Vixen 03 Part 48

Daggat looked up from the book. "I believe you, Hiram. I am quite

aware that gross stupidity is not one of your virtues. However, as commanding officer, you are responsible for the conduct of your troops."

"Jumana!" Lusana blurted as full realization dawned on him. "You're mistaken, Congressman, I am stupid. Tom Machita tried to warn me of Jumana's renegade leanings, but I refused to listen."

"The heavyset colonel weighted down with medals," said Daggat. "I remember him from your c.o.c.ktail party. A leader of aprominent tribe, I believe you said."

Lusana nodded. "A 'favorite son' of the Srona tribe. He spent over eight years in South African prisons before I arranged his escape. He has strong support throughout Transvaal province. Politically, I thought it an expedient move to name him my second-in-command."

"As with too many Africans who are suddenly thrust into a position of power, he apparently conjured up fantasies of grandeur."

Lusana stood and leaned wearily against a shelf of books. "The idiot," he muttered, almost to himself. "Can't he understand that he's destroying the very cause he's fighting for?"

Daggat rose and put his hand on Lusana's shoulder. "I suggest you catch the first flight back to Mozambique, Hiram, and regain control of your movement. Issue news releases denying the AAR's involvement in the ma.s.sacre. Blame it on the other insurgent groups, if you have to, but get out from under and put your house in order. I'll do what I can to soften adverse reaction at this end."

Lusana extended his hand. "Thank you, Congressman. I'm grateful for all you've done."

Daggat shook his hand warmly.

"And your subcommittee. How will they vote now?" Lusana said.

Daggat smiled confidently. "Three to two in favor of aid to the AAR, providing you offer a convincing performance in front of the news cameras when you deny any involvement with the Tazareen ma.s.sacre."

Colonel Joris Zeegler had taken over the bas.e.m.e.nt of a schoolhouse ten miles from the boundary separating Natal province and Mozambique. While cla.s.s continued on the top two floors, Zeegler and several ranking officers of the Defence Forces studied aerial maps and a scale mock-up of the AAR headquarters, not twenty-five miles away, across the border.

Zeegler squinted through a wisp of smoke curling from the cigarette

that dangled in his mouth and tapped a pointer on a miniature building in the center of the mock-up.

"The former university-administration building," he said, "is used by Lusana as his nerve center. A Chinese-supplied communications network, field-staff offices, intelligence section, indoctrination rooms_ they're all housed there. They've gone too b.l.o.o.d.y far this time. Destroy it and everyone in it and you cut off the head of the AAR."

"Begging your pardon, sir"-this from a big red-faced captain with a bushy mustache-"but it was my understanding that Lusana was in America."

"Quite correct. He's in Washington this very minute, on his hands and knees, begging the Yanks for financial support."

"Then what b.l.o.o.d.y good is cutting off the serpent's head if the brain lies elsewhere? Why not wait until he returns and bag the head b.u.g.g.e.r as well?"

Zeegler gave him a cold, condescending stare. "Your metaphor needs refining, Captain. However, to answer your question ... it will not be practical to await Lusana's return. Our intelligence sources have confirmed that Colonel Randolph Jumana has engineered a mutiny within the ranks of the AAR."

Surprised looks were exchanged among the officers cl.u.s.tered around the model. It was the first they'd heard of Lusana's ouster.

"Now is the time to strike," he went on. "By brutally murdering helpless women and children at Tazareen, Jumana has thrown open the door for retaliation. An across-the-border raid on AAR headquarters has been approved by the Prime Minister. The usual diplomatic protests from Third World countries are to be expected, of course. A formality, nothing more."

A tough-looking customer with the rank of major and dressed in camouflage fatigues raised his hand. Zeegler acknowledged him.

"Your intelligence report also mentions the presence of Vietnamese advisers and possibly a few Chinese observers. Surely our government will suffer repercussions if we snuff the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"Accidents happen," Zeegler said. "If a foreign national by chance stumbles into your line of fire, do not lose sleep if a stray bullet sends him straightaway to Buddhaland. They have no business being in Africa. Defence Minister De Vaal is aware of the likelihood and has consented to let that particular problem rest on his shoulders."

Zeegler turned his attention back to the mock-up.

"Now, gentlemen, for the final phase of the attack. We have decided to take a page from the AAR handbook on the policing of a battlefield." He smiled without humor. "Except we intend to go them one better."

Thomas Machita shivered in his cell. He couldn't remember when he had felt so cold. The temperature of the African interior had run its normal course, from ninety degrees the previous afternoon to a frosty thirty in the hours prior to dawn.

Jumana's goons had dragged Machita from the radio room before he could send a message of warning to Lusana in Washington. They savagely pulverized his face before stripping away his clothes and throwing him in a damp little cell in the building's bas.e.m.e.nt. One eye was swollen shut; a deep gash above the other eyebrow had coagulated during the night, and he had vision after wiping away the clotted blood. His lips were swollen and two teeth were missing, courtesy of a well-aimed rifle b.u.t.t. He shifted his position on a filthy pile of dried leaves, gasping at the pain that stabbed his cracked ribs.

Machita lay in dark frustration, gazing vacantly at the concrete walls of his prison as the new day's light filtered through a small barred window above his head. The cell was no more than a cube, five by five by five feet, and barely allowed enough room for Machita to lie down, provided he raised his knees. The low arched door to the bas.e.m.e.nt hall was three-inch-thick mahogany and had no latch or handle on the inside.

He heard voices through the window and painfully pulled himself to a stooped position and looked out. The window faced the camp's parade ground at eye level. Elite commando sections were lining up for roll call and inspection. Across the way, mess-hall roof vents emitted shimmering waves of heat as the cooks stoked their stoves to life. A company of recruits from Angola and Zimbabwe crawled sleepily from their tents at the prodding of their veteran section leaders.

It began like another ordinary day of political indoctrination and combat training, but this day was to be far different.

His eyes aimed intently at his watch, Joris Zeegler spoke softly into a field radio. "Tonic One?"

"Tonic One in position, sir," a voice crackled over the receiver.

"Tonic Two?"

"Ready to fire, Colonel."

"Ten seconds and counting," said Zeegler. "Five, four, three, two ..."

The formation of commandos on the parade ground dropped to the ground in concert as though by command. Machita could not believe that two hundred men had died almost instantly as a salvo of gunfire erupted from the dense bush surrounding the perimeter of the camp. He jammed his face against the bars, unmindful of his pain, twisting his head to see better through his one functioning eye. The firing increased in intensity as confused AAR soldiers began a hopeless counterattack against their unseen enemy.

He could distinguish the cracking sounds of the AAR's Chinese CK-88 automatic rifles from the Israeli-manufactured Felo guns used by the South African Defence Forces. The Felo gun emitted a barking noise as it shotgunned swarms of deadly razor-sharp disks capable of severing an eight-inch tree trunk with one burst.

Machita realized the South Africans had crossed the border in a lightning raid to avenge Tazareen. "d.a.m.n you, Jumana!" he shouted in helpless rage. "You brought this upon us."

Bodies were dropping everywhere in frenzied contortions. So many littered the parade ground it was impossible to walk from one side to the other without stepping on torn flesh. A Defence Forces helicopter swooped over the main dormitory, where a company of men had taken cover. A bulky packet dropped from the aircraft's cargo door and landed on the roof. Seconds later the building fragmented in a thunderous explosion of brick and dust.

Still the South African ground forces had not shown their positions. They were wiping out the main core of the AAR without the slightest risk to themselves. Brilliant planning and execution had paid the whites rich dividends.

The green and brown of the helicopter's camouflage blurred into Machita's view for an instant, disappearing above the headquarters building housing his cell.

He braced his pain-wracked body against the inevitable explosion. The concussion was two, three times what he expected. The breath was pounded from his lungs as if by ajackhammer. Then the ceiling of his cell closed down on him and his tiny world went black.

"They're coming in now, sir," said a sergeant, saluting smartly.

Pieter De Vaal acknowledged the message with a methodical wave of his swagger stick. "Then I think we should extend them the courtesy of greeting, don't you?"

"Yes, sir." The sergeant opened the car door and stood aside as De

Vaal unlimbered himself from the blackness of the backseat, meticulously straightened his tailored uniform, and began walking toward the gra.s.s landing pad.

They both stood there for a minute and screwed up their eyes as the bright glare of the helicopter's landing lights cut the evening darkness. Then the gust from the approaching rotor blades forced them to clamp their hands to their caps and turn away as small pebbles blown from the pad pelted their backs.