and parked at the far end of the hangar. The driver in blaze orange overalls climbed down from his seat and sauntered back to stand with the two other stevedores at the tail ramp.
'Loading completed,' Sean whispered again, and checked his watch. 'Seven minutes to go.'
Job unbuttoned the flap of his holster and drew the Tokarev 7.62-men pistol. He withdrew the magazine and checked the load, then slapped the magazine back into its recess in the pistol grip and returned the pistol to its holster.
Through the binoculars, Sean saw the men who had been working in the cargo hold come down the ramp in a group. Three of them were white men, two in flying overalls and the other in British regulation battle dress. Two pilots and one of the Royal Artillery instructors, Sean guessed.
'Start up!' he said, and Job kicked the engine to life.
We should try to knock out those floodlights,' Sean muttered. We can't load the truck in the full glare, not with the Fifth Brigade breathing down our necks.'
He was looking at his watch, tilting the dial to catch the glow of the instrument panel. 'Okay, Job. Here we go!' he said, and the unimog pulled forward. In the rearview mirror, Sean watched the second truck, driven by Ferdinand, fall in behind them.
As they drove parallel to the main runway of the airfield, Sean was assailed with a thousand memories. It all seemed exactly as it had been ten years before. No hangars or buildings had been added. He picked out the windows of his old office in the main admin block beyond the control tower, and as Job slowed the truck and turned onto the short driveway that led from the highway to the base gates Sean almost expected to see the insignia Of the Ballantyne scouts between that of the Rhodesian Light Infanthe Rhodesian African Rifles on the arch above the gates.
try and the wire mesh gates, Job halted the truck under the lights facing and two guards came to each of the side windows of the cab. They carried their AK rifles at the trail and peered in at Job and Sean.
Job lowered the side window, exchanged the Passwords with the commander of the guard, and handed him the plastic-covered pass. The man took it to the guardhouse and made an entry in the register, then two of his men opened the main gates and he waved the convoy through.
Casually Sean returned the salute the guards threw him as he passed, and he told Job quietly, 'Just like Cuthbert said, simple as a pimple. Now head straight down toward the admin block, but turn behind the control tower as you reach it.'
Job drove slowly, obeying the on-base fifteen mph. speed limit, and Sean unbuttoned the flap of his webbing holster and drew his pistol. He withdrew the magazine, pressed two cartridges out into the palm of his hand, then reloaded them in reverse order and slapped the magazine back into its recess in the Pistol grip' Why do you alwaysjo that?' Job asked.
'Just for luck,' lit said, as he saw Job watching.
'Does it work?7 Job wanted to know.
'Well, I'm still alive, aren't IT' Sean grinned tightly. He pulled back the slide to pump a round into the chamber of the pistol, engaged the safety, and slipped the weapon back into its holster.
'Pull in behind the number three hangar,' he told Job, who swung the truck across the hard stand in the full glare of the overhead floodlights into the shadowy area at the back of the hangar, where they were screened from the control tower and the admin block.
As the truck stopped Sean jumped down and glanced around him quickly. The second Unimog pulled in beside the first, and armed men in battle dress swarmed out over the tailgates of both.
With three quick strides Sean reached the back door of the corrugated metal wall of the hangar. It was unlocked and he stepped through. Job followed him immediately.
The hangar was empty except for a single light aircraft parked in the far corner. The bleak concrete floor half the size of a football field was stained with old oil spills, and the steel girders of the roof arched high overhead. It was brightly lit.
The forklift driver and the stevedores in their blaze orange overalls were halfway across the floor, coming directly toward Sean in a group, chatting and smoking cigarettes in direct defiance of the huge prohibition notices in red letters on the hangar walls. They stopped in confusion as they saw Sean come through the door with the armed men behind him.
'Secure them,' Sean ordered. As Job rounded them up swiftly, Sean looked beyond them.
Along the opposite wall of the hangar was a line of office cubicles with side walls of painted chip board and glass windows.
Through a lighted window, Sean saw the head and shoulders of one of the pilots wearing blue R.A.F overalls. He had his back toward Sean, and he was gesticulating as he spoke to somebody out of sight.
By now the stevedores were lying spreadeagled on the concrete r, each with a man standing over him and the muzzle of an AKM pressed into the back of his neck. It had been done swiftly and silently.
Pistol in hand, Sean ran to the door of the office cubicle and jerked it open. Two men, one of the pilots and the Royal Artillery captain, were lolling in a pair of dilapidated armchairs under a wall which was covered with a collection of ancient girlie pinups Sean guessed were relics of the bush war. The senior pilot sat on a cluttered desk in front of the lit window. All three of them stared at Sean in amazement.
'This is a commando raid,' Sean told them quietly. 'Stay exactly where you are.'
On the floor between the Royal Artillery captain's feet stood a square black bag with substantial locks and a Royal Artillery decal stuck on the side.
The gunner dropped a hand on it protectively, and Sean knew immediately what the bag contained. The gunner was in his mid-twenties, well built and competent-looking. The name tag on his breast read 'Carlyle.' He had blue eyes and thick sandy-colored hair.
The senior pilot was a flight lieutenant, but he was middle-aged and overweight. His flight engineer was balding and nondescript, and there was real fear in his eyes as he stared at the pistol in Sean's hand. Sean anticipated no trouble from either of them, and he transferred his attention back to the gunner. He knew instinctively that this was the main man. He had the shoulders of a boxer, and he hunched them aggressively and scowled at Sean. He was young enough to be foolhardy, and Sean held his gaze and warned him.
'Forget it, Carlyle. Heroes are out of fashion.'
'You are a South African,' Carlyle growled as he recognized the accent.
'Whose side are you on?'
'My own,' Sean told him. 'Strictly self-employed.' He glanced down at the black bag, and Carlyle pulled it an inch closer to him.
'Captain Carlyle, you are guilty of gross dereliction of duty,' Sean told him coldly. The gunner reacted to the accusation with the indignation of a professional soldier. 'What do you mean?'
'You should have posted guards while you were loading the missiles. You let us swan in here... ' It distracted Carlyle as Sean had intended and gave Job the few seconds he needed to get his men into the office.
'Stand up,' he ordered the airmen. They obeyed quickly, raising their hands, and Job hustled them out of the office.
Carlyle remained in the armchair with the bag between his legs.
'Stand up!' Sean repeated the order.
'Screw you, Boer.'
Sean stepped up to him and seized the handle of the bag. Carlyle grabbed at it to prevent him and Sean brought the barrel of the pistol down across his knuckles. The skin split and Sean heard one of his fingers snap. He had misjudged it, he had not intended to inflict that kind of injury, but he kept his expression fierce.
'You have had your warning,' he said. 'My next offer is a bullet in the head.'
Carlyle was holdinglis; injured hand to his chest, but his face was set and dark witk fury as he watched Sean place the bag on the desk.
'Keys!' Sean said.
'Get stuffed,' said Carlyle. His voice was tight and hoarse with pain, and Sean saw that his broken finger was standing out at an odd angle and swelling like a purple balloon.
Job reappeared in the door of the office cubicle. 'All secure,' he said, and glanced at his wristwatch. 'Four minutes to diversion.'
'Give me your knife,' Sean told him, and Job slid the trench knife from its sheath and passed it to Sean, hilt first.
Sean slashed the leather along the edge of the bag's steel frame, then pulled open the concertina hinge. There were half a dozen large looseleaf folders filling the interior of the bag, and Sean selected one. The file was covered in War Office red plastic and marked Top sEcRn. He glanced at the title page.
FWLD MAMAL FOR INFANMY USE OF TM SnNC&R mom GU
SURFACE-TO-AIR bUSS WE
'Jackpot.' Sean turned the file so that Job could read it. It was a stupid thing to do. They were both distracted, turned toward the desk, studying the Me.
Carlyle launched himself out of the chair. He was young and fast.
The injury to his hand did not hamper him in the least, and he was across the narrow floor space before either of them could move to stop
