Professor Esher Levi—An Israeli nuclear scientist familiar with South Africa’s nuclear weapons program
PROLOGUE
MAY 22-THE TULI RIVER VALLEY, ZIMBABWE
The sky demons came in the dark hours before dawn.
Joshua Mksoi saw them first only as a faint flicker on the horizon and turned away without knowing what he had seen. Joshua, the youngest of his father’s four living sons, had never had any schooling and couldn’t waste time or energy in studying the black, star-studded sky or the waning moon. He had to drive his family’s cattle up the dry river valley to their grazing lands before sunrise. It was a task that had consumed every day of nearly half his short life.
The small boy trudged wearily along the trail, herding the long-homed cattle with the sound of his voice and the tip of his hardwood staff.
Cowbells clanked and jangled in the quiet night air. Everything was as it had always been.
Then the demons came-flashing close overhead with a howling roar that drove everything but fear from his mind. Joshua stood frozen in terror, sure that these monsters of darkness and air had come for his soul. He wailed aloud as
his thin, tattered shirt billowed up, caught in their clutching, sand-choked breath.
And then they were gone-fading swiftly to mere shadows before vanishing entirely.
For long seconds, the boy stood rooted in shock, waiting helplessly as his pounding heart slowed and his arms and legs stopped trembling. Then he started running, chasing frantically after the maddened cattle as they stampeded away into the darkness.
For as much as Joshua understood them, the Puma helicopters, turbine engines howling, might as well have been demons. Filled with malign intent and of fearsome appearance, they certainly fitted the definition.
And they were totally uncaring of a small boy’s fears.
It was the smallest of the many tragedies that would strike Zimbabwe that day.
STRIKE FORCE, COMMAND HELICOPTER
the lead Puma helicopter shook violently, caught in a sudden upward surge of air, and then nosed over-following the winding, northward trace of the Tuli River valley. Four other camouflaged helicopters followed in staggered trail formation. The group flew so low they were almost skimming the ground, at two hundred kilometers per hour.
Aboard the lead Puma, Rolf Belcker bounced against the shoulder straps holding him in his seat. He leaned forward and craned his head to see past the machine gunner crouching in the open door. A black, uneven landscape filled his limited view.
After a moment, he looked away from the door and sat back. He’d seen it too often in the past few years to find it very interesting.
Bekker was a tall, lean man with a rugged face. His tanned features were covered with streaked black and green camouflage paint. The African sun had bleached his short cropped blond hair almost white. His camouflage uniform carried only the three stars of a captain on twin shoulder boards and a unit patch on his right sleeve. The patch bore the emblem of South Africa’s 44th Parachute Brigade.
He pulled the Velcro cover off his watch and checked the time. Just minutes left to the LZ. Bekker looked up and met the wide-open, frightened eyes of the informer, Nkume.
The black was a tall, thin Xhosa tribesman sitting as far away from the open door as the seating arrangements would allow. He looked out of place among the fourteen heavily armed paratroopers who were the helicopter’s other passengers. He was unarmed, dressed in worn civilian clothes. The soldiers wore helmets, camouflage gear, and carried compact and deadly assault rifles. They looked very sure of themselves. Nkume did not.
The South African officer scowled. He didn’t know the black man’s full name and he didn’t care. Though he realized that the success of this mission depended in large part on this cowardly kaffir, he didn’t have to like it. Bekker’s right hand closed around the trigger guard of his rifle and he nodded to himself. If Nkume endangered the mission or
Bekker’s men in any way, the black would soon be begging for death.
The helicopter pilot’s voice filled his earphones.
“I’m in contact with the pathfinders. LZ is clear. Two minutes.”
Bekker looked back at his men and held up two fingers. As they started checking their weapons and gear one last time, he unbuckled his seat straps and moved forward to stand behind the Puma’s flight crew. He stared through the cockpit windscreen.
He would not see the landing signal. Only the copilot’s infrared goggles could spot the light marking the drop zone. Instead, he studied the terrain, a mixture of patchy grass and brush.
The copilot said, “I have it,” and pointed. Bekker held on to the doorframe as the Puma banked sharply, turning to the new heading.
They were approaching a relatively open spot, clear of scrub and hidden from their objective by a low, boulder strewn hill.
The helicopter dipped lower still and Bekker felt the jar as it touched do~vn in a swirling, rotor-blown hail of dry grass and sand. He swung round and jumped out onto the ground, followed in a rush by the rest of his men. Two more troop carriers landed seconds later, followed by the last helicopter, a gunship. Soldiers emptied out of the transports, ducking low beneath slowing, still-turning rotor blades.
Assault rifles held ready, the first South African paratroopers were already fanning out into the surrounding brush. A figure detached itself from the shadows and ran to meet them.
Bekker waved the soldier over to him. They shook hands.
“Kaptein, I’m glad you made it.” Sergeant van Myghen was as tall as Bekker, but thicker, and much dirtier. He and his pathfinders had parachuted in hours earlier to secure the landing zone and scout their objective.
“Anything stirring?” Bekker asked.
“Nothing.” The sergeant’s contempt for their opponents was audible.
“But
I’ve got Kempler posted to keep an eye on the bastards all the same.
We’re about twenty-five hundred meters from the edge of town.”
“Good.” Bekker looked around the small clearing. His troops were assembled, ready to march in a spread column of twos with scouts and flankers thrown out to warn of any ambush. Two burly privates stood on either side of Nkume, each within easy knife reach. And nearby, the three lieutenants of his stripped-down company waited impatiently for orders.
He nodded to them.
“All right, gentlemen. Let’s get going. “
Teeth flashed white in the darkness and they scattered back to their units.
The column started moving, threading its way through the tangled vegetation in silence. There were no voices or clattering equipment to warn of their approach.
South Africa’s raiding force was nearing its target-one hundred and sixty kilometers inside the sovereign Republic of Zimbabwe.
STRIKE FORCE COMMAND GROUP, NEAR GAWAMBA, ZIMBABWE
Bekker lay flat along the crest of a low hill overlooking the town of Gawamba. His officers and senior NCOs crouched beside him.
The soft, flickering light of a waning moon bathed Gawamba’s houses and fields in a dim silver glow. Bekker smiled to himself. It was perfect. They would have enough light to kill by.
He scanned the valley floor. Small plots of corn, wheat, and cotton spread outward from the town, with cattle enclosures and storage sheds scattered between them. A single main street, paved with asphalt, ran straight through the center of Gawamba itself. Narrow, unpaved alleys broke rows of low, tin-roofed homes and shacks into blocks. Two large buildings dominated the north end of town-the police headquarters and the train station.
Bekker checked his watch again. They had less than three hours to get in and get out before the sun rose. He rose to his feet.