Larry Bond - Vortex

Muller does the dirty work, he’ll have the leader’s ear and confidence.

After all, no man throws away an ax that’s still sharp.”

“Then we must sharpen our own axes, my friend. And I know just the neck

I’d like to use them on….”

Their voices faded as the two men sidled away from the tree, returning to the larger group standing around the open air barbecue pit.

After they’d gone, Emily stayed motionless for several minutes, lost in thought. Muller … the name was familiar. She’d heard it pronounced contemptuously by her father. And also by Ian. But who was this Muller?

Clearly some kind of official in Vorster’s old Ministry of Law and Order.

An official disliked by his peers and apparently heavily involved in

Vorster’s “dirty work.” Just the kind of man who would know whether or not Vorster had had advance warning of the ANC’s plans to attack the Blue

Train.

Her hands closed tighter around the tray. She had to find some way to get word of what she suspected to Ian. He would know how to turn the fragments she’d gathered into a coherent, supportable news report. Her heart pounded with excitement. Why, this could turn out to be the big break Ian had been searching for so desperately. If it could be proved, such a story was bound to create the biggest news flash in South Africa’s recent history.

Her excitement grew as she realized that it could have even more far-reaching consequences-political consequences. Few things were more abhorrent to Afrikaners than treachery. So how would her fellow countrymen react to the discovery that their new president was nothing more than a black hearted back stabber

Emily scarcely noticed when Beatrix Viljoen tracked her down under the acacia tree and dragged her back to the kitchen.

AUGUST 3-STATE SECURITY COUNCIL CHAMBER, PRETORIA

Maps and charts covered the walls of the small, windowless meeting room.

Each showed a separate piece of the elaborate preparations for Operation

Nimrod-South Africa’s planned reconquest of Namibia. And each had played a part in the defense minister’s final briefing for Vorster and the members of his State Security Council.

For two hours, the men seated around the large rectangular table had been bombarded with facts, figures, and freely flowing military terms. Phase lines. Airlift requirements and resupply capabilities. Mobilization tables.

Free-fire zones. All had been woven into a single sean-dess portrait of impending and inevitable victory.

As Constand Heitman, the minister of defense, took his seat, Karl Vorster’s eyes flickered back and forth, scanning the faces of his subordinates. This was the first time most of them had heard the details of his plans for

Namibia. He expected their reactions to be instructive.

He nodded his thanks to Heitman and turned to face the rest of the

Council.

“Well, gentlemen? Are there any further questions?”

One of those seated at the far end of the table started to lean forward to speak and then stopped.

“Come, Helmoed, what troubles you? Have you seen some flaw in our proposal?” Vorster’s voice was deceptively calm.

The man, Helmoed Malherbe, the minister of industries and commerce, swallowed hard. No one was ever eager to appear to oppose any of the

State President’s cherished plans. A month in power had already shown

Vorster’s unwillingness to tolerate those who disagreed with him.

Malherbe of eared his throat.

“Not a flaw, Mr. President. Nothing like that. It is just a small concern. “

“Out with it then, man.” Vorster’s polite facade cracked slightly.

Malherbe bobbed his head submissively, obviously rattled.

“Yes, Mr.

President. It’s the scale of Citizen Force mobilization this operation requires. If Nimrod takes longer than planned, the prolonged absence of these men from our factories could have a serious impact on our economy.”

Vorster snorted.

“Is that all? Very well, Malherbe. Your concern is noted.”

He looked at the others around the table.

“So, gentlemen. You have heard the industries minister? If the kaffirs can hold back our tanks with their rifles for a month or two, we may have to ask our people to tighten their belts a little. Terrible, eh?”

Chuckles greeted his heavy-handed attempt at humor. Malherbe sat redfaced, shamed into silence.

Satisfied, Vorster turned to Erik Muller, sitting quietly by his side.

“What of the other black states-Mozambique, Zimbabwe, and the rest? Can they interfere with Nimrod’s smooth completion?”

Muller shook his head decisively.

“No, Mr. President. Our covert operations have them all off-balance. They’re too deeply embroiled in their own internal troubles to give us much trouble.”

Marius Van der Heijden snorted contemptuously, but said nothing.

Muller frowned. Van der Heijden was the leader of those on the cabinet who despised him, and the man’s enmity was coming more and more to the surface. What had once been a simple rivalry for power and position was fast taking on all the signs of a blood feud. It was a feud Vorster had done little to discourage. Instead, the President seemed perfectly content to watch their infighting as if it were some kind of sporting event staged solely for his amusement.

And why not? Muller thought. Our sparring doesn’t threaten his hold on power, and it prevents either of us from gaining too much control over the security services. His respect for Vorster’s shrewdness climbed another notch-as did his carefully concealed dislike for the older man.

Vorster turned to the foreign minister, a gaunt, sallow man. Rumor said he was fighting some form of deadly cancer. It was a fight he seemed to be losing.

“And what of the world’s other nations, Jaap? Have we anything to fear from them?”

The foreign minister shook his head.

“Nothing more than words, Mr.

President. The Western powers have already done their worst. Their sanctions can scarcely be made stricter. And the Russians haven’t the resources left to threaten us. They’re too busy watching their empire crumble to be concerned with what happens ten thousand kilometers from

Moscow.”

Vorster nodded approvingly.

“True. Very true.

He looked around the table again.

“Very well, gentlemen. Any last comments?”

The silence dragged on for several seconds.

At last, one of the junior cabinet ministers raised a reluctant hand.

“One thing still troubles me, sir.”

“Go on. ” Vorster’s temper seemed more in check than it had earlier.

“The Western intelligence services and spy satellites are bound to spot signs of our mobilization for Nimrod. Since it’s essential that we obtain tactical and strategic surprise for this campaign, shouldn’t we have some kind of cover story to explain our troop movements?”

Vorster smiled grimly.

“A very good point, young Ritter. And one that has already been taken into consideration.”

He nodded toward Fredrik Pienaar, the minister of information.

“Fredrik and I have already begun to lay the groundwork. Tomorrow, I shall speak to our most loyal supporters from the Transvaal. And when the interfering democracies hear what I have to say, they’ll be quite convinced that our soldiers are going to be used only for cracking kaffir heads inside this country. Little “Namibia’ will be the furthest thing from their minds.”

The men around the conference table nodded in understanding and agreement.

“Good. That’s settled, then.” Vorster turned to the minister of defense.

“Very well, Constand. Notify all commands. Operation Nimrod proceeds as planned.”