Vortex

“Though of course he will expect me to help him around the house. To serve as hostess for parties and braais. ” She used the Afrikaans word for barbecues.

Ian picked up her other bag, and together they walked toward the passenger line forming at the gate.

Emily kept talking, as if she hoped to bury her sadness under a flow of everyday conversation.

“You see, my father’s new position compels him to be more social. And it is important, I suppose, that he be able to show the kind of home his colleagues would regard as ‘normal.”

“

Ian nodded, but couldn’t think of anything to say. He knew how much Emily valued her freedom and how much she loathed her father’s extremist political positions. Now she was willingly going back to everything she had once escaped.

And all for him.

Her sacrifice made his own troubles seem small in comparison.

“Boarding pass, please. ” He looked up. They were already at the gate. A young, uniformed flight attendant had her hand out for Emily’s ticket.

“Look, can I write or call you?” The desperation in his voice was audible.

Emily’s voice dropped to a bare, husky whisper he had to strain to hear clearly.

“No… that would be the worst thing. My father must believe I have broken entirely with you.”

“But…”

She gently laid a finger across his lips, stilling his protest.

“I know,

Ian. It is terrible. But believe this. I will contact you as soon as I can.

As soon as I can find a way to do so without my father’s knowledge.”

Her hand dropped away from his face.

The flight attendant coughed lightly.

“Please, I must have your boarding pass.”

Silently, Emily handed over her ticket and stepped onto the carpeted ramp leading to the waiting plane. Then she turned.

“Remember that I love you, Ian Sheffield.

She disappeared around a bend in the ramp before he could say anything past the sudden lump in his throat.

Ian stood watching until he saw her plane lift off the runway and turn east, sunlight winking painfully off its silvery wings.

CHAPTER

Ear1q Warning

JULY 22-SWARTKOP MILITARY AIRFIELD, NEAR PRETORIA

The single-engined Kudu light utility aircraft rolled to a gentle, shuddering stop near the end of the oil-stained concrete taxiway. Even before the propeller had stopped spinning, ground crewmen were on their way, moving to tie down the Kudu’s wings against sudden gusts of wind.

Commandant Henrik Kruger clambered awkwardly out of the plane’s cramped cockpit, stretched, and then leaned in to shake the pilot’s hand.

“Thanks,

Pieter. A good fast flight, that. I may even have an appetite for lunch.”

He checked his watch. He had nearly an hour left before his scheduled meeting with the chief of staff for operations.

“Look, I should be back from the Ministry in three or four hours. Can you stand by to run me back to Upington then?”

The plane’s pilot, wi Air Force captain, grinned back.

“No sweat,

Kommandant. Take your time. They’ve got a blery good officers’ mess here.

Once I get some food in my belly and put some petrol in the tanks, I’ll be ready to go whenever you say the word.”

“Magtig!” Kruger pulled his worn, leather briefcase out from under the seat and stepped back, touching his cap to make sure it was still on straight over his short-cropped, brown hair. Satisfied, he picked his way around the outstretched landing gear. A few meters away, a soldier waiting by a flag-decked car stiffened to attention. His transport to the Ministry of

Defense, no doubt.

“Hey, Kommandant!”

He glanced over his shoulder at the cockpit’s open side window.

The Kudu’s pilot flashed a thumbs-up signal.

“Give them hell, sir!”

Kruger stifled a smile, nodded briskly instead, and moved on toward the waiting staff car. As he’d suspected, the whole base must know why he’d been summoned to Pretoria at such short notice. Secrets were almost impossible to keep in close knit active-duty combat units such as his 20th

Rifles.

It certainly hadn’t taken long for his latest situation report to generate results. Though that certainly wasn’t particularly surprising. Battalion commanders-even highly decorated battalion commanders-didn’t often send such scathing indictments of current policy to the Defense Staff Council, but Kruger had grown weary of asking his men to do the impossible. Too many of the Permanent Force’s best battalions were being used to suppress disorder in the black townships instead of being stationed on the border where they were so desperately needed.

And desperate wasn’t too strong a word, he thought grimly. Given the current military and political situation, the frontier with Namibia simply could not be adequately defended. There were too few troops trying to cover too much territory.

Some staff officers at the Ministry of Defense had done their best to help out. They’d made sure that units such as the 20th had first call on replacements and the latest weapons and hardware.

More important, requisitions for food, fuel, and ammo