Vortex

by Larry Bond

when a bright flash and a roar knocked Vasquez over, stunning him. He had one brief impression of the surprised general, unable even to lift his eyes from the paper, before the entire vehicle was enveloped in smoke and flame.

  Vasquez came to a moment later as a soldier dragged him away from the fire. A thick column of greasy smoke rose from the blackened, shattered remains of a Russian-built ZIL heavy truck.

  Panic filled Vasquez, and he grabbed at the arms pulling at his. He looked up into the soldier’s face and shouted, “Did anyone get out? Where is the general?”

  “He is gone, Comrade Colonel. Nobody escaped.”

  Vasquez refused to give up.

  “Maybe someone was blown clear.” Maybe that someone was Vega.

  “No, Comrade Colonel, the explosion was too great. They were all killed instantly.”

  The soldier, absorbed in their conversation, was still dragging the officer. Vasquez shook off the man’s hands and stood up unsteadily. His uniform was torn and blackened from the blast, and he saw, but did not feet, blood trickling from a few small cuts.

  He took one unsteady step back toward the wreckage, then another, until he could clearly see that only the bare metal skeleton of the vehicle remained. The wooden flooring had a four-foot hole blown in the center, and the frame was twisted, as if it had been softened by the heat and then dropped. He could see no sign of any bodies and knew that any human remains that might be found would be in pieces too small to identify.

  Vega was gone, and Suarez, and Gomez, who had been driving, and perhaps others he would have to search for. His sadness was mixed with relief for his comrades. At least they would not have to make the long journey home to face Castro’s anger.

  “Colonel, what should we do?” One of the lieutenants nearby, in charge of a group of men that had once been a company, looked to him for orders.

  Vasquez was almost certainly the senior officer in the force now. He looked again at the wreckage of Vega’s truck. It was one post he had never wanted.

  The lieutenant repeated the request.

  “Colonel, what can we do now?”

  Vasquez pointed ahead and to the side of the road.

  “Bear left and keep marching.”

  CHAPTER

  Settlement

  FEBRUARY 15-CNN HEADLINE NEWS

  In many ways, the televised images from Cape Town carried even more meaning than the reporter’s spoken commentary.

  Pockmarks were still visible on the graceful columns fronting the Houses of Parliament. Sections of its iron rail fence were missing, warped, or shattered by shell bursts. Most of the century-old oak trees that once shaded Government Avenue’s gravel walk were also gone-blown down during the fighting and now replaced by newly planted saplings.

  There were even more dramatic changes among the somber faces of the men and women filing slowly in past temporary metal and bomb detectors. Most wore business suits and many carried bulging leather briefcases. Unlike past gatherings in South Africa’s legislative chambers, however, those assembling for this first, full working session of the new Constitutional

  Convention represented all of the nation’s varied races and ethnic groups. Some were lawyers and politicians. Others were farmers or doctors or teachers or businessmen,

  $86

  people with no experience in government. Despite their obvious differences, they had one important thing in common. All had opposed Vorster’s regime at the risk of imprisonment or death.

  “Although innumerable problems remain to be settled, one thing is clear:

  apartheid in South Africa is a thing of the past.

  “With so many of the extremists on all sides dead or in prison, the way may finally be clear for others to lead South Africa’s separate peoples toward a better future together. The political settlement that emerges from this convention’s closed-door conference rooms is unlikely to be perfect, but it just might be workable.

  “For CNN headline news, this is Tom Stavros, reporting from Cape Town,

  South Africa.”

  The camera cut away to show the network’s Atlanta studios and anchorwoman.

  “In other South Africa-related news, reports that Witwatersrand mining operations were back to fifty percent of prewar levels sent commodities prices tumbling at exchanges around the world. Commerce Secretary Reid hailed the news as a ‘firm signal that the battered global economy is on the mend.”

  “

  MARCH 23-HEADQUARTERS, ALLIED PEACEKEEPING

  FORCE, DURBAN

  Both Gen. Jerry Craig and U.S. special ambassador Edward Hurley had kept their offices and headquarters in Durban instead of moving them to either

  Cape Town or Pretoria. Part of their rationale for that was military common sense. After all, Durban was a central strategic point. Ships arriving at the city’s deepwater port supplied the U.S. and British units stationed throughout South Africa.

  But their biggest reason for staying put was political. Both men were determined to avoid even the slightest appearance that the American and

  British military presence in South Africa meant they were dictating every last word of the country’s new political framework. Periodic plane trips between

  Cape Town and Durban were a small price to pay for making it clear that

  South Africa’s ultimate fate rested in the hands of her own people.

  “Hot off the fax machine, Jerry-a genuine historical document. ” Edward

  Hurley couldn’t hide his excitement or his relief. He plopped a mass of thin papers on Craig’s desk, threw himself into a chair, and exhaled loudly. He looked more as if he’d run a race instead of just walking over from his office.

  Craig arched an eyebrow.

  “The Convention’s over?”

  Hurley grinned.

  “Christ, no. I expect they’ll be squabbling over the fine print for months yet. But that pile there—he pointed to the document on the desk-“shows the broad outline of what they’ve already agreed on.”

  Unable to restrain his curiosity any longer, Craig flipped randomly through the pages, scanning boldfaced headings. “

  “Powers of the Central

  Government. Powers Reserved to the Provinces. Rights of the Individual’

  He looked up.

  “So what’s the gist?”

  “Fundamentally?” At Craig’s nod, Hurley leaned back in his chair, looking even more professorial than ever.

  “Not quite one man, one vote, but they’re headed there. For now, a lower house elected by popular vote, but with an upper house where every group has an equal voice. They’re trying to set up a system where everybody participates, but no one dominates. “

  Craig chuckled softly.

  “Good luck to them making that work. “

  Hurley nodded, agreeing.

  “Yeah. It is sort of like trying to figure out how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. “

  The ambassador pointed to the section headed “Rights of the Individual.”

  “What’s in there is more important than the rest, anyway. Guaranteed freedoms of religion, speech, assembly, and all the rest. Equal pay for equal work. Plus equal access to education through integrated schools and universities. The whole idea’s to shift more power to the individual—no matter what his skin color or tribe is.”

  “No trace of apartheid?”

  “None at all. After your setup in January, nobody even said boo when they proposed stripping away the last vestiges. I’ll say it again, General, you can come over to the State Department whenever you want. We need good diplomats.”

  Craig just smiled. He knew the ambassador well enough now to know that no insult had been intended.

  “What about all that socialist doctrine the

  ANC people were spouting earlier? Nationalizing key industries and the rest?”

  Hurley laughed.

  “They were pretty quiet about it. Seems like their experiences with Cuban-style ‘fraternal socialism’ soured a number of th
em on good old Marx and Lenin. Plus they’ve had a close look at what’s left of Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union. There’s even talk of breaking up existing state-run industries. “

  Craig breathed a little easier. His biggest fear had been that the

  Constitutional Convention would fall apart while squabbling over economic ideology. Maybe the sheer chaos and horror of the past several months had knocked some sense into South Africa’s inhabitants.

  Hurley continued, “Even the basic political framework they’ve picked makes imposing socialism or any other ism more difficult. They’re moving toward a weaker federal government presiding only very loosely over stronger provincial and local governments. Plus they’ll have just one federal capital-Johannesburg. “

  He smiled again.

  “No more of this crazy shuttling back and forth. Can you see our government moving between D.C. and San Francisco every six months?”

  Craig winced at the thought. Things ran badly enough when the government just sat still in Washington.

  “Why Johannesburg?”

  Hurley shrugged.

  “Lots of reasons. Politically, Pretoria generates too many bad memories, and picking Cape Town seemed like a step backward toward the days of British colonial control. Johannesburg’s never been a capital city before. Racially’? Well, Jo’burg’s population distribution’s pretty close to the national average. Both Cape Town and

  Pretoria are too white. “

  The ambassador shook his head.

  “Anyway, the location

  doesn’t matter as much because the whole federal government won’t matter as much. After what they went through under Vorster and his predecessors, it’ll be a long time before anybody in this country lets a central government have much power at all.”

  Craig frowned.

  “That could mean trouble someday. They might need a tougher federal government to impose reform on individual provinces if they go back to apartheid. Hell, a lot of our early civil rights rulings had to be enforced by federal troops.”

  “Maybe. All we can do is help them get started.” Hurley tapped the sheaf of documents Craig was still slowly shuffling through.

  “And that’s not a bad start.”

  “Yeah.” Craig flipped a page and stopped suddenly.

  “What in God’s name are these?” He held out an inset map showing proposed boundaries for two

  “Reserves”one labeled the Oranjewerker Staat, the other the Azanian

  People’s Republic.

  Hurley grinned.

  “Now those are two of the most bizarre ideas I’ve ever heard seriously proposed in a serious political setting.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “And the strangest thing of all is that they may actually make a certain amount of sense-at least sense South Africa style.

  “The idea’s to create a couple of places of last resort for the holdouts on both sides. White diehards can try their cherished whites-only, rural lifestyle in Oranje. And black separatists can enjoy their own company in the APR. Inside each enclave, they’ll be free to live however they want. But outside them, they’ll have to obey the laws of the Federal

  Republic.”

  Craig laughed.

  “Yeah, and we’ll see how long that lasts. The old folks may believe in apartheid of one sort or another, but their kids will start asking some hard questions when they see the rest of the country sorting itself out.”

  “Not all the true believers will be in the reserves,” Hurley reminded him.

  “Nobody in this damn country knows what it’s like for different races to live together. It took seventy plus years for Soviet-style communism to fade. It could take that long for South Africa to recover fully from this mess. “

  Craig nodded. Hurley’s warning was valid. South Africa’s racial and political problems wouldn’t vanish overnight or even in one or two generations. People were too stubborn and contrary to expect overnight brotherly love. Far from it.

  Still, at least South Africans of goodwill and common sense now had a decent chance to pull their country together. That was more than most of them had ever expected. Craig smiled down at the draft constitution on his desk. With that as a framework, they might even succeed.

  APRIL 12-PROVISIONAL SUPREME COURT, FEDERAL

  REPUBLIC OF SOUTH AFRICA, JOHANNESBURG

  Television cameras had carried the weeklong trial into homes throughout

  South Africa and around the world. Tens of millions watched a story of ambition, blind hatred, and treachery unfold-piece by sordid piece.

  Despite earlier predictions, the case hadn’t been tried before an international war crimes tribunal. The eleven justices, the prosecutors, and the defense attorneys were all South Africans. Even the laws being applied-though stripped of all racial references-were South African. In many ways, this trial was the first test of the new nation’s ability to handle its own problems.

  In the end, an overwhelming tide of undeniable evidence produced the only possible verdict-guilty on all counts.

  “The prisoner will rise.”

  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 seem
ed 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