I navigated past some bunkers, possibly an ammunition store for the fighter aircraft ordnance, which we could not recall from the aerial photos. Once again I moved without the night-vision goggles, while Diedies scanned the night with his goggles to locate any sign of danger. I had my AMD at the ready, while Diedies moved with silenced sub-machine gun. We reached the hardstand by 01:00 without encountering any guards. Using the night vision, we could make out a MiG-21, barely 30 m away, crouched on the tarmac against the skyline, with the dark shape of another aircraft further off. We crouched down in the low bushes bordering the tarmac and quietly discussed our approach, as well as our escape route and emergency RV – which would be the hole in the fence where we had entered.
I would take the first aircraft, and then we would work our way down the line of fighters along the tarmac. We decided against the initial option of splitting up to reach more planes in the shortest possible time; in the darkness it was impossible to determine separate lines of targets for each operator.
Silently, with deliberate, slow movements, I slid my pack off and took out the first charge, together with a set of glue tubes. With practised fingers I undid the straps of the pouches and arranged the rest of the charges so they would be within easy reach. I felt strangely calm and ready for the task at hand. The overwhelming fear I had experienced in the past was absent. Instead, a sense of sheer dedication to get the job done had taken over. Deep inside I knew that I was exceptionally well prepared for this, and that the stakes were too high to fail.
Diedies positioned himself on the edge of the tarmac to listen out and warn me if anyone approached. Quietly, I slipped the charges back on and draped my AMD in a fireman’s sling down the centre of my back to allow freedom of movement. Then I started the stalk towards the aircraft, silenced pistol cocked and ready in the right hand, charge in the left and night-vision goggles on my chest.
Ten metres from the aircraft I stopped to observe with the night-vision goggles. The darkness of the night was absolute, as we had hoped, but it also meant that I could not see below the fuselage. Not even with the beam of the infrared torch could the night-vision goggles penetrate the complete blackness under the belly of the MiG-21.
The night was dead silent. There was no sound from underneath the aircraft, nor could I make out any shape under the belly. I realised I needed to go lower to observe better. Slowly, and as quiet as a mouse, I eased forward to move into the blackness under the fuselage so I could look up against the ambient light of the sky.
I crouched to move in under the wing.
Then a voice pierced the silence of the night from the darkness underneath the plane. My worst fear was coming true.
“Quem são você…?” The voice was hesitant at first, restrained with fear.
Then stronger: “Quem são você? [Who are you?]”
Then the all-too-familiar cocking of a Kalashnikov shattered the fragile night air, barely three metres away under the belly of the aircraft, cracking like a rifle shot in the darkness.
As so often before, I was confronted in the pitch dark with the penetrating, nerve-racking sound of an AK-47 being cocked in my face as I crept around in an enemy base. This time I also felt exposed against the night sky on the open tarmac. My own weapon was slung on my back; the silenced pistol in my hand was of no use if I couldn’t even see my adversary.
The guard’s voice now became bold and challenging: “Onde você vai? [Where are you going?]”
A second AK was cocked as if to bolster the challenge.
The long hours of rehearsals during those dark nights at Hoedspruit Air Force Base kicked in – instantly and instinctively. In a split second I had covered all the options in my mind – the shortest route to safety, the best course of action in case of white light, the most effective way to present myself as the smallest target possible. I mumbled drunkenly in Portuguese, automatically recalling the phrases we had rehearsed so often: “Companheiro, o que você faz…? [Comrades, what are you doing…?]”
At the back of my mind, I knew from previous experience that they would not open fire immediately. I knew my enemy was scared and uncertain. They could not see me clearly and had no idea who I was. I had to move now.
This was my only chance.
Keeping up my incoherent babbling, I pretended to stumble, and in the process ducked low down on the tarmac, reducing the clear target my silhouette presented against the skyline. Going low, I crawled back towards our RV, where Diedies waited anxiously. He had heard the encounter and was ready to move. We hurriedly discussed our options and waited for reaction from the guards. Although we could not see anything, we heard muffled sounds coming from the direction of the aircraft. Could we exploit their confusion and move round to the aircraft on the far side? Soon we saw movement against lighting in the distance, and then our minds were made up for us as a vehicle with a spotlight started moving along the tarmac in the direction of the hardstand.
We knew we had to get out of there. “The hole in the fence… We have to find the hole in the fence!” Diedies whispered.
I flicked the compass open and faced south to find the back bearing of our approach to the apron. As I fixed the compass reading and looked up at the night sky to find a suitable star, I saw the Southern Cross, or Crux. At that moment it was at the apex of its pathway through the sky, pointing vertically down and almost inviting us to follow it. We both looked up at the constellation of stars and realised it was the third cross in as many nights to make an unexpected but major impact on us.
It was strangely comforting – to follow the cross amid the commotion erupting around us. The enemy was now obviously looking for us, apparently strengthening their defences around the aircraft, as we could hear a number of vehicles moving into position. We moved quickly, following the Southern Cross and going low through the shrubs, once again avoiding the cluster of bunkers we had encountered earlier.
As we approached the perimeter, slowly and very quietly, Diedies again urged from the back: “You must find the hole, Kosie, we cannot cross over…”
We reached the road where the patrol had passed by earlier, but the reaction apparently hadn’t reached this far. In the direction of the tarmac we could hear vehicles and voices as the enemy started coordinating their search. I brought my gaze down from the Southern Cross, and suddenly spotted the hole in the fence right in front of us, squarely on our bearing.
We wasted no time in getting through to the relative safety of the brush outside. In a matter of seconds we had passed through and soon were back at the railway line. Diedies insisted we sit down to reassess the situation. We were both immensely relieved as the realisation dawned how we had been led to a safe exit.
“What about the trains?” I whispered. “Shall we move along the railway line and blast some locomotives?”
Diedies didn’t even consider it for a moment. “It’s either the aircraft or nothing,” he answered. “We don’t want to spoil any future chances, and it wasn’t the aim of the operation in any case.”
For Diedies, second best would never do. The first principle of war – the maintenance of the aim – was non-negotiable. We either did the job we had come for, or we accepted failure. Much later, when we debriefed and carefully relived the operation, and once again weighed our chances of success, I realised how important was this principle. It would not have made sense to divert the focus to a lesser target with no bearing on the bigger war effort – especially in a situation where the defeat was tangible and the need to obtain some sense of achievement was overwhelming.