Countdown_ The Liberators Part 16

If you wrote a novel in South Africa which didn't concern the central issues, it wouldn't be worth publis.h.i.+ng.

-Alan Paton

D-107, near Tempe Base, Bloemfontein, South Africa

"Tell Dov we've got no M3s for you," the Boer warrant officer, Dani Viljoen, said. The Boer was a large man, broad shouldered, and just beginning to go gray around the temples. Beside him sat a black of the same rank, and similar build, albeit somewhat taller. "Oh, sure, there's one on display down the road but that was just a prototype. And since it's on display we can't steal it without undue notice, and since it's just the one it wouldn't do you much good anyway. And since the thing hasn't run in maybe twenty years it wouldn't be worth the effort."

The black shook his head no. He hadn't said much, generally, but Victor didn't have the impression that this indicated any inferiority between the two. The black, a Bantu, more specifically a Zulu, Viljoen had introduced as Dumisani, simply seemed the quiet sort.

"What have you got?" Inning asked.

The Boer and the Bantu exchanged glances. Victor wasn't sure, not absolutely, but he had the impression that a great deal of information-information to which he didn't have the code-was exchanged in that glance.

"For noddy cars?" Viljoen asked. The cars were nicknamed in South Africa for the British children's television character, a toy named "Noddy" and his toy automobile. "Well . . . a lot of the turrets have been taken off to fit out the Ratels that took over from the noddy cars."

"What's a . . . noddy car?"

"Eland," the Boer replied. "AMLs, others call them. Or Panhards. Anyway, the Ratel uses the same turret, so some of the turrets from the noddy cars were put into them, and others have been cannibalized. There's more turrets in 90mm than 60mm, by the way. More left here, I mean."

The black warrant added, "You can put infantry in a noddy car, provided the turret's gone. Maybe four men, would you say, Dani?" Dumisani had one of those mellifluous African voices that is an improvement on anyone else's English, sort of Ladysmith Black Mambazo in a prose vein.

"Five in a pinch, I think," the Boer replied, "besides the driver and gunner. Would that do?"

"Can you provide them?" Victor asked. He thought, Personnel decisions are really not in my portfolio for this. But if this is what I can get . . .

The Bantu shrugged as the Boer laughed. "Enough for an army," Viljoen said. "How many do you need?"

"Nine of the 90mm versions," Victor said. "Three with 60mm turrets. And, since they won't carry as many, call it thirty-six without turrets. Since the ammunition isn't something I normally carry, I need three thousand rounds of 90mm, and about a thousand of 60."

"The 60mm mortar is d.a.m.ned near worthless," the Boer said. "And even three missing would be noticed, since we still use the turrets. I can get you the 90mm versions, nine or twelve or twenty, if you want. I can get turretless bodies, fifty or sixty, I suppose. Okay, okay, a small army."

"I'll need to consult with my friends," Victor said. "But a.s.suming they can use the turretless ones, how do you get them to us?"

"You got a s.h.i.+p?" Viljoen asked.

"Yes, chartered, my own crew. Some of Dov's people will be aboard to fix the things."

The Boer nodded. "That would work. We can fit three in a forty foot s.h.i.+pping container. We mark them as sent to the tank range as targets. Off the books. Might have to grease the customs man's palm at the port, but n.o.body here really gives a s.h.i.+t anymore, so we can do that."

"How much?" Inning asked.

Again the Boer and the Bantu exchanged glances. This time they took much longer about it. Victor still couldn't read their faces but there was something . . . he and his wife, Alla, sometimes communicated . . .

"You two are more than friends, aren't you?" the Russian asked.

"Took you long enough to figure it out," Viljoen said.

"But . . . this is South Africa. You're white; your . . . friend's . . . black . . . "

"So?" the Boer shrugged. "He thinks white is s.e.xy. I think black is. And we both despise flaming queens."

Dumisani put up one hand, then ostentatiously bent his wrist before straightening it, all the while sneering profoundly.

Viljoen chuckled, then said, "We were on opposite sides during the Border War, too. Again, so? We're doing this, stealing equipment, I mean, so we can get the h.e.l.l out of this place and live decently somewhere. Speaking of which-"

"That's part of our price," Dumisani said. "We want out. It would be nice if we could get work we know how to do while we're at it."

"But with money you can go live anywhere," Victor said.

"No," Viljoen corrected. His head nodded towards the Bantu. "He could. But I'm a white South African, and a Boer, which is worse. n.o.body wants to take us because n.o.body wants us to leave South Africa. Open the portals to, say, the United States and ninety-five percent of the whites of this country would disappear overnight."

"Ninety-nine percent," Dumisani corrected. "And then the country would collapse. Which would make progressive minded people all over the world look stupid, clearly a disaster to be avoided. This I did not understand when I was fighting my partner over majority rule. If I had understood, I might have been on his side rather than the ANC's.

"Then again," the Zulu added, shaking his head sadly, "I used to think we blacks could run the country. I think maybe we could have. I think we should have. But the last couple of decades have proven only that we are running it into the dirt, quite despite could haves and should haves. And I see no solution."

"You still haven't said how much."

Boer and Bantu again exchanged glances. "One hundred thousand Rand, each," Viljoen said, "for a turretless car with a working engine. Two hundred and fifty thousand for one with a 90mm turret with a working gun. No radios included. Plus transportation to the port. I'll have to get you a quote on that. Plus the cost of the containers and port fees and loading fees. Call it ten million Rand, all told. And another four million for the 90mm ammunition. I'm going to have to bribe someone for that."

"Fortunately," Dumisani said, "since liberation everyone can be bribed."

"We weren't," Viljoen said, "as honest as all that even before hand."

Victor did some quick calculations. One point five million dollars, give or take. Plus as much for Dov to recondition them. I can charge the Americans maybe four million. That's a fair profit and worth my time. And if the Americans are willing to go for ground mounted mortars, I can provide those from my own stocks.

"I'll ask if the turretless ones will do," Victor said. "And if a place for you can be found among the group I represent. I suppose, since they're going to be using 'noddy cars,' that people who know how to maintain them would be useful."

"Not just maintain," Dumisani said. "We know how to use them."

Victor was about to comment on that, when his PDA buzzed. It was a text message. He read it, and smiled. It seems Messers Nyein and Naing and the government of Myanmar need some arms.

a.s.sembly Area Alpha-Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil, D-107

"Ralph," Stauer asked of his chief intelligence officer, Boxer, "just how compromised are we?"

The former Air Force general shook his head. "You're referring to the foreigners? Or just generally?"

"Both?"

"I don't think we are . . . yet. Let me explain."

"Please do."

"Only nineteen of us really know the mission, twenty if you count Wahab. Most of those are here. Reilly and Phillie, back in San Antonio, know. But he wouldn't tell his mother and she's your girl. Harry Gordon and his a.s.sistant in Guyana know. They wouldn't tell anyone either. Terry Welch knows. So does Biggus d.i.c.kus. Their teams don't know. Cruz knows. So does Kosciusko. They're not going to say a word. Everyone else is pretty much in the dark. Illegal Mexicans are a.s.sembling kit planes near Seattle and have not clue one. A bunch of Chinese with Kosciusko just want to escape China."

Boxer chewed at his lower lip for a moment, then said, "In a way, we're not compromised enough."

Stauer's eyes widened, incredulously. "Huh?"

"I haven't told any of my contacts what's up. I need to, or eventually they're going to start asking questions and maybe interfering on general principle. You know Victor's reporting to the FSB. But he can only report what he knows, which is that men, arms, and equipment are being a.s.sembled for an operation. He or FSB could probably gather, based on the equipment list, that that operation will be in Africa. But since they don't know where, and since Russia has some interests in Africa, or thinks it does, they might want to stop us in case we are going to interfere with those interests. We need to a.s.sure them that this is not the case. Brazil doesn't know s.h.i.+t yet, I think. No," he corrected, "I'm sure they don't. But if they get a hint that an armed force of foreigners is being a.s.sembled on their soil they will certainly get difficult about it. And a surprise visit by Brazilian Marines would be a 'bad thing,' marca registrada."

The last warning, at least, wasn't a surprise. Indeed, the force was taking some pains to ensure the Brazilians stayed in the dark. The management team for the plantation they'd bought on what Khalid thought was his behalf had been reduced in numbers and the remainder segregated far away-thirty five miles-from the base camp. The camp itself was now, under the sergeant major's tutelage, quite well hidden despite the numbers of tents they'd set up. Supplies and personnel were to come in mostly by air from another country. And the trees were being cut in irregular patterns that tended to disguise the appearance of the field. And the really "dangerous" equipment would be offloaded to landing craft before the s.h.i.+p carrying it even reached Manaus.

"So you think we should bring both the Russians and the United States in on this?" Stauer shook his head. "The idea fills me with dread."

"Yes and no," Boxer said. "I think we should tell them slightly different stories . . . and slightly false ones. I'd like your permission to pa.s.s on to the United States Department of State that this is a Russian supported anti-piracy mission. They've had some problems with pirates in the area and so our folks shouldn't balk over that. We tell the Russians more of the truth, that this is a hostage rescue mission. If we have to be more honest about it, we can tell the Russkis just how we intend to rescue the hostage. All things considered, they'll approve. The United States would not."

Stauer considered this, then said, "You can talk to the Russians, since they've already got reason for suspicion. Arrange to take Victor with you. Not a word to State. When do you think you should go?"

"Probably in about five or six weeks," Ralph replied, accepting with good grace that Stauer had only taken his advice in part.

"Fair enough. Now who else is reporting to whom?" Stauer asked.

"None that I know of yet," Boxer replied. "But, once we get people here I'd like your permission to set up a cell under Bridges expressly to monitor any sat-phone traffic."

"Done," Stauer agreed. "And while it's not your bailiwick, what do you think of Victor's proposal to send us a couple of trainers c.u.m mechanics with the armored cars?"

"From a training aspect I wouldn't have an opinion," Boxer said. "Not my thing. From an intel point of view, more expressly a counter-intel point of view, I don't think it will matter. After all, you're not announcing where we're going until we're all aboard s.h.i.+p and at sea. By then I can confiscate all the phones."

"Speaking of communications devices," Stauer asked, "do we have commo up with The Drunken b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

"We do," Ralph answered. "They've got a man aboard the Galloway. They'll be striking tonight or tomorrow."

"Think the boy will be aboard?"

"Almost no chance or I wouldn't have recommended we go ahead. But we ought to be able to find out where they dropped him off."

Stauer nodded. "Yeah. Might be worth something." Stauer changed subjects. "What do you think about this proposal to replace the 90mm with that high velocity 60mm?"

"I wouldn't do it now."

"Why?"

"We'll have the anti-tank guided missile Ferrets if there is any armor we have to worry about. And even if there is, there won't be much. We need the larger sh.e.l.l of the 90s to take care of technicals, buildings, fortifications, groups of infantry. Also, I checked. n.o.body's ever mounted a gun that powerful in an Eland before and used it operationally. Hate to be the ones to discover that it deranges the turret."

"Point," Stauer agreed.

"And the two South Africans Victor wants to inflict on us won't know anything about the 60."

"Also a point."

D-107, near Tempe Base, Bloemfontein, South Africa

It was evening over South Africa by the time Victor had his answer. With evening, the rats came out. From their table by a window in a small, moderately upscale restaurant the three, Boer, Bantu, and Russian, could watch the rats as they emerged. Streets quiet in the day became quite lively by night.

"You're in," he told Boer and Bantu. "You're even wanted. But it's not a permanent posting. The organization involved is very ad hoc and temporary. It might, and I suspect it does, have unofficial ties to other organizations that may be more permanent.

"The pay is standard for your rank, within the group. In this case it's a bit over three hundred thousand Rand, each, for the entire contract period, which is about three and a half months."

"s.h.i.+t, man," Viljoen said, "that's a couple of years' pay. What do you say, Dumi?" he asked of his partner. "We can find something, somewhere, if we have two years pay each to live on while we do."

The black seemed disinclined to agree. Two years living expenses was not necessarily enough to start a new life somewhere else. Then, too, "What about our pensions?"

Viljoen snorted in derision. "Love, there aren't going to be any pensions paid here soon enough, not in anything that has any value. Maybe if they offered a lifetime of free goat meat and mealie. But why do that when they can 'pay' us in soon to be valueless Rand? And two years pay is over and above what we get for the noddy cars and ammunition."

He turned to Victor. "We won't be paid in Rand, will we?"

"No, USD."

At about that time there was a commotion from the street. All three looked out to see a car stopped by another one with a crowd of angry men around the former. The car's doors were locked. No matter, some of the men produced clubs and stones with which they proceeded to smash in the windows.

The man who had been driving the car was dragged out, the broken cla.s.s of the window slas.h.i.+ng his torso and leaving blood trails on the shards. The woman on the other side of the vehicle screamed as rough hands forced their way in and unlatched the door. She too, then, was dragged out. While the male driver was beaten by some of the crowd, others followed the pair dragging the woman off to somewhere. She screamed for a long time, but the police never came.

All of the partic.i.p.ants, on both sides, were black.

"I'm in," said the Bantu. "This is no place for a civilized man, of any color."