Larry Bond - Vortex

Right. The Afrikaner noncom snorted at the memory. God save him from raw recruits who couldn’t tell the difference between real war and a blery drill.

Still, nobody was going to watch the grass grow under Sgt. Uwe Boshof’s feet. Drills were always followed by inspections. And who could tell?

This alert might even be real. Maybe the higher-ups had warning of an imminent ANC raid. Or maybe some farmer had spotted a rebel commando moving into the area.

Whatever. Even though nothing much was likely to happen at Komatipoort, he always believed that preparation for the worst was a wise precaution.

That was why he’d ordered his small twelve-man garrison to stand to. And that was why he’d ordered them to dig fighting positions around the border post itself.

If any of those murdering ANC bastards do come sniffing around here,

Boshof swore silently, they’ll feel as if they’ve tried to bite into a buzz saw. It was a promise he felt sure he could keep. Besides their R-4 assault rifles, his men had a heavy caliber Vickers machine gun, grenades, and even a hand-held 60mm patrol mortar. His garrison would be more than a match for any kaffir raiding force.

And if there were white rebels out and about recruiting, the traitorous swine would get short shrift from him. He’d spent twenty-five years in the

SADF-long enough to know how to take orders, even if they did mostly come from a pack of fools.

He yawned once. And a second time. Then his stomach growled, an unwelcome reminder they weren’t likely to eat anytime soon. Meal trucks wouldn’t make the rounds during an alert. Should he tell the boys to open some of their canned rations? Or was Battalion likely to call this whole thing off soon?

Boshof shrugged. Maybe his erstwhile superiors would tell him what the devil was going on when they bothered to get out of bed. He looked toward the guard shack, silently willing the phone to ring.

“Sergeant!”

Boshof turned toward the shout. He saw a slender, youthful figure climbing down out of a tree overlooking the border fence. As punishment for all his assorted sins and radio antics, Private Krom had spent the night in that tree, watching the Mozambican side of the frontier through a nightvision scope. Now he was scrambling down, waving one arm to attract his sergeant’s attention.

Christ on a plate, now what? He stood up and brushed the dirt off his trousers. Then he slung his assault rifle and ambled toward the border.

Krom ran to meet him.

“Sergeant! I can see vehicles on the highway! Dozens of them!”

Boshof groaned inwardly. Another pile of bullshit from the young idiot.

“Nonsense.”

“No, really, I swear it!” The younger man pointed back in the direction he’d just come from.

“I’m telling you, I could see them passing between those two hills there. Moving in convoy. They can’t be more than five klicks away.”

What? Privately, Boshof thought the young recruit was out of his tiny mind.

Still, it might be better to make absolutely sure of that before putting him up on a charge.

He focused his own binoculars on the spot Krom had indicated and grimaced.

The sun’s glare made it tough to make

anything out. If I go blind, he thought, I’ll kill the little son of a

.

His hands tightened around the binoculars. He’d just seen sunlight glinting off glass or polished metal. Krom hadn’t been hallucinating.

There were vehicles on the highway out there. Vehicles headed this way.

And that might mean trouble-big trouble. One thing was sure, Uwe Boshof hadn’t made it to sergeant by taking unnecessary chances.

He grabbed Private Krom by the arm and ordered, “Get on the phone to headquarters. Report ‘many vehicles approaching.” Go! “

Krom nodded and ran off.

Boshof swung round and bellowed, “Listen up, boys! I want everybody down in those fucking holes! Now!”

For a split second his squad stood frozen, shocked into immobility by the sudden order.

“Move!” Boshof was already lumbering back toward his own foxhole.

His men threw their shovels and pickaxes to one side, grabbed their weapons, and dropped flat in half-dug fighting positions. Boshof followed suit seconds later.

And not a second too soon.

Crouched low, with his binoculars glued to his face, the Afrikaner sergeant heard the clattering, howling roar of twin rotors and twin gas turbine engines an instant before he saw them-a pair of helicopters darting around the side of a low hill, racing westward just over the treetops.

At first they were just oval specks, black dots against the rising sun, but they quickly grew in size and shape until he could identify them as

Soviet-made Mi-24 helicopter gunships. Big ugly monsters, he thought.

He’d never seen a Hind up close before, but he’d seen enough photos and drawings to know what they were. Odd. Mozambique’s armed forces weren’t supposed to have any gear that sophisticated.

What were these gunships doing so near the border? No, strike that. What were they going to do, now that they were here?

His own orders from headquarters were clear. As long as the Mozambicans stayed on their own side of the line, they could do as they pleased. He did note, however, his men were tracking the two helicopters with every weapon they had. He just hoped some hothead didn’t open up without his say-so. He’d hate to get killed just because some kaffir pilot couldn’t resist showing off his brand-new, shiny toy.

The Hinds were still nose-on, closing fast just ten meters above the ground at two hundred kilometers an hour. They flew steadily, changing neither course nor speed. Orders or no, Boshof knew he couldn’t wait much longer. They’d be across the border in seconds. He tensed, readying a shouted command to open fire…

And held it in as the Hinds pulled up, glass-canopied noses wobbling as they suddenly slowed. The two gunships came to a complete stop, hovering twenty meters above the ground and about a hundred meters away, still inside Mozambique.

Boshof studied the two craft closely while waiting for his pounding heart to slow down. Their sloping front fuselages were almost completely glassed in. He could clearly see each Hind’s gunner, seated low and close to the nose. Their pilots were seated slightly higher and behind.

Both gunships hovered, motionless. Dust whirled away to either side, blown skyward by powerful rotors.

The Afrikaner sergeant shook his head angrily. What in God’s name were these kaffirs playing at?

Boshof trained his binoculars on the gunner in the left hand Hind, noticing that, whenever he turned his head, the gunship’s chin-mounted rotary cannon pivoted-mimicking the man’s movements. Interesting. And frightening. It made the helicopter seem more like a living, breathing predator than a simple machine.

Long seconds passed before he realized that both the gunner and the pilot were white. He snapped his binoculars over to the other Mi-24. Both its crewmen were white as well. Advisors? Mercenaries?

Boshof ‘s unspoken question was answered sooner than he would have wished.

The left-hand gunship started to swing right, moving across his front.

As soon as it turned, he saw the insignia on its side. A blue circle covered by a red triangle-with a white

star in the center. Jesus! That was the insignia of the Cuban Air Force!

He dropped the binoculars and grabbed his rifle.

“Fire! Fire! Fire! “

Boshof’s scream was all it took to free his troops from their paralysis.

Assault rifles cracked all around his small perimeter. Half a second later, their Vickers machine gun opened up with a hoarse, full-throated chatter-spraying steel-jacketed rounds toward the left-hand gunship.