Vortex

He thumbed the transmit button again.

“Two, this is One. Tracks heading west approximately five klicks south of your position. “

Forbes came back on immediately, sounding much less tired than he had seconds before.

“Roger that, One. We’re moving. Deployment plan is India

Three. Crossing November Bravo now. Out.”

Kruger acknowledged and glanced down at his map again. The code phrase

“India Three” meant that the fourteen Ratel 20 armored personnel carriers under Forbes’s direct command would move parallel to the trail left by the guenillas-avoiding any booby traps or mines they might have planted to catch foolhardy pursuers charging straight in after them. Then, once

Kruger had pinpointed the retreating ANC force, Forbes would change course, driving hard to put his infantry, machinegun teams, and mortars out in front. With reasonable luck, the South African column would be able to smash the guerrillas in split-second ambush.

Kruger shook his head. It should work, and work at a minimal cost in casualties. But there were complications. International complications.

“November Bravo” was the radio shorthand for the Namibian border. His men were now on what was ostensibly foreign soil. If they were spotted by UN or Swapo patrols before they’d had a chance to deal with the ANC guerrillas, there’d be hell to pay. The international press would surely have a field day reporting another South African “invasion” of a neighboring country.

He frowned. Although the Republic clearly couldn’t afford to allow its enemies sanctuary so close to its borders, the new government’s strident rhetoric wasn’t making it very easy to justify these “hot pursuit” operations. It was necessary to teach the guerrillas and their supporters some hard lessons, but it seemed senseless to spill so much hot air about it. The old American adage that one should speak softly, but carry a big stick, seemed the wiser path.

“Dust on the horizon, Kommandant. Over there at three o’clock. “

The pilot’s words brought Kruger back to the present, He was a soldier with a battle to run. Politics could wait. He craned his head forward, trying to get a better view through the Cessna’s Plexiglas windows.

The light plane bucked slightly in a sudden updraft and then straightened as the lieutenant regained control. As it leveled off, Kruger saw the hazy, yellowish cloud the other man had reported. Six or seven separate dust plumes streaked the air on the horizon, tossed skyward by vehicles moving cross-country at high speed.

He shook his head, puzzled. There were too many plumes. Was the ANC force larger than reported? Or had it been reinforced? Another, even worse possibility tugged at his mind. He leaned forward against the straps holding him to the seat.

“Let’s get closer.”

The lieutenant nodded and pulled his aircraft into a gentle turn to the right. Kruger raised his binoculars again.

The specks beneath the spreading dust cloud grew rapidly larger, resolving suddenly into six large, canvas-sided trucks rolling south-led by a dazzling white jeep flying a huge blue and white United Nations flag. The same flag flew from each of the trucks.

Kruger swore under his breath. Damn and double damn. The UN peacekeepers responsible for this section of the border hadn’t been alert enough to stop the ANC’s attempted infiltration. But by God, they were quick enough off the mark to stop anyone chasing after the guerrillas. The UN truck convoy’s course would place it squarely between Forbes’s company and their quarry.

His hands tightened around the binoculars.

The Cessna’s radio crackled into life.

“This is Captain Roald Pedersen of the United Nations Monitoring Group calling the unidentified aircraft overhead. Are you receiving my transmission? Over. ” The UN officer’s accented English marked him as a Norwegian.

Kruger let the binoculars fall around his neck and thumbed his own mike.

“Receiving you loud and clear, Captain.”

“Identify yourself, please.” Pedersen’s politeness didn’t disguise the tension in his voice.

For an instant, Kruger stared at the speeding trucks below, tempted to tell his pilot to just turn and fly away. Then he shrugged. He wouldn’t gain anything by being intransigent. Observers in the truck column must have jotted down the Cessna’s identification numbers by now. No one would believe this was a simple civilian joy flight gone astray. Besides, perhaps he could reason with this Norwegian peacekeeper.

“this is Kommandant Henrik

Kruger of the South African Defense Force.”

Pedersen’s next words dashed that hope.

“You’re violating Namibian airspace, Kommandant. And I’m ordering you to leave immediately.”

Order? The bastard. Kruger fought his temper and spoke calmly.

“I urge you to reconsider your ‘suggestion,” Captain. I’m currently pursuing a terrorist force that crossed into our territory and killed one of my men. Surely we have the right to defend ourselves?” He released the transmit button.

“I’m sorry, Kommandant.” Better. The Norwegian sounded genuinely apologetic.