-Alan Paton
D-107, near Tempe Base, Bloemfontein, South Africa
'Tell Dov we've got no M3s for you,' the Boer warrant officer, Dani Viljoen, said. The Boer was a large man, broad shouldered, and just beginning to go gray around the temples. Beside him sat a black of the same rank, and similar build, albeit somewhat taller. 'Oh, sure, there's one on display down the road but that was just a prototype. And since it's on display we can't steal it without undue notice, and since it's just the one it wouldn't do you much good anyway. And since the thing hasn't run in maybe twenty years it wouldn't be worth the effort.'
The black shook his head no. He hadn't said much, generally, but Victor didn't have the impression that this indicated any inferiority between the two. The black, a Bantu, more specifically a Zulu, Viljoen had introduced as Dumisani, simply seemed the quiet sort.
'What have you got?' Inning asked.
The Boer and the Bantu exchanged glances. Victor wasn't sure, not absolutely, but he had the impression that a great deal of information-information to which he didn't have the code-was exchanged in that glance.
'For noddy cars?' Viljoen asked. The cars were nicknamed in South Africa for the British children's television character, a toy named 'Noddy' and his toy automobile. 'Well . . . a lot of the turrets have been taken off to fit out the Ratels that took over from the noddy cars.'
'What's a . . . noddy car?'
'Eland,' the Boer replied. 'AMLs, others call them. Or Panhards. Anyway, the Ratel uses the same turret, so some of the turrets from the noddy cars were put into them, and others have been cannibalized. There's more turrets in 90mm than 60mm, by the way. More left here, I mean.'
The black warrant added, 'You can put infantry in a noddy car, provided the turret's gone. Maybe four men, would you say, Dani?' Dumisani had one of those mellifluous African voices that is an improvement on anyone else's English, sort of Ladysmith Black Mambazo in a prose vein.
'Five in a pinch, I think,' the Boer replied, 'besides the driver and gunner. Would that do?'
'Can you provide them?' Victor asked. He thought, Personnel decisions are really not in my portfolio for this. But if this is what I can get . . .
The Bantu shrugged as the Boer laughed. 'Enough for an army,' Viljoen said. 'How many do you need?'
'Nine of the 90mm versions,' Victor said. 'Three with 60mm turrets. And, since they won't carry as many, call it thirty-six without turrets. Since the ammunition isn't something I normally carry, I need three thousand rounds of 90mm, and about a thousand of 60.'
'The 60mm mortar is damned near worthless,' the Boer said. 'And even three missing would be noticed, since we still use the turrets. I can get you the 90mm versions, nine or twelve or twenty, if you want. I can get turretless bodies, fifty or sixty, I suppose. Okay, okay, a small army.'
'I'll need to consult with my friends,' Victor said. 'But assuming they can use the turretless ones, how do you get them to us?'
'You got a ship?' Viljoen asked.
'Yes, chartered, my own crew. Some of Dov's people will be aboard to fix the things.'
The Boer nodded. 'That would work. We can fit three in a forty foot shipping container. We mark them as sent to the tank range as targets. Off the books. Might have to grease the customs man's palm at the port, but nobody here really gives a shit anymore, so we can do that.'
'How much?' Inning asked.
Again the Boer and the Bantu exchanged glances. This time they took much longer about it. Victor still couldn't read their faces but there was something . . . he and his wife, Alla, sometimes communicated . . .
'You two are more than friends, aren't you?' the Russian asked.
'Took you long enough to figure it out,' Viljoen said.
'But . . . this is South Africa. You're white; your . . . friend's . . . black . . . '
'So?' the Boer shrugged. 'He thinks white is sexy. I think black is. And we both despise flaming queens.'
Dumisani put up one hand, then ostentatiously bent his wrist before straightening it, all the while sneering profoundly.
Viljoen chuckled, then said, 'We were on opposite sides during the Border War, too. Again, so? We're doing this, stealing equipment, I mean, so we can get the hell out of this place and live decently somewhere. Speaking of which-'
'That's part of our price,' Dumisani said. 'We want out. It would be nice if we could get work we know how to do while we're at it.'
'But with money you can go live anywhere,' Victor said.
'No,' Viljoen corrected. His head nodded towards the Bantu. 'He could. But I'm a white South African, and a Boer, which is worse. Nobody wants to take us because nobody wants us to leave South Africa. Open the portals to, say, the United States and ninety-five percent of the whites of this country would disappear overnight.'
'Ninety-nine percent,' Dumisani corrected. 'And then the country would collapse. Which would make progressive minded people all over the world look stupid, clearly a disaster to be avoided. This I did not understand when I was fighting my partner over majority rule. If I had understood, I might have been on his side rather than the ANC's.
'Then again,' the Zulu added, shaking his head sadly, 'I used to think we blacks could run the country. I think maybe we could have. I think we should have. But the last couple of decades have proven only that we are running it into the dirt, quite despite could haves and should haves. And I see no solution.'
'You still haven't said how much.'
Boer and Bantu again exchanged glances. 'One hundred thousand Rand, each,' Viljoen said, 'for a turretless car with a working engine. Two hundred and fifty thousand for one with a 90mm turret with a working gun. No radios included. Plus transportation to the port. I'll have to get you a quote on that. Plus the cost of the containers and port fees and loading fees. Call it ten million Rand, all told. And another four million for the 90mm ammunition. I'm going to have to bribe someone for that.'
'Fortunately,' Dumisani said, 'since liberation everyone can be bribed.'
'We weren't,' Viljoen said, 'as honest as all that even before hand.'
Victor did some quick calculations. One point five million dollars, give or take. Plus as much for Dov to recondition them. I can charge the Americans maybe four million. That's a fair profit and worth my time. And if the Americans are willing to go for ground mounted mortars, I can provide those from my own stocks.
'I'll ask if the turretless ones will do,' Victor said. 'And if a place for you can be found among the group I represent. I suppose, since they're going to be using ‘noddy cars,' that people who know how to maintain them would be useful.'
'Not just maintain,' Dumisani said. 'We know how to use them.'
Victor was about to comment on that, when his PDA buzzed. It was a text message. He read it, and smiled. It seems Messers Nyein and Naing and the government of Myanmar need some arms.
Assembly Area Alpha-Base Camp,
Amazonia, Brazil, D-107
'Ralph,' Stauer asked of his chief intelligence officer, Boxer, 'just how compromised are we?'
The former Air Force general shook his head. 'You're referring to the foreigners? Or just generally?'
'Both?'
'I don't think we are . . . yet. Let me explain.'
'Please do.'
'Only nineteen of us really know the mission, twenty if you count Wahab. Most of those are here. Reilly and
