A Time to Die c-13

by Wilbur Smith

  "I still don't believe the Yanks would supply him with Stingers," Sean said flatly.

  "Not directly," China agreed. "But the British are training Mugabe's army for him. They are the middlemen. They have got the Stingers from the Americans, and they are training Mugabe's crack Third Brigade to use them at Grand Reef."

  "How the hell do you know all this?"

  "You must remember that I was once a minister, albeit a junior one, in Mugabe's cabinet. I still have good friends in high places."

  Sean thought about it. "You are right." He nodded. "It is all typically African. So the Stingers are at Grand Reef."

  "They were delivered by a Royal Air Force Hercules fourteen days ago and are scheduled to be deployed along the South African and Zimbabwean border by the beginning of next month.

  They will be aimed at your countrymen, Colonel Courtney."

  Sean felt a stirring of patriotic outrage, but he kept his expression neutral.

  "The training is being conducted by Royal Artillery personnel, a captain and two NCOs, so you will begin to understand why I require a white face for my plans."

  "It certainly begins to sound ominous," Sean muttered. "Tell me what it is exactly that you require."

  "I want you to go back to Zimbabwe and bring me those Stinger missiles."

  Sean showed no emotion as he asked, "In exchange?"

  "Once the missiles are delivered to me, I will remove the manacles from Miss Monterro and transfer her to quarters where you will be able to visit her regularly"-he paused and allowed himself a knowing smile-"and spend some time with her each day or evening in private."

  "What about our release?"

  "Yes," China agreed. "All three of you will be released after you have performed one additional service for me-after first obtaining the Stingers."

  "And what is that service?"

  China held up both hands. "One thing at a time, Colonel Courtney.

  The missiles first. Once you have delivered them, we will discuss the final part of our bargain."

  Sean scowled into his tea mug as he turned it over in his mind, trying to find some vantage point to adopt, but China interrupted him.

  "Colonel, every minute you waste merely prolongs Miss Monterro's'-he searched for the correct word-"her discomfort.

  Until I have those missiles, she will wear her manacles night and day, waking or sleeping, eating or performing 0 the other essential functions of life. I suggest you begin immediately laying out your plans to procure them for me."

  Sean stood up and went to the large-scale wall map behind China's desk. He didn't really need to study it. He could have closed his eyes and visualized every valley and peak, every wrinkle of land along the border between Mozambique and Zimbabwe.

  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.

  Only an African could ever understand it.

  "Okay." Sean brought them back to hard reality. "We have got in.

  We have the Stingers, say two loaded Unimogs. I have found the manuals. We are Fody to pull out. The diversion has lured most of the guards to the southern perimeter of the base, on the far side of the airfield. Aow we have to get out. They aren't going to be,so happy about letting us go."

  "We charge the gates," Job said. "Use one truck to break down the barricades."

  "Yes." Sean nodded. "And then? We aren't going to be able to get out of the country through the border post at Umtali. By that time the whole Zimbabwean Army and Frelimo will a be after us." They both turned back to the wall map again. Sean reached up and traced the road that branched northward just before it reached the town of Unitali, then ran parallel with the border as it traversed the rugged eastern highlands toward Inyanga National Park, an area of misty peaks and wet, densely forested valleys. He touched one of the valleys, a green wedge driven deeply into the barrier of mountains.

  "Honde Valley," he read the legend. The road crossed the head of it, and the valley itself was a funnel that led down to the border and the Mozambique uplands. It formed a natural reentrance to the highlands, a gateway that had been one of the major infiltration routes of the ZANLA guerrillas from their training bases in Mozambique. Sean and Job had learned all its wants the hard way-the hidden trails and strong points, the false ports and the concealed passes.

  "The track down to Saint Mary's Mission," Sean said. They stared at it. "That's as far as we can take the trucks."

  there is only six Ks to the border," Job murmured.

  "From "Six hard Ks," Sean qualified. "And we won't be clear just because we have crossed into Mozambique. We will still have them after us until we get into Renamo-held ground."

  Sean turned back to General China. "I'll want porters waiting for us at Saint Mary's Mission. How far does your control of territory extend?"

  "The porters will present no problem." China- came to stand between them and pointed to a speck on the map marked Mavonela. "And I can have trucks waiting at this village. Once u reach Mavonela, I will consider that you have made good yo delivery of the missiles."

  "I suggest we don't try and bring out forty Stingers with one column of porters," Job cut in. "It will make a perfect target for Mugabe's MiGs. One load of napalm is all it would take."

  "And of course, Frelimo can call in their Hinds," Sean added.

  "You are right, Job. Once it is light enough for air attack, we will bombshell." He was referring to the old guerrilla trick of splintering the column and offering numerous small elusive targets, rather than a single large ungainly one. "Can you arrange for a series of RZs rather than a single RZ at Mavonela village?" He used the old Scouts" abbreviation for a rendezvous.

  "Yes." China nodded. "We will disperse the transport along the Mavonela road." He traced it out. "One truck every kilometer, hidden under camouflage netting, and we'll move the Stingers out on the last stage under cover of darkness."

  "All right, let's draw up a timetable," Sean said. "Let's get it all down on paper. I'll need writing material."

  China opened a drawer of his desk and brought out a cheap notebook and ballpoint pen. While they worked, China sent for his quartermaster, a chubby little man who had run a men's outfitters in Beira before economic necessity rather than ideological commitment had forced him to leave the town and seek employment in the deep bush with China's guerrillas.

  He arrived carrying the uniform for a staff officer of the Irish Guards in the field, complete with insignia, headgear, webbing, and boots. Sean donned the uniform for a fitting without interrupting their planning session. The tunic and trousers had to be taken in, and the boots were a size too large.

  "Better too big than too small," Sean decided. "I'll wear a couple of pairs of socks."

  The tailor tucked and pinned and crawled around Sean's feet as he let the trouser bottoms down an inch.

  "Fine." Sean examined the guards major's papers China laid out on the desk top. From the photograph, Sean saw that the major had been a fleshy, fair-haired individual in his late forties.

  "Gavin Dully," Sean read the dead man's name aloud. "You'll have to alter the ID photograph."

  "My propaganda officer will take care of that," China told him.

  The propaganda officer was a mulatto, half Portuguese, half Shangane, and he was armed with a Polaroid camera. He took four mug shots of Sean, then spirited away the deceased guards major's ID card to doctor the photograph.

  "All right." Sean turned back to China. "Now I want to take command of the men who will make up the raiding party and see them properly kit ted out. You'll have to explain to them that they are to take their orders from me in future."

  China smiled and stood up. "Follow me, Colonel. I'll take you to meet your new command."

  He led the way out of the bunker, but once they were on the path through the forest that led down to the river, Sean fell in beside him and they continudto discuss the raid.

  "Obviously I am going to need more than the original ten men in Sergeant Alpholist's squad, at least another detachment to make the diversionary attack on the base." Sean broke off as the mournful wail of the hand-operated sirens rose from the camp around them. Instantly all around them was turmoil and confusion.

  "The Hinds!" shouted China. "Take cover!" He sprinted r a sandbagged emplacement among the trees nearby. There was a twin-barreled 12.7-men antiaircraft weapon mounted in the emplacement. It would be a prime target for the Hind gunners, and Sean looked around quickly for alternative cover.

  In the long grass on the opposite ode of the track, he spotted a less conspicuous shell scrape and ran for it. As he tumbled into it he heard the oncoming roar of the Hind gunships and the cacophony of ground fire built up swiftly. Job jumped down into the foxhole and squatted beside him. Then another smaller figure a above them and, nimble as a hare, leaped into the hole.

  For a moment Sean did not realize who it was, not until the wrinkled face creased like a used napkin into a wide white smile and the man said happily, "I see you, Bwana "

  "I "You! You silly little bugger!" Sean stared at him in disbelief.

  sent you back to Chiwewe. What the hell are you doing back bereT"

  "I went back to Chiwewe as you commanded , Matatu said "Then I came back to look for you."

  virtuously Sean still stared at Matatu in awe as he considered what that statement entailed. Then he shook his head and began to smile.

  immediately the little man's answering grin seemed to split his face in two.

  0 "Nobody saw your" Sean demanded in Swahili. "You came through the lines into the headquarters of an army, and nobody saw your, "Nobody sees Matatu when Matatu does not want to be seen."

  The earth trembled under them, and the sound of rockets and gunfire forced them to put their heads close together and shout into each other's faces.