Vortex

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.