Larry Bond - Vortex

Henshaw hesitated and took another look around the crowded bar. Then he turned back to Ian.

“There were three things, okay?”

He traced numbers on the table while he talked.

“One, the par as who went in on the assault had a complete readout on the target before they went in.

Enemy strength. Building plans. Everything. It was like they’d been talking to somebody who’d worked there. Right?”

Ian nodded his understanding.

“Okay, two. There weren’t just par as on the op.” Henshaw’s voice dropped even lower.

“I saw the orders for the mission. It listed a special intelligence-gathering unit besides the parachute company. “

Curiouser and curiouser.

“Who’d they work for?”

Henshaw looked even more nervous. He took another pull at his beer, this time a sizable gulp. Then he leaned forward.

“For a man named Erik Muller.

You’ve heard of him? The director of military intelligence?”

Jackpot. Ian nodded again, casually, as though the information were of little importance.

“All right. What else?”

“Something very odd. The brass said this raid was an outstanding success.

Medals galore for the par as involved. A unit citation. The whole works, right?”

I “SoT I

Henshaw shook his head.

“So where were all the captured documents? Nothing came through my section. Not one scrap of paper! “

Ian shrugged.

“Maybe your troops didn’t find anything worth bringing back.”

The South African officer looked annoyed.

“No . no, you don’t understand!

We don’t mount these kinds of commando assaults just to kill guerrillas.

There are easier ways to do that! With bombs, for example.” He shoved his beer aside again.

“The reason you put troops in on the ground is to seize and hold buildings so you can search them for useful intelligence-for documents!”

Ian sat back, beginning to understand Henshaw’s puzzlement. The commando raid on Gawamba had been intended to capture ANC documents. South Africa’s high command

viewed the attack as a stunning success. But nothing Muller’s intelligence boys had found had come back through regular military channels. So what kind of information had they uncovered? And where was it?

He sat motionless for a long while after the South African left the pub.

Muller had played some part in the Blue Train massacre. He was sure of that. Every piece of evidence pointed in the secret-service man’s direction.

So far, so good. But all he had right now was a collection of what could be passed off as pure supposition, malicious rumor, and drunken barroom gossip. Turning any of that hodgepodge into solid, substantial proof was going to be tough-damned tough. Unfortunately, Ian didn’t have the faintest idea of how he was going to go about doing that.

OCTOBER 1STATE SECURITY COUNCIL CHAMBER, THE UNION BUILDINGS, PRETORIA

Clusters of red pins dotting the topographic map of the Natal told their own story. The Zulu rebellion was growing, gathering strength day by day, despite the ever harsher measures adopted by Franz Diederichs and his security troops. It was a story matched in smaller scale across the length and breadth of Natal’s neighbor to the west, the Cape Province. Student riots flared in Cape Town on a daily basis. Growing numbers of young men of draft age refused to report for induction. There were reports of increasing opposition to the war in Namibia among the province’s business and labor leaders. There were even disquieting rumors that some of the police and soldiers stationed in and around Cape Town were increasingly reluctant to enforce the government’s security decrees.

Karl Vorster’s angry voice thundered through the room.

“This situation is intolerable, Marius! You swore to me these nests of traitors and malcontents would be rooted out and

utterly destroyed by now! And instead you come here to tell us that matters are worse than they once were?”

Erik Muller hid a satisfied smile as he watched Marius van der Heijden squirm under Vorster’s tongue-lashing. His closest, most dangerous rival on the cabinet had finally bitten off more than he could easily chew.

Muller shook his head, remembering van der Heijden’s proud recitation of kraals burned and Zulus shot down in fields or on rocky slopes. The man and his oafish subordinates really had no idea of how the game should be played-no sense of subtlety at all. Mass executions, indeed. Ridiculous!

Much better results could have been achieved by a series of carefully planned assassinations and kidnappings.

Vorster whirled from his contemplation of the damning situation map.

“Well,

Marius? What do you suggest now?”

Van der Heijden cleared his throat.

“Brigadier Diederichs and his men have fought well, Mr. President. But they are too few to adequately patrol the province. These Zulus have proven more stubborn than expected.” He looked toward the tall, whitehaired general sitting at one end of the table.

“But we could subdue them if General de Wet could just spare three more battalions of motorized infantry. Diederichs assures me the extra manpower would let him form enough pursuit forces to track these guerrillas to their lairs and smash them there.”

De Wet sniffed.

“Impossible. The Permanent Force and those Citizen Force units already in Namibia are vital to our campaign there. We cannot spare units for what should be simple police work.”

Better and better. Muller found it increasingly difficult not to laugh out loud. The two cabinet factions he disliked the most were now going for each other’s throat.

“Then mobilize more troops! You still have Citizen Force battalions held out of the front lines. Let us make use of them where they are needed!”

Vorster held up a hand for silence, interrupting de Wet’s retort.

“Enough.

” He turned his grim, dark-ringed eyes on the general.

“What of these men

Marius speaks of, General? Are they all needed for Namibia? Truthfully, now.”

De Wet hesitated for a moment before answering.

“We need many of the

Citizen Force troops as replacements for our regulars, Mr. President.

Some of our best battalions have suffered serious losses that must be made good.”

“But do you need them all?” Vorster’s tone dropped toward a growl. He didn’t like having to repeat himself.

The general lowered his eyes.

“No, Mr. President. Not as yet.” He nodded toward the map of Namibia now hung permanently on one of the room’s windowless walls.

“Our supply services are stretched to the breaking point as they are.”

“I see.” Vorster thumped a heavy hand onto the table and turned toward van der Heijden.

“Very well, Marius. You’ll have your three battalions.

The Ministry of Defense will select which reserve units will be called up.”

He glowered at the shorter man.

“But I warn you, meneer. Do not fail me again. I expect you to crush this treacherous rebellion within the month.

Is that quite clear, Marius?”

Van der Heijden nodded slowly, his normally plump red face now pate-almost ashen.

Muller was disappointed. He’d hoped for more fireworks, more angry shouting. He glanced covertly toward the man seated immediately to his right. Helmoed Malherbe, the minister of industries and commerce, sat rigidly in frozen silence. Too bad. He’d expected Malherbe to object again to the increasing drain on South Africa’s civilian economy. Every battalion of reservists called to the colors meant one thousand fewer skilled white workers and managers in the nation’s factories and mines.

But Malherbe seemed to have learned his lesson. Contradicting Vorster’s cherished notions was one of the fastest ways known to end a promising government career, so the man stayed quiet.