Vortex

by Larry Bond

  For all practical purposes, the battle for Cape Town was over.

  DECEMBER I O-TRANSIT CAMP, 101 ST AIR ASSAULT DIVISION, NEAR THE D.

  F.

  MALAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, CAPE TOWN

  The Marine helicopter touched down in a cloud of hot dust and wind. Its rotors were still turning as Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig,

  flanked by his chief of staff and intelligence officer, jumped from the machine and marched over to a knot of men waiting near a long barbed wire fence. Craig noted that there were Marines, Army personnel, and South

  African soldiers present. He hoped that was a good sign.

  “Good morning, sir.” The senior officer, an Army lieutenant colonel, saluted, and Craig returned it quickly, still walking. The officer, a slim man with a carefully trimmed crew cut and a small scar on his chin, fell in beside him.

  Ahead lay a massive tent city, still growing if the frantically working construction teams were any indication. Some men were erecting tents while others built more-permanent structures-mostly prefab hangars and maintenance sheds for the 101st’s helicopter fleet. Other troops were digging emplacements for heavy weapons at regular intervals along the fence line-an action prompted by last night’s incident.

  “Over here, sir.” The party followed the fence line to a stretch of wire that had a six-foot gap cut in it. A row of bodies lay off to one side, covered by a green, Army-issue tarpaulin.

  As Craig’s group approached, a young Army private standing near the fence came to attention and saluted. The lieutenant colonel nodded in his direction.

  “This is PFC Moffett, General. “

  Then he turned to the private.

  “At ease, Moffett. Tell the general about last night.”

  Clearly nervous in the presence of so much rank, Moffett tried his best to report.

  “Sir! I was assigned the midnight to-oh-four-hundred guard post last night, the ninth of December, when I detected unauthorized personnel near the fence. When I ordered them to halt, they engaged me with unauthorized small-arms fire. So I was forced to return fire while calling for the corporal of the guard.”

  Craig fought down a sudden grin.

  “Unauthorized” small arms fire? He’d have to remember that one.

  “Good work, son. You did the right things at the right time. Were you nervous?”

  The private relaxed slightly and turned his head to look at

  Craig.

  “Nervous, sir? I was scared shitless!” Suddenly remembering whom he was speaking to, he braced, exclaiming, “Oh, fuck! I mean, excuse me, sir!”

  Craig’s grin broke out into the open.

  “Don’t worry, Corporal. We need men who do their job even when they’re scared. ” He glanced at the Army officer beside him.

  “I think we can forgive Corporal Moffett’s language, this time.

  We need NCOs who can think on their feet. Right, Colonel?”

  The man nodded.

  “Definitely, sir. ” He jerked his head to one side. Moffett took the hint, saluted again, and sidled away, grinning at his good fortune.

  Craig turned his gaze on the row of dead men. There were four of them, and the bare feet sticking out from under the tarpaulin showed that they were black.

  Soldiers pulled back the sheet, revealing four young African men, all dressed in fatigue-style uniforms of mixed cut and color. Moffett had shot three of them, the Army officer explained. The fourth had been killed by another guard as he attempted to flee.

  “All our sentries are equipped with nightvision gear, General. I don’t think they were ready for that.”

  And Craig was not ready for black guerrillas.

  “Who were they?” he asked.

  “What were they trying to do?”

  The lieutenant colonel shrugged.

  “We didn’t find any documents, but one of them had an ANC pin on his shirt. Other than that slim link, nothing.” He frowned down at the row of corpses.

  “As for what they were up to? Well, they had three AK-47s, one RPG launcher, and some satchel charges. And this part of the wire is opposite our helicopter park. That’s a pretty juicy target for a sabotage attack, sir. “

  Craig nodded reluctantly.

  “Double your guards. We shouldn’t expect them all to have Corporal Moffett’s aim.”

  He turned to the staff officers with him.

  “Increase security at all our camps. I don’t want any frigging Beiruts on my watch, understand?”

  They nodded. Nobody in the U.S. military took the threat of terrorist attacks lightly.

  Craig spun back to face the Army lieutenant colonel.

  “Send out a tracking party right away. See if you can pick up any further information about these guys-where they came from,

  if they had any help.” Addressing the party as a whole, he said, “We’re not here to hunt down the ANC, but by God, we will protect our own people.”

  Turning away, Craig headed for the helicopter. Shaking his head, he muttered under his breath, “Sounds good, anyway. “

  Another complication.

  As his helicopter lifted off and headed back to the Mount Whitney, he cursed his luck. Cape Town was supposed to be a safe haven, a place where his men could prepare for their real job. While he didn’t view his primary mission as “liberating South Africa’s black population,” certainly booting out Vorster should be good news for them. Were these guerrillas working with the Cubans, or did they just hate armed strangers in their country?

  New contingents of troops were landing constantly, crowding camps that were springing up like plants after a desert rain. Every airfield in the area was so choked with military aircraft that the precious engineer units had been diverted to expanding one of them.

  Craig closed his eyes for a brief moment’s rest. Just coordinating this buildup was an exhausting, but vital, job. And now he faced this new distraction. Ashore among a fragmented and violent population, he longed for the relief of open combat.

  DECEMBER 12-CNN HEADLINE NEWS

  A blond, thirtyish announcer sat before a now-familiar map of sub-Saharan

  Africa.

  “The American buildup in South Africa continues, amid criticism both at home and abroad. For different reasons, Senator Steven Travers of

  Nevada and Soviet foreign minister Alexei Tumansky both released statements today condemning U.S. involvement in the region.”

  The scene shifted to show Tumansky in front of the United Nations building, surrounded by aides and reporters. Bundled in an elegant overcoat and fur cap, the minister spoke earnestly.

  “Our resolution is intended to call world attention to

  the West’s intervention in support of the South African government.

  “

  As if on cue, one of the reporters surrounding him asked, “Washington has stated that it intends to remove the Vorster regime from office. Don’t both you and Washington have the same goal?”

  “Washington merely intends to restore its own version of ‘law and order’ to South Africa. The socialist armies now liberating the country intend to let the people decide their new government. “

  The scene changed again, this time to show Senator Travers at a podium, in front of an applauding crowd. The anchor’s voice-over said, “And at a recent fund-raising dinner for Trans Africa Senator Travers castigated the administration for involving the U.S. in a ‘dangerous foreign adventure.”

  ” Travers’s voice became audible as he said, “Instead of starting our own private war, we should be assisting those forces in the area that are already fighting Vorster’s regime. The cold war is dead.

  If the President can’t get used to the idea of joining hands with old enemies in a common cause, then it’s time for new leadership in the White

  House. ” More cheers and applause greeted his words, which faded along with the senator’s image.

  The anchor’s face returned, and in a calm, reassuring voice, he read a statement by the British f
oreign minister, speaking after a particularly noisy question period in the House of Commons.

  “Britain remains committed to intervention in South Africa, both as a way of protecting our extensive commercial interests in the region, and to ensure that a democratic government is created, one that can end the frightful bloodshed now under way.”

  Looking up from his script, the anchor let a little excitement creep into his voice.

  “Meanwhile, the buildup continues.”

  CHAPTER

  Gauntlet

  DECEMBER 12-VOORTREKKER HEIGHTS MILITARY CAMP

  Commandant Henrik Kruger’s bungalow still showed signs of the damage it had suffered during the American attack on Pelindaba. Rough plaster patches covered cracks in every wall, and sheets of plastic were tacked over empty window frames. His standard-issue furniture hadn’t come through in any better shape. Thick pieces of canvas now covered a small sofa and three high-backed chairs whose upholstery had been torn to pieces by flying glass and steel splinters.

  Brig. Deneys Coetzee paused in the doorway and made a show of carefully surveying his surroundings.

  “What a pigsty, Henrik! You’d be more comfortable living in a tent or inside your Ratel!”

  “Perhaps I would. ” Kruger smiled briefly and then glanced over Coetzee’s shoulder. None of his “trusted” junior officers were in sight. Good. He motioned the older man inside and shut the door behind him.

  By the time he turned around, the brigadier had already

  “7

  doffed his peaked officer’s cap and plopped himself down on the closest chair.

  “We’re alone?”

  “Yes.” Kruger felt it might be better not to mention Ian Sheffield’s presence in the room next door. What Coetzee didn’t know, he couldn’t be forced to reveal if the security forces chose to interrogate him.

  As always, the shorter man came straight to the point.

  “You’re about to receive new orders-marching orders.”

  Kruger nodded. He’d been expecting that for some time now. His battalion hadn’t suffered many casualties during the American air and commando raid-just a few wounded and even fewer dead. True, they were still short of heavy weapons and APCs, but so was almost every other Army unit. And with South Africa being invaded from every direction, keeping a veteran unit such as the 20th Cape Rifles sitting immobile and useless outside

  Pretoria made less and less sense with every passing day. If anything, he was surprised that it had taken General de Wet and his incompetent toadies this long to reach that conclusion.

  Coetzee looked him straight in the eye.

  “You and your men are being sent north tomorrow. To fight the Cubans.”

  “I see.” Again, that wasn’t very surprising. He and most of his men had been born and bred in the Cape Province. Even Karl Vorster wasn’t crazy or foolish enough to trust soldiers to put down a rebellion in their own homeland.

  Coetzee shook his head sadly.

  “No, I don’t think that you do see, Henrik.

  You and your battalion are still under suspicion. There are some at the

  Ministry who believe your troops failed in their duty during the American attack on Pelindaba. “

  Kruger’s temper flared.

  “What in God’s name was I supposed to do? Order my men out into the open so they could be bombed with greater ease? We were under continuous air attack! Would de Wet’s boot lickers be happier if we’d been slaughtered like Peiper and his sixty-first?”

  His friend grinned cynically.

  “Probably. Don’t forget Peiper is being mourned as a hero of the Afrikaner people. An incompetent hero perhaps, but a blery hero nonetheless.”

  “Good Christ.” Kruger fought to regain control over his anger. Weeks and months of frustration and pent-up rage threatened to’ boil over in seconds. He spoke tightly through clenched teeth. “if we are under such suspicion, why are they even willing to trust us in combat against the Cubans?”

  “You’re not going to be trusted, man. You’re going to be used.” Coetzee opened his briefcase and handed him two photocopied sets of orders.

  “Read those.”

  Kruger obeyed. One was addressed to the head of the Far North Military

  Command. The other had been sent to the officer commanding the SADF’s

  Logistics Branch. Both were signed by Gen. Adriaan de Wet himself. And both contained instructions effectively sentencing his seven hundred officers and men to death.

  De Wet wanted the 20th Cape Rifles destroyed-but he wanted to make some use of its destruction. Essentially, Kruger and his men were to be thrown in front of Cuba’s advancing columns as cannon and tank fodder. Brigade commanders along the northern front were supposed to assign them to every possible dirty and dangerous mission—to place them in the most exposed defensive positions and to use them as spearheads for every suicidal counterattack. Even worse in a way, the Rifles were marked as dead last on the list of units slated to receive chemical warfare gear. De Wet wanted protection against Castro’s poisons restricted to battalions and rear-area headquarters of “proven loyalty and dependability. “

  Naturally, exceptions were to be made for a certain number of junior officers and a small scattering of known AWB loyalists among the enlisted men. Kruger studied their names with some care. A thin, humorless smile flickered onto his face. It was decent of de Wet to provide him with a ready made list of those who would willingly abandon their comrades to near-certain death.

  He waved the documents at Coetzee.

  “I can keep these? And show them to men I can trust?”

  “Yes. But don’t get caught with them. I have to pay some attention to saving my own skin, eh?” The brigadier snapped his briefcase shut and rose to his feet.

  “So what will you do now, Henrik?”

  Kruger pondered that for a moment. Even though he’d contemplated rebelling against Vorster’s illegal authority for months, it still felt unnatural. Helping Emily and her friends escape the security police had been a personal decision with solely personal risks. But leading his whole battalion into action against Pretoria might mean dragging several hundred others in front of a firing squad beside him.

  Still, what other choice did he have? Vorster’s government had already tried and convicted his troops-men who were guilty only of being born in the wrong place. Kruger stared down at the orders he held crumpled in his hands and made his decision. He would choose the path that left some of his honor intact. He would lead the 20th Cape Rifles out from under

  Vorster’s illegal authority.

  Coetzee read the determination in his eyes and nodded his own understanding and agreement.

  “You’ll have to move decisively when the time comes, Henrik. No dawdling. No second thoughts. And no coddling for those who’ll try to betray you to the government. 11

  “You speak true. As the wise man said, see a snake… kill a snake.”

  Kruger’s right hand lingered over the pistol holstered at his hip. He looked up sharply.

  “Come with us, Deneys. Get out while you still can.”

  Coetzee shook his head.

  “Not yet, Henrik. Not just yet.” He cleared his throat.

  “You see, I haven’t given up all hope for our country. There are still some of us, a few of us, in the Army who know what is right and what is wrong. We may still be able to salvage something for South Africa from this disaster.”

  He took a pen and notepad out of his pocket.

  “If you need to reach me for any reason, call one of these two places. ” He jotted down two phone numbers. Both had a Pretoria prefix.

  “Neither is tapped, and you can speak freely to those who will answer.”

  Kruger took the folded piece of paper from him and carefully stowed it away in his tunic.

  “I thank you for all that you have done, Deneys. No man could have a better friend. “

  Coetzee gripped his outstretched hand hard and then stood back.
<
br />   “I wish you and your troops a good journey, Henrik. “

  Kruger blinked away an uncomfortable feeling of moisture in his eyes.

  Officers did not cry. Instead he stiffened slowly to attention and saluted.

  Coetzee returned the salute in perfect silence.

  Both men knew it would probably be the last time Commandant Henrik Kruger showed his respect for a superior officer of the South African Army.

  DECEMBER 13-20TH CAPE RIFLES, ALONG THE NI

  MOTOR ROUTE, NORTH OF PRETORIA

  More than fifty trucks, jeeps, and armored personnel carriers moved steadily northward along the highway-spread single file in a column more than a kilometer long. Machine gunners aboard each Ratel and Buffet APC kept both hands clamped firmly to their weapons and both eyes fixed fimly on the sky. They were only forty kilometers beyond Pretoria’s northernmost suburbs, but Cuba’s MiGs ranged far and wide across the Transvaal these days.

  Ian Sheffield sat uncomfortably in the cab of a five-ton truck stationed right behind Kruger’s Command Ratel, feeling awkward and all too visible in a crisp, brand-new South African Army uniform. Emily van der Heijden and Matthew Sibena rode out of sight in the back-crammed in among boxes of ammunition, concentrated field rations, and twenty gallon drums of water. So far, the truck driver, a closemouthed sergeant, had pointedly ignored all three of his passengers. Ian wondered how much longer the man would be able to restrain his evident curiosity.

  Without thinking, he fingered the single stripe that identified him as a lance corporal-whatever that was. Just what did Kruger have in mind?

  Did the Afrikaner officer really believe he could impersonate a South

  African soldier for any length of time? Especially in combat against the

  Cubans? Because if he did, the whole idea was a nonstarter from the word go.

  Ian knew that he’d give himself away as an American the very first time he opened his mouth. Even after spending

  almost a year in this country, the odds of his being able to successfully fake any kind of a South African accent could best be summed up as zero.