Vortex

The younger man didn’t bother to hide his patronizing tone, and Heerden felt his blood pressure rise.

“Damn it, man, I know how de Wet’s “Official Estimate’ reads, even if his staff ignored my reports when they wrote it. But that doesn’t mean we should ignore new information. “

Metje shook his head almost pityingly.

“I’m afraid, Kolonet, that the

General Staff ignores your conclusions because you are widely regarded as having been taken in by a Cuban deception plan.”

Heerden felt his jaw drop open.

The major continued, hammering his point home remorselessly.

“As a result, General de Wet and his officers have been using other sources of intelligence lately. They have decided that you are—he paused-“unreliable.”

Heerden felt a dozen questions bubbling up inside. The

first one to take definite shape reflected the basic curiosity of an intelligence officer.

“So where are they getting their intelligence then?”

Metje smiled modestly.

“From me.”

The colonel could only stare at him, taken completely by surprise.

Metje continued, “So you see, Kolonel, I’ve already evaluated these reports you claim are so significant.” He waved them away with one dismissive hand.

“They are clearly nothing more than Cuban disinformation.”

Heerden sat down heavily on the edge of his desk.

“When did you see them?”

“About an hour ago.”

“I see.” Heerden’s shoulders slumped.

“Then there is nothing more I can do here.”

“No… there isn’t.” This time Metje pointedly abandoned any reference to his rank.

Heerden made a sudden decision and threw the collection of reports onto his desk. He sighed once and apparently exhausted, reached for his uniform cap.

In a tired voice, he said, “In that case, I think I’ll go home now,

Majoor.”

Metje nodded carefully and moved away.

“A wise decision, I believe.” He turned sharply on his heel and strode in triumph down the hallway.

Heerden watched him go through narrowed eyes. Then he swept his gaze around his office, looking for anything he might need. There was nothing.

He shut the door, tucked his cap under his arm, and walked slowly in the opposite direction from that taken by Metje.

There wasn’t much point in going back to his home. No sense in making it easy for Vorster’s brown shirted Brandwag goons to find him. He’d have to call his wife and children from a pay phone. They could meet him at some inconspicuous public place-Botha’s statue in the park on Church Street should be perfect. By the time his arrest order percolated down through the bureaucracy, he and his family could be well on their way to Cape Town.

Mentally, he started making a list of things Greta would have to bring.

Civilian clothes for him and all the maps they had. She’d also have to take the time to get the car filled up, along with an extra petrol can if possible. He smiled thinly. Fortunately, his status as an officer entitled them to enough ration coupons for all of that.

He stepped out of the building into early evening. The air was a little cooler, and the outside sights and sounds broke his train of thought. As he walked toward the corner phone, he found himself wondering if this was the right thing to do.

His Army career was obviously over, finished by these politicians in uniform. But did that justify an act most would call treason? Joining a civil war on what might be the losing side? And why not leave his family here, out of danger? They would be safe. After all, Vorster’s security police would only be looking for him.

Heerden paused with his hand on the phone, suddenly uncertain.

Then he shook his head angrily. His family wouldn’t be safe. Even if de

Wet and the rest of those fools didn’t believe him, he could tell what was going to happen. He’d seen the evidence piling up until only an idiot or a blind man or Willem Metje could ignore it. At least two brigade-sized Cuban columns were going to come thundering in from the north and east-daggers aimed right at the heart of South Africa’s government and industry.

And South Africa had almost nothing in their path to stop them.

Every soldier worthy of the name was already crouched in the mountains south of Windhoek, out breaking heads in black townships, or, he thought, in rebellion against a government that seemed bent on destroying its own people.

Heerden lifted the phone and punched in his own number. When he heard his wife’s voice, he said, “Greta, listen carefully. I can’t talk for very long…”

With less than ten hours left to go before Vega’s tanks rolled across the frontier, South Africa’s military intelligence service had lost its head.

CHAPTER Afrikaner Nightmare

NOVEMBER 13-SADF HEADQUARTERS, PRETORIA, SOUTH AFRICA

Achieving surprise is the first goal of every military operation. Given ample warning, a well-prepared defending army can defeat an attacking force many times its own size. An alerted defender may have time to move units, call up reserves, or use other tactics to alter the odds in an upcoming battle.