Larry Bond - Vortex

North Vietnam.

The creases around Stewart’s cold gray eyes tightened as he skimmed through the various addresses that showed this order had originated with the Joint

Chiefs of Staff-and presumably somewhere inside the White House before that. The real meat came in the second short paragraph.

“.. . Proceed at best speed to… ” The admiral eyeballed a nearby electronic chart. The latitude and longitude contained in the message marked a point approximately four hundred nautical miles east of Durban.

“You will prepare for contingency operations off the South African coast on arrival. “

It still read the same way the second time through. Contingency operations off South Africa. He whistled once and then swore under his breath.

“Son of a big, bad bitch!”

“Trouble, Admiral?” His chief of staff hovered on the other side of the plot table.

Stewart handed him the message and watched his surprise.

The younger man unconsciously scratched at his balding scalp and shook his head.

“I don’t get it. What kind of ops are we supposed to prepare for?”

“Damned if I know exactly, Tom.” Stewart shrugged. He’d read about the

South African military situation in the daily intelligence summaries, and they were about as helpful as the out-of-date magazines the COD planes delivered. Certainly nothing he’d read seemed to warrant direct U.S. involvement. He smiled slightly to himself.

Could it be that the Joint Chiefs and the political bigwigs were actually thinking and planning ahead for once? It was doubtful, but he’d seen stranger things in his thirty-odd years in the military.

He shook himself out of his reverie. They had a lot of work to do and not much time to do it in. Even with all the latest in instantaneous communications and computer navigation, a carrier battle group couldn’t turn on a dime.

“Get your boys busy, Tom. I want to be ready to alter course in half an hour, after this ops cycle. Check the training schedule, and make sure it allows enough aircraft for air and sea surveillance missions. ” Stewart glanced at a row of clocks set to show local times at various points around the globe.

“In the meantime, I’ll be on the secure net back to D.C.” He glanced down at the message still held in his chief of staff’s hand.

“I’d like to have somebody back there tell me just what the hell is going on.”

The younger officer nodded once and hurried away in search of his staff-already pondering the most efficient way to continue the training cycle while the Carl Vinson and her escorts moved toward Durban.

For the first time ever, major elements of U.S. military power were being focused on South Africa.

NOVEMBER 9-STATE SECURITY COUNCIL CHAMBER, PRETORIA

Karl Vorster and his cabinet met in their windowless chamber for the tenth time in as many days. Caught between the twin pressures of a bloody, stalemated war in Namibia and escalating political chaos at home, the cabinet was starting to crack. Several chairs were empty, abandoned by men who’d resigned-men either unable to stomach Vorster’s actions or who feared being held responsible for them by a new government.

Marius van der Heijden blinked rapidly, his eyes watering in the thick haze of tobacco smoke choking the small room. More evidence that sinful addiction could overcome the best intentions of weak-willed men, he thought irritably. Weaklings like Erik Muller, though on a smaller scale.

Muller’s pale, agonized face rose in his mind, and he shied away from the memory. The security chief’s pain-filled death had been richly deserved, but not pretty.

He drove Muller’s image away by concentrating on the situation maps tacked up on the chamber’s otherwise bare walls. Clusters of multicolored pins dotting the map showed only the vaguest outlines of the disaster spreading with wildfire rapidity across the whole country. An open revolt crushed in Durban, but untamed elsewhere in the Natal. Secessionist movements springing up among the former Afrikaner faithful in the Orange

Free State and the Transvaal. The entire elected city council of Cape

Town under arrest for suspected treason. And so it went-each succeeding piece of news worse than the last.

“I tell you, my friends, we simply cannot go on like this. Not for another week, let alone a month! We must find a way to win peace before our nation burns down around our very ears! “

Reluctantly, van der Heijden turned his attention to the speaker, Helmoed

Malherbe, the minister of industries and commerce.

Malherbe pointed to the sheets of trade figures and economic statistics he’d passed around the table.

“Already the economy is a complete shambles. Inflation is at forty percent and climbing fast. Exports are running at scarcely half last year’s level. He showed every sign of droning on for hours.

Van der Heijden scowled. He loathed Malherbe. The man was nothing more than a gutless, whining, rand-pinching economist. Always a pessimist, a naysayer, and a second guesser He looked toward the head of the table, hoping their leader would put this coward in his proper place.

But Karl Vorster sat silent, his head cradled in his hands as he listened to Malherbe’s recitation of economic catastrophe.

Van der Heijden frowned. Since Muller’s arrest and execution, Vorster had been quieter, less likely to take control of the meetings he called. Even worse, he hadn’t yet named a replacement for the late and unlamented director of military intelligence.

And that was a crucial error. Muller had been a boy-loving bastard, but he’d also been a competent covert operations specialist. Without anyone at the helm, his whole directorate was adrift-unable to plan, organize, or carry out the kind of selective assassinations and kidnappings that might have nipped some of these troublesome rebellions in the bud.

“All of these problems are only compounded when the police and security troops overreact in places like Durban.” Malherbe waved a hand in van der

Heijden’s direction.

What? The newly promoted minister of law and order snapped to full attention. He glared back at Malherbe.

“Brigadier Diederichs and his troops acted properly to restore order, meneer. Are you suggesting that they ought to have allowed those rebels to seize the city?”

“Not at all.” Malherbe sniffed.

“But I’m not sure what you mean by ‘order,” Marius. Most of Durban’s industries are idle. The port is almost completely paralyzed. The jails are full. The morgues are full, and do you know what? There are a lot of white bodies in those morgues-many of them Afrikaner bodies. Oil refinery technicians. Factory managers. Civil servants. Ordinary white citizens. People whose skills we desperately needed.”

He turned toward Vorster.

“Mr. President, by every objective measure, this nation is at the breaking point. Even white opinion is turning against us. We must take steps to regain their support or we will be left without any power at all. “

For the first time in nearly an hour, Vorster looked up from his hands.

“Nonsense, Helmoed! As long as we have the army and the security forces, we will have all the power we need. “

Vorster rose and began to pace.

“Those whites who have been killed were misguided, deceived by a lying press and by communist agitators.” He shrugged.

“Their deaths are a tragedy, but they will be avenged.”

He eyed the remnants of his cabinet carefully.

“Oh, I know what some of you want me to do. You want me to end our war against the communists of

Namibia and to bend to the demands of these communists inside our own borders. You want me to do things that my very soul cries out against.