Pretoria to the Cape Province had been Emily’s suggestion. A damned good one, he thought wryly.
Assuming they lived long enough to tell somebody about it, the details of Kruger’s rebellion against his government would make an exciting story-a kind of modern-day anabasis with the 20th Cape Rifles standing in for Xenophon and The Ten Thousand, Vorster’s troops playing the vengeful, pursuing Persians, and with assorted independent Boer commandos in the roles originally held by wild Anatolian tribesmen.
At any rate, Ian felt sure the classical analogy would amuse Kruger himself. God knows, they all needed something to laugh about.
The Afrikaner soldier had pushed his men hard over the past several days, evidently determined to put as much distance as possible between Pretoria and his battalion. They’d driven only at night, taking side roads and back-country lanes to avoid towns that might harbor informers or AWB loyalists. Vehicles that broke down were ruthlessly stripped of all useful spare parts and supplies and then abandoned. Where ffic battalion’s quartermasters couldn’t buy or beg enough gasoline or diesel fuel, they’d stolen it. One constant, unchanging set of orders governed every action and every decision: move and keep moving. Don’t stop. Don’t give Vorster’s hunters
an immobile target. And don’t blunder into unnecessary combat.
Last night’s march had been by far the worst of all. Warned by scouts of a sizable government force garrisoning the road junction at Vryburg, they’d been forced west and north over a rugged chain of hills and ridges separating the Cape Plateau from the Kalahari Basin. And stretches that could have been covered in minutes on a freeway took hours to traverse on the narrow, unpaved tracks available to them.
So far, though, Kruger’s insistence on speed and discretion had paid off.
They’d come more than four hundred kilometers without stumbling into any government roadblock or time wasting firefight. Not bad, Ian thought. Then he remembered the maps he’d seen. They were still at least seven hundred kilometers from the nearest American or Cape Province outposts. Plenty of time yet for disaster to strike.
Beside him, Emily suddenly muttered something in her sleep and rolled over onto her stomach. He put down his pen for a moment and softly stroked her hair. She sighed once, moving closer.
Suddenly, and with surprising intensity, he found himself praying, please, God, no matter what happens to me, protect her. Surprising, because he’d never been especially religious. His ambitions had already gotten Sam Knowles killed. He didn’t want them to cost Emily her life or her freedom.
A polite cough warned Ian that someone else was near. He looked up from
Emily’s auburn hair and saw Commandant Henrik Kruger standing outlined against the rising sun-his pale gray eyes and weather-beaten face a mask of unreadable shadow.
“I hope I am not interrupting, meneer?” Kruger kept his own voice low, as though he, too, wanted to avoid breaking into Emily’s rest. But Ian could hear the carefully controlled bitterness in his words.
My God, the man’s still hopelessly in love with her, he realized.
Suddenly embarrassed, he took his hand away from Emily’s hair. There wasn’t much point in ramming the loss down Kruger’s throat-especially not after he’d already risked so much to save their lives. Ian shook his head and gestured to the ground.
“Take a pew, Kommandant.”
“My thanks.” Kruger squatted on his haunches, still with his back to the sun. He cleared his throat, sounding strangely tentative.
“Your companions are resting, then?”
“Yeah.” Moved by an unexpected urge to pick a fight with this man from
Emily’s past, Ian nodded toward the still, silent, companionable figures of Matthew Sibena and the Afrikaner sergeant lying asleep back-to-back.
“Too bad that’s as close to real peace as you people ever get.”
Kruger smiled sadly.
“Yes.” Then he shrugged.
“Who knows, meneer. Perhaps this hellish war of ours will do the trick. Perhaps those who still hate each other will finally weary of all this blood and pointless waste.”
The Afrikaner shrugged again.
“And perhaps I am dreaming foolish dreams, eh?” He grew more businesslike.
“In any event, such things are beyond our control for the moment. We must concentrate on staying alive from day to day. True?”
Ian acknowledged the point with a rueful nod.
“Good. That is what I have come to talk to you about. After all, I would not want the chronicler of my deeds left ignorant of what we face.”
Despite himself, Ian grinned. Kruger could take a verbal punch and throw one back without flinching. Plus he didn’t take himself too seriously.
It was hard to dislike a guy like that-no matter how awkward things got around Emily.
Kruger’s news wiped the grin off his face. They were almost out of fuel.
The long, unplanned detour around Vryburg had virtually drained the battalion’s gas tanks and spare jerry cans. And Genyesa’s lone service station didn’t have the thousands of gallons needed to refill them. The 20th Cape Rifles had come to a sudden, screeching halt in the middle of nowhere.
“Christ! So what do we do next?”
Kruger frowned.
“The only thing we can do. I’m sending special teams to each of the surrounding towns and villages. With luck, they’ll be able to obtain enough fuel to get us moving again.”
He spread his hands.
“In the meantime, the rest of us can only dig in here and wait… and pray.”
Ian felt himself grow cold. Until now, the battalion had stayed undiscovered and alive by staying mobile. Now they’d lost their only edge against the forces arrayed against them. His hand strayed back to Emily’s hair.
Henrik Kruger watched them both in silence.
DECEMBER 23-44TH PARACHUTE BRIGADE REACTION FORCE, KIMBERLEY, SOUTH
AFRICA
Two hundred and fifty kilometers south of Genyesa, helicopters circled high over the urban sprawl of open-pit mine museums, factories, and homes known throughout South Africa as “the diamond city.” Other helos practicing assault landings hovered low over the soccer fields now serving as a headquarters for Maj. Rolf Bekker and his paratroops. Most of the Puma and
Super Frelon troop carriers sat motionless on the ground, surrounded by small groups of fully armed soldiers on five-minute alert.
Maps cluttered the walls of Bekker’s command tent. Each showed a fifty-by-fifty-kilometer piece of the Cape Province’s northeastern corner.
Grease pencil notations indicated loyalist garrisons holding important towns and road junctions. They blocked every road going west or south-every road but one. Voices crackled through a high-powered radio set up in one corner.
“Roger, Zebra Four Four. Good work. Out. ” Twentyfive-year-old Capt. Kas der Merwe pulled off his earphones, his eyes shining with excitement.
“We have them, Major! Reconnaissance units report sighting small enemy units.
Here. Here. And here!” He checked off several villages in a wide circle around Genyesa.
“And all of them are apparently gathering as much fuel as they can carry!”
Bekker nodded thoughtfully.
“Petrol. I knew that would be Kruger’s
Achilles’ heel. They’ve run out of petrol.” He leaned closer to der Merwe’s map and tapped Genyesa.
“The Twentieth has to be laagered somewhere close to there.”
The younger officer tapped the radio mike he still held clutched in one hand.
“Shall I ready our strike force?” He measured distances with a quick, practiced eye.
“We can reach the village in less than an hour.”
Bekker laughed.
“No, Captain, you have it backward. This is not a fox hunt. We are too few for such a thing, and besides—he
