Instead, they’d simply have to risk an ambush laid by any ANC sympathizers still at large in the town.
The South African captain didn’t believe there was much chance of that.
He’d seen only a few frightened faces in the windows-faces that quickly ducked out of sight at his glance. The townspeople wisely didn’t seem to want any quarrel with the heavily armed soldiers running down their streets.
He pulled up short at a corner and peered around it. Several soldiers of his second section were visible down the road, in cover and firing at the yellow brick police station not far away. One man lay sprawled and unmoving, while another sat white faced, trying to bandage a wound in his own side. The rest were locked in a full-scale firefight that wasn’t part of the plan.
Bekker pulled his head back and turned to the men with him.
“Set up an ambush two blocks down the main street.” He looked at his watch.
“You’ve got three minutes. Go!”
He belly-crawled forward to the nearest second-section position-two men crouched behind a low rock wall.
“Where’s der Merwe?” he asked.
Bullets ricocheted off the front of the wall and tumbled overhead at high velocity, buzzing like angry bees.
One of the paratroopers pointed to the far side of the police station.
“He headed over there a few minutes ago, Kaptein _. “
Bekker risked a glance in that direction and sat back.
“Right. Stand by for new orders.”
The trooper’s helmet bobbed and Bekker crawled back out of the line of fire. Then he stood and ran to the right, past a row of tiny, one-room shops still shut for the night. Corporal de Vries followed. Once past the police station, he turned toward the sound of the firing, moving forward in short rushes from doorway to doorway.
At last, he was rewarded by the sight of Lieutenant der Merwe, prone and firing around a corner at one of the police station’s barricaded windows.
Bekker waved him back into cover and went to meet him.
The lieutenant, his least-experienced officer, was breathing hard, but didn’t look overly excited.
“There are at least twenty men over there and they’ve got automatic weapons. We’ve got them pinned, but right now we’re just sniping at each other.”
“And that’s what we don’t need.” Bekker scowled as the firing around them rose to a new crescendo.
“We’ve got to get them out in the open and finish them before the Pumas come in. “
He put his mouth close to der Merwe’s ear to make sure he could be heard over the fighting.
“We’ve laid an ambush down the street toward Kudu. Pull your people out in that direction and we’ll give these kaffirs a nasty surprise.
The lieutenant grinned and sprinted back to the rest of his men, already yelling new orders.
Bekker, with two of der Merwe’s men in tow, dashed down a side street and over toward the ambush position. Sergeant Roost and his radioman met him there.
“Schoemann’s finished, Kaptein. Everything’s back in the safe just the way it was. And the Pumas are on the way.”
“Excellent. Now, all we’ve got to do is scrape these damned Zimbabwean police off our backs. They don’t seem willing to take no for an answer.”
Shrill whistles blew behind them, signaling the second section’s withdrawal. Bekker grabbed Roost’s arm and swung him halfway round.
“Take these two men and provide security one block back. Corporal de Vries will stay with me.”
He moved forward and risked a quick look down the main street. Second section’s paratroops had thrown smoke grenades and were shouting, “Pull back! Withdraw!” loud enough to be heard in Pretoria.
Bekker checked his rifle and slapped in a fresh magazine, then took a fragmentation grenade off his battle dress. He flattened himself against the wall of one of the houses and saw his troops run by in apparent headlong retreat. They were still dropping smoke grenades behind them, filling the street with a white, swirling mist.
Bekker waited, the seconds passing slowly, his reflexes desperate to do something to burn off the adrenaline in his bloodstream. Deliberately slowing his breathing, he held his position for another moment, and then another.
He heard shouting and running feet. Then the shouting resolved itself into orders in Shona, the chief tribal language used in Zimbabwe. He saw men appear out of the smoke and run past his alley. They were blacks, armed with assault rifles and dressed in combat fatigues. More soldiers than police, Bekker thought.
They streamed by, running full tilt right into the middle of his killing zone. Now!
“Fire! Shoot the bastards!” Bekker screamed. He pulled the pin off his grenade and tossed it into the smoke, back up the street. The South
Africans hidden in buildings and alleys on either side of the street opened up at the same moment-spraying hundreds of rounds into the startled Zimbabweans.
Half hidden by the smoke, the Zimbabwean troops screamed and jerked as the bullets hit them, Most were cut down in seconds. Those who survived the first lethal fusillade seemed dazed, confused by the slaughter all around them.
Bekker’s grenade went off, triggering more screams. He raised his assault rifle and started firing short, aimed bursts. Each time he squeezed the trigger, a black soldier fell, some in a spray of blood and some just tossed into the dust. His radioman was also firing and he could hear
Roost shouting in triumph as well. Trust the sergeant to get into it.
Bekker let them all shoot for another five seconds before reaching for the command whistle hung round his neck. Its shrill blast cut through the. firing-calling his men to order. There wasn’t any movement among the heaped bodies on the street. In the sudden silence, he could hear the
Pumas coming in, engines roaring at full throttle.
Their rides home were arriving.
STRIKE FORCE RENDEZVOUS POINT, OUTSIDE GAWAMBA, ZIMBABWE
Hands on his hips, Bekker watched his force prepare for departure.
Rotors turning, three transport helicopters sat in a small cornfield just outside of small-arms range of the town, while a Puma gunship orbited in lazy spirals overhead. Paratroops were streaming into the area from three directions. The whine of high-pitched engines, the dust blown by still-turning blades, and the milling troopers waiting to load created what appeared to be complete chaos. Bekker’s eye noticed, though, that the wounded were being loaded quickly and gently, and that his first section, according to plan, was posted for area security.
Corporal de Vries was still at his side and reached out to grab his shoulder. The radioman had to shout to be heard.
“The gunship reports ten-plus troops two streets over!”
Reflexively, Bekker glanced up at the Puma overhead. It had stopped circling and was moving forward, nose pointed at the reported position of the enemy. Time to go.
He started moving toward his assigned helicopter, walking calmly to set an example for his troops. The wounded were all loaded and the rest of the men were hastily filing aboard.
He stopped near the open helo door and turned to his radioman.
“Tell first section to start pulling out.” His order was punctuated by the sounds of heavy firing, and he looked up to see smoke streaming back from the gunship’s thirty millimeter cannon.
Bekker heard Reebeck’s voice shouting, “Smoke!”
Seconds later, every man in the first section threw smoke grenades outward, surrounding the landing zone with a few minutes’ worth of precious cover.
As the separate white clouds of smoke billowed up and blended together, cutting visibility to a few yards, half of Reebeck’s men sprinted from their positions to a waiting helo. The gunship’s cannon roared again, urging even greater speed.
All the other South African troops were aboard now, except for Bekker, who stood calmly next to his helicopter and watched.