cut down in seconds. Those who survived the first lethal fusillade seemed dazed, confused by the slaughter all around them.
Bekker’s grenade went off, triggering more screams. He raised his assault rifle and started firing short, aimed bursts. Each time he squeezed the trigger, a black soldier fell, some in a spray of blood and some just tossed into the dust. His radioman was also firing and he could hear
Roost shouting in triumph as well. Trust the sergeant to get into it.
Bekker let them all shoot for another five seconds before reaching for the command whistle hung round his neck. Its shrill blast cut through the. firing-calling his men to order. There wasn’t any movement among the heaped bodies on the street. In the sudden silence, he could hear the
Pumas coming in, engines roaring at full throttle.
Their rides home were arriving.
STRIKE FORCE RENDEZVOUS POINT, OUTSIDE GAWAMBA, ZIMBABWE
Hands on his hips, Bekker watched his force prepare for departure.
Rotors turning, three transport helicopters sat in a small cornfield just outside of small-arms range of the town, while a Puma gunship orbited in lazy spirals overhead. Paratroops were streaming into the area from three directions. The whine of high-pitched engines, the dust blown by still-turning blades, and the milling troopers waiting to load created what appeared to be complete chaos. Bekker’s eye noticed, though, that the wounded were being loaded quickly and gently, and that his first section, according to plan, was posted for area security.
Corporal de Vries was still at his side and reached out to grab his shoulder. The radioman had to shout to be heard.
“The gunship reports ten-plus troops two streets over!”
Reflexively, Bekker glanced up at the Puma overhead. It had stopped circling and was moving forward, nose pointed at the reported position of the enemy. Time to go.
He started moving toward his assigned helicopter, walking calmly to set an example for his troops. The wounded were all loaded and the rest of the men were hastily filing aboard.
He stopped near the open helo door and turned to his radioman.
“Tell first section to start pulling out.” His order was punctuated by the sounds of heavy firing, and he looked up to see smoke streaming back from the gunship’s thirty millimeter cannon.
Bekker heard Reebeck’s voice shouting, “Smoke!”
Seconds later, every man in the first section threw smoke grenades outward, surrounding the landing zone with a few minutes’ worth of precious cover.
As the separate white clouds of smoke billowed up and blended together, cutting visibility to a few yards, half of Reebeck’s men sprinted from their positions to a waiting helo. The gunship’s cannon roared again, urging even greater speed.
All the other South African troops were aboard now, except for Bekker, who stood calmly next to his helicopter and watched.
A minute later, Reebeck and the rest of his men broke away from the perimeter and raced for their helicopter.
As they clambered aboard, Bekker heard a sharp popping noise over the
Pumas’ howling engines and the wind screaming off their faster-turning rotor blades. Rifle fire. He realized that the Zimbabweans were shooting blindly into the smoke, with a fair chance of hitting something as large as a helicopter. He forced himself to stand motionless.
Reebeck stood next to him, mentally ticking off names as his troops boarded. As the last man scrambled in, Reebeck looked over at Belcker and pumped his fist. The two officers swung aboard simultaneously and hung on as the Puma lifted ponderously out of the landing zone.
As they lifted clear of the smoke, Bekker could see the gunship pulling up as well, gaining altitude and distance from the small-arms fire on the ground. Bodies littered the three blocks between the main street and the edge of town.
The Pumas gained more altitude and he saw dust rising on the road off to the north. He took out his field glasses. A line of black specks were moving south at high speed. A Zimbabwean relief force, headed straight for the town. He grinned. They were too late. Too late by ten minutes, at least. And if you’d made it, you’d have died, too, he thought.
As if to emphasize that thought, a pair of arrowheads flashed close overhead. Bekker tensed and then relaxed as he recognized the Air Force
Mirage fighters sent to provide air support if he had needed it. He also knew that at high altitude, other Mirages were making sure that the
Zimbabwean Air Force left his returning helicopters unmolested.
The Pumas continued to climb, powering their way up to six thousand feet.
There was no further need for stealth, and even that low altitude gave a much smoother ride than they’d had on the way in. The paratroopers were unloading and checking their weapons, dressing minor wounds, and already starting to make up lies about their parts in what had been a very successful raid.
Bekker safed his own rifle, then relaxed a little. He made sure his seat belt was secure, then lit a cigarette. Drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, he went through every step of the actiOD-looking for mistakes or things he could have done better. It was a familiar after-battle ritual, one that cleared his mind and calmed his nerves.
Several minutes later, he finished his cigarette and tossed the butt out the open door. Some of his men were still talking quietly, but many had closed their eyes and were fast asleep. Posthattle exhaustion and a long ride were having their effect.
Nkume seemed to be the only person full of energy. He was visibly relieved at having come through the raid unscathed. And he had a much brighter future ahead. South African intelligence had promised him much for opening the ANC’s secret safe. Not only would he be spared a prison term or death, he’d also be given an airline ticket to England, a forged
British passport, and a large cash payment to start a new life.
Bekker saw Nkume smiling and waved to him. Nkume waved back, all his earlier fears forgotten in his exhilaration. The South African captain patted the empty seat by his side and waved the black over.
Bent low beneath the cabin ceiling, Nkume grabbed a metal frame to steady himself against the helicopter’s motion and made his way across to
Bekker. He leaned over the captain, saying something that Bekker couldn’t make out over the engine noise. The South African nodded anyway and reached out to put his left hand on Nkume’s shoulder.
With his right hand, he reached across his chest to the bayonet knife on his web gear. In one fast motion he pulled it out of its sheath and jammed it into Nkume’s chest, just below the sternum.
The black’s face twisted in surprise and pain. He let go of the ceiling and grabbed at his chest, nearly doubled over by the fire in his heart.
Bekker could see him trying to scream, to say something, to make some sound.
Bekker pulled his knife free and yanked the wounded man toward the open door. Nkume realized what was happening, but was in too much pain to resist. Too late, one hand feebly grabbed at the doorframe, but his body was already outside the Puma and falling. The empty, unsettled land below would swallow Nkume’s corpse.
Bekker didn’t even watch him fall. He cleaned off his knife and resheathed it, then looked around the cabin. The few men who were awake were looking at him with surprise, but when he met their eyes, they looked away, shrugging. If the commander wanted to kill the informer, he probably had a good reason.
Bekker had already been given the only reason he needed. Orders were orders. Besides, he agreed with them. Anyone who turned his coat once could do it again, and this operation was too sensitive to risk compromising. And Nkume’s crimes were too grievous to forgive. South
Africa’s security forces might use such a man, but they would be sure to use him up.
His last duty performed, Rolf Bekker closed his eyes and slept.
CHAPTER
Glimmering
MAY 23-ANC OPERATIONS CENTER, GAWAMBA,
ZIMBABWE
