‘LZ, call in the helicopters,’ Bouchard ordered.
‘Every high-value item in the place was wired for destruction,’ Rogers said. ‘Why did they do that?’
‘It’s a good preparation when you have low confidence in your people,’ Bouchard said. ‘It also stops theft. Fortunately, they were poorly trained. Unfortunately, there’s at least one bastard wandering around out there who is well trained.’
‘Only one?’ Rogers asked.
‘There was only one bunk in the back room and it had been slept in,’ Bouchard answered. ‘There should have been a body to go with it.’
‘Whoever it is, he’s angry,’ Rogers said.
‘Obviously,’ Bouchard said. He spoke into his whisper mike. ‘Alpha Group has one hostile unaccounted for. Hold your position.’ Throughout the compound, the raiders froze and watched for any signs of movement. Bouchard turned into a frozen gargoyle in the night, a demon from hell shaped by his night vision goggles and rucksack, waiting patiently for a victim. It was a flushing tactic that often worked in the strange time warp following a fire fight. Time dragged and each passing second expanded into minutes.
Rogers’s voice came over the radio. ‘Movement outside the vehicle shed.’
‘I want him alive,’ Bouchard replied.
‘Can do,’ Rogers replied. Bouchard counted the seconds. At the count of four, a single shot rang out. ‘He’s down,’ Rogers radioed. ‘Left knee.’
‘Bring him in,’ Bouchard transmitted. ‘Bravo Group, I’m joining on you.’
‘Come on in,’ Bravo Group leader replied.
Bouchard moved quickly and reached the main farmhouse in forty-five seconds. He was cleared inside and ripped off his night vision goggles. ‘Damn,’ he muttered, ‘I hate these.’
‘Well done,’ Bravo Group leader said. ‘We’re ahead of schedule. It was easy.’
‘For you,’ Bouchard replied. ‘We almost had pieces of the radar shack blown up our asses. We may be in for a repeat.’ He blinked his eyes, adjusting to the light. His second in command was standing by a table, holding a water bottle. The room was a makeshift command center with files and communications equipment lining the walls. Six bodies lay crumpled on the floor. ‘Search them,’ Bouchard ordered.
Rogers and another shooter entered the room carrying a wounded European. Bouchard’s head jerked in recognition and he sprang at the prisoner, grabbed him by the hair and spun him around. At the same time, Bouchard kicked at the back of his good knee and shoved him to the floor. ‘Chair,’ he growled, holding the man down. Before a kitchen chair could be passed, he started banging the man’s head against the floor. Finally, he lifted him into the chair.
‘Tape,’ Bouchard demanded. One of his shooters handed him a roll of heavy tape and the Frenchman bound the prisoner to the chair, cutting deep into his skin. Not once did the man utter a sound as Bouchard tied a wire noose around his neck and strung him to the ceiling. ‘If he moves,’ Bouchard said, ‘kick the chair over.’
‘An old friend, perhaps?’ Rogers murmured.
Bouchard leaned against the table, still coiled tight. ‘Not likely.’ He looked at the two men who had brought the prisoner in. ‘You are lucky to be alive.’
‘Who is this guy?’ Rogers asked.
‘Erik Beckmann,’ Bouchard replied, fixing him with a cold stare. ‘We were wondering what had happened to you, Erik.’ Beckmann spat at him. The sound of approaching helicopters demanded Bouchard’s attention. He checked his watch and radioed the LZ team. ‘Bring them in. Quick. They’ve got thirty-one minutes.’ They waited.
The radio crackled as the helicopters landed and four figures jumped off. They ran through the compound, led by a legionnaire. They reached the farmhouse and were cleared inside. Bouchard shook his head as the Boys came through the door. It wasn’t his idea of how to fight a war but Pontowski had insisted this team of four women inspect the headquarters before it was destroyed. Bouchard suspected they were CIA. He watched as they went to work.
‘They are very good,’ Bravo Group leader told Bouchard in French.
One of the Boys handed Bouchard a map. ‘The Azanians’ training and supply area is here,’ she said, pointing to a small village thirty miles away.
‘How much longer do you need?’ Bouchard asked, pleased with the results they were producing.
‘Days,’ the woman answered. ‘We’ll take what we can. Can you help?’ Bouchard nodded and ordered six men to help them. Again, he waited while the women worked furiously. Begrudgingly, he had to agree with Bravo Group leader: they knew their business. He checked his watch. ‘It is time for us to go, Erik.’
‘Du kannst mir mal an den sack fassen!’
‘Sticking to your German cover, Erik?’ Bouchard asked. He turned to the other men. ‘Herr Beckmann wants us to perform self-intercourse. Not a pleasant sight.’ He looked at Beckmann in resignation. ‘He won’t help. Besides, I don’t want him on the same helicopter with us.’
‘Who is he?’ Rogers asked.
‘A very dangerous man.’ Bouchard’s gloved left hand stroked the left side of his scarred face. ‘He did this to me.’
‘I never heard of him,’ Rogers admitted.
‘That is what makes him so good,’ Bouchard said. Again, he checked his watch and keyed his radio. ‘All units, withdraw to the LZ on my count: three, two, one, mark.’ The clock was running again. Rogers led the four women out of the house. Each was carrying two or three boxes. Bouchard deliberately folded the map, taking his time.
‘What about Beckmann here?’ Bravo Group leader asked.
Bouchard’s face was a blank mask and his voice was strangely gentle. He shook his head slowly. ‘I’ll have a little chat with Monsieur Beckmann ... after you leave.’
‘The demolitions are set to blow in six minutes,’ Bravo Group leader told Bouchard. He darted out the door, leaving the two men alone.
Five rapid shots echoed from the main farmhouse as the first helicopter took off.
Chapter 20
Tuesday, April 7
Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town
*
Pontowski scratched the time on his note pad when the second radio transmission from the raiders was received. He knew the command post controllers would note the time, but he had to do something. He glanced at the master clock on the wall. It still read 02.48. Time was slowing, creeping along and losing the race to fast-moving snails.
‘Sir,’ the senior controller called, ‘Colonel Bouchard wants to speak to you.’
Pontowski picked up his mike and toggled the transmission/encryption switch on, relieved that he had something to do. ‘Go ahead,’ he transmitted.
‘It went by the clock,’ Bouchard said, ‘no casualties.’ The combination of satellite and frequency hopping radios gave his words a tinny, staccato-like ring. ‘But no joy on the second objective.’
Pontowski wanted to ask what went wrong. Why hadn’t they destroyed the arms and ammunition the CIA claimed the Azanians were stockpiling? But long experience had taught him that the answers to those questions could wait. His first priority was to get his people safely home.
Bouchard studied the map the Boys had found in the Azanians’ headquarters. ‘But we know where it is. We can take it out.’
‘What do you have in mind?’ It wasn’t a question Pontowski wanted to ask.
Bouchard quickly outlined the follow-up operation he had in mind. But Pontowski hesitated before answering, calculating their chances of success. Bouchard was proposing a very simple operation, but could they do it? Too much was spur of the moment, not planned out. Did he want to play this one by ear? What factors were in their favor?
‘Colonel,’ Bouchard said, ‘van der Roos says he can insert us with no trouble. We only need his helicopter and four A-10s.’
Pontowski knew Bouchard was nudging him to a decision. ‘You’re winging it,’ he finally said.
‘True,’ Bouchard answered. ‘But look who we’re going against. Very low grade.
’
He’s right, Pontowski thought, and made his decision. ‘Do it. When and where do you want the A-10s?’
Bouchard read off a set of coordinates. ‘Have them on station at 06.30 local time. I’ll update when we’re in position.’
‘They’ll be there,’ Pontowski promised. He toggled the transmission/encryption switch to the off position. ‘Sergeant Gonzalez,’ he called to the senior controller, ‘I need to speak to Colonel Kowalski.’ He checked the mission status board to see who was sitting alert and would fly the sorties requested by Bouchard. ‘Maggot’s going to like this,’ he muttered to himself.
He checked the master clock on the wall: 02.51. It had taken him three minutes to put his people back in danger. He sank into his comfortable chair and tried to relax. But the clock refused to let him escape as each second dragged, making him wait.
*
Tuesday, April 7
Over the Great Karoo, near Kimberley
*
The Puma helicopter skimmed low over the Karoo, twisting and turning with the terrain, hiding in canyons and ravines. Once, van der Roos descended too low and the rotor kicked up dust, momentarily marking its position. The gunner stationed at the 7.62mm machine gun at the right door called ‘rooster tail’ over the intercom and van der Roos’s muscles contracted, making the minute control inputs on the collective and cyclic that commanded the Puma to climb yet still hydroplane the earth’s surface.
The copilot sitting in the left seat monitored the moving map display slaved to the GPS and constantly updated van der Roos. ‘Almost there ... come left three degrees ... almost there. Slow ... slow ... we’re there.’ This time, van der Roos’s movements were obvious as he made the Puma respond to his will. The long-extinct Khoikhoi who named the land would have known the machine for what it was — a giant bird of death and destruction descending on to their world.
The men on the cargo deck were out the moment the wheels touched down. Bouchard came forward and stood between the pilots, listening to the radio that linked him to his men. Vague shadows were starting to form in the early-morning dawn and he could see two of his men sweep the area in front of the helicopter. One by one, the ground team checked in. ‘The area is secure,’ he told the pilots.
‘Shut ’em down,’ van der Roos said. The copilot killed the engines as the rotor spun down. Outside, van der Roos’s two gunners were unrolling camouflage netting to hide the helicopter. He turned to Bouchard. ‘Good hunting, sir.’
*
Bouchard lay in a shallow depression below the crown of a low hill, his eyes fixed on the valley below him. The long shadows of morning twilight slowly lifted, revealing a jumble of parked trucks, tents, half-strung camouflage netting, and piles of crates. He was downwind from the base and the wind carried the pungent odor of poorly dug latrines. Cars were parked haphazardly around a clump of whitewashed huts, the original village.
His face was impassive as he scanned the valley with binoculars and searched for the guard posts. His stomach churned when he saw three children run through the village. He knew what was coming their way. Rogers skidded into the depression and flopped down beside him, gasping for breath. The beads of sweat coursing down his face traced dirty lines over the camouflage he was wearing, giving him an unearthly look. ‘You might have waited for me,’ he finally managed.
Bouchard ignored him and pulled out his GPS. He switched it on and within ten seconds, a latitude and longitude flashed on the small screen. He knew their position to within thirty feet. He double-checked his radio to make sure the battery was still good and waited, watching the village.
‘Talk about luck,’ Rogers muttered. He pulled out his binoculars. ‘Look at that. They were too lazy to disperse. These clowns haven’t got a clue.’
Bouchard did not respond and his eyes were drawn into a tight squint. He was thinking of his own two small children safe in their home near Aubagne, France, the headquarters of the French Foreign Legion, ten miles east of Marseilles. ‘We must flush the village first,’ he told Rogers.
‘Good idea. How?’
Again, Bouchard did not respond. He was thinking, wrestling with the dilemma of modern warfare. He was on the side with modern technology and all that went with it. He had the ability to destroy a target, using whatever violence and destruction was necessary to do the job. His men were educated, well-trained, at home with technology, and could make it work in combat. They blended the simple and complex, the old-fashioned and the new, into patterns that were always changing. They were highly disciplined and they never forgot the basics, like the dispersal and camouflage of supplies and the protection of noncombatants. Below him was the side with modern weapons and little knowledge about their use.
‘We need to educate them,’ Bouchard said.
‘Isn’t that why we’re here?’ Rogers replied.
*
The two A-10s swooped in low over the Karoo. The lead.
‘Hold on,’ Gordon said. ‘I’ve seen lots of demonstrations and this is not a hostile crowd. I want to get it.’
Sam looked at her in amazement. ‘You crazy?’ She had covered too many demonstrations that had become ugly, and every time the mob had turned on the female photographers first.
‘This is our job,’ Gordon told her. ‘Stop the car.’ Sam did as she ordered and pulled over.
Gordon held the remote microphone as they hurried toward the crowd. She held the microphone up to a group of chanting boys who were waving a gold and black flag. The sight of two foreign white women conducting TV interviews did the trick and they smiled, saying they were the Azanian National Liberation Front fighting for black freedom. ‘What are you chanting?’ Gordon shouted over the noise.
‘The future is ours! The land is ours! We are the people!’ came the reply in English. The boys crowded around, pleased with the attention, and escorted them through the mass of people as they made their way back to the observation platform.
Sam saw it first. ‘Not the observation platform,’ she warned Gordon. They angled away from the crowd, telling the boys they needed a panoramic shot of the crowd. The boys let them go their own way and rejoined the crowd.
‘What’s wrong?’ Gordon asked.
‘They’ve got someone tied up.’ Gordon followed Sam’s direction and saw two men dragging a body. Sam ran along the low wall that ringed the Big Hole until she had a clear shot of the observation platform. ‘Start talking,’ she commanded, zooming in on the crowd.
‘What started as a peaceful demonstration in support of the Azanian National Liberation Front has turned ugly,’ Gordon said. ‘A few agitators are whipping the mob into a frenzy and demanding revenge for past injustices. From my vantage point, it appears that the leaders are going to give it to them. You may not be able to hear it, but the shouting is now a roar ... Oh my God! They’re dragging a man to the edge ... She couldn’t speak as the mob roared its approval.
‘Talk!’ Sam demanded. ‘I’m getting this.’
Gordon held the microphone up to her mouth. ‘This is a ritual sacrifice’ — she hesitated and forced a calm into her voice she did not feel — ‘in effigy. They are throwing a white male mannequin from a store window off the platform. The Azanian National Liberation Front has found a new use for the Big Hole.’
Sam lowered her Betacam, relief on her face. ‘Let’s get out of here before they decide to go for the real thing.’ They returned to their car, skirting the crowd.
The three boys Gordon had interviewed ran up to the car waving an Azanian flag. ‘Take us to town,’ one called. Sam had no choice and waited while they piled into the back. More teenagers sat on the front and climbed on the rear bumper. The car was a human float as they drove slowly into Kimberley where the streets were filled with people. Many in the crowd shouted and waved at them and the boys waved back.
‘It’s like a holiday,’ Gordon said.
‘Let’s get back to the hotel,’ Sam told her. They dropped the boys off and headed into the center of town. In
the distance, they could hear the distinct wail of a fire truck. ‘The holiday is over,’ Sam said. ‘Now comes the looting.’
They passed a phalanx of guards posted outside their hotel and went inside. The assistant manager, a University of London-educated Indian from Calcutta, was calming a flock of nervous guests. ‘Do not have the worry,’ he said, reverting to the sing-song English of his childhood. ‘There is much goodwill here. We will be safe.’
‘Do you believe that?’ Sam asked incredulously. The sound of shouting echoed from outside.
Gordon looked perplexed. Beckmann had told her there might be a little trouble, but nothing on this scale. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Hans said there would only be a demonstration.’
‘Maybe this is what he had in mind by a demonstration,’ Sam answered. ‘Let’s cover this from the roof. I’m not going outside until help gets here.’
*
Saturday, March 28
Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town
*
Maggot Stuart waited patiently on the stage of the wing’s main briefing room as the crews filed in. Most of them were still clutching cups of coffee, trying to shake the last vestiges of sleep and be fully awake for the mission briefing that was scheduled to start at 3 a.m. A few were showing the distinct ravages of a hangover.
Typical, Maggot thought, watching the crews find seats. The C-130 crews huddled in a tight cluster surrounding Kowalski while the Warthog pilots found seats as far back as they could. Get together, folks, he thought, you’re going to need each other.
The muffled sound of Vibram-soled boots echoed in the hallway and Maggot smiled as the crews twisted their heads to identify the source of the sound. Four officers and six NCOs in dark green battle dress uniforms marched down the aisle and claimed the front row, leaving the end seat vacant. They remained standing.
Lydia Kowalski entered and barked, ‘Room! Ten-hut.’ The Americans stood as one and came to attention as Pontowski strode down the aisle.
Pontowski called out ‘Seats, please’ and sat down next to the newcomers.
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