Vortex

SAM battery off to one side and the swarm of harried-looking Air Force officers emerging from Swartkop’s Administration Center on the other. But the logical part of his mind remained fully engaged, raising and as quickly dismissing new explanations for all the activity he saw.

His first hope that the planes were slated to carry reinforcements to the

Namibian frontier seemed farfetched when viewed dispassionately. No one would send large numbers of troops and equipment by air when road convoys or rail transport could serve the same end more efficiently. No, he thought grimly, these planes were being prepared for the kind of high-stakes operation where speed mattered more than cost. A major airborne assault somewhere outside South Africa’s borders, for example. But where? Zimbabwe again? Or Mozambique? He’d heard that support for the Renamo guerrillas had been upped once more. Were these planes intended for one of their murderous operations?

Kruger’s frown tightened further still into a thin-lipped scowl. If whatever Pretoria had in mind wouldn’t help take the pressure off his men, the ears of the SADF’s chief of operations were going to burn with swear words the man probably hadn’t heard since his own days in the bush. And,

Kruger vowed silently, to hell with his career. The lives of his soldiers were more important than his own chances of ever wearing a colonel’s insignia.

Wrapped in increasingly bleak thoughts about his likely personal and professional future, he scarcely noticed as the staff car passed through Swartkop’s heavily guarded main gate and sped toward

Pretoria.

SADF HEADQUARTERS, THE MINISTRY OF DEFENSE,

PRETORIA

The lieutenant commanding the Defense Ministry guard post looked from

Kruger’s ID card to his face and back down again. Apparently satisfied by what he saw, the young officer’s pen made a tick mark on a surprisingly crowded list of approved visitors.

Then he handed the ID card back and nodded at the burly noncom waiting patiently off to one side of the wood-paneled guard room.

“Thank you,

Kommandant. Sergeant Meinart there will show you to the briefing.”

Kruger pocketed his card with an abrupt nod and followed the sergeant out into the Ministry’s busy main hallway. The noncom walked right by a bank of elevators leading to the building’s upper floors and continued straight on down the hall toward the massive double doors of the Main Staff Auditorium.

Kruger kept pace easily, exchanging salutes with passing senior officers without much conscious thought. He had more interesting things than simple military courtesies to occupy his mind. It was becoming increasingly clear that he hadn’t been summoned to Pretoria for a personal harangue by the higher brass.

He shook his head slightly, irritated with himself for ever holding such a simpleminded, egotistical belief. Only an idiot could miss the signs of intense activity all around. First the frantic maintenance work at

Swartkop, and now this unannounced briefing being held in the Ministry’s largest meeting room. Something big was in the wind. Something very big.

His first glance around the crowded staff auditorium confirmed that impression.

More than a hundred field-grade officers packed the room-some swapping news and professional gossip in the

aisles, others sitting quietly among the rows of theater-style folding chairs. Steel-blue Air Force and dark blue Navy uniforms mingled with the sober brown jackets and ties of the Army. A sea of red-and-blue berets down front signaled the presence of representatives from each of the three

Permanent Force parachute battalions.

Kruger didn’t bother concealing his astonishment. He hadn’t seen this many of his fellow unit commanders together in one place for years. He scanned the room again, counting stars. My God, the auditorium held at least two-thirds of the Army’s Permanent and Citizen Force battalion commanders, six brigadiers, and the two complete division-level staffs.

He stiffened. No one in his right mind would assemble the kind of force these men represented for anything less than a massive, combined-arms operation. He grew even more uneasy at that thought. What was Vorster planning? Some sort of massive exercise? A real military operation?

Kruger’s uneasiness about the government’s intentions had nothing to do with any kind of misplaced pacifism. He loathed the ANC’s sneak attacks and terrorist bombings as much as any other serving South African officer.

Twenty years of cross-border warfare had taught him that the guerrillas were his enemies. And as enemies, they were legitimate targets for South

Africa’s military forces-no matter where they sought sanctuary. But quick, in-and-out commando raids were one thing. This implied something much bigger.