"The radio set is over here," Akiro said, leading the way. Noburu followed him to an antique Soviet-built radio, something he might reasonably have expected to see only in a military museum.
"And this… seems to work?" Noburu asked.
"It's the only way we were able to establish contact with anyone," Akiro answered. "It's an old VHF set. The loyal garrisons are using them. But the jamming is very bad."
How he had laughed at the ancient gear with which the Soviets had been equipped. It seemed there would be no end to his lessons in humility.
No. That was wrong. There would be an end soon enough.
"It works… the same way?" Noburu asked. Even as a lieutenant, he had never handled anything so crude.
"The same way. You press this, then speak into the microphone."
"But no one has answered?"
"Not for hours."
Noburu picked up the chipped microphone. He looked at the younger man to ensure he was doing everything correctly.
"We have the call sign Castle," Akiro added.
Noburu pressed the button to transmit. "Any listening station, this is Castle… this is Castle. We are under siege by indigenous elements… and require immediate support." These old sets were not secure, of course. It was impossible to enumerate the concerns he felt required to address as a professional soldier. There was as much chance now that his enemies were listening in as that his own side would monitor the broadcast."… Let it be recorded that the subordinate officers and men of this command served the Emperor honorably… and fought to the last man." The words felt wooden in his mouth. But he owed his men at least that. The final tribute of their commander. But he could not bring himself to end on a note of false enthusiasm. "This is Castle. End of transmission."
The two men stood over the old radio in the big quiet. The operations center held the silence of a theater after a performance, when even the janitors had gone home. Each man, in his different way, hoped that the radio would crackle to life on its own, bringing them words of hope, news of an approaching relief column, or at least the acknowledgment that some distant station knew they were still alive. But there was nothing.
Noburu looked at the younger man. Despite the marks of weariness on his face, Akiro looked impossibly young. Noburu wished he could send the boy back to a safe office in the General Staff complex or to some overheated academy classroom. And to the young wife Akiro had neglected, as all ambitious young officers neglected their wives. Simply, he wished he could send Akiro back to the world where grown men played at being soldiers and still had their lives ahead of them.
Noburu took the younger man by the arm, a little surprised that Akiro was every bit as warm to the touch as were other men. This little staff tiger.
"Come," he told the younger man. "We'd better go back upstairs."
They made their way back to the helipad on the roof. Colonel Kloete was still on guard, with the stump of a cigarette in one hand and his other hand holding fast to his light machine gun. Beside him, the surviving South African NCO slumped with his eyes closed. It was impossible to tell whether the man was merely resting or deep in sleep. Noburu had to admire the arrogantly casual attitude of the South Africans toward their impending deaths. But each culture faced the inevitable in its own way.
And the inevitable was approaching. The enormous chanting of the mob had virtually surrounded the headquarters complex, although the bulk of the Azeris remained out of sight, hidden in buildings, alleyways, behind rubble, walls, and wreckage. Only a few stray figures could be seen, scuttling through the twilight. The mob was marshaling its strength, just below the crest of the hill. Beyond the no-man's-land of burned-out ruins.
Kloete sucked down a last dose of smoke and flicked the butt over the wall. His features remained hard and clear in the deserting light.
"Noisy bunch," he said. "Aren't they, General?"
Noburu nodded. Kloete had never been too anxious to pay a full measure of military courtesy to Noburu, and he made no move to rise or salute. His attitude seemed to say, "We're all equal now and we'll be even more equal before the sun comes up again."
"You have ammunition?" Noburu asked, touching the bandage layered over his scalp. It had begun to itch.
Kloete grinned. "Enough to make the little buggers angry. After that, I can just take this thing apart" — he slapped his weapon—"and throw the bloody pieces at them."
The chanting stopped. Initially, a few ragged voices continued, but they soon faltered into the gathering darkness. In the absence of the vast wailing, the racket of a later age was clearly audible: heavy machines on the move.
"The relief column," Akiro declared, his voice sweet with wonder.
Noburu caught him by the shoulder. "No. If it were the relief column, they'd be shooting."
Above the mechanical growling, a single high voice sang out. It sounded like a Moslem call to prayer.
In reply, the crowd howled so loudly that the concrete shivered beneath Noburu's boots.
Kloete reared up, staring into the fresh pale night settling over the courtyard and the walls.
"Tanks!" he shouted. "The bastards have tanks."
In agreement, the first main gun sounded. The round hit the far wing of the headquarters complex, sending a shock wave through the air.
"Here they come," a Japanese voice screamed from a lateral position.
With a wave of noise, the crowd surged out of the shadows. Off in the distance, on the fringe of the city, the slums were burning, cordoning off the city with fire. Why was it, Noburu wondered, that in times of disruption the poor burned themselves out first? Despair? A desire to be clean of their scavenged lives?
A single Japanese weapon opened up nearby, then stopped firing after expending a few rounds. His men were holding their fire, waiting until they could get the highest return on each bullet paid out. They did not need orders now. Every man understood.
Noburu could see three tanks crawling toward the gate and the breaches in the wall. It was hard to listen past the thunder of the crowd, but it sounded as if even more tanks were following the first machines.
That was it, then. There were no antitank weapons. No one had imagined a need for them here.
The tanks fired above the crowd, hammering the headquarters building with their guns. The shots seemed random and undisciplined. But they could not help having an effect.
The quickest members of the mob dashed through the gate and scrambled over the breaches in the wall. They stumbled across mounds of shattered masonry, firing wildly and shrieking.
The Japanese held their fire.
Kloete drew out a lean commando knife and teased it twice over the broken stucco that lipped the roof before returning it to its sheath.
"Sir," Akiro cried, "you must take cover."
Noburu turned to the younger man. Akiro stood upright beside him, unwilling to go to ground before his superior did so. But the aide's eyes glowed with fear in the dusk.
"In a moment," Noburu said. He wanted to look his death in the face.
Akiro began to speak again, then choked and staggered against Noburu, grasping the general with uncustomary rudeness. Noburu had felt the warm wet of the young man's blood peck at his own face.
The aide clutched Noburu's arm, astonished. He remained on his feet, with his insides slipping out of his ripped trousers. He looked at Noburu with the innocence of an abused pet dog.
"Akiro," Noburu said.
The aide relaxed his grip on his master and collapsed onto the cement. Freed from the constraints of muscles and tight flesh, the young man's lower internal organs flowed out of him as though fleeing his death and attempting to survive on their own.