Vortex

by Larry Bond

  man before him was Henrik Kruger. Then who were the rest of these men?

  Kruger took the safety off his assault rifle.

  “I asked you a question . General. “

  “In his private office upstairs!” De Wet licked his lips that suddenly felt dry and cracked.

  “I swear it. He’s upstairs!”

  Kruger swung away contemptuously. He spoke in English to a shorter, dark-haired man wearing sergeant’s stripes.

  “I need a fire team, Colonel.

  Van der Heijden’s in his office.”

  The other man nodded.

  “You got it. Collins! Take your guys and go with the kommandant.”

  De Wet stared from one to the other. A colonel? In sergeant’s clothing?

  And an American colonel, too, from his accent. He swallowed hard against a sudden urge to vomit.

  Two soldiers hauled Vorster to his feet and held him there, ashen faced and shaking. South Africa’s President had gone from absolute ruler to abject, broken prisoner in seconds.

  PRIVATE OFFICE, MINISTER OF LAW AND ORDER

  Marius van der Heijden wasn’t surprised when the door to his outer office broke open. He’d heard the sound of automatic weapons fire echoing through the Union Buildings for several minutes. Attempts to get through to either the Ministry of Defense or to his own security forces had proved useless.

  Whoever was attacking them had collaborators inside Pretoria-collaborators who’d been able to cut off phone service.

  Any attempt to escape seemed likely to prove equally futile. He could see several bodies scattered in the gardens below his window. Van der Heijden looked down at his own short legs and prominent belly and smiled grimly.

  No, he wouldn’t get far trying to run away.

  Which left one honorable option open to him. Just one. And that was why he waited behind his desk holding a loaded Browning Hi Power pistol.

  Waited for someone to appear in the open doorway.

  “Marius?”

  The voice took him by surprise. Kruger? Henrik Kruger? He shook his head.

  It hardly seemed possible. He stayed silent.

  “Marius, I’m coming in. I don’t want to hurt you, so I ask you, don’t do anything foolish. Right?”

  Van der Heijden found his voice.

  “Come ahead, Henrik. But slowly, you understand?”

  Kruger eased around the doorjamb, holding an assault rifle in both hands.

  There were other men in the doorway behind him.

  “I have come to take you prisoner, Marius.”

  , , A prisoner? For which side?” Van der Heijden kept his pistol out of sight, below the desk.

  Kruger smiled sadly.

  “For the Americans and the British, my old friend.

  And for those who have rebelled against this unlawful government. “You have fallen far, Henrik. You keep strange company for an Afrikaner of the old blood.”

  “Maybe.” Kruger kept his rifle pointed toward the floor.

  “I have seen your daughter, Marius.”

  Van der Heijden kept his face rigid. He’d heard the American propaganda broadcasts and secretly praised God for his daughter’s safe deliverance.

  Of course, he’d cursed her very name publicly to avert Vorster’s suspicions.

  “She is well?”

  “Yes .. Kruger seemed about to say more and then stopped himself.

  “Surrender to me now and you will see that for yourself.”

  For a brief moment, van der Heijden relaxed his grip on the pistol. It seemed a priceless gift. To see his daughter again, despite all the hurtful words and deeds that had passed between them … He straightened up in his chair. He could not surrender. As a prisoner, his name would always come before hers. She would never escape the shame of it. No, it was better by far to lie buried and forgotten.

  Marius van der Heijden looked up from his desk with a sad, worn expression on his face.

  “I am sorry, Henrik, but I cannot. You understand?”

  Kruger nodded slowly, his own face somber and suddenly much older than his years would warrant.

  “I understand.”

  ” And you will tell her that I Van der Heijden choked on the words.

  ” Yes. I I

  “Thank you, my friend.” South Africa’s minister for law and order raised the Browning Hi Power and slowly aimed it at Kruger’s chest.

  “Then I tell you I refuse to surrender. “

  Kruger stood motionless, his own weapon still aimed at the floor.

  Van der Heijden sighed. Despite everything, it was clear that his old friend and hoped-for-son-in-law could not bring himself to kill a man he’d once respected. So be it, he thought, then we shall both die together.

  Van der Heijden tightened his finger around the trigger… and felt himself knocked backward out of his chair by several sledgehammer blows.

  For what seemed a long time he stared up at the ceiling, surprised that being shot wasn’t more painful. And then he died.

  Henrik Kruger sighed and turned away from the old man’s corpse.

  Beside him, Sgt. Asa Collins slowly lowered his assault rifle.

  “I’m sorry,

  Mr. Kruger. I really am. I didn’t want to kill him. But that guy would have shot you.”

  Kruger nodded sadly.

  “Don’t worry about it, Sergeant. This was what he wanted.”

  QUANTUM STRIKE FORCE

  Col. Robert O’Connell crouched low beside the ground-floor window. A radioman lay beside him, holding his radio’s antenna out the window. -X-ray

  Tiger One, this is Quantum One. Touchdown. I say again, touchdown. Over.”

  Touchdown was the code word indicating that they had successfully captured

  Vorster and were ready for pickup. Whatever else happened, the order to poison the mines would never be given. O’Connell knew that the message would be flashed around the world at the speed of light. In less than a minute, Washington would get it and celebrating would begin.

  Of course, O’Connell and his men still had to get out of Pretoria alive.

  A voice crackled over the static-clogged channel.

  “Roger that, Quantum

  One. Pickup ETA is five minutes. Say status of LZ. Over.”

  A sudden burst of machinegun fire hammered the window frame above them, spraying O’Connell with tiny bits of wood, granite, and marble. He clicked the mike button. LZ is hot, X-ray Tiger. Fucking hot. Hostiles in platoon strength hold the gardens approximately one five zero meters north. “

  “Understood.” The voice faded and then came back on channel.

  “Injuns en route. ETA three minutes.”

  “Roger, out.” O’Connell tossed the mike to the radioman and belly-crawled away from the window back down the corridor. Kruger and

  Pryce squatted near their prisoners.

  “Any trouble here?”

  “None.” Pryce flashed a quick smile.

  “I told the bastards I’d kill the first one who so much as blinked wrong. They seem to know I meant it.”

  O’Connell grinned back. He studied the row of dejected men sprawled on the marble floor. Except for Vorster, all had their hands tied with silver duct tape. And all of them had their mouths taped shut.

  Lightweight, cheap, and convenient, he thought. South Africa’s whole wartime military and political leadership all wrapped up in one neat package.

  More firing echoed down the hall. The Afrikaners outside were definitely getting restless.

  He checked his watch. One minute left. He turned to the two men.

  “Get ‘em on their feet and ready to go. We’ve got company coming anytime now.”

  They nodded and started moving among the prisoners, hauling them roughly to their feet. Most still seemed to be in shock, Good. That would make them easier to handle on the ride back-always assuming any of them lived that long.

  O’Connell moved back to the window. He could see several black specks on the horizon
now, growing bigger as they drew closer to the Union

  Buildings.

  “Quantum One, this is Red Chief One. On station. Pop smoke to mark your position.”

  No shit, O’Connell thought. Even in the building he could hear the clattering, eggbeater sound of several rotors closing fast. O’Connell readied one of his two colored-smoke grenades. He pulled the pin and lobbed the grenade through the open window out into the courtyard beyond.

  Wisps of purple mist began wafting upward almost immediately.

  “I have violet smoke, Quantum One.”

  “Confirm violet,” replied O’Connell.

  “Coming in.”

  O’Connell turned to face his men crowding the corridor.

  “The gunships are coming in now! Get ready to move and move fast! “

  Two AH-64 Apaches popped over the trees at the far end of the Union

  Buildings’ botanical gardens. Both vanished in brief clouds of smoke and flame as they ripple-fired salvos of 2.75-inch rockets into the Afrikaner troops holding the gardens. Explosions rocked the whole area-shredding plants, trees, and men alike. A stuttering, buzz saw-like roar signaled that the two gunships were also firing their belly mounted 30mm chain guns-each pouring more than six hundred rounds a minute into the same area.

  Before the smoke even started to drift away, more helicopters were visible-a long line of ten UH-60 Blackhawk troop carriers flaring in to land in the courtyard one at a time.

  O’Connell scrambled upright.

  “Kruger! Pryce! First ten! Move ‘em! “

  Five Rangers and SAS troopers dragged and shoved five bound prisoners-Vorster and de Wet among them-out the door and hauled them up into the first waiting helicopter. The Blackhawk lifted off immediately, going nose down to pick up speed as soon as their gear cleared the ground.

  Like clockwork, the second troop carrier came in. More prisoners and troops ran out and loaded aboard as it waited, rotors howling through the air.

  Load after load. Chopper after chopper. By the fifth or sixth, those

  Afrikaner security troops who’d survived inside the Union Buildings were beginning to take potshots at the groups of

  American or British troops racing for safety. Men who’d almost made it home were being killed or wounded. Not many, but some.

  O’Connell watched in anguish. There wasn’t anything he could do. They couldn’t use the gunships without killing many of the hundreds, maybe even thousands, of civilians who were pinned down in their offices inside the government complex. There were snipers in only a very few of those offices. And rockets and chain guns didn’t offer the kind of pinpoint accuracy needed to deal with the bastards.

  “Colonel! This is it! Last bird!” Pryce shouted in his ear and pointed behind them. Except for the last eight Rangers and SAS troops, the corridor was empty.

  “Right.” O’Connell rose and moved to the door. He gripped his assault rifle hard. Any second now.

  The last Blackhawk came in low and flared out just meters from the doorway.

  Now! O’Connell and his men raced outside, bent over low to stay beneath turning rotors. He saw a flash just ahead of him as a bullet slammed into the pavement and ricocheted away. Damn it!

  The man running in front of him suddenly grunted and collapsed. O’Connell and Pryce each took an arm, hauled the wounded man to his feet, and then half-dragged, half-carried him over to the waiting helicopter. Crewmen in flak vests and goggled helmets helped them aboard.

  The Blackhawk surged off the ground and raced ahead, skimming Pretoria’s rooftops as it flew south.

  MINISTRY OF DEFENSE, PRETORIA

  Brig. Deneys Coetzee stared out his window, watching the tiny black specks carrying Kruger, the Allied commando force, and Karl Vorster vanish in the distance. My God, it bloody well worked, he thought, seeing the last traces of dirty-gray smoke drifting away from the Union Buildings.

  He swiveled round in his chair and picked up the phone.

  “Colonel Doome, this is Coetzee. They did it. Execute Plan Valkyrie immediately. Yes, that’s right. Immediately.”

  He hung up and went back to the window. Within an hour, soldiers commanded by officers heartily sick and tired of Vorster’s insane regime would begin fanning out through the capital. Within two hours, most of the AWB’s now-leaderless fanatics and Brandwag party troops would either be dead or in custody. By nightfall, Deneys Coetzee would head the only viable government in what little was left of South Africa’s territory.

  And by daybreak on the eleventh, he planned to be deep in hurried negotiations with Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig-trying desperately to save something of his people’s self-respect and sovereignty.

  CHAPTER

  -41

  Fait Accompli

  JANUARY I O-WARM BAD

  Night had not brought any relief from the air attacks. The American aircraft could see in the dark better than his men could. In addition to the continuing damage, the aerial pounding was denying his men any sleep, or a chance to recover from the day’s raids.

  It was near midnight now. Gen. Antonio Vega had spent the hours since sunset moving from unit to unit, gathering information, issuing orders, and reassuring his troubled men. Veterans of dozens of South African air raids, the men were unready for the volume and strength of the American attacks.

  Instead of four Mirages dropping a ton of bombs each, four Intruders would drop four or five times that amount, and they would be preceded by two Hornets armed with anti radiation missiles and cluster bombs. Only after the fighters had worked over his flak and SAM sites would the heavily loaded attack aircraft arrive.

  The first raiders had come at dawn and had continued to attack throughout the day. In pairs, fours, and once in an

  entire squadron, they had come, and his carefully prepared advance had slowly ground to a halt. Right now he was trying to rally his men and see how they could get moving again.

  Vega’s next stop was one of his antiaircraft batteries. In the darkness with just a quarter moon and no headlights, only his driver seemed to know the way, guiding him safely to the spot.

  The battery had been deployed on an open patch of ground five hundred meters east of the town. This gave its guns clear arcs of fire and separated them from some of the more obvious targets.

  Vega’s approach was unannounced, and he’d actually climbed out of the jeep before a lone sentry came forward, his weapon at port arms. He started to challenge the general, then recognized him and called for the sergeant of the guard. Vega continued to stride toward the guns, returning the sentry I s salute and listening as word of his arrival was passed along.

  In less than a minute a stocky, hook-nosed captain came trotting up, still wiping grease from his hands. He stopped a few paces away and saluted.

  “Captain Rudolfo Morona, commanding B Battery, ready for your inspection, sir. ” The general noticed an ironic smile creeping onto the captain’s face and fought back the urge to reprimand him for impertinence. It looked as if the man was doing his job.

  “What is your status, Captain?”

  “Four guns of the six are working, with a fifth under repair. We should have it working in about half an hour. The sixth is total loss.”

  “How about the radar?” the general asked.

  Morona shook his head.

  “Not a chance, sir. ” He gestured with an arm.

  “This way please, General. You can see for yourself. “

  The two officers approached the radar, located on the edge of the antiaircraft site. The entire battery consisted of six S60 57mm guns, reliable weapons that provided protection against low-and medium-altitude attackers. They were an older design, though, towed by trucks and unarmored. Laid out in an evenly spaced circle, each weapon was connected by a cable to the SON-9 gunfire-control radar, code-named Flap Wheel by

  NATO.

  The radar was simple enough in appearance. A square sided van, mounted on four wheels, it carried a small parabolic dish on top. Again, it was
an older design and had been in service for twenty years.

  As they approached the van, Vega could see its shape in the moonlight.

  It looked undamaged. As they got closer, though, the general could see that the van’s surface was covered with spots, giving it a mottled appearance. Then, looking up, he saw jagged, irregular holes in the radar dish.

  Morona shone a red flashlight onto the van’s side, and Vega could see dozens of fist-sized holes.

  “The roof and the rear of the van are just the same,” Morona reported.

  “We were hit by an anti radar missile. It detonated twenty or thirty meters up, off to this side and behind the radar. One man saw a streak of light, almost too fast for him to see.

  Most of them heard a whoosh-boom and the radar was showered with these.

  “

  The captain offered Vega a handful of metal lumps. Taking them, the general could see that they were cubes, some deformed by their impact.

  “Those were in the missile’s warhead. They littered the area after the explosion, and we have found over fifty inside the van-and its crew.”

  Morona paused.

  “I lost five men in that attack, sir, and another seven are wounded. We are working to get the optical backup on the van working, but even if I had the parts to fix the radar, I wouldn’t want to turn it on. We’d probably just attract another missile like this one.”

  Vega shook his head. This was a dangerous attitude. Even if Morona’s statement held a ring of truth, there was an acknowledgment of the enemy’s strength that he didn’t like. Still, this man had shown he could do his job. B Battery had accounted for two American planes today, one of them in the same raid as the missile attack.

  “Captain, I understand your reluctance-“

  A shrill siren cut through his words, and both men realized the meaning of the sound. Another air raid was approaching.

  “General! ” Morona shouted. ” You have to get back to headquarters!

  “

  Vega shook. his head and also raised his voice over the alarm.

  “Headquarters may be the target again.” It had already been bombed, moved, and bombed again.

  “I’ll stay here. “

  “Into the command trench, then, sir.” Morona’s imperative, almost an order, made perfect sense, and the two men sprinted for the dugout, Vega following the captain’s lead.