----------------------------------------------------- May 8th, Maputo, Rhodesia ----------------------------------------------------- "Breach! Breach! Breach!" As the words were screamed into a megaphone a number of things happened at once. A muffled thump and a flash of flame was immediately obscured by a thick cloud of dust that billowed over two white and blue Police cars whose single blue lights flashed into existence at the exact same second as they sealed off either end of the street. Men in black fatigues materialized from back of a large farm truck that was rolling past the house and stormed the front of the building. The [i]Braaaap! Braaaaap![/i] of machine gun fire came from the house as the armed men stormed inside. Someone began screaming even as the wind picked up to push the dust cloud down the street and over three black Land Rovers that were racing toward the scene, blue cherry lights flashing in their windshields, the letters [b]R.S.B.[/b] clearly visible in white as they shot past a Policeman who had hurriedly reversed his vehicle. The gunfight inside was over by the time the Land Rovers came to a stop. Several men in white fatigues stepped from the vehicles and surveyed the scene. Two immediately donned dust masks and hurried into the building. A third, who bore a striking resemblance to the beloved children's comic character Tintin, pulled out a watch and made a neat and precise note in his notebook, which he then returned to his breast pocket. "Damn fine work Tom." Stated Donald Prescott, Chief of the Rhodesian Security Bureau ("RSB"), as one of the black clad figures appeared from the house. "Right on time." "I would hope so Donnie, it ain't my first rodeo." Replied Thomas Bennet, head of the RSB's Covert Operations. Both men spoke with a curiously gentle accent in a land where every other white man spoke like he had picked a syllable that sounded nothing like the one that had came before it. Both men were ex-pat Canadians, Policemen lured away from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and brought to Rhodesia by promises of big bonuses and free land. "Excuse me sah." One of the white clad, dust mask wearing, RSB Agents had approached the two. He held in his hands a large white package that had been cut open to reveal large green leaves. Tobacco smuggling was not uncommon in the area, undoubtedly stolen from a white farmer further inland with the idea of selling it overseas. There were a couple of ways one could quickly earn the ire of the RSB and competing with white plantation owners was one of them. "Excellent. How much of the stuff?" Prescott asked as he fingered the green leaves. He didn't smoke personally, hated the stuff, but he was being paid to put an end to smuggling and so he must pretend to care. "Five tons or so. Shouldn't take us but an hour or so to move it out." "Move it?" Prescott looked up and down the street. It was a rural residential block, none of the houses were closer than a hundred feet away. "Burn the whole thing down. Leave the bodies inside." In normal circumstances he might have cleared the house. The Government tended to seize such things but in this case the majority of the front wall had been blown off the building. They would resell the land to a prospective buyer once the rubble had cooled and been removed. "Prisoners, sah." The Policeman indicated two badly burned black men and one white man who was cradling a bloodied arm. All of them were staring at him with abject terror on their faces. You could not live in Rhodesia without knowing who Donald Prescott was. Donald pulled out his notebook, made another note, and then approached the three men. The RSB had taken a rather simple approach to how it dealt with criminals. If there was any doubt about someones involvement a trial was ordered, black or white, all Rhodesians were, in theory, granted the right to a fair trial. In some cases, like this one, where a person was found to be in a known "Moving House", they would be dealt with on the spot by a Judicial Justice of the Peace ("JJP"). Judicial Justice of the Peace Lucas Pierce was a coloured man, one of the few who worked for the Government. His mother had been a white woman who found her family chauffeur quite delicious at the age of sixteen. She had died during child birth and her father had been found dead a day or two later. The boy had been "mostly white" and even now he only had what might be called a tanned complexion. Other whites might have held it against him but Prescott had no such illusions, a mans skin colour made no difference to his work. "JJP Pierce, your word please." Prescott was always polite, no matter how much someone yelled or swore at him. You had to respect that in a man. Pierce stepped up to the three who cowered back from him. He was a big man, almost as large as Bennet, and he loomed over them as he looked from them to the Policeman. "They are known to you?" He asked and the Policeman nodded, taking a binder from the front seat of a Land Rover and flipping it open to several pages that showed photos of the men kneeling before them entering the house on more than one occasion. Pierce viewed each picture carefully, comparing them to the men on the ground, then he nodded, satisfied. "Guilty as charged." Said Pierce as he returned to his vehicle and pulled out two stout lengths of rope. Prescott always found this part interesting. In Canada a JJP had to only to decide if a man was to go to prison or not. In Rhodesia, if a death sentence was pronounced, the JJP was to "Carry out the Execution, and that immediately". Pierce slung the ropes, nooses ready made, over a low hanging branch outside the now steadily burning house. Curious neighbours had come out onto their porches at the sound of the gun battle. Some stayed, and others fled inside, as Pierce hung the now sobbing blackmen one by one, hauling their bodies up onto the air with the assistance of Bennet. They kicked for a time, choking and spinning as they did so, their faces turning an even darker colour as they strangled to death. That left the white man who moaned in terror as a black bag was dragged over his head and two RSB Agents slung his writhing form into the back of a Land Rover. In Rhodesia, if you broke the law as a black man, you could expect an immediate and public death. A white man would simply disappear forever. "I am displeased Mr Walls was not here." Remarked Prescott quietly. Mr Walls, the elusive Mr Walls, was an American/Rhodesian who had arrived a year or two before and was now running a distressingly successful smuggling operation. It was small potatoes compared to the Zimbabwe Peoples Army which was trying to spread all sorts of anti-white propaganda but the Canadian inside Prescott refused to be outwitted by a Yank. "We'll get him. Not a worry." Bennet stated as if the matter were already settled. Pierce, who was watching the bodies turn on their ropes, nodded in agreement. "Cards are at nine tonight." Pierce said as he turned from his grisly view at last. He nodded to the two white men and then climbed into his Land Rover, the same one which was now giving off muffled sobs. His white driver gave a casual salute and the vehicle drove off, followed by a white and blue Police car. "Another day, another dollar." Said Prescott with a sigh as he climbed into his own Land Rover. Bennet tipped him a wink and then stood back as Prescotts driver pulled away. There would be paperwork to do before cards and Bennet would still be some hours as he and his men combed the properties out buildings for further clues. There were always more bad guys to catch.