The corporal held up one hand, listening.
“Third section reports a police vehicle tried to enter town. They destroyed it with a Milan, but a few survivors are still firing.”
That meant Zimbabwean casualties. Bekker shrugged mentally. He was only supposed to try to minimize collateral damage. Nobody at headquarters expected miracles. Besides,
a few of their own people killed might teach Zimbabwe’s ruling clique to be more careful about allowing ANC operations inside their borders.
Nkume finished dialing the combination and turned the safe’s locking handle. Bekker’s soldiers pulled him roughly away from the hole before he could finish opening the door.
“Get him outside,” Bekker snarled. He looked for the leader of his attached intelligence team and saw him standing nearby.
“It’s all yours now,
Schoemann. Take your pictures quickly. “
Schoemann’s men, one with a special camera, knelt down next to the hole and carefully removed inch-high stacks of paper from the safe. Bekker watched for a moment as they took each page, photographed it, and laid it in the proper order in a pile to one side.
He felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the sight. This was the prize, the real payoff for a month of hard training and intense preparation. The information contained in this one small safe-ANC operations plans, equipment lists, personnel rosters, and more—would be a gold mine for
South Africa’s intelligence services. And with luck, the ANC wouldn’t even know that these once-secret files had been found and copied.
More firing sounded outside and shook Bekker out of his reverie. Der Merwe and Heitman must be running into more resistance than they’d anticipated.
Schoemann, on the other hand, clearly had everything under control, so he sprinted down the stairs and out into the clear night air. Reebeck, Roost, and the rest of his troops were there waiting for him, listening to the fighting still raging at either end of town. Every man knew that the clock had been running since they first entered Gawamba, and from the sound of the firing to the north and south, it was running out.
Bekker stopped near Reebeck.
“Lieutenant, take your team and cover the intelligence people. Send word as soon as they’re finished. I’m taking de
Vries and going north.”
Reebeck nodded and wheeled to his appointed task.
STRIKE FORCE SECOND SECTION, NORTH END OF GAWAMBA, ZIMBABWE
Bekker and five men double-timed north through the streets toward the police station, equipment clattering and boots thumping heavily onto the dirt. There wasn’t time to make a cautious, painstaking advance now.
Instead, they’d simply have to risk an ambush laid by any ANC sympathizers still at large in the town.
The South African captain didn’t believe there was much chance of that.
He’d seen only a few frightened faces in the windows-faces that quickly ducked out of sight at his glance. The townspeople wisely didn’t seem to want any quarrel with the heavily armed soldiers running down their streets.
He pulled up short at a corner and peered around it. Several soldiers of his second section were visible down the road, in cover and firing at the yellow brick police station not far away. One man lay sprawled and unmoving, while another sat white faced, trying to bandage a wound in his own side. The rest were locked in a full-scale firefight that wasn’t part of the plan.
Bekker pulled his head back and turned to the men with him.
“Set up an ambush two blocks down the main street.” He looked at his watch.
“You’ve got three minutes. Go!”
He belly-crawled forward to the nearest second-section position-two men crouched behind a low rock wall.
“Where’s der Merwe?” he asked.
Bullets ricocheted off the front of the wall and tumbled overhead at high velocity, buzzing like angry bees.
One of the paratroopers pointed to the far side of the police station.
“He headed over there a few minutes ago, Kaptein _. “
Bekker risked a glance in that direction and sat back.
“Right. Stand by for new orders.”
The trooper’s helmet bobbed and Bekker crawled back out of the line of fire. Then he stood and ran to the right, past a row of tiny, one-room shops still shut for the night. Corporal de Vries followed. Once past the police station, he turned
toward the sound of the firing, moving forward in short rushes from doorway to doorway.
At last, he was rewarded by the sight of Lieutenant der Merwe, prone and firing around a corner at one of the police station’s barricaded windows.
Bekker waved him back into cover and went to meet him.
The lieutenant, his least-experienced officer, was breathing hard, but didn’t look overly excited.
“There are at least twenty men over there and they’ve got automatic weapons. We’ve got them pinned, but right now we’re just sniping at each other.”
“And that’s what we don’t need.” Bekker scowled as the firing around them rose to a new crescendo.
“We’ve got to get them out in the open and finish them before the Pumas come in. “
He put his mouth close to der Merwe’s ear to make sure he could be heard over the fighting.
“We’ve laid an ambush down the street toward Kudu. Pull your people out in that direction and we’ll give these kaffirs a nasty surprise.
The lieutenant grinned and sprinted back to the rest of his men, already yelling new orders.
Bekker, with two of der Merwe’s men in tow, dashed down a side street and over toward the ambush position. Sergeant Roost and his radioman met him there.
“Schoemann’s finished, Kaptein. Everything’s back in the safe just the way it was. And the Pumas are on the way.”
“Excellent. Now, all we’ve got to do is scrape these damned Zimbabwean police off our backs. They don’t seem willing to take no for an answer.”
Shrill whistles blew behind them, signaling the second section’s withdrawal. Bekker grabbed Roost’s arm and swung him halfway round.
“Take these two men and provide security one block back. Corporal de Vries will stay with me.”
He moved forward and risked a quick look down the main street. Second section’s paratroops had thrown smoke grenades and were shouting, “Pull back! Withdraw!” loud enough to be heard in Pretoria.
Bekker checked his rifle and slapped in a fresh magazine, then took a fragmentation grenade off his battle dress. He flattened himself against the wall of one of the houses and saw his troops run by in apparent headlong retreat. They were still dropping smoke grenades behind them, filling the street with a white, swirling mist.
Bekker waited, the seconds passing slowly, his reflexes desperate to do something to burn off the adrenaline in his bloodstream. Deliberately slowing his breathing, he held his position for another moment, and then another.
He heard shouting and running feet. Then the shouting resolved itself into orders in Shona, the chief tribal language used in Zimbabwe. He saw men appear out of the smoke and run past his alley. They were blacks, armed with assault rifles and dressed in combat fatigues. More soldiers than police, Bekker thought.
They streamed by, running full tilt right into the middle of his killing zone. Now!
“Fire! Shoot the bastards!” Bekker screamed. He pulled the pin off his grenade and tossed it into the smoke, back up the street. The South
Africans hidden in buildings and alleys on either side of the street opened up at the same moment-spraying hundreds of rounds into the startled Zimbabweans.
Half hidden by the smoke, the Zimbabwean troops screamed and jerked as the bullets hit them, Most were
