Larry Bond - Vortex

Kruger relaxed his grip and flexed his aching fingers. Anybody brighter than a brain-dead Defense Ministry bureaucrat could have predicted the result. Weeks of bloody fighting followed by more weeks of mind-numbing routine-drill, calisthenics, drill, spit-and-polish inspections, and still more drill-had produced a battalion practically boiling over with resentment and barely suppressed rage.

More than a dozen of the 20this veterans were in punishment cells right now-locked up on charges ranging from simple insubordination to being drunk while on duty. Kruger shook his head angrily. He’d rather chance the desertion of a few men than watch this slow, steady disintegration of what had been a proud fighting unit.

As matters stood, the 20th Cape Rifles was now effectively a weaker battalion than it had been in Namibia. Citizen Force replacements were filtering in slowly, fleshing out skeletal companies and platoons to something near their authorized strength. Unfortunately, most of the reservists were short on needed training, experience, and esprit de corps.

Kruger frowned. His companies were also short of heavy weapons and vehicles. They’d left what remained of their old gear in Namibia to equip the battalion replacing them on the line. In return, his troops had been promised first pick of the new armored personnel carriers, mortars, and heavy machine guns that were supposed to be rolling off the ARMSCOR production lines. So far, at least, they’d had little to pick from. Strikes and skilled-labor shortages had cut production well below required levels.

And as a result, he had barely enough APCs to mount one of his three infantry companies. The other two could move only by truck or on foot.

The sound of guttural laughter emanating from the nearby bachelor officers’ quarters turned his worried frown into a scowl. Tanks, artillery, APCs, and antitank weapons might be in short supply-but not, it seemed, junior staff officers with strong political ties to the Vorster government. They’d arrived in eager, interfering droves.

So though the 20th was short of trained troops and weapons, it had a battalion staff bloated to a size more suitable to a brigade. Kruger didn’t have any illusions about why the Defense Ministry had seen fit to dump so many fanatics in his lap. They were there to keep tabs on him-to make sure

that he and the other officers didn’t lead their men into rebellion.

His scowl grew deeper. He didn’t mind their prying and spying so much.

He could cope with that. But the overabundance of inexperienced, inept, and arrogant Afrikaner officers was yet another source of friction in a battalion already rubbed raw.

“Vorster’s pets,” as they were known, tended to treat the 20this enlisted men-most born and raised in the Cape

Province-as nothing more than would-be traitors and renegades.

Well, perhaps that wasn’t too far off the mark, he thought wryly, remembering the news passed on by his friends inside the Ministry. It was incredible. Cape Town in flames and armed conflict spreading across the whole province like wildfire. Natal torn by guerrilla war, atrocity, and revenge. And antigovernment commandos roaming vast stretches of the

Transvaal and the Orange Free State virtually at will. Karl Vorster’s criminal stupidity and his illfated Namibian invasion had combined to tear South Africa to pieces in the space of a few short months.

He raised his eyes again, scanning the night sky above the low hills rising to the north for some sign of the city just beyond them. Nothing.

Only the glaring lights and the elongated, ugly shadows cast by armored cars patrolling the perimeter. But even at this distance, he could tell that several of the armored cars had their weapons turrets pointing inward-toward the base’s barracks and armories. He smiled sourly.

Vorster’s loyalists were taking few chances. And rightly so.

Kruger started to pace slowly up and down the darkened veranda. Many of his friends and fellow soldiers had already joined those rebelling against Pretoria’s authority. Soon it would be his turn. Very soon.

JOHANNESBURG

The unmarked police minivan sat on a narrow side street, wedged between a silver Astra and a dark blue Toyota pickup.

Two uniformed officers slouched in the front seat with their ties hanging loose and collar buttons unfastened. One, a big, beefy man with thinning, straw-colored hair, sipped moodily at a styrofoam cup half-full of lukewarm coffee. His partner, smaller and darker-haired, sighed briefly and stubbed his cigarette out in the door ashtray. Both men were silently cursing the trick of fate that had saddled them with such a worthless assignment.

“I tell you, man, this just proves that the captain’s got it in for you and me.” The big man gestured with his cup and frowned as a few drops sloshed out over the steering wheel.

“Some big deal, eh? We drive here.

We drive there. And then we sit like this for fucking hours. And all for what?”

He answered his own question.

“So some smart-ass lieutenant can come up and tell us to go drive somewhere else. That’s what for.”

The smaller policeman sat up sharply.

“Man, speak of the devil! There’s

Baumann now.” He unrolled his window as the much-younger police lieutenant, trim and self-assured in his blue-gray jacket, gray trousers, and peaked cap, appeared on the sidewalk beside them.

The lieutenant leaned in through the open window.

“This is the right place, boys. I’m sure of it. ” He tapped the list of addresses taped to a clipboard. More than half had already been crossed off.

“I spoke to several of the neighbors and there’s definitely somebody living there now. Lights on from time to time. Cooking smells. Trash dumped. All the signs of occupancy. “

The larger policeman frowned. He bent forward and checked the name written next to the address.

“Couldn’t it just be this Pakenharn bastard Lieutenant?”

For an instant the younger man flushed angrily. Then he controlled it and smiled silkily.

“Not possible, Kowie. The rooinek’s been on combat duty in Namibia for weeks. I checked this morning.”

The smaller policeman nudged his partner into silence with a bony elbow.

“That’s great, sir. Just great. ” He straightened up and checked his holstered pistol.

“Shall we pick him up right away?”

“I think so.” The lieutenant stepped back from the van and watched as they climbed out onto the pavement, moving awkwardly on legs cramped from sitting still for so long.

“From what I hear, Pretoria wants this fellow pretty badly.”

The bigger policeman rubbed thick fingers through his thinning yellow hair and shoved his uniform cap back into place.

“Right, Lieutenant, you can leave it to us, eh? We’ll winkle the pig out without any trouble at all. Isn’t that so, Arrie?”

His smaller partner nodded confidently while making sure his baton hung loose in its own holster. The man they were after wasn’t supposed to be anything special, but it never hurt to be prepared.

Inside Brian Pakenham’s borrowed apartment, the single lit table lamp cast a small circle of light over the man and woman entwined on a tattered sofa.

Ian Sheffield sat with one arm draped around Emily’s shoulders, reading the same mystery novel for what must be the seventh or eighth time in as many days. She murmured something unintelligible and squirmed deeper into his grasp -dozing lightly. He kissed the top of her head and turned the page with a practiced thumb, stifling a yawn. Damn it. As always, the main character had just walked straight past the story’s most crucial clue without noticing it.

He set the paperback down and tilted his head back against the sofa. It had been damned decent of Emily’s friend and former classmate to volunteer the use of his apartment, but he wished the guy had been a little more widely read. Five so-so mysteries, a travel guide, and three college-level political-science textbooks weren’t much of a library with which to while away the passing hours and days.