Vortex

As the aide who’d home the latest news of disaster left, Vorster stirred himself enough to ask, “Well, General? Can we hold the city?”

De Wet swallowed hard.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. President. Not without more troops.”

“Troops we do not have?”

De Wet nodded reluctantly.

“That’s correct, Mr. President. All our available forces are tied down in Namibia, Natal, or other trouble spots.”

“Then perhaps it’s high time we began withdrawing from Namibia, General.”

Fredrik Pienaar still retained enough of Vorster’s confidence to speak bluntly. And the propaganda minister had never liked de Wet or his plans.

“That would be disastrous!” De Wet appealed directly to Vorster.

“Intelligence reports indicate that the Cubans are planning a major offensive sometime in the next few days. Abandoning our defenses there now would be against all military logic!”

“Then what do you suggest, General? Shall we sit idly here in Pretoria while the Republic collapses around our ears? Is that the militarily sensible thing to do?”

De Wet turned red as he listened to Pienaar’s scathing sarcasm.

“No,

Minister.” De Wet breathed out noisily and refocused his attention on the silent, brooding figure of Karl Vorster.

“I suggest a temporary delay, that’s all. Let us absorb this Cuban offensive, bleed them white in fruitless attacks against our trenches and minefields, and send them reeling back toward Windhoek. Then we can safely pull forces out of

Namibia to deal with these traitors!”

Van der Heijden nodded to himself. Surprisingly, de Wet made sense for once.

Vorster made an impatient gesture with one massive hand.

“Very well, de

Wet.” He glowered at the general.

“But do not fail me as so many have of late. I will not forgive treason or ineptitude.”

De Wet paled, murmured his understanding, and turned back to his uniformed aides.

Vorster looked at the rest of his cabinet, his weary gaze moving from face to face until it settled on van der Heijden.

“Marius?”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“Have you captured that American swine yet?”

The minister for law and order felt his stomach lurch. For personal reasons, he’d been keeping the police search for Sheffield low-key. In the confession his men had ripped out of Erik Muller, the former security chief had babbled about the young, Afrikaans-speaking woman who’d been blackmailing him. And now Emily was missing-not at the farm or at her friend’s home in Cape Town. Van der Heijden could add two and two to get four. Somehow his own beautiful, foolish, and headstrong daughter had been gulled into helping this American reporter. For her sake, he’d kept investigators from following up on several promising leads-hoping that she’d escape

South Africa before he was forced to act. Now it appeared that time had run out.

He shook his head.

“Not yet, Mr. President. But we’re hot on this man’s trail. I expect an arrest at virtually any moment. “

“Good.” Vorster stroked his chin.

“When we have him in custody, your people can undoubtedly ‘persuade’ him to recant this foolish story of his-true?”

Warily, van der Heijden nodded again. This Ian Sheffield was only a journalist after all. A few hours of rigorous torture should render him malleable to almost any suggestion.

“Excellent, Marius. ” Vorster smiled at the rest of his uncertain inner circle.

“There you are, my friends. Soon, we’ll have this American admitting that his whole story was nothing but a communist plot to sow confusion in our beloved fatherland. And on that day, all these minor difficulties will begin to fade away like the bad dreams that they truly are. Our strayed brethren in the Orange Free State and the Transvaal will return begging for our forgiveness.”

Vorster’s smile turned ugly.

“And the rooineks of the Cape and the kaffirs of Natal will weep for the days before they dared to oppose our power!”

Van der Heijden and the others stared back in open disbelief. How could their leader really believe that matters could still be so simply resolved? Mere words wouldn’t douse the fires of revolt and rebellion now burning in almost every corner of South Africa.

How could any sane man hope to avert Armageddon here?

FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, MILITARY FORCES OF THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT

OF

CAPE TOWN, NEAR THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT

Maj. Chris Taylor crouched behind a bullet-scarred Buffel armored personnel carrier, studying the hastily scrawled markings on a map of the city. He ducked as a mortar round exploded a hundred meters away, blasting leaves and bark

off an ancient oak tree and sending white-hot shrapnel sleeting through the shattered front doors and windows of the Houses of Parliament.

Smoke from burning buildings and vehicles swirled across the street and billowed high into the air-joining a dense pall produced by fires raging out of control all across Cape Town. Taylor coughed as he breathed in the acrid stuff. He tilted his helmet back up off his forehead and looked closely at his new secondin-command, Capt. John Hastings.

“You’re sure about this, Johnnie? It’s not just another damned rumor?”