Operation Southern Cross (Excalibur IC)

[Kouralia]

Reide did a double-take - such was his impotent anger as to exactly what this "Talbot" fellow was playing at that he completely failed to the Colour coming up behind him.
"Oh! Erm...yes, good idea. I'll follow you."

"Okay sir." Smythe said, grabbing him by the arm and running back, keeping hold of him - both to ensure they remained together, and that Reide didn't collapse or anything. In no time at all they were back in the drain and awaiting Page's reply, one which fortunately meant that the Colour Serjeant didn't need to use his rifle once he'd picked it up. Watching the conversation, he took a knee and kept the weapon held in control of, though not shouldering when ordered to form up on the Captain. As he moved closer, he decided it was worth calling out to the senior Officer, despite what the native escort might think, or whether or not Page really wanted the interruption. "Sir, would you be bringing the lorry and Flight Sergeant Sikorskivitch with us, or should I switch off the engine now?"

[Len Hyet]

"Brasshats, care more fer their fruit salads than the poor beggars that serve under 'em." Sighed Charlie. "I'm willing to risk jankers and take a Spit up to do a beatup over the town unless any of ye lot have a better idea."

"If anything with the Spit I could have a shufti and see what our beloved Major wants to send us into."

---

Whilst much of the squadron's attention was on the locals who were blocking the road ahead, Kaya kept a wary eye on the South African and slowly shuffled away from him and closer to the rest of the squadron. When she got the chance she would try and speak to another member of the squadron about how uncomfortable the South African sergeant was making her.

"Sorry Charlie" Silva said, the first utterance of a statement that would echo throughout the ages and bring untold misery to countless Charles', Charlie's, and Chuck's.

"Orders are orders, and honestly the paperwork for a court martial is far more paperwork than I'm willing to do. You all ready to charge forward into oblivion so that we might discover just what in the hell is going on?"

[The Tiger Kingdom]

As he moved closer, he decided it was worth calling out to the senior Officer, despite what the native escort might think, or whether or not Page really wanted the interruption. "Sir, would you be bringing the lorry and Flight Sergeant Sikorskivitch with us, or should I switch off the engine now?"

Page grimaced - he'd nearly forgotten about the body in all the excitement. Neither option really appeared workable: he could hardly just abandon the truck and the Russian's body out here in the middle of nowhere, but if the rest of the ghetto was going to be pockmarked with these roadblocks, they could hardly have the truck following them around. To say nothing of how clumsy the big vehicle would be on these narrow side-streets. And moreover, he didn't want a useful soldier wasted dragging the lorry about.

Trying to think of a way out of this newest of dilemmas, his gaze passed over the Excalibur positions in the street gutters and saw Coetzee, with Kaya situated at a very healthy distance from him. It didn't take telepathy for him to practically feel her discomfort at him being there, and from the little while Page had spent in the South African's company, he could hardly blame her. While the Sergeant hadn't betrayed them (yet), there was no doubt something a little bit..off...about him. It would probably be in everyone's best interests if he were to be removed from the situation.

"Neither, Colour," he responded to Smythe, "I've a better idea. Sergeant!"
The South African turned his head. "Sir?"
"I want you to take that truck back to Rand right away. Circle it around the Township if you have to to avoid these blocks, but the Flight Sergeant's body has to get back there. Once you arrive at Rand, see that the body's attended to, and then await our return. Understood?"
The Sergeant's face was unreadable in the dark, but his tone was as unchanging and oddly flat as ever. "Of course, sir, I'll get on it right away. Good luck to you."
With that, he scampered out of the gutter and into the cab.

Page returned his gaze forward to see the detachment of the local militia charged with accompanying Excalibur staring at him, this group evidently being led by the younger fellow who'd been conferencing with the leader. The man wasn't holding a weapon, but Page couldn't help noticing his pistol, held on an ill-fitting shirt holster.
"Are your men ready to proceed?" he asked, his voice quiet but confident.
"Indeed they are," Page replied pleasantly, "I've just dispatched one of them to return the body of one of our comrades to our base, that's all. Lead on."
"Very well."

He paused for a moment, as if trying to find the right words. Page noticed he had a heavy accent like none he'd ever heard before - clearly, the man's first language was not English, but it was easy enough to comprehend.
"You are not going to be disarmed. But if there is any funny business, I promise you, you will regret it."
"Understood," Page replied levelly.
For a moment, the two men stared each other right in the eye, taking the measure of each other. Page almost wanted to laugh - the man practically looked like a teenager, but spoke and carried himself as if he were much older. He wasn't yelling and speechifying like the clearly much older leader who'd been speaking a while before, but this young fellow had a comparable air of authority all on his own.

Finally, the man broke eye contact, and began heading down one of the side streets, the gang following on his heels.
"Follow me, then. Quickly."
"EXCALIBUR! FALL IN!" Page called to the group, and walked forward into the unknown...

[Kouralia]

"Neither, Colour," he responded to Smythe, "I've a better idea. Sergeant!"
The South African turned his head. "Sir?"
"I want you to take that truck back to Rand right away. Circle it around the Township if you have to to avoid these blocks, but the Flight Sergeant's body has to get back there. Once you arrive at Rand, see that the body's attended to, and then await our return. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. Very good sir." Smythe said, standing aside from the lorry door to let the odd South African on into the vehicle and moving back to where Flight Lieutenant Noble and the rest of the... remaining members of Red Flight were. Standing there he kept control of the SMLE, its bayonet still fixed and the weapon carried in an arguably threatening pose that left it ready for use at less than a moment's notice. An accompanying stare-off with the closest South African let the native know that this state of affairs would be continuing, and wordlessly conveyed the sentence 'just you try and stop me' in a manner that didn't invite much confidence in the success of 'trying'. As they moved off, the Colour Serjeant kept his eyes and ears open for any signs of attack, or treachery - because someone had to remain a suspicious bastard, despite the justified pity felt and support lent to the citizens.

[Morrdh]

"Sorry Charlie" Silva said, the first utterance of a statement that would echo throughout the ages and bring untold misery to countless Charles', Charlie's, and Chuck's.

"Orders are orders, and honestly the paperwork for a court martial is far more paperwork than I'm willing to do. You all ready to charge forward into oblivion so that we might discover just what in the hell is going on?"

"And get shot at fer Crown and Country." Charlie added with a sigh. "Guess somebody has to do the pongos' job even if they won't."

"Best get weaving then, sooner we get this done perhaps the sooner I'll be screened."

---

Kaya breathed a sigh of relief when Coetzee was ordered back to base, it was like the atmosphere suddenly brightened (though that may had been somebody's torch being shone in her direction). Regardless she quickened her pace to catch up with Page and quietly said. "Thanks skip."

[United Kingdom of Poland]

"Sorry Charlie" Silva said, the first utterance of a statement that would echo throughout the ages and bring untold misery to countless Charles', Charlie's, and Chuck's.

"Orders are orders, and honestly the paperwork for a court martial is far more paperwork than I'm willing to do. You all ready to charge forward into oblivion so that we might discover just what in the hell is going on?"

"And get shot at fer Crown and Country." Charlie added with a sigh. "Guess somebody has to do the pongos' job even if they won't."

"Best get weaving then, sooner we get this done perhaps the sooner I'll be screened."

---

Kaya breathed a sigh of relief when Coetzee was ordered back to base, it was like the atmosphere suddenly brightened (though that may had been somebody's torch being shone in her direction). Regardless she quickened her pace to catch up with Page and quietly said. "Thanks skip."

"Yup, we are not to wonder why, just to do and die" Matt replied getting into the passanger seat of the lorry. "Wonder if the major had smething to do with that massive fuck up you brits call the battle of the Somme."
you know god... he thought just once in this war could we not have a plan go haywire do to every possibly unforscene circumstance happening at the same time.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Watched from behind, Page led the squadron down the street the gang's second-in-command had indicated. He could see the main body of the gang a distance ahead of them - it looked like the two groups would try and keep Excalibur pinned between them, so that both could keep an eye on the British interlopers.

Regardless she quickened her pace to catch up with Page and quietly said. "Thanks skip."

"Hm? Oh, don't mention it, Corporal," Page replied conspiratorially, a sardonic half-smile on his face despite the seriousness of the situation as the South African loped off back to the truck under the combined watch of Smythe and his trusty bayonet (which Page was beginning to see as less of a weapon in the Colour's eyes and more of a...life partner? Was that the term?), "He was really starting to bloody well give me the creeps too, the squinty little bugger."

"Skipper!" Alix called out from behind him. Page turned to see her and that South African lieutenant fellow whose name he couldn't remember walking towards him, the latter looking wan and a little confused, one hand at his temple.
"If we're going to be sending people back to Rand, we should send Reide over as well. He can barely walk-"

"What's going on here?" the gang's 2-i-C asked suspiciously, moving forward to confront the trio, his hand reaching in the direction of his shoulder holster.

For the first time, Page saw the man clearly and up close. In contrast to the group's leader with whom Page had verbally sparred earlier, who had looked like some classically-sculpted carving of some overheated Western artist's impression of a Zulu war chief, the wiry young man in front of Page looked less...dramatic. He was shorter than the Captain, for one, albeit not by much. His jet-black hair was cut short, right to his head, and his face was broad and wide, with a sheer-angled forehead, high, prominent cheeks, and flat nose, a slight growth of untrimmed stubble around his mouth. In contrast to most of his gang, who were clad in the rough attire of the streets, it looked to Page like was clad in finer, well-fitting clothes than the rest were. To the Captain, he looked more like a student than a street-brawler.

But what made the difference were his eyes. They really were remarkable - they were narrow and set deeply in his face, the wrinkle lines around his eyes creating deep black slashes in the skin, making it look as though he were squinting even in the dark. And he was - and yet it was the cool squint of command, of authority, of natural gravitas that was projected out to the world. This gaze was neither friendly nor threatening in and of itself - it simply was. Even though those eyes belonged to a gangly kid barely even out of his teens (if he was out of them at all) who looked more like he should be in a college classroom somewhere than out in the street leading armed and dangerous men, they radiated calm control of the situation in a way that numerous officers Page had met would probably kill for.
Page didn't intend to flatter himself, but he thought he had a pretty good grasp on the look himself.

"Sorry for the delay," Page said as lightheartedly as possible, maintaining full eye contact with the man, matching him eye-for-eye in steely resolve, "but you see, we're trying to take care of our casualties before we head out with you. On top of the body I mentioned, we also have a walking wounded - Lieutenant...erm...Reide, here -"
Page gestured to the Lieutenant, who waved slightly at the second-in-command. The latter's eyes narrowed even further and his expression turned to ice as he noticed Reide's UDF uniform.
" - who we wanted to send back to our base as well, for medical care..."
Page motioned with his head for Reide to get in the truck. It took a second, but the Lieutenant eventually got the idea.

"...I trust that's no problem?" Page finished.
"No, but hurry up. We do not have all night."
"Fine, fine."

---

A few moments later, the truck had departed for Rand - and the eight remaining Excaliburs, no longer burdened by their UDF aides, were on the move. They weren't prisoners, really, but they were now definitely swept up in something Page hadn't really been counting on. As they moved through the streets, Page stopped trying to count members of the "Warriors" when he reached forty - the long and the short of it was, they were badly outnumbered and on deadly ground.

The nagging, horrible thought of whether he had done the right thing in going along with the leader's choice began to gnaw away at the back of his mind. Had he just surrendered the unit? Had he just delivered his men into the hands of bandits? The thought of this going as wrong as Taurus chewed at his guts like a swarm of rats as he walked. But as he thought, and his hyperactive mind switched from eager overconfidence to the most morbid of the worst-case scenarios imaginable he could imagine, he didn't see what would have been a better option. The choice had been clear - he could go along with the leader's request, which seemed reasonable enough in and of itself, or open fire on a group of people who they didn't seem to have any real quarrel with at all. These people weren't Nazis, or Germans, or even much of a "gang" at all. They hadn't shook them down for money, or tried to take them hostage (at least not yet), or anything like that.

"So just to be clear," Alix's voice suddenly emanated from beside Page - he hadn't noticed her coming up, "what exactly have you committed us to?"
Page shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothing to be scared about, if you're worried. All we're supposed to do...I think...is follow this fellow a ways to where they've got some of their people demonstrating against the police or something, and it's looking like things might be get violent. They'll try to talk down their people, and we'll try to put in a good word for them to the local constabuary- you know, throw around British authority, all that - and then get the hell out of here as fast as we can."
Alix arced an eyebrow. "On foot?"
Oh...shit.
Yeah, maybe we should've brought a backup truck.

"Well," Page began, trying to make it sound like he'd actually considered that element of things beforehand, "if there's constabulary there, we could radio for pickup - hell, we could probably blag some transport from the rozzers, if we felt like it.
"Erm...rozzers?"
"Right, they should have-"

Page looked over to see she looked more confused than dubious - then it hit him as to why.
"Yeah, Lieutenant...the rozzers. The police."
"Oh. Right." She looked mildly embarrassed. "I'd never heard that one before."
Now it was Page's turn to raise a teasing eyebrow, despite the gravity of the situation. "Shame. You can speak...six...seven languages? And you'd be unable to communicate as soon as you got to Croydon."
She flushed. "Very funny. Anyways, sounds like it could work."

They were both quiet for a moment.
"Just for the record, Skipper," she ventured quietly after a few minutes of walking, "I'm glad we didn't end up shooting anybody back there. This is still all kinds of crazy, but...it's better than the alternative. I think we're doing the right thing, here."
Page suddenly felt much better.
"Thanks, Lieutenant, I...I really appreciate that. You haven't done too shabbily either. From what I can tell, you made the best out of a bad situation over there at that mansion - it was all a ridiculous setup, but you got out of it. takes a pretty skilled officer to pull that off."

A pained expression crossed her face.
"It didn't go nearly as well as it could've," she said quietly, "even given that it was a trap."

"If this is about Lev," Page replied, "no plan ever made survives combat. If you're going into this expecting never to lose anybody...then you're not living in reality. If you know what you're doing, and did the best you could by him, and you carried out the mission as best you could, and he died anyways, then there's nothing else you could possibly have done. And I'm sure you did your best on all three of those counts. Especially given how badly the UDF screwed us over, and like Is aid earlier, I'm going to make sure the truth about this gets out. Personally."

She didn't seem very soothed by these words - almost like there was something else weighing on her mind.
"I...I suppose you're right."

"I know I'm right," Page said confidently. "You wouldn't be my XO if I thought you'd ever do otherwise, and what's more, you proved me right. You think I forgot all that crazy work you did tracking me and Talbot down and pulling us off that plane? You think an incompetent officer could do that? Do you think anybody less than an absolutely superb officer could even try, much less pull it off? No, I don't think so. Hell, I don't even know if I could do something like that. I know when I've picked a winner, Noble."

Alix didn't respond right away. Page looked over to see her staring fixedly at the ground, eyes wide open.
"...You all right, Lieutenant?"
"Yes," she muttered, her voice sounding oddly constrained and thick. "I'm fine. You're very kind, Captain. Thank you."
"Don't mention it," Page said casually. "Like I said before, we shouldn't be beating ourselves up when the real people responsible for all this are still out there."

[Kouralia]

Smythe just followed the group, keeping his eye out for trouble and meeting any glares from the natives with his own stare, making sure they knew which group should be top-dog, even if based on numbers alone it wasn't really.

[Len Hyet]

"And get shot at fer Crown and Country." Charlie added with a sigh. "Guess somebody has to do the pongos' job even if they won't."

"Best get weaving then, sooner we get this done perhaps the sooner I'll be screened."

---

Kaya breathed a sigh of relief when Coetzee was ordered back to base, it was like the atmosphere suddenly brightened (though that may had been somebody's torch being shone in her direction). Regardless she quickened her pace to catch up with Page and quietly said. "Thanks skip."

"Yup, we are not to wonder why, just to do and die" Matt replied getting into the passanger seat of the lorry. "Wonder if the major had smething to do with that massive fuck up you brits call the battle of the Somme."
you know god... he thought just once in this war could we not have a plan go haywire do to every possibly unforscene circumstance happening at the same time.

"Right then." Silva grunted, "Private Ellsworth, into town as quick as you please." The Private nodded shakily, as the remainder of Blue Flight piled into the truck and it roared out of the gates of the UDF Base and towards the nearby city.

Silva quietly went over his Browning a few times, keeping his head low. Something about this whole mess just felt off to him. The last time things had felt off half the squadron had ended up as Germany POWs, and Noble had launched what in his mind was the least likely to succeed plot ever. And yet somehow they had managed. Silva had a healthy disdain for "somehow managing" because it relied on luck. As far as this American was concerned, Luck was a cold hearted bitch with a penchant for destruction.

[Morrdh]

"Looks like we're the cavalry in 'em ruddy Westerns." Muttered Charlie as the truck set off. "Least I hope Cuntler isn't using us as the Light Brigade."

"Which reminds me..." Charlie continued. "Silva, did ye find anything 'interesting' amongst the dear Major's paperwork?"

[Len Hyet]

"Looks like we're the cavalry in 'em ruddy Westerns." Muttered Charlie as the truck set off. "Least I hope Cuntler isn't using us as the Light Brigade."

"Which reminds me..." Charlie continued. "Silva, did ye find anything 'interesting' amongst the dear Major's paperwork?"

Silva laughed as the truck rolled along.

"You mean aside from that he's a slob of a man with poor attention to organization and a penchant for writing down highly confidential information including the radio codes for the mission? No. I was too busy dropping cigar ash."

He grinned.

"Everywhere."

[United Kingdom of Poland]

"Looks like we're the cavalry in 'em ruddy Westerns." Muttered Charlie as the truck set off. "Least I hope Cuntler isn't using us as the Light Brigade."

"Which reminds me..." Charlie continued. "Silva, did ye find anything 'interesting' amongst the dear Major's paperwork?"

Silva laughed as the truck rolled along.

"You mean aside from that he's a slob of a man with poor attention to organization and a penchant for writing down highly confidential information including the radio codes for the mission? No. I was too busy dropping cigar ash."

He grinned.

"Everywhere."

"So nothing we can bring to Page then, well besides the complete lack of operational security part. Maybe the Jerries found out about us from looking through his trash." Matt joked. "and really, only cigar ash, that was the best you could come up with."

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Meanwhile, on the truck...
Still making little progress in recalling his memories, Reide was getting more and more desperate for a revelation as he sat back down in the truck. He felt profoundly vulnerable, totally defenseless, and he couldn't stand it. It was lucky those British fellows had been considerate enough to send him home (especially that nice woman who had sat next to him on the way back from that awful estate), but overall, he couldn't appreciate it very much with his mind in the terrible way it was. He just wanted to curl up in a ball, lose himself in his brain, and try to get his memories back...

So needless to say, he was more than a little taken aback when his driver (a fellow UDF trooper, by the look of him) turned around at the wheel and momentarily stared him down.
"So what the hell happened?"
"Sorry?"
The trooper seemed very angry. "Why didn't you kill off your group? They were supposed to all be dead, and we've only got one of them! That was the plan, wasn't it?"
Reide couldn't respond - he had no idea what the man was blabbering about.
"Erm...I hit my head..." he said by way of explanation, not sure what else he possibly could say.

For a second, the Sergeant was totally bewildered. Then, the realization hit Coetzee like a ton of bricks - the German agent had lost his memory.
"Oh, Christ..."

What the hell was he to do?
Got to jog his memory somehow...but how?

---

Some distance away, on the other side of Soweto from Excalibur...

Keeping to the darkest shadows in the alleys and side-streets, Lieutenant Van Brecht moved quickly and surely through the streets to his target. It was quite a ways, but knowing the streets of Johannesburg like the back of his hand, on top of his excellent physical conditioning, meant that he could make good time through the city as he headed southwest. It was nearly midnight, now, and if he avoided the more commercial parts of the towns, the chances of him being spotted by anybody were nearly nil. All he had to do was keep to the darkened, sleepy residential areas, and he'd be fine.

As he moved further and further south, the conditions of the houses and roads slowly began to get worse and worse. The fine houses in the north gave way to decidedly more working-class domiciles, and then houses nearing on being full-fledged slums. The streets got darker, too - the bright, well-maintained street lamps of the more well-to-do areas were nowhere to be seen in the poorer neighborhoods, which were frequently plunged into near-total blackness. Not that he noticed to any great extent - his mission was too important to enjoy the sights.

Finally, from off in the distance, he could hear what sounded almost like the roar of the ocean in the direction of the Township borderline. Creeping closer, the roar resolved itself into a clamor of voices, yelling, shouting, singing, and chanting. Brecht felt a twinge of relief - the plan had worked. The natives were out in their thousands tonight, exactly as the General had planned. It was a stroke of genius on his part - the kaffirs had no idea how badly they'd been played. Once it had gotten through the grapevine that the blacks would be coming out tonight to demonstrate, it had been child's play to assure that the right people would be in position to start the Third Freedom War off on the right foot.

And it would be his signal honor to fire the first shot of the war, though he knew his name would never get in the history books for it, but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make.
He'd know, and that was what mattered.

He knew exactly where he was, and where he was supposed to me - he'd studied the maps of this area religiously for the last week straight. He'd picked out the best angles, memorized the streets, and made his best guesses as to the optimal access route. Glimpsing the massive agglomeration of people in the square around the Township gates through the alleys and gaps between the buildings, he also spied a huge formation of the local police keeping a solid line to the mass of natives...as well as the OB detachment lending them support, positioned right on their flank. Excellent.

Everything was in position, except for him.
He checked his watch - it was now 1145. He had fifteen minutes to get into position, which he estimated would leave him ten minutes of leeway. Brecht counted the alleys as he stalked past them...three to go...two...one...
Finally, he darted down one of them, scanning the walls of one of the bordering buildings for a way up. This particular building was six stories, one of the tallest on the block, which meant that there had to be some way up to the roof -
Ah. The fire escape will do nicely.

Carefully clambering his way up the rickety structure, Brecht finally alighted upon the rooftop. Getting down on his belly, he inched forward towards the edge of the building, unslung his Mauser, brought the scope to his eye, and looked out down below.
His practiced eye scanned over the vast swathe of the crowd, searching for his target. He had ten minutes, now...

[The Tiger Kingdom]

(Post co-written by Gren and Tiger)

"...when the real people responsible for all this are still out there."

Alix was grateful for the chance to talk about something else - the emotional minefield that he'd put her in with all that praise was making her deeply uncomfortable, for a number of reasons. In better times, she might have been more receptive to it, even flattered by it, but right now, given what had happened with Geoff and Doug on top of Lev's death, it just made her feel even worse (not that Page knew what he was doing). For a moment, she was again tempted to reveal the exact truth of what had happened with Lev - just rip off the Band-Aid and get it all off of her chest - but her common sense stopped her. If back in the truck hadn't been the best time to do something like that, she could hardly rationalize why it would be better here, after all. Maybe it was cowardly, but it just seemed like a bad idea to air something like that out now.

"Actually, that reminds me," she quickly interjected, jumping on the chance to chance the subject while it was still there, "How are you feeling? Being back in combat in everything, I'd imagine it'd be a bit of an adjustment."
"I feel fine," Page nonchalantly sniffed.
"Really?"
"Really."

Alix half-grinned with exasperation.
"Well, now I know you're lying. I've broken my arm before, Skipper, I know how badly it hurts. You've probably got...what, another month of that thing on your arm? On top of being in a plane crash, and all the other awful things you've been through? I don't even know how you're moving right now."
Page blew out a breath contemplatively. "Well, the alternative being sitting on my arse in a hospital bed or an office somewhere - maybe with Cutler - counting cracks in the ceiling might have something to do with it."
"Good point, but still. You'd honestly trade actual safety and...you know...recovery, for being here, right now?"

To emphasize her point, she gestured around the dirty slums and the rather suspicious, trigger-happy militia around them.

"Of course."
"Just to avoid being bored?"
"No, not just to avoid being bored," Page replied happily, sounding like the real answer was obvious, "mostly because I'm having fun."

Alix was so taken aback by this, trying to decide whether that was one of the most impressive or terrifying things she'd ever heard, it too her a moment to register that Page was still talking.
"Actually, speaking of combat - I'd been meaning to ask you what it was like, fighting the OB. On top of that-" Page looked around momentarily, noticing that Jimmy was nearby, "let's get an opinion from the enlisteds as well. Flight Sergeant Thibodeaux!"
Page gestured the American over (privately, he was quite pleased with myself that he'd finally gotten the pronunciation right).
"I was curious - what were your opinions of the OB in combat? What was fighting them like? Are they as good as the Germans?"

Turning towards Page, Jimmy replied, "I wouldn't know, sir. I never fought krauts on the ground before, so I can't say. But I have fought scum suckers like the OB before, and aside from being slightly better equipped and being better organized, they're not that much different from the KKK. The Klan is dangerous, but as long as you pay attention to what's happening, and don't get too cocky, they're not as dangerous. I'd say the same thing about the OB. So long as we don't have to face another UDF battalion, we should be perfectly fine. Was there anything else you wanted to know, Cap?"

That's right...he hasn't actually fought the Germans mano-a-mano yet, Page recalled.
But this mention of the Klan...what was all that about? He'd read about them before, of course - some redneck militia in the US not that dissimilar from the reports on the OB, who hated blacks and Yankees almost as much as they loved incest and the letter K - but what did Jimmy know about fighting those bastards? Page resolved right there, once they'd gotten back to the Llamrei, to get the full story somehow.

"What about you, Lieutenant? What did you think, fighting them?"
"Well," Alix hesitantly ventured, choosing her words carefully, "it seemed to me that their whole assault was a bit...er...more awkward than I'd come to expect from the Germans, for example."
"Awkward?"
"Yes, I think so. To me, it seemed like...like they weren't really accustomed to fighting together in an assembled group like they were, during the counterattack. They moved individually, not in unit formations, and they didn't appear very well-disciplined or coordinated."
"Being annihilated by their own air support would give that impression as well, I would guess."
Alix nodded. "That threw me for a loop too - I know that Blue Flight had gotten to them...but I can't understand why they'd have been so free and easy with jettisoning all those bombs right over where their people were attacking."
"Well, panic can do that to people," Page replied thoughtfully. But it did make sense
It was all beginning to come together in Page's mind when another voice cut in.

"What you must remember of the Ossewabrandwag, most of all, is that they are cowards."

Page turned his head to see that this new remark, dripping with contempt, had come from the gang's sub-leader, who had evidently caught up with them and had been listening in.
"...Is that so?" Page cautiously replied.
"Yes. They truly are scum. They posture and pose a great deal, but they'll only fight if they outnumber you and your comrades by half again. If it's a fair fight, they'll turn tail and run like dogs. You say you've fought them already?"
Page nodded.
"How many did you fight?"
"Well," Page said, "the Lieutenant here said the formation was battalion-sized, so that's...around 120 men, plus a bomber formation."
"And how many were you?"
"About twelve."
"You see what I mean."
"And the OB were disguised as the UDF, who we were supposed to be working with." Alix interjected with a note of bitter humor.

"So you do believe us...that we're against the OB, on your side, all of that?" Page interjected hopefully.
The sub-leader shrugged. "Personally, I think that if you were really with the OB or UDF, you'd have started shooting back there. Now, honestly, I'm not sure what to think. I don't think you were sent to hurt us, and I don't even think you're South African. If you were British, I'd be all for letting you go, but it's not my decision - at least, not mine alone."

"Listen, friend," Page leaned over to say, "what's your name? I'm feeling a bit put out that none of your people have introduced themselves to us yet."
The sub-leader thought for a moment, his brows furrowed.
"You can take your time. It's a tough question, I know," Page joked, grinning.
"It's not that," the man said, "I am trying to think of a name you can pronounce."
"...That I can pronounce?" Page said, confused.

"Oh!" Alix realized, "your name must be in that language...with all the snapping and clicking?"

The sub-leader glared at her. "Yes, I am Xhosa*, and you probably wouldn't be able to pronounce my name. Aside from that, I'm not dumb enough to give my real name away to a government military official, no matter how well-intentioned they might be. So, I'm trying to think of a suitable other name."
"Good idea," Page admitted, "our tongues probably couldn't get around all those clicks."
"Oh, maybe yours couldn't..." Alix chirpily countered.

It took Page a moment for that to sink in - and when the double-take finally hit, her face was the picture of total innocence.
That...can't have been what she meant.

Thankfully, the sub-leader appeared not to have noticed. "You can call me Tembu."
"All right, Mr. Tembu," Page said, grateful for the distraction, "I'm Page, like I mentioned earlier, and this is my executive officer, Lieutenant Alix Noble. Good to meet you."
Tembu nodded to acknowledge Page and was about to do the same for Alix when he made the inevitable realization.
"...You British have women soldiers?" he asked, staring at Alix.
"If they're good enough, yeah," said Page nonchalantly.
The Xhosa grunted his surprise, and then wisely decided not to comment on it further.

"So I don't suppose," Page said conspiratorially, gesturing forward to the group of Warriors ahead of them, the towering form of the leader visible even from their current distance and through the dark haze of the slums, "you'd be willing to tell me about your little group's leader?"
"You mean Elijah?"

Page furrowed his brow. "Didn't you just say that you don't give your names out?"
"Elijah is the exception. We conceal our names to protect ourselves and our families. I think Elijah sent his family out of the city a long time ago, to the countryside, so they are not under threat - and he welcomes the thought of the police or OB coming to get him. At any rate, he's the leader. He sets the rules. He's survived more street battles than any of the rest of us put together."
"A real brawler, eh?"
"He has no equal. I admit, I haven't seen this firsthand - I've only been in Johannesburg for a month or so. But I'm told he's a great fighter."

Page was still confused. "Wait...you got picked to be one of his lieutenants after only being in town for a few weeks?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
A shadow of a grin passed over Tembu's practically-adolescent face. "Because my reputation preceded me."

A yell from the forward group cut off any further prospect of questioning. The roar of the crowd was getting higher and higher.
"We're here," Tembu said. "Now, all you're to do is to talk to the police, get them to back off, and we'll both be able to get on with our evenings."

*Sounding to Page and Alix like "*CLICK*hosa"

[Goram]

EXCALIBUR! FALL IN!

Stanford begrudgingly pulled himself to his feet. Night had fallen some time ago now and yet it still seemed impossibly hot. There seemed to be no humidity in the air either, just a constant dry heat that left one sweating out buckets full at a time. As the Flying Officer fell in, he reached behind his back for the standard issue canteen that was holstered to his belt kit, nestled between bombs and bayonet sheath. He fumbled with the snap fasteners that kept the vessel secure, only able to use one hand as the other was otherwise occupied, grasping the hand guard of his long rifle. After the expenditure of a considerable amount of effort, he'd finally managed to worm the canteen out of it's canvas container when he realised several pairs of eyes were glued to him. It seemed as though the locals did not overly appreciate having one of their new found "allies" rummaging around a belt kit so obviously filled with weapons and ammunition.

One of the "warriors", if one could really call them warriors, advanced and rounded on the Flying Officer angrily. The warrior unleashed a torrent of irate sounding snaps and clicks. Although Stanford had no earthly idea what the man was saying, or what language he was saying it in, the exchange had a define air of

"What is that and what are you going to do with it?"

about it. The RAF man's first instinct was to drop the canteen and raise his rifle. The UDF had attempted to kill them earlier this evening. Once the Squadron had done what was asked of them, whose to say the warriors wouldn't turn on the British as well? Perhaps it would just be better to kill them first and be done with this ridiculous cock up of an operation. It wouldn't be difficult, either. The man stood within bayonet range. All Stanford had to do was drop the canteen and lunge forward. He doubted the warrior in front of him would be fast enough to parry...The thought lingered for a second or two, whilst the local let fly another, angrier, torrent of snaps and clicks. However, cooler heads would prevail. The groups were intermingled, combat would turn into a brawl with losses on both sides. A fight might yet be inevitable, but now probably wasn't the time. Thus, Stanford slowly produced the canteen from behind his back, lifted it up and shook it, so the water inside sloshed around, audibly.

"Water. It's water, like you drink."

Stanford said to the man

"You understand? Water."

The warrior clearly didn't understand the words, but the sound of the liquid splashing around seemed to placate him. He snapped out another volley of incomprehensible sounds, rounded on his heel and marched back to his comrades. Stanford watched him go, with an air of incredulity.

"Bloody idiots..."

He muttered as he unscrewed the canteen lid. He had drunk steadily from it prior to the Operation but with all that had gone on since the start of the assault on General van Huidebroeke's estate, the British officer had completely forgotten how thirsty he was and how much he was perspiring. Passing out from dehydration probably wasn't the best way to endear oneself to the unit and the junior officer now needed all the friends he could get. He brought the canteen up to his mouth, splashing the water over his parched lips. It was as warm as a cup of tea, but at least it was wet. He swallowed a mouth full before clumsily returning the container to his belt kit. He would gladly have polished off the entire contents of the canteen, but common sense stated it was better to ration it. There was no way to tell how much longer this operation might go on for or if there would be a chance at resupply.

The Squadron and their new allies walked on through the deserted streets. It was dark, but Stanford could make out the pair at the head of the makeshift column, a man and a woman - too tall to be Kaya. Therefore it had to be Noble and Page, as no one else would natter to a senior officer the way the Captain would. Stanford immediately feared the worst. She was probably establishing her version of events, even now, in the CO's mind. The Flying Officer ambled across the group, towards Geoff.

"Mr. Talbot, Sir."

He said quietly

"The Commander is going to sell us down the river, to save her own neck, isn't she?"

[The Two Jerseys]

The Squadron and their new allies walked on through the deserted streets. It was dark, but Stanford could make out the pair at the head of the makeshift column, a man and a woman - too tall to be Kaya. Therefore it had to be Noble and Page, as no one else would natter to a senior officer the way the Captain would. Stanford immediately feared the worst. She was probably establishing her version of events, even now, in the CO's mind. The Flying Officer ambled across the group, towards Geoff.

"Mr. Talbot, Sir."

Talbot, Thompson slung over his shoulder and Winchester cradled in the crook of his arm, turned to see who was talking to him.

He said quietly

"The Commander is going to sell us down the river, to save her own neck, isn't she?"

"Wouldn't surprise me one bit, Varsity," he replied quietly, "you know how those political types are. Still, I've never heard of anyone getting court martialed for refusing to retreat, and as long as we keep our story straight - and maybe if we tell the Skipper how outrageously the lady in question was flirting with that little shit - we should avoid charges. Though if things do go tits up, we've got one last hope: accuse her of cowardice in the face of the enemy."

[Morrdh]

Charlie fell silent as the truck drove on, he continued to smoke his cigarette and repeatedly check over his Sten gun. There seemed to be a growing tension in the air and he started hearing a faint and distance buzz in the direction of their destination. His gut feeling told him one thing; A riot.

He'd experienced a few during his time in China and Iraq, though the latter was mostly from the relative safety of an airplane's cockpit, and concluded that whatever the cause of said riots they usually followed the same pattern. First the crowds would start to gather, then the violence and looting began and lasted until everyone decided to bugger back off home again for the night. If the mob was gathering strength then with the right words a riot could be avoided, though if it had progressed to the second stage then they might as well find a bolthole and ride out the storm.

---

As the squadron followed their new-found native 'allies' Kaya eventually found herself marching alongside Standford without really thinking about it.

[Kouralia]

A yell from the forward group cut off any further prospect of questioning. The roar of the crowd was getting higher and higher.
"We're here," Tembu said. "Now, all you're to do is to talk to the police, get them to back off, and we'll both be able to get on with our evenings."

Hearing that, Smythe stepped forward, though he managed to keep himself from saluting Page while there was the possibility of Stormjaer marksmen or some-such threat around. "Sir, may I request permission to accompany you in speaking with the Police?" he asked, before continuing. "They may not be so happy to see their authority challenged or usurped, even by a Commissioned Officer of the British Armed Forces."

[The Tiger Kingdom]

On the rooftop..

---

It was now 11:55 PM. Five minutes to go.

Brecht was beginning to feel a tightness in his chest - he should've had his target located somewhere between two to three minutes ago. His eye was pressed to the scope's lens so hard now that it hurt as he scanned the crowd below, his breathing controlled, but tight and shallow.
Was the man in position?
If not, this whole plan was about to go pear-shaped in a big way.

Ordinarily, he'd have a spotter working with him to do this exact job so he wouldn't have to bother himself with it, but given how sensitive this particular assignment was, that particular element of the sharpshooting equation had been eliminated early in the planning stages. This mission was as much a test of loyalty and individual devotion to the OB cause as much as it was rifle skill, and it had been decided that the risk of leaving Brecht to take the mission solo was worth getting halving the risk of somebody talking or getting cold feet at the last second.

As a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, a little part of him thought that perhaps, in hindsight, that had been a mistake.

It was a perfect night for shooting - the wind was calm, temperatures were around 30 degrees C (relatively quite nice and temperate for a South African night in the height of summer), and he had an excellent position, both affording him a degree of concealment, and an excellent view. Beneath him spread the entire Diepkloof Square - he could see all the thousands of natives spread out below, and directly to his front, the police and OB cordon that had been set up, lit by the OB torches. He had quite a nice view of almost all of the access points to the square as well, both coming from the Township itself and from the whites-only district immediately bordering it (the exact borderline being roughly where the frontline between the police and the natives was set).

As soon as it was time to bug out, he had an easy escape route back down to the street, with several planned paths he could take to evade any possible pursuit. Nobody had seen him coming up, and nobody suspected he was here. The only real concern would be if all the yelling and chanting down below would cancel out the sound of the shot.
That would be bad, but it wouldn't be a dealbreaker - and besides, it was pretty unlikely anyways.

But all that was for nothing if-
- wait -
- there he was.

Brecht let out of a sigh of relief. Double-checking against the photograph he'd brought with him in his pocket, now laid down next to him, there could be no mistake. It had been a bit too close of a call for his liking, but he finally had his man under his gun. Now he could afford to let his eye wander - gauge the situation, make sure all the angles were clear.

He had about three minutes.

A sudden movement along the borderline road caught his eye. He carefully swiveled his rifle to see what it was. It looked like another truck was rolling in - maybe the UDF or the police, calling in some backup?
Idly, he squinted, trying to get a view of faces of the people in the cab.
I don't recognize those uniforms...who the hell are those fellows?

---

The truck rumbled to a stop.

"Lieutenant Silva, there's a crowd forming up ahead!" Private Ellsworth yelled back into the truck.

Silva hopped out of the truck and gazed around warily. In front of him a large crowd of South African natives had formed, loudly shouting and protesting something or another. Whatever it was, it looked dangerous. Large crowds of angry people made Silva nervous, on account of the whole rioting and looting and murder thing that tended to follow said crowds. Squinting as he looked around, a glimmer out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He twisted and stared towards it, but saw nothing. Strange he thought, could have sworn it looked like shining off binoculars. The American yelled back to the rest of the flight in the truck.

"Blue flight, watch your corners but stick close to the truck. Private Ellsworth keep the engine running. I have no intention of getting stuck here if things turn ugly."

He kept turning, looking intently at the crowd and the streets around, trying to get a feel for the situation. Across the way he frowned, and looked closer. It looked like a group of RAF uniforms, all the way over there. He frowned and scratched beneath his cast. Holding his crutch in one hand and with his other on the butt of his M1911, he held up his crutch and waved it in the air, hoping to get the attention of whoever it was across the crowd.

---

Ahead of his little group of captives and his assembled band of Warriors, Elijah Mgabadeli Khumalo strode authoritatively forwards into the square that the white authorities knew as Diepkloof. Seeing his people there in their massed thousands filled him with a great swell of pride. Finally, after all these decades of humiliation, oppression, disenfranchisement, and injustice against his people that had left them consigned to hellish slums like these, the men and women of Soweto were standing up to make their voices heard to the white powers-that be.

All the work, all the organizing, all the wheeling and dealing he and his men had had to go through to get the word out through Soweto of this nascent had not been wasted. They would shout themselves hoarse and stay in this place for days if that was what it took for the police to deal with them honestly. Either they would get protection, or they would protect themselves, as violently as need be.

If it was to be war, it would be war, and the Warriors would be his vanguard.
Elijah had long since resigned himself to that possibility and prepared for it, both mentally and physically.

We will not be pushed around any longer, he proudly thought, we will stand together, no matter the danger.
And I was the one who made it happen.
Khanya would be so proud...

The friendly shouts and greetings of the nearby protestors as they noted his presence shook him out of the melancholy thought. Not catching the exact words, he smiled and waved back nonetheless, laughing as the greetings turned into to jeers and taunts in the Zulu tongue, aimed at his British "companions". Turning to the one with short brown hair and the strange garb (even by the standards of his motley band) who claimed to be their leader, he grinned broadly, showing his teeth.

"It's time for you all to hold up your end of the bargain!" he shouted in a mocking tone, his booming voice carrying over the yells as he motioned this "Excalibur" group forwards. If they were going to approach the police lines, he absolutely wasn't going first - he wasn't that stupid. The only way this stood a chance was if the whites led the way. If they saw him coming...well, he was pretty well-known to the cops. They'd probably shoot him on sight if they had the chance.

Truth be told, he didn't have much faith in the ability of these British to get these authorities to back down. Maybe they were all just liars, trying to get into the best possible position to kill him and his men.
That was possible.
Maybe they weren't aiming to betray, but were just bluffing in an attempt to get out of their clutches.
Also possible.
Either way, these "Excalibur" people were fatally out of their element here, and had been ever since that truck had rolled into their hastily-constructed roadblock. And now that they'd fallen into his hands, Elijah intended to get as much as he could out of them, for as long as he could. One would be a fool to waste such an opportunity for leverage.

If they were liars, they would die. If they were bluffing, then they would make excellent hostages to force the police to back down - maybe it would cost a few of his men, but the numerical advantage would tell quickly, especially surrounded by thousands of his countrymen. And if they were telling the truth about their good intentions, and able to live up to them...well, then both sides would win.
Wouldn't that be nice?

Judging from the look on this "Page"'s face, however, that happy third option was looking less and less likely.

---

As they turned the corner from the alley onto the square, the noise was becoming almost deafening. After espousing his parting remarks, Mr. Tembu (or whatever the hell his name was) left Page behind, trotting forward to take up a position at the side of the leader - this "Elijah" character.
I've got a bad feeling about this...
"All of you," Page called out, trying to sound cool and collected, "I want you to keep your fingers off of triggers unless there's serious danger, stick together, and stay close on me. Just stay calm, and we can talk our way out of this."

Hearing that, Smythe stepped forward, though he managed to keep himself from saluting Page while there was the possibility of Stormjaer marksmen or some-such threat around. "Sir, may I request permission to accompany you in speaking with the Police?" he asked, before continuing. "They may not be so happy to see their authority challenged or usurped, even by a Commissioned Officer of the British Armed Forces."

"Sounds like a good idea, Colour," Page replied. "Hopefully, they'll be a bit less...treasonous...than their countrymen back there -"

They rounded the corner onto the square, and the rest of Page's remarks rolled down back his throat from shock.

Oh Jesus Christ, there's thousands of them.

The din of the packed square was nothing short of unbelievable, and judging from the looks the locals were giving him as Excalibur moved forward into full view, this crowd was a hair away from trying to tear Excalibur apart with their bare hands en masse. Page had to admit it now - the situation had spiralled totally out of control. Agreeing to help this little gang out in exchange for safe passage was one thing, but being walked into a lion's den like this was something else altogether. it didn't take a mind-reader to figure out that this horde of natives wanted nothing more than to tear Excalibur apart with their bare bloody hands, for whatever reason - and they had the numbers to do it too.

"KEEP TOGETHER!" Page yelled, trying to keep the formation as tight as possible - there was no telling what could happen if one of them got separated. On the other side of the square, through the crowd, Page could just make out the police line keeping this whole thing contained (and, on the flank, a trooper waving a crutch...was that Silva? No, it couldn't be)...and on the police flank, a line of troopers on guard, armed to the teeth with Mausers and Schmeissers and dressed in classic brownshirt garb, complete with the old standard red, white, and black armbands on full display.

Suddenly, Page's perhaps-over-optimistic plan to make a good faith attempt at talking the police down was deflated as surely as the Hindenburg.
Of course...just the bloody Concerned Citizen's Brigade, out to make sure their city's safe, Page mentally spat. Maybe he could make a good faith attempt at getting the police to back off, but what would the OB do if he tried to pull rank on them? Bloody hell, it was open war now with them for all intents and purposes - if they saw Excalibr in here, they'd be shot as soon as they were identified. That rather ruled out walking up and asking nicely for them to line up and go home in a quiet and orderly fashion...

...And who knows what a gunshot would do to this crowd.
Hell, would they even need a gunshot to go mental?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Over the din, Page could detect the gloating words of the leader, a positively gleeful grin on his face as he gestured them forward into this main mass of people, into what seemed to Page to be nothing less than the jaws of hell, flanked by rabid natives and ending in a battle line of the local Nazi corps:

"It's time for you all to hold up your end of the bargain!"

Now this was just too much.

This fellow was clearly a madman, who was either trying to get them all killed, or totally ignorant of what the hell was going on.
Page had tried to be reasonable, even though he was in constant bloody pain, his mind felt like it was on fire, and the rest of his body felt like there was an electric current running through it (bad, bad memories there). He'd kept himself under control. He'd been reasonable. He'd been polite. He'd agreed to make a deal.
That, clearly, hadn't worked.
He should've shot when he had the chance.
Time to cut the shit.

Page stood his ground, and stared the leader down.
"Now you listen to me, dammit," he yelled back furiously "the deal's off! You didn't say a goddamn thing about the OB being out here - we're not here to negotiate with those bastards, we're at war with them, for God's sake! And if you think I'm sending my people in there - " Page gestured towards the roiling near-riot of humanity ahead ahead, "then you've got another bloody thing coming!"

"So you refuse to uphold your end of our agreement?"

Even through the clamor, the leader's tone was icy enough to drop the temperature by a solid ten degrees. Page couldn't help noticing that he was armed too - an ancient-looking Mauser pistol slung at his hip, looking about as old as Page's Boer War-vintage revolver.
Not that Page cared overmuch.

"Bloody well right I refuse," Page shouted back, hand creeping ever close to the Webley, "I'm not going to risk my people to try and make nice with a bunch of fucking Nazis in the middle of a crowd that's clearly about to go for their throats! And I'll tell you what - you need to get all these people out of here right now, because if the OB's here, that means-"

---

Brecht quickly moved on from trying to identify these mysterious new arrivals in the truck, one of whom appeared to be a cripple - he didn't have time for it, and being as few as they were, it was highly unlikely that they'd make any kind of difference anyway. More likely than not, they would soon be active participants in the chaos he would soon unleash. All the better. He returned his attention to the square below, focusing in once again on his target.

Two minutes to go.

The information he'd been furnished with cascaded through his head reflexively as he re-settled the barrel on the target - he made it a policy of his to always know as much about the target as possible before hunting them. It was a habit that had served him well back when he was a kid hunting wildebeest; and it had served him well as the General's personal troubleshooter. It was just common sense, but it really was surprising how many of his fellows in this sort of profession couldn't be bothered to do a little basic research.

Police Trooper Cornelius van Voort.

That was the name. The man's simpering, dopey face grinned mindlessly up at him, both on the picture laying next to him, and through his scope. The fellow was far below, taking up a spot in the police line, right next to where the OB had set up as well (the two groups chatting amiably as they held the line - and why wouldn't they? Half of the police down there were OB themselves). Outwardly, there was nothing remarkable about the man - he looked much like any other Afrikaner fellow in his early twenties. Maybe a bit doughier around the middle than his fellow troopers, but other than that, he seemed totally unmemorable and ordinary.

But past the surface?

Past the surface... in all honesty, there was nothing very special either. Van Voort's record, both as a police officer and as an OB member, was the textbook definition of mediocrity - and reports from his fellows corroborated that he was far from elite standing within his units. On almost every conceivable measure - physical fitness, weapons skill, discipline, etc., he trended towards the bottom echelons. Oh, he meant well enough, and he certainly seemed loyal enough, but he just didn't seem to have it in him to be a very good soldier.

He would serve the Ossewabrandwag far better in death, than he likely ever would in life.

Brecht was no mastermind, but he could definitely appreciate the audacity of the General's plan. For weeks now, the Ossewabrandwag, both with their uniformed Commando corps and with their undercover agents and sympathizer network that had been infiltrated into the local police detachments and UDF garrisons, had been provoking the native community here constantly, sending squads into the Township to start trouble on a regular, carefully-planned basis. Starting fights, starting fires, breaking into houses in broad daylight to pillage and steal, raping and killing...to anyone who was of a mind to notice the crimes (not many - and even if someone cared to look, who would actually care to investigate?), they would look merely like isolated crimes. Regrettable, to be sure, but hardly indicative of anything - and if the blacks didn't like it, they could always leave, right?

Meanwhile, after all this provocation, the Township would be buzzing with anger and frustration like a kicked hornet's nest. The blacks would eventually either retaliate violently, thereby kick-starting Plan Swart-Sabbat themselves...or they would expose themselves en masse in ridiculous and futile counter-actions like these, practically inviting further provocation.

If violence wasn't immediately forthcoming...all it would take would be one tiny push over the edge to start the chain reaction. That was why he was here.

So here they were - the white authorities of South Africa, both British and Boer, squared off against the kaffir scum infesting the city, both sides primed for violence. You could feel the tension crackling in the warm, still air like static before a storm, both sides ready to fight at a moment's notice - the police and OB standing in solid, well-disciplined lines, rifles and batons at the ready (with some of the OB men toting nice new German submachine guns), while the blacks milled about aimlessly, ululating at their betters in pidgin English and their own incomprehensible babble, looking like something right out of all those descriptions of the backwards, gibbering tribals his forefathers had slaughtered en masse at Blood River. He couldn't detect any sign of humanity in that crowd - only the total absence of civilization and basic decency, corruptions of the natural order that had been tolerated for far too long.

Suddenly, just as he was making his final mental preparations, another group of natives emerged from alley on his right - the same one he'd accessed the roof from, only a scant few minutes ago. Hell, they were practically right below him...and they looked armed. That was worrying.
And walking there amongst them, even more heavily armed (but looking decidedly uncomfortable)...were whites in military uniform.
More of these interlopers...? What in the hell?
They walked in and among the blacks, neither group looking too happy to be there. As he watched, befuddled, an argument started between one of the blacks, and a white who looked like an officer. Shifting his view, Brecht could see one of the other officers (a woman? What the fuck was this shit?) gazing around the square - turning around - her eyes rising to the rooftops -

- and for one horrible second, Brecht and the trooper made eye contact through the scope.

---

When the initial shock of the crowd noise had diminished, Alix couldn't help being transfixed by the sight of the massive crowd of natives around them, the scene lit only by moon and torch-light. On one level, it was absolutely terrifying to be around such a large crowd of people who were both totally unfamiliar and clearly very unfriendly towards her and her comrades...but on another level, the sheer alien-ness of this experience was nothing short of exhilarating. She'd never seen anything like this before in her life - the sheer rawness of the tumult around her, the bare poverty, the naked emotion and anger. Almost in a daze from the sounds and sights, she couldn't help gazing around, turning as she walked behind Page to drink in the entire panorama around her, both trying to check for threats to their flanks and rear, and just...gawking, really.

Her eyes traveled around, back towards the building right behind them bordering the alley that they'd just come out of, when an odd twinkle of light at the top of her vision caught her attention. Squinting, she could see something up there - something glassy, reflecting the torchlight fires...a tiny, reflective circle...
...pressed up to somebody's face -

And then the penny dropped with a thundering crash. Alix whirled back to Page, and quickly realized that that situation was pretty dire as well, given that Page and the black headman seemed to be at very vocal odds.

"Bloody well right I refuse! and I'll tell you what - you need to get all these people out of here right now, because if the OB's here, that means-"

"Captain!" Alix called out desperately, trying to get both of their attentions, as well as that of the squadron. "Look up there, behind us - I think there's somebody with a gun-"

Even given all the tension, this was enough to distract both Page and Elijah from their standoff.
"You're sure, Lieutenant?" Page said, wanting to look, but also not wanting to turn his back on the natives.
"I think so...I saw a scope -"

---

His mind perilously close to panic, Brecht immediately backed away from the rim a few feet, breathing heavily. There was no doubt that he'd been spotted - it was just a matter of whether or not that trooper recognized what he (she?) had seen. On the edge of panic, he checked his watch, his hands actually shaking.

Midnight exactly. The Sunday of reckoning had arrived - the "black sabbath" of the plan's name (something told him Huidebroeke had spent far too long trying to be cute with the name).
Van Voort had to die, right now, or the entire plan's timetable would be thrown off - with potentially ruinous consequences. All the OB commands across the entire Union were primed and ready, straining to be unleashed. Any delay or failure of coordination in launching their assaults could easily be fatal.

Trying to calm himself, Brecht took a huge breath, exhaling deeply as he took up his rifle again, found his target, and made the last infinitesimal adjustments to his aim. He forced himself to quit worrying about unknowns - only the mission was important now. If he acted quickly, he could shoot and get away before the alarm could be raised. The sight settled on a spot in the middle of van Voort's forehead. It would only require one shot, quick and clean. The unsuspecting trooper would feel no pain. It would be as sudden as a candle being snuffed out. You couldn't ask for a better way to go.

---

Everything around you-

---

This was the keystone of the whole plan - the transition from tension to violence had to be seen as legitimate. If there was even a tiny doubt about whether or not the blacks had been justified in their violent response to all this provocation, then the entire plan could unravel. But the highly visible murder of a white police officer - a cowardly murder at that, Brecht grudgingly conceded - out here, in front of literally thousands of people, with the shot coming from the Soweto side of the square, would be proof positive of every white South African's worst fear: a native uprising, right in the heart of one of their most important cities.

---

What's it coming to-

---

And the calculus of the Third Freedom War would shift irrevocably in favor of the OB, white South Africa, and Afrikaner freedom.
There could be no compromises, and no half-measures. On this day, Van Voort's death would ensure victory.

---

Sabbath bloody Sabbath-

---

He'll be a martyr, Brecht told himself, a hero. He'd never get anywhere near that in his lifetime. Schools'll be named after him. Statues will be commissioned in his honor.
If he really is loyal, he'd gladly have shed his blood anyways.

---

Nothing more to do-

---

All this flashed through Brecht's mind in a few seconds as his finger tightened on the trigger to deliver the master-stroke, van Voort's face completely oblivious, his fate predetermined and inescapable -

---

Living just for dying-

---

And the night split open as the flash of lightning and the roar of thunder came all at once, as 57 effect-firing millimeters of cold steel destiny exploded out of the rifled barrel, sounding like a skull shattering as the bullet screamed effortlessly through the hanging, stagnant air, and then through flesh, bone, and brain, granting the unsuspecting trooper his apotheosis in unwitting martyrdom -

---

Dying just for you-

---

- and as Van Voort's soul was blasted to heaven, the square below descended into the jaws of hell.

---

-Yeah!

[Morrdh]

When the truck swung into the square and he saw the mass of angry people, Charlie felt his bowels almost involuntarily loosen. Thus far it seemed the local police and, rather disconcerting, a few OB thugs hadn't started busting heads and getting ripped limb from limb as a result. Hopefully they'll be able to skirt round and avo-...

Bang

There was the sound of rifle fire and time suddenly seemed to slow down to a crawl, all noise becoming nothing more than a loud buzz before one of the constable's head exploded in a mass of bright red mush.

Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit

This was bad, VERY bad.

He'd experienced enough riots over the years to realize exactly what happened when some clot got trigger happy, a massacre would be bit of an understatement if the police and the OB cronies opened fire on the crowd. The squadron would be lucky if they managed to crawl out of the resultant bloodbath, something needed to be done and fast. Without thinking, he jumped down from the truck than ran to the police with Sten gun ready as he called back to those on the truck. "Fer Christ's sake stop the rozzers!"

"YOU!" Charlie cried at whom he assumed to be the senior policeman and pointed his Sten gun in the man's face. "Open fire and I'll bloody slot ya!"

[Kassaran]

The shot rang out, and the Springfield was off Mackenzie's shoulder in mere seconds and the scope was up. He'd seen the flash and his rifle was up and he was dropping it down onto the hood of the vehicle. He'd seen most of what had unfolded, the rest of Red and White filing in, the Nazi's standing there before them all, then the sudden look of panic in the eyes of Alix as she began to speak. He wasn't the most savvy on the ground, that much he wasn't very forthcoming about, but his abilities in observing the scene around him had led him to scan the rooftops and he didn't even need to know what he was dealing with to understand what had just unfolded.


A flash of light, the crack of thunder, a mist of red across the leading line of Nazis and now utter Hell unleashing itself as the crowd suddenly began to seethe with an energy, driven to the breaking point, and he knew that'd be enough, but he'd seen what he'd needed to and calling out across the open space between the hood of the lorry and Charlie," Sniper! In the house to the back beyond Red and White! He's a bloody Boer!"

The rifle was raised well above the heads of the crowd, but the Flight Sergeant knew they wouldn't perceive that much, just the motion of a massive rifle swinging towards them wouldn't help. He drew a bead on the white face on the other end of the open area, that last glint of a scope as it was brought back and away from the window, presumably for the assassin to reload or retreat was all he needed to focus. He twisted the small screw up top above the scope, only to find that the scope wouldn't zero," Scope's bloody broken! Requesting permission to free-fire on the fucker!"

It all had gone to shit, and in all of the places it could have happened it had happened in the worst place given, the middle of a fucking riot. His grip on the rifle hardened as he listened for the one word he needed to send loose his own shot.

[Len Hyet]

"Oh fuck ME" Silva groaned as he got a better look at the group wearing RAF Uniforms. One of them was clearly a woman, and the only woman in the entire country who was a member of the Royal Air Force was most definitely Flight Lieutenant Noble. Which meant that the man by her side was definitely Captain Page, which meant, as per usual, something had gone horribly wrong.

The American turned to the other members of his squad, and began to bark out orders.

"Private Ellsworth! Haul ass back to base and report to Major Cutler that there is a riot in progress in the square. Request maximum reinforcements immediately. Blue Flight! With me, does anybody else see a certain Captain Page over thataway?!" Silva half asked half shouted over the rising roar of the crowd and the running motor of the truck as Private Ellsworth began to peel away.

"Charlie! For gods sake get your gun out of that man's face! CAPTAIN PAGE! LIEUTENANT NOBLE!"

[Gibberan]

Carter was in shock at how quickly the square had descended into violence. He couldn't see very well, but over the clamor of the crowd he'd heard what sounded to be...a gunshot? And, immediately following that, chaos had ensued. His head had immediately turned up to the sound of the shot, and he saw a sniper rapidly scurrying down from a tall rooftop, isolated among the flat shantyhouses...a perfect place to take the shot. And he realized he wasn't a protester.

He was OB.
And the crowd had just been framed.

Trying to call out to the Captain - or anyone else in the squadron for that matter - to figure out was exactly going on, but his calls to no avail, as the roar of the crowd drowned out any individual sounds.

He had absolutely no idea what was going on. He was being pushed forwards, backwards, and sideways helplessly as the brash, overconfident warriors surged toward the police line and the sensible ones backed away from it. Trying to see over the crowd, which at this point looked like an angry mob, he was swept of his feet and carried towards the constables...and, next to them, what looked to be even more OB.

Shit.

He had to avoid being seen by these OB at all costs. It was now nearly impossible to get back to the rest of the squadron, so, in a rapid and not-though out decision, he decided he would do the next best thing: alert the officers not to fire on the crowd, and hope they would stop the quasi-Nazis standing beside them from doing the same. He was able to maneuver his way out of the clump of warriors who were nearly carrying him, and he zig-zagged through the scores of people over to the police line, in a position where the Stormjaer officers wasn't able to see him.

"Don't shoot!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, directing it towards a constable who, by his uniform, looked to be the commanding officer (someone was also pointing what looked to be a Sten Gun at him...was that Charlie?). "It came from the roof! A sniper; not the crowd, the roof!"

[Goram]

...accuse her of cowardice in the face of the enemy.

Could they really do that? Stanford wondered to himself. Would that hold up? If it did, it'd ruin Noble's career. She'd be run out of the Air Force in disgrace, but that seemed no lesser fate than what she had in mind for Stanford and Talbot. As the Flying Officer thought, he found himself aware of Kaya walking on his left. She seemed blissfully unaware of the entire situation and Douglas intended to keep it that way for as long as possible. Stanford rotated his head back to the right, to re-engage Talbot, but before could speak, Excalibur emerged into the square and the sight of the place took the Flying Officer's breath away.

The situation in the square was a complete mess. There were literally thousands of locals, thronging around in groups so thick it was virtually impossible to move through them. The mass of people, on the verge of becoming riotous, were only held back by a thin line of police - heavily armed and clad in khaki. And who where the soldier's on their flank? It took Stanford a moment to recognise them, but before long their German weaponry, brownshirt uniform and Nazi armbands gave it away. It seemed that the Ossewabrandwag were here, probably with the intent to stir up trouble. Was this really who the warriors expected the Squadron to negotiate with? The OB would open fire as soon as they clapped eyes on the British personnel. There could be no negotiation with them and it seemed that Page was making that point clear to the leader of the warrior band. It did not seem as though the locals were taking the news well. The band of warriors, confronted with the fact that the British could not and would not help them, looked to be turning on their new found allies. The three who had regarded Stanford's canteen, led by the chap who had attempted to interrogate him over the water filled vessel, were now coming again. They had their makeshift weapons raised in a menacing fashion towards the trio of British personnel. It seemed clear that it would only take a spark to ignite the the crowd and a black attacking a white, or vice versa, would be all that was needed. Never the less, Stanford wasn't about to let Kaya, Talbot or himself get hacked to pieces by the angry natives.

"Mr. Talbot! We've got company!"

He yelled over the din of the crowd, eyeing the approaching warriors with suspicion. Kaya was the closest to armed natives and Stanford, almost instinctively, pulled her away from them, placing himself along with his bayonet between the locals and the Australian.

"Get behind me and stay close!"

He shouted at the girl. The warriors were little more than a few yards away now. The RAF man brought his bayonet tipped rifle up to guard, pointing the long blade at the leader. He didn't say anything, there seemed to be no point, but he hoped that the look on his face and the 17 inch bayonet would give off an air of

"That's about close enough."

The warriors, however, did not seem dissuaded. They came on slowly, weapons raised, fanning out around the three RAF personnel. Stanford's eyes darted from one warrior to another. Did he wait? Did decide to lunge forward, consequences be damned?

Eventually, the choice was taken from him. A loud crack rang out across the square, from somewhere above and behind the Squadron. The noise was unmistakeable. Clearly a gunshot. Just for a moment, a gap in the crowd cleared for just long enough for Stanford to see a khaki clad figure collapse in a heap. A Police trooper had been shot, presumably by the crowd. The mass of blacks had been riotous before, but now it was if the very jaws of Hell had been opened and were charging on to swallow the square whole...

[The Two Jerseys]

"Mr. Talbot! We've got company!"

He yelled over the din of the crowd, eyeing the approaching warriors with suspicion. Kaya was the closest to armed natives and Stanford, almost instinctively, pulled her away from them, placing himself along with his bayonet between the locals and the Australian.

"Get behind me and stay close!"

He shouted at the girl. The warriors were little more than a few yards away now. The RAF man brought his bayonet tipped rifle up to guard, pointing the long blade at the leader. He didn't say anything, there seemed to be no point, but he hoped that the look on his face and the 17 inch bayonet would give off an air of

"That's about close enough."

The warriors, however, did not seem dissuaded. They came on slowly, weapons raised, fanning out around the three RAF personnel. Stanford's eyes darted from one warrior to another. Did he wait? Did decide to lunge forward, consequences be damned?

Eventually, the choice was taken from him. A loud crack rang out across the square, from somewhere above and behind the Squadron. The noise was unmistakeable. Clearly a gunshot. Just for a moment, a gap in the crowd cleared for just long enough for Stanford to see a brown shirted figure collapse in a heap. An Ossewabrandwag member had been shot, presumably by the crowd. The mass of blacks had been riotous before, but now it was if the very jaws of Hell had been opened and were charging on to swallow the square whole...

"Form square!" shouted Talbot as he spun around to cover Stanford's back, dropping his Winchester from high port to the guard position; he was well-equipped for close combat, with his 12-gauge loaded with buckshot and its bayonet fixed. Quickly glancing around, he noticed that Carter had disappeared in the confusion once again.

"Carter!" he shouted, "can you hear me?"

He then nudged Kaya with his elbow. "Corporal, are you armed?"