by Larry Bond
“They seem prepared.” Muller leaned closer.
“I must admit that I dislike trusting their competence in these matters, Minister. The blacks have always been sloppy. Perhaps our own people could’ No Vorster waved him into silence.
“It’s too risky. Someone would talk or get cold feet.”
Muller nodded. The minister was probably right. He straightened.
“Then we can only wait and watch matters unfold. “
I “True.
Vorster rose from behind his desk and leaned over the map, his eyes scanning the railway route from Cape Town to Pretoria for the hundredth time. Apparently satisfied by what he saw, he carefully folded the map and slid it into a drawer.
When he looked up, the grim, determined expression on his face seemed carved in stone.
“God’s will be done, Muller. God’s will be done.”
Privately Muller hoped that God’s appointed agents could shoot straight.
JUNE 28-NEAR OSPLAAS, IN THE HEX RIVER
MOUNTAINS
The sun stood directly overhead in a blue, cloudless sky, bathing the narrow valley in a clear, pitiless light. Isolated patches of brush and olive-green scrub trees dotted the rugged slopes falling away from the razor-backed ridges on either side. Everything was quiet. Nothing cast a shadow and nothing moved. The valley seemed lifeless, abandoned.
But there were men there-waiting.
Andrew Sebe crouched low amid a tangle of dry brush and scattered, broken rock. He licked his bone-dry lips and tried to ignore his trembling hands.
They were trembling in anticipation he told himself, not in fear. He and his comrades were nearing the climax of long days and nights of planning, preparation, and reconnaissance.
Sebe gripped the rocket-propel led grenade launcher he held tighter, careful to keep his fingers away from the trigger. He wanted to model himself after the tall, stick-thin man squatting motionless next to him.
Kotane always exuded an air of absolute confidence. The guerrilla leader seemed able to suppress every emotion save a fierce determination to succeed, no matter what the cost. If only he could be as brave.
David Kotane glanced briefly at the young man beside him, noting the beads of sweat rolling slowly down his forehead. Then he looked away, searching the slopes for signs that would give his team’s other positions away to wary Afrikaner eyes. There, weren’t any. Good. His men were following orders perfectly so far, staying well hidden among the clumps of tall grass, dead brush, and low, stunted trees.
Kotane transferred his gaze to their target-the railroad tracks barely one hundred meters away. Viewed from above, the railway looked very much like a long, whip-thin, black snake as it wound to and fro high above the valley floor. Power lines paralleled the railroad, hanging motionless in the still, calm air.
Five minutes to go. Kotane idly caressed the small white box in his hand.
Two red lights glowed faintly above two metal switches.
A faint clattering sound growing slowly louder reached his ears. Rotors.
Kotane looked west, his eyes flicking back and forth across the horizon.
There! He spotted the camouflaged Puma helicopter weaving back and forth above the railroad tracks-flying steadily east.
Kotane motioned Sebe to the ground and flattened himself as the helicopter came nearer. The Afrikaners were making a routine last-minute aerial sweep down the rail line. No surprise there. They weren’t taking any chances-not when
a train filled with the white government’s top officials was on its way down the tracks.
Whup-whup-whup-whup. The Puma was closer now, much closer-skimming low above the power lines. Kotane shut his eyes tight as it roared directly overhead, trailing a choking, rotor-blown hail of dead grass and dust.
He stayed still, listening intently as the helicopter’s engine noise faded.
Going. Going. Gone. He spat out a mouthful of weeds and dirt and risked opening a single eye. The Puma’s rotor blades flashed silver in the sunlight as it rounded a bend and vanished.
Kotane sat up, elated. They’d done it! They’d evaded the last Afrikaner security patrol. Nothing could stop them now. He tapped Sebe on the shoulder.
“Get ready, Andrew. And remember, make your shots count. Just like we practiced, right?”
The younger man nodded and rose to his knees, cradling the grenade launcher in both arms.
Kotane risked a quick glance at his watch and turned to stare down the track. Any moment now…
“The Blue Train came into view from down the valley, gliding almost noiselessly along the track at thirty miles an hour. Orange-, white-, and blue-striped South African flags fluttered from the front fender of the electric locomotive. The rest of the train-twelve gold-windowed sleeping cars, a saloon car, a dining car and kitchen, generator wagon, and baggage car-stretched in a long, undulating chain behind the engine.
Kotane felt his pulse starting to race as he flicked the first switch on the little white box in his hand. One of the lights flashed green. The box was transmitting.
His world narrowed to a single point on the tracks. Ten seconds. Five.
Four. Three … The front of the Blue Train’s engine flashed into view at the edge of his peripheral vision. Now!
Kotane flicked the second switch.
One hundred kilos of plastic explosive layered along the railroad tracks detonated directly under the engine-tipping it off the tracks in a ragged, billowing cloud of orange-red flame and coal-black smoke. Pieces of torn and twisted rail spun end over end high through the air before crashing back to earth.
Shocked by the power of the explosion he’d unleashed, Kotane sat unmoving as the blast-mangled locomotive slammed into the ground at an angle and cartwheeled downhill, smashing every tree and rock in its path.
The rest of the Blue Train went with it-blown and pulled off the track in a deadly, grinding tangle of torn metal, shattered glass, and flying debris. Car after car went rolling, tumbling, and sliding down toward the valley floor.
A rising curtain of dust cloaked the wreckage as Kotane’s hearing returned.
He scrambled to his feet and ran toward the railroad tracks with Sebe close behind. The younger man still held his unfired RPG-7. Thirteen more ANC guerrillas rose from their own hiding places and followed them, seven armed with AK-47s, two more carrying grenade launchers, and four men lugging a pair of bipod-mounted light machine guns.
Kotane skidded to a stop just short of the tracks and stared down at a scene that might have leaped out of hell itself. The Blue Train’s cars were heaped one on top of the other-some ripped wide open and others crushed almost beyond recognition. Bodies and pieces of bodies were strewn across the hillside, intermingled with smashed suitcases, bloodstained tablecloths and bedding, and fragments of fine china. Greasy black smoke eddied from half a dozen small fires scattered throughout the wreckage.
It seemed impossible that anyone could still be alive down there.
Kotane’s eyes narrowed. Better to make sure of that while they still had the chance. The Afrikaner security forces would soon be on their way here.
He turned to the men bunched around him and yelled, “Don’t just stand there! Fire! Use your damned weapons!”
Sebe was the first to react. His rocket-propelled grenade ripped a new hole in one of the mangled sleeping cars and
exploded in a brief shower of flame. Then the other guerrillas opened up, flaying the ruined train with a hail of bullets and fragmentation grenades.
David Kotane watched in morbid satisfaction as his men systematically walked their fire down the length of what had once been South Africa’s
Blue Train.
There were no survivors.
CHAPTER
Dead Reckoning
JUNE 28-DIRECTORATE OF MILITARY INTELLIGENCE, PRETORIA
REACTION FORCE BRAVO TWO
OP COM 3/87: 1622 HRS
Message begins: TO DMI-1. RECCE TEAM RE
PORTS TRACKING
ENEMY FORCE NUMBERING 10—20 MEN MOVING NNE ON FOOT.
PER SPECIAL ORDERS, NO DIRECT
CONTACT
INITIATED. PURSUIT UNITS STANDING BY. AMBUSH SITE NOW SECURE.
TRAIN
DESTROYED REPEAT, DESTROYED. LIST OF IDENTIFIED DEAD FOLLOWS. Message ends.
Erik Muller laid the message form aside and quickly skimmed through the list of those known to be dead. He was careful to keep the expression of shocked dismay on his face as he read. It was vital that even his most trusted subordinates
believe the news of this brutal guerrilla attack came as a complete surprise to him.
In truth, it wasn’t terribly difficult for Muller to look surprised.
Broken Covenant had produced results far beyond his wildest expectations.
The President, the ministers of defense, foreign affairs, transport, energy, and education, and dozens of other high-ranking officials were all confirmed dead, apparent victims of a vicious and unprovoked ANC ambush. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Once the last few loose ends had been tidied up, Vorster’s path to power would be clear.
His phone rang. He picked it up in mid ring
“Yes?”
“Communications Section, sir. I have a radio voice transmission from
Bravo Two Alpha. Shall I patch him through to your line?”
“Of course.” Muller’s fingers tightened around the phone. Had something gone wrong?
Static hissed and whined in the background.
“Bravo Two Alpha to Delta
Mike India One. Over.”
Muller grimaced. Military jargon held little appeal for him. It lacked all elegance.
“Go ahead, Captain Bekker. Make your report. 11
“Roger, One.” Bekker’s voice was flat, all trace of emotion erased by years of rigorous training and combat experience.
“The terrorists have gone to ground in a small copse of trees approximately seven kilometers north of the railroad. “
Muller glanced quickly at the map. It showed a tangle of steep, rugged ridges, boulder fields, ravines, and isolated thickets. Nightmarish terrain for men moving on foot. It was amazing that the ANC’s guerrillas had gotten as far as they had.
“What’s your evaluation? Do they know your men are following?”
Bekker didn’t hesitate.
“Probably. They’ve certainly heard or seen our helicopters by now.”
Muller didn’t bother to hide his irritation.
“Then why have they stopped?”
“They’re waiting for nightfall, Director.” The captain spaced his words out, almost as if he were talking to a small child. It was clear that he didn’t like having to report to a civilian-even to a civilian so high up in the ranks of the security forces.
“Once the sun sets, they’ll scatter-each man trying to make his own way out.”
“Could any succeed?”
“One or two might make it. The ground here is so broken that even our nightvision gear will have trouble spotting them. “
Muller stiffened. He couldn’t afford to let any of the ANC assault team escape. Close questioning by their superiors might raise too many inconvenient questions.
“I see. Then what’s your recommendation,
Captain?”
For the first time, a hint of barely suppressed excitement crept into
Bekker’s voice.
“We should attack them now, before it grows dark. I can have my troops in position within half an hour.”
Muller nodded to himself. These soldiers might be boorish, but at least they were usually efficient.
“Permission granted. You may use whatever methods you think best.”
He lowered his voice a notch.
“I have only one condition, Captain Bekker.
“Yes, sir?”
“I want them all dead.”
That wasn’t quite accurate. The kill order actually emanated from
Vorster. Muller would have preferred keeping several of the terrorists alive for show trials. The minister, though, wanted to demonstrate South
Africa’s willingness to utterly crush its enemies. But would the soldiers go along with such a scheme?
Muller cleared his throat.
“Do you understand me, Captain?”
Static hissed over the line for several seconds before Bekker answered,
“Quite clearly, Director. You don’t want any prisoners. “
“That’s correct.” Muller paused and then asked, “Does that present a problem for you?”
Bekker sounded almost uninterested.
“On the contrary. It simplifies matters enormously.”
Marvelous.
“Good luck, then, Captain.”
“It’s not a question of luck, sir,” Bekker corrected him.
“It’s more a question of ballistics and kill radii.”
Muller hung up, stung by the army officer’s unconcealed sarcasm. For a brief moment, he considered arranging a much-needed lesson in humility for the man-something that would teach him to show more respect for his superiors. Then he shook the thought away. Bekker’s talent as a competent and calculating killer made him too valuable a tool to waste. Personal vengeance was a useless luxury when playing for such high stakes.
Muller’s eyes narrowed. There would be time enough later to settle scores with those who’d wronged him. All of them. Every last one of those on a long, unwritten list kept carefully in memory from his boyhood on.
He smiled, drawing a strange kind of comfort from imagining the suffering he would someday inflict.
IN THE HEX RIVER MOUNTAINS
David Kotane wriggled backward on his belly, hugging the ground until he could be sure he was well hidden among the shadows and tall grass. Safe for the moment from prying eyes and telescopic sights, he rose and gently brushed the dirt off his clothes before squatting again with his back to a gnarled, termite-gnawed tree trunk.
He looked slowly around the small, almost overgrown clearing, studying each of the men crouching around him in a semicircle. Worn, anxious faces stared back, waiting for him to speak.
“They’re all around us. ” The guerrilla leader kept his tone matter-of-fact, concealing his own fears.
“You’re sure, comrade?”
Kotane looked squarely at his secondin-command, a grayhaired survivor of several clandestine operations, and nodded.
“Quite sure. The Afrikaner bastards are being very careful, but I spotted signs of movement in every direction. “
“What do we do now?” Andrew Sebe, the youngest of the group, was scared to death and it showed.
“We wait for darkness,” Kotane said calmly.
“There’ll be no moon till late, so it’ll be pitch-black out there. We’ll be able to slip away right under their noses.”
Sebe and several other younger, less experienced men looked relieved. The older guerrillas exchanged more knowing glances. They were well aware that the odds against surviving the next several hours were astronomical.
“In the meantime we’ll take up firing positions here, here, and there.”
Kotane sketched the outline of an all-around defense in the dirt.
“If the soldiers try to come for us before dark, we’ll gut them.”
Heads nodded around the circle. They had enough firepower to inflict serious losses on any attackers trying to cross the open ground surrounding their little tangle of trees. They couldn’t defeat the government troops pursuing them, but they could make sure the South
Africans paid a high price in dead and wounded. And in its own way that would be a kind of victory for the guerrilla team.
Unfortunately, it was a victory the South Africans had no intention of giving them.
COMMAND GROUP, REACTION FORCE BRAVO TWO
Capt. Rolf Bekker focused his binoculars on the small copse of trees four hundred meters away. Nothing. No signs of movement at all. The guerrillas weren’t showing any evidence of panic-despite being surrounde
d by a reinforced company of battle-hardened paratroops.
He nodded slowly to himself, a thin, wry smile on his lips. Whoever commanded those ANC terrorists was good. Damned good. Of course, the attack on the Blue Train had already shown that. He’d only had to take a quick look at the torn-up tracks, smashed locomotive, and body-strewn hillside to know at once that he was up against a real professional.
Bekker’s smile disappeared. It would be a pleasure to kill such a man.
He lowered his binoculars and held out his hand. Corporal de Vries, crouched nearby, snapped the microphone into his hand.
Bekker held it to his lips and thumbed the transmit button.
“Bravo Two
Alpha to Bravo Two Foxtrot. Are you in place? Over. ” ” Foxtrot here, Alpha.” The lieutenant commanding a section of four 81mm mortars attached to Bekker’s company answered promptly.
“Deployed and ready to fire. Over.”
Bekker turned and glanced down the steep slope behind him. The four mortar teams were clearly visible at the foot of the hill, clustered around their weapons as though praying.
“Give me a spotting round, Foxtrot. ” Bekker turned back while talking and lifted his binoculars again.
“On the way.”
A dull noise like a muffled cough confirmed the lieutenant’s words. Almost instantly, Bekker saw a burst of purplish smoke appear on the rolling grassland close to the copse of trees. He mentally calculated distances and angles.
“Give me another spotting round, Foxtrot. Down fifty and right thirty. “Roger, Alpha.” Five seconds passed.
“On the way.”
This time the smoke round landed squarely in the middle of the tiny group of trees. Hazy, purple tendrils rose from the impact point and drifted slowly north in the wind.
Say good-bye, you black bastards, Bekker thought as he clicked the mike button.
“On target, Foxtrot! Fire for effect! “
Behind him, the four mortars coughed in unison, flinging round after round of HE high into the air. Four. Eight. Twelve. The crews worked rapidly, almost as though they were well-oiled machines-efficiently sending death winging on its way to a target they couldn’t even see.
Bekker watched in fascination as the mortar salvos slammed into the
