Zeegler's grin was barely visible in the darkness. 'One for the history books, Minister. An incredible exploit. There are no other words to describe it.'
'Casualties?'
'Four wounded, none seriously.'
'And the rebels?'
Zeegler paused for effect. 'The body count tallied at twenty-three hundred and ten. At least another two hundred lie buried in the rubble of the destroyed buildings. No more than a handful could have escaped into the bush.'
'Good God!' De Vaal was shocked. 'Are you serious?'
'I checked the body count twice.'
'In our wildest expectations we conceived no more than a few hundred rebel dead.'
'A windfall,' said Zeegler. 'The camp was lined up for inspection. It was what the Americans would call a turkey shoot. Colonel Randolph Jumana was cut down by the first salvo.'
'Jumana was an idiot,' De Vaal snapped. 'His days were numbered. Thomas Machita — there's the cagey one. Machita is the only bastard in the AAR who could fill Lusana's boots.'
'We identified several officers on Lusana's staff, including Colonel Duc Phon Lo, his Vietnamese military adviser, but Machita's body did not turn up. I believe I'm safe in saying his remains are buried under tons of debris.' Zeegler paused and stared De Vaal in the eyes. 'In view of our success. Herr Minister.' it might be wise to scratch Operation Wild Rose.'
'Why not quit while we 're ahead — is that it?'
Zeegler silently nodded.
'I am a pessimist., Colonel. it may take months, perhaps years) for the AAR to recover, but recover they will.' De Vaal seemed to sink into a private reverie. Then he shook it off. 'So long as South Africa lives under the threat of black rule, we have no option but to use any method available to survive. Wild Rose will take place as planned. 55 lls in our
'I'll feel better when Lusana fa net. 11
De Vaal threw Zeegler an off-kilter grin.
'You haven't heard?'
'Sir?'
'Hiram Lusana won't be coming back to Africa. ever.'
Machita had no way of telling when he had recrossed the threshold of consciousness. He could see nothing but darkness. Then the pain began multiplying in his nerve endings and he groaned involuntarily. His ears recorded the sound, but nothing else registered.
He tried to raise his head and a yellowish ball appeared above and to his left. Slowly the strange object came into focus and formed a frame of reference. He was looking at a full moon.
He struggled to a sitting position with his back crammed against a cold, bare wall. In the light that sifted through the wreckage he could see that the floor above had dropped only two feet before becoming wedged between the narrow walls of his cell.
After a brief rest to collect his strength, Machita began pushing away the rubble. His hands discovered a short length of board and he used it to pry away the topside flooring until at last he forced an opening large enough to crawl through. Cautiously he peered over the edge into the chill night air. Nothing stirred. He bent his knees and shoved his body upward until his hands touched the grass of the parade ground. A sudden heave and he was free.
Machita took a deep breath and looked around. It was then that he saw the miracle of his salvation. The wall of the administration building facing the parade field had caved inward, collapsing the first floor, which had effectively shielded his cell from falling debris and the deadly wrath of the South Africans.
No one greeted Machita as he staggered to his feet, because there was no one in sight. The moon illuminated an eerie, barren landscape. Every facility, every building, had been leveled. The field was empty; the bodies of the dead were gone.
It was as though the African Army of Revolution had never existed.
45
'I wish I could help you, but I don't really see how.'
Lee Raferty had been right, Pitt reflected. Orville Mapes did look more like a hardware peddler than a weapons dealer. Raferty was wrong on one count, though: Mapes was no longer a vice-president; he had moved up to president and chairman of the board of the Phalanx Arms Corporation. Pitt stared back into the gray eyes of the stubby little man.
'A check of your inventory records would be helpful.'
'I do not open my records for a stranger who wanders in from the street. My customers would not look kindly upon a supplier who failed to keep their transactions confidential.'
'The law requires you to list your arms sales with the Defense Department, so what's the big secret?'
'Are you with Defense, Mr. Pitt?' asked Mapes.
'Indirectly.'
'Then whom do you represent?'
'Sorry, I can't say.'
Mapes shook his head irritably and rose. 'I'm a busy man. I have no time for games. You can find your own way out.'
Pitt remained in his chair. 'Sit down, Mr. Mapes… please.'
Mapes found himself looking into a pair of green eyes that were as hard as jade. He hesitated, and considered challenging the command, then slowly did as he was asked.
Pitt nodded at the telephone. 'So we both know where we stand, I suggest you call General Elmer Grosfield.'
Mapes made a nettled face. 'The Chief Inspector of Foreign Arms Shipments and I seldom see eye to eye.'
'I take it he frowns on classified weapons being sold to unfriendly nations.'
Mapes shrugged. 'The general is a narrow-minded man.' Mapes leaned back in his chair and stared speculatively at Pitt. 'What, may I ask, is your connection with Grosfield?'
'Let's just say he respects my judgment more than he does yours.'
'Do I detect a veiled threat, Mr. Pitt? If I don't play ball, you cry foul to Grosfield is that it?'
'My request is simple,' said Pitt. 'A check of the whereabouts of the naval shells you bought from Lee Raferty in Colorado.'
'I don't have to show you a damn thing, master.,'' Mapes replied stubbornly. 'Not without a logical explanation or proper identification, or, for that matter, a court order.'
'And if General Grosfield makes the request?'
'In that case I might be persuaded to string along.'
Pitt nodded at the phone again. 'I'll give you his private number…'
'I have it,' Mapes said, fishing through a small box. He found the slotted index card he was looking for and held it up. 'Not that I don't trust you, Mr. Pitt. But if you don't mind, I prefer using a number from my own file.'
'Suit yourself,' said Pitt.
Mapes lifted the receiver, inserted the card in the automatic-dialer phone, and pressed the code button. 'It's after twelve O'clock,' he said. 'Grosfield is probably out to lunch.'
Pitt shook his head. 'The general is a brown-bagger. He eats at his desk.'
'I always figured him for a cheapass,' Mapes grunted.
Pitt smiled, hoping Mapes couldn't read the anxiety behind his eyes.
Abe Steiger rubbed the sweat from his palms on his pants legs and picked up the phone on the third ring, taking a bite from a banana before he spoke.
