Larry Bond - Vortex

Scowling, he pushed through the bunker’s blackout curtain into a low-roofed room dindy lit by battery-powered lamps. Several officers and

NCOs filled the small space to capacity. All were working steadily-updating situation maps and logs to reflect the results of the day’s fighting and reports from other parts of the widely scattered

Namibian front. He paused to scan their handiwork.

“Wommandant?”

Kruger swung toward the voice. It belonged to Capt. Pieter Meiring, his bearded, bespectacled operations officer.

“Brigade called while you were up on the ridge, sir. The brigadier would like to see you as soon as possible.” Meiring’s tone was flat, drained by fatigue of any emotion.

Kruger bit back a savage oath. Blast it. It was a sixty kilometer trip to

Rehoboth. What the hell did the man want that couldn’t be discussed over the radio or field phone?

He looked at his watch. Nearly eight o’clock.

“Any word from Major

Forbes?”

“No, Kommandant.

Another irritation. He’d sent his secondin-command back to Rehoboth that morning on a mission to straighten out the battalion’s steadily worsening supply situation. Mortar rounds, rifle ammo, and petrol weren’t coming forward fast enough or in large enough quantities. So he’d told Forbes to go back and kick a little logistical ass. Men could fight for a time without adequate sleep, but they certainly couldn’t fight without bullets or fuel for their vehicles.

Kruger shook his head disgustedly. One more problem piled on his already overloaded platter. He looked up at Meiring.

“All right, Pieter. Get my

Ratel ready to go. I’ll bring Forbes with me and try to get back as soon as I can. Plan for an orders group at… ” He paused, estimating travel times and Brigadier Strydom’s well-known penchant for long winded shoptalk.

“Set it for oh one hundred hours. That should be late enough.

“

Meiring sketched a salute and hurried away.

Kruger turned to check the situation map again and absentmindedly rubbed his chin. Stubble rasped under his fingers.

“Andries!”

“Sir?” His orderly materialized out of the crowd.

“Bring me my razor and a bowl of hot water.” He smiled.

“I don’t want to shock our rear-echelon warriors, do I? They shouldn’t think we let a few minor problems like bullets and bombs interfere with our grooming.”

It was a feeble attempt, but it worked. Laughter rumbled through the bunker. Most South African staff officers were

veterans of combat in Angola and Namibia, but there were still enough spit-and-polish desk soldiers among their ranks for the old slanders to be funny.

Kruger chuckled with them, glad his men could still find something to laugh about.

82nd MECHANIZED BRIGADE HO, REHOBOTH, NAMIBIA

Rehoboth lay nestled among hills marking the southern edge of the Auas

Mountains. The town was home to a conservative, intensely religious, mixed-race group who’d fled north from Cape Town through the Namib more than two centuries before. Their plain, old-fashioned houses were a testament both to their faith and to their poverty. But the darkness and silence behind each window reflected a dusk-to-dawn curfew imposed by

South Africa’s army.

Outside the town, small herds of cattle and brown, black, and gray karakul sheep wandered over widely scattered grazing lands, slowly eating their way closer to slaughter or shearing. Several cows looked up from their rhythmic chewing, momentarily made curious by the sound of an engine growling past along the highway. Dim blackout headlamps briefly outlined them against the hillside and then swept away as the Ratel APC headed south toward a vast, new tent city on the outskirts of Rehoboth.

The cows lowed mournfully to one another for a few seconds before stooping again to the dry grass close at hoof.

The 82nd Mechanized Brigade’s tents, vehicle parks, supply dumps, and maintenance workshops sprawled over more than a hundred acres. Patrolling armored cars protected the brigade perimeter against ground attack, while a Cactus SAM battery and light flak guns offered coverage against Cuban air raids. Enough light leaked out through tent flaps or seams to show that many men were still wide-awake.

All lights were on at the large, peaked tent serving as Brigade headquarters.

Commandant Kruger clambered out his Ratel’s side hatch and stood looking up into the star-filled night sky. He breathed in and out a few times, clearing the sweat-sour stench of the APC’s cramped troop compartment out of his nostrils. He wasn’t in any particular hurry to find out what

Brigadier Strydom had up his perfectly tailored sleeve.

Kruger’s respect for his immediate superior had precipitously declined over the last three weeks. Strydorn had shown himself all too eager to tell Pretoria what it wanted to hear -and not what needed to be said.

He’d also demonstrated a fondness for issuing meaningless and contradictory orders in the midst of battle. In the kommandant’s view, his brigade commander should be up at Bergland seeing the situation for himself-not sitting sixty kilometers behind the front, cloistered with his toadying staff.

The cool, crisp breeze shifted slightly, bringing with it a new smell.

A sickly sweet odor that he recognized instantly. The smell of death and rotting corpses. Kruger frowned at the unpleasant aroma. There’d been no resistance here at Rehoboth, so why the smell?

He turned, looking for explanations, and found them dangling from a gallows erected beside the headquarters tent.

My God. Six bodies swung to and fro from long, creaking ropes rocked gently by the wind. None were in uniform. None were white. And two appeared to be women. Kruger swallowed hard against the bitter-tasting bile surging up from his stomach. What kind of madness was at work here?

There was only one way to find out.

He settled his helmet firmly on his head and strode briskly toward the two sentries posted at the command tent’s main entrance.

One checked his ID while the other kept a flashlight centered on his face. Kruger noticed that both were careful not to glance toward the gallows.

Twenty officers and as many noncoms and enlisted men bustled to and fro inside the tent-reports and message flimsies clutched in their hands.

Maps crowded with military symbols hung from canvas walls or rested on trestle taps.

Powerful radio sets crackled and hissed over the low-voiced mutter of a dozen whispered conversations All the usual signs of a higher military headquarters busy preparing for the next day’s operations.

He glanced around the tent. No sign of Maj. Richard Forbes. Where the devil was the man?

Brig. Jakobus Strydom stood shoulder to shoulder with another, much taller man looking at one of the maps. He turned as Kruger approached.

“Ah, Henrik… it’s good to see you.”

“Sir.” Kruger nodded and saluted, intentionally staying formal.

The shadow of a frown crossed Strydom’s narrow face. He gestured toward the fleshy, redfaced man beside him.

“I don’t think you know Kolonel

Hertzog.”

-Kolonel. ” Kruger inclined his head politely.

“The kolonel is a special visitor from Pretoria, Henrik. One of the

President’s own military aides.”

So. This was one of Vorster’s spies. Kruger looked more carefully at the man and got another shock. Hertzog wore an AWB pin on his uniform coat.

Involuntarily, Kruger’s mouth curled upward in disgust. Cold eyes stared back at him out of a puffy, double-chinned face.

“You’ve seen something that troubles you, Kommandant Kruger?” Hertzog’s smug, arrogant voice mirrored his appearance.

Kruger addressed his words to Strydom.