Vortex

CHAPTER 20 Civil War

NOVEMBER 9-STATE SECURITY COUNCIL CHAMBER, PRETORIA

Karl Vorster and his cabinet met in their windowless chamber for the tenth time in as many days. Caught between the twin pressures of a bloody, stalemated war in Namibia and escalating political chaos at home, the cabinet was starting to crack. Several chairs were empty, abandoned by men who’d resigned-men either unable to stomach Vorster’s actions or who feared being held responsible for them by a new government.

Marius van der Heijden blinked rapidly, his eyes watering in the thick haze of tobacco smoke choking the small room. More evidence that sinful addiction could overcome the best intentions of weak-willed men, he thought irritably. Weaklings like Erik Muller, though on a smaller scale.

Muller’s pale, agonized face rose in his mind, and he shied away from the memory. The security chief’s pain-filled death had been richly deserved, but not pretty.

He drove Muller’s image away by concentrating on the situation maps tacked up on the chamber’s otherwise bare walls. Clusters of multicolored pins dotting the map showed only the vaguest outlines of the disaster spreading with wildfire rapidity across the whole country. An open revolt crushed in Durban, but untamed elsewhere in the Natal. Secessionist movements springing up among the former Afrikaner faithful in the Orange

Free State and the Transvaal. The entire elected city council of Cape

Town under arrest for suspected treason. And so it went-each succeeding piece of news worse than the last.

“I tell you, my friends, we simply cannot go on like this. Not for another week, let alone a month! We must find a way to win peace before our nation burns down around our very ears! “

Reluctantly, van der Heijden turned his attention to the speaker, Helmoed

Malherbe, the minister of industries and commerce.

Malherbe pointed to the sheets of trade figures and economic statistics he’d passed around the table.

“Already the economy is a complete shambles. Inflation is at forty percent and climbing fast. Exports are running at scarcely half last year’s level. He showed every sign of droning on for hours.

Van der Heijden scowled. He loathed Malherbe. The man was nothing more than a gutless, whining, rand-pinching economist. Always a pessimist, a naysayer, and a second guesser He looked toward the head of the table, hoping their leader would put this coward in his proper place.

But Karl Vorster sat silent, his head cradled in his hands as he listened to Malherbe’s recitation of economic catastrophe.

Van der Heijden frowned. Since Muller’s arrest and execution, Vorster had been quieter, less likely to take control of the meetings he called. Even worse, he hadn’t yet named a replacement for the late and unlamented director of military intelligence.

And that was a crucial error. Muller had been a boy-loving bastard, but he’d also been a competent covert operations specialist. Without anyone at the helm, his whole directorate was adrift-unable to plan, organize, or carry out the kind of selective assassinations and kidnappings that might have nipped some of these troublesome rebellions in the bud.

“All of these problems are only compounded when the police and security troops overreact in places like Durban.” Malherbe waved a hand in van der

Heijden’s direction.

What? The newly promoted minister of law and order snapped to full attention. He glared back at Malherbe.

“Brigadier Diederichs and his troops acted properly to restore order, meneer. Are you suggesting that they ought to have allowed those rebels to seize the city?”

“Not at all.” Malherbe sniffed.

“But I’m not sure what you mean by ‘order,” Marius. Most of Durban’s industries are idle. The port is almost completely paralyzed. The jails are full. The morgues are full, and do you know what? There are a lot of white bodies in those morgues-many of them Afrikaner bodies. Oil refinery technicians. Factory managers. Civil servants. Ordinary white citizens. People whose skills we desperately needed.”

He turned toward Vorster.

“Mr. President, by every objective measure, this nation is at the breaking point. Even white opinion is turning against us. We must take steps to regain their support or we will be left without any power at all. “

For the first time in nearly an hour, Vorster looked up from his hands.

“Nonsense, Helmoed! As long as we have the army and the security forces, we will have all the power we need. “

Vorster rose and began to pace.

“Those whites who have been killed were misguided, deceived by a lying press and by communist agitators.” He shrugged.

“Their deaths are a tragedy, but they will be avenged.”

He eyed the remnants of his cabinet carefully.

“Oh, I know what some of you want me to do. You want me to end our war against the communists of

Namibia and to bend to the demands of these communists inside our own borders. You want me to do things that my very soul cries out against.

“Well, I say never! Never! Never!” Vorster’s powerful fists crashed into the table one, twice, and then a third time. His face seemed carved out of stone.

“This is the hour of crisis, when the danger is greatest. If we can survive this time of testing, if we can live through this purging fire, we shall emerge a stronger and cleaner nation!”

Vorster’s tone grew sharper, angrier.

“A few of you even want me to step down. To retire to some country home in the Transvaal. To vanish into obscurity so that you can step up one rung and make your own climbr to power!”

His rough, grating voice rang through the entire room.

“Well, my friends, it shall not be. I will not resign. I will not shirk this burden. I will not leave the duty God has called me to! Only I have the vision needed to save our beloved fatherland. I will not abandon my people!”

He finished speaking and stood glaring at them in the embarrassed silence that followed his tirade.

Van der Heijden caught several of his fellow ministers covertly exchanging appalled glances, and he made a mental note to tighten surveillance on them. Recent events had shown only too clearly that not all of his leader’s enemies were black or colored or foreign.

Malherbe, pale and obviously shaken by Vorster’s words, finally rallied far enough to ask, “And if the country abandons you? Even our own Afrikaners are rejecting your authority. “

“You cannot say who accepts or rejects me!” Vorster pointed accusingly at the industries minister, his voice rising again in pitch and volume.

He paused, then spoke more softly.

“As soon as I can, I will go to my fellow Afrikaners. I will speak to them and explain fully what has happened. And once they have heard me out, those who have foolishly allowed communist lies to confuse them will come streaming back to our open arms!”

More mouths around the table dropped open and then as quickly snapped shut.

Too many of them had already learned

the hard way not to challenge any of Vorster’s cherished illusions.

“In the meantime, my friends, we must weather this storm of lies and vicious attacks with whatever measures are necessary.” He turned to

Fredrik Pienaar, the small, skeletal minister of information.

“Schedule a television address for tomorrow morning. I am going to declare an even stricter National State of Emergency. We will forbid any assembly, any whatsoever, until this crisis has passed. And the security forces will impose a nationwide dusk-to-dawn curfew.”

He paused, thinking.

“Heitman.”

The minister of defense warily met his leader’s stern gaze.

“Yes, Mr.

President?”

“Expand the reserve call-up. I want every trained man in South Africa under arms as soon as possible! Use the new troops to restore order and build more detention camps-as many as are needed.”

That stung Malherbe into speaking again.

“Mr. President, we simply can’t afford such a thing! Total mobilization would wreck our economy beyond repair. If you insist on this, we face a depression as well as defeat in war!”

Vorster’s temper finally erupted beyond control.

“And we do not need your negative ideas paralyzing this government! Minister Malherbe, you are relieved of your duties!”

Van der Heijden felt a moment’s elation. First Muller and now Malherbe.

Another of his enemies had managed to cut his own throat-though only figuratively this time, But his elation faded in the face of a whispering inner fear. The minister knew his job. What if Malherbe’s dire predictions were accurate?

Vorster snarled at the shocked official, “Only my memory of your past service stops me from having you arrested.” Contempt dripped from every word.

“Go home-, Helmoed, and rest. You are not equal to the struggle, but that is not your fault. This is not a task for ordinary men.”

White-faced and shaking, Malherbe rose from his chair and left the room without looking back.

Vorster ignored his departure. Instead, he turned to the other men sitting in stunned silence and smiled.

“Now,

gentlemen, let us discuss a more joyful topic. I believe you’ve all seen

Fredrik’s proposal that we make Afrikaans, our sacred tongue, the nation’s only official language .. …. Outside the chamber, an Army messenger trotted up with a manila folder stamped SECRET. He was about to enter when a sour-faced aide stopped him.

“You can leave that with me, Captain. I’ll take care of it for you.”

The officer shook his head.

“I’m afraid not. I have orders to deliver this to the President personally.” The aide shrugged, unimpressed and eager to show it.

“Then you’ll have to wait. The President himself left orders of his own. No one is to be admitted until the cabinet meeting ends. He folded his arms and stared at the wall with studied indifference.

“And when will that be?”

The aide checked his watch and shook his head.

“An hour more? Perhaps two?

Who can say? They’ll finish when they finish.” He held out his hand again.

“Come, Captain. Just give it to me and be on your way. No point in standing idle, is there?”

“You don’t understand! This is an emergency!” The officer glanced quickly around and lowered his voice before continuing.

“We’ve received rumors that troops in the Cape Town garrison may mutiny!”

“Rumors?” The aide arched a supercilious eyebrow.

“I hardly think those are worth troubling the cabinet with. In any event, President Vorster has already said that he doesn’t want to hear any more bad news for the moment.

You’ll have to wait until the meeting is over.”

“But…

“It can’t be helped.” The aide stood directly in front of the door, physically blocking it.

Muttering under his breath, the soldier stomped away.

Like their superiors, South Africa’s lower-level government officials were learning to ignore troublesome realities.

NOVEMBER 11HEADQUARTERS, 16TH INFANTRY BATTALION, CASTLE OF GOOD

HOPE, CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA

Redbrick ramparts, bastions, and cobblestone courtyards marked the Castle of Good Hope as a relic of the seventeenth century. Patches of scarlet, pink, white, and yellow flowers, emerald-green lawns, and museums full of precious paintings, Cape silver, and delicate Asian porcelain identified that same old fortress as a center of beauty and culture. And the scattering of armored cars, khaki-clad soldiers, and sandbagged machinegun positions marked it as a military garrison of South Africa’s crumbling late-twentieth-century Republic.

Ordinarily, Maj. Chris Taylor found the sight of the castle’s immaculately maintained grounds comforting. They gave him a sense of the permanence and order now in such short supply in Cape Town’s troubled streets.

But not today.

Today, he decided that he hated the cold, gray fortress walls, hated his job, and especially hated his new commanding officer, Col. Jurgen Reitz.

He stormed down the long hallway toward his own office, face tight with suppressed fury,

He’d just left Reitz’s office with a new set of orders even more absurd than the last.

Taylor was a compact, stocky man, slightly shorter than average height, with sandy-blond hair and a long-jawed face. Despite being a reservist and in his late forties, he was in good shape. Long years of labor in his family-owned vineyards and fruit-tree orchards had seen to that.

As he walked, he twisted his neck from side to side, trying to ease the pain from tension-knotted muscles. Calm down, he thought, don’t let the

Afrikaner bastard get to you.

Any meeting with Reitz was irritating. Taylor’s Citizen Force unit had been one of two mobilized last August and sent to Cape Town on security duty-allowing the Permanent Force battalion ordinarily stationed there to be sent north to Namibia.

It had been a hard job. The government’s idiotic policies had stirred up enough trouble in the city to make every reservist a veteran in less than a month. They’d put in day after day patrolling known trouble spots such as the University of Cape Town campus or suppressing full-fledged riots in the black townships. But the unrest had only grown worse, and Pretoria’s politicians had insisted on laying the blame on someone else’s shoulders.

The Ministry of Defense had picked the battalion’s old commanding officer, Colonel Ferguson, as its sacrificial lamb.

Taylor frowned at the memory. Ferguson had been replaced two weeks ago by this Afrikaner orifice, Reitz, who claimed that he had been assigned to the 16th because of “his special experience in security matters. “

Since then Reitz had been insufferable, more because of his attitude than his orders. He would speak only Afrikaans, though he understood

English-and most of the men in the 16th Infantry were of English descent.

He treated any order from Pretoria as gospel and ordered that it be executed “energetically,” as he put it. But what does a soldier do when the order reads “prevent disruptive assembly”? Ask for amplification from

Reitz and he’d bite your head off.

And the battalion’s officers and men desperately needed clarification of their orders. When they first arrived, they’d been needed to police the black and colored townships. But now they were being ordered into more and more white suburbs and city areas to cope with steadily escalating political protests, rock-throwing, and other incidents of anti state agitation-mostly small groups or individuals caught defacing government propaganda posters and the like. The troops didn’t like that at all. It was bad enough being asked to club unarmed blacks and coloreds, but using the same tactics against fellow whites left them feeling queasy.

The last few days had been especially tense. First the all too-believable reports of Vorster’s involvement in Frederick Haymans’s assassination.

Then the sudden wholesale arrest of the City Council-an act that placed

Cape Town under combined military and police rule overnight. Taylor had heard the increasingly discontented muttering from his men and

junior officers and he sympathized. If Karl Vorster had really seized power by allowing Haymans and the others to be killed, he had no constitutional authority. And the orders they’d been following were manifestly illegal. But what could they do about it?

Taylor shied away from the obvious answer.

Reitz refused even to discuss the question of Vorster’s legitimacy or the men’s concerns. That was troubling. Taylor hadn’t been especially close to his old colonel either, but it was important that the battalion’s executive officer understand his superior’s intentions. He remembered long talks with Ferguson, sharing opinions, discussing battalion matters-a professional relationship based on mutual respect.

Not with Reitz. The Afrikaner treated him either as an idiot child or as the enemy. It was a rare day when he said anything good about the battalion or the men in it. No, this was a matter beyond clashing command styles. This was a case of active and mutual contempt.

So Taylor stormed down the hall, inwardly raging at the idiocy of his commander, the government, and his latest orders. Dusk curfew for everyone? No exceptions for emergency crews? No assemblies at all? Two people walking down the street together couldn’t be made illegal. Such an edict was insane and utterly unenforceable.

He stopped short in the hall, drawing curious glances from the few other officers passing by. He could not work this way. He might be a reservist now, but he was still a professional, an officer with ten years of active service and an honorable record, and he would not let himself be intimidated by an overbearing…

Taylor spun around and stalked up the hallway back to the colonel’s office. He knocked once, ignoring a pale, overweight orderly who stared in surprise at him before wisely deciding to concentrate on his typing.

He heard a snapped “Kom” from within and stepped through the door, mentally rehearsing the Afrikaans phrases for what he had to say. It was a little absurd, but he sometimes thought that Reitz deliberately spoke quickly to make it hard for him to understand.

As he entered the room, Taylor already had his mouth open to speak, but

Reitz was on the phone. The colonel saw him and scowled, but waved him all the way in as he continued shouting into the phone.

“I don’t care what they are doing, Captain! They are violating the law. Disperse them and be quick about it. I’m holding you personally responsible!”

Reitz slammed down the phone and glared at Taylor.

“Captain Hastings has let a situation at the Green Point Soccer Stadium get out of control.

Another communist riot brewing, no doubt.”

Without bothering to explain any further, the Afrikaner strode quickly toward the door, buckling on a pistol belt and grabbing his cap from a hook. Taylor followed automatically.

Reitz stopped briefly in his outer office to snap an order at the pudgy corporal staring up anxiously from his typewriter.

“Find Captain Kloof and tell him to get his company to the stadium immediately. He is to report to me when he arrives. “

“At once, Kolonel!” The orderly hurriedly picked up his phone. One did not dawdle in Colonel Reitz’s presence.

Reitz turned and regarded Taylor.

“Another foul-up by one of my officers!

You’ll come with me, Major.”

The colonel’s personal Land Rover was parked near the Castle’s main gate.

A command flag fluttered from a long, thin radio aerial. Reitz slid behind the wheel, and Taylor jumped into the passenger seat, knowing the Afrikaner wouldn’t bother to wait for him. He fumed quietly.

Reitz continued his lecture.

“I want you to see how I deal with this riot.

I’ve been trying to make you and the other officers in the battalion understand my policies for well over two weeks now. If you can’t or won’t understand, it’s not my fault, but I’m going to keep trying until you do-or until I find men who can. If my orders were executed more energetically and with less insubordinate discussion, this would be a very quiet, peaceful city.”

Taylor nodded curtly, hating himself for having to appear to agree even that much.

The Castle of Good Hope was located across from the main train station and near the city center, and the streets were

already packed with cars and pedestrians on their way to lunch or early-afternoon shopping. Reitz scowled, turned on his Land Rover’s siren and flashing light, and began weaving recklessly in and out of traffic.

In minutes, they were headed at high speed along the Western Boulevard toward Green Point-a bulge of level ground pushing northward out into the

Atlantic Ocean. A thousand foot-high rock outcrop called Signal Hill towered above Green Point’s sports grounds, golf course, beaches, and soccer stadium.

Ordinarily, the area would be full of people enjoying the warm spring weather, but barricades, police vehicles, and SADF APCs now blocked every road and path. Most Cape Town residents, wise in the ways of such things, were giving the place a wide berth.

As the Land Rover roared past two hospitals built on the eastern edge of

Green Point, the buildings on either side fell away to an open grassy area.

Taylor held on tight to the dashboard as Reitz wheeled the vehicle through a traffic circle and onto a small access road. The soccer stadium was visible now, almost straight ahead and surrounded by hundreds of small figures, vehicles, and wisps of white that had to be tear gas.

Noises filled the air. An amplified voice, with the words confused and indistinguishable, could be heard from the direction of the stadium. Some wild-eyed, impractical agitator, Taylor thought coldly. Some idiot who still believed the Vorster government gave a damn about public opinion in the Cape Province. Shouts and breaking glass, mixed with occasional thumping shots from tear gas launchers and the high-pitched, screaming sirens of arriving ambulances, all added to the overpowering din.

Reitz braked the Land Rover beside a roadblock manned by a squad of armed troops. He had to shout to make himself heard.

“Where’s your captain,

Sergeant?”

The noncom stiffened at the unexpected sight of his battalion’s two most senior officers and pointed toward the company’s command post, set up on an open stretch of ground northeast of the stadium.

Capt. John Hastings stood in the shade of a Buffel armored personnel carrier, surrounded by several lieutenants and sergeants, all studying a city map. They looked tired, and one sergeant had a bandaged forearm.

The gut-twisting, acrid smell of tear gas clung to their rumpled, sweat-stained uniforms.

Reitz leaped from the Land Rover and strode over to the group.

“What the devil’s going on here?” he shouted.

Hastings and his command group spun round, startled. They came to attention and saluted.

“Orders group, sir.” Hastings pulled his blue beret off and ran a nervous hand through tousled red hair.

“We’re trying to determine the best way to clear the stadium.”

Another Buffel pulled up, the wheeled vehicle’s angular armored body towering over them. Andries Kloof, a lean, black-haired officer, climbed out of the troop compartment and ran over to join Reitz. More APCs arrived behind Kloof’s command vehicle and halted, engines still turning over, adding yet more noise to the din all around.

“Captain Kloof and C Company, reporting as ordered, Colonel. “

Taylor snorted, but quietly. This wasn’t a parade ground, but Reitz returned the younger Afrikaner’s salute with snap and precision-just as though it were.

“Glad you’re here, Kloof. Stand by for a moment.”

The young officer moved closer and studied the map with the rest of the group.

Reitz, looking impatient, turned back to Hastings.

“Well, Captain? What’s this mess you’ve managed to create?”

Hastings’s snub-nosed face paled beneath its light dusting of freckles, and Taylor saw his jaw muscles twitch as he fought to control his temper.

“We estimate there are two to three thousand people in and around the stadium, sir. Mostly white students from the university, but there are a lot of blacks and colored there as well.”

He gestured to the map.

“We’ve sealed off all entrances and exits to the commons area… “

Taylor listened intently. Hastings and his company were following standard crowd control tactics designed to minimize

civilian casualties and protect his own men at the same time. They were using tear gas to break up organized groups of demonstrators outside the stadium. Once the demonstrators were dispersed and fleeing the gas, a platoon armed with Plexiglas riot shields and batons moved in to haul them off to waiting trucks.

Unfortunately, it was a slow and tedious process. The soldiers carried more gear than the protestors and were finding it difficult to capture more than a handful with each sally. Most managed to evade arrest and reformed-only to be dispersed by new salvos of tear gas grenades. It was a frustrating cycle that seemed to go on and on.

“And what about the stadium itself?” Reitz asked.

Hastings shook his head.

“I haven’t wanted to fire tear gas inside because of the panic it would create. Too many people could be trampled.

We’ve been using loudspeakers to order them to disperse or face detention.”

“And whenever they are ready to leave, you’ll arrest them?” Reitz’s voice was laced with sarcasm.

“Your concern for these hooligans is touching, but misplaced. These people are breaking the law and should be treated as such.

“Now listen to me closely, Captain! I will not have you”-Reitz raised his voice—or any man in this battalion babying these troublemakers.”

He jabbed the map.

“Have your grenadiers start firing tear gas into the stadium. And form the rest of your men into a cordon. Once the gas goes in, start sweeping the area on this side of the stadium. Arrest everyone, and if they run, shoot them!”

Hastings stared at Reitz, shocked, but he quickly concealed it. Taylor noticed the captain’s eyes flicker in his direction. He controlled his own expression, masking his true feelings behind an impassive countenance.

Reitz smiled for the first time.

“You will see, gentlemen. A few bullets will convince these ruffians to stop running and surrender. “

For an instant, Taylor thought about protesting the triggerhappy order to open fire without serious provocation. It would be a useless gesture, though. Even at the best of times, South African law enforcement was a pretty brutal business. And Reitz was within his rights as commander on the scene.

But that didn’t mean Taylor liked the situation. It also didn’t mean that he could forget that Colonel Ferguson had never found it necessary to have unarmed civilians shot. He stiffened.

Reitz’s smile faded and he glared at the group.

“Well?”

Galvanized into action, A Company’s lieutenants and sergeants went flying off under a new string of orders from Captain Hastings.

The colonel turned to C Company’s eager commander. Kloof take your men to the far side of the stadium and clear these communists away. Arrest anyone who stops, shoot anyone who moves.”

The younger man saluted again and ran off to his waiting APC. Taylor heard him shouting orders in a high-pitched, excited voice.

Reitz strolled over to Taylor’s side. His tone was pleasant, almost light.

“There, Major, that’s what I mean by my orders being energetically executed.”

He glanced at his watch.

“I expect we’ll have this little tea party broken up in an hour or so. ” His voice turned harsher.

“When we get back to the office, I want you to draw up court-martial papers for Hastings.

He’s obviously incompetent and may actually be in sympathy with these rioters.”

Reitz frowned at his stunned look.

“I will not have anyone under my command who harbors soft feelings for these people. Our president has made it quite clear that we should use strong measures to maintain law and order.”

Taylor said softly, “The president has also admitted seizing power illegally.”

“That will be enough, Major!” Reitz shouted, outraged.

“I won’t have you questioning our government’s authority, or mine. You are here to learn how to do your job, which I should think is humbling enough. A court-martial would be even more humbling.”

Taylor heard Kloof’s shouted command to move out and

turned to see C Company’s three platoons formed in a giant wedge. With assault rifles at port arms, they started trotting toward the far side of the oval soccer stadium.

A panting corporal ran up to Taylor and saluted.

“Sir, Captain Hastings says his men are in position and he’s ready to fire the tear gas.”

Taylor started to speak, but Reitz cut him off.

“Well, what does he want us to say? What is he waiting for? Tell that incompetent fool to fire.

Let’s get to it.”

My God. This Afrikaner bastard was insulting his fellow officers in front of enlisted men. Taylor felt his rage returning, overcoming the fear his erstwhile colonel had tried to instill by threatening him with a court-martial.

Unnerved by the dispute between his superiors, the corporal backed away and then ran off carrying Reitz’s message. The colonel watched him go and then muttered, “I wish it were nerve gas. Just wipe out the lot of them, that’s what we should do. “

A Company was deployed about fifty meters away, facing the stadium. A long line of men knelt on one knee with face shields down. Alternating soldiers carried assault rifles and riot batons, held at the ready. One group of four men armed with grenade launchers waited behind the line.

Hastings and his company sergeant had posted themselves near the four grenadiers.

Taylor watched as the corporal rejoined them and saw Hastings’s head snap in their direction before turning back to his men. The captain’s arm lifted and then dropped sharply.

Thummp! Thummp! Thummp! Thummp! Tear gas projectiles arced through the air and fell into the soccer stadium, trailing a thin white haze behind them. Wisps of gas started to rise slowly, drifting inland on a light breeze.

“The troops stood and started to move forward at a trot.

Reitz was beside himself.

“Four grenades? My God, that’s a stadium, not a public toilet!”

“He’s trying to give them a warning, a chance to leave without causing a panic.”

“Damn it, man, I want them panicked!” Reitz exclaimed.

“I want them terrified, especially of us!”

Still swearing, the colonel ran after the advancing company, and when he was in earshot, he started shouting, “Fire more tear gas. Fire now!”

Screams and the sounds of dozens of people choking and retching almost in unison were drowning out the muddy, indistinct voice bellowing over the stadium’s public address system.

Hastings looked over his shoulder when he heard Reitz, scowled, and passed the order on to the four men carrying grenade launchers. Another salvo of tear gas grenades arced into the air and fell inside the crowded stadium.

The colonel grabbed Hastings by the arm and swung him around.

“Have these men fire and fire again until they do not have any more projectiles! Then tell me and I will find more for them to use! Is that clear?”

Hastings nodded silently and after half a beat, saluted. Reitz ignored him. Instead, he turned away and followed the advancing troops, staying about five meters behind the command group.

More grenades soared through the air and fell into a growing haze. A few scattered and landed outside the stadium walls, but most went straight in. Taylor noticed that the loud voice on the loudspeaker had stopped, but that the screams and half-choked shouts from inside kept growing in volume.

Small bands of brown, black, and white protestors milled in confusion around the entrances to the soccer field-still unsure of the Army’s exact intentions.

Suddenly the screaming in the stadium moved outside. A mass of people, individuals indistinct at a hundred meters’ distance, surged out the door nearest to Hastings’s troops. Other throngs of fleeing demonstrators were pouring out the other exits, eager to escape what must be chaos among the tear gas-filled bleachers and soccer field.

Hastings motioned to a sergeant, who raised a bullhorn and yelled, first in Afrikaans and then in English, “Halt and surrender! If you flee, you will be shot.” As if to add substance to this threat, Taylor heard rifle fire from the far side of the stadium. That bastard Kloof and his men were already at work.

The mob ignored the sergeant’s warning. A few men and women near the edges seemed to hear, but even they ran. Taylor could see several people with bloodied limbs or heads, undoubtedly injured in the crush to get out through the narrow, body-packed exits. He shook his head slowly in dismay.

The colonel’s tear gas barrage had driven this crowd beyond reason.

A few rocks and bottles flew in the soldiers’ direction as some of the more militant protestors tried to retaliate. None landed very close.

Reitz took it all in and smiled thinly again.

“That’s one way to stop a show. Now fire a warning burst over their heads. “

Tight-lipped, Hastings nodded and gave the order. His men lifted their assault rifles and fired a ragged volley into the air. The stone throwers fled, but panicked protestors continued to stream out of the exits and away from the soldiers.

That was enough for Reitz, who shouted, “Fire again, damn it, and this time aim for the crowd!”

What? Till now, Taylor had hoped against all the evidence that the colonel’s ugly threats were mere bravado and bluster. Too late, he realized that Reitz had meant every word. He stepped forward to countermand the order….

A hundred rifles cracked as one, this time pointed straight at the disordered mass of people streaming out of the stadium.

Almost every bullet struck home-puncturing lungs, shattering bones, or ripping through arms and legs. Taylor saw dozens of people jerk and fall as they were hit. Hundreds of others fell flat as well, trying desperately to find cover on the open ground. A few people kept running, but most stopped, shocked and stunned by the blood and death around them. Ominously, in the sudden silence after the volley, they could still hear steady firing from the other side of the stadium.

Taylor stared from Reitz to the broken and bleeding bodies littering the trampled green grass and back again. Incredibly, the Afrikaner wore a small, pleased smile. Enough!

He moved in front of Reitz and yelled, “Cease fire!” Hastings immediately echoed him.

“These poor people are no further threat to us or anyone,

Colonel. ” Taylor ground the man’s rank out between clenched teeth.

“I’ll order the men to move in and start making arrests.” Taylor turned to issue

Hastings new orders and felt himself spun back round.

the colonel’s face was red, almost purple with rage.

“Rooinek swine! I will not have one of my orders countermanded. You and Hastings are both under arrest! Report to headquarters at once and stay there until I have time to deal with you!”

Then, his voice rising, he shouted, “Since you love these people so much, you can join them in prison! I’m taking personal command of this company, and I’ll do what you are apparently unable and unwilling to do-put an end to this lawbreaking! “

Taylor stared at Reitz in amazement. Had the man gone utterly mad?

“What lawbreaking?” He pointed toward the bloodsoaked lawns and gravel paths outside the stadium.

“It’s over! Finished! My God, can’t you see that?”

Reitz was still in a rage.

“Major, I don’t want to hear any more from you! You don’t know how to deal with these criminals, and you don’t want to learn. Get out of my sight-and take that weakling Hastings with you!

By the time I’m through, you’ll both be lucky if you’re not hanged!”

Taylor stared at his colonel a moment longer before trained reflexes and ingrained discipline took over. He stiffened to attention, turned, and started walking back to the command post with Hastings trudging silently at his side. He felt strangely empty of emotion, unsure of whether he should feel shock at the slaughter he had just witnessed, anger at Reitz, or shame at his relief. No, not shame. He’d done nothing wrong.

Behind him, the demonstrators were beginning to stir. Many knelt weeping by dead or dying friends. Others sat shaking, unable to move. A few were crawling away in a futile search for better cover or escape. People were still trying to get out of the gas-filled stadium, but those in front, who saw the horror before them, were trying to turn around. Being choked and blinded by tear gas must have seemed preferrable to being butchered on the open ground.

The long, thin line of South African soldiers looked numbly at the carnage in front of them, each obviously trying to reconcile his own actions with his conscience. Murder was not a part of the soldier’s code, and this had been a kind of murder. Their lieutenants and noncoms glanced uneasily at each other-shocked by the open break between their colonel and the battalion’s secondin-command. Taylor was one of them-a fellow reservist and a peacetime neighbor.

Reitz swept the formation with an ice-cold glare, and they all turned to face forward, Deliberately, he called out, “A Company, at the rioters, fire!”

Taylor turned in horror. Reitz was not satisfied. He intended to kill and go on killing.

Obedient under orders, most of the men raised their rifles, aiming at the crowd. But when only one of the company’s lieutenants echoed the colonel’s order, instead of all three as was customary, they lowered their weapons again and looked back at their officers in confusion.

Reitz walked closer to the line. He drew his pistol, worked the slide, and held it in front of him, muzzle pointing up.

“Damn it, I gave an order, and I’ll shoot the next man who doesn’t obey instantly! Now fire!”

“No!” Taylor shouted. He sprinted toward the colonel. The personal consequences and discipline be damned. Discipline meant following lawful orders, not committing coldblooded murder at the whim of a madman.

He was still ten meters away when Reitz turned and saw him coming.

Pure hatred on his face, the Afrikaner swung his pistol in Taylor’s direction. Without thinking, he fumbled for his own sidearm as Reitz aimed and fired.

Automatically, he threw himself to the ground, thumb cocking the hammer of his own weapon. The pistol’s blinding flash and the crack of a bullet racing close overhead reached Taylor at almost the same instant. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hastings charging forward, and Reitz turned, drawing down on the running officer.

No! Taylor squeezed the trigger, something inside him seeming to leap out along with the bullet.

Reitz staggered back, agony on his face as bright-red blood spread across the chest of his uniform jacket. He tried to hold his aim on Hastings and failed. Then his legs folded and he crumpled to the grass. One hand clawed briefly at the sky and then fell back.

Hastings skidded to a stop and knelt beside the fallen Afrikaner.

Taylor rose to one knee, stunned by the speed with which he’d moved from officer to prisoner to mutineer. He wanted to stop and think, to understand what he had done, but there wasn’t time. He levered himself to his feet and ran toward Reitz, shouting, “Get an ambulance!”

It struck him as odd that nobody was calling for help for all the protestors who’d been shot, but that the colonel’s wounding brought an instant reaction from him.

Hastings laid the colonel’s head down on the ground.

“We don’t need an ambulance, Major.”

Taylor could see Reitz’s unseeing, open eyes and shuddered. But he didn’t feel ashamed, or even sorry. He’d killed before, in battle, and this felt no different. Reitz had been bent on murdering unarmed civilians, not because of what they had done, but because of who they were.

He looked from the corpse to find many of Hastings’s soldiers and all of

A Company’s officers surrounding him. One of the lieutenants, Kenhardt, said, “You’re in command now, Major. What are your orders?”

The other officers and noncoms nodded eagerly.

Again, Taylor had the sensation of being pulled along by events instead of shaping them. Was he in command? Despite shooting his own colonel? He shook his head, trying to clear it. Someone had to take charge. In the circumstances, the battalion’s senior captain would be a better choice-but that was Kloof. The crackle of automatic weapons fire drew his attention to the far side of the stadium. Kloof and his men were still shooting unarmed protestors.

Right, first things first. He grabbed the nearest enlisted man and ordered, “Tell Captain Kloof to cease fire and report back here on the double. Nothing more than that, understand?”

The private nodded and ran off.

Hastings looked troubled.

“Chris, that damned Afrikaner will just order you, me, and everyone else in reach arrested. We’d probably be shot after the kind of trial these people would give us. ” His junior officers nodded their agreement.

Taylor’s mind raced. These people, Hastings had said contemptuously. As though the men in Pretoria weren’t worth obeying. Well, was that so far off? Vorster, his cabinet cronies, and pet generals certainly weren’t the

Army and the government he’d sworn to serve. Everyone in authority seemed to have gone mad.

He shook his head. Hastings was right. Vorster’s Afrikaner fanatics would kill him, they’d kill Hastings, and anyone else who crossed their path.

And they would just keep on killing.

All right. He’d stopped Reitz from killing. Now he’d see how much more killing he could stop. Or start, he reminded himself. Crossing the line from personal disobedience to armed rebellion could not possibly be a bloodless journey. But perhaps it was a journey that should have been begun long ago, he thought, remembering all the wasteful violence and death he’d seen these past few months.

Taylor took a deep breath and nodded to Hastings.

“Form your troops,

Johnnie. I have new orders for them.”

Five minutes later, Kloof trotted up to see two soldiers carrying Reitz away, and A Company formed by platoons near its armored personnel carriers. Paramedics from neighboring hospitals were already moving slowly through heaped bodies outside the stadium-sorting the dead from the wounded and those who might live from those who would surely die.

He ran the last twenty meters to where Taylor waited.

“Good God, Major!

What’s happened to the colonel?”

It was the first time Taylor had ever seen the younger Afrikaner officer forget to salute.

The major nodded to Hastings, who silently walked away toward his waiting troops. Guiding Kloof by holding his upper arm, Taylor moved in the opposite direction.

“Unfortunately, Captain, Colonel Reitz was killed while attempting to commit murder.”

Kloof drew back in shock, able only to exclaim, “What?” and stare at him.

Taylor put steel into his voice. It was essential that this Afrikaner hear no sign of weakness or fear.

“Reitz ordered our troops to continue firing at the protestors after they had dispersed. I countermanded his illegal order, and when he attempted to murder Captain Hastings and myself, I was forced to shoot him in self-defense.”

Kloof ‘s eyes flicked down to the now-holstered pistol, and then up to meet Taylor’s steady gaze.

“Major, there is nothing illegal about shooting protestors who try to resist arrest by running.” The Afrikaner’s eyes narrowed.

“I heard the colonel talking to you earlier. And I know that he ordered my company here because he did not trust Hastings or his men.”

Kloof stepped closer.

“In fact, Major, I think he was going to have you and Hastings arrested, for dereliction of duty, disloyalty, or both.

“Therefore, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Colonel

Reitz.” The captain started to reach for his sidearm, but paused when he saw Taylor slowly shake his head. He frowned and pulled the pistol from its holster. His frown grew deeper as Taylor stood motionless, apparently unconcerned.

The major merely looked over his shoulder, nodded briefly, and said, “I think not, Captain. I suggest that you drop your weapon and turn around slowly. Very slowly.”

Kloof heard several metallic clicks behind him. He paled. He’d heard that sound nearly every day of his professional life. It was the sound of safeties being released.

He let his pistol fall from nerveless fingers and turned to see half a dozen rifles aimed at his stomach, all held by men of A Company.

The Afrikaner licked lips gone suddenly dry.

“Is this a firing squad,

Major?”

Taylor shook his head, almost amused. He didn’t doubt

that it would have been a firing squad if the Afrikaner captain had held the upper hand instead.

“Just a guard detail. We’re making a few changes,

Andries. You and some of your like thinking friends are going to jail. And we’re letting the elected officials of this city out to form a new government.”

“What? That bunch of traitors?”

“Yes, Captain Kloof, that’s right. That bunch of ‘traitors’ and my bunch of ‘traitors’ and a lot of other ‘traitors’ are going to bring this country back to some semblance of sanity, starting with Cape Town.”

Motioning to the guards, Taylor said, “Get him out of hem. “

As Kloof was led away, Taylor ordered Hastings and his platoon leaders to bring C Company over, one platoon at a time. They would either join the rebel force or be detained. He was sure of two of C Company’s junior officers, and the third might side with them as well.

Then, with two rifle companies firmly in hand, they’d see how many others in the city’s military garrison and police force would join them to throw off Pretoria’s dictatorial control.

Sighing, he looked at his watch. It was already one-thirty in the afternoon, and he had a lot to do before dusk.

STATE SECURITY COUNCIL CHAMBER, PRETORIA

Messengers kept bringing in new reports from Cape Town, none of it good.

Radio stations off the air. Contact lost with the international airport.

Telephone lines down. It was always news of some strand’s being cut, some part of the fabric of government lost to their control.

The room was filled with government officials and military and police officers. Maps of Cape Town and Cape Province hung on the wall, and colored circles showed the known extent of the revolt. Vorster and his civilian ministers sat at one end of the table, while military aides under General de Wet’s somewhat confused direction tried to manage the few forces still under their control.

It was clear those forces were shrinking fast. Only one battalion, the 16th Infantry, had officially mutinied, but reports from the two other battalion commanders near Cape Town indicated that their units were not “completely reliable. ” Commandos had formed in the city and the surrounding townships, and many were siding with the mutineers.

Government strength seemed to be coalescing around Table Mountain, the three-thousand-foot high escarpment dominating the city skyline and the southern Cape Peninsula. Honeycombed with caves and bunkers, it had been always been designated as the final defensive position for South African forces holding Cape Town. Now infantry companies and fragments of infantry companies were reported regrouping atop the mountain.

Marius van der Heijden found himself clasping his hands as though in prayer as he listened to the steady stream of bad news streaming in and forced himself to pry them apart. He glanced toward the end of the table where Karl Vorster sat white-faced and immobile. His eyes, once so impressively cold and clear, were now shadowed and rimmed with red from too many sleepless nights.

Van der Heijden frowned. More and more these days, as people outside

Vorster’s immediate circle challenged his authority, the President withdrew into himself-as though he could shut out the very events he had triggered. It was a bad sign.

As the aide who’d home the latest news of disaster left, Vorster stirred himself enough to ask, “Well, General? Can we hold the city?”

De Wet swallowed hard.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. President. Not without more troops.”

“Troops we do not have?”

De Wet nodded reluctantly.

“That’s correct, Mr. President. All our available forces are tied down in Namibia, Natal, or other trouble spots.”

“Then perhaps it’s high time we began withdrawing from Namibia, General.”

Fredrik Pienaar still retained enough of Vorster’s confidence to speak bluntly. And the propaganda minister had never liked de Wet or his plans.

“That would be disastrous!” De Wet appealed directly to Vorster.

“Intelligence reports indicate that the Cubans are planning a major offensive sometime in the next few days. Abandoning our defenses there now would be against all military logic!”

“Then what do you suggest, General? Shall we sit idly here in Pretoria while the Republic collapses around our ears? Is that the militarily sensible thing to do?”

De Wet turned red as he listened to Pienaar’s scathing sarcasm.

“No,

Minister.” De Wet breathed out noisily and refocused his attention on the silent, brooding figure of Karl Vorster.

“I suggest a temporary delay, that’s all. Let us absorb this Cuban offensive, bleed them white in fruitless attacks against our trenches and minefields, and send them reeling back toward Windhoek. Then we can safely pull forces out of

Namibia to deal with these traitors!”

Van der Heijden nodded to himself. Surprisingly, de Wet made sense for once.

Vorster made an impatient gesture with one massive hand.

“Very well, de

Wet.” He glowered at the general.

“But do not fail me as so many have of late. I will not forgive treason or ineptitude.”

De Wet paled, murmured his understanding, and turned back to his uniformed aides.

Vorster looked at the rest of his cabinet, his weary gaze moving from face to face until it settled on van der Heijden.

“Marius?”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“Have you captured that American swine yet?”

The minister for law and order felt his stomach lurch. For personal reasons, he’d been keeping the police search for Sheffield low-key. In the confession his men had ripped out of Erik Muller, the former security chief had babbled about the young, Afrikaans-speaking woman who’d been blackmailing him. And now Emily was missing-not at the farm or at her friend’s home in Cape Town. Van der Heijden could add two and two to get four. Somehow his own beautiful, foolish, and headstrong daughter had been gulled into helping this American reporter. For her sake, he’d kept investigators from following up on several promising leads-hoping that she’d escape

South Africa before he was forced to act. Now it appeared that time had run out.

He shook his head.

“Not yet, Mr. President. But we’re hot on this man’s trail. I expect an arrest at virtually any moment. “

“Good.” Vorster stroked his chin.

“When we have him in custody, your people can undoubtedly ‘persuade’ him to recant this foolish story of his-true?”

Warily, van der Heijden nodded again. This Ian Sheffield was only a journalist after all. A few hours of rigorous torture should render him malleable to almost any suggestion.

“Excellent, Marius. ” Vorster smiled at the rest of his uncertain inner circle.

“There you are, my friends. Soon, we’ll have this American admitting that his whole story was nothing but a communist plot to sow confusion in our beloved fatherland. And on that day, all these minor difficulties will begin to fade away like the bad dreams that they truly are. Our strayed brethren in the Orange Free State and the Transvaal will return begging for our forgiveness.”

Vorster’s smile turned ugly.

“And the rooineks of the Cape and the kaffirs of Natal will weep for the days before they dared to oppose our power!”

Van der Heijden and the others stared back in open disbelief. How could their leader really believe that matters could still be so simply resolved? Mere words wouldn’t douse the fires of revolt and rebellion now burning in almost every corner of South Africa.

How could any sane man hope to avert Armageddon here?

FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, MILITARY FORCES OF THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT

OF

CAPE TOWN, NEAR THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT

Maj. Chris Taylor crouched behind a bullet-scarred Buffel armored personnel carrier, studying the hastily scrawled markings on a map of the city. He ducked as a mortar round exploded a hundred meters away, blasting leaves and bark

off an ancient oak tree and sending white-hot shrapnel sleeting through the shattered front doors and windows of the Houses of Parliament.

Smoke from burning buildings and vehicles swirled across the street and billowed high into the air-joining a dense pall produced by fires raging out of control all across Cape Town. Taylor coughed as he breathed in the acrid stuff. He tilted his helmet back up off his forehead and looked closely at his new secondin-command, Capt. John Hastings.

“You’re sure about this, Johnnie? It’s not just another damned rumor?”

Hastings shook his head.

“I talked to the new base commander myself. It’s official. Simonstown has come over to our side! “

Both men ducked again as another mortar round landed in the botanical gardens close by, showering them with dirt, grass, and pieces of mangled plants.

Hastings spat dirt out of his mouth and continued, “The Navy boys said they’d had some fighting with a few diehards, but they’ve got everything under control for the moment.”

“Damage?”

“A few fires, but no damage to the docks or ships.”

That was welcome news. Taylor had been hoping for support from the naval officers and ratings stationed at the Simonstown base. The Navy had always been the most “English” of all the South African military services. And even though its total strength didn’t amount to much more than a few aging ships, holding South Africa’s main naval base would give the provisional government’s claims to independence needed national and international credibility.

He refolded the map and rolled out from behind the APC, seeking a better view of the house-to-house fighting raging up ahead. Hastings followed suit.

Cape Town, once arguably the most beautiful city on the African continent, now looked more like wartime Berlin.

The ugly debris left by war marred the long, broad expanse of Government

Avenue and its adjoining botanical gardens. Buildings were pockmarked by bullets, mortar and grenade fragments, and cannon shells. Bodies lay here and there some crumpled on the street or pavement, others draped over rose bushes and park benches or sprawled on gravel paths. Some of the dead wore civilian clothes, others were in uniform. Strips of white cloth fluttered in a light sea breeze, tied around the outstretched arms of those who’d fought against Pretoria.

A wrecked APC blocked part of the avenue, orange flames licking skyward as its fuel tanks burned. A single charred corpse hung half in and half out of the commander’s hatch.

Taylor swallowed hard against the taste of bile, forcing himself to ignore the butchery before his eyes. Despite all the signs of slaughter, he and his men were winning. The flickering, pinprick flashes of rifle and machinegun fire that marked his battle line were farther away than when he’d last looked. And he could see an Eland armored car moving slowly forward, stopping briefly from time to time to shell buildings farther down the street. Small figures clustered along each side of the armored car, sometimes crouching for cover, but always advancing.

He nodded to himself. Vorster’s loyalists were definitely giving ground, falling back toward Table Mountain.

Taylor lifted his eyes to the flat-topped mountain rising south of the city. The escarpment loomed ominously over Cape Town’s tallest skyscrapers-a massive edifice of jagged rock covered by what looked like a thick layer of fluffy white cloud. A rippling series of red and orange flashes from the summit reminded him that the white haze wasn’t cloud at all. It was smoke from an artillery bombardment-a barrage so intense that it shrouded the entire top of the mountain.

He frowned. His gunners were firing everything they had at the fortified caves and bunkers held by government troops, hoping to knock out the artillery pieces em placed there, but it seemed likely to be a vain effort. Those fortifications were too strong to be suppressed by long-range bombardment. They’d have to be taken in a bloody succession of set-piece infantry assaults.

And that was the problem. Taylor now had enough men under his command to clear the city of Vorster’s troops. But he didn’t have enough infantry, armored vehicles, or artillery to finish the job by seizing Table

Mountain. As a result, the

battle seemed headed for certain stalemate. He and his fellow rebels might control Cape Town, but loyalist artillery batteries and troops trapped on the escarpment would dominate both its harbor and international airport.

Taylor hugged the pavement as more mortar rounds rained down on the gardens ahead, knocking down trees and smashing already shattered greenhouses.

Windblown dust, dirt, and smoke cut visibility to a matter of meters in seconds.

He rolled back into cover, reaching for his command phone. Table Mountain would have to wait. He had more immediate problems.

Behind him, the setting sun dipped lower, dropping steadily toward the western horizon. Night was falling across a South Africa now fully engulfed in bitter civil war.