Vortex

CHAPTER 38 Last Stand

JANUARY 4-U.S. EXPEDITIONARY FORCE HEADQUARTERS, DURBAN, RSA

It was part of his job, but General Craig found it hard to hide his contempt for the junketing politicians who kept appearing at his headquarters. As soon as the U.S. forces had expanded their toehold into a beachhead, and then broken out from the Drakensberg, a group of congressmen, bureaucrats, and even some state officials had decided to visit South Africa on a ‘fact-finding” mission. It didn’t hurt that while it was winter in Washington, it was summer in South Africa.

A few were sincere. They were easy to spot. They knew the background, had read up on the forces involved, and had even taken the time to look at a map. The rest were idiots. Their idea of preparation was to watch a tape of Zulu.

Craig begrudged the time, the stupid questions, and their long trips to the beaches of Durban and to Table Mountain in Cape Town. They walked over the battered mountain’s landscape as if it were an old Civil War battlefield. One had actually asked why there weren’t any park rangers!

Craig endured. He was savvy enough to know that these men wielded real power in Congress, and they would remember the red-carpet treatment the next time they voted on defense appropriations. It reminded him, though, why he detested politics and politicians.

Most of the group had taken the afternoon off to attend to personal business,” which Craig knew meant sun and surf along the Golden

Mile. Two members of the party, though, had asked to see Ladysmith. Craig had long ago marked them as the good ones, and he decided to escort them personally.

Ladysmith was a lot more recent battle than Table Mountain, and it showed in the gutted vehicles and burned-out buildings. Even with surprise on their side, the 101st had taken over 15 percent casualties in the lead battalion, 10 percent in the brigade overall.

Their helicopter had followed the same path as the assault force, and the very real door gunners in the aircraft had given the congressmen the feeling of taking part-exactly what Craig had wanted.

As instructed, the pilot made an assault landing near the original LZ, and they had toured the town, the new Army base nearby, and the field hospital, which treated not only the casualties from Ladysmith, but from the entire Drakensberg campaign.

Craig had warned the hospital staff in advance, and they had tracked down any patients from the congressmen’s states. A military photographer was standing by and caught the scene as they visited their constituents in the field.

It was good stuff, and Craig had caught himself smiling in spite of himself. These two cared, and he didn’t mind helping them out. He also wanted to be around when those double-damned pleasure seekers found out they’d missed a “photo opportunity.”

The two officials had eaten lunch on the ride back, trying MREs for the first time.

“Meals ready to eat” were vacuum packed meals meant to be carried by soldiers in the field. Some were good, some not so good. Craig told the senators they were a definite improvement on the old tinned C rations, but the troops called them “meals rejected by Ethiopians.”

The small group was now about to take part in Craig’s daily afternoon intelligence brief. This would put the politicos in the picture as much as he was, Craig thought, plus would let them feel they had the inside scoop. Congressmen automatically had the security clearances necessary to see this stuff, and he was pretty sure these two would not blab it around.

The briefing was always given in one of the conference rooms at the

Durban Hilton. The hotel’s convention facilities had easily been converted to serve as Craig’s headquarters, and the staff had simply treated the Allied soldiers as another set of conventioneers.

A detailed map of South Africa covered one wall. The position of each division, and each brigade within the division, was marked, as well as their progress over the past two days and their objectives for the next twenty-four hours.

Information on enemy forces was also displayed, but this was much less well defined. Not only was the intelligence fragmentary and possibly wrong, but there was more than one enemy.

Still, it was gratifying to look at the map. It clearly showed the speed and sweep of the Allied advance, radiating out from Ladysmith in several directions.

As they settled into their seats, the J-2, or intelligence officer, detailed new data on each of the belligerents. The Cuban forces were still consolidating their hold on Naboomspruit and had successfully repelled a weak counterattack by the Boers. It had probably been launched quickly, to try to knock them out before they dug in.

The Boers themselves had units scattered all over the map. A line of infantry and armor stretched in front of Pretoria, screening the capital from the Cuban advance, while a second appeared to be forming in front of Johannesburg to the south. Anchored on Vereeniging and the mountain west of it, it would guard the biggest city in South Africa from the advancing Allied army.

Other Boer units continued to try to suppress the rebellion, either garrisoning mines and cities or chasing rebels around the countryside.

Craig was glad to see so much of South

Africa’s fighting power distracted, but it cut two ways. After his troops occupied the area, he would be responsible for civil law and order.

Finally, there were the commandos. A cross between militia and guerrillas, they operated behind American lines and tied up troops and time chasing them down. Data on them was sketchy.

As much for the senators as for Craig, his J-2 summarized the situation.

“Although U.S.” British, and rebel South African forces now hold the

RSA’s major port cities and coastal lands, much of the interior, the ‘deep north,” remains in the hands of Vorster and his AWB cronies. This is his heartland, the source of his political strength, and much of the population would support him against any outsider.

“Even worse, the Cuban invasion force holds two of South Africa’s most important minerals complexes and is closer than we are to Pretoria and

Johannesburg.”

The J-2 pointed to Naboomspruit.

“The nearest Cuban forces are about a hundred and ten kilometers away from Pretoria. Based on reconnaissance photos and other intelligence, they will not be ready to advance for another two days. “

The officer moved his pointer to the south.

“Leading elements of the

Twenty-fourth, advancing up National Route Three, arrived in Warden this morning. That puts them one hundred and eighty kilometers from

Johannesburg.”

Craig chimed in, “And to get there, we will have to swing around the Vaal

River dam complex and punch through the line at Vereeniging. Then we take the city itself, fight our way over the Witwatersrand”he sighed—and then we can go after Pretoria.”

The two senators looked questioningly at the general.

“Then we can’t beat the Cubans to Pretoria?” one asked.

“Not at the rate we’re going, sir. ” Craig smiled ironically.

“Vega had one hell of a head start on us.”

Craig continued, “Given the time, we could build up enough forces to take on the enemy positions with excellent odds of success, and use those odds to hold down casualties. My supply line is long, though, and as you’ve seen, not completely secure. As it is, I’m pressed for time and have taken risks, like Ladysmith, to keep the offensive moving. Remember that when you see the casualty lists back home.”

he two congressmen nodded. One asked, “if you can’t get to Pretoria in time, why spend those lives pushing so hard?”

“Because I still need to be in Pretoria as quickly as possible. I don’t want the Cubans dug in deep.” He paused, looking at the map.

“And there’s always the uncertainty of war. 11

“And until you take Pretoria and drive the Cubans out, South Africa will be bloody chaos. “

“You now understand the situation in South Africa, Senator. “

PRESIDENT’S OFFICE, THE UNION BUILDINGS, PRETORIA

Another meeting had ended. Though perhaps meeting was the wrong word, Karl

Vorster thought wearily. Once again, he’d been forced to lecture a cabinet that resembled a flock of helpless sheep more than anything else.

Depressed and angry, he’d left his generals and deputies arguing over the map while he retreated to his private office. He slumped in his leather-backed chair, feeling his age and a few years more. None of those idiots had anything useful to contribute. Instead, they bickered and squabbled, interfering with every political and military step he took.

Some were traitors, Vorster knew. A few were actively in league with the enemy, and others would rather serve themselves than South Africa. Most of his advisors, though, were simply fools, unable to see with his vision or act with his daring. Panicked, they waffled and wailed while their nation was being shattered simultaneously both from within and from without.

Cut off from outside supply, invaded by Cuban and Allied armies, and with rebels and guerrillas running wild inside its borders, South Africa was on the verge of complete defeat.

Vorster scowled. He had no allies left. Even his most trusted political supporters counseled abject surrender.

Still, he had faith that his nation would rise again. Defeat by foreign armies was part of the Afrikaner heritage, but his people, the sturdy

Boer farmers, had always survived and ultimately triumphed. It was the farmer, the man of the earth, who had always saved South Africa.

Vorster frowned. The mines with their diamonds and gold and platinum had been a source of power, but now they were attracting the hyenas. The republic stood like a wounded lion at bay with the scavengers closing in.

The lion might put up a heroic fight, but it would fall in the end.

He glanced at the small, but beautifully detailed, map of South Africa hung on his office wall. It showed every major road, city, and industrial center. It didn’t show the territories captured by the advancing enemy armies-but it didn’t have to. Those lines were burned in his very brain.

The Cubans, the Americans, and the British were all closing in like a vise around the Witwatersrand and its rich mineral resources.

His hands tightened into clenched fists. If he and his followers went down in blood and flame, he only hoped his enemies would choke on their newfound wealth. God grant that they would fight over the mines and smelters until only a wasteland remained…. Karl Vorster stopped there, suddenly struck by an idea breathtaking in its very boldness. South Africa’s fate had seemed sealed, its future dark and grim. But now he saw a new road, a new option-one aimed squarely at the heart of his enemies’ plans.

STATE SECURITY COUNCIL CHAMBER, PRETORIA

Vorster’s cabinet meetings always started quietly. This day’s afternoon session was no exception. The intelligence briefer, an SADF major, gave the assembled group the latest batch of bad news in a steady monotone, his body subconsciously poised for flight. The President’s rages were legendary, and even the carefully filtered data he saw was often enough to send him into orbit.

Today, though, Vorster sat quietly, almost calmly. He seemed preoccupied by the document in front of him, and utterly uninterested in the briefer’s recitation of battlefield disasters and guerrilla attacks. He only nodded as the major finished and hastily excused himself.

Then Vorster looked up and smiled, an expression that seemed almost frightening on his haggard face.

“I bring good news, my friends. God himself has shown me the way to defeat our foes and save our people.”

What? He’s done it, thought Gen. Adriaan de Wet, he’s finally retreated completely into his world of fantasy. The general quickly studied the faces of the surviving cabinet members. Working with Karl Vorster forced one to develop a poker face, but he could read them well enough.

Marius van der Heijden looked troubled, but seemed the least affected.

The minister of law and order even seemed ready to believe the President really had found an answer to their problems. The rest showed their disbelief in a dozen different ways. Many of the military men on de Wet’s staff stared down at the map, looking for some operational scheme that they had overlooked.

“The solution to our present situation is clear if we go back to basics.

Our enemies are not attacking us for political reasons, but for economic ones. ” Vorster rose from his chair, towering over his assembled followers.

“The West gladly suffered our existence for forty years. The communists attacked us verbally and sent black guerrillas to terrorize us, but they did not move openly. Behind the scenes, the Soviets were very happy to make joint agreements on gold and diamond sales.”

De Wet and the others nodded, a little impatiently.

Vorster continued, “As long as the gold and platinum and chromium and all the rest were produced in steady stream, the world was happy. But at the first sign of trouble in the mines, they turned on us. The world’s two biggest power blocs, with everyone else cheering them on, have attacked our nation-nearly tripping over each other in their greed. “

Vorster smiled again, even more grimly this time.

“So what we must do is clear. We must threaten to destroy what they hold so dear. We will send an ultimatum to our enemies, threatening to render these mines useless unless they leave our lands immediately.”

De Wet’s puzzlement was so strong that he forgot to mask his feelings, but his expression was mirrored around the table.

Vorster swept his arm around the room, his voice filled with excitement.

“Can’t any of you see it? Think! The world’s financial markets have been frightened by a temporary disruption of the resources we hold. Think of how much pressure those money-grubbing bankers will put on their governments if they think the supply will stop altogether.”

De Wet could not wait any longer.

“But how? We can dynamite some of our mines, but they could always be reopened. And most are nothing more than vast open pits impossible to destroy.”

Vorster nodded.

“True enough, General. But the answer is not dynamite.

It is radioactive dust-the wastes produced by our reactors.” If he noticed the instinctive horror on the faces around him, he didn’t show it.

“Our threat will be simple and credible. Unless the attacking armies cease fire immediately and withdraw from our territory, we will scatter radioactive waste over every mine and smelter under our control.”

De Wet found himself intrigued by the idea. The highlevel radioactive wastes produced by South Africa’s two nuclear reactors could contaminate the surfaces of the mines and other industrial facilities for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Decontamination would be both fantastically difficult and prohibitively expensive. What Vorster had in mind would be a powerful threat to the world’s strategic minerals supplies.

De Wet looked up.

“But what do we do, Mr. President, if they call our bluff?”

Vorster’s face reddened and he shouted, “It is not a bluff! If they continue to advance, we will wreck these mines!”

He paused and spoke more calmly, almost pleading.

“Don’t you see? We have never truly needed this wealth to survive as a pure society. It has been a source of endless trouble-of

Uitlander speculators and unruly black laborers. The trek boers and early farmers built our nation. And when these mines are gone, our farms will remain.”

De Wet nodded slowly in agreement. The South Africa they all knew was dying anyway. Perhaps it was better to rob their enemies of the fruits of victory than to go down to defeat whimpering in despair. He started, suddenly aware that Vorster was speaking directly to him.

“General, I need every engineer you can muster, and a list of every mine we still possess.”

De Wet nodded, turned to his officers, and started issuing the orders needed to prepare South Africa’s economic suicide.