"The Americans—they are next?" Pieter asks.
"No." Botha watches the Russians through his binoculars. "We stay. We have an ally in waiting."
"The Russians?"
"They will finish off the Arabs, then I will make them an offer."
"But the Russians will fight. We will risk too much. We should attack the Americans—they will plead for justice first before firing a weapon."
"No, we will leave the Americans until last. I understand them. They are resourceful. They are programmed from birth to win. They will kill other teams for us. The Russians belong to us."
"Belong?" Pieter asks.
"You are too young to remember our Border Wars, Pieter?" Botha steps down from the Humvee and joins the South Africans on the salt pan.
Pieter says, "But not too young to know your legend—the great Ng'ombe, The Bull. This is what they called you when you fought in Angola?"
Botha pauses, then says, "Ng'ombe." He smiles. "I have not heard anyone call me by that name in a long time. Too long."
"So I am right?"
"You are right, my friend. And if you know your history, then you will know how we beat the communists. They outnumbered us ten to one."
"Because we are Boers," Pieter says.
"Because we were white soldiers leading blacks and coloreds. The perfect combination for war. Any insurgents we captured were given two options—fight for us or die. We became invincible. They called us Battalion 32—The Terrible Ones."
"This is your plan for the Russians?"
"I will give them no other option."
"And what if they do not let us approach them?"
"Because you and Ajani will distract them. You will take the Humvee." Botha raises his field glasses and looks out again toward the gray container in the far distance.
"How?"
"Leave us, then head over the horizon. Drive around them, then wait ahead of them, out of their range. You will hold their attention."
"And you?"
"We will stalk them. Now, go."
Pieter and Ajani run to the Humvee and jump into the truck's front cab. Pieter roars its engine to life and heads the vehicle away from the gray container.
The South Africans gather around Botha and watch the pink Humvee disappear over the horizon.
Botha addresses his team: "We will not attack. We will surprise. We go on foot. Single file. There will be silence. No sound. You will all follow me. Do you understand?"
The Africans nod in unison.
Botha turns and walks toward the Arab container. His team follows him in a single line, weapons poised.
***
At the Arab container, a Russian grabs hold of an Arab prisoner. He points a pistol at her head and motions her to walk outwards, to the open ground in front of the container.
"No, please! I am a mother," she begs.
"Then go mother and find your child," the Russian says.
He fires a pistol at the woman's feet. She runs and makes it twenty yards out from the container, then fifty, then sprints for her life until she reaches one hundred yards out.
On the container's roof, the Russian leader yells over to his teammates, "FIRE!"
They blast their automatic weapons at the terrified Arab. Bullets rip through her back. She is mowed down.
The Russian leader says, "Send the next one!"
***
In the South African Humvee, Ajani asks Pieter. "How did you know?"
"Know what?"
"The name they called him?"
"Ng'ombe?"
"Yes."
"My father served alongside him. He told me the story. I recognized him by his hand—maimed—two fingers missing."
"Tell me it, the story," Ajani says.
"They were called the Buffalo soldiers."
"His Battalion?"
"Yes, Battalion 32. No other fighting unit could come close to them. Botha was in command of them for three years. He was an exceptional officer. His men loved him because he was courageous. He led them to many victories. After one tour, they were off duty. It was evening and they'd set up camp at Karupu Strip on the Namibian border. It was basic. There was no electricity, so they used to wash in the river. Botha was there alone when a ten-foot croc tried to take him. It grabbed him by his left hand. He used his right hand to hang on to a tree stump. He fought for his life. Imagine that, a helluva tug-of-war, I tell you."
"Did he not scream for help?"
"That was the thing. He could have—but he didn't. It was him and him alone against a five-hundred-pound croc that wanted him for dinner. Each battling for his life. Each not giving in. It was a war of wills—the ultimate struggle to see who wanted to live the most. I would have paid all the money in the world to see that fight."
"That is incredible! How did it end?"
"He lasted an hour. Eventually, he could not hold on for any longer and the croc pulled him in and took him under, then starts a death roll. Later, he said, even under the water, he could hear the bones in his hand breaking. The croc never let go."
"Holy mother of Mary!"
"He knew that crocodiles have a valve in their throats—that's how they avoid drowning. Using the last of his strength, he managed to push down on the valve and drown the croc, then he dragged it out of the water and onto the riverbank. He collapsed, and that's how his men found him, half his left hand gone and half dead. But he'd won again. He'd beaten the croc. So they named him Ng'ombe—The Bull."
"I have never heard a more thrilling story. A strong man with his type of courage will lead us to victory here today. Ng'ombe—God has chosen you."
"No, Ajani," Pieter says, "it is Ng'ombe who chooses, and it is he who has chosen God."
