Vortex

CHAPTER 7 Capital Moves

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.”

South Africa was on its way to war.

AUGUST 4-ABC”S NIGHT LINE

The reporter stood at the corner of C and Twenty-third streets in downtown

Washington, D.C. The gray government building behind her provided a neutral background for her carefully coiffed hair and green summer dress.

More importantly, the sign saying STATE DEPARTMENT told her viewers where she was and that great events were afoot. Bright white TV lights lit the sky.

“If congressional Democrats can agree on anything these days, it’s that the administration’s response to recent developments in South Africa has been halting, confused, and wholly inadequate. And as Pretoria’s violent crackdown on dissent continues, congressional demands for further economic sanctions seem likely to intensify. All this at a time when administration officials are already working late into the night-trying desperately to restructure a South Africa policy thrown badly out of whack.”

The camera pulled back slightly, showing a lit row of windows at the top of the State Department.

“And something else seems certain. South African state

president Karl Vorster’s latest public harangue will do absolutely nothing to douse the sanctions furor building up on Capitol Hill. If anything, his rhetoric appears calculated to send apartheid opponents around the world into fits.”

She disappeared from the screen, replaced by footage showing Vorster standing on a flag-draped dais. The bloodred, three-armed-swastika banners of the Afrikaner Weerstandbeweging mingled with South African blue-, white-, and orange-striped national flags.

Vorster’s clipped accent made his words seem even harsher.

“We have given the blacks of our country every chance to participate in a peaceful exchange of ideas. Every chance to work toward a sharing of power and increased prosperity, for them and for all South Africans.”

He paused dramatically.

“But they have shown themselves to be unworthy!

Their answer to reform is murder! They reply to reason with violence!

They are incapable of peaceful conduct, much less of participating in the government. They have had their chance, and they will not have another.

Never again! That I promise you, never again.”

A roar of approval surged through the hall and the camera panned around, showing a sea of arm-waving, cheering white faces.

As the thunderous applause faded, the camera cut back to the reporter standing on the State Department steps.

“Vorster’s speech, one of his first since taking over as president, came at the close of a day-long visit to the rural Transvaal, his home territory and a stronghold of ultraconservative white opinion. And nobody who heard him speak can have any doubt that he’s giving South Africa’s diehards just what they’ve always wanted. Tough words and tougher action.

“This is Madeline Sinclair, for “Nightline.”

“

The camera cut away to show the program’s New Yorkbased anchorman.

“Thank you, Madeline. Following this break, we’ll be back with Mr. Adrian Roos, of the South African Ministry of Law and Order, Mr. Ephriarn Nkwe, of the now-banned African National Congress, and Senator Steven Travers of the

Senate Foreign Relations ComiTtittee. “

The anchorman’s sober, serious image vanished, replaced by a thirty-second spot singing the praises of a Caribbean cruise line.

AUGUST 5—THE RUSSELL SENATE OFFICE BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.

Sen. Steven Travers’s innermost congressional office was decorated with a mixture of autographed photos, the Nevada state flag, and a stuffed lynx nicknamed Hubert by his aides.

“Hubert” disappeared whenever any of the most prominent animal-rights lobbyists paid a visit. But the lynx always reappeared to reassure home-state visitors that Travers-no matter how liberal he might be in foreign affairs-was still the plain, gun-toting cowboy his campaign commercials always showed.

The photos crowding the office’s rich, wood-paneled walls included shots of the senator with his wife and family, with two presidents (both

Democrats), and with several Hollywood stars-all famous for the various liberal causes they supported. A recent addition was a picture of himself in the Capitol rotunda, shaking hands with ANC leader Nelson Mandela.

The pictures all showed a tall, slim man with sandy hair slowly going gray and a handsome, angular face. He looked good in a suit-a fact that hadn’t endeared him to other, less telegenic senators back when cameras first started recording every minute of the Senate’s floor debates for posterity. Right now the suit hung on a hanger in his office closet, and

Travers lounged comfortably behind his desk wearing jeans, a Lacoste shirt, and loafers.

His small, normally neat office seemed crowded with two legislative aides, two staff lawyers, and a close friend. Coffee cups and boxes of doughnuts littering the floor and desk made it clear that they had either started very early or worked very late.

“Hey, guys, time’s awasting. I’ve got a committee meeting

in three hours,” said Travers, looking at his watch, “with a CBS interview thirty minutes before that.”

He started to yawn and then closed his mouth on it.

“Not that the “Nightline’ spot didn’t come out pretty good, but I can’t keep spouting the same stuff over and over. Things are going wrong too fast over there.”

Travers reached forward and pulled a red-tagged manila folder out of the pile on his desk.

“I mean, look at this!” He flipped the folder open and tapped the first sheet.

“The CIA says that bastard Vorster’s even mobilizing more troops to go after the black townships. People are gonna look to me to provide the Senate’s response, and I can’t just go on repeating the same old tired calls for more sanctions. I need something new-something that’ll grab some headlines and grab Pretoria by the throat.”

Travers had championed the anti apartheid cause in the Senate ever since his election two terms ago. It had been a happy marriage of personal belief with a popular cause. And now he was one of the senators first on the media’s list for official reaction whenever South Africa hit the news.

“Steve’s right. This is his chance to take the lead on this issue in the public mind. The rest of these fuds up here on the Hill will just thunder and blast without really saying anything. The media wants an American answer to this South African problem. And whoever gives ‘em one is gonna be their fair-haired boy for quite a while. ” George Perlman was Travers’s political advisor and reality check. He’d spent most of the night watching the brainstorming, the arguments only speaking when the discussion wandered or when he felt a fresh viewpoint was needed.

Perlman was a short, balding man dressed in slacks and a pullover sweater.

As a seasoned old campaigner, he was ensconced in the most comfortable chair in the office. He was fifteen years older, but despite their age difference, he and the senator had become friends years ago. It was a friendship cemented by the fact that Perlman had masterminded Travers’s successful reelection campaign.

Perlman continued, “Plus, with the White House moving so slowly on this thing, we can slam the President effectively and pick up some points from the party faithful. And now’s a real good time to do that. We could sure use some firstrate recruiting PR to bring in the volunteers and the big-buck contributors . “

The men crowded into Travers’s office nodded. As always, Perlman’s political instincts were right on target. The next presidential election might be more than three years away, but three years was the blink of an eye when you were contemplating setting up a national campaign organization. And even though the senator hadn’t yet made up his mind to push for the nomination, he always believed in keeping his options open.

“True. ” Travers’s eyes flickered toward a calendar. Twenty-nine months to the first primaries.

“But I’m still hanging out there without anything new to say.”

He looked back toward one of his legislative aides.

“Got any more ideas,

Ken?”

Ken Blackman was the senior of Travers’s two Foreign Relations Committee staffers. A liberal firebrand since his student days at Brown University, he helped draft the legislation that kept the senator’s name in good standing with the right D.C.based lobbying groups. He was ambitious, and nobody could doubt that he had hitched his wagon firmly to Travers’s rising star.

Short and thin, he paced in the small space available, almost turning in place with every third step.

“I think we should stick with a serious call for deeper, more meaningful sanctions. Not just petty stuff like

Krugerrands, but everything that makes South Africa’s economy tick over.

We could back that up with strong pressure on other countries to cut their own trade with Pretoria even further.”

David Lewin, Travers’s other aide and Blackman’s biggest in-house critic, shook his head.

“Wouldn’t do any good. There isn’t that much left to cut.

Our trade with South Africa is already so low that they won’t miss the rest.” He held a list of Commerce Department import-export figures out in front of him like a shield.

“It would still be symbolic. It would show them we don’t like what they’re doing,” Blackman argued. His nervous pacing accelerated.

Travers wagged a finger at him.

“C’mon, Ken. You know what an Afrikaner thinks of outside opinion. Calling a Boer pigheaded is a compliment over there.”

Lewin nodded.

“Besides, nobody can agree on whether the sanctions we already have in place have any effect positive negative, or none at all.

I’ve seen persuasive arguments for all three cases. And the South Africans aren’t talking. “

“They were quick enough to ask us to lift them after they let Mandela out of prison!” Blackman’s face was red. Sanctions were the anti apartheid equivalent of the Ten Commandments. Questioning their effectiveness was like asking the pope if he really believed in God.

“Yeah. But they still didn’t make any new reforms when we refused.” Lewin moderated his tone, becoming more conciliatory. The senator was pretty clearly coming down on his side of this argument, so it didn’t make a lot of sense to piss Blackman off any further. After all, they still had to share an office with each other.

“There are too many stronger political forces, local forces, in South Africa for simple economic sanctions to have much effect.”

He shrugged.

“And even if the old Pretoria government could have been influenced by sanctions, how about a hard liner like Vorster? Hell, all we’d probably be doing is giving him new ammunition on the domestic front. Some real ‘circle the wagons, boys, the Uitlanders are coming’ stuff. The diehard Afrikaners lap that up like candy.”

Despite seeing Travers nodding, Blackman tried again.

“Look, I’m not saying a tougher sanctions bill will bring a guy like Vorster to his knees, begging for our forgiveness. But it’s a step our friends on this issue will expect us to take. And if Trans Africa and the rest see us backing off something this bread-and-butter, they’re going to start yelling that we’ve sold out to the ‘do nothing’ crowd over at the White House. “

A sudden silence showed that he’d hit the mark with that. Political pressure groups had an avid addiction to name-calling They also had notoriously short memories and a tendency to see betrayal in any act of moderation. And with a possible run for the presidency coming up, Travers couldn’t afford to get caught in a mudslinging match with his own allies.

Perlman caught the senator’s eye and motioned gently toward the corner where

Blackman waited, dancing back and forth from foot to foot.

“Good call, Ken,” Travers agreed.

“We’ll work up some more stringent export-import restrictions. Just so long as we all realize they won’t go anywhere and wouldn’t do much good even if we could get ‘em past a presidential veto.”

Blackman nodded, satisfied to have won even a token victory. He started scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad. Lewin looked amused.

One of the lawyers piped up, “Can we put pressure on other countries to do more? How about on the British? They’re South Africa’s largest trading partner.”

Travers shook his head regretfully.

“Not a chance. The Brits have cut back some, but any more sanctions aimed at Pretoria are going to have to be their own idea. The EEC’s been all over them for years, and they’ve never been able to influence London. Besides, the UK’s backed us too many times in some real tight spots. You don’t twist your best friend’s arm. I’d get killed in the full committee if I tried to push a bill like that.”

Blackman looked up from his legal pad, his pen tapping rhythmically against his lower front teeth.

“How about direct financial support for the ANC or some of the other black opposition groups?”

The other lawyer, a recent Harvard graduate named Harrison Alvarez, laughed cynically.

“Jesus, the Republicans would love that.”

He mimicked the hushed, breathless tones so common in campaign hit pieces:

“Did you know that Senator Travers supports U.S. taxpayer funding for a terrorist movement with socialist aims?”

Alvarez gestured toward a stack of press clippings on Travers’s desk.

“I

mean, Ken, get real. The ANC just killed half the South African government, for Christ’s sake!”

“They deny responsibility,” Blackman retorted.

“You better believe it, after all the heat they’ve taken lately.” Travers shook his head slowly.

“Let’s face facts. The ANC is the prime suspect in the attack on Haymans’s train. Now, I wouldn’t put it past a thug like

Vorster to manufacture black guerrilla bodies on demand, but why should he need to?”

He shrugged his shoulders, as if admitting that his own question was unanswerable.

“Besides, even if the ANC’s not responsible for the train massacre, the Republicans would still beat us over the head with it. We have to hold the high ground on this issue-call for popular actions while the administration refuses to move. Feeding money to guys with AK-47s isn’t going to cut it.”

The others muttered their agreement.

Blackman started pacing again.

“Okay, if we can’t affect the South Africans themselves, how about doing something to ease their stranglehold on their next-door neighbors?”

“Like what?” Travers sounded tentative.

Blackman persisted.

“A large-scale aid program for all the countries bordering South Africa. Economic assistance, maybe even military help.”

Lewin stepped in, eager to score a few more points at his rival’s expense.

“We’d still be giving aid to Marxist governments. The Republicans-“in this day and age being a Marxist isn’t a crime. It’s just stupid,”

Perlman cut in. He looked thoughtful.

“It’s a good dynamic. All of those countries are dirt-poor. Even if their governments are corrupt or Marxist or both, we can still show real need.”

He grinned at Travers.

“Yeah, Steve, I can see your speeches now. The

Republicans, using ‘petty politics’ to decide whether or not kids get the food they need. We could do a lot with that. “

Blackman looked faintly disgusted. The senator’s friend and longtime advisor always saw everything through a tightly focused political lens.

Sometimes it seemed that simple right and wrong escaped his notice.

And Blackman was sure that expanded aid to the front line states was right. South Africa had kept its neighbors weak and poor for far too long-locked into total dependence on the white regime’s industries, transportation system, and power supply. U.S. assistance that reduced that state of helplessness would be the surest way to strike at the Vorster government.

Alvarez looked less certain.

“And how much of any money we send over there is really going to get past these corrupt governments?”

“Who cares?” Travers shrugged.

“Once we’ve passed the dollars on to them, it’s out of our hands. We can find some villages where they’re unloading bags of food, or building roads. We’ll make a trip there, take some dramatic pictures. Should be good for a few TV spots. ” He winked at

Perlman,

Blackman ignored the crasser political implications. They were a necessary part of working in Washington.

“I’d suggest going to

Mozambique. They’ve been trying to build that railroad through to

Zimbabwe for years, but South Africa’s pet guerrilla force, Renamo, keeps blowing it up. If we could help Mozambique finish that rail line

.. .

“

Travers rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Yeah. I like it.” He sat back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling.

“You know the more I think about this the more I like it. ” He rocked forward.

“Here’s what I see. We put together a good sized package of civilian and military aid for the front line states, focusing on areas hit by South African-backed insurgencies. Say a five or six hundred million dollars’ worth. Enough to really sting Pretoria. I think I can get something like that through the committee without too much trouble. “

Lewin frowned.

“The Appropriations Committee’s going to be the big stumbling block. Where do we get the money?”

Travers grinned.

“Simple. We reprogram the bucks out of the defense budget. Hell, the administration’s already done that for Nicaragua and

Panama. They’ve set the precedent. We’ll just follow their lead.”

There were broad smiles around the room. It was perfect. Nobody could accuse them of being fiscally irresponsible or boosting the budget deficit. And besides, the defense budget

was fair game these days. Everybody wanted a piece of that pie, and calls for still another slice wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows around

Washington.

Travers paused, considering.

“One thing more. What can South Africa do to retaliate, if we put a major aid program in place?”

“Against us? Nothing.” Blackman’s response was fast, almost automatic.

There was silence for a moment as the rest considered the possibilities.

“Ken’s right,” Perlman said.

“As few dealings as we have with South

Africa, they wouldn’t hurt us by cutting trade from their end.”

“What about strategic minerals?” Alvarez asked.

“The chromium, titanium, and the rest? They could chop sales of those. DoD and Commerce could come down hard about the national security risks from that.”

“And cut their own throats? Not a chance, Harry. They need that foreign credit for the stuff they do buy abroad, especially oil. That’s about the only resource South Africa’s not loaded with.” Travers sighed.

“The world’s treasure house, run by a bunch of political cavemen-“

Blackman broke in.

“The senator’s right. Vorster and his people can’t do squat about an aid bill. Oh, they’ll probably step up their covert activities in the region. More raids, more propaganda-all of which will cost them money and more goodwill. If they keep at it, and if the front line states ever get their act together, South Africa’s gonna be bordered by some powerful enemies.”

Travers decided they had a consensus.

“All right, let’s do it. I want you two to start drafting the specifics.” He pointed to Blackman and Lewin and then glanced at his watch.

“I need an outline in an hour. in the meantime, I’m going to make some phone calls. George?” He looked over at his advisor.

“I like it. Whether this bill passes or not, it’s a political win for us.

I’ll do some calling as well. I’ll take care of the media and the national committee. I think most of the party will like the idea. We’ll give it a big push.” Perlman chuck led.

“Another test of strength with the ‘no-vision’ administration. “

They all smiled.

AUGUST 6-NATIONAL SECURITY COUNCIL MEETING, THE WHITE HOUSE

When the Vice President entered the room, all conversation ceased, both by custom and by design. NSC meetings were supposed to start on time and their participants didn’t like wasting precious minutes exchanging meaningless pleasantries. Those were reserved for Washington’s favorite indoor sport-the high-powered, late-evening cocktail party. Working hours were for work.

Vice President James Malcolm Forrester shared that same driving dedication to the job. He strode briskly to the chair at the head of the table and sat down. Civil nods greeted him.

After a somewhat rocky start, Forrester had come to be regarded by his administration colleagues as a solid team player and a firstrate organizer. He paid a lot of attention to his duties as the NSC’s chairman, which was appropriate, since it was his most important role.

Attending foreign funerals and delivering speeches to an often endless round of political fund-raisers couldn’t compare with helping to decide serious questions of national security.

The NSC reported directly to the President, recommending courses of action to him on any matters relating to war and peace. Its permanent members included the secretaries of state and defense, the national security advisor, and the director of the CIA. Other agency and department heads were asked to sit in or provide information as needed.

In a very real sense, the NSC represented a focal point for every major intelligence, military, and diplomatic resource possessed by the United

States. In a crisis, its frantic, fast-paced deliberations could result in the dispatch of urgent communi quis spy planes, carrier battle groups, or even divisions of ground troops to any point on the globe.

But no imminent doom appeared to menace the United States or its allies, so the atmosphere was relaxed. This meeting was routine.

So routine in fact that several of the NSC’s permanent members hadn’t bothered to attend. Instead, they’d sent a mixed bag of deputies to fill the seats around the meeting room’s large central table. Each was accompanied by an assistant ready to handle all the necessary briefing and background materials, and several stenographers waited to record every remark.

Typed agendas rested in front of each person, and clear crystal pitchers of iced coffee and lemonade occupied the middle of the table. They would be empty by the time the meeting adjourned. Even this far below ground, the White House air-conditioning system couldn’t completely cool

Washington’s sweltering late-summer air.

The subbasement meeting room had an oddly colonial appearance, with wooden wainscoting and elaborate molding on its low ceiling. The multimedia projection screen hung on one wall would have jarred an architect’s sensibilities, but this was a working space-not a tourist showcase. There would never be any photo opportunities here. The only decorations on its walls were maps of the world, the USA, and the Soviet

Union.

The Vice President flipped to the first page of his agenda and watched as the others followed suit.

Forrester was not a tall man, something that was rarely noticed because he always seemed to be in motion. Trotting down airplane ramps in foreign countries. Striding into flag draped banquet halls. Or racing through a rapid-fire round of golf at the Congressional country club. He often joked that he was actually six foot eight, but had put the extra inches in escrow to avoid appearing taller than the President. It was a joke that reflected the all too bitter truth that the vice presidency was an office with too much ceremony and too little responsibility, but right now he had real work to do.

He tapped the table gently, calling the meeting to order.

“All right.

Let’s get down to it.”

He tossed the printed agenda back onto the table.

“Un-3

fortunately, the first item before us didn’t come up in time to make it onto the documents sent to you for review last night. South Africa popped up at my breakfast with the President this morning. He’s asked us to discuss a response to Pretoria’s latest actions-including this new troop call-up the wire services are reporting.”

Some of the men sitting around the table looked momentarily blank. South

Africa was a long way outside the boundaries of their ordinary day-to-day concerns. For most of their professional lives, the continuing

U.S.-Soviet military and political tug-of-war had been the central reality. Some of them still found it difficult to adjust to a world where conflicts didn’t necessarily slide neatly into the usual East versus West pigeonhole.

Besides, data on Africa’s internal affairs rarely made it through the screening process managed by each cabinet department’s and intelligence agency’s junior staffers. All too often it wound up occupying waste space on rarely punched up computer disks or gathering dust in rusting file drawers.

Forrester hid a wry grin. For once, he had an advantage over most of the experts around this table. As a senator, he’d served on the Foreign

Relations Committee and had spent a lot of time fencing with anti apartheid zealots on the Senate floor.

He looked toward the end of the table, toward a dapper, bookish-looking little man whose narrow face bore a somewhat incongruous full beard and neatly trimmed mustache.

“Look, Ed, why don’t you give us a quick rundown on our recent ‘relations’ with South Africa’s new government.” He didn’t bother to hide the irony in his voice.

“Certainly, Mr. Vice President.” Edward Hurley, the assistant secretary of state for African affairs, nodded politely. His presence at the meeting was the result of a hurried, early morning call by Forrester to the State Department.

Hurley studied the faces around the table.

“Essentially, our relations with the new government headed by President Vorster can best be summed up as ‘cold and barely correct. “

He paused, took off his tortoiseshell glasses, and started cleaning the lenses with a rumpled handkerchief.

“We had

another indication of just what that means last week when our ambassador,

Bill Kirk, visited Vorster for the first time since the Blue Train massacre.

Bill had instructions from the secretary to find out just how far Pretoria plans to go in reintroducing strict apartheid.”

Hurley smiled thinly and put his glasses back on.

“Unfortunately,

Ambassador Kirk never had the chance to ask. Instead, he was forced to sit through a half-hour-long lecture by Vorster on our foreign policy failures in the region. Shortly after that, Pretoria notified us that they were unilaterally reducing the number of our embassy staff personnel. And

Vorster’s flatly refused all further attempts to meet with him. We’ve been shunted down to below the ministerial level. “

Muttered disbelief rolled around the table. What the hell was South

Africa’s new leader playing at? Political disagreements between Washington and Pretoria were common enough, but why the flagrant and apparently calculated discourtesy?

The Vice President watched his colleagues closely, wondering how they’d react to the full version of Vorster’s snub. Just reading Kirk’s telexed summary of the meeting had raised his own blood pressure.

Apparently Kirk hadn’t even been given the opportunity to say hello.

Instead, Vorster had launched straight into a scathing diatribe full of contempt for what the South African called “America’s shameful and treacherous conduct.”

“The man had gone on to accuse the U.S. of meddling in

Pretoria’s internal affairs-of inciting “innocent blacks” to violence and disorder. Forrester assumed that was a reference to several recent State

Department statements deploring the white regime’s police crackdown on the black townships. Hardly justification for what amounted to a full-fledged kick in the teeth.

He eyed the ponderous, whitehaired man sitting to his immediate right.

Forrester had long suspected that Christopher Nicholson, former federal judge and current director of the CIA, spent almost as much time developing sources inside the White House as he did administering the Agency’s far flung overseas intelligence-gathering. His presence at what had been expected to be a routine NSC meeting confirmed that suspicion.

The Vice President decided to see just how thoroughly Nicholson had prepared.

“Got any bio on this clown Vorster, Chris?”

Forrester was a firm believer in knowing as much as possible about the world leaders he might have to deal with. Despite the reams of bloodless statistical analysis by legions of social scientists, economists, and other “experts,” world politics still all too often seemed to boil down to a question of personalities.

To his credit, the CIA chief avoided looking smug.

“Fortunately I do, Mr.

Vice President. We’ve also run through the archives and come up with some photos of the gentleman in question.”

Nicholson’s aide flipped through a thick sheaf of papers and handed several heavily underlined sheets to his boss. The CIA director took them and nodded politely toward a junior staffer standing near the door.

“Anytime,

Charlie.”

The lights dimmed slowly and a slide projector whirred throwing a grainy, black-and-white photo onto the wall screen. The photo showed a much thinner, much younger Karl Vorster.

“Karl Adriaan Vorster. Born 1928 in the northern Transvaal. Law degree from

Witwatersrand University in 1950. Sociology degree from Stellenbosch

University in 1956. Became a member of the Broederbond sometime in the early fifties, probably in 1953…”

Forrester nodded to himself as Nicholson droned on, running through

Vorster’s steady, if unspectacular, rise to power within the ruling

National Party. As a young lawyer, the South African must have been in on the very beginnings of Pretoria’s efforts to codify racial segregation and white domination its policies of strict apartheid. His membership in the

Broederbond, South Africa’s secretive ruling elite, made that a certainty.

The slide projector clicked to another photo, this one showing Vorster climbing out of the back of an official car.

“Right

after he got his doctorate, he joined the government. Since then, he’s held a succession of increasingly senior posts in both the Bureau of State

Security and Ministry of Law and Order. “

Nicholson turned to face the Vice President.

“Essentially, sir, this man

Vorster has been working to keep the black population in its place for over forty years.”

Another photo. This time showing an older, more jowly Vorster standing beside a gaunt, balding man in a plain black cassock.

“He’s also very religious, belongs to the Dutch Reformed Church, which is the mainstream religious denomination in South Africa. Sprinkles biblical references throughout virtually every speech or even conversation. Naturally, he’s an active member of a group opposing racial reform within the church.”

Naturally. Forrester frowned.

“What about the past few years? What’s he been up to?”

The CIA chief flipped to the back page of his notes, then raised his eyebrows.

“He’s been very active lately. He’s made a lot of statements and given a lot of speeches against reforming the apartheid system. While the rest of the National Party has slowly changed, he hasn’t budged an inch.”

Nicholson’s pudgy forefinger settled on a paragraph near the bottom of the page, and his lips pursed into a soundless whistle.

“In fact, back in 1986, when they abolished the law against interracial marriages, he said, quote, The mixing of the white and lower races can only result in a reversal of the evolutionary process. Unquote. “

Nervous laughter rose from the rest of the group. The idea that anyone in this day and age, especially a head of state, could actually hold such a grotesque belief seemed impossible to accept. Nicholson’s black assistant grimaced.

Forrester shook his head. “if he’s been so out of step with his own party, how’s he managed to stay in government so long? And why would he want to?”

Hurley answered him.

“The Haymans government probably kept him on as a sop to their own conservative wing. They’d been taking a lot of flak from the Herstige National Party and the rest of the right-wing splinter groups. I’d guess the thought was that Vorster’s continued presence in the cabinet might help dissuade more conservatives from jumping ship to the opposition. “

Forrester nodded. He wasn’t a stranger to that kind of reasoning.

“As for why he stayed on?” Hurley shrugged.

“Probably figured he could get farther in the National Party, even if he agreed more with the radical right.”

“Exactly,” Nicholson agreed. The CIA director tapped another page of notes.

“But sources say he’s also met with leaders of the AWB-the neo-Nazi Afrikaner Resistance Movement-and the Oranjewerkers, a far-right group that wants the Orange Free State and the Transvaal to secede from the RSA so they can form their own ‘pure’ white societies. Rumor has it that Vorster’s even a covert member of some of these groups. “

“Probably more than that.” Hurley was cleaning his glasses again. -AWB flags and pins are showing up all throughout the South African government. “

“Swell. Just swell.” Forrester nodded to the staffer near the lights.

They came back on, revealing a tableful of worried looking men and women.

“So we’ve got an incipient Nazi in power over there. And if that quote is typical, one who appears to be only loosely connected to reality. And now he’s decided to pick some kind of diplomatic fight with us. Over what we don’t know.”

Hurley resettled his glasses on his nose.

“Getting into a verbal shoving match with us isn’t as crazy as it sounds. It’ll play well with his hard-core supporters. Gives him another scapegoat to blame for any foreign policy or economic problems.

“

Nicholson nodded.

“It’s standard Afrikaner practice. Blame the communists. Blame the blacks. Blame backstabbing by Washington or London.

Blame anybody but themselves. “

“So how do we respond?” Forrester’s question was partly rhetorical. He already knew all the standard answers. They could recommend recalling the

U.S. ambassador for consultations or suggest reducing Pretoria’s

diplomatic staff in a tit-for-tat exchange. But that wasn’t enough. The man in the Oval Office would want more.

Forrester rubbed his chin.

“Do we have any official visits scheduled in the next few months?” Canceling an already stated trip was one way to slap another government in the face for perceived wrongs. It wasn’t the most direct way to retaliate, but at least it usually didn’t add to the budget deficit or cost additional taxpayer dollars.

One of Hurley’s aides shook his head after consulting a briefing book.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Vice President. No official contacts. Several requests for low-level visits. We’ve been denying those as per standard policy.”

Hurley leaned forward.

“What about supporting deeper sanctions? Congress is starting to make noises in that direction. “

Forrester held up a hand.

“That’s a ‘no go’ from word one, Ed. The

President’s firm on that. Further economic sanctions wouldn’t work. They’d only hurt some of the people we’re trying to help. He’s convinced we should put our efforts elsewhere. There’s got to be some other leverage we can use against South Africa. “

Hurley looked doubtful.

“I can’t see anything, at least not right off the bat. We don’t have any close allies in the region-no strong ties to any other country, in fact. Certainly nobody the Afrikaners would listen to.

There aren’t any large communities of U.S. citizens down there, and our corporations have slowly been divesting themselves-more from their own concern over Pretoria’s instability than from any political pressure here at home.”

The little man shrugged.

“So on a day-to-day basis, the South Africans have little to do with us, and we have little to do with them. I just don’t see what the new pressure points are. I I

An assistant secretary from the Commerce Department spoke up. Forrester couldn’t even remember the man’s name.

“What about this idea that Senator

Travers pushed last night on TV? What about funneling additional aid to the front line states?”

“Pure grandstanding!” Nicholson snorted. The CIA director and Travers had locked horns on foreign policy more than once in the past.

“I’ve seen the dossiers of most of the leaders of those countries. My God, I doubt if more than one cent on the dollar would ever make it past their Swiss bank accounts. “

Forrester held his tongue. He shared Nicholson’s assessment of the practical value of Travers’s proposed foreign aid package. But he’d learned long ago not to underestimate the Nevada senator’s ability to read the domestic political scene. And he knew the President had learned the same lesson. Travers’s proposal was being given serious consideration by the nation’s chief executive. It was grotesque, but given the way

Washington sometimes worked, three or four hundred million wasted dollars might be viewed as a cheap price for blunting a political rival’s initiative.

The Vice President mentally shrugged. So be it. 1bat was a call the

President would have to make. He turned back to the debate still raging around the conference table.

Obviously impatient with all the hemming and hawing around the table, a lean-faced man wearing the stars and uniform of a U.S. Army lieutenant general sat forward.

“Yes, General?”

Gen. Roland Atkinson, the Joint Chiefs’ representative, pointed a long, bony finger straight at Hurley.

“Look, Ed, what’s your best guess about where that damned place is heading? I mean… hell, is this Vorster character going to be around long enough for us to really worry about?”

Forrester nodded to himself. The general had a good point.

Hurley looked somber.

“I’m afraid things are going to get a lot worse.

South Africa was just starting to build up some goodwill abroad as reforms were made. This reversal is going to cost them. Remember what happened when China changed horses?”

Heads nodded gingerly. Tiananmen Square was still a sore point for the administration.

“Unfortunately, we don’t know just what Vorster has planned. He’s

certainly surprised us with this complete revers al of previous government policy. ” Hurley shook his head.

“It’s hard to predict the effects when you don’t even know what the causes will be.”

Forrester tried to pin him down.

“C’mon, Ed. We’ve seen what Vorster is like. We’ve seen those police sweeps. And now they’re bringing the Army into it. I think his ultimate aims are pretty clear. He seems damned determined to bring back the ‘good old days’ of total apartheid. Assume that’s what he’s after… what happens then?”

Nicholson spoke up. The CIA director looked faintly ill.

“Massive instability, Mr. Vice President. Despite PretorWs ban and bloody crackdown, our intelligence sources confirm that the ANC and other opposition groups are rapidly growing in strength and organization. Their guerrilla organization is rebuilt and is now attracting a lot of new recruits. Vorster’s pushed a lot of more moderate blacks into the arms of anybody with guns and the guts to use them.”

He stopped talking and turned toward Hurley.

The assistant secretary of state was quiet for a moment longer, obviously evaluating his response.

“Director Nicholson is right. We can expect to see many more deaths, mostly black, as the violence mounts. ” He took a deep breath.

“Then, at some point, a general revolt. The black population decides they’ve got nothing to lose and just starts a civil war. Forget a ‘people power’ revolt like the Philippines. This would be very bloody.

And there’s no guarantee the blacks could win. The whites have tremendous advantages-both organizationally and militarily.”

Forrester nodded somberly. He’d seen the reports on South Africa’s

Defense Force. At full mobilization, it could put three hundred thousand men in the field-well-trained troops equipped with thousands of armored cars, highly sophisticated field artillery, close-support aircraft, and grim determination.

Hurley sighed.

“This wouldn’t be an organized revolution like Romania, with a single, powerful resistance group. The ANC, the Zulu Inkatha party, and the Pan-Africanist Congress would all be fighting each other as well as the whites.

We’d probably end up with something like Beirut, but spread all over the southern tip of Africa-not just confined to a single city. “

The Commerce Department representative looked appalled.

“Jesus, if that happens, gold prices would go through the roof. That would crucify the value of the dollar. ” He stared down at the table.

“Our balance of payments is bad enough now. It could get really bad.”

The others around the table knew exactly what he meant. Higher unemployment, higher inflation, higher interest rates, and the very real risk of a global trade war that could spark a new Great Depression.

Forrester glanced at Nicholson.

“What about strategic minerals?”

The CIA director arched an eyebrow.

“Spot shortages, of course. Maybe something worse, depending on how the other suppliers like the Soviet Union react.”

Forrester asked Hurley, “One final question. How long before the lid comes off?”

Ed Hurley looked worried, a little like a caged animal.

“There are so many unknowns, sir. I wouldn’t even begin

The Vicc President spoke reassuringly.

“C’mon, Ed, nobody’s going to write it down. Can you at least put limits on it?”

“It might be years, sir. The black population of South Africa existed for years under apartheid without revolting. They will need some intolerable situation to push them over the edge. With a loose cannon like Vorster, that might happen tomorrow. Other than those general thoughts, I really can’t say. 11

Forrester shook his head wearily and looked around the table.

“All right.

We’re all agreed that open civil war in South Africa would be a disaster for the United States and for all our major allies. It would drive up prices of strategic minerals and other critical items. The cost of everything using them would go up-and that’s about everything that’s made in this country. Aside from those costs, the price of gold

rising sharply could trigger panics and buying sprees. A civil war in

South Africa could bring on a massive depression here in the U.S.” maybe worldwide.

“It’s a long-term threat, but with Vorster in charge, it’s a very probable outcome. Now the question is, just what do we recommend to the

President?”

“Increase our stockpiles of strategic minerals.” General Atkinson seemed certain.

“Hell, we can’t do much to influence what goes on inside that crazy country. I’d say we’d better start preparing for the worst.”

Forrester nodded his agreement.

“We’ll need a list of those minerals unique to South Africa.”

Hurley shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Vice President, but we’ll need to put any major commodity South Africa produces on that list. If things fall apart over there, prices on all of them will skyrocket.”

That made sense. Anything that closed down South Africa’s mines would send panic buyers around the world scurrying for whatever resources were left.

Forrester scribbled a quick note to himself and then glanced down the table at General Atkinson.

“All right, General. If the balloon does go up in Pretoria, do we have any military plans for that area? What if the

President volunteers to move UN peacekeeping forces into the region? Can we lift them?”

Atkinson seemed at a loss.

“Sir, I don’t think we have any plans for operations down there. It’s a long way from home. “

“It’s a long way from anywhere,” Forrester agreed.

“But let’s start looking at the possibilities. How many troops could we pick up from some third country and move to South Africa without affecting our other strategic commitments? What if we have to evacuate our embassy or all the foreign nationals down there? How about sending a hospital ship with a naval escort?”

He saw the surprised looks on several of the faces around the table.

“Look, gentlemen. This is all extremely speculative. But I am suggesting that we start exploring our options-all our options.”

He scowled.

“I, for one, am sick and tired of being blind-3

sided by world events. So if things go from bad to worse in Pretoria, I want the data we’d need to make smart decisions on hand. Not sitting in some goddamned filing cabinet, five years out of date. Clear?”

Heads nodded meekly. Good. Maybe it paid to throw a mini-temper tantrum every once in a while.

Forrester turned to General Atkinson.

“Okay, Roland. Have your planners put something together and keep it in your back pocket. If things turn ugly, we need to be seen making some positive moves down there.”

Atkinson made a note to himself.

“One thing more, ladies and gentlemen. ” Forrester looked sternly at the other men and women seated around the table.

“The fact that I’ve asked the general to draw up plans for hypothetical contingencies-he stressed the word—hypothetical contingencies in South Africa is something that doesn’t leave this room. No press leaks. No heads-up warnings for your favorite congressmen or senators. Nothing. We don’t need a public firestorm over what may turn out to be nothing more than a nasty internal dispute. “

Both Nicholson and Hurley looked relieved.

The CIA director leaned forward.

“Yes, Chris?”

“Just one thing more, Mr. Vice President. I’ve got MY people working on a continuing assessment of Vorster’s government: biographies, possible courses of actions, and so on. Something to give our analysts more hard data to sink their teeth into. ” Nicholson frowned.

“But with half the old leadership wiped out, and with things changing so fast, it’s taking longer to produce the material than I’d like. I’d appreciate any help the other agencies and departments could give my people. I I

Forrester looked meaningfully at Hurley.

“I’m sure that any of the other intelligence agencies with South Africa files will be more than happy to cooperate. Right, Ed?”

Hurley nodded ruefully, acknowledging the Vice President’s unspoken criticism. From time to time, the State Department’s Bureau of

Intelligence and Research exhibited an unfortunate tendency to regard the

CIA and the other intelligence agencies as overpaid and not overly bright errand boys. As a result, real interdepartmental cooperation often seemed more difficult to obtain than a ratifiable U.S.-Soviet strategic arms control treaty.

Satisfied that his message had gotten across and conscious of his next scheduled meeting, Forrester tapped the table.

“All right, let’s sum things up. As I see it, we recommend going tit for tat on the diplomatic front as a first step. Any objections to that?”

He looked slowly around the table. One by one, those present shook their heads. Staff reductions and strong notes were the small change in any diplomatic confrontation.

“Okay. I’ll pass that on to the President this afternoon.” Forrester shuffled his notepaper into a neat pile.

“In the meantime, we’ll put our staffs to work on more substantive responses. Up to and including expanded strategic minerals stockpiling and some low-key contingency plans for moving a UN peacekeeping force into the region should all hell break loose.

And we’ll recommend a heightened intelligence-gathering effort for the area. More satellite passes and more SIGINT work. That sort of stuff. Maybe we can get a better read on just what this Vorster character has in mind.

Comments?”

More silence from around the table. Forrester’s summary of their recommendations was on target. I-eft unspoken was the feeling that they’d once again labored mightily to produce more of what Washington was famous for: empty hot air.

As the NSC meeting broke up, Hurley leaned close to Forrester.

“Patience isn’t Vorster’s strong suit, Mr. Vice President. I don’t think we’ll have to wait long to see what he’s up to.”

AUGUST I O-JAN SMUTS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT,

JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA

The Jan Smuts International terminal building looked much like any other terminal in any other major airport anywhere in the world. Indecipherable boarding announcements and courtesy phone pages crackled over the public address system.

Cafeterias, bars, and small newspaper and book kiosks did a booming business as hungry, nervous, or bored travelers tried to pass the time before their flights. And television monitors showing arrivals and departures glowed from gleaming overhead metal stands.

But there were differences. Ominous differences. Most of those now waiting for incoming flights were men. Young men in their twenties and early thirties. Young men in military uniform-Citizen Force reservists summoned from their schools and jobs by Pretoria’s recent Emergency

Decree. Some looked as though their uniforms had shrunk or their stomachs had grown, but most were lean and fit-kept in shape by up to one full month of required military service in each calendar year.

Two American journalists in civilian clothes looked very much out of place in the sea of khaki-colored uniforms.

Ian Sheffield took his traveling case and identity papers from an unsmiling internal-security trooper and turned to help Sam Knowles. The little cameraman looked even more like a pack animal than usual. Pieces of video gear and sound equipment were slung across his sturdy back and shoulders and piled high on a squeaking, dented luggage cart.

“Behold the miracle of modern miniaturization. ” Knowles sounded disgusted.

“Now instead of just being buried under the weight of a single camera, I can rupture myself carrying the camera plus the rest of this shit.

“

They started down the teratinal, half-pushing and half dragging the overloaded luggage cart.

“Just whose bright idea was this move anyway?” Knowles huffed as he awkwardly maneuvered around a clump of curious South African soldiers.

Ian grinned but didn’t answer. The cameraman knew full well that he’d been badgering the New York brass for this change of location for nearly a month. With Parliament out of session and Vorster running the government practically single-handed, Cape Town was nothing but a pleasant backwater. Johannesburg, less than thirty miles from Pretoria, made a much more sensible base of operations. And since the network already leased a studio and satellite relay station

in the city, New York’s bean-counting accountants hadn’t been able to complain about added costs. At least not much.

Besides, being in Johannesburg put him that much closer to Emily.

They emerged into weak, lateafternoon sunlight and the loud, echoing roar of traffic. Chartered buses and trucks carrying more uniformed reservists jammed nearly every foot of curb space outside the terminal building. A sharp, unpleasant tang of mingled auto exhaust and unburnt jet fuel permeated the air. Ian fought the urge to cough, suddenly remembering that, at five thousand feet above sea level, Johannesburg sometimes had nearly as many air pollution problems as Denver did, back in the States.

Knowles nudged him with one camera-laden shoulder, indicating a young, stick-thin blackman dressed in a drab black suit, white shirt, and narrow black tie. He held aloft a handlettered sign with their names. Or at least a close approximation of their names. Sheffield’s was misspelled.

“We’re Sheffield and Knowles. What’s up?” Ian had to yell to be heard over the sound of traffic.

The young black man gestured nervously over his shoulder toward a parked

Ford Escort.

“I am Matthew Sibena, meneer. I am to be your driver while you are here in Johannesburg. Meneer Thompson sent me to pick you up.”

Ian nodded his understanding, surprised that Larry Thompson, the network’s penny-pinching Jo’burg station chief, had gone to all this trouble.

“Well, that’s nice of him. But I’m sure that we’ll be able to manage things ourselves. How about just dropping us off at the nearest car-hire firm on your way into the city?”

Sibena looked even more worried.

“Oh, no, meneer. That is impossible. It is a new security regulation, you see. All foreign newsmen must now have a

South African driver. That is why Meneer Thompson has hired me.”

Ian swore under his breath. Vorster’s government seemed to be doing everything it could to make the job of reporting events in South Africa even more difficult and more expensive. So now he and Knowles would have to work with this kid tagging along behind them. Ter-bloody-rific.

Then he shrugged and moved toward the parked car. They’d just have to see how things worked out.

“Okay, you’re our official driver. So let’s drive.”

The young black man looked greatly relieved.

Ian stopped in midstride and turned toward him.

“One thing, Matt. Call me Ian. And that pack mule over there is Sam Knowles. Save the meneer crap for Afrikaners.”

Sibena looked shocked at the idea of calling a white man by his first name. Then he nodded hastily, smiled shyly, and hurried forward to help

Knowles pile his gear into the Escort’s small: trunk and its scarcely larger backseat.

While he worked, trying to squeeze bulky equipment packs into every available nook and cranny, Ian and Knowles exchanged a lingering, speculative glance. Matthew Sibena undoubtedly worked for the network.

The only question was, just how many other employers did he have?

AUGUST 13-ALONG THE NI MOTOR ROUTE, SOUTH OF JOHANNESBURG

Truck after truck roared past down the broad, multi lane highway, mammoth diesel engines growling loud in the still night air. Some carried troops wedged tightly onto uncomfortable wood-plank benches. Others were piled high with crates of food, water, and ammunition. A few trucks towed 155mm and 25-pound howitzers wrapped in concealing canvas. Fullbellied petrol tankers brought up the rear, gears grinding as their drivers tried to keep up.

The convoy, one of many on the road that night, stretched for more than six kilometers, moving steadily south at forty kilometers an hour-heading toward the road junction where it would turn northwest off the main highway. Northwest toward Namibia.

Northwest toward war.