nkume and jerked a thumb at the corpse.
“All right, who’s he?”
“Martin Cosate. The cell leader here. He was like a father to . , . ” Nku me choked up.
Bekker snorted contemptuously and shoved Nkume into the room with the barrel of his assault rifle.
“Don’t worry about the stiff, kaffir. He’s just another dead communist. If you don’t want to join him, show us the safe.”
For just a second, the informer looked ready to resist. Bekker’s finger tightened on the trigger, Then Nkume nodded sullenly and walked over to a wooden chest in one corner of the room. He pushed it to one side, knelt, and ran his hands over the floor. After a moment, he pressed down hard on one of the floorboards and it pivoted up, revealing a small steel safe with a combination lock.
“Open it, Nkume. And be quick about it!” Bekker was conscious that time was passing fast, too fast.
The black began turning the safe’s dial, slowly, carefully.
Scattered shots could still be heard from the north side of town. A sudden sharp explosion rolled in from the south, and Bekker swung toward his radioman for a report.
