Vortex

  Castro was smiling now, a full-mouthed, toothy, sharklike grin. Then the smile faded.

  “And what of the Soviet Union, Antonio. How will we persuade them to back such an audacious venture?”

  With the prospect of riches, of course, thought Vega. Over the past few years, the Soviets had shown themselves to be fair-weather communists-unworthy of the great Lenin. But that was not what Castro would want to hear.

  “We must remind the Soviets of their own history, drag them kicking and screaming back to their own revolution! This will be a war of liberation, waged not just by us, but by the entire international socialist movement against the last, worst vestige of

  Western colonialism in Africa!”

  Vega paused for breath and heard his voice replaced by the sound of clapping, first from just Fidel Castro, and then from the rest of the assembled officers-all of them applauding the Victor of Walvis Bay.

  He stood motionless, smiling gravely, inwardly elated. Castro was ~onvinced. Cuba would carry its war into South Africa’s own streets, fields, and mines. Karl Vorster and his arrogant Afrikaners would reap the very whirlwind of death and destruction they themselves had sown.

  SEPTEMBER 9-20TH CAPE RIFLES, NEAR BERG LAND NAMIBIA

  Fires set by the day’s last artillery barrage flickered redly on distant hillsides-tiny points of light glowing against the dark mountains and darker sky. Nightfall hid the ugly debris left by war-open ground pockmarked by shell bursts, mangled wrecks that had once been fighting machines, and bare, boulder-strewn hills scarred by slit trenches and sandbag-topped bunkers.

  Commandant Henrik Kruger lowered his binoculars. Nothing. No secondary explosions or any other signs that the

  artillery fire had had any real effect. The Cubans were too well dug in.

  From all appearances, this latest barrage had done nothing more than tear up a few more acres of worthless Namibian soil.

  He sighed and turned away, half-walking, half-sliding down the ridge toward his command bunker. Clusters of weary, bedraggled men clambered upright from around small camp stoves as he passed by, some clutching mugs of fresh brewed tea, others half-empty mess tins.

  Kruger forced a smile onto his face as he acknowledged their soft-voiced greetings. It wouldn’t do for the battalion to see its leader looking discouraged. Three weeks of hard marching, hard fighting, heavy casualties, and now this endless, wearing stalemate had ground the 20th

  Cape Rifles down.

  They still attacked with as much courage and expertise as ever, but without the boundless self-confidence and easy assurance of certain victory that had once characterized South Africa’s army. Too many of the best noncoms and junior officers were gone-dead or lying maimed in military hospitals. Those who survived were bone tired. Their rare moments of rest were disturbed by the disconcerting rumors flowing north out of South Africa. Rumors of defeats and crippling losses near Walvis

  Bay. Of student riots and police shootings. Of a guerrilla war spreading like wildfire through Natal Province. Of a strained economy beginning to unravel.

  Kruger ground his teeth together. Goddamn those idiots Vorster, de Wet, and all their mewling lap dogs In less than three months, they’d managed to drown the country in a sea of troubles-foreign war, civil insurrection, and economic chaos. What disaster would be next?

  Scowling, he pushed through the bunker’s blackout curtain into a low-roofed room dindy lit by battery-powered lamps. Several officers and

  NCOs filled the small space to capacity. All were working steadily-updating situation maps and logs to reflect the results of the day’s fighting and reports from other parts of the widely scattered

  Namibian front. He paused to scan their handiwork.

  “Wommandant?”

  Kruger swung toward the voice. It belonged to Capt. Pieter Meiring, his bearded, bespectacled operations officer.

  “Brigade called while you were up on the ridge, sir. The brigadier would like to see you as soon as possible.” Meiring’s tone was flat, drained by fatigue of any emotion.

  Kruger bit back a savage oath. Blast it. It was a sixty kilometer trip to

  Rehoboth. What the hell did the man want that couldn’t be discussed over the radio or field phone?

  He looked at his watch. Nearly eight o’clock.

  “Any word from Major

  Forbes?”

  “No, Kommandant.

  Another irritation. He’d sent his secondin-command back to Rehoboth that morning on a mission to straighten out the battalion’s steadily worsening supply situation. Mortar rounds, rifle ammo, and petrol weren’t coming forward fast enough or in large enough quantities. So he’d told Forbes to go back and kick a little logistical ass. Men could fight for a time without adequate sleep, but they certainly couldn’t fight without bullets or fuel for their vehicles.

  Kruger shook his head disgustedly. One more problem piled on his already overloaded platter. He looked up at Meiring.

  “All right, Pieter. Get my

  Ratel ready to go. I’ll bring Forbes with me and try to get back as soon as I can. Plan for an orders group at… ” He paused, estimating travel times and Brigadier Strydom’s well-known penchant for long winded shoptalk.

  “Set it for oh one hundred hours. That should be late enough.

  “

  Meiring sketched a salute and hurried away.

  Kruger turned to check the situation map again and absentmindedly rubbed his chin. Stubble rasped under his fingers.

  “Andries!”

  “Sir?” His orderly materialized out of the crowd.

  “Bring me my razor and a bowl of hot water.” He smiled.

  “I don’t want to shock our rear-echelon warriors, do I? They shouldn’t think we let a few minor problems like bullets and bombs interfere with our grooming.”

  It was a feeble attempt, but it worked. Laughter rumbled through the bunker. Most South African staff officers were

  veterans of combat in Angola and Namibia, but there were still enough spit-and-polish desk soldiers among their ranks for the old slanders to be funny.

  Kruger chuckled with them, glad his men could still find something to laugh about.

  82nd MECHANIZED BRIGADE HO, REHOBOTH, NAMIBIA

  Rehoboth lay nestled among hills marking the southern edge of the Auas

  Mountains. The town was home to a conservative, intensely religious, mixed-race group who’d fled north from Cape Town through the Namib more than two centuries before. Their plain, old-fashioned houses were a testament both to their faith and to their poverty. But the darkness and silence behind each window reflected a dusk-to-dawn curfew imposed by

  South Africa’s army.

  Outside the town, small herds of cattle and brown, black, and gray karakul sheep wandered over widely scattered grazing lands, slowly eating their way closer to slaughter or shearing. Several cows looked up from their rhythmic chewing, momentarily made curious by the sound of an engine growling past along the highway. Dim blackout headlamps briefly outlined them against the hillside and then swept away as the Ratel APC headed south toward a vast, new tent city on the outskirts of Rehoboth.

  The cows lowed mournfully to one another for a few seconds before stooping again to the dry grass close at hoof.

  The 82nd Mechanized Brigade’s tents, vehicle parks, supply dumps, and maintenance workshops sprawled over more than a hundred acres. Patrolling armored cars protected the brigade perimeter against ground attack, while a Cactus SAM battery and light flak guns offered coverage against Cuban air raids. Enough light leaked out through tent flaps or seams to show that many men were still wide-awake.

  All lights were on at the large, peaked tent serving as Brigade headquarters.

  Commandant Kruger clambered out his Ratel’s side hatch and stood looking up into the star-filled night sky. He breathed in and out a few times, clearing the sweat-sour stench of the APC’s cramped troop compartment out of his nostrils. He wasn’t in any particular hurry to find out what
/>
  Brigadier Strydom had up his perfectly tailored sleeve.

  Kruger’s respect for his immediate superior had precipitously declined over the last three weeks. Strydorn had shown himself all too eager to tell Pretoria what it wanted to hear -and not what needed to be said.

  He’d also demonstrated a fondness for issuing meaningless and contradictory orders in the midst of battle. In the kommandant’s view, his brigade commander should be up at Bergland seeing the situation for himself-not sitting sixty kilometers behind the front, cloistered with his toadying staff.

  The cool, crisp breeze shifted slightly, bringing with it a new smell.

  A sickly sweet odor that he recognized instantly. The smell of death and rotting corpses. Kruger frowned at the unpleasant aroma. There’d been no resistance here at Rehoboth, so why the smell?

  He turned, looking for explanations, and found them dangling from a gallows erected beside the headquarters tent.

  My God. Six bodies swung to and fro from long, creaking ropes rocked gently by the wind. None were in uniform. None were white. And two appeared to be women. Kruger swallowed hard against the bitter-tasting bile surging up from his stomach. What kind of madness was at work here?

  There was only one way to find out.

  He settled his helmet firmly on his head and strode briskly toward the two sentries posted at the command tent’s main entrance.

  One checked his ID while the other kept a flashlight centered on his face. Kruger noticed that both were careful not to glance toward the gallows.

  Twenty officers and as many noncoms and enlisted men bustled to and fro inside the tent-reports and message flimsies clutched in their hands.

  Maps crowded with military symbols hung from canvas walls or rested on trestle taps.

  Powerful radio sets crackled and hissed over the low-voiced mutter of a dozen whispered conversations All the usual signs of a higher military headquarters busy preparing for the next day’s operations.

  He glanced around the tent. No sign of Maj. Richard Forbes. Where the devil was the man?

  Brig. Jakobus Strydom stood shoulder to shoulder with another, much taller man looking at one of the maps. He turned as Kruger approached.

  “Ah, Henrik… it’s good to see you.”

  “Sir.” Kruger nodded and saluted, intentionally staying formal.

  The shadow of a frown crossed Strydom’s narrow face. He gestured toward the fleshy, redfaced man beside him.

  “I don’t think you know Kolonel

  Hertzog.”

  -Kolonel. ” Kruger inclined his head politely.

  “The kolonel is a special visitor from Pretoria, Henrik. One of the

  President’s own military aides.”

  So. This was one of Vorster’s spies. Kruger looked more carefully at the man and got another shock. Hertzog wore an AWB pin on his uniform coat.

  Involuntarily, Kruger’s mouth curled upward in disgust. Cold eyes stared back at him out of a puffy, double-chinned face.

  “You’ve seen something that troubles you, Kommandant Kruger?” Hertzog’s smug, arrogant voice mirrored his appearance.

  Kruger addressed his words to Strydom.

  “The gallows outside this tent-“

  “Are filled with traitors, Kommandant. Hostages executed in just reprisal for futile attacks on our supply columns,” Hertzog interrupted him.

  “My idea, actually. In accordance with the wishes of our beloved President.

  I trust that you have no objection?”

  Kruger stared openmouthed at him, scarcely able to believe what he’d just heard. Hostages? Innocent civilians rousted from their beds at gunpoint and killed simply because Namibian soldiers were shooting at supply trucks? It was worse than insane. It was criminal. He’d seen dead civilians be foremen women, and children caught by artillery or in a cross fire. You expected such things in war. But this was something quite different. Cold, deliberate, calculated butchery.

  Strydorn took him by the arm and turned him away from Hertzog.

  “Never mind about the methods used to ensure rear area security, Henrik. They’re out of your jurisdiction.” The unspoken warning in the brigadier’s voice was plain.

  Kruger closed his mouth and looked closely at his superior. A nerve twitched irregularly beneath Strydom’s right cheek. My God. The man was frightened. Scared out of his wits by this bloody bully boy Hertzog.

  “Now, as to why I summoned you hereStrydom’s evident unease intensified.

  “Your secondin-command… Kruger held up a hand.

  “Yes, sir. Where is Major Forbes?”

  “Major Forbes is under arrest, Kommandant.” Hertzog moved closer, a grim smile on his face.

  “He’s on his way back to Pretoria under guard at this very moment.”

  “What?” Kruger’s hands balled into fists.

  “What in God’s name for?”

  “For suspected treason.” Hertzog’s smile grew less grim and more smug.

  “Earlier this afternoon, I myself heard the Englishman slandering our president and the chief of staff. Naturally, I arrested him at once. One cannot allow such insults to go unpunished. I’m sure you agree.” Hertzog spun round on his heel and walked away without waiting for a reply.

  Kruger glared at the man’s departing back, fighting the temptation to pull his pistol and pump the bastard full of 9mm slugs. He didn’t doubt that Forbes had used a few choice swear words to describe his dissatisfaction with recent events, but certainly nothing that any sane man would call treasonous. And if that was how Vorster and his cronies planned to define treason, who then was safe?

  Strydorn moved into his line of sight.

  “Keep your mouth shut, Henrik, I beg of you. I cannot spare any more of my experienced officers.”

  He led Kruger over to a map table. Several junior officers scattered out of their path. Strydom leaned over the map, tracing the positions held by the 20th Cape Rifles with a thumbnail.

  “Your attack today was a success, I see.”

  “A success?” Kruger found it difficult to talk through clenched teeth.

  “Your battalion gained ground, true?” The brigadier risked a glance over his shoulder. Hertzog leaned carelessly against the opposite tent wall, cold eyes carefully fixed on them.

  Kruger slammed a fist onto the map, startling several nearby staff officers.

  “Oh, we gained ground all right, Brigadier. Three hundred blery meters of open, useless wasteland and one stinking gully! And capturing that fucking ground cost me ten killed and thirty-six wounded! At that rate, our whole verdomde country will be bled white before we reach

  Windhoek! “

  Strydom grabbed him by the arm again and leaned closer, his voice low, fearful, and urgent.

  “Shut up, Kruger! Do you want to be arrested, too?

  Do you want your men commanded by someone like that?” He jerked his head in Hertzog’s direction.

  Kruger shook his head reluctantly. A thug and political hack in charge of his battalion? Madness.

  “Now listen to me, Henrik, and listen closely. Your attack today was successful-just as your attack tomorrow will be successful. Pretoria does not want to hear about failure, about supply difficulties, or about casualties. Do you understand me?”

  Kruger stood motionless for what seemed an eternity. What Strydom was suggesting violated every tenet of his training and experience as a South

  African officer. What had happened to his nation? How could it have fallen into the hands of such brutal incompetents? He glanced again at

  Hertzog’s smug, gloating face and nodded slowly, feeling ashamed as he did so.

  He would buckle under for the moment-but only for the moment. Only to save some of his men.

  SEPTEMBER I O-THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW, R.S.F.S.R.

  Outside the Kremlin’s redbrick walls, the streets of Moscow were full of shoppers-shoppers standing in record-long lines for a few of the basic necessities. Bread already gone stale in warehouses. Shr
iveled potatoes.

  Rotting cabbage. Rare cuts of meat more gristle and bone than anything else.

  Soap that wouldn’t lather, and gasoline so filled with impurities that it wrecked almost as many engines as it powered.

  It was the seventh year of perestroika, the grand program of economic restructuring. It was the seventh year of continuing failure.

  Within the Kremlin’s walls, the Soviet State Defense Council met in a small, elegantly furnished chamber. Ten chairs surrounded a rectangular oak table topped only by notepads, pens, and a tray holding two bottles of vodka. The State’s anti alcohol campaign continued unabated, but serious decisions always seemed to call for something more stimulating than tea or fizzy mineral water. A German-manufactured word-processing system occupied one corner of the room, ready for use by the secretaries who would record any major decisions for later translation into action directives for specific ministries or individuals.

  Only six of the ten chairs were occupied. The Soviet State Defense Council was made up of the highest-ranking members of the Politburo, itself a body of elite decision makers whose power had been only partly diluted by the

  USSR’s newly formed Congress of People’s Deputies. Any large body takes its lead from a smaller body, and from smaller and smaller groups, until finally the power is wielded by a few key individuals.

  The President of the Soviet Union looked wearily around the table, his red-rimmed eyes roving from face to face. The minister of defense, plump and pudgy despite a precisely tailored suit and rows of unearned medals.

  Next to him, the chief of the general staff, seated stiffly in full dress uniform. Directly across the table, the cherubic, bushy-eye browed chairman of the KGB, who sat next to the foreign minister

  -apparently on the general principle that one should always stay close to one’s greatest rival. And to his immediate right, the boyish face of a comparative newcomer, the academician who now served as the President’s chief economic advisor.

  One face was missing, the gray, skeletal visage of the Communist Party’s chief ideologist. The old man had been in the hospital for several weeks, fighting a losing battle with pneumonia. It was just as well, the President thought. If he wanted lectures on abstract political philosophy, he could always get them from his wife. The Soviet Union’s national security decisions needed a firmer basis in reality. Now more than ever.