Vortex

CHAPTER 31 Foothold

DECEMBER 7-SIMONS TOWN NAVAL BASE, CAPE TOWN

“There’s the helicopter. ” Brig. Chris Taylor, commander of the

Independent Cape Province Defense Forces, pointed out over the water. At first, the shape was visible more by the starlight it blocked than as a concrete form-visible just as a small patch of blackness racing low across white-capped water. But the whupping sound of rotor blades made it real.

The helicopter was headed for a pier at the Simonstown Naval Base, an area controlled by his troops, but still in range of the guns on Table

Mountain. In fact, all of Cape Town was in range of those guns, and that was a problem. Vorster’s troops, holed up in the mountain, had made the liberation of Cape Town a hollow victory, because any movement, any sign of organized activity, quickly ended in a storm of shellfire.

For more than three weeks, the whole city had taken a terrible beating.

Its citizens now moved only at night, without lights, and as much as possible, without noise. All those who

“a could had fled to the countryside-something that wasn’t an option for Cape

Town’s black population.

The black and colored population lived in Alexandra township, south of the city, and they depended on the normal commerce of the city for their income. Servants, cleaners, and laborers, they’d been hit the hardest when the daytime shelling started.

Now bands of blacks roved the city, looking for food, money, or anything of value. Transportation was rigidly controlled, and Taylor’s forces were once more employed in trying to preserve order. Those that weren’t busy chasing looters escorted food convoys or formed ai perimeter around Table

Mountain-guarding against a sortie by the besieged forces.

Vorster’s troops were deeply entrenched in a network of improved caves and tunnels bored into solid rock. With little more than a single infantry battalion plus artillery, they’d stood off two determined attacks by Taylor’s much larger forces. Those assaults had claimed so many of his men that he’d given up trying to take the place by storm.

Unfortunately, a conventional siege was certain to be both costly and protracted. He wasn’t completely familiar with the defenses, but it was common knowledge in the Army that the mountain held food and ammunition for several months. Ammunition in abundance, including plenty of shells for their heavy G-5 howitzers. The G-5s, massive 155mm artillery pieces with a forty-kilometer range, were the centerpiece of the holdouts’ defenses.

Well, he thought, with luck and some tact, they could end the siege with

American help. Taylor, his secondin command, Adriaan Spier, and Deputy

Governor Fraser were all going out to meet the American invasion fleet steaming toward the Cape Town coast.

Making sure that his hooded light was pointed out to sea, one of the soldiers escorting Taylor’s party shone a beam toward the advancing aircraft. As if making sure that was the proper recognition signal, the helicopter paused about fifty meters away, hovering over the water.

Phosphorescent foam showed where its powerful rotor wash hit the surface.

It

waited, hanging almost motionless in the air, until the South African signalman pointed his light at a clear section of the pier. Then the aircraft slid forward and came in to land.

The concrete pier was ten meters wide at this point. In earlier days,

Simonstown had served as a base for the Dutch, then the Royal Navy. Now it served what was left of the South African Navy-a force that had shrunk from scores of ships to the present handful of missile boats. Some of those had been lost in the fighting. The rest were hidden along the coast against future need. They would be of little help in assaulting the

Mountain.

As soon as the helicopter settled, Taylor shook a few hands, received heartfelt best wishes from his men, and trotted toward the aircraft, ducking under the still-turning blades. Spier and Fraser were close on his heels, and as they approached, a side door opened, revealing a red-lit interior.

The three men quickly clambered aboard, helped by experienced hands.

Crewmen, expressionless beneath bulky flight helmets, strapped them in.

As soon as they were secure, Taylor felt a steady pressure on his seat and spine. They were airborne.

Just as the helicopter started moving forward, a flash and the roar of an explosion broke the night’s calm. Taylor felt the machine shudder.

Spier, seated beside him, said, “It’s a ranging shot. They must have seen something. “

True. The smallest flicker of movement could attract the attention of the guns hidden in Table Mountain’s tunnels. Even sound could prompt an attack.

A second shell landed closer to the pier than the first. White water spouted high in the air. Taylor swore softly. Even a near miss could tumble the slow-moving helicopter into the ocean.

He felt the helicopter’s engines roar as the pilot fire-walled the throttle. It skimmed over the water, gathering speed. A third round landed almost on top of their landing site, but they were well away, and

Taylor was sure that the men they’d left behind were long gone. You didn’t live long in Cape Town these days without knowing how to take cover.

The helicopter was a troop carrier, a Nighthawk version of the Sikorsky UH-60, equipped with navigation and nightvision gear.

Taylor and the other two rubbernecked for a few moments until an enlisted man handed’ each South African an intercom headset. Removing his beret,

Taylor put it on and heard, “Good morning, gentlemen. Lieutenant Colonel

Haigler, U.S. Marine Corps, at your service.”

Sure that lieutenant colonels did not normally pilot helicopters, Taylor replied, “Good morning, Colonel.”

Taylor, who still thought of himself as a major, fought the urge to call

Haigler “sit.” His commissions as commandant, colonel, and finally brigadier had been earned in combat, in response to the new province’s desperate need for an organized military force. His deputy, Adriaan

Spier, had been a lieutenant and was now a colonel.

“How far is it to your flotilla, Colonel?” asked Fraser.

The American officer’s slow, confident voice filled his earphones.

“About sixty miles-nautical miles. ETA over the task force is in roughly forty minutes.”

Taylor looked back. The dark coast behind them was invisible, and the

Nighthawk skimmed over the dark waves only twenty meters below them.

There were no marks to navigate by, and only fading starlight to see by.

He trusted the pilot’s navigational skills, though. He had to.

After about thirty minutes, the helicopter started climbing. The eastern horizon was already visibly lighter, and the three South Africans heard

Haigler say, “I thought you’d like to have a look before we set down.”

Taylor and his two companions peered out the port windows. They were climbing steadily. His ears popped uncomfortably, and he kept yawning, trying to clear them. Now he knew why so many American fliers seemed to chew gum all the time.

The sun was also climbing to meet them, casting its pale early-morning light farther and farther to the west. Suddenly, what had been a dark and empty seascape was full of gray painted ships.

Taylor was sure they were in some sort of formation, but all he could see was a mass of ships-some small, many large. He picked out what had to be a carrier, and as if to

reinforce the point, two F-14 fighters flew past the helicopter, close enough for a good look but just far enough away to avoid buffeting their craft.

The brigadier began to smell a setup. No doubt the Americans and their

British allies thought an initial display might influence the attitudes of their South African guests. Still, he appreciated the show. If nothing else, Taylor now had a much better idea of the task force’s size and fighting power.

The Nighthawk angled down, and Taylor realized they were not heading for the carrier, but for what had to be a battleship. He had heard and read of these vessels, but he had never seen one, certainly not like this. The warship seemed to symbolize the American intervention. It was massive, powerful, even pretty to look at. He was genuinely impressed.

In a long, slow, smooth arc, the helicopter came in to land on the battleship’s fantail. As soon as it touched down, two lines of Marines ran up, dressed in camouflaged battle dress but still looking crisp and neat despite that.

Fraser stepped out first, followed by Taylor and then Spier. Boatswains’ pipes shrilled, and they stopped momentarily as the Marines lined up to either side presented arms. Taylor and the others were escorted over to a group of officers drawn up on the fantail.

He consciously squared his shoulders. The ceremonies were almost over.

Now they’d get down to work.

Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig eyed the approaching South Africans carefully. They were potential allies, but that alliance was far from automatic. His mind sorted out names, faces, and first impressions while his ears listened to the routine introductions-the Wisconsin’s captain, the commander of the Marines Expeditionary Force, and so on.

He liked what he saw of Taylor. The South African commander was a weathered-looking man, a little younger than Craig, weary, with that same thousand-mile stare he’d seen in Vietnam-the look of a man who’d seen too much combat. Spier was similar, but more enthusiastic. It was clear the mande of responsibility was a heavy burden for the young brigadier.

Fraser was a different sort. Smooth, self-assured, he looked as if he hadn’t missed many meals-despite the shortages Craig had heard about.

Although Fraser was a South African, the general thought he could have stepped out of any city hall or state house in the States. He hated the politician instantly.

Well, it was time to start the festivities, Craig thought. As senior officer he was master of ceremonies.

“Will you gentlemen accompany us to the wardroom? We thought you might like some breakfast before we get down to business.”

Although billed as a training exercise, the gunnery drill was really a demonstration of the battleship’s firepower. An ample, “American-style” breakfast had been followed by a quick tour of the Wisconsin, capped off by this “exercise” firing. Taylor didn’t need the demonstration, but he was happy to watch. He’d be too busy when the Wisconsin actually fired her guns in anger.

The Wisconsin was the centerpiece of Taylor’s plan for clearing Table

Mountain-the answer to his prayers. Air attacks had proved futile against the recessed, heavily armored gun positions. The battleship’s one-ton shells were both precise and powerful enough to knock out the guns. In addition, sixteen-inch shells were cheap, and the Wisconsin could pound the battery again and again, until it was gone.

Craig and Capt. Thomas Malloy, the Wisconsin’s skipper, were having an animated discussion about gun safety and backblast, and Taylor sagged against the railing and tried to rest. His morning on the battleship had been his first day of relative peace since the civil war started.

He looked up as Craig nodded to his guests.

“Gentlemen, I recommend that we remain inside the bridge during the firing. “

Taylor was reluctant to leave the bridge wing’s fresh air and wider view, but he sensed that Craig knew his business.

As soon as they stepped inside the bridge, sailors rushed forward to swing the armored doors shut, dogging them tightly. During their brief tour, Taylor had noticed the heavy steel forming both the doors and the bulkheads they were set

in. With its six inches of all-around steel protection and splinter-proof glass windows, Malloy referred to the bridge as part of his ship’s armored “citadel,” a term that seemed highly appropriate.

Responding to Malloy’s orders, the Wisconsin changed course. As the ship turned, Taylor saw its massive forward gun turrets start moving. A ringing alarm bell warned anyone foolish enough to be on deck to keep clear of the moving machinery.

Each turret swung out to starboard, pointing harmlessly out to sea. Craig explained that an artificial target was being fed into gunnery plot, many decks below, and that the guns would fire a salvo at this imaginary enemy.

Muzzles whined upward on the two forward turrets.

Taylor heard a “Stand by!” from the phone talker, followed by a shrill beep-beep, and the second beep ignited an explosion that filled his world with sound.

Smoke and flame splashed off the armored glass windows in front of him, and his feet carried the firing shock up his legs and spine until it shook inside his head. Nine sixteen inch shells, each weighing one ton, howled twenty miles downrange. Each shell was twenty times larger than those fired by the guns on Table Mountain. For a brief instant, the whole battleship seemed to stagger and rock back under the force of its broadside.

The bridge windows cleared as the Wisconsin’s motion carried it out of the smoke cloud. Mist still streamed from the gun tubes. In the silence following the explosion, Taylor turned to the Marine general and nodded firmly.

“That should do the job, I would think “

WARDROOM, USS VWSCONSIN

Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig wanted to rub his eyes, get up and walk around, and take a breath of fresh air. He wanted to leave, to get back to his command center where the only problems he faced involved killing an armed and alert enemy.

Fraser was speaking.

“General Craig, I must insist that your government has already recognized our government by our reception here. We welcome that recognition and ask only that you formalize it before we proceed with any military planning. “

Fraser had been insisting on the same thing for the past two hours, using fine points of international law, the Bible, and his own rhetorical skills to hammer his point home: the Cape Province was now an independent nation.

But Craig had other things he wanted-no, needed-to discuss: logistical support, communications, intelligence on the enemy forces. Fraser’s insistence on diplomatic recognition had come as a complete surprise.

There had been no indication to anyone that this would be on the agenda.

The politician wanted Craig’s assurances that any civil affairs personnel landed would act in accordance with Cape Province law. He wanted Craig’s promise that the U.S. consulate would be reopened soon as a full embassy, and he asked for the general’s agreement in principle on an aid and mutual defense treaty-all prior to landing any American or British troops.

Internally, Craig fumed. It was a stickup, plain and simple. His forces had to land at Cape Town, and quickly, if there was going to be anything left to save in South Africa. Instead, the Cape Town authorities seemed to be more concerned with assuring their own political survival.

Fraser wasn’t leaving much doubt about that.

“The Cape has always had a different cultural makeup and a different political philosophy from the rest of South Africa. We’ve no use for these stiff-necked Boers. And this is a historic opportunity to chart the course of our country. Free of outside control, free to develop as we want. I tell you, General, apartheid has already ended here.”

That might be true, Craig thought, but he wasn’t buying it. He’d seen the hard numbers during his Pentagon briefings. The Afrikaners had been working to fragment their population for years-the old divide-and-conquer rule. So it was natural that the Englishdescended Cape Towners should want to go

it alone. Facts didn’t take much notice of wishes, though. The provincial economies were too interdependent. South Africa’s separate pieces simply could not stand on their own.

Fraser’s quiet, impassioned, and utterly self-interested tirade went on and on.

So far, the two military officers, Taylor and Spier, had sat quietly and uncomfortably throughout the entire discussion. At one point, Craig asked

Taylor for his views.

Fraser had interrupted as the brigadier opened his mouth to speak.

“We have the full support of our military in this matter, General.”

Right. Craig remembered the fat briefcase that Spier had carried aboard under his arm. It lay on the table now, next to Taylor’s elbow, and he had to force himself to stop staring at it. Everything his men needed was in there, he was sure of it.

He was also sure these two soldiers were ready to talk business, but

Fraser wanted his deal first.

Craig cleared his throat.

“LA)ok, these are all points that you can iron out with our State Department later. Right now, I need to work with

Brigadier Taylor and his people, coordinating the military aspects of this operation.”

Fraser was obstinate.

“And I insist, General, that before you can help us you must state whom you are going to help-and to what end.”

Craig bristled. Deputy governor or not, who the hell did this guy think he was?

“And I am not empowered to recognize a foreign country, Mr.

Fraser.”

“But you already have, by receiving us in our official capacity. “

Aaarrggh. Craig unclenched his teeth long enough to spit out a quick,

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Back in a moment.” He left the wardroom for his own sea cabin. As he stepped into the passageway, his chief of staff,

Gen. George Skiles, intercepted him.

Skiles was an Army brigadier general, part of the “joint,” all-service staff Craig had inherited as part of his new post. A good administrator, he’d taken a lot of the paperwork load off Craig’s shoulders.

“Well?”

“I just got off the secure phone with the State Department. They say that they have almost no information on the “Independent Cape Government,” and that they have every confidence in your judgment. “

Nuts. Twentyfive years of micromanagement and the one time he needed them, the Foggy Bottom boys left him alone. He shook his head. Two things were certain. They’d show up again as soon as he worked out an acceptable deal. And if he screwed up, he’d hang alone.

“All right.” Craig walked down the passageway and entered his cabin. He thought for a few minutes, washed his face, took a deep breath, and summoned Skiles.

“Get Taylor out of the wardroom, by himself, and bring him up to the bridge wing. “

“Fraser won’t like you talking to him alone.”

Craig frowned.

“I don’t care. Tell Taylor he’s got a message from his wife. Think of something. Keep the good deputy governor busy. I won’t be long.”

Skiles nodded and left.

Craig climbed the two decks up to the bridge wing and waited, but not for long. Metallic footsteps clattering up the ladder preceded Taylor. The

South African joined him at the railing, his uniform tunic fluttering in the wind.

Taylor’s tone was stiffly formal.

“I came because you requested it, sir, but I will not negotiate with you separately. Mr. Fraser is our sole voice in these matters.”

Craig nodded quietly.

“I understand, Brigadier.”

“And even if I were to come to some sort of separate agreement, I would not have the power to impose it on the civilian authorities.”

“Is that true, Brigadier?” Craig asked.

“After all, you control Cape

Town’s military forces.”

“I will not use those forces to interfere with civil authority again.

“

Taylor’s tone softened.

“I am sure we share a certain dislike for politicians “-he smiled—but they hold the reins, and any other way leads to chaos.”

Craig matched his smile.

“I agree. But I asked you up here because I want you to understand my situation. To

give you information that only a military man can appreciate. “

Taylor arched an eyebrow.

Craig spoke carefully, picking his way through a verbal minefield. He wanted this man as an ally-not pointing a rifle from the other side of the beach.

“I have at my disposal an immense force-more than a division of embarked Marines, air, and artillery. At least two more divisions are at airfields in the States waiting for word that D. F. Malan airport is open. Those men can begin arriving within twenty-four hours of the time

I give that word.”

Taylor nodded. America’s rapid deployment capabilities were widely known.

“You also know we’re on a timetable-a tight one. And that timetable was drawn up in response to allied needs, not the needs of the “Independent

Cape Province’ or the rest of South Africa. We’re burning precious time right now.”

Again Taylor nodded. The Cubans were already hundreds of kilometers inside the Transvaal region. Unless Craig and his men got ashore soon,

Castro’s two remaining armored columns would reach Pretoria,

Johannesburg, and the Witwatersrand minerals complex well ahead of them.

Craig paused. Now for the hard part.

“I’ll be blunt, Brigadier. You know the strengths and abilities of your forces, and you’ve seen some of our capabilities. Now, I want your forces working with us, but if we can’t reach agreement soon, I’ll land my troops without your approval and proceed on my own. “

“We would have to fight you.”

“Yes. And you and I would both lose men. And time, which would cost more lives, later on. And I’d win.”

Taylor nodded, not bothering to hide the truth. His forces, short on everything except confusion, could not stop the Americans. He could slow them down, inflict casualties, and bog them down in house-to-house fighting-but to what end?

Cape Town had always been a beautiful city. He hated the holdouts on

Table Mountain for what they were doing to the city and its people. That would be nothing compared to a full-scale invasion. Unbidden, pictures of the damage the Wisconsin’s shells could cause flashed into his mind.

Craig had been leaning on the rail. He turned now to face Taylor, and he moved half a step toward the younger man.

“The only reason I’ve put up with Fraser’s bullshit this long is because I want to avoid bloodshed between people who should be friends. But I can’t stall out here forever.

We’re getting close to the point where lost time means more than lost lives.”

Taylor stared back at him, his face held rigid.

“All I need is the airfield. I don’t care what shape the rest of the town is in.” Craig paused.

“That sounds cruel, but the alternative is even worse. Brigadier, you’re a professional, and I respect professionals of any nation. You know the score, and you know your duty. But I can’t afford to waste any more time.”

Craig stopped speaking and turned back to the rail. There was a somber expression on his face, and Taylor wrestled with words, looking for the best reply. Finally, he said nothing and turned to go back to the wardroom.

A few seconds after Taylor’s footsteps faded, Skiles appeared on the ladder.

“General, do you need anything?”

“Ask for a recess. Give the South Africans about fifteen minutes alone, then we’ll start again.”

Craig walked into the wardroom at the appointed time to find a circle of expectant faces waiting for him. His staff looked weary but hopeful, confident that he could find some solution. Taylor and Spier were clearly worried. Fraser, on the other hand, seemed genuinely angry, but he also seemed able to control his rage with a politician’s skill.

Craig sat down heavily, and Fraser spoke, carefully choosing each word.

“General Craig, we have been discussing the issue of the Cape Province’s sovereignty. While we feel it is vital to our interests, we do not wish to delay your essential military operations any longer. Are you willing to state that you are at least unopposed to the concept of an independent

Cape Province?”

Craig was tempted to throw him a bone, but he was angered that this politician was still attempting to drag him into some sort of last-minute commitment.

“Mr. Fraser, I will only state that the political status of the Cape Province is of no concern to me, one way or the other. ” He leaned toward Fraser, looking him in the eyes.

“My only responsibility is to my men and the accomplishment of my mission here.”

He leaned back.

“State Department negotiators can discuss the matter with you at length-once we are ashore.”

Craig caught a flash in the man’s eyes, but Fraser only nodded.

“Very well. Then we are agreed.”

There was a sudden bustle in the room. Skiles slipped a typed agenda in front of the general, and Craig spotted Spier handing Taylor a fat folder. Time to get down to business.

DECEMBER 8-C GUN, 1 ST CAPE ARTILLERY, TABLE MOUNTAIN GARRISON

Sgt. Franz Skuller slept next to his gun. It wasn’t devotion to the thing.

After weeks of being besieged, and thousands of rounds fired, the sergeant secretly hoped the blasted piece would break-split its barrel from muzzle to breech, or something else so catastrophic it would be beyond repair.

But the garrison was badly overcrowded, and space was at a premium.

Alerts were constant, and there wasn’t time to run through a maze of passages and still get the first shot off quickly. No, sleeping next to his gun was really the path of least resistance. Anyway, he was so tired he could have slept anywhere.

Skuller stirred in his sleep, reacting to a noise, but it was only

Langford and Hiller, performing one of the countless maintenance tasks that kept the gun in working order. Once the clank of tools and the men’s voices would have awakened him, but he had long since ceased being a light sleeper.

During the initial confusion of the mutiny, he and his gun crew had fought for three days straight. Skuller was part of the existing garrison. He’d watched from above as troops loyal to Vorster’s government had fought for control of the city-using Table Mountain’s commanding position as the anchor of their defense. But they’d been defeated, and he’d also seen their fighting withdrawal turn into a scramble for cover in the mountain’s underground complex.

Since then his crew had been kept hopping by constant alerts, raids, bombardments, and fire missions. His gun was one of six buried in Table

Mountain, and not a night had passed when he hadn’t fired at some target in the city below.

His gun had begun life as a standard G-5 artillery piece. It had a 155mm bore-just a little wider than six inches, moderately big as artillery goes. The G-5, built by South Africa’s ARMSCOR, was probably the best weapon of its class in the world. A special shell design, stolen from the

Americans, combined with other improvements, had resulted in a gun of phenomenal accuracy and range. Some G-5s had even scored first-round hits on targets forty kilometers away.

Normally, the G-5 was towed from place to place, but since these guns were “static,” permanently em placed its wheels had been removed. Now it sat on twin rails that ran the length of the tunnel. Electric motors ran the weapon forward and back on those rails. They also elevated and traversed the gun automatically, in response to signals from a fire control computer buried deep in the complex. Laser range finders and fire control radars sited around the circumference of the mountain fed target ranges to the computers, ensuring that if the first salvo didn’t hit, the second would.

When not in use, C Gun was pulled back into the tunnel and an armor-steel blast door covered the tunnel mouth. As soon as the gun was needed, the counterbalanced door swung up and the gun ran out. Its own shield neatly fitted the opening, providing some protection for its crew.

There were motorized ammunition hoists, a filtered ventilation system;

everything needed to defend Cape Townor hold it at bay Skuller smiled grimly in his sleep, wrapped in his blankets. Yes, they’d been driven in here, but he’d seen the storerooms and magazines. They could hold out for months, maybe another two or three if the officers he’d heard were right. He and his comrades had more food than the citizens below.

Successive assaults and raids had all failed to dislodge them, and

Skuller knew that once the Cubans had been wiped out in the north,

Vorster would deal harshly with Cape Town’s rebels. All they had to do was hold out until then.

An earth-shattering clanging filled the tunnel, echoing off the rock walls and filling his head. It was mercifully short, but Skuller still took his time rolling out of his blankets and stretching. Just because he could steep on a rock floor didn’t mean that it felt great. The kink in his back felt as if it would never go away.

Privates Langford and Hiller quickly finished their work as the rest of the gun crew arrived at a dead run. Skuller hooked up his headset at the front of the tunnel as the gun began rolling forward down its rails.. “C

Gun on line, sir.”

“Look alive down there, Sergeant.” Lieutenant Dassen’s voice carried excitement.

“There are American ships approaching. “

The Americans! So the rumors had been true. Skuller smiled. This would be different. A moving ship would be a real challenge, although Table

Mountain’s guns had never had problems engaging trucks or other moving targets.

C Gun whined forward and tripped a release built into the rail. Smoothly, the inches-thick blast door swung up, letting in sunlight. Skuller filled his lungs with the cool morning air. Once the gun started firing, the ventilators wouldn’t keep the stink of the gun’s propellant from filling the tunnel.

The 155mm gun’s muzzle and then the front two-thirds of its tube emerged into the sunlight. His brief dose of sunlight ended as the shield skid into place, and he heard latches on the rail lock the gun carriage into firing position.

-C gun is in battery,” Skull eT reported over the intercom.

“Ready to fire.”

USS VOSCONSIN

Capt. Thomas Malloy, USN, wished he’d been able to persuade Craig to leave the ship with the South Africans. Most of his staff had gone back to the

Mount Whitney, but the general had insisted, as only generals can, that he needed to observe the bombardment firsthand. In fact, only a tour of the Mk40 gun director had convinced him that there wasn’t room inside for him to watch from there.

Of course, Craig might just have wanted to see the director, but Malloy didn’t think the general was pulling his leg.

“Twenty-seven miles to Green Point, Captain,” reported the phone talker.

“Very well, sound general quarters. ” The Klaxon’s echoes throughout the ship were almost an anticlimax. Having been warned earlier about the upcoming bombardment, most of the crew were already at their stations.

Gunner’s mates had been sweating over their machinery half the night, making sure that every piece of equipment functioned perfectly, and practicing the countless actions necessary to send a one-ton shell twenty miles with pinpoint accuracy.

A boatswain’s mate handed Malloy his helmet, mask, and gloves. Every crewman was required to wear protective equipment at battle stations, and

Malloy believed in setting a good example. The cloth hood and gloves were good protection against flash burns, and even in the summer heat, nobody with any sense complained about wearing them.

The face mask covered the wearer’s features, but Malloy knew the officers and enlisted men on the general quarters bill well by voice alone. If he did forget, the helmets were labeled with the wearer’s position, HELMSMAN

Or NAVIGATOR, for example. Malloy’s helmet read SKIPPER.

Craig accepted a spare set, and with the boatswain’s help, donned the gear. Someone had turned a spare helmet over to the Wisconsin’s Marine detachment, and the steel pot had been painted in camouflage colors to match his fatigues, then adorned with three black plastic stars and the

Marine Corps insignia. As Malloy watched, the short, stocky Marine general donned the helmet with a smile and a shake of his head.

The phone talker turned his phone set over to the man who held the position at general quarters, and the new talker reported the Wisconsin’s progress toward battle-ready status.

“Damage control is on the line.

Engineering reports all boilers lit off, ready to respond to all bells.

Gunnery reports all

turrets manned, all mounts manned, all guns in automatic.” His tone was calm, cold, clear, and completely factual. A good talker never let emotion cloud his repeated messages.

A final report was more immediate.

“Electronic Warfare module reports a

J-band radar bearing zero nine five.”

Probably a gunfire control radar, Malloy thought. The bearing was consistent with the mountain. Well, he hadn’t really expected to catch them napping.

Malloy watched the clock. Three and a half minutes after he’d ordered general quarters, the talker reported, “All stations manned and ready.

Damage control reports condition zebra set throughout the ship. ” They were ready, all right. Clearing for action usually took five minutes or more. Still, his crew was helping him look good in front of the general.

Malloy needed to take control of the ship’s movements.

“This is the captain. I have the deck and the conn. Navigator, what’s the range to

Green Point?”

“Twentyfive point four miles to Green Point, sir, twenty eight point two to Table Mountain. Recommend we come right three degrees to zero nine seven true.”

“Very.well. Helm, come right to zero nine seven.” Malloy turned to the 21MC intercom and pressed the button that allowed him to talk to the combat information center.

“Harry, tell our screen to split off as planned. “

The radio speaker came to life as his coded signal was transmitted. The

Wisconsin’s screen of three frigates and two destroyers normally surrounded her, protecting the battleship from air and submarine attack.

They wouldn’t be able to help with this job, though, and some of them couldn’t even keep up with the battleship at top speed.

As his escorts turned away, Malloy ordered, “All engines ahead flank.”

The four ships of the Iowa class were rated at thirty-three knots, but his engineers had promised him thirty-five, and the captain believed them. He planned to close on Table Mountain at high speed, firing as soon as his ship came within maximum range. There wasn’t any point in messing about. Malloy wanted to go in fast, hit the Boers hard, and get it over with.

Even the weather was helping. The sea was relatively smooth, with waves no more than four feet high and the wind at less than fifteen knots-conditions the Navy labeled Sea State Three. They wouldn’t interfere with the big ship’s progress or rock the vessel beyond the capabilities of its gun stabilizers.

Malloy stepped out on the bridge wing and looked aft. Four sleek warships, tiny when compared to his battlewagon, were falling away behind. One ship remained. USS Scott, a Kiddclass guided-missile destroyer, would fall in astern and to seaward of the Wisconsin-to protect her from air attack while she worked. Picked for her high speed,

Scott had five inch guns that couldn’t possibly reach Table Mountain, so she’d just have to wait and watch.

The navigator reported, “Range to Green Point is twenty one point two miles. On course.”

Table Mountain was a little under three miles from Green Point, which showed up clearly on radar and thus made a better place from which to mark the ship’s position. Table Mountain’s guns, if intelligence reports could be believed, had a range of twenty-one and a half miles.

The Wisconsin’s current course took her straight toward the mountain. On this heading, her rear turret, one-third of her firepower, could not be brought to bear. When she was in range, Malloy planned to turn his ship’s bow thirty degrees to one side. That would bring the aft turret into play, while still letting the Wisconsin continue to close with her target. Anytime enemy fire got too hot, he would put the ship’s rudder over-” tacking” to the other side of her base course, continuing to close.

A fountain of white and gray water erupted to port, almost drowning out the navigator’s latest report.

“Range twenty one point five miles. ” The shell burst was close, no more than a hundred yards away.

Right on the money, Malloy thought. He was in the maddening position of being outranged by a six-inch-gun shore battery. It was time to give them a harder target.

“Left standard rudder. Steady on course zero eight eight.”

At thirty-plus knots, the eight-hundred-and-ninety-foot

ship responded quickly to its helm. She would never be as nimble as a destroyer or a frigate, but Malloy loved his ship’s feel as she lumed.

The rules were simple. Head toward the last shell splash so that the enemy’s corrections would move his next shot off target Occasionally make small turns, since they might not be noticed and the enemy might assume you were still on your old course. Finally, stay off the cardinal points of the compass, since that might let an enemy guess your course.

At least running through standard tactics kept his mind busy while he waited for the next ranging shot. Time of flight at this range was almost a full minute-a fact that gave every potential target plenty of time to think about the next salvo between corrections.

A second shell splash appeared, this time to starboard, and closer. Malloy waited approximately twenty seconds, then ordered, “Right full rudder, steady on course one two six.”

The massive vessel actually heeled over in the hard highspeed turn and quickly steadied up on her new course. Half a minute later, a ragged line of shell bursts tore the sea apart, well off to port. Those bastards would have to work harder than that to catch him. Malloy felt as if he were in a pitchers’ duel. He looked over at Craig, who nodded in approval.

A loudspeaker mounted on the overhead carried the gunnery officer’s voice.

“Director reports we are in range, all turrets unmasked. Request permission to fire.”

Malloy pressed the intercom switch.

“Batteries released.

Nine sixteen-inch guns fired simultaneously, bellowing in a thundering crack of noise and smoke that made him think he’d unleashed a thunderstorm.

But would the lightning strike where he wanted it?

Normally a ship twenty miles away would be invisible from the bridge, hidden by atmospheric haze and the curvature of the earth. During World War II, big-gun ships Re the Wisconsin had al I carried their own spotter planes, launched from catapults, to adjust their gunfire.

The target this time, though, was Table Mountain, with a recorded elevation of 3,566 feet. Its rocky, barren cliffs rose straight up out of the sea, visible to the naked eye. Malloy watched the summit carefully through his binoculars-waiting for his shells to arrive.

Another Afrikaner salvo landed, a half dozen splashes a hundred yards behind them. Ordering their speed down to thirty-three knots, Malloy also changed course to zero three three. That should throw them off, he thought, and he continued to watch the target.

At the Wisconsin’s stern, its aft turret swiveled around, its guns now pointing forward and to starboard. The crews inside worked frantically, bringing massive shells into alignment with gun bores and ramming them home. Bags of propellant powder were carefully loaded behind each projectile. Finally, the heavy breech was closed and locked. It took over a hundred men, working in close harmony, to serve the guns of each three-gun turret.

Malloy heard “Splash” over the loudspeaker just as the upper third of the mountain disappeared-enveloped in a cloud of smoke, flame, and dust.

Cheers filled the bridge. Malloy turned round.

“Quiet down. Did you really think we couldn’t hit a mountain?” He kept his tone light, but the message was clear.

Malloy heard a Klaxon and braced for his battlewagon’s second salvo. It roared out and he hoped his guns were having an effect. Time to start thinking about a course change again.

TABLE MOUNTAIN

For the first time during the siege, Sergeant Skuller was worried. They’d endured artillery bombardments, commando raids, even attacks by aircraft.

The Mountain and its garrison had withstood all of them-sometimes with ease.

They’d never fired at a naval target, though. During peacetime, his battery had trained against target barges, but they’d been slow-moving creatures, towed in a straight line by a civilian tug. This battleship, though, maneuvered and dodged and worst of all, shot back.

And what shots! In five minutes of action, they’d received seven or

eight tooth-rattling salvos. Lieutenant Dassen reported that they were being hit by sixteen-inch shells! The Afrikaner artilleryman looked at his own gun and tried to imagine the size of such a projectile. His eyes widened when he visualized the size of the gun you’d need, and the crew you’d have to have to serve such a weapon.

Skuller shook off his speculation and concentrated on the job at hand.

At least his G-5 could fire twice as fast as those on that ship, and rate of fire counted for a lot in a gunnery duel. After all, he told himself, they only needed one or two hits.

LISS WSCONSIN

Malloy had long since ceased bracing himself for each salvo from the guns.

Keeping one arm wrapped around a bracket, he stayed close to the 21MC intercom speaker and concentrated on dodging the increasingly accurate shell bursts.

After a little more than ten minutes, they’d closed another six miles on the target, dropping the range to about thirteen and a half miles. His guns grew more accurate as the range decreased, but the enemy’s accuracy was improving as well. A shorter range meant a smaller time of flight, less dispersion in the fall of shot, and even reduced error in the range-finding equipment.

The Wisconsin’s guns fired again, and Malloy ordered another course change, this time back to a starboard “tack.” The trick was to get the ship’s rudder over and steady up quickly. The turret crews were reloading while the guns pivoted to the opposite side, and if everything went by the numbers, rate of fire wasn’t affected in the slightest.

Another line of shell bursts tore up the ocean, close aboard, just off the port side. A fraction of a second later, the water on either side of the Wisconsin vanished in tower columns of yellowish spray. The ship shook violently as a ball of black smoke and orange flame cloaked her forecastle. They’d been hit!

Malloy leaned forward, peering out through the bridge windows. He couldn’t see the damage. Even with the wind created by the battleship’s speed, the shell smoke streamed astern only slowly.

As if to reassure him, all three turrels fired on schedule, and Malloy ordered a change in speed and direction almost by reflex. When the gun smoke cleared, the site of the shell hit was visible-a small, ugly hole forward of the Wisconsin’s Number One turret, slightly to port.

It was a solid hit, and he shuddered to think of the damage their escort destroyer, the Scott, would have suffered from that impact. The

Wisconsin, though, had three armored decks. The top deck, the one penetrated, was three inches thick. A second right below the first was twice as thick. All told, nine inches of solid armor had easily stopped the force of the 155mm, exploding shell.

But not all of his ship’s vital areas were so well protected. Malloy could only hope there wouldn’t be many more like that.

TABLE MOUNTAIN

Sergeant Skuller listened to the news with incredulity. The A Gun had taken a direct hit on its gun shield. The impact had pushed the thirteen-ton artillery piece twenty meters back down the tunnel, killing its crew instantly and mixing them with their weapon in an unholy tangle of metal and flesh.

Another enemy salvo shook C Gun’s tunnel. The mountain could absorb a lot of punishment, thank God. The little bit that reached them was bad enough.

“Calling C Gun. Are you all right?” Lieutenant Dassen sounded shaken.

Skuller waited a beat as Hiller pressed the firing switch. The gun’s breech leapt backward. Even when wearing protective earphones the noise was almost deafening.

“We’re fine here, sir.”

“D Gun is out of action. A shell in that last salvo collapsed the tunnel on them.”

D Gun was right next door. Skuller’s eyes leapt to the rock ceiling above them. The rough surface was covered with air

ducts, water pipes, and electrical cables. He scanned the ceiling for any sign of damage. Nothing was visible.

Another salvo from the American battleship hammered the mountain above them. Skuller was too busy readying his gun for its next shot to notice the network of fine cracks spreading through the ceiling overhead. They’d been invisible when he looked before, more weaknesses in the rock crystal than actual cracks. But the sledgehammer pounding created more and more fractures. Every linked crack weakened the overhead rock’s ability to support its own weight.

Skuller continued to listen on the headphones and report to his crew while he supervised the gun’s firing. Dassen, in his observation bunker, was calling the fall of shot, making adjustments, and informing his surviving crews of the results. Isolated in rock holes, with only a small sighting telescope for each gun, they needed the big picture to do their best.

The picture wasn’t improving. Dassen had reported three hits, so far, and several near-misses, but without visible effect. The Afrikaner gun crews were beginning to realize the power of the floating fortress that had decided to attack them.

Another salvo from the battleship rocked the mountain, and Skuller heard a scream on the line.

“We’ve lost E Gun.” Dassen didn’t elaborate further.

The cracks in the ceiling continued to grow. They were clearly visible now, if only Skuller had taken the time to look up.

Forty seconds later, nine more shells arrived, streaking in at more than 1,900 feet per second. Each an nor-piercing projectile weighed 2,700 pounds and bored thirty feet into the hard rock before exploding. Adding to the tremendous kinetic energy already possessed by each shell, 4,500 pounds of

TNT detonated in nine separate explosions, sending pressure waves surging outward through the rock.

One shell slammed into the cliff just ten meters away from C Gun and almost directly overhead. The shock was strong enough to rattle the gun on its rails. Without the locks holding it in place, the G-5 would have leapt off and smashed into one of the tunnel walls.

Thrown to the floor by the pounding, deafening impact,

Skuller and his men scrambled to their feet and raced forward to check their weapon for damage. But as the sergeant bent over C Gun’s delicate sighting mechanism, a small piece of rock pattered off his shoulder. As he looked up at the ceiling, reacting to the impact, a second chunk rattled off the gun barrel, followed immediately by a third. Realization came, and on its heels, panic.

He ripped off his phone set.

“Out! Get out, now!”

But as he looked up to see how much time they had, the web of cables and pipes overhead was already falling-torn from the ceiling by man-sized chunks of rock. Skuller managed just two steps before his head and chest were crushed. Only Private Hiller made it to safety to report on the fate of C Gun and its eight-man crew.

USS MSCONSIN

“Sir, the gunnery officer reports no firing from the mountain for five minutes now.”

“Very well. Cease fire.” A rolling blast from the battleship’s three gun turrets punctuated Malloy’s order, and the talker quickly relayed his command before the guns were reloaded.

The last wisps of gun smoke trailed away, and Malloy took a deep breath.

It would be a long time before the acrid powder smell was out of his nose, or his clothing. But he had other things to worry about right now.

He turned from the bridge windows.

“Navigator, course to the mountain?”

“Zero eight three, sir.”

“Helm, steer zero eight three. Indicate flank speed. Director, keep mounts one and two trained on the target. ” Malloy wasn’t going to give

Table Mountain’s defenders a chance to surprise him. He planned to run in fast. The Wisconsin would take station ten thousand yards off the beach. If anyone on the mountain fired again, he’d give them all nine guns at point-blank range.

Besides, his job wasn’t finished yet.

Malloy looked away from the gyro repeater to see Craig

studying the mountain. Dust and the smoke of fires started by their bombardment still obscured most of its heavily scarred surface. The Navy captain raised his own binoculars to the area.

Men and vehicles were visible between the columns of smoke, advancing slowly up the mountain along winding roads-Taylor’s Cape Province infantry were making their assault.

There were still defenders up in the tunnels and bunkers, though. The

Cape troops were moving slowly-pinned down from time to time by heavy machinegun and rifle fire. Even without its heavy guns, Table Mountain would be a tough nut to crack.

“Sir, lookouts report aircraft approaching from astern.”

Craig and Malloy stepped out onto the bridge wing to watch as a cloud of aircraft appeared over the horizon. As they closed, Malloy identified them as Marine Ospreys. The amphibious assault ship Saipan had launched two dozen Ospreys carrying two companies of U.S. Marines. The tilt-rotor aircraft were headed for the top of Table Mountain.

A flight of four AV-8B Harriers screamed past the battleship. Loaded with bombs and gun pods, they would hit any remaining defenders on top of the mountain-covering the LZ while the Marines landed.

Malloy’s grim smile matched Craig’s. Caught between two advancing forces, with the Wisconsin’s guns and Marine fighters in support, the Afrikaners would have nowhere to go. They’d have to surrender-or die in place.

For all practical purposes, the battle for Cape Town was over.

DECEMBER I O-TRANSIT CAMP, 101 ST AIR ASSAULT DIVISION, NEAR THE D.

F.

MALAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, CAPE TOWN

The Marine helicopter touched down in a cloud of hot dust and wind. Its rotors were still turning as Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig,

flanked by his chief of staff and intelligence officer, jumped from the machine and marched over to a knot of men waiting near a long barbed wire fence. Craig noted that there were Marines, Army personnel, and South

African soldiers present. He hoped that was a good sign.

“Good morning, sir.” The senior officer, an Army lieutenant colonel, saluted, and Craig returned it quickly, still walking. The officer, a slim man with a carefully trimmed crew cut and a small scar on his chin, fell in beside him.

Ahead lay a massive tent city, still growing if the frantically working construction teams were any indication. Some men were erecting tents while others built more-permanent structures-mostly prefab hangars and maintenance sheds for the 101st’s helicopter fleet. Other troops were digging emplacements for heavy weapons at regular intervals along the fence line-an action prompted by last night’s incident.

“Over here, sir.” The party followed the fence line to a stretch of wire that had a six-foot gap cut in it. A row of bodies lay off to one side, covered by a green, Army-issue tarpaulin.

As Craig’s group approached, a young Army private standing near the fence came to attention and saluted. The lieutenant colonel nodded in his direction.

“This is PFC Moffett, General. “

Then he turned to the private.

“At ease, Moffett. Tell the general about last night.”

Clearly nervous in the presence of so much rank, Moffett tried his best to report.

“Sir! I was assigned the midnight to-oh-four-hundred guard post last night, the ninth of December, when I detected unauthorized personnel near the fence. When I ordered them to halt, they engaged me with unauthorized small-arms fire. So I was forced to return fire while calling for the corporal of the guard.”

Craig fought down a sudden grin.

“Unauthorized” small arms fire? He’d have to remember that one.

“Good work, son. You did the right things at the right time. Were you nervous?”

The private relaxed slightly and turned his head to look at

Craig.

“Nervous, sir? I was scared shitless!” Suddenly remembering whom he was speaking to, he braced, exclaiming, “Oh, fuck! I mean, excuse me, sir!”

Craig’s grin broke out into the open.

“Don’t worry, Corporal. We need men who do their job even when they’re scared. ” He glanced at the Army officer beside him.

“I think we can forgive Corporal Moffett’s language, this time.

We need NCOs who can think on their feet. Right, Colonel?”

The man nodded.

“Definitely, sir. ” He jerked his head to one side. Moffett took the hint, saluted again, and sidled away, grinning at his good fortune.

Craig turned his gaze on the row of dead men. There were four of them, and the bare feet sticking out from under the tarpaulin showed that they were black.

Soldiers pulled back the sheet, revealing four young African men, all dressed in fatigue-style uniforms of mixed cut and color. Moffett had shot three of them, the Army officer explained. The fourth had been killed by another guard as he attempted to flee.

“All our sentries are equipped with nightvision gear, General. I don’t think they were ready for that.”

And Craig was not ready for black guerrillas.

“Who were they?” he asked.

“What were they trying to do?”

The lieutenant colonel shrugged.

“We didn’t find any documents, but one of them had an ANC pin on his shirt. Other than that slim link, nothing.” He frowned down at the row of corpses.

“As for what they were up to? Well, they had three AK-47s, one RPG launcher, and some satchel charges. And this part of the wire is opposite our helicopter park. That’s a pretty juicy target for a sabotage attack, sir. “

Craig nodded reluctantly.

“Double your guards. We shouldn’t expect them all to have Corporal Moffett’s aim.”

He turned to the staff officers with him.

“Increase security at all our camps. I don’t want any frigging Beiruts on my watch, understand?”

They nodded. Nobody in the U.S. military took the threat of terrorist attacks lightly.

Craig spun back to face the Army lieutenant colonel.

“Send out a tracking party right away. See if you can pick up any further information about these guys-where they came from,

if they had any help.” Addressing the party as a whole, he said, “We’re not here to hunt down the ANC, but by God, we will protect our own people.”

Turning away, Craig headed for the helicopter. Shaking his head, he muttered under his breath, “Sounds good, anyway. “

Another complication.

As his helicopter lifted off and headed back to the Mount Whitney, he cursed his luck. Cape Town was supposed to be a safe haven, a place where his men could prepare for their real job. While he didn’t view his primary mission as “liberating South Africa’s black population,” certainly booting out Vorster should be good news for them. Were these guerrillas working with the Cubans, or did they just hate armed strangers in their country?

New contingents of troops were landing constantly, crowding camps that were springing up like plants after a desert rain. Every airfield in the area was so choked with military aircraft that the precious engineer units had been diverted to expanding one of them.

Craig closed his eyes for a brief moment’s rest. Just coordinating this buildup was an exhausting, but vital, job. And now he faced this new distraction. Ashore among a fragmented and violent population, he longed for the relief of open combat.

DECEMBER 12-CNN HEADLINE NEWS

A blond, thirtyish announcer sat before a now-familiar map of sub-Saharan

Africa.

“The American buildup in South Africa continues, amid criticism both at home and abroad. For different reasons, Senator Steven Travers of

Nevada and Soviet foreign minister Alexei Tumansky both released statements today condemning U.S. involvement in the region.”

The scene shifted to show Tumansky in front of the United Nations building, surrounded by aides and reporters. Bundled in an elegant overcoat and fur cap, the minister spoke earnestly.

“Our resolution is intended to call world attention to

the West’s intervention in support of the South African government.

“

As if on cue, one of the reporters surrounding him asked, “Washington has stated that it intends to remove the Vorster regime from office. Don’t both you and Washington have the same goal?”

“Washington merely intends to restore its own version of ‘law and order’ to South Africa. The socialist armies now liberating the country intend to let the people decide their new government. “

The scene changed again, this time to show Senator Travers at a podium, in front of an applauding crowd. The anchor’s voice-over said, “And at a recent fund-raising dinner for Trans Africa Senator Travers castigated the administration for involving the U.S. in a ‘dangerous foreign adventure.”

” Travers’s voice became audible as he said, “Instead of starting our own private war, we should be assisting those forces in the area that are already fighting Vorster’s regime. The cold war is dead.

If the President can’t get used to the idea of joining hands with old enemies in a common cause, then it’s time for new leadership in the White

House. ” More cheers and applause greeted his words, which faded along with the senator’s image.

The anchor’s face returned, and in a calm, reassuring voice, he read a statement by the British foreign minister, speaking after a particularly noisy question period in the House of Commons.

“Britain remains committed to intervention in South Africa, both as a way of protecting our extensive commercial interests in the region, and to ensure that a democratic government is created, one that can end the frightful bloodshed now under way.”

Looking up from his script, the anchor let a little excitement creep into his voice.

“Meanwhile, the buildup continues.”