Vortex

by Larry Bond

Logic argued that the Allies were moving on Durban itself. The city’s airfield and harbor were perfect staging points for an all-out Allied drive on Johannesburg and Pretoria. In fact, they were the only possible staging points. Essentially, all main roads on the Natal coast led to

  Durban. Only there did they blend together into a single superhighway stretching north to South Africa’s mineral-rich interior.

  Logic also argued that the Allies, though long on men and materiel were short on time. Even capturing the city would still leave this General

  Craig and his men more than six hundred kilometers from their final objectives. And before the Americans and British could push farther inland, they’d need a secure supply line-the kind one could only build with unimpeded access to a major port.

  Diederichs nodded slowly to himself. He and his soldiers couldn’t win the upcoming battle, but they could at least deny their enemies a quick victory. He leaned over his desk, studying a series of charts and diagrams showing Durban’s port facilities.

  For more than a week now, his engineers and gangs of conscripted black and Indian laborers had been working night and day to wreck the harbor beyond easy repair. Some had planted demolition charges to destroy cargo-handling equipment along the waterfront itself. Others stood ready to scuttle freighters and tankers already trapped by the American blockade-b locking both the harbor’s narrow entrance and all its docks and anchorages.

  Once the first waves of the Allied invasion force touched down,

  Diederichs planned to pull the bulk of his small garrison into a perimeter enclosing most of Durban’s central city. Even with their overwhelming numbers and firepower, it would take the Uitlanders days to dig his troops out of their fortified skyscrapers and beachfront hotels.

  And until they did, they couldn’t possibly begin repairing the damage to the all-important port facilities. At the same time, his artillery well hidden among the forested foothills of the Drakensberg Mountains-would interdict the Louis Botha Airport. Periodic barrages of high-explosive shells would make it impossible for the Americans to land their huge

  C-141 and C-5 cargo planes.

  With any luck, the Allied drive on Pretoria would soon sputter and stall-strangled at birth by a lack of food, fuel, and ammunition.

  The Afrikaner brigadier smiled crookedly at that thought. Whatever the result, he wouldn’t be alive to see it. He planned to die fighting with his soldiers. Retreat out of the city was unthinkable and unsurvivable.

  He didn’t have any illusions about his own government’s attitude toward unsuccessful officers. Pretoria’s firing squads would soon make short shrift of the man who’d lost Durban.

  Surrender to the Americans or the British was equally unthinkable. He had no intention of appearing as chief defendant at a socalled war crimes trial. If necessary, he’d kill himself first, His thin lips creased in an ugly snarl. Better by far to

  die by one’s own hand than to stand in chains before swaggering, kaffir-loving conquerors.

  Diederichs straightened his shoulders and turned back to his work. Durban’s barricades, trenches, and fortified buildings would make the city more than just a graveyard for his own ambitions and dreams. They would end Allied hopes for a quick and bloodless end to the war in South Africa.

  DECEMBER 19-SEAL TEAM ONE, ABOARD HMS

  UNSEEN

  Boatswain’s Mate First Class Joe Gordon, USN, left the Unseen’s hatch in a silvery cloud of bubbles. The three other men in his SEAL detachment were already out. They signaled him with a small light, dimly visible through the water.

  After closing the diesel submarine’s hatch behind him, Gordon swam over to them and pointed to the compass on his wrist. If they were in position-and the Unseen’s skipper had assured them they were-their target lay two thousand yards to the north.

  Gordon heard a dull, muffled clank behind him and turned to see the hatch opening again. His wasn’t the only raiding party going out tonight. The

  Unseen also carried another party of SEALs and one of SBS, Britain’s

  Special Boat Service.

  His three men all looked at him, legs and arms paddling slowly to keep them in place against the offshore current. Even in their face masks and other scuba gear, Gordon knew them all, and knew what they could do. Motioning, he pointed north. They started swimming.

  He was glad to be out of the British submarine. He’d ridden subs often enough, but he decided that he didn’t like the British variant. They talked funny, ate funny food, and the thing always stank of diesel oil. And they were too tight. A U.S. nuclear sub was crowded, but after a full day in a

  British boat, Gordon had wanted to ask for a marriage license. All they could do was talk. He chuckled inwardly. At least those SBS guys told some fascinating lies.

  The sub’s small size was perfect for this job, though. The Sturgeon-class

  U.S. nukes couldn’t get any closer to shore than the sixty-fathom curve, dumping them miles from their objective. Here, it was just a short swim-only a mile underwater.

  Swimming felt good, stretching out the muscles, burning off some of that adrenaline flowing through his veins. He kept a sharp lookout for sharks.

  The waters off Durban were famous for them, and he didn’t want an encounter to screw up the timetable. They were supposed to be ashore just after midnight.

  The water was dark and the shoreline empty. Gordon could only rely on his compass and skills honed by long years of training to get him ashore. He certainly wouldn’t find any friends on the beach. Not that he expected any. SEALs were always the first in, and that was exactly what he wanted.

  SECOND MARINE EXPEDITIONARY FORCE, SEA ECHELON AREA, OFF DURBAN

  Fifty American and British ships lay shrouded in darkness fifty miles off the Natal coast. Massive, flat-decked amphibious assault vessels mingled with smaller ships carrying landing craft, tanks, and tracked LVTP-7 amphibious vehicles. Destroyers and frigates steamed back and forth, screening the formation against air or submarine attack. Inside each ship,

  Marines and Navy crewmen worked through the night stowing gear, readying aircraft, cleaning weapons-making all of the thousands of last-minute preparations necessary for survival on a hostile shore.

  SEAL TEAM ONE, NEAR THE LOUIS BOTHA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, SOUTH OF

  DURBAN

  Boatswain Gordon lifted his head above the surface of the water. The shoreline was a smooth expanse of sloping sand,

  perfect for amphibious ships, but lousy for SEALs. He quickly scanned the area. They couldn’t be that far off.

  There, off to the right. Reunion Rocks, a jumble of boulders jutting out from the shore, verified his navigation. Signaling silently to the rest of his men, Gordon submerged and without surfacing again, headed straight for the place where a small stream emptied into the Indian Ocean.

  The roar of surf as he emerged from the water matched his mood. He was in hostile territory and ready for trouble.

  The three other swimmers were only steps behind him, and they quickly moved into the cover provided by the rocks. Once there, they stripped off their swim gear and tore waterproof coverings from the rest of their equipment.

  It was a warm night, but all of them wore dark-colored clothing from head to toe, including balaclavas.

  A roaring scream ripped through the quiet night, and for one fraction of a second, Gordon thought they’d been ambushed. Instantly he and his three comrades hugged the ground, tearing at the coverings on their weapons and wondering what had gone wrong.

  Then, as he frantically scanned the immediate area, his ears recognized the sound. It wasn’t gunfire, it was the sound of revving jet engines echoing off the airfield in front of them.

  Their targets-the airfield’s runways and control tower were separated from the beach by a short strip of industrial buildings. At this time of night, the warehouses and factories would be empty, and the buildings should provide the cover they needed to reach their objectives safely.

  Gordon had been
given a general brief on the invasion plan. Nothing specific-he was too far into enemy territory to be risked with detailed information. SEALs, though, were expected to act with initiative, and that required knowledge.

  The main landing beaches lay just south of Durban. The Navy and Marine brass aboard the Mount Whitney had chosen the southern side of the city to stay close to Louis Botha Airport-only about ten kilometers from the city center.

  The first Marines ashore would fan out to secure the beachhead for follow-on waves. At the same time, other Marines would come in by air, dropping right on top of Louis Botha itself. From there, the American and British troops would push inland—surrounding the city itself. Seizing Durban’s airfield and capturing its port facilities were the first steps on the long road to

  Pretoria.

  Reconnaissance photos had shown that the port was already blocked. The

  American naval blockade had already put an end to South Africa’s maritime trade, so the Afrikaners had nothing to lose by wrecking it.

  But the airfield was still in constant use. Although it no longer served as an international airport, military transports and cargo aircraft landed and took off on a regular basis. Gordon looked at his watch and smiled. In a little over an hour, Navy aircraft were going to close the airport, violently.

  So far, U.S. carrier-based aircraft had stayed far away from the Durban airport. Allied commanders didn’t want to spook the Afrikaners into destroying its runways, control tower, and refueling facilities prematurely.

  Gordon’s mission was simple. In the few hours remaining before the first assault waves touched down, his and the other two SEAL teams had to find any explosive charges and disable them. If possible, they had to do all that while making the Afrikaners think they still had the airport wired for demolition.

  The SEAL smiled grimly. The airport garrison three kilometers from here was going to have one hell of a rough night.

  COMANCHE FOUR, ABOARD THE USS CARL VINSON

  Comanche Four leapt off the deck. Even when it was fully loaded with fuel and bombs, the Vinson’s portside catapult still had the strength literally to throw the A-6E attack jet into the air.

  Lt. Mark Hammond quickly lowered the Intruder’s nose, depending on instinct more than the instruments to keep the big plane in the air. The cat could get him into the air, but it always took a few seconds for the

  A-6E to decide if it liked it or not.

  Hammond felt the machine steady under him, and for the first time he looked for the rest of his flight. The three other Intruders had been launched from the carrier just minutes ahead of Comanche Four. He scanned the still-dark night sky ahead. There! He spotted their navigation lights blinking low over the water.

  The three Intruders were already heading west-toward the city just sixty or so miles away. This close in to their target they didn’t have to worry about tanking up from the KA-61)s already aloft. But they weren’t going downtown just yet. The air commanders aboard the Carl Vinson and the

  Independence planned a coordinated alpha strike on key military targets scattered throughout the Durban area. So Comanche flight’s four A-6Es would orbit at a predesignated point until all the fighter and attack aircraft were launched. Both carriers were launching full deck loads-putting more than one hundred and twenty warplanes in the air.

  The four planes of Comanche Flight quickly reached their holding point,

  Sierra Twelve, and orbited slowly—circling round and round at low altitude. Night formation flying kept Hammond busy enough, but his bombardier navigator Rob Wallace, was even busier checking out the

  Intruder’s complex electronic suite. Even with built-in test equipment, making sure everything worked took a while.

  “This is Overlord. Execute. ” The order to move came after only a few minutes. Watching his flight leader carefully, Hammond followed his movements automatically, without radio conversation.

  The four attack jets had been orbiting at two thousand feet, but now they eased down to a tenth of that as they made their run in toward Durban.

  Hammond felt his heart pounding faster. This was for real. They’d been assigned to take out the 20mm and 30mm antiaircraft guns ringing Louis

  Botha Airport.

  About twenty miles out from the shoreline, the Intruder’s thermal imager started picking up buildings and other heat sources. The heat-sensitive

  TV camera allowed them to navigate and find their target in total darkness. The camera didn’t need light, just heat.

  As they closed the beach, taller structures appeared, and bright, glowing spots appeared on the screen. Hammond squinted at the screen. Fires? He nodded to himself. Yeah. Big ones burning out of control. Set by other strikes, maybe. Then he realized that they were too widespread and too well developed. The city was already burning.

  It looked as if an invasion could only improve things.

  USS MOUNT “ITNEY

  Silhouetted against the rising sun, Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig leaned over the rail, staring through binoculars at the crowded ships steaming slowly to either side. Helicopters and other aircraft were already spooling up, engines howling across the water. A strong offshore breeze tugged at his jacket, whining through the Mount Whitney’s massive arrays of radio antennas and satellite dishes.

  By rights he knew he should be down in the ship’s comfortable, computer-display-lit Fleet Command Center. But he couldn’t resist the chance to take one last look at the forces under his command.

  “Sir?”

  Craig turned to find a Navy lieutenant commander standing behind him.

  “Yes, Commander?”

  “General Skiles wanted me to tell you we’ve gotten word from the Vinson.

  Our initial air strikes are complete.” The Navy officer’s face broke into a sudden smile.

  “We pounded the hell out of ‘em, sir.”

  Craig nodded.

  “Good.” He headed for the ladders leading down to the command center.

  “Signal all ships. Land the landing force.

  USS SAIPAN

  Columns of heavily armed Marines were still climbing aboard their waiting planes when the order came to launch. Barely heard over the howling rotors and jet engines, cursing sergeants and officers of all

  ranks hurried the camouflaged soldiers aboard. Men piled into seven Ospreys at the run. And as their hatches slammed shut, the heavily loaded troop carriers skittered forward and off the deck, their rotors straining to pull them skyward.

  Even as the first wave of aircraft lifted off, the Saipan’s elevators brought up another set, which taxied into takeoff position. With well-practiced movements, more men emerged from the island and in snaking columns trotted up to their assigned aircraft just as they reached position.

  The evolution was being repeated on the USS Wasp and Inchon. Clouds of fighter and attack aircraft covered them as twenty-one Ospreys orbited, assembling, then turned and headed inland.

  Skimming the wavetops at almost three hundred knots, the formation hurtled toward the smoke-shrouded beach. Troops in the cargo compartment sat strapped in, facing each other on crash-proof seats, but they still had to hang on as the Ospreys plowed through the bumpy, low-altitude air.

  The Osprey pilots, most of them converted over from the old Sea Knights helicopters, looked out to either side, gratified to see loaded attack aircraft and armed fighters pacing them.

  When riding shotgun, the “fast movers” normally looped over and around helicopter troop carriers, but the Ospreys were fast enough to keep up with a cruising jet. That made for tighter control, better support, and a warm, fuzzy feeling for the Osprey drivers. Higher airspeed also meant the vulnerable troop carriers were exposed to enemy flak for a much shorter time.

  In fifteen minutes, five of them spent assembling, the assault formation was over the Louis Botha International Airport. Over, in this case, was a relative term, since the Ospreys came in low and hot-screaming in no more than a hundred and fifty feet off the ground.

/>   As their wings tilted upward to vertical flight mode, the Ospreys bucked and shuddered-dumping speed. In less than a minute, three-hundred-knot turboprop planes became fifty knot helicopters, gently settling down on the runways and taxiways and any other paved areas. The second their gear touched down, rear ramps dropped and Marines poured out onto the airfield.

  They fanned out across the tarmac in an almost eerie silence broken only by whining rotors, shouted commands, and crackling flames. Nobody was shooting at them.

  The airport’s antiaircraft batteries and ground defenses had been thoroughly pasted. A-6E Intruders dropping dozens of five-hundred-pound bombs had turned them into crater-rid died smoking piles of torn sandbags and mangled metal. Now orbiting AH-I Sea Cobras and Harriers waited for any sign of serious opposition, but columns of thick black smoke billowing into the air were the only signs of movement.

  Despite the terrific aerial pounding it had taken, however, Louis Botha’s runways were still intact. The Allied invasion force had uses for them.

  Empty now, the Ospreys lifted off, buzzing low over abandoned factory buildings and warehouses as they headed back to the formation, fifty miles distant, to pick up the second wave.

  The freight-train roar of heavy artillery broke the silence. Shells began bursting among the Marines scattering across the open tarmac-exploding in huge fountains of earth and flame. Three batteries of Afrikaner guns pounded the airport mercilessly, killing American Marines with every carefully directed salvo.

  USS MOUNT WWITNEY

  Craig stared at the computer-generated map, wishing it were a wide-screen

  TV. He wanted to see what was going on. Trouble was, if he left the Mount

  Whitney, he wouldn’t be able to do his job. The ship carried the sophisticated communications and computer systems he needed to control all his forces-those already onshore and those still waiting to hit the beach.

  “How bad is the shelling?” he asked Skiles.

  “Hayes says his men are completely pinned down. He’s taken moderate to heavy casualties. He also reports that the LZ’s way too hot for the second wave.”

  Craig nodded.