Then suddenly Pav was on the air again. ‘Listen,’ he called. ‘Watch yourselves. There’s some guys out in the bush away to your left.’
‘Outside the wire?’
‘Well outside. They must have done a runner from the compound.’
‘How many?’
‘I’ve seen three. Could be more. They’re in light-coloured DPMs.’
‘Weapons?’
‘Affirmative. Rifles or gympis.’
‘Where are they?’
‘There’s a single bare tree with a big fork in the top.’
‘Got it.’
‘From here, they’re on a ridge, two o’clock and fifty metres from the tree.’
‘That puts them about four hundred metres from us.’
‘Spot on.’
‘Okay. We’re going after them. Tell me if they move.’
‘Roger.’
Phil needed no orders or encouragement. He’d heard the conversation and was on his way. Together we scuttled back off our hill, into hollows, and used dead ground to work our way fast round towards the south. We hustled along, twisting to keep in the hollows. Behind us, to our right, the battle was raging. Explosions that I reckoned were hand-grenades punctuated the small-arms fire. Then, as we came up to a ridge, I realised that some of the shots were going off from close in front of us.
‘Bastards!’ gasped Phil. ‘Sniping from way out.’
‘Get behind them,’ I panted.
We dropped back and took another swing to our left. More single shots cracked out.
‘There’s the marker tree,’ said Phil. ‘Get up to that.’
Ten metres from the top of the bank, we dropped on to hands and knees. For the last little stretch we went into a leopard crawl until we could peep over the crest. Less than forty metres off three guys were down on their bellies in firing positions, weapons levelled, taking controlled shots at the compound. We were nearly abreast of them, slightly behind, so they were looking away from us, concentrating on their targets.
‘Hey!’ I whispered. ‘Take the outer two. You the left, me the right. Count from five. Ready?’
‘All set.’
I put my sight on the right-hand man’s ribs, just behind his shoulderblade.
‘Five, four, three, two, one.’
Crash! Our weapons went off simultaneously. Neither target moved, except to jerk and slump forward. Suddenly I realised there was something out of place about the man in the middle. He was white.
Before he could react I put another burst into the ground beside his head, and yelled, ‘Throw your weapon away!’
For a few seconds he held on to it, glancing desperately to left and right. When he saw both his companions were dead, he pushed the rifle away to his right and left it lying on the ground at arm’s length.
‘Stay down!’ I yelled. ‘Get rid of your weapon! Right out in front of you! More! Hands on your head. Stay on your belly.’
The man did as ordered.
‘Come on,’ I told Phil. ‘If he tries anything funny, slot him.’
We went forward with 203s levelled until I was a couple of paces from the broad back. Phil walked in front of him with his weapon pointed down at his head. I went and felt under him. My hand lit on a holster containing a pistol. I pulled it out — a Colt .45 with worn wooden grips. I pushed the weapon into my belt and told the guy to stand up.
He got up warily. He was older than I expected, in his forties, with a lined face and grey stubble on his chin.
‘All right,’ I went. ‘Who the fuck are you, bonny lad? And what are you doing here?’
‘No information.’
I gave him a kick in the groin, which made him stagger, then tried again. His answer was the same. The few words were enough to confirm he was South African — that edgy eccent.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘If you don’t fucking talk to me, there are government forces down there, and they’ll make you talk.’
A movement above us caught my eye. Another man had appeared on the skyline, a long way off. I saw him only for a second, but I realised from his build — his broad, stocky frame — that he couldn’t be an African. Before I could react he’d ducked down and disappeared.
I hit my pressel, and called, ‘Pav! We’re by the tree. We’ve got one white guy, but there’s somebody else moving above us. To you they’ll be two o’clock from the tree.’
‘Got ’em!’ he cried. ‘Two guys, three. Running like hell. Away from you.’
‘Let ’em go,’ I said. ‘We’ll bring this one down with us.’
We left the two bodies where they lay. The blacks had been firing AK47s, but the white guy had a good-looking sniper rifle with a vari-power telescopic sight. While he glowered at us in silence, I picked the weapon up and slung it over one shoulder.
Below us, the battle was fizzling out. The firing had become sporadic.
I wasn’t going to waste time arguing.
‘Get moving,’ I told him. ‘Back to the mine.’
With us two right behind him, I didn’t think he’d try doing a runner — and if he had, we’d have dropped him without compunction. We steered him down the gullies by ordering ‘Right’ and ‘Left’ until we came up behind the covering force. Just as we reached them, Joss called them forward, and as they ran into the compound, we followed.
In spite of his orders not to cause unnecessary damage, the attackers had shot the place to pieces. The blockhouse was still smouldering, and a far bigger fire was blazing out of the fuel store: barrels of diesel had ignited and were sending a column of dense black smoke boiling high into the sky. The dredging machinery had ground to a halt. The doors of the main building, big enough to admit trucks, had been blown off their guide-rails and were hanging drunkenly. The corrugated-iron walls were riddled with bullet holes. No other prisoners had been taken. Bodies lay everywhere, most of them relatively intact, but several hacked into bloody lumps in an orgy of killing. Away to our left some of the Alpha guys were smashing their way into the single-storey block.
I grabbed the first two men we came to, and said, ‘You two, guard this prisoner.’
They looked a bit shattered, so I added, ‘Just stay here and keep him covered until I get Major Mvula.’
The air inside the main building was full of dust and smoke. Through it I made out inner walls — the secure area, a windowless box maybe fifteen feet high, with the conveyor belt from the dredger arm coming high over it and down through the ceiling. The place was full of men running around screaming and shouting.
‘Joss!’ I yelled. ‘Where the fuck are you?’
Any answer he may have given was drowned out by a volley of shots, deafening inside the steel walls, as somebody emptied his magazine into the locks on one of the secure unit’s doors, trying to blast his way in.
‘Joss!’ I roared. ‘Get these guys under control. Get ’em out of here!’
It took him a few minutes to impose his authority, his men were on such a high. But in the end he managed it. Once all the shouting died down, it became possible to talk.
‘Listen,’ I told him as we stood in the main doorway. ‘We’ve got one white prisoner outside. Take charge of him, and keep a good eye on him. We’ll need to interrogate him to find out what the hell’s been going on. And get some of your guys moving. We know three enemy at least made a breakout and got away to the south. There may have been more. The defenders may have broadcast an SOS before we took out the radio. A counter-attack may come in. Send out clearance patrols to check our immediate surroundings. Get people digging in on the perimeter. Leave the .50 section where it is, across the river, but bring the rest of your guys over soonest. You need an immediate resupply: ammunition and rockets.’