"We can't carry much loot away. Let the men take their pick, and then I want limpet mines in the storerooms after everything has been drenched with avgas from the drums," he ordered Sergeant Alphonso. He glanced at his wristwatch. "We can expect Frelimo to counterattack the laager within the hour. I want to be gone by then."
"No!" Alphonso shook his head. "General China has moved three companies in between us to hold the Frelimo counterattack.
He has ordered you to hold this position until he arrives."
Sean pulled up short and stared at Alphonso. "What the hell are you talking about? China is two days" march away on the river!"
Alphonso grinned and shook his head. "General China will be here in an hour. He followed us with five companies of his best troovs. He has never been more than an hour behind us, not since we lit the river."
"How do you know this?" Sean demanded.
Alphonso grinned again and patted the radio on the back of the trooper who stood beside him. "I spoke to the general ten minutes ago, as soon as we killed the last of the Russian hen shaw
"Why didn't you tell me before this, you bastard?" Sean growled.
"The general ordered me not to. But now he has ordered me to tell you that he is very pleased with the killing of the hen shaw and he says that you are like a son to him. When he arrives he will reward you."
"AB right." Sean changed his orders. "If we have to hold the laager, get your men into the perimeter defenses. We win use the 12.7-men heavy machine guns."
Sean broke off as a Shangane trooper came running up the hill toward him.
"Nkosi!" The man panted. As soon as he saw his face, Sean knew it was bad news.
"The woman?" he demanded, seizing the messenger's arm. "Is the white woman hurt?"
The Shangane shook his head. "She is safe. She sent me to you.
It's the Matabele, Captain Job. He is 4it."
"How bad?" Sean was already starting to run, and he shouted the question over his shoulder.
"He's dying," the Shangane called after him. "The Matabele is dying."
Sean knew where to look; he himself had selected the copse of knob-thorn acacia as Job's attack position. The first rays of the morning sun were turning the tops of the knob-thorns to gold as Sean ran down the hill. With the help of two Shanganes, Claudia had moved Job onto soft level ground beneath one of the trees. She had propped his head on one of the backpacks and had a field dressing over the wound.
She looked up and cried, "Oh, Sean, thank God!" Her shirt was drenched with drying blood, and she saw Sean's expression. "Not my blood," she assured him. "I'm all right."
Sean transferred all his attention to Job. His face was a sickly blue-gray color, and the flesh seemed to have melted from his skull like hot tar.
Sean touched his check, and his skin was cold as death. Frantically he searched for a pulse in the wrist of Job's good arm.
Although it was faint and rapid, his relief was intense.
"He's lost huge quantities of blood," Claudia whispered. "But I've contained the bleeding now."
"He's in shock," Sean muttered. "Let me have a look."
"Don't lift that dressing," Claudia warned him quickly. "It's ghastly.
He was hit on the point of the shoulder by a cannon shell.
It's just mangled flesh and bone chips. His arm is hanging by a shred of muscle and sinew."
"Take Matatu with you," Sean cut in brusquely. "Go up to the laager. Find where they had their first aid post. The Russians will have a decent stock. Find it. I want plasma and a drip set. Dressings and bandages, those are the most urgent. But if you can find antiseptic and painkillers-" Claudia scrambled to her feet. "Sean, I was so worried about you! I saw-" A
"You don't get ri4 of me that easy." He did not look up from Job's face. "Now off you go, and get back here as quick as you can.
Matatu, go with Donna, look after her."
The two of them went at a run. Until they returned with medical supplies, Sean was helpless. But for something to keep himself occupied he wet his bandanna from the water bottle and began to sponge the blood and dirt from Job's face. Job's eyelids fluttered open, and Sean saw that he was conscious.
"Okay, Job, I'm here. Don't try and talk."
Job closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he swiveled them downward. He was too weak to move his head, yet he was trying to look down at his body, trying to check the extent of his injuries. It was always the first reaction.
"Is it lung blood I'm losing? Are both my feet still here, both my hands-?"
"Right arm and shoulder," Sean told him. "Twelve-point-seven millimeter cannon nicked you. Just a little bitty scratch. You are going to make it, lad, written guarantee. Would I lie to you?"
A faint smile tugged up the corners of Job's mouth, and he lowered one eyelid in a conspiratorial wink. Sean felt his heart begin to break. He knew he had lied. Job wasn't going to make it.
"Relax," he ordered cheerfully. "Lie back and enjoy it, as the bishop said to the actress. I'm in charge here now."
And Job closed his eyes.
Claudia picked out the medical dugout by the Red Cross insignia at the entrance. There were two Shangane Renamo looting the interior, ransacking it for booty, but Claudia shrieked at them so violently that they slunk away guiltily.
The labels on the cartons of medical supplies were all in Russian Cyrillic script. Claudia had to rip the lids open and check the contents of each. She found boxes that contained a dozen plastic bags of clear plasma each and gave two of them to Matatu. The drip sets were on the shelf below. Field dressings and bandages were easy, but she was flummoxed by the tubes of ointments and pill bottles. However, the contents of one tube were yellow-brown and had the characteristic iodine aroma; she selected those, and then she found that some of the labels also had notations in French and Arabic. She had a smattering of both languages, enough to identify which were antibiotics and painkillers.
She found two field packs, obviously prepared for use by the Russian first aid teams, and included these in her selection; then she and Matatu, heavily laden, hurried out of the first aid post.
Before she reached the perimeter of the laager again, a dreadfully familiar figure loomed out of the banks of drifting smoke ahead of her-the very last person she had expected to see here.
"Miss Monterro," General China called. "What a fortunate encounter. I need your assistance." China was accompanied by half a dozen officers of his staff.
Claudia recovered swiftly from the shock of the unexpected meeting. "I'm busy," she snapped, trying to step around him. "Job is badly wounded. I have to get back to him."
"My need is greater than anybody else's, I'm afraid." China put out an arm.