The station jutted from the side of a hill. A glass-walled waiting room surrounded the bank of transmitter booths. Read looked out the door and saw his first battlefield. Directly in front of him, his head shattered by a bullet, a dead inspector lay behind an overturned couch. Read had seen dozens of training films taken during actual battles or after atomic attacks. He had laughed when other recruits complained. "That's the way this world is. You people with the weak stomachs better get used to it." Now he slid against the rear wall of the transmitter booth. A wounded inspector crawled across the floor to the booth. Read couldn't see his wound, only the pain scratched on his face and the blood he deposited on the floor. "Did you get Umluana?" he asked Sergeant Rashid. "He's in the booth. What's going on?" Rashid's Middle East Oxford seemed more clipped than ever. "They hit us with two companies of troops a few minutes ago. I think half our men are wounded." "Can we get out of here?" "They machine-gunned the controls." Rashid swore. "You heard him, Read! Get out there and help those men." He heard the screams of the wounded, the crack of rifles and machine guns, all the terrifying noise of war. But since his eighteenth year he had done everything his superiors told him to do. He started crawling toward an easy-chair that looked like good cover. A bullet cracked above his head, so close he felt the shock wave. He got up, ran panicky, crouched, and dove behind the chair. An inspector cracked the valve on a smoke grenade. A white fog spread through the building. They could see anyone who tried to rush them but the besiegers couldn't pick out targets. Above the noise, he heard Rashid. "I'm calling South Africa Station for a copter. It's the only way out of here. Until it comes, we've got to hold them back." Read thought of the green beret he had stuffed in his pocket that morning. He stuck it on his head and cocked it. He didn't need plain clothes anymore and he wanted to wear at least a part of his uniform. Bullets had completely shattered the wall in front of him. He stared through the murk, across the broken glass. He was Corporal Harry Read, UN Inspector Corps--a very special man. If he didn't do a good job here, he wasn't the man he claimed to be. This might be the only real test he would ever face. * * * * * He heard a shout in rapid French. He turned to his right. Men in red loincloths ran zigzagging toward the station. They carried light automatic rifles. Half of them wore gas masks. "Shoot the masks," he yelled. "Aim for the masks."