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 eightinch tree trunk with one burst.
Machita realized the South Africans had crossed the border in a lightning raid to avenge Tazareen. "Damn 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 a jackhammer. 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 grass 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.
With perfect precision the Defence Forces copters hovered in sequence until all twelve were aligned. Then, on order from the squadron commander, they eased gracefully to the ground as one unit and the lights blinked out. Zeegler emerged from the lead craft and trotted over to De Vaal.
"How did it go?" the Defence Minister asked.
Zeegler's grin was barely visible in the darkness. "One for the history books, Minister. An incredible exploit. There are no other words to describe it."
"Casualties?"
"Four wounded, none seriously."
"And the rebels?"
Zeegler paused for effect. "The body count tallied at twenty-three hundred and ten. At least another two hundred lie buried in the rubble of the destroyed buildings. No more than a handful could have escaped into the bush."
"Good God!" De Vaal was shocked. "Are you serious?"
"I checked the body count twice."
"In our wildest expectations we conceived no more than a few hundred rebel dead."
"A windfall," said Zeegler. "The camp was lined up for inspection. It was what the Americans would call a turkey shoot. Colonel Randolph Jumana was cut down by the first salvo."
"Jumana was an idiot," De Vaal snapped. "His days were numbered. Thomas Machita — there's the cagey one. Machita is the only bastard in the AAR who could fill Lusana's boots."
"We identified several officers on Lusana's staff, including Colonel Duc Phon Lo, his Vietnamese military adviser, but Machita's body did not turn up. I believe I'm safe in saying his remains are buried under tons of debris." Zeegler paused and stared De Vaal in the eyes. "In view of our success. Herr Minister.' it might be wise to scratch Operation Wild Rose."
"Why not quit while we 're ahead — is that it?"
Zeegler silently nodded.
"I am a pessimist., Colonel. it may take months, perhaps years) for the AAR to recover, but recover they will." De Vaal seemed to sink into a private reverie. Then he shook it off. "So long as South Africa lives under the threat of black rule, we have no option but to use any method available to survive. Wild Rose will take place as planned. 55 lls in our
"I'll feel better when Lusana fa net. 11
De Vaal threw Zeegler an off-kilter grin.
"You haven't heard?"
"Sir?"
"Hiram Lusana won't be coming back to Africa. ever."
Machita had no way of telling when he had recrossed the threshold of consciousness. He could see nothing but darkness. Then the pain began multiplying in his nerve endings and he groaned involuntarily. His ears recorded the sound, but nothing else registered.
He tried to raise his head and a yellowish ball appeared above and to his left. Slowly the strange object came into focus and formed a frame of reference. He was looking at a full moon.
He struggled to a sitting position with his back crammed against a cold, bare wall. In the light that sifted through the wreckage he could see that the floor above had dropped only two feet before becoming wedged between the narrow walls of his cell.
After a brief rest to collect his strength, Machita began pushing away the rubble. His hands discovered a short length of board and he used it to pry away the topside flooring until at last he forced an opening large enough to crawl through. Cautiously he peered over the edge into the chill night air. Nothing stirred. He bent his knees and shoved his body upward until his hands touched the grass of the parade ground. A sudden heave and he was free.
Machita took a deep breath and looked around. It was then that he saw the miracle of his salvation. The wall of the administration building facing the parade field had caved inward, collapsing the first floor, which had effectively shielded his cell from falling debris and the deadly wrath of the South Africans.
No one greeted Machita as he staggered to his feet, because there was no one in sight. The moon illuminated an eerie, barren landscape. Every facility, every building, had been leveled. The field was empty; the bodies of the dead were gone.