Vortex

Forrester finished it for him.

“That Pretoria’s actually planning to use one of those damned bombs.”

The President picked up his phone for the second time that morning.

“Marge, get me General Hickman, pronto.” He looked at his vice president.

“I hope like hell we’re wrong about this, Jimmy, but we’d better be ready for the worst. “

Forrester nodded in silent agreement. Any situation involving South

Africa seemed to slide inexorably from bad to worse. The U.S. Rangers preparing for a possible assault on Pelindaba were about to get a highlevel hurry-up call.

HEADQUARTERS, I ST BATTALION, 75TH RANGER REGIMENT, HUNTER ARMY

AIRFIELD, GEORGIA

The clatter of helicopter gunships and troop carriers practicing landings and takeoffs filtered into the crowded, smoke-filled briefing room. More than forty Ranger officers lounged on metal folding chairs, their eyes riveted on the black-and-white satellite photos and maps pinned to a chalkboard behind the short, sturdy figure of their temporary commanding officer. Despite their carefully casual poses, no one could miss the tension crackling through the room.

Lt. Col. Robert O’Connell ran his left hand through thick black hair cropped too short to curl, realized what he was doing, and forced it back to his side. This was going to be tricky, he thought.

He’d been brought in to command the I st Battalion because its old

CO,

Lieutenant Colonel Shaw, was still in the hospital, nursing a badly broken leg. Logically, that shouldn’t present a problem for any of the assembled officers. He’d had the full dose of

Ranger training, and he’d commanded a battalion in the 10th Mountain

Division before this. But taking charge of a unit on short notice was always tough-even under peacetime conditions. Those difficulties were compounded by the fact that he’d been asked to lead them on the most dangerous and daring Ranger raid ever conceived. Especially when that operation seemed likely to be a one-way ride for most, if not all, of the men in the room.

Not that he doubted his own ability to lead the battalion into combat.

Far from it. For the O’Connell clan, self-doubt stood right next to sloth on a list of the seven deadly sins. And as the fifth of six children, he’d learned early on that you didn’t get what you wanted by standing around waiting for it to be handed down on a silver platter. You worked hard for it, and you even fought for it when necessary.

The resulting combination of fierce determination, stubborn pride, and considerable talent had earned him an appointment to West Point and pulled him through a miserable plebe year. From there, he’d seen only one logical career path. The Rangers were regarded as the Army’s elite fighting force, and Robert O’Connell had never wanted to be anything less than the best. Now he was being given the chance to prove his real worth.

A slight smile flitted across his face. It would have been nice if the opportunity carried higher odds of survival. On paper, this mission looked impossible. Fly two Ranger battalions and their support units seven thousand miles over the Atlantic Ocean and enemy-held territory without being spotted. Conduct an airborne assault against more than a battalion of crack South African troops. And then hold out long enough to fly every captured nuclear weapon out of the country. Sure.

He buried his doubts deep inside and strode forward to the edge of the fm-bjgh dais.

“It’s official, gentlemen, we have a ‘go’ order for this op.”

Faces around the room tightened.

“Highlevel intelligence sources have now confirmed the existence of these South African nukes. And their location.”

O’Connell nodded toward the mosaic of satellite photos showing a network of military airfields, supply bases, troop barracks, and vehicle parks near Pretoria-a mosaic centered on a single high bluff called Pelindaba.

Red circles drawn in grease pencil ringed identified bunkers and gun positions surrounding both the South African uranium enrichment plant and the suspected bomb storage site.

“The code name for this mission will be Brave Fortune.”

“Looks more likely to wind up as Big Damned Fuckup. ” A twangy Texas drawl lifted from out of the back row, prompting several nervous chuckles.

O’Connell grinned. Trust Lieutenant Colonel Carrerra to say what was on everybody’s mind. The 2nd Ranger Battalion’s commander was a master of ambush, assault, and patrol tactics-skills he’d learned during a career that stretched all the way back to service as an enlisted man in Vietnam and as an officer in both Grenada and Panama. But Mike Carrerra had never been noted for his tact.

Carrerra’s half-joking outburst opened a path for others.

“Mike’s right, Colonel. I don’t mind taking risks to accomplish a mission, but this thing’s nothing but risks.” Charlie Company’s CO, Capt.

Tom Keller, shook his head.

“Why can’t the flyboys plaster the frigging place with a few precision-guided munitions? Or why not hit it with a

Tomahawk strike?”