Vortex

garage, and shearing pens. Sheep wandered the hillsides above the valley, moving with docile stupidity from one patch of tall, green grass to the next.

It seemed the very picture of peace and tranquillity. But that was an illusion.

Piet Uys held the phone in shaking, work-gnarled hands, listening to the first three unanswered rings with mounting panic.

“Richards Bay police station. ” The voice on the other end was dry and businesslike-almost disinterested.

Uys took a quavering breath.

“This is Piet Uys of two Freeling Road. I want to report a theft in progress.”

The voice grew more interested.

“What kind of theft, Meneer Uys?”

“I have seen several blacks prowling around my sheep pens. They want my sheep!” Fear crept into the elderly farmer’s voice.

“We need the police here, as quick as you can. Please! “

“Calm down now, meneer. We’ll have a patrol on the way up there in minutes. Just stay in your house and don’t get in the way. We’ll deal with those blacks for you.”

“Yes, yes, I will stay inside. Hurry, please.” Uys hung up and stepped back from the phone, hands held away from his sides.

“That was very good, Mr. Uys. Very good, indeed. You’ve been most cooperative.”

The Afrikaner farmer looked up into the sardonic eyes of the tall, muscled Zulu leaning negligently against his kitchen countertop.

“You will not harm us then … as you promised?”

The Zulu smiled wryly and shook his head.

“Of course not. We do not make war on women, children, or old men. We leave that to your government.”

The black man stood up straight, suddenly seeming even taller.

“But the police are another matter entirely. They are fair game.”

He stroked the R4 assault rifle cradled in his hands.

“A beautiful weapon, Mr. Uys. Another reason we owe you our thanks. It will make our task this morning much easier.”

Uys’s leathery, weather-worn face crumpled. He’d been issued the rifle as a member of the neighborhood Commando-one of South

Africa’s paramiliuuy home-guard units. And commandos were supposed to kill antigovernment guerrillas, not arm them. He’d failed his nation and failed his people.

the Zulu leader watched him sob for a moment and then turned away, disgusted. He looked at the younger black man standing close to Uys’s moaning, panic-stricken wife.

“Watch them closely, but do not hurt them.

You know when to leave?”

The younger man nodded, eyes bright and excited.

“Good. Mayibuye Afrika!” The older Zulu raised his new assault rifle high in a salute and strode out of the farmhouse toward the rest of his waiting men.

White South Africa was about to learn that not all Zulus had forgotten their warrior past.

NATAL POLICE PATROL, NEAR RICHARDS BAY

Blue light flashing, the police squad car turned off the highway to the left, bumping over gravel and loose dirt onto an unpaved track leading to the Uys family steading.

Four uniformed officers of the South African police crowded the car-two in back and two in front. All were middle-aged reservists called back to duty when the younger men went north to join the police and Army sweeps through black townships.

“Ag, man, I tell you, there’s been some blery heavy fighting up there in the Namib. 1,ots of boys won’t be coming home. That’s what I’m hearing anyway.” The driver kept his eyes on the road, but his mind was on the argument they’d been having off and on since leaving the station that morning.

One of the two men in back snorted.

“And I say that’s just defeatist bullshit, Manic. I read the papers, man, and I’ve seen nothing about heavy casualties.”

“No surprise there, man! You think they’re going to print everything that happens? Just so some communist spy can read it with his morning post?”

The driver smiled as his

sarcasm drew chuckles. He glanced over his shoulder at a beet-red face.

“They’re tossing big shells back and forth up there, Hugo. And I know what that’s like. I was in Angola back in ‘75 when those verdomde Cubans started pouring one hundred twenty-two millimeter shells in on our poor heads like they was raindrops. I said to myself, I said, Manic… A barrage of groans drowned out the driver’s thousandth recitation of his heroic wartime exploits.

The squad car bounced and rolled over ruts left by the heavy trucks that carried Piet Uys’s wool to market and his unneeded sheep to the slaughterhouse.

The youngest of the four men squirmed uncomfortably in the front seat.

“How much farther to this place anyway? I’ve got to take a piss like you wouldn’t believe.”

The driver laughed.

“I’m not surprised, man. You must have drunk ten cups of coffee with your lunch. Don’t you know all that caffeine’s bad for you?

It will kill you someday. Shit!”

He slammed on the brakes and fought for control as the squad car fishtailed to a bone-jarring stop amid a yellow-gray cloud of dust and thrown gravel.

Rocks spanged off the cab of the large, open-topped truck blocking the road.

“Christ! Those damned blacks could have killed us with that stunt!” The driver sounded personally aggrieved at the thought that anyone would wish him harm.