Vortex

After a moment, he looked away from the door and sat back. He’d seen it too often in the past few years to find it very interesting.

Bekker was a tall, lean man with a rugged face. His tanned features were covered with streaked black and green camouflage paint. The African sun had bleached his short cropped blond hair almost white. His camouflage uniform carried only the three stars of a captain on twin shoulder boards and a unit patch on his right sleeve. The patch bore the emblem of South Africa’s 44th Parachute Brigade.

He pulled the Velcro cover off his watch and checked the time. Just minutes left to the LZ. Bekker looked up and met the wide-open, frightened eyes of the informer, Nkume.

The black was a tall, thin Xhosa tribesman sitting as far away from the open door as the seating arrangements would allow. He looked out of place among the fourteen heavily armed paratroopers who were the helicopter’s other passengers. He was unarmed, dressed in worn civilian clothes. The soldiers wore helmets, camouflage gear, and carried compact and deadly assault rifles. They looked very sure of themselves. Nkume did not.

The South African officer scowled. He didn’t know the black man’s full name and he didn’t care. Though he realized that the success of this mission depended in large part on this cowardly kaffir, he didn’t have to like it. Bekker’s right hand closed around the trigger guard of his rifle and he nodded to himself. If Nkume endangered the mission or

Bekker’s men in any way, the black would soon be begging for death.

The helicopter pilot’s voice filled his earphones.

“I’m in contact with the pathfinders. LZ is clear. Two minutes.”

Bekker looked back at his men and held up two fingers. As they started checking their weapons and gear one last time, he unbuckled his seat straps and moved forward to stand behind the Puma’s flight crew. He stared through the cockpit windscreen.

He would not see the landing signal. Only the copilot’s infrared goggles could spot the light marking the drop zone. Instead, he studied the terrain, a mixture of patchy grass and brush.

The copilot said, “I have it,” and pointed. Bekker held on to the doorframe as the Puma banked sharply, turning to the new heading.

They were approaching a relatively open spot, clear of scrub and hidden from their objective by a low, boulder strewn hill.

The helicopter dipped lower still and Bekker felt the jar as it touched do~vn in a swirling, rotor-blown hail of dry grass and sand. He swung round and jumped out onto the ground, followed in a rush by the rest of his men. Two more troop carriers landed seconds later, followed by the last helicopter, a gunship. Soldiers emptied out of the transports, ducking low beneath slowing, still-turning rotor blades.

Assault rifles held ready, the first South African paratroopers were already fanning out into the surrounding brush. A figure detached itself from the shadows and ran to meet them.

Bekker waved the soldier over to him. They shook hands.

“Kaptein, I’m glad you made it.” Sergeant van Myghen was as tall as Bekker, but thicker, and much dirtier. He and his pathfinders had parachuted in hours earlier to secure the landing zone and scout their objective.

“Anything stirring?” Bekker asked.

“Nothing.” The sergeant’s contempt for their opponents was audible.

“But

I’ve got Kempler posted to keep an eye on the bastards all the same.

We’re about twenty-five hundred meters from the edge of town.”

“Good.” Bekker looked around the small clearing. His troops were assembled, ready to march in a spread column of twos with scouts and flankers thrown out to warn of any ambush. Two burly privates stood on either side of Nkume, each within easy knife reach. And nearby, the three lieutenants of his stripped-down company waited impatiently for orders.

He nodded to them.

“All right, gentlemen. Let’s get going. “

Teeth flashed white in the darkness and they scattered back to their units.

The column started moving, threading its way through the tangled vegetation in silence. There were no voices or clattering equipment to warn of their approach.

South Africa’s raiding force was nearing its target-one hundred and sixty kilometers inside the sovereign Republic of Zimbabwe.

STRIKE FORCE COMMAND GROUP, NEAR GAWAMBA,

ZIMBABWE

Bekker lay flat along the crest of a low hill overlooking the town of Gawamba. His officers and senior NCOs crouched beside him.

The soft, flickering light of a waning moon bathed Gawamba’s houses and fields in a dim silver glow. Bekker smiled to himself. It was perfect. They would have enough light to kill by.