The railway line crossed the border near the little town of Unitali, and twenty kilometers beyond it on the Zimbabwean side a tiny sit ion of the Grand Reef airfield red aircraft symbol marked the Pa and base.
Sean touched the stylized aircraft symbol with his forefinger, and Job came to stand beside him. They both stared at it thoughtfully. How many times had they sortied from that field, shambling out to the rumbling Dakota transports under the burden of parachute and battle packs and weapons? Each of them could picture clearly the position of every building, the hangars and barracks and perimeter defense.
"Twenty Ks from the border post," Job said softly. "Fifteen minutes by truck, but we'll never get there on foot."
"You spoke of a plan, General China. What do you have in mind? Can you provide us with vehicles?" Sean asked without looking around.
"Some time ago my men captured three Unimog trucks with authentic Zimbabwwn Army paintwork and papers. We have them hidden," China answered. Sean breathed a sigh of relief.
"My plan is for you to cross the border disguised as Zimbabwean troops."
,fli bet there is a huge volume of military traffic through the border post."
"There is," China affirmed.
"We'll need Zimbabwean Army uniforms for all the black troops and something for me." Sean tapped his finger on the map.
"We will have to wheedle our way into the base without firing a shot."
"I have a British field officer's uniform for you," China said softly. "It's genuine and I have the papers to go with it."
"How the hell did you get that?"
6611 hree months ago we attacked a Zimbabwean column near Vila da Monica. There was a British observer with the column, and he got caught in the crogsfire. He was a major in one of the guards regiments, seconded to the high commissioner in Harare as a military attacM, according to his papers.
""The uniform has been cleaned of blood and the tears made by fragmentation grenade have been patched most expertly. The tailor who did the work made my own uniform." China smoothed his tunic over his lean flanks, looking pleased with it. "He will alter the captured uniform to fit you, Colonel. The British major was about your height but a great deal larger around the waist and backside."
"A guards regiment." Sean smiled. "I don't know about my accent.
Any Englishman would pick me out as a colonial the instant I open my mouth."
"You will have to deal only with the Third Brigade guards at the base gates. I assure you they will not have such discerning ears."
okay, Sean said. "So we may be able to get in, but how the hell do we get out?" He was beginning to enjoy himself, becoming absorbed with the problem.
"Not so fast, Sean." Job was studying the map. "We can't just pitch up at the gates without an invitation and demand entry. With the Stingers there the security will be at a maximum."
"That is correct," China concurred. "However, I have more good news for you. I actually have a man inside the base. He is a nephew of mine-we are a large family." He looked complacent as he went on. "He is in signals, a warrant officer, second in command of the Grand Reef communications center. He will be able to fake a signal from the Zimbabwe high command authorizing an inspection of the Stinger program by the military attache. So the guards at the base will be expecting you. They won't scrutinize your pass too closely."
"If you have a man inside the base, he'll know exactly where the Stingers are stored," Job suggested eagerly.
"Right." China nodded. "They are in number three hangar.
That's second from the left."
We know exactly where number three hangar is," Sean assured him.
He frowned as he tried to anticipate the other problems they would encounter. "I will want to know the packaging of the missiles, sizes, and weights." China scribbled a note on his pad. "And there must be instruction manuals covering their operation. Those will certainly be in the office of the Royal Artillery captain. I must know exactly where that is." He ticked off each item on his fingers as it occurred to him, and Job added his own ideas.
"We'll need a diversion," he suggested. "A second unit to stage an attack on the base perimeter furthest from the hangar and training center, plenty of tracer and RPG rocks and white phosphorus grenades-we will need another squad for that."
It was like old times. How often had they worked together like this, each stimulating the other, their excitement kept under tight rein but sparkling in their eyes.
Once Job remarked, "I'm glad it's the Third Brigade we'll be going against, that bunch of nun killers and child rapers. They led the purge in Matabeleland." The slaughter and atrocity that had accompanied the brigade's sweep through the tribal areas from which the Matabele political dissidents had been operating was fresh in both their memories.
"Two of my brothers, my grandfather..." Job's voice dropped to a deathly whisper. "The Third Brigade threw their bodies down the old shaft at Antelope Mine."
"This isn't personal vengeance," Sean warned him. "All we want is those Stingers, Job." The intertribal hatred of Africa was as fierce as any Corsican vendetta, and Job had physically to shake himself to break the spell of it.
"You're right, but a few Third Brigade scalps would be a nice little fringe benefit."
Sean grinned. Despite his admonition, the thought of taking on ZANLA again gave him equal satisfaction. How many good men and women, how many dear friends had he lost to them over the eleven long years of the bush war, and how complex were the lines of hatred and loyalty that held together the very fabric of Africa.