He then went back and did the same with another. A third, fourth, and fifth went the same way. The TV sets were heavy. On the other hand, while Eeyore was small; he was not weak.
Crawling into the space thus vacated, Antoniewicz pulled all his gear in behind him and then closed the container's doors. He rearranged the boxes so that, even should someone open the container, they would be presented with a solid set of TV boxes, three by four, while creating for himself a small cubby further into the container.
Then, with the drill, the SEAL made a dozen small air holes on top, plus three or four high along each side.
If it gets too stuffy, I'll make more.
With that, he checked his watch. Running a small wire antenna out of one of the air holes, he sent to the Bastard, "I'm aboard and safely hidden. I looked for some sign of the kid, but there's nothing, not a hint. And, you know, a prison has routines. There aren't any here, that I could see. FYI, ship's speed is about eighteen knots. See you at sea." He then drank some water from one of his canteens, wolfed down a bit of smoked meat-not bad, considering it's not really a Russian specialty-and went to sleep, one hand wrapped around the silenced Makarov . . .
D-107, MV George Galloway
. . . and awakened to the sound of massed firing-full automatic, too-coming from somewhere sternward of his little hide. The sound was muffled by metal walls and cardboard boxes, but was distinct for all that.
"What the fuck!" Antoniewicz exclaimed as he sat bolt upright. His head was saved from a painful impact only by the fact he was so short. "Did the attack start and I slept through it?"
Almost he exited the container to join in. He was fumbling with the inside handle when the firing ceased. He heard something shouted out in Arabic and the firing began again.
They're familiarizing on their weapons . . . or keeping in practice . . . or test firing, he thought. This pretty much ends the possibility that they are comparatively innocent illegal immigrants.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
If you wrote a novel in South Africa
which didn't concern the central issues,
it wouldn't be worth publishing.
-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.