The final hours before sunrise were always the longest...
Inside the grand foyer of the presidential palace, Benjamin stood amidst the overwhelming fumes of stolen British diesel, preparing himself for the inevitable dawn assault.
He was not donning heavy body armor or strapping on a combat helmet.
Benjamin adjusted the cuffs of his bespoke, dark blue suit jacket. He ensured his tie was perfectly straight.
Captain Elias approached him, holding out a piece of Soviet steel. It was a Tokarev TT-33 semi-automatic pistol, liberated from one of the hidden shipping crates.
Benjamin took the weapon, feeling its weight in his hand.
He slid the Tokarev smoothly into the inner pocket of his trench coat. T
"Mr. President," Elias said. "The men on the roof have their RPG-7s loaded and sighted on the British Ferret scout cars. But there is an issue."
"Explain." Benjamin ordered.
Elias gestured toward the rear of the foyer, where Kofi and two of the most heavily armed guards were standing next to the canvas duffel bag filled with the moldy customs ledgers.
"I need those two men on the second-floor balcony," Elias argued.
"We are already outnumbered by Mbeki's garrison. Assigning two of my best shooters to babysit a bag of rotting paperwork in the basement vault is a massive waste of firepower. If the frontline breaks, those ledgers won't shoot back."
Benjamin turned his gaze entirely upon the young captain. "Those ledgers contain the documented proof of a fifty-million-pound colonial embezzlement. That paperwork is the only reason we are risking our lives tonight. If they destroy those ledgers, the Republic of Zambura remains an economic slave to the Bank of London for the next century. Move the bag to the vault... I will not repeat the order."
The captain saluted and gestured for Kofi and the guards to move the bag down to the reinforced basement.
The municipal electricity remained cut off by Mbeki's forces outside. The backup generators had long since run completely dry.
The only illumination came from the pale moonlight filtering through the windows.
"We are dead men..." a young corporal muttered. "Mbeki has a thousand men surrounding the district. He has heavy machine guns. We just have a puddle of fuel and some smuggled communist guns. It is not enough."
"We should just surrender when the sun comes up," another guard whispered back, "Maybe the British Ambassador will grant us amnesty. Maybe if we lay down our weapons, they will just exile the President and let us go back to our families."
The murmurs of defeat rapidly began to spread down.
The men were exhausted, hungry, and terrified of the military force waiting just beyond the estate walls.
They were looking for an excuse to quit...
However, Benjamin had no intention of telling them a comforting lie or a heroic fable to calm their nerves.
"Listen to me, all of you..." Benjamin commanded.
"You think surrendering will save your lives?" Benjamin asked.
"You think Ambassador Sterling views you as human beings? To the British Empire, you are overhead costs."
Benjamin slowly paced the length of the line, "If you lay down your weapons and open those doors, Mbeki will not let you go home,"
"A dictator cannot leave loyalist soldiers alive to start a rebellion next year. And after he buries you in an unmarked mass grave, Ambassador Sterling will freeze your military pensions to pay for his afternoon tea."
"Your families will be evicted from the military housing sector by noon tomorrow," Benjamin continued.
"That is what your surrender buys."
"I am not here to hold your hands."
"The only way your families eat next week is if you pull your triggers today. Fear the poverty they have planned for you more than you fear Mbeki's bullets!"
The silence that followed was entirely different from the panicked hushes of before...