He heard voices through the window and painfully pulled himself to a stooped position and looked out. The window faced the camp's parade ground at eye level. Elite commando sections were lining up for roll call and inspection. Across the way, mess-hall roof vents emitted shimmer-ing waves of heat as the cooks stoked their stoves to life. A company of recruits from Angola and Zimbabwe crawled sleepily from their tents at the prodding of their veteran section leaders.
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 eight-inch 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 ajackhammer. 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 Due 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.
63
"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."
"I'll feel better when Lusana falls in our net."
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 chilly 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.
It was as though the African Army of Revolution had never existed.
"I wish I could help you, but I don't really see how."
Lee Raferty had been right, Pitt reflected. Orville Mapes did look more like a hardware peddler than a weapons dealer. Raferty was wrong on one count, though: Mapes was no longer a vice-president; he had moved up to president and chairman of the board of the Phalanx Arms Corporation. Pitt stared back i
nto the gray eyes of the stubby little man.
"A check of your inventory records would be helpful."
"I do not open my records for a stranger who wanders in from the street. My customers would not look kindly upon a supplier who failed to keep their transactions confidential."
"The law requires you to list your arms sales with the Defense Department, so what's the big secret?"
"Are you with Defense, Mr. Pitt?" asked Mapes.
"Indirectly."
"Then whom do you represent?"
"Sorry, I can't say."
Mapes shook his head irritably and rose. "I'm a busy man. I have no time for games. You can find your own way out."
Pitt remained in his chair. "Sit down, Mr. Mapes . . . please."
Mapes found himself looking into a pair of green eyes that were as hard as jade. He hesitated, and considered challenging the command, then slowly did as he was asked.
Pitt nodded at the telephone. "So we both know where we stand, I suggest you call General Elmer Grosfield."
Mapes made a nettled face. "The Chief Inspector of Foreign Arms Shipments and I seldom see eye to eye."
"I take it he frowns on classified weapons' being sold to unfriendly nations."
Mapes shrugged. "The general is a narrow-minded man." Mapes leaned back in his chair and stared speculatively at Pitt. "What, may I ask, is your connection with Grosfield?"
"Let's just say he respects my judgment more than he does yours."
"Do I detect a veiled threat, Mr. Pitt? If I don't play ball, you cry foul to Grosfield-is that it?"
"My request is simple," said Pitt. "A check of the whereabouts of the naval shells you bought from Lee Raferty in Colorado."
"I don't have to show you a damn thing, mister," Mapes replied stubbornly. "Not without a logical explanation or proper identification, or, for that matter, a court order."
"And if General Grosfield makes the request?"
"In that case I might be persuaded to string along."
Pitt nodded at the phone again. "I'll give you his private number
"I have it," Mapes said, fishing through a small box. He found the slotted index card he was looking for and held it up. "Not that I don't trust you, Mr. Pitt. But if you don't mind, I prefer using a number from my own file."
"Suit yourself," said Pitt.
Mapes lifted the receiver, inserted the card in the automatic-dialer phone, and pressed the code button. "It's after twelve o'clock,"
he said.
"Grosfield is probably out to lunch." Pitt shook his head. "The general is a brown-bagger. He eats at his desk."
"I always figured him for a cheapass," Mapes grunted.
Pitt smiled, hoping Mapes couldn't read the anxiety behind his eyes.
Abe Steiger rubbed the sweat from his palms on his pant legs and picked up the phone on the third ring, taking a bite from a banana before he spoke.
"General Grosfield here," he mumbled.
"General, this is Orville Mapes, of Phalanx Arms."
"Mapes, where are you? You sound like you're talking from the bottom of a barrel."
"You sound muffled and distant, too, General."
"You caught me in the middle of a peanut-butter sandwich. I like them thick with gobs of mayonnaise. What's on your mind, 64
Mapes?"
"Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but do you know a Mr. Dirk Pitt?"
Steiger forced a pause and took a deep breath before answering. "Pitt. Yes, I know Pitt. He's an investigator for the Senate Armed Forces Committee."
"His credentials are right up there, then."
"They don't go any higher," said Steiger, as though talking with a mouthful. "Why do you ask?"
"He's sitting in front of me, demanding to inspect my inventory records."
"I wondered when he'd get around to you civilians." Steiger took another bite from the banana. "Pitt is heading up the Stanton probe."
"The Stanton probe? I never heard of it."
"I'm not surprised. They're not advertising. Some do-good senator got it in his head that stockpiles of nerve-gas weapons are hidden under the Army's carpet. So he launched a probe to find them." Steiger wolfed down the last of the banana and tossed the peel in one of General Grosfield's desk drawers. "Pitt and his investigators didn't turn up so much as a pellet. Now he's after you surplus boys."
"What do you suggest?"
"What I suggest," Steiger blurted, "is that you give the bastard what he wants. If you have any gas canisters stashed in your warehouses, give them to him and save yourself a carload of grief. The Stanton Committee is not out to prosecute anybody. They only want to make damned sure some Third World dictator doesn't lay his hands on the wrong kind of weapons."
"Thanks for the advice, General," Mapes said. Then, "Mayonnaise, you say? I prefer peanut butter with onions, myself."
"To each his own, Mr. Mapes. Good-bye."
Steiger hung up the phone and let out a deep, satisfied sigh. Then he wiped the receiver with his handkerchief and exited into the hall. He was just in the act of closing the door to the general's office when a captain in Army green walked around a corner. The captain's eyes grew mildly suspicious at the sight of Steiger.
"Excuse me, Colonel, but if you were looking for General Grosfield, he's out to lunch."
Steiger straightened and offered the captain his best "I outrank you" stare and said, "I don't know the general. This jungle of concrete threw my sense of direction out of balance. I'm looking for the Army Accident and Safety Department. Got lost and poked my head in this office to ask directions."
The captain seemed noticeably relieved at avoiding an embarrassing situation. "Oh hell, I get lost ten times a day myself. You'll find Accident and Safety one floor down. Just take the elevator around the next corner to your right."
"Thank you, Captain."
"My pleasure, sir."
In the elevator Steiger smiled devilishly to himself as he wondered what General Grosfield would think when he found the banana peel in his desk.
Unlike most security guards who wear ill-fitting uniforms with waist belts sagged by heavy revolvers, Mapes's people looked more like fashionably attired combat troops as imagined by the editors of Gentlemen's Quarterly magazine. Two of them stood smartly at the gate to the Phalanx warehouse grounds in neatly tailored field fatigues with the latest in assault rifles slung over their shoulders.
Mapes slowed his Rolls-Royce convertible and lifted both hands from the steering wheel in an apparent greeting. The guard nodded and waved to his partner, who pulled open the gate from the inside.
"I assume that was a signal of some kind," said Pitt.
"Pardon?"
"The hands-in-the-air routine."
"Ah yes," Mapes said. "If you had been holding a concealed gun on me, my hands would have remained on the wheel. A normal gesture. Then, as we were waved through and your attention was lulled by the guard's opening the gate, his teammate would have discreetly stepped behind the car and blown your head off."
"I'm glad you remembered to raise your hands."
"You're most observant, Mr. Pitt," said Mapes. "However, you force me to issue a new signal to the gate guards."
"I'm crushed you don't trust me to keep your secret."
Mapes did not reply to Pitt's sarcasm. He kept his eyes on a narrow asphalt road that passed between semingly endless rows of Quonset huts. After about a mile they came to an open field crammed with heavily armored tanks in various states of rust and disrepair. A small army of mechanics was busily crawling over ten of the massive vehicles that had been parked in formation beside the road.
"How many acres do you have?" Pitt asked.
"Five thousand," Mapes replied. "You're looking at the world's sixth-largest army in terms of equipment. Phalanx Arms also ranks seventh as an air force."
Mapes turned the car onto a dirt road that paralleled several bunkers set into a hillside, and stopped in front of one marked ARSENAL 6. He slid from behind the wheel and pull
ed a single key from his pocket, inserted it in a large brass lock, and pulled the catch free. Then he swung open a pair of steel doors and flipped on the light switch.
Inside the cavelike bunker, thousands of ammunition cases and crates containing a vast variety of shell sizes lay stacked in a tunnel that seemed to stretch into infinity. Pitt had never seen so much potential destruction heaped in one place.
Mapes motioned toward a golf cart. "No need to raise blisters walking. This storage area runs underground for nearly two miles."
The arsenal was cold and the hum from the electric cart seemed to hang in the damp air. Mapes turned into a side tunnel and slowed down. He held a map up to the light and studied it. "Beginning here and ending about a hundred yards down is the last store of sixteen-inch naval shells in the world. They're obsolete because only battleships can use them, and there is not a single operational battleship left. The gas shells I bought from Raferty should be stacked in an area near the middle."
"I see no sign of their canisters," said Pitt.
Mapes shrugged. "Business is business. Stainless-steel canisters are worth money. I sold them to a chemical company."
65
"Your supply seems endless. It might take hours to dig them out."
"No," replied Mapes. "The gas shells were assigned to Lot Six." He stepped from the cart and walked amid the sea of projectiles for about fifty paces and then pointed. "Yes, here they are." He carefully stepped through a narrow access and stopped.
Pitt remained in the main aisle, but even under the dull glow of the overhead lights he could detect a blank expression on Mapes's face.
"Problem?"
Mapes paused, shaking his head. "I don't understand it. I find only four. There should be eight."
Pitt stiffened. "They must be around somewhere."
"You start looking from the other end, beginning at Lot Thirty," Mapes ordered. "I'll go back to Lot One and begin there."
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