Vortex

Taylor spun around and stalked up the hallway back to the colonel’s office. He knocked once, ignoring a pale, overweight orderly who stared in surprise at him before wisely deciding to concentrate on his typing.

He heard a snapped “Kom” from within and stepped through the door, mentally rehearsing the Afrikaans phrases for what he had to say. It was a little absurd, but he sometimes thought that Reitz deliberately spoke quickly to make it hard for him to understand.

As he entered the room, Taylor already had his mouth open to speak, but

Reitz was on the phone. The colonel saw him and scowled, but waved him all the way in as he continued shouting into the phone.

“I don’t care what they are doing, Captain! They are violating the law. Disperse them and be quick about it. I’m holding you personally responsible!”

Reitz slammed down the phone and glared at Taylor.

“Captain Hastings has let a situation at the Green Point Soccer Stadium get out of control.

Another communist riot brewing, no doubt.”

Without bothering to explain any further, the Afrikaner strode quickly toward the door, buckling on a pistol belt and grabbing his cap from a hook. Taylor followed automatically.

Reitz stopped briefly in his outer office to snap an order at the pudgy corporal staring up anxiously from his typewriter.

“Find Captain Kloof and tell him to get his company to the stadium immediately. He is to report to me when he arrives. “

“At once, Kolonel!” The orderly hurriedly picked up his phone. One did not dawdle in Colonel Reitz’s presence.

Reitz turned and regarded Taylor.

“Another foul-up by one of my officers!

You’ll come with me, Major.”

The colonel’s personal Land Rover was parked near the Castle’s main gate.

A command flag fluttered from a long, thin radio aerial. Reitz slid behind the wheel, and Taylor jumped into the passenger seat, knowing the Afrikaner wouldn’t bother to wait for him. He fumed quietly.

Reitz continued his lecture.

“I want you to see how I deal with this riot.

I’ve been trying to make you and the other officers in the battalion understand my policies for well over two weeks now. If you can’t or won’t understand, it’s not my fault, but I’m going to keep trying until you do-or until I find men who can. If my orders were executed more energetically and with less insubordinate discussion, this would be a very quiet, peaceful city.”

Taylor nodded curtly, hating himself for having to appear to agree even that much.

The Castle of Good Hope was located across from the main train station and near the city center, and the streets were

already packed with cars and pedestrians on their way to lunch or early-afternoon shopping. Reitz scowled, turned on his Land Rover’s siren and flashing light, and began weaving recklessly in and out of traffic.

In minutes, they were headed at high speed along the Western Boulevard toward Green Point-a bulge of level ground pushing northward out into the

Atlantic Ocean. A thousand foot-high rock outcrop called Signal Hill towered above Green Point’s sports grounds, golf course, beaches, and soccer stadium.

Ordinarily, the area would be full of people enjoying the warm spring weather, but barricades, police vehicles, and SADF APCs now blocked every road and path. Most Cape Town residents, wise in the ways of such things, were giving the place a wide berth.

As the Land Rover roared past two hospitals built on the eastern edge of

Green Point, the buildings on either side fell away to an open grassy area.

Taylor held on tight to the dashboard as Reitz wheeled the vehicle through a traffic circle and onto a small access road. The soccer stadium was visible now, almost straight ahead and surrounded by hundreds of small figures, vehicles, and wisps of white that had to be tear gas.

Noises filled the air. An amplified voice, with the words confused and indistinguishable, could be heard from the direction of the stadium. Some wild-eyed, impractical agitator, Taylor thought coldly. Some idiot who still believed the Vorster government gave a damn about public opinion in the Cape Province. Shouts and breaking glass, mixed with occasional thumping shots from tear gas launchers and the high-pitched, screaming sirens of arriving ambulances, all added to the overpowering din.

Reitz braked the Land Rover beside a roadblock manned by a squad of armed troops. He had to shout to make himself heard.

“Where’s your captain,

Sergeant?”

The noncom stiffened at the unexpected sight of his battalion’s two most senior officers and pointed toward the company’s command post, set up on an open stretch of ground northeast of the stadium.

Capt. John Hastings stood in the shade of a Buffel armored personnel carrier, surrounded by several lieutenants and sergeants, all studying a city map. They looked tired, and one sergeant had a bandaged forearm.

The gut-twisting, acrid smell of tear gas clung to their rumpled, sweat-stained uniforms.

Reitz leaped from the Land Rover and strode over to the group.

“What the devil’s going on here?” he shouted.