Larry Bond - Vortex

Coetzee shook his head sadly.

“No, I don’t think that you do see, Henrik.

You and your battalion are still under suspicion. There are some at the

Ministry who believe your troops failed in their duty during the American attack on Pelindaba. “

Kruger’s temper flared.

“What in God’s name was I supposed to do? Order my men out into the open so they could be bombed with greater ease? We were under continuous air attack! Would de Wet’s boot lickers be happier if we’d been slaughtered like Peiper and his sixty-first?”

His friend grinned cynically.

“Probably. Don’t forget Peiper is being mourned as a hero of the Afrikaner people. An incompetent hero perhaps, but a blery hero nonetheless.”

“Good Christ.” Kruger fought to regain control over his anger. Weeks and months of frustration and pent-up rage threatened to’ boil over in seconds. He spoke tightly through clenched teeth. “if we are under such suspicion, why are they even willing to trust us in combat against the Cubans?”

“You’re not going to be trusted, man. You’re going to be used.” Coetzee opened his briefcase and handed him two photocopied sets of orders.

“Read those.”

Kruger obeyed. One was addressed to the head of the Far North Military

Command. The other had been sent to the officer commanding the SADF’s

Logistics Branch. Both were signed by Gen. Adriaan de Wet himself. And both contained instructions effectively sentencing his seven hundred officers and men to death.

De Wet wanted the 20th Cape Rifles destroyed-but he wanted to make some use of its destruction. Essentially, Kruger and his men were to be thrown in front of Cuba’s advancing columns as cannon and tank fodder. Brigade commanders along the northern front were supposed to assign them to every possible dirty and dangerous mission—to place them in the most exposed defensive positions and to use them as spearheads for every suicidal counterattack. Even worse in a way, the Rifles were marked as dead last on the list of units slated to receive chemical warfare gear. De Wet wanted protection against Castro’s poisons restricted to battalions and rear-area headquarters of “proven loyalty and dependability. “

Naturally, exceptions were to be made for a certain number of junior officers and a small scattering of known AWB loyalists among the enlisted men. Kruger studied their names with some care. A thin, humorless smile flickered onto his face. It was decent of de Wet to provide him with a ready made list of those who would willingly abandon their comrades to near-certain death.

He waved the documents at Coetzee.

“I can keep these? And show them to men I can trust?”

“Yes. But don’t get caught with them. I have to pay some attention to saving my own skin, eh?” The brigadier snapped his briefcase shut and rose to his feet.

“So what will you do now, Henrik?”

Kruger pondered that for a moment. Even though he’d contemplated rebelling against Vorster’s illegal authority for months, it still felt unnatural. Helping Emily and her friends escape the security police had been a personal decision with solely personal risks. But leading his whole battalion into action against Pretoria might mean dragging several hundred others in front of a firing squad beside him.

Still, what other choice did he have? Vorster’s government had already tried and convicted his troops-men who were guilty only of being born in the wrong place. Kruger stared down at the orders he held crumpled in his hands and made his decision. He would choose the path that left some of his honor intact. He would lead the 20th Cape Rifles out from under

Vorster’s illegal authority.

Coetzee read the determination in his eyes and nodded his own understanding and agreement.

“You’ll have to move decisively when the time comes, Henrik. No dawdling. No second thoughts. And no coddling for those who’ll try to betray you to the government. 11

“You speak true. As the wise man said, see a snake… kill a snake.”

Kruger’s right hand lingered over the pistol holstered at his hip. He looked up sharply.

“Come with us, Deneys. Get out while you still can.”

Coetzee shook his head.

“Not yet, Henrik. Not just yet.” He cleared his throat.

“You see, I haven’t given up all hope for our country. There are still some of us, a few of us, in the Army who know what is right and what is wrong. We may still be able to salvage something for South Africa from this disaster.”

He took a pen and notepad out of his pocket.

“If you need to reach me for any reason, call one of these two places. ” He jotted down two phone numbers. Both had a Pretoria prefix.

“Neither is tapped, and you can speak freely to those who will answer.”

Kruger took the folded piece of paper from him and carefully stowed it away in his tunic.

“I thank you for all that you have done, Deneys. No man could have a better friend. “

Coetzee gripped his outstretched hand hard and then stood back.

“I wish you and your troops a good journey, Henrik. “

Kruger blinked away an uncomfortable feeling of moisture in his eyes.

Officers did not cry. Instead he stiffened slowly to attention and saluted.

Coetzee returned the salute in perfect silence.

Both men knew it would probably be the last time Commandant Henrik Kruger showed his respect for a superior officer of the South African Army.

DECEMBER 13-20TH CAPE RIFLES, ALONG THE NI

MOTOR ROUTE, NORTH OF PRETORIA

More than fifty trucks, jeeps, and armored personnel carriers moved steadily northward along the highway-spread single file in a column more than a kilometer long. Machine gunners aboard each Ratel and Buffet APC kept both hands clamped firmly to their weapons and both eyes fixed fimly on the sky. They were only forty kilometers beyond Pretoria’s northernmost suburbs, but Cuba’s MiGs ranged far and wide across the Transvaal these days.

Ian Sheffield sat uncomfortably in the cab of a five-ton truck stationed right behind Kruger’s Command Ratel, feeling awkward and all too visible in a crisp, brand-new South African Army uniform. Emily van der Heijden and Matthew Sibena rode out of sight in the back-crammed in among boxes of ammunition, concentrated field rations, and twenty gallon drums of water. So far, the truck driver, a closemouthed sergeant, had pointedly ignored all three of his passengers. Ian wondered how much longer the man would be able to restrain his evident curiosity.

Without thinking, he fingered the single stripe that identified him as a lance corporal-whatever that was. Just what did Kruger have in mind?

Did the Afrikaner officer really believe he could impersonate a South

African soldier for any length of time? Especially in combat against the

Cubans? Because if he did, the whole idea was a nonstarter from the word go.

Ian knew that he’d give himself away as an American the very first time he opened his mouth. Even after spending

almost a year in this country, the odds of his being able to successfully fake any kind of a South African accent could best be summed up as zero.

Kruger must know that, he told himself. So the man had to have some other plan up his sleeve. But what was it?

He remembered the strange late-night meeting the South African had held with his veteran officers. He’d been forced to stay concealed in the bedroom while they slipped into Kruger’s quarters by ones and twos. The assembled officers had spoken only Afrikaans-a rapid-fire, guttural

Afrikaans far beyond his comprehension. But he had been able to sense their shifting emotions. Shocked disbelief at something their colonel had shown them had slowly given way to deep, abiding anger and fierce determination.