Vortex

Some of our best battalions have suffered serious losses that must be made good.”

“But do you need them all?” Vorster’s tone dropped toward a growl. He didn’t like having to repeat himself.

The general lowered his eyes.

“No, Mr. President. Not as yet.” He nodded toward the map of Namibia now hung permanently on one of the room’s windowless walls.

“Our supply services are stretched to the breaking point as they are.”

“I see.” Vorster thumped a heavy hand onto the table and turned toward van der Heijden.

“Very well, Marius. You’ll have your three battalions.

The Ministry of Defense will select which reserve units will be called up.”

He glowered at the shorter man.

“But I warn you, meneer. Do not fail me again. I expect you to crush this treacherous rebellion within the month.

Is that quite clear, Marius?”

Van der Heijden nodded slowly, his normally plump red face now pate-almost ashen.

Muller was disappointed. He’d hoped for more fireworks, more angry shouting. He glanced covertly toward the man seated immediately to his right. Helmoed Malherbe, the minister of industries and commerce, sat rigidly in frozen silence. Too bad. He’d expected Malherbe to object again to the increasing drain on South Africa’s civilian economy. Every battalion of reservists called to the colors meant one thousand fewer skilled white workers and managers in the nation’s factories and mines.

But Malherbe seemed to have learned his lesson. Contradicting Vorster’s cherished notions was one of the fastest ways known to end a promising government career, so the man stayed quiet.

Muller’s lip curled upward in a tightly controlled sneer. Another toady in a cabinet of toadies. At times, the company his ambitions forced him to keep sickened him beyond all measure. But power brought its own rewards-rewards that made the bootlicking and petty infighting worthwhile.

Power. The very word stirred long-suppressed desires and appetites, sending them racing through Muller’s mind and

body. He shifted uncomfortably. It was October. He would need to make another secret journey-a pilgrimage of sorts -soon. Very soon.

OCTOBER 5-20TH CAPE RIFLES, REHOBOTH, NAMIBIA

Commandant Henrik Kruger had never been prouder of his men. Despite coming out of the line less than twenty-four hours before, they’d gone to great lengths to prepare for the brigade commander’s last inspection. Somewhere they’d found enough water to wash and shave. Uniforms tattered, torn, and stained by weeks of trench warfare had been cleaned, pressed, and re sewn

And vehicles once caked in dust and oil now gleamed in the spring sunshine.

But all the cleaning and polishing couldn’t conceal the fact that the weeks of fruitless fighting had reduced his battalion to a shadow of its former self. Sergeants led infantry platoons now barely the size of squads, and two of his companies were commanded by second lieutenants scarcely out of school. Fewer than half the soldiers who’d marched into Namibia with him were still ready for battle. Wounds, deaths, and combat fatigue had stripped away man after man in a never ending round of artillery bombardments, outpost skirmishes, and massed assaults.

No, there couldn’t be any doubt. The 20th Cape Rifles was fought out.

Now it was going home. Home to South Africa. Home to rest. Home to absorb new faces and new names as willing and unwilling replacements alike filled its shattered ranks. The battalion’s mortar tubes and armored cars would remain in Namibia to equip the reservist units being sent to replace it.

” An impressive display, Henrik. Very impressive, indeed. Your men are a credit to our nation. It’s been an bon or to command them.”

Kruger looked up sharply, suddenly aware that he’d been drifting along behind Brigadier Strydom in his own private haze. Sleep was a high-priced luxury in combat-one he’d rarely been able to afford over the past few weeks. With an effort, he gathered his thoughts.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll pass your commendation on.

I’m sure the battalion will appreciate your kind words.”

Strydom nodded.

“Good.” He studied Kruger carefully, a rare look of concern on his narrow face.

“You may dismiss your men, Kommandant.”

Kruger drew himself to attention, saluted, and held the salute until the brigadier returned it. Then he swung round, his weary, red-rimmed eyes scanning the officers ranked before him.

“Captain Meiring! Dismiss the battalion!”

“Sir!” The bearded officer who’d replaced Forbes as Kruger’s secondin-command stepped forward smartly, stiffened, and wheeled to bellow the order across the parade ground. Instantly, the battalion broke its ordered ranks-each man heading at a fast walk for his tent or for the crowded mess line.