Vortex

  “Nail him!”

  “Doing it! “The gunner swiveled his fire control to the right. Cross hairs settled over the enemy AFV and stayed there.

  “Locked on!”

  Night Stalker Lead’s pilot dropped the gunship’s nose.

  “Firing. 11

  The helicopter’s last remaining TOW antitank missile leapt from its right stores pylon and raced through the sky trailing fire and an ultrathin control wire. It crossed the six hundred meters separating the gunship from its target and exploded against the South African AFV’s turret. The

  Rookiat’s top armor had been designed to stop 23mm cannon rounds-not heavy weight antitank missiles.

  Fuel and ammunition went up in a rolling blast that threw torn and twisted pieces of Rookiat Two One more than fifty feet into the air. Oily black smoke boiled out of the vehicle’s shattered hulk, spreading slowly across a barren hillside now dotted with small fragments of flaming wreckage.

  Night Stalker Lead’s missile had annihilated South Africa’s last organized opposition to Brave Fortune. The 1/75th Rangers had a clear road to

  Swartkop.

  SWARTKOP MILITARY AIRFIELD

  Swartkop Airfield’s vast stretches of oil-stained concrete were deserted-almost entirely abandoned to the dead and the dying. Fires guttered low in burnt-out hangars and workshops. Smoke and flame rose from the wreckage of the two MH-8 “Little Birds.” As part of the plan, they’d been abandoned and blown up by their own crews rather than let the South

  Africans capture them intact. The only signs of life were concentrated near one end of the flight line where Rangers hurriedly unloaded wounded men from captured trucks and carried them into the huge cargo bay of the last waiting C141. More soldiers lay prone in a rough semicircle around the aircraft, ready to provide coveting fire if any South African troops appeared. Two weary officers stood watching off to one side of the

  Starlifter’s cargo ramp.

  Jet engines howled from the other side of the tarmac where the other C141 s taxied toward takeoff. Abruptly, one swung through a sharp 180-degree turn, came to a brief stop on the runway’s centerline, and then accelerated-rolling past with a thundering, rumbling roar.

  Lt. Col. Robert O’Connell watched his battalion’s lead transport lumber heavily into the air with a profound sense of relief. Three nuclear weapons were safely off South African soil and bound for

  American-garrisoned Diego Garcia -die first stage on a long flight back to the United States. Another C-141 followed a minute later, lifting off just as the third Starlifter flashed past down the runway. One after another, the huge transports took off.

  “Rob, we’re done! Now I suggest we get the hell out of here! “

  O’Connell turned toward the hoarse shout. Lt. Col. Mike Carrerra pointed toward a collection of empty trucks. The wounded they’d carried were all inside the C-14 1. O’Connell nodded vigorously.

  “Amen to that, Mike. Get your people aboard! “

  “Right.” Carreffa whirled round and yelled through cupped hands, “Let’s go, Alpha Two!”

  Moving fire team by fire team, the Rangers of the 2/75this

  Alpha Company scrambled upright and ran for the open cargo bay. As the last man’s combat boots thudded onto the steel ramp, Carrerra signaled the

  Air Force crew chief waiting eagerly by the door controls.

  “Close and seal!”

  He turned back to O’Connell with a wide, punch-drunk grin plastered across his face.

  “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit, Colonel. I gotta admit

  I never thought we’d pull this fucking thing off. Congratulations. “

  O’Connell smiled wanly and glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the

  C-141’s crowded cargo bay. Dozens of men lay motionless on either side of the central aisle, swathed in bloodstained bandages. Others, apparently uninjured, sat silently along the Starlifter’s metal walls, clutching M16s and light machine guns in hands that shook uncontrollably.

  Carrerra’s battalion had taken heavy losses while seizing and holding the

  South African airfield. His own unit’s casualties were even higher.

  Preliminary casualty reports showed the ln5this losses running at more than 50 percent. His Ranger battalion had been wrecked while accomplishing its mission.

  He looked up at Carrerra’s tired face.

  “Yeah. We did it. I just hope to

  God it was worth the price.”

  Carreffa eyed the pillars of smoke and flame rising in a great arc from the west to the north.

  “Well, one thing’s for goddamned certain. These bastards will sure as hell know we’ve been here!”

  O’Connell found himself nodding in agreement as the cargo ramp whined shut, blocking their view of South Africa. The huge C-141 was already in motion, turning rapidly onto the runway leading home.

  Karl Vorster’s government had just lost its nuclear option.

  CHAPTER

  Foothold

  DECEMBER 7-SIMONS TOWN NAVAL BASE, CAPE TOWN

  “There’s the helicopter. ” Brig. Chris Taylor, commander of the

  Independent Cape Province Defense Forces, pointed out over the water. At first, the shape was visible more by the starlight it blocked than as a concrete form-visible just as a small patch of blackness racing low across white-capped water. But the whupping sound of rotor blades made it real.

  The helicopter was headed for a pier at the Simonstown Naval Base, an area controlled by his troops, but still in range of the guns on Table

  Mountain. In fact, all of Cape Town was in range of those guns, and that was a problem. Vorster’s troops, holed up in the mountain, had made the liberation of Cape Town a hollow victory, because any movement, any sign of organized activity, quickly ended in a storm of shellfire.

  For more than three weeks, the whole city had taken a terrible beating.

  Its citizens now moved only at night, without lights, and as much as possible, without noise. All those who

  “a could had fled to the countryside-something that wasn’t an option for Cape

  Town’s black population.

  The black and colored population lived in Alexandra township, south of the city, and they depended on the normal commerce of the city for their income. Servants, cleaners, and laborers, they’d been hit the hardest when the daytime shelling started.

  Now bands of blacks roved the city, looking for food, money, or anything of value. Transportation was rigidly controlled, and Taylor’s forces were once more employed in trying to preserve order. Those that weren’t busy chasing looters escorted food convoys or formed ai perimeter around Table

  Mountain-guarding against a sortie by the besieged forces.

  Vorster’s troops were deeply entrenched in a network of improved caves and tunnels bored into solid rock. With little more than a single infantry battalion plus artillery, they’d stood off two determined attacks by Taylor’s much larger forces. Those assaults had claimed so many of his men that he’d given up trying to take the place by storm.

  Unfortunately, a conventional siege was certain to be both costly and protracted. He wasn’t completely familiar with the defenses, but it was common knowledge in the Army that the mountain held food and ammunition for several months. Ammunition in abundance, including plenty of shells for their heavy G-5 howitzers. The G-5s, massive 155mm artillery pieces with a forty-kilometer range, were the centerpiece of the holdouts’ defenses.

  Well, he thought, with luck and some tact, they could end the siege with

  American help. Taylor, his secondin command, Adriaan Spier, and Deputy

  Governor Fraser were all going out to meet the American invasion fleet steaming toward the Cape Town coast.

  Making sure that his hooded light was pointed out to sea, one of the soldiers escorting Taylor’s party shone a beam toward the advancing aircraft. As if making sure that was the proper recognition signal, the helicopter paused about fifty meters away, hovering over th
e water.

  Phosphorescent foam showed where its powerful rotor wash hit the surface.

  It

  waited, hanging almost motionless in the air, until the South African signalman pointed his light at a clear section of the pier. Then the aircraft slid forward and came in to land.

  The concrete pier was ten meters wide at this point. In earlier days,

  Simonstown had served as a base for the Dutch, then the Royal Navy. Now it served what was left of the South African Navy-a force that had shrunk from scores of ships to the present handful of missile boats. Some of those had been lost in the fighting. The rest were hidden along the coast against future need. They would be of little help in assaulting the

  Mountain.

  As soon as the helicopter settled, Taylor shook a few hands, received heartfelt best wishes from his men, and trotted toward the aircraft, ducking under the still-turning blades. Spier and Fraser were close on his heels, and as they approached, a side door opened, revealing a red-lit interior.

  The three men quickly clambered aboard, helped by experienced hands.

  Crewmen, expressionless beneath bulky flight helmets, strapped them in.

  As soon as they were secure, Taylor felt a steady pressure on his seat and spine. They were airborne.

  Just as the helicopter started moving forward, a flash and the roar of an explosion broke the night’s calm. Taylor felt the machine shudder.

  Spier, seated beside him, said, “It’s a ranging shot. They must have seen something. “

  True. The smallest flicker of movement could attract the attention of the guns hidden in Table Mountain’s tunnels. Even sound could prompt an attack.

  A second shell landed closer to the pier than the first. White water spouted high in the air. Taylor swore softly. Even a near miss could tumble the slow-moving helicopter into the ocean.

  He felt the helicopter’s engines roar as the pilot fire-walled the throttle. It skimmed over the water, gathering speed. A third round landed almost on top of their landing site, but they were well away, and

  Taylor was sure that the men they’d left behind were long gone. You didn’t live long in Cape Town these days without knowing how to take cover.

  The helicopter was a troop carrier, a Nighthawk version of the Sikorsky UH-60, equipped with navigation and nightvision gear.

  Taylor and the other two rubbernecked for a few moments until an enlisted man handed’ each South African an intercom headset. Removing his beret,

  Taylor put it on and heard, “Good morning, gentlemen. Lieutenant Colonel

  Haigler, U.S. Marine Corps, at your service.”

  Sure that lieutenant colonels did not normally pilot helicopters, Taylor replied, “Good morning, Colonel.”

  Taylor, who still thought of himself as a major, fought the urge to call

  Haigler “sit.” His commissions as commandant, colonel, and finally brigadier had been earned in combat, in response to the new province’s desperate need for an organized military force. His deputy, Adriaan

  Spier, had been a lieutenant and was now a colonel.

  “How far is it to your flotilla, Colonel?” asked Fraser.

  The American officer’s slow, confident voice filled his earphones.

  “About sixty miles-nautical miles. ETA over the task force is in roughly forty minutes.”

  Taylor looked back. The dark coast behind them was invisible, and the

  Nighthawk skimmed over the dark waves only twenty meters below them.

  There were no marks to navigate by, and only fading starlight to see by.

  He trusted the pilot’s navigational skills, though. He had to.

  After about thirty minutes, the helicopter started climbing. The eastern horizon was already visibly lighter, and the three South Africans heard

  Haigler say, “I thought you’d like to have a look before we set down.”

  Taylor and his two companions peered out the port windows. They were climbing steadily. His ears popped uncomfortably, and he kept yawning, trying to clear them. Now he knew why so many American fliers seemed to chew gum all the time.

  The sun was also climbing to meet them, casting its pale early-morning light farther and farther to the west. Suddenly, what had been a dark and empty seascape was full of gray painted ships.

  Taylor was sure they were in some sort of formation, but all he could see was a mass of ships-some small, many large. He picked out what had to be a carrier, and as if to

  reinforce the point, two F-14 fighters flew past the helicopter, close enough for a good look but just far enough away to avoid buffeting their craft.

  The brigadier began to smell a setup. No doubt the Americans and their

  British allies thought an initial display might influence the attitudes of their South African guests. Still, he appreciated the show. If nothing else, Taylor now had a much better idea of the task force’s size and fighting power.

  The Nighthawk angled down, and Taylor realized they were not heading for the carrier, but for what had to be a battleship. He had heard and read of these vessels, but he had never seen one, certainly not like this. The warship seemed to symbolize the American intervention. It was massive, powerful, even pretty to look at. He was genuinely impressed.

  In a long, slow, smooth arc, the helicopter came in to land on the battleship’s fantail. As soon as it touched down, two lines of Marines ran up, dressed in camouflaged battle dress but still looking crisp and neat despite that.

  Fraser stepped out first, followed by Taylor and then Spier. Boatswains’ pipes shrilled, and they stopped momentarily as the Marines lined up to either side presented arms. Taylor and the others were escorted over to a group of officers drawn up on the fantail.

  He consciously squared his shoulders. The ceremonies were almost over.

  Now they’d get down to work.

  Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig eyed the approaching South Africans carefully. They were potential allies, but that alliance was far from automatic. His mind sorted out names, faces, and first impressions while his ears listened to the routine introductions-the Wisconsin’s captain, the commander of the Marines Expeditionary Force, and so on.

  He liked what he saw of Taylor. The South African commander was a weathered-looking man, a little younger than Craig, weary, with that same thousand-mile stare he’d seen in Vietnam-the look of a man who’d seen too much combat. Spier was similar, but more enthusiastic. It was clear the mande of responsibility was a heavy burden for the young brigadier.

  Fraser was a different sort. Smooth, self-assured, he looked as if he hadn’t missed many meals-despite the shortages Craig had heard about.

  Although Fraser was a South African, the general thought he could have stepped out of any city hall or state house in the States. He hated the politician instantly.

  Well, it was time to start the festivities, Craig thought. As senior officer he was master of ceremonies.

  “Will you gentlemen accompany us to the wardroom? We thought you might like some breakfast before we get down to business.”

  Although billed as a training exercise, the gunnery drill was really a demonstration of the battleship’s firepower. An ample, “American-style” breakfast had been followed by a quick tour of the Wisconsin, capped off by this “exercise” firing. Taylor didn’t need the demonstration, but he was happy to watch. He’d be too busy when the Wisconsin actually fired her guns in anger.

  The Wisconsin was the centerpiece of Taylor’s plan for clearing Table

  Mountain-the answer to his prayers. Air attacks had proved futile against the recessed, heavily armored gun positions. The battleship’s one-ton shells were both precise and powerful enough to knock out the guns. In addition, sixteen-inch shells were cheap, and the Wisconsin could pound the battery again and again, until it was gone.

  Craig and Capt. Thomas Malloy, the Wisconsin’s skipper, were having an animated discussion about gun safety and backblast, and Taylor sagged against the railing and tried to rest. His mornin
g on the battleship had been his first day of relative peace since the civil war started.

  He looked up as Craig nodded to his guests.

  “Gentlemen, I recommend that we remain inside the bridge during the firing. “

  Taylor was reluctant to leave the bridge wing’s fresh air and wider view, but he sensed that Craig knew his business.

  As soon as they stepped inside the bridge, sailors rushed forward to swing the armored doors shut, dogging them tightly. During their brief tour, Taylor had noticed the heavy steel forming both the doors and the bulkheads they were set

  in. With its six inches of all-around steel protection and splinter-proof glass windows, Malloy referred to the bridge as part of his ship’s armored “citadel,” a term that seemed highly appropriate.

  Responding to Malloy’s orders, the Wisconsin changed course. As the ship turned, Taylor saw its massive forward gun turrets start moving. A ringing alarm bell warned anyone foolish enough to be on deck to keep clear of the moving machinery.

  Each turret swung out to starboard, pointing harmlessly out to sea. Craig explained that an artificial target was being fed into gunnery plot, many decks below, and that the guns would fire a salvo at this imaginary enemy.

  Muzzles whined upward on the two forward turrets.

  Taylor heard a “Stand by!” from the phone talker, followed by a shrill beep-beep, and the second beep ignited an explosion that filled his world with sound.

  Smoke and flame splashed off the armored glass windows in front of him, and his feet carried the firing shock up his legs and spine until it shook inside his head. Nine sixteen inch shells, each weighing one ton, howled twenty miles downrange. Each shell was twenty times larger than those fired by the guns on Table Mountain. For a brief instant, the whole battleship seemed to stagger and rock back under the force of its broadside.

  The bridge windows cleared as the Wisconsin’s motion carried it out of the smoke cloud. Mist still streamed from the gun tubes. In the silence following the explosion, Taylor turned to the Marine general and nodded firmly.

  “That should do the job, I would think “

  WARDROOM, USS VWSCONSIN

  Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig wanted to rub his eyes, get up and walk around, and take a breath of fresh air. He wanted to leave, to get back to his command center where the only problems he faced involved killing an armed and alert enemy.