A minute later, Reebeck and the rest of his men broke away from the perimeter and raced for their helicopter.
As they clambered aboard, Bekker heard a sharp popping noise over the
Pumas’ howling engines and the wind screaming off their faster-turning rotor blades. Rifle fire. He realized that the Zimbabweans were shooting blindly into the smoke, with a fair chance of hitting something as large as a helicopter. He forced himself to stand motionless.
Reebeck stood next to him, mentally ticking off names as his troops boarded. As the last man scrambled in, Reebeck looked over at Belcker and pumped his fist. The two officers swung aboard simultaneously and hung on as the Puma lifted ponderously out of the landing zone.
As they lifted clear of the smoke, Bekker could see the gunship pulling up as well, gaining altitude and distance from the small-arms fire on the ground. Bodies littered the three blocks between the main street and the edge of town.
The Pumas gained more altitude and he saw dust rising on the road off to the north. He took out his field glasses. A line of black specks were moving south at high speed. A Zimbabwean relief force, headed straight for the town. He grinned. They were too late. Too late by ten minutes, at least. And if you’d made it, you’d have died, too, he thought.
As if to emphasize that thought, a pair of arrowheads flashed close overhead. Bekker tensed and then relaxed as he recognized the Air Force
Mirage fighters sent to provide air support if he had needed it. He also knew that at high altitude, other Mirages were making sure that the
Zimbabwean Air Force left his returning helicopters unmolested.
The Pumas continued to climb, powering their way up to six thousand feet.
There was no further need for stealth, and even that low altitude gave a much smoother ride than they’d had on the way in. The paratroopers were unloading and checking their weapons, dressing minor wounds, and already starting to make up lies about their parts in what had been a very successful raid.
Bekker safed his own rifle, then relaxed a little. He made sure his seat belt was secure, then lit a cigarette. Drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, he went through every step of the actiOD-looking for mistakes or things he could have done better. It was a familiar after-battle ritual, one that cleared his mind and calmed his nerves.
Several minutes later, he finished his cigarette and tossed the butt out the open door. Some of his men were still talking quietly, but many had closed their eyes and were fast asleep. Posthattle exhaustion and a long ride were having their effect.
Nkume seemed to be the only person full of energy. He was visibly relieved at having come through the raid unscathed. And he had a much brighter future ahead. South African intelligence had promised him much for opening the ANC’s secret safe. Not only would he be spared a prison term or death, he’d also be given an airline ticket to England, a forged
British passport, and a large cash payment to start a new life.
Bekker saw Nkume smiling and waved to him. Nkume waved back, all his earlier fears forgotten in his exhilaration. The South African captain patted the empty seat by his side and waved the black over.
Bent low beneath the cabin ceiling, Nkume grabbed a metal frame to steady himself against the helicopter’s motion and made his way across to
Bekker. He leaned over the captain, saying something that Bekker couldn’t make out over the engine noise. The South African nodded anyway and reached out to put his left hand on Nkume’s shoulder.
With his right hand, he reached across his chest to the bayonet knife on his web gear. In one fast motion he pulled it out of its sheath and jammed it into Nkume’s chest, just below the sternum.
The black’s face twisted in surprise and pain. He let go of the ceiling and grabbed at his chest, nearly doubled over by the fire in his heart.
Bekker could see him trying to scream, to say something, to make some sound.
Bekker pulled his knife free and yanked the wounded man toward the open door. Nkume realized what was happening, but was in too much pain to resist. Too late, one hand feebly grabbed at the doorframe, but his body was already outside the Puma and falling. The empty, unsettled land below would swallow Nkume’s corpse.
Bekker didn’t even watch him fall. He cleaned off his knife and resheathed it, then looked around the cabin. The few men who were awake were looking at him with surprise, but when he met their eyes, they looked away, shrugging. If the commander wanted to kill the informer, he probably had a good reason.
Bekker had already been given the only reason he needed. Orders were orders. Besides, he agreed with them. Anyone who turned his coat once could do it again, and this operation was too sensitive to risk compromising. And Nkume’s crimes were too grievous to forgive. South
Africa’s security forces might use such a man, but they would be sure to use him up.
His last duty performed, Rolf Bekker closed his eyes and slept.
CHAPTER 1
Glimmering
MAY 23-ANC OPERATIONS CENTER, GAWAMBA, ZIMBABWE
A light, fitful breeze brought the smell of death to Col. Sese Luthuli’s nostrils.
He took a careful breath and held it for a moment, willing himself to ignore the thick, rancid aroma of rotting meat. Luthuli had seen and smelled too many corpses in his twenty five years with the African
National Congress to let a few more bother his stomach. The sound of strangled coughing behind him reminded the colonel that most of his bodyguards weren’t so experienced. He frowned. That would have to change.
To liberate South Africa, Umkhonto we Sizwe, the ANC’s military wing, needed hardened combat veterans, not green-as-grass boys like these. Or like the fools who’d let themselves be butchered here at Gawamba.
Luthuli eyed the orderly row of dead men before him angrily. Twelve bullet-riddled bodies covered by a dirty, bloodstained sheet. Twelve more trophies for the Afrikaners to crow over.
“Colonel””
Luthuli turned to face his chief of intelligence, a young man whose ice-cold eyes were magnified by thick, wire rimmed spectacles.
“We’ve finished going through the wreckage.”
“And?” I,uthuli kept his voice even, concealing his anxiety and impatience.
“The document cache is intact. I’ve been able to account for everything
Cosate and his staff were working on. Including the staging plans for
Broken Covenant.”
The colonel felt slightly better at that. He’d been fearful that Broken
Covenant, the most ambitious operation ever conceived by the ANC, had been blown by the South African raid. Still, he resisted the temptation to relax completely.
“Any signs of tampering?”
“None.” The chief of intelligence took off his glasses and started polishing them on his sleeve.
“Everything else upstairs has been ransacked-desks emptied, closets and cupboards pulled apart, the usual trademarks of the Afrikaner bastards. But they didn’t find the safe.”
“You’re sure?” Luthuli asked.
The younger man shrugged.
“One can never be absolutely certain in these cases, Colonel. But I’ve talked to survivors from the garrison. Things were pretty hot and heavy around here during the firefight. I doubt the
Afrikaners had time to thoroughly search the center before they pulled out.
If they came looking for documents, I think they emptied the desks and called it a success.” He looked smug.
Luthuli’s temper flared. He swung round and stabbed a single, lean finger at the row of corpses.
“It was a success, Major! They’ve put rather a serious dent in our Southern Operations staff, wouldn’t you say?”