Larry Bond - Vortex

Muller’s lip curled upward in a tightly controlled sneer. Another toady in a cabinet of toadies. At times, the company his ambitions forced him to keep sickened him beyond all measure. But power brought its own rewards-rewards that made the bootlicking and petty infighting worthwhile.

Power. The very word stirred long-suppressed desires and appetites, sending them racing through Muller’s mind and

body. He shifted uncomfortably. It was October. He would need to make another secret journey-a pilgrimage of sorts -soon. Very soon.

OCTOBER 5-20TH CAPE RIFLES, REHOBOTH, NAMIBIA

Commandant Henrik Kruger had never been prouder of his men. Despite coming out of the line less than twenty-four hours before, they’d gone to great lengths to prepare for the brigade commander’s last inspection. Somewhere they’d found enough water to wash and shave. Uniforms tattered, torn, and stained by weeks of trench warfare had been cleaned, pressed, and re sewn

And vehicles once caked in dust and oil now gleamed in the spring sunshine.

But all the cleaning and polishing couldn’t conceal the fact that the weeks of fruitless fighting had reduced his battalion to a shadow of its former self. Sergeants led infantry platoons now barely the size of squads, and two of his companies were commanded by second lieutenants scarcely out of school. Fewer than half the soldiers who’d marched into Namibia with him were still ready for battle. Wounds, deaths, and combat fatigue had stripped away man after man in a never ending round of artillery bombardments, outpost skirmishes, and massed assaults.

No, there couldn’t be any doubt. The 20th Cape Rifles was fought out.

Now it was going home. Home to South Africa. Home to rest. Home to absorb new faces and new names as willing and unwilling replacements alike filled its shattered ranks. The battalion’s mortar tubes and armored cars would remain in Namibia to equip the reservist units being sent to replace it.

” An impressive display, Henrik. Very impressive, indeed. Your men are a credit to our nation. It’s been an bon or to command them.”

Kruger looked up sharply, suddenly aware that he’d been drifting along behind Brigadier Strydom in his own private haze. Sleep was a high-priced luxury in combat-one he’d rarely been able to afford over the past few weeks. With an effort, he gathered his thoughts.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll pass your commendation on.

I’m sure the battalion will appreciate your kind words.”

Strydom nodded.

“Good.” He studied Kruger carefully, a rare look of concern on his narrow face.

“You may dismiss your men, Kommandant.”

Kruger drew himself to attention, saluted, and held the salute until the brigadier returned it. Then he swung round, his weary, red-rimmed eyes scanning the officers ranked before him.

“Captain Meiring! Dismiss the battalion!”

“Sir!” The bearded officer who’d replaced Forbes as Kruger’s secondin-command stepped forward smartly, stiffened, and wheeled to bellow the order across the parade ground. Instantly, the battalion broke its ordered ranks-each man heading at a fast walk for his tent or for the crowded mess line.

Kruger grimaced as he caught sight of a familiar, loathe some and fleshy face disappearing amid the sea of patched uniforms. So that damned AWB fanatic Hertzog was still here, eh? Still circling about like a vulture seeking easy prey-unarmed civilians or officers too tired to guard their tongues. Camp gossip told of continued mass executions and midnight arrests. Without realizing it, he took a step after Hertzog.

“Leave it, Henrik.” Strydom took him by the arm.

“You can’t win a fight with that man. Hertzog has too many friends-too many powerful friends.

Believe me I know.” He sighed.

Kruger stared at him.

Strydom shook his head.

“Go home, Henrik. Go home and rebuild your battalion. Concentrate on that. You are a soldier, not a politician.”

A soldier? Perhaps. Kruger wasn’t sure how much longer that could remain true. At what point did one stop being a soldier who simply followed orders and become something lower, something fouler-an accomplice?

He frowned. He’d read stories of the German soldiers who’d found themselves trapped between their patriotism and

their code of personal honor. But he’d never expected to find himself caught in that same agonizing dilemma. Never.

Henrik Kruger turned slowly toward his tent-praying that, if it proved necessary, he would have the wisdom and the strength of heart to choose the right path.

OCTOBER 6-PORT SECURITY ZONE, MAPUTO,

MOZAMBIQUE

Harsh white arc lights flared along the length of Maputo’s inner harbor-turning night into eerie, shadowless day. Beneath their unwavering glare, dozens of stevedores swarmed around the long, rust-streaked hull of a Soviet freighter, the Cherepavets. Distorted images of the lights and bustling work crews were reflected in the oil-smeared waves gently lapping round the ship and against Maputo’s old, cracked concrete quay. High above the water, massive cranes hovered, hesitated, and then dipped into the freighter’s open cargo holds -each coming up in turn bearing an assortment of bulky crates and loaded pallets. All of the cargo was covered, either by tarpaulins or crates. Some of the crates were large enough to contain disassembled aircraft.

Most of Cherepovets’s cargo went onto a special twenty car train waiting on a side track paralleling the waterfront. Other crates and cargo pallets went into warehouses just off the pier. They were packed with ammunition, small arms, and communications gear-the first promised installment payment for the use of Mozambique’s largest port and its most important railroad line.

Soldiers patrolled the chain link fence separating the harbor from

Maputo’s darkened streets. Others behind them manned a deadly array of heavy machine guns, light antiaircraft cannon, and SAM batteries-all sweeping back and forth across preset sectors of the clear night sky.

Cigarettes glowed red near the front of the waiting train, marking the presence of more soldiers. The momentary flare of a match illuminated lighter-skinned faces and different uniforms. Cuba’s generals didn’t plan to entrust their valuable equipment to the safekeeping of Mozambique’s slipshod army. Cuban troops would guard the train on its long journey north to secret assembly areas deep inside

Zimbabwe.

Whistles blew shrilly across the harbor, urging the dockworkers to greater efforts. The Cherepovets was only the first of many Soviet cargo ships bound for Maputo.

OCTOBER I O-DIRECTORATE OF MILITARY INTELLIGENCE HEADQUARTERS,

PRETORIA

START = XMT: 12:26 Mon Oct 10 EXP: 12:00

Tue Oct I I

Soviet Union and Mozambique Announce New Trade Agreement

MAPUTO (October 8) UPI-A spokesman for the Mozambican government today announced the signing of a new three-year trade agreement with the Soviet

Union. Under the agreement, which has an estimated value of approximately 40 billion metecais, roughly 88 million dollars, Mozambique will exchange its agricultural products for Soviet manufactured goods. When pressed, the government spokesman admitted that the agreement would include substantial shipments of Soviet military equipment.

Western diplomatic sources expressed no surprise at this revelation.

Mozambique’s armed forces, poorly armed and trained, have been on the losing side of a ten-year struggle against a South African -backed insurgency. New Soviet equipment and advisors are seen by Mozambique’s ruling party as essential to reversing the worsening military situation.

“Here it is, Kolonel. Here is the piece of the puzzle we needed.” Maj.

Willem Metje knocked on the doorframe as he walked into his superior’s office.