Vortex

Helped by his barrister, Karl Vorster staggered to his feet and stood wavering. Few would have recognized him as the man who’d once held South

Africa in an iron grip. Stooped shoulders and lost weight made him appear smaller and much older-an impression strengthened by his gaunt, haggard face, trembling hands, and sunken, red-rimmed eyes. He’d aged twenty years in barely half as many months.

South Africa’s acting chief justice spoke flatly.

“Karl Adriaan Vorster, you have been found guilty of high treason,

murder, and conspiracy to commit murder, Have you anything to say before this honorable court passes sentence on you?”

With a visible effort, Vorster raised his eyes from the table in front of him and tried to square his shoulders. His enemies might have him in their clutches now, but soon his memory would inspire other, younger men to carry on his work.

“I refuse to acknowledge the authority of this illegal government or this puppet court. Kill me if you will. But only

God Himself may judge me or my actions.”

A low murmur of outrage raced through the spectators and witnesses seated behind him.

The chief justice simply waited until silence returned. Then he folded his hands.

“Know then, Karl Adriaan Vorster, that this court sentences you to life imprisonment at hard labor. You will have all the days that

God grants you to contemplate your crimes and the wickedness of your ways.” He gestured to the pair of waiting policemen-one white, the other black.

“Remove the prisoner.”

Vorster felt his shoulders sag. Despair flooded in, burying that last flicker of hope and bitter defiance. He had lost everything-even the chance for martyrdom.

APRIL 21 -PELINDABA, THE PLACE OF MEETING

Col. Robert O’Connell stood motionless watching the crowd of military and civilian dignitaries drift away across Pelindaba’s manicured lawns and gardens. It didn’t look anything at all like the war-ravaged, corpse-strewn compound he’d last seen. In the months since the end of the war, work crews had worked night and day bulldozing slit trenches and demolishing machinegun bunkers. Even the wrecked uranium enrichment building had been torn down-its existence now marked only by a solitary metal plaque.

But the five long, low weapons storage bunkers were still there-ominous even in the bright fall sunshine. The earthen mounds would stand forever behind the simple granite column they’d dedicated that day. An American flag flew overhead, snapping back and forth in the crisp, cool breeze.

O’Connell silently read the memorial’s deeply incised inscription:

FORTUNE FAVORS THE BRAVE. In honor of the valiant soldiers and airmen of the Armed Forces of the United States of America who gave their lives here so that others might live.

“No Greater Love Hath Any Man.”

His gaze wandered down to the list of names below-a list that seemed far too long. Each conjured up a familiar face or voice. His vision blurred briefly and then cleared as he blinked rapidly.

O’Connell glanced down at the ribbons on his uniform. Along with several of his Rangers, he’d been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for his actions during the attack on Pelindaba. The 1/75th Rangers itself had won another Presidential Unit Citation to add to its many battle honors.

Memories of the cheering crowds, the military marching bands, and the

President’s firm handshake and kind words drifted through his mind.

He looked up again at the monument erected by South Africa’s new government. In a way, that simple stone column meant more than any ceremony or piece of colored ribbon. While it stood, the men who’d fought and died at Pelindaba would never truly be forgotten.

“Colonel?”

O’Connell turned. Brig. Henrik Kruger, South Africa’s new chief of staff, stood waiting for him. He forced a smile.

“Sorry for the woolgathering,

Henrik. An old soldier stuck in the past and all that.”

Kruger laughed softly.

“Not so very old, my friend. And not so very stuck, I think.” He nodded toward his staff car.

“But come, I have a bottle of very old and very good Scotch in my quarters. Let’s drink to those we’ve lost and to all that we’ve won. That would be the right thing to do, true?”

O’Connell felt his smile firming up.

“Amen to that, Brigadier. No real

Ranger lets good liquor go to waste.”

Together, the two soldiers strolled toward their waiting car. The afternoon sun cast their shadows behind them.

MAY 1NEWSROOM, THE JOHANNESBURG STAR

Emily van der Heijden stared unhappily at the story on her computer screen. She punched the cursor keys, running backward and forward from paragraph to paragraph. The writing wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.

No, she thought moodily, the story she was working on had nothing to do with her present gloomy frame of mind. The depression came from within.

Emily gave herself a solid mental shake. She shouldn’t be so sad. It was ridiculous. After all, here she sat-a rising young reporter on South

Africa’s large st-c ircu I at ion daily newspaper. Her long-held dreams were finally coming true. So what could be so wrong?