motionless-imitating other animals he’d seen survive the desert’s bone-dry air and sun-drenched heat. Movement meant sweat. Sweat was lost water. And water was life.
His watch alarm beeped softly. Time for another drink.
He uncapped his third canteen and took a careful swig, swishing the body-temperature liquid around the inside of his mouth before swallowing.
Despite the flat metallic tang imparted by the canteen itself, the water tasted good. And it felt good trickling down his parched throat. He recapped the canteen and hooked it to his web gear.
Still thirsty, Bekker settled back to wait. It was ironic, though a self-imposed irony. While he and his three hundred paratroops rationed their precious water mouthful by mouthful, one of South Africa’s two significant rivers, the Oranje,
lay only eight kilometers away-flowing northwest on its way toward the
Atlantic. Eight kilometers south, that was all. Only a brisk two hours’ walk, perhaps less.
Right now, though, the river might just as well have been on the far side of the moon. His own strict orders kept his men under cover in their fighting positions.
There was a good reason for that. Bekker’s northernmost outposts were already reporting dust rising in the distance. Henrik Kruger’s renegade battalion was coming south down the only road he’d left open and apparently unguarded. In reality, the men of the 20th Cape Rifles were being lured right into a killing zone.
The Afrikaner major studied his handpicked battlefield through slitted eyes. If anything, the brown, barren valley seemed even more suited to his purposes now than it had when he’d ringed it on the map.
Bordered by the rugged foothills of the Langeberg to the east and an only slightly less rugged ridge to the west, the valley sloped gently downhill from the Kalahari Basin before falling away sharply into the Oranje River basin. An unpaved secondary road ran down the eastern edge of the valley flanked by a long, low hill topped only by small patches of brush and three solitary, stunted trees.
Bekker’s two infantry companies were posted along that hill, carefully dispersed in six camouflaged platoon strong points surrounded by thin, hastily em placed minefields. To give his infantry a stronger long-range punch, he’d attached a Carl Gustav 84mm recoilless rifle team to each platoon. Indirect fire support would come from the two sections of four 81mm, mortars in place behind the hill-their crews crouched ready and waiting in shallow pits scraped out of the dirt and sand. And finally, he had his two Puma gunships on standby several kilometers away.
His battle plan was simple. Use HE from the mortars to kill Kruger’s truck-mounted infantry. Hit the enemy’s APCs with rounds from the Carl
Gustavs. Finish any vehicles left moving with 30mm cannon bursts from his helicopter gunships, and then mop up with his rifle-and machine gun armed paratroops. Bekker smiled to himself. Simple, yes.
And also damned effective. That was what combat experience taught you.
Simple things worked. Complicated plans or weapons usually looked good on paper and then got you killed.
His radio crackled softly.
“Rover Foxtrot One, this is Tango Zebra
Three.” Tango Zebra Three was the call sign for his northernmost observation post.
Corporal de Vries passed the handset across the foxhole.
“Go ahead,
Three.”
“Enemy scouting force in sight. Four Land Rovers ahead of the main column.”
Bekker propped himself up against the lip of the foxhole and raised his field glasses. The lead Land Rover leapt into view-dented, travel stained, and armed with a heavy machine gun on a pivot mount. Four men in South African uniforms rode in the vehicle-a driver, gunner, and two others. He lowered the glasses and pressed the transmit switch.
“Keep your heads down, Three. Let them pass.”
“Roger your last, Rover One. They’re rolling by now. Out. “
Bekker felt himself start to sweat. The next few minutes were critical.
He was gambling that Kruger’s recce units wouldn’t spot his carefully prepared ambush. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have risked it. An alert scout commander would be too likely to send a team up the hill for a look-see.
But Kruger’s men had been on the run for more than two weeks now-traveling for hours on end each day through empty deserts and desolate mountains. And Rolf Bekker was willing to bet that they’d lost some of their edge.
COMMAND RATEL, 20TH CAPE RIFLES, NORTH OF SKERPIONENPUNT
Even with the hatches closed and the air-conditioning going full blast, the Ratel’s crowded interior was still almost unbearably hot. Ian
Sheffield sat across a narrow fold-down map board watching Commandant
Henrik Kruger methodically charting their course. The South African’s calm, cool
appearance made Ian even more conscious of the sweat stains under his own arms and across his back.
The Ratel bucked suddenly, and he grabbed a strap with one hand, hanging on tightly as the APC lurched over a bump in the rock-strewn track the
South Africans called a secondary road. The sight of Kruger’s grease pencil skittering randomly across the plastic map overlay made him feel a little better. Even Emily van der Heijden’s old fiancd could lose his grip from time to time.
Ian’s eyes roved around the crowded Ratel. Emily and Matthew Siberia sat wedged in one corner, next to wall clips holding assault rifles and mesh bags full of canteens and spare rations. He met her eyes and nodded ruefully toward the table. She just smiled slightly and shrugged as though to indicate her exclusion didn’t really matter.
But he knew it did matter-especially to her. By rights, he thought, Emily should be up here with them talking over their next move. But it had become clear that Kruger felt uncomfortable when she tried to take an active part in their conferences.
His gaze moved on around the Ratel, studying his fellow passengers. Three young staff officers occupied the folding seats on their commander’s side of the vehicle. One stood beside a machine gunner in the turret, holding a radio headset pressed to one ear-monitoring reports from the scouts probing ahead of the column. All of them looked tired. Sunlight streamed in through eight small firing ports-four on each side.
Kruger finished his work and sat back. He raised his voice to be heard over the APC’s powerful engine.
“We’re making good time today. ” He tapped a spot on the map.
“We should be across the Oranje by noon.”
Ian nodded.
“What then?”
“Depending on what’s up ahead, we push on to Kenhardt and Brandvlei.
After that?” Kruger shrugged.
“That we must talk about, Ian. “
The South African put his pencil on the tiny town labeled Brandvlei. Ian mentally measured the distance from there to
Cape Town-less than five hundred kilometers. Maybe a two day drive at their present speed.
“What’s the problem?”
“Your country has aircraft based at Cape Town, true?”
Ian nodded. They’d caught bits and pieces of Voice of America news broadcasts en route. Enough to follow major developments in the war. Both the U.S. and Great Britain were still staging troops and air units through the Cape Town area.
Then he realized what was worrying Kruger. What would any red-blooded
U.S. pilot do if he spotted a battalion-sized column of trucks and APCs rolling south toward the city? He’d strafe or bomb the hell out of it, that’s what. Ian looked up.
“Are you saying we run a risk of becoming jet bait?”
“Jet bait?” Kruger hesitated briefly, obviously puzzled. Then his face cleared up as he mentally translated the slang phrase.
