Vortex

CHAPTER 19 Tailspin

OCTOBER 31-- CNN HEADLINE NEWS

Four days after it first aired, the furor generated by Ian Sheffield’s story showed no sign of fading away. Events in south em Africa continued to dominate newspaper front pages and TV nightly newscasts. CNN’s half-hourly news recap was no exception.

As the computer-generated graphics signaling the start of the broadcast disappeared, the screen split, its upper right hand corner showing a stylized map of South Africa, while the rest showed CNN’s glittering, hightech

Atlanta studio and the familiar, grave face of its daytime anchor.

“In the news at the top of the hour, the German government has just announced that its ambassador to South Africa is being recalled ‘for consultation s’-bringing to eight the number of major powers that have withdrawn their senior diplomatic representatives from Pretoria. Several more European nations, including France and the Netherlands, have actually broken all ties with the Vorster government and are closing their embassies completely.

“Western governments may hope this latest round of diplomatic saber Tattling will encourage their citizens living and working inside South

Africa to leave before the situation grows any more violent. If that’s the case, it may already be too late.”

The map of South Africa expanded to fill the entire screen.

“Despite a total foreign-press blackout, there are persistent reports of rioting in

Cape Town, Port Elizabeth, Durban, and several other cities. An accurate casualty count seems impossible to obtain, but key members of the country’s fragmented political opposition claim that hundreds have been killed by police and security units in just the past three or four days.”

Red stars sprouted on the map, highlighting each mentioned location.

South Africa looked hemmed in, its entire coastline a sea of bright-red trouble spots surrounding a seemingly placid white interior.

The camera cut back to show the anchor’s somber face and a file photo of

Ian Sheffield.

“In related news, the story filed by American newsman Ian

Sheffield, now believed to be in hiding somewhere in South Africa, has been partially corroborated both by sources inside the ANC and inside the

South African security forces. CNN has also learned that U.S. government officials have been given copies of the documents -presumably so that they can be authenticated.

“In Pretoria, the Vorster government continues to refuse to comment on the claim that it allowed the ANC’s attack on the Blue Train to go forward without interference. And though black opposition groups have long campaigned against Vorster, sketchy reports of growing dissatisfaction seem to indicate that white opinion inside South Africa is finally turning against the regime-including many of the far-right groups ordinarily thought to be a source of political strength for the current government.

A picture of a scowling Karl Vorster took shape over the anchor’s left shoulder.

“President Vorster is scheduled to address his nation at eleven

A.m. Eastern time tomorrow. CNN will, of course, carry that speech live,”

Vorster’s picture vanished, replaced by a drawing of a gold bar surmounted by an arrow rising at a steep angle.

“South

Africa’s worsening political, military, and economic crisis continues to send shivers through the world financial community. Gold closed today on the

New York exchange at near six hundred dollars an ounce, and the price is expected to continue rising tomorrow. The gold price rise parallels similar price increases affecting all other strategic minerals exported by South

Africa. We’ll have more details on what that could mean for the average consumer in Dollars and Sense, later in this half hour.

“In domestic news, police in San Francisco refused to speculate on whether a bomb found near the Federal Building there this morning had any connection with a recent series of attacks blamed on radical environmental groups .. ….

NOVEMBER I -JOHANNESBURG

Ian, Emily, and Matthew Sibena sat uncomfortably close together on a small sofa facing a black-and-white television set. Even with all the drapes drawn, the lateafternoon sun turned the tiny, one-bedroom apartment into a sweltering hotbox.

Ian wiped the sweat off his forehead and resisted the temptation to complain about the heat and the lack of working air-conditioning. He suspected that the same adage that applied to gift-horse dentures applied to borrowed apartments-especially for those on the run from the police.

They’d been lucky enough that Emily’s reporter friend and reluctant Army reservist, Brian Pakenham, had agreed to lend her a key to his flat without asking too many inconvenient questions.

Lucky indeed. Ian didn’t doubt that police guard posts now ringed his apartment, the network studios, and probably the American embassy in

Pretoria. And he was quite sure that his picture had been distributed to every roadblock and checkpoint on the roads leading out of Johannesburg. No

South African police commander was going to let the foreigner who’d so insulted his president escape his dragnet.

But after being cooped up for nearly ninety-six hours straight, Ian was almost ready to take his chances out on

Johannesburg’s crowded streets and empty highways. Almost anything seemed better than staying here in sticky, fearful ignorance. He shook his head wryly at the suicidal thought and tried to concentrate instead on the halting English translation of Karl Vorster’s harsh, grating Afrikaans phrases. Maybe he could piece together some idea of what was going on in the world outside South Africa.

“.. . I know that my words will reach not only my fellow South Africans, but many others throughout the world as well. I welcome this opportunity to speak to those outsiders, those foreigners, who have had so much to do with the crisis we face. “

The camera pulled back from its close-up of Vorster’s strong, square-jawed face-backing away until it showed him standing proudly in front of a huge blue-, white-, and orange striped South African flag.

“Many of these small-minded outsiders have opposed our struggle to build a South Africa on our own terms. They have opposed our fight against the

Marxists and terrorists bent on pulling us down into shame and degradation. They do not understand the conditions we face here in South

Africa. Most have never even visited our land-our beautiful fatherland!

They ignore the chaos and corruption afflicting socalled Black Africa!

Instead they yammer and whine at us. At us! They preach at the people of the Covenant! At men and women who have fought and bled and died to hold this land for God and for civilization!” The camera zoomed in again, focusing on Vorster’s red, angry face and pounding fist.

Ian shivered. My God, the man was hypnotic! Even though he didn’t understand the language, he could feel the raw power of Vorster’s voice and rhetoric. He glanced at Emily sitting pale and tense by his side. Did she feel it, too? His eyes slid down to where her hands were clenched so tightly that all the blood seemed to have drained out of them. Yes, she fell it—the appeal to a common heritage of sacrifice and of suffering.

The instinctive response to form a laager-to circle the wagons-in the face of overwhelming and alien forces.

He looked back toward the television. Vorster was still

speaking. He spoke more softly now, picking and choosing his words in a calm, dispassionate tone that seemed strangely at odds with his violent and bloody message.

“Well, we have words of our own for them-for these small-minded foreigners.

No fight is ever desirable. And no fight is ever pretty. But this struggle of ours is necessary. We are fighting for the very survival of our society, of our people. And we will not submit. We will not give up. We will not surrender our sovereign power while a single enemy, a single communist, or a single rebellious black is alive to menace our wives and our children.”

Vorster paused and stared grimly straight into the camera for a moment.

“Many of you may have heard the foreign charges that my government came to power illegally.” He snorted contemptuously.

“Illegally! What does that mean? What could it possibly mean in the circumstances our beloved country faced when I took office?”

Ian sat up straight in shock, scarcely able to believe that he’d heard

Vorster right. But the other man’s next words hammered the point home.

“Very well. I admit that extraordinary measures were used to resolve a dangerous political situation. The previous administration had embarked on a course that could only bring about South Africa’s ruin.”

Vorster lifted his massive, calloused hand toward the ceiling-as though he were seeking heaven’s approval for his actions. My fellows and I acted as patriots to restore a stable, right-thinking government. Outside the normal constitution, yes. But within the bounds of national need.

“Our efforts are not ended, and will not be ended, until we can guarantee a safe and prosperous society for every right-thinking citizen of South

Africa. We will spare no effort to reach that goal.” Vorster glowered into the camera.

“And if you are not with us, you are against us.”

He lowered his voice.

“And finally, to the United States and the other know-nothings who try to tell us what to do and what to think, you can get out of our affairs and stay out-until you accept us on our own terms. If we uttered a mere tenth of the lies and falsehoods about your countries that you’ve uttered about ours, your diplomats would scream in protest. Well, we do not scream, we act. Your ambassadors can all stay home until you are willing to speak reasonably and let us run our own affairs our own way.”

Vorster’s smile grew smug, unpleasantly near a sneer.

“Remember, you need us more than we need you. You need our gold, our diamonds, and all the precious metals that keep your industries alive. More than that, you need us to show you what no black has ever achieved-a stable and prosperous bulwark of civilization on the African continent.”

The camera zeroed in on his stern, implacable face and held the image for what seemed an eternity. Then the picture faded to black before cutting back to the South African Broadcasting Company’s main studio. Even the government’s handpicked anchormen looked shaken by what they’d just heard.

Ian reached out and snapped the set off. He needed peace and relative quiet to think this thing through. Vorster hadn’t even bothered to try denying his involvement in the Blue Train massacre. Instead, he’d practically thrown down a gauntlet-challenging anyone who dared to pick it up.

The question was, would anyone dare?

NOVEMBER 2-DURBAN, SOUTH AFRICA

From the air, Durban was now a city of strange contrasts natural beauty, bustling commerce, and bloody, merciless violence.

To the northeast, the sun sparkled off the bright blue waters of the Indian

Ocean stretching unimpeded toward the far horizon. To the northeast and southwest, long foam-flecked waves rolling in from the ocean broke on spires of jagged gray rock just offshore or raced hissing up wide sandy beaches. Closer to the city center, dozens of ships crowded Durban’s deepwater port, South Africa’s largest. Oil tankers, container ships, bulk ore carriers, and rusting tramp steamers-all waiting a turn alongside the harbor’s crane lined marine terminal.

The violence was all ashore. Durban’s skyscrapers and streets were shrouded by a thick pall of oily black smoke

hanging over the central city. Flames licked red around the edges of half-demolished buildings and roared high from the wrecked carcasses of bullet-riddled automobiles. Bodies littered the streets, singly in some places, heaped in grotesque piles in others. The flashes of repeated rifle and machinegun fire stabbed from windows and doorways where armed rioters still fought with the police and the Army.

“Again.” Brig. Franz Diederichs tapped his pilot on the shoulder and made a circling motion with one finger. The tiny Alouette III helicopter banked sharply and began another orbit over a city now transformed into a battleground.

Diederichs scowled at the smoke and flame below. He’d been taken by surprise and it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. His networks of informers and spies had warned of increasing unrest among the city’s predominantly Indian population but nothing had prepared him for the sudden onset of outright rebellion and armed resistance.

In the first half hour of the revolt, Durban’s palm tree lined City Hall, its massive, barricaded police headquarters, and the SADF’s fortified central armory had all been attacked by rifle-and pistol-armed groups of

Zulus and Indians. That strange alliance was troubling in and of itself. In ordinary times, Natal’s Zulu and Indian populations feared and hated each other almost more than they did the ruling white minority. Diederichs grinned sourly. If nothing else, at least his bungling political masters had managed to unite all the separate factions opposed to them!

The Alouette straightened out of its bank, bringing the burning city back into full view. The sight wiped Diederichs’s twisted grin off his narrow face. Most of the rebels had been driven off after a few minutes of fierce fighting, but not before both sides had suffered heavy losses. For several hours since, his men had struggled to regain control of a city seemingly gone mad.

Unarmed women and children had thrown themselves in front of armored riot cars and APCs-blocking main roads and alleys alike until blasted out of the way. As troops on foot tried to bypass those human roadblocks, snipers hidden in office buildings, churches, and storefronts picked them off one by one, imposing delay and triggering panicked bursts of indiscriminate automatic weapons fire that only consumed needed ammunition and killed more civilians.

Resistance was finally beginning to fade-broken by superior firepower, training, and Diederichs’s willingness to order the slaughter of all who got in his way. Still, even his most optimistic estimates showed that it would be several days before he had all of Durban’s districts and suburbs firmly in hand.

Diederichs was thrown against his seat belt as the Alouette, caught in a sudden updraft of superheated air, bucked skyward and then fell toward the water like a rock before the pilot regained control. He glared left through the canopy to where sheets of orange-red flame more than a hundred meters high marked the site of one of the day’s worst human and economic disasters-the destruction of the Shell Oil refinery’s main tank farm.

Early in the fighting, stray cannon shells and mortar rounds had slammed into several of the storage tanks-igniting a conflagration that had already consumed at least fifty lives and precious oil worth tens of millions of rands. Hours later, the fire still raged out of control, kept back from the refinery only by a series of massive earthen berms and the heroic efforts of virtually every surviving firefighter left in Durban.

Diederichs stared at the manmade inferno roiling below, all too conscious of how narrowly he had escaped total disaster. The Shell facility alone supplied nearly 40 percent of South Africa’s refined petroleum products-fuel oil, petrol, and diesel. The oil destroyed in storage could be replaced in days. But the refinery itself was essentially irreplaceable.

And no government-especially not one headed by Karl Vorster -would have looked with favor on anyone even remotely connected with its loss. This rebellion was bad enough.

He shifted his gaze toward the city center. His best troops were down there, fighting their way from house to house through the heart of Durban’s

Indian business district. He spotted more smoke rising from stores and shops either set aflame by the rebels or demolished by armored-car cannon fire.

One enormous pillar of smoke stained the sky above a shattered pile of white stone.

Diederichs’s lip curled in disgust. The Great Mosque of Grey Street was said to have been the largest Islamic religious site in southern Africa.

The Moslems among South Africa’s Indian minority had built it with their own money and hard labor over long years. Well, he and his troops had shown the koefietjies-the little coolies-how quickly and how easily Afrikaner explosive shells could knock it down. Hundreds of dead or dying men, women, and children lay sprawled among the mosque’s shell-torn arched passageways and collapsed sanctuary.

Brig. Franz Diederichs nodded to himself, pleased by the sight of the carnage. Durban’s mongrel population of blacks and coolies had surprised him once. They would not do so again. He’d see to it that they were too busy counting their dead to trouble South Africa’s peace for a generation or more.

Rifle and machinegun fire continued to rattle across Durban’s corpse-strewn streets all through the night.

NOVEMBER 4-NATIONAL SECURITY COUNCIL MEETING, WASHINGTON, D.C.

A cold, driving rain soaked the capital’s parks and public buildings, puddling on oil-slick streets and knocking dead and dying leaves off the trees onto the pavement. One by one, the city’s streetlamps flickered on-triggered by simpleminded sensors that believed the dull-gray half-light must signal the approach of night.

In the Situation Room, two stories below the White House grounds, a shift from pitchers of iced lemonade to hot coffee marked the only concession made to Washington’s worsening weather. There were differences, though. The

Situation Room might remain untouched by the passing seasons, but it did reflect the changing world scene. On one wall, a map of sub Saharan Africa had replaced that of the Soviet Union. And the faces of the men and women seated around the room’s single table were as gloomy as the weather above.

The sardonic amusement generated by listening to a replay of Vorster’s rabid speech had died quickly after the secretary of commerce’s terse reminder that South Africa’s president might well be as mad as a hatter, but his policies were still wreaking havoc on the economies of the world’s industrialized nations.

The shadows and new lines on Hamilton Reid’s handsome face showed his fatigue and concern.

“Strategic minerals prices are rising even faster than we expected.” He shook his head wearily.

“Frankly, I think it’s likely we’ll see the cost of chromium, platinum, and the others tripling by the end of the month “

Christ. Vice President James Malcolm Forrester forced himself to nod expressionlessly as others around the table showed their dismay. All of those minerals were essential to a wide range of industries, and the drastically higher prices being paid for them meant a surge in inflation and interest rates around the world. The fact that it had been predicted earlier was no comfort. It still spelled disaster for the nation’s economy.

Edward Hurley leaned back, the Situation Room’s overhead lighting momentarily reflected in the thick lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses.

“It’s only going to get worse, Mr. Vice President. We’ve all seen the latest intercepts and smuggled video footage. South Africa’s falling apart faster than anyone ever dreamed it possibly could.” He shrugged.

“Vorster seems to be on the verge of losing all control over the country’s major ports. The equation’s pretty simple-no ports means no exports. And no minerals exports coming out of South Africa means panic-buying around the world as companies and countries scramble to make up the difference elsewhere. “

Forrester nodded and looked toward the paunchy, whitehaired man sitting uneasily at the opposite end of the table.

“Can you cast any further light on all of this, Chris?”

Christopher Nicholson, director of the CIA, shook his head

reluctantly-chagrined at being caught out in front of his peers. His subordinates were already taking bets about which of their colleagues’ heads would roll because of the fiasco.

“I’m afraid all my data has been overtaken by events, Mr. Vice President. My people had been trying to confirm the Blue Train massacre story aired by this reporter, but Vorster told the whole world last week that he did it and he’s not sorry. “

The CIA director paused briefly and then passed two documents down the table to Forrester.

“Other than that, we have an updated list of arms shipments to both sides in the Namibian war, and a bio of Sheffield, the reporter who actually broke the story.” Nicholson’s embarrassed tone made it clear that he considered the information less than useful.

Forrester sat back, idly scanning the papers, then half-threw them down.

“Any further word on this Sheffield character?”

Nicholson shook his head again.

“I’m afraid not. We don’t think the South

Africans have him in custody, because they’re still maintaining a round-the-clock surveillance on our embassy in Pretoria, Based on that, we think he’s still hiding out somewhere in Johannesburg. “

“Any chance of helping him get out of the country?”

Nicholson opened his mouth, but Hurley beat him to the punch.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Mr. Vice President.” The short, bearded assistant secretary of state tapped his pen lightly against his glasses, thinking aloud.

“Vorster’s security boys have our intelligence assets inside South Africa pretty closely watched. If they spot us making a move toward Sheffield, they’d be bound to use that to bolster some kind of claim that he’s nothing more than an American spy “

“So you’re proposing that we just leave this guy dangling out there all alone?”

Hurley nodded somberly.

“I don’t see what else we can do, sir. We’re not likely to be able to help him, and even the attempt to find him could draw South African security forces to his real location.” He paused.

“Wherever that is.”

“Very well.” Forrester looked down at his hands, feeling suddenly tired and a lot older than his years. As usual, Hurley reasoning was impeccable, but that didn’t make the decision any more palatable.

Well, so be it. Even though the buck ultimately stopped with the

President, a lot of the spare change landed on his own desk. Making unpalatable decisions went with the territory. Forrester smiled inwardly, remembering his relatively carefree days in the U.S. Senate. Only congressmen had the luxury of speaking and acting out of both sides of their mouths at the same time.

In the meantime, the President expected concrete recommendations from this NSC session and he expected them soon. Forrester looked up, encompassing the entire group in one sweep of his eyes.

“Okay. Let’s move on to the broader problem: just what the hell are we going to do about this mess?”

He was answered by silence.

The Vice President frowned. Perhaps it was time for a small prod.

“Come on, folks. The American people aren’t paying us to sit around on our behinds.” He pointed toward the map.

“Now we know what’s happening in

South Africa is going to hurt us and hurt us badly. So what can we do about it? Ed?”

Hurley fiddled with his glasses, polished them quickly, and then slipped them back on his nose-plainly stalling for time. Finally, he shrugged.

“Our people at State could draft a statement for the President’s signature demanding that Vorster resign and schedule new elections under their constitution.”

Forrester hid his disappointment. He’d expected something more direct and forceful from Hurley. Still, the suggestion was worth considering as a first step.

“Vorster will simply ignore it,” Hamilton Reid interjected.

“Of course he will!” Hurley shot back.

“But we need to tell the world just where we stand before we go any further.”

That was true, Forrester thought. A clearly worded call for Vorster’s resignation would also help take some of the political heat off the administration. Even more importantly, it would commit the U.S.

government to finding some way to pressure Vorster out of power. He said as much to the group.

Reid persisted, “Maybe so, but how much can we really

do? Directly interfering in the internal affairs of a legitimate government…” The secretary of commerce paused, realization dawning on his face.

“My God, they aren’t a legitimate government. They grabbed power illegally!”

Nicholson continued the thought.

“And Vorster was kind enough to tell everyone that on worldwide television.” He turned to Forrester.

“Mr. Vice

President, I move that we recommend that the President withdraw our recognition of South Africa’s government until voters there have elected new leaders according to their own somewhat lopsided constitution. “

Forrester felt a little life returning to the group and smiled slightly.

“We may reword the last bit of that, but I agree that we should explicitly label Vorster’s government illegal and break off our relations with it.”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“But let’s face hard facts. We all know that Vorster won’t capitulate or hand over power simply because we say he should. In fact, we may just be giving him more propaganda ammunition for the home folks. What the President needs to know is this exactly what can we do to push the son of a bitch out of office?”

The secretary of commerce raised a hesitant hand.

“I still think South

Africa’s economy offers the best avenue for attacking him. If enough of his white supporters see their livelihoods and businesses going down the drain, they’ll try to pull the plug on Vorster themselves.” Reid grimaced.

“But conventional sanctions take a long time to work. And anyway, I’m not sure we can do anything that would wreck South Africa’s economy faster than Vorster’s own Namibian war and crazy security crackdowns.”

Forrester frowned.

“What about using a wider range of measures?”

“How wide?” asked Reid. Other heads around the table nodded, agreeing with the commerce secretary’s push for a clearer definition. Few people were willing to commit themselves to any concrete recommendation without some firmer indication of the President’s intentions.

Fair enough. It was time to drop a small bombshell, Forrester thought.

“The President has authorized us to consider anything short of open war.

“

A deep bass baritone from near the end of the table cut through the stunned silence.

“Then it’s a blockade.”

Forrester looked at the tall, lantern-jawed man in an Air Force uniform.

Combat service ribbons and decorations added splashes of different colors to his dark blue jacket.

“A blockade, General?”

Gen. Walter Hickman, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, nodded once.

“We can move a carrier battle group down from the Indian Ocean and cut off South

Africa’s seaborne commerce. “

Nicholson was shocked and didn’t bother concealing it.

“Use the military?

That’s insane! A blockade on South Africa’s imports and exports would send world commodity prices into the stratosphere! And that’s precisely what we’re trying so desperately to stop!”

Others around the table muttered their agreement.

Forrester held up his hand for silence and got it. He tapped Reid’s economic report.

“I don’t think there’s anything we can do to stop these price increases, Chris. As long as those bastards in Pretoria are in power, we’re going to be in trouble. So maybe it’s worth some short-term pain to get rid of what would otherwise be a long-term problem.”

Nicholson changed tack.

“What if Vorster decides to retaliate against

U.S. citizens still inside South Africa?”

“Highly unlikely, Mr. Director.” Edward Hurley reentered the fray.

“Vorster’s already at war with the Cubans, the Narnibians, and at least four-fifths of his own population. I doubt he’ll want to add us to the list.”

The bearded State Department official pushed his glasses back up his nose before continuing.

“In any event, there aren’t many Americans left in

South Africa as targets. Fewer than three or four hundred as near as we can tell. ” He flipped to a page near the back of his briefing binder.

“We’ve been tracking the numbers on a day-by-day basis. Most tourists left after we posted the travel advisory, and companies still

doing business inside the RSA have been shuttling their American executives home for weeks. Plus, we’re already down to a skeleton staff at the embassy.”

“All right. But what if their navy tried to stop us?” Nicholson seemed determined to find reasons to scuttle the proposed blockade.

Hickman snorted.

“The South African Navy has a few short-range missile boats, three old submarines, and no naval air capability. They’re a fourth-rate naval power. ” He shook his head.

“Hell, Libya’s a bigger naval threat! Our ships can patrol well out to sea-beyond their range-and block a merchant ship traffic into and out of the country.”

Nicholson purpled.

“I don’t doubt that we could establish such a blockade,

General. That’s not my point.” He turned to Forrester.

“The key question is, should we do such a thing in the first place?”

“What’s your alternative, Chris?” Forrester asked, curious to see what the

CIA director had in mind.

Nicholson opened his mouth and then shut it again, taken aback.

“I’m not saying there’s any kind of a guarantee that a blockade will force the South Africans to dump Vorster and act more reasonably,” Hickman explained, “but it would sure as hell boost the pressure on their economy.”

“Just how much pressure?” Forrester directed his question to a still-stunned Hamilton Reid.

The secretary of commerce rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Quite a lot, Mr.

Vice President. South Africa could still export by air and ground of course, but those are awfully narrow ‘pipelines’ for their major products.”

He nodded toward the map.

“And some commodities, especially oil, have to come by sea. In fact, oil imports are their biggest Achilles’ heel. It’s about the only mineral resource South Africa doesn’t have in ridiculous abundance.”

Hurley frowned.

“I’m not sure that’s quite right, Mr. Secretary. Last time

I checked, Pretoria was supposed to have a five-year strategic petroleum reserve stashed away.”

“A five-year reserve in a peacetime economy,” General

Hickman pointed out.

“But there’s a war on down there, and wars burn gas at a helluva rate.”

Forrester nodded slowly.

“True enough. And imposing a blockade on South

Africa’s imports would send a pretty goddamned strong shot across

Vorster’s bow-one he couldn’t shrug off or just ignore. ” He felt a small, tight smile spread across his face. Even thinking about doing something real, something concrete, about the mess in South Africa made him feet better.

He looked at Hickman.

“How soon could that carrier group reach South

African waters?”

“We could have a carrier, her escorts, and eighty-six aircraft in range in eight days, Mr. Vice President.”

“I still don’t think sending a warship is the best course of action.”

Nicholson sounded worried, almost alarmed at the idea.

“Using any kind of military force would be inflammatory. “

“And just whose opinion would we be inflaming, Mr. Director?” Hurley didn’t bother hiding his sarcasm.

“The South Africans? Hell, I should hope so. That’d be the whole point of the exercise. The Europeans? I sincerely doubt it. If anything, most Europeans are even more outraged by Vorster’s actions than people are here in the States.”

Forrester mentally scored a point for Hurley. His reading of European political and public opinion seemed right on target. As an example,

Britain’s prime minister had long been one of the staunchest opponents of indiscriminate sanctions aimed at South Africa. But the revelation that Vorster had played a hand in the deaths of Frederick Haymans and his cabinet had swung him around almost one hundred and eighty degrees. In the last two days alone, he’d been on the phone twice with the President urging joint U.S. and British action against what he now called

“Vorster’s dastardly cabal.”

Hurley faced him squarely.

“In a nutshell, I think General Hickman’s suggestion has merit, Mr. Vice President. We’ve been damned for not doing anything. Let’s be damned for doing something constructive.”

One by one, the others around the table nodded, some with

more enthusiasm than others, but all agreeing nonetheless. Only Nicholson shook his head angrily, evidently outraged at having been overruled.

Forrester suspected that the CIA director’s anger had more to do with his perceived loss of face than with any serious disagreement over policy.

He glanced at the wall clock.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen. I’m meeting with the President in half an hour, and I’ll pass along the recommendation that we dispatch a carrier battle group, with the eventual mission of establishing a maritime blockade of all South African ports.”

He smiled crookedly.

“In the circumstances, I suspect he’ll approve it wholeheartedly. “

More nods. Everyone present knew only all too well how much heat the

President was taking from the Congress and the media for his apparent inaction. With no economic or diplomatic options, the administration’s carefully worded statements had only served as a point of departure for its critics. Action, easy to call for but hard to specify, was the only thing that made good PR.

Forrester glanced down at his agenda. One penciled-in item remained. He looked up.

“Also, effective immediately, the President’s asked me to establish a Crisis Group to monitor the southern African situation and to provide day-to-day control over our initiatives in the region.”

Still more nods. Establishing a Crisis Group-a full-time team of junior

NSC members and staffers-was the logical next step. Everyone in the room could see that events in South Africa were moving too fast for the ordinary processes of government to be effective. The cabinet officers who made up the regular National Security Council had too many other responsibilities to devote full attention to a single prolonged crisis-no matter how important or how dangerous.

Forrester stared down the table, focusing his gaze on Nicholson’s red face. The CIA director had already proven surprisingly unwilling to back proposals made by other members of the President’s inner policy-making circle. It was time to make sure he knew who held the reins on this issue.

“I’ve recommended that Ed Hurley take charge of the group, and the

President agrees. I expect deputies from all concerned departments and agencies to be assigned by this afternoon. Understood?”

Forrester noticed several ill-concealed looks of surprise on several faces around the table. With the crisis escalating, most of the NSC’s members had undoubtedly expected him to name a military man or one of the intelligence agency deputies. Well, they’d reckoned wrongly. Hurley had the brains and background needed for the job. He’d also shown that he had the guts and political savvy needed to take on those above him inside the administration. Forrester had him marked as a serious contender for higher office in the near future.

Even better, Hurley was still low enough down on the totem pole to feel awkward about exercising his newfound authority without frequent consultation. Neither the President nor Forrester planned to relinquish any substantive part of their power over U.S. policy toward Pretoria.

The growing catastrophe in southern Africa was now much too important to be left solely in the hands of the bureaucrats and political appointees.

NOVEMBER 6-ABOARD THE USS CARL WNSON, SOUTH OF THE MALDIVE ISLANDS

The American battle group spread over a hundred square miles of the Indian

Ocean, steaming west just long enough to allow its massive, Nimitz-class carrier to launch and recover her aircraft. Eight other ships ringed the carrier-two guided-missile cruisers, a pair of guided-missile destroyers, two more destroyers for antisubmarine warfare, and two bulky combat support ships carrying needed fuel, ammunition, and stores. Well ahead of the battle group, two Los Angelesclass attack submarines slid quietly through the water, their ultra sophisticated computers constantly sifting the sounds of fish and ocean currents-searching for telltale engine or propeller noises that might signal the approach of a hostile surface ship or sub,

Above the battle group, aircraft of various types orbited slowly in

fuel-conserving racetrack patterns. Huge, twin-tailed F-14 Tomcats loitered on combat air patrol. A twin engined

E-2C

Hawkeye provided early warning of any incoming plane or missile, and a boxy

S-3 Viking swooped low now and again to monitor the line of passive sonobuoys it had dropped ahead of the oncoming carrier group.

Aboard the carrier itself, video monitors brought the sights and sounds of the busy flight deck to the Carl Vinson’s soundproofed flag plot. Radios muttered near control consoles, relaying conversations between the Vinson’s air wing commander, the CAG, his assistants, and pilots already in the air, landing, or awaiting takeoff. Glowing computer displays updated the position and status of every unit in the formation.

Rear Adm. Andrew Douglas Stewart ignored the constant hum of activity all around as he scanned the message flimsy that had just arrived. As he read, he rocked back and forth slowly on the balls of his feet-still as compact and trim as he’d been when he earned his living as an attack pilot over

North Vietnam.

The creases around Stewart’s cold gray eyes tightened as he skimmed through the various addresses that showed this order had originated with the Joint

Chiefs of Staff-and presumably somewhere inside the White House before that. The real meat came in the second short paragraph.

“.. . Proceed at best speed to… ” The admiral eyeballed a nearby electronic chart. The latitude and longitude contained in the message marked a point approximately four hundred nautical miles east of Durban.

“You will prepare for contingency operations off the South African coast on arrival. “

It still read the same way the second time through. Contingency operations off South Africa. He whistled once and then swore under his breath.

“Son of a big, bad bitch!”

“Trouble, Admiral?” His chief of staff hovered on the other side of the plot table.

Stewart handed him the message and watched his surprise.

The younger man unconsciously scratched at his balding scalp and shook his head.

“I don’t get it. What kind of ops are we supposed to prepare for?”

“Damned if I know exactly, Tom.” Stewart shrugged. He’d read about the

South African military situation in the daily intelligence summaries, and they were about as helpful as the out-of-date magazines the COD planes delivered. Certainly nothing he’d read seemed to warrant direct U.S. involvement. He smiled slightly to himself.

Could it be that the Joint Chiefs and the political bigwigs were actually thinking and planning ahead for once? It was doubtful, but he’d seen stranger things in his thirty-odd years in the military.

He shook himself out of his reverie. They had a lot of work to do and not much time to do it in. Even with all the latest in instantaneous communications and computer navigation, a carrier battle group couldn’t turn on a dime.

“Get your boys busy, Tom. I want to be ready to alter course in half an hour, after this ops cycle. Check the training schedule, and make sure it allows enough aircraft for air and sea surveillance missions. ” Stewart glanced at a row of clocks set to show local times at various points around the globe.

“In the meantime, I’ll be on the secure net back to D.C.” He glanced down at the message still held in his chief of staff’s hand.

“I’d like to have somebody back there tell me just what the hell is going on.”

The younger officer nodded once and hurried away in search of his staff-already pondering the most efficient way to continue the training cycle while the Carl Vinson and her escorts moved toward Durban.

For the first time ever, major elements of U.S. military power were being focused on South Africa.