Larry Bond - Vortex

O’Connell’s weary eyes lit up with approval.

“Thank you. My men and I would appreciate it.” He broke off abruptly as several of his noncoms moved past, checking dog tags on bodies scattered around the storage site.

The Ranger watched them for a moment before shaking his head sadly.

“I expected losses, but I never thought it would be this bad.”

Levi tried to offer some comfort.

“But you’ve won, Colonel. And your battalion’s sacrifices have saved many thousands of lives.”

O’Connell shook his head again.

“We haven’t won yet. We’ve still got to get these damned bombs down the road and out through Swartkop.

The Israeli stared at a horizon lit red and orange by dozens of fires raging out of control. Jets thundered low overhead, crisscrossing

Pretoria in search of new targets. He spread his hands in confusion.

“But what kind of fighting force can the South Africans possibly have left to throw against us?”

“I don’t know, Esher, and what I don’t know could still kill us all.” He raised his voice.

“Weisman!”

The sad-eyed little radioman came trotting up.

“Colonel?”

“Inform all commanders that we’re pulling out in five minutes. I want every truck or car they can lay their hands on at the main gate ASAP.

We’ve got a lot of wounded to move. And tell Carrerra we’re on our way.

Got it?”

Weisman nodded vigorously, obviously already mentally running over the list of code phrases needed to transmit 0”Con nell instructions.

“Good. After you’ve done that, put me in touch with Night Stalker Lead and Tiger Lead. I want solid air cover over us all the way to Swartkop!”

Levi moved away, looking for a medic to whom he could offer his services.

O’Connell’s depression had vanished for the time being, washed away in a flood of work still to be done.

Galvanized by their commander’s radioed orders, small groups of Rangers moved into high gear all across the Pelindaba complex. Some helped wounded comrades into stolen trucks. Others carried boxes of captured documents down the Administration Center’s bullet-riddled stairwells, past bodies sprawled in the building’s central hallway, and out through a set of double doors blown open by recoilless rifle rounds.

To the north, other American soldiers kept up a withering

fire, trying to pin down those few South Africans who’d survived the initial assault. But slowly, one by one, men slipped away from the firing line, joining skeletal squads and platoons assembling by the compound’s main gate. The Rangers were getting ready to leave Pelindaba’s corpse-strewn lawns and wrecked, burning buildings behind.

ROOKIAT TWO ONE, A TROOP, I ST SQUADRON, PRETORIA LIGHT HORSE, ALONG

THE

BEN SCHOEMAN HIGHWAY, NEAR PELINDABA

South of Pelindaba, a lone diesel engine growled softly as an eight-wheeled South African armored car ground its way into cover.

Dried twigs and branches rustled and snapped as the Rookiat’s long 76mm gun poked slowly through the clump of dense brush and low scrub trees.

Riding with his commander’s hatch open, Capt. Martin van Vuuren leaned far forward over the AFV’s turret, sighting down the length of the main gun barrel, trying to judge the exact moment at which its muzzle would clear the surrounding vegetation.

The Rookiat lurched upward over a tiny shelf of rock and then dropped level again. At the same moment, its gun tore through the last fringe of brush and emerged into open air.

” Halt! “

Van Vuuren’s whispered order brought immediate results. The muted roar of the Rookiat’s diesel engine died as it came to a complete stop. He swiveled through a complete circle, carefully scanning the terrain around his vehicle. A thin, humorless smile creased the South African captain’s lips. Perfect.

The Rookiat lay hidden inside a small, thick patch of woods overlooking the Ben Schoeman Highway-the expressway connecting Pretoria with

Johannesburg. It was also the main road between the Pelindaba Nuclear

Research Center and Swartkop Military Airfield. More importantly, the dense canopy of brush and tree branches would conceal his vehicle from what he was sure were Cuban ground attack aircraft roaming the night sky over Pretoria.

It seemed an ideal position, even though van Vuuren still wasn’t sure of just what the hell was going on. His A Troop had been on routine patrol when the enemy air strikes began-moving slowly along a wide circuit outside the perimeters of both Pelindaba and the Voortrekker Heights Military Camp. Now his radios were out-jammed across every possible frequency. And the two other Rookiats under his command were gone. He’d seen one blow up, shredded into a blazing fireball by cannon shells from a strafing enemy plane. The other had simply vanished, lost somewhere in what had quickly become a confused, harrowing race through a deadly gauntlet of smoke and flame.

Fresh scars on Rookiat Two One’s turret, souvenirs of steel splinters sprayed by a near miss, showed how close a race that had been. Van

Vuuren’s fingers lightly brushed a bruise spreading across his left check. He winced, remembering the tremendous, ringing impact that had thrown him face first into the Rookiat’s ballistic computer and laser range-finder readout. The enemy bomb couldn’t have landed more than thirty or forty meters away.

He shuddered. That had been too damned close. For the moment, he was content to wait here-safely hidden and out of the line of fire. A muffled cough from below reminded him to check his crew.

He lowered himself into the vehicle’s crowded, red-lit turret. Anxious faces stared up at him.

“Now what do we do?” The pressure lines left on Corporal Meitjens’s face by his gunsight made him look something like a raccoon.

“We wait.” Van Vuuren’s own uncertainty added a bite to his tone.

“And you keep your damned eyes glued to that night sight!”

Meitjens hurriedly obeyed.

Minutes passed, dragging by one by one. Van Vuuren had left his hatch open for comfort. Even when sitting idle, a four-man crew generated a lot of heat inside the Rookiat’s turret. And the cool night air pouring in through the open hatch provided a bit of welcome relief.

Sound also poured in through the hatch, and the South African captain sat with his eyes closed, listening to the noise of a one-sided battle. Bombs echoed in the distance-dull, thumping explosions that seemed to shake the very air itself. Jet engines roared past from time to time as enemy planes came in on strafing runs against some poor sod stupid enough to show himself. But the bombing seemed to be tapering off.

The bastards up there must be running out of targets, van Vuuren thought sourly. The steady crackle of heavy small arms fire rose from off to the north-audible now over the diminishing noise of the air bombardment.

The Rookiat’s commander opened his eyes and sat up straight. Small-arms fire? Were soldiers in the Pelindaba garrison actually trying to shoot down jets with rifles and machine guns? If so, they were braver than they were wise.

“Sir! Trucks moving south on the highway. Many of them.” Meitjens sounded as surprised as van Vuuren felt. What kind of idiot would try to run a truck convoy down a multi lane highway in the middle of an enemy air attack?

He motioned the corporal aside and pressed his own face against the thermal-image sight. Bright green shapes moved into view, hot against cold hillsides and an even colder night sky. By God, they were trucks!

Van Vuuren found himself counting aloud.

“Ten, eleven, twelve…

eighteen, nineteen… ” He shut his mouth abruptly. More than two dozen vehicles were out there, rolling past his position at twenty kilometers an hour. A sizable convoy even under ordinary circumstances.