Vortex

CHAPTER 4 Dead Reckoning

JUNE 28-DIRECTORATE OF MILITARY INTELLIGENCE, PRETORIA

REACTION FORCE BRAVO TWO

OP COM 3/87: 1622 HRS

Message begins: TO DMI-1. RECCE TEAM RE

PORTS TRACKING ENEMY FORCE NUMBERING 10—20 MEN MOVING NNE ON FOOT.

PER SPECIAL ORDERS, NO DIRECT

CONTACT

INITIATED. PURSUIT UNITS STANDING BY. AMBUSH SITE NOW SECURE.

TRAIN

DESTROYED REPEAT, DESTROYED. LIST OF IDENTIFIED DEAD FOLLOWS. Message ends.

Erik Muller laid the message form aside and quickly skimmed through the list of those known to be dead. He was careful to keep the expression of shocked dismay on his face as he read. It was vital that even his most trusted subordinates

believe the news of this brutal guerrilla attack came as a complete surprise to him.

In truth, it wasn’t terribly difficult for Muller to look surprised.

Broken Covenant had produced results far beyond his wildest expectations.

The President, the ministers of defense, foreign affairs, transport, energy, and education, and dozens of other high-ranking officials were all confirmed dead, apparent victims of a vicious and unprovoked ANC ambush. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Once the last few loose ends had been tidied up, Vorster’s path to power would be clear.

His phone rang. He picked it up in mid ring

“Yes?”

“Communications Section, sir. I have a radio voice transmission from

Bravo Two Alpha. Shall I patch him through to your line?”

“Of course.” Muller’s fingers tightened around the phone. Had something gone wrong?

Static hissed and whined in the background.

“Bravo Two Alpha to Delta

Mike India One. Over.”

Muller grimaced. Military jargon held little appeal for him. It lacked all elegance.

“Go ahead, Captain Bekker. Make your report. 11

“Roger, One.” Bekker’s voice was flat, all trace of emotion erased by years of rigorous training and combat experience.

“The terrorists have gone to ground in a small copse of trees approximately seven kilometers north of the railroad. “

Muller glanced quickly at the map. It showed a tangle of steep, rugged ridges, boulder fields, ravines, and isolated thickets. Nightmarish terrain for men moving on foot. It was amazing that the ANC’s guerrillas had gotten as far as they had.

“What’s your evaluation? Do they know your men are following?”

Bekker didn’t hesitate.

“Probably. They’ve certainly heard or seen our helicopters by now.”

Muller didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

“Then why have they stopped?”

“They’re waiting for nightfall, Director.” The captain spaced his words out, almost as if he were talking to a small child. It was clear that he didn’t like having to report to a civilian-even to a civilian so high up in the ranks of the security forces.

“Once the sun sets, they’ll scatter-each man trying to make his own way out.”

“Could any succeed?”

“One or two might make it. The ground here is so broken that even our nightvision gear will have trouble spotting them. “

Muller stiffened. He couldn’t afford to let any of the ANC assault team escape. Close questioning by their superiors might raise too many inconvenient questions.

“I see. Then what’s your recommendation,

Captain?”

For the first time, a hint of barely suppressed excitement crept into

Bekker’s voice.

“We should attack them now, before it grows dark. I can have my troops in position within half an hour.”

Muller nodded to himself. These soldiers might be boorish, but at least they were usually efficient.

“Permission granted. You may use whatever methods you think best.”

He lowered his voice a notch.

“I have only one condition, Captain Bekker.

“Yes, sir?”

“I want them all dead.”

That wasn’t quite accurate. The kill order actually emanated from

Vorster. Muller would have preferred keeping several of the terrorists alive for show trials. The minister, though, wanted to demonstrate South

Africa’s willingness to utterly crush its enemies. But would the soldiers go along with such a scheme?

Muller cleared his throat.

“Do you understand me, Captain?”

Static hissed over the line for several seconds before Bekker answered,

“Quite clearly, Director. You don’t want any prisoners. “

“That’s correct.” Muller paused and then asked, “Does that present a problem for you?”

Bekker sounded almost uninterested.

“On the contrary. It simplifies matters enormously.”

Marvelous.

“Good luck, then, Captain.”

“It’s not a question of luck, sir,” Bekker corrected him.

“It’s more a question of ballistics and kill radii.”

Muller hung up, stung by the army officer’s unconcealed sarcasm. For a brief moment, he considered arranging a much-needed lesson in humility for the man-something that would teach him to show more respect for his superiors. Then he shook the thought away. Bekker’s talent as a competent and calculating killer made him too valuable a tool to waste. Personal vengeance was a useless luxury when playing for such high stakes.

Muller’s eyes narrowed. There would be time enough later to settle scores with those who’d wronged him. All of them. Every last one of those on a long, unwritten list kept carefully in memory from his boyhood on.

He smiled, drawing a strange kind of comfort from imagining the suffering he would someday inflict.

IN THE HEX RIVER MOUNTAINS

David Kotane wriggled backward on his belly, hugging the ground until he could be sure he was well hidden among the shadows and tall grass. Safe for the moment from prying eyes and telescopic sights, he rose and gently brushed the dirt off his clothes before squatting again with his back to a gnarled, termite-gnawed tree trunk.

He looked slowly around the small, almost overgrown clearing, studying each of the men crouching around him in a semicircle. Worn, anxious faces stared back, waiting for him to speak.

“They’re all around us. ” The guerrilla leader kept his tone matter-of-fact, concealing his own fears.

“You’re sure, comrade?”

Kotane looked squarely at his secondin-command, a grayhaired survivor of several clandestine operations, and nodded.

“Quite sure. The Afrikaner bastards are being very careful, but I spotted signs of movement in every direction. “

“What do we do now?” Andrew Sebe, the youngest of the group, was scared to death and it showed.

“We wait for darkness,” Kotane said calmly.

“There’ll be no moon till late, so it’ll be pitch-black out there. We’ll be able to slip away right under their noses.”

Sebe and several other younger, less experienced men looked relieved. The older guerrillas exchanged more knowing glances. They were well aware that the odds against surviving the next several hours were astronomical.

“In the meantime we’ll take up firing positions here, here, and there.”

Kotane sketched the outline of an all-around defense in the dirt.

“If the soldiers try to come for us before dark, we’ll gut them.”

Heads nodded around the circle. They had enough firepower to inflict serious losses on any attackers trying to cross the open ground surrounding their little tangle of trees. They couldn’t defeat the government troops pursuing them, but they could make sure the South

Africans paid a high price in dead and wounded. And in its own way that would be a kind of victory for the guerrilla team.

Unfortunately, it was a victory the South Africans had no intention of giving them.

COMMAND GROUP, REACTION FORCE BRAVO TWO

Capt. Rolf Bekker focused his binoculars on the small copse of trees four hundred meters away. Nothing. No signs of movement at all. The guerrillas weren’t showing any evidence of panic-despite being surrounded by a reinforced company of battle-hardened paratroops.

He nodded slowly to himself, a thin, wry smile on his lips. Whoever commanded those ANC terrorists was good. Damned good. Of course, the attack on the Blue Train had already shown that. He’d only had to take a quick look at the torn-up tracks, smashed locomotive, and body-strewn hillside to know at once that he was up against a real professional.

Bekker’s smile disappeared. It would be a pleasure to kill such a man.

He lowered his binoculars and held out his hand. Corporal de Vries, crouched nearby, snapped the microphone into his hand.

Bekker held it to his lips and thumbed the transmit button.

“Bravo Two

Alpha to Bravo Two Foxtrot. Are you in place? Over. ” ” Foxtrot here, Alpha.” The lieutenant commanding a section of four 81mm mortars attached to Bekker’s company answered promptly.

“Deployed and ready to fire. Over.”

Bekker turned and glanced down the steep slope behind him. The four mortar teams were clearly visible at the foot of the hill, clustered around their weapons as though praying.

“Give me a spotting round, Foxtrot. ” Bekker turned back while talking and lifted his binoculars again.

“On the way.”

A dull noise like a muffled cough confirmed the lieutenant’s words. Almost instantly, Bekker saw a burst of purplish smoke appear on the rolling grassland close to the copse of trees. He mentally calculated distances and angles.

“Give me another spotting round, Foxtrot. Down fifty and right thirty. “Roger, Alpha.” Five seconds passed.

“On the way.”

This time the smoke round landed squarely in the middle of the tiny group of trees. Hazy, purple tendrils rose from the impact point and drifted slowly north in the wind.

Say good-bye, you black bastards, Bekker thought as he clicked the mike button.

“On target, Foxtrot! Fire for effect! “

Behind him, the four mortars coughed in unison, flinging round after round of HE high into the air. Four. Eight. Twelve. The crews worked rapidly, almost as though they were well-oiled machines-efficiently sending death winging on its way to a target they couldn’t even see.

Bekker watched in fascination as the mortar salvos slammed into the

ANC-held clump of trees. Bright, or angered explosions rippled through the foliage, tearing, shredding, and maiming every living thing they enclosed.

Other bombs burst in the air overhead, spraying a killing tain of white-hot shrapnel downward.

Within seconds, the smoke and dust thrown skyward by the bombardment obscured his view. The only things still visible within the billowing black, gray, and brown cloud were split-second flashes as more mortar bombs found their target.

Bekker let the mortars go on firing far longer than was necessary. Forty rounds of high explosive reduced the small copse of trees to a smoking wasteland of torn vegetation and mangled flesh.

THE OOST COTTAGE, IN THE HEX RIVER MOUNTAINS

Riaan Oost could hear the explosions echoing in the distance as he tossed a single suitcase into the back of his pickup truck. The sounds confirmed what logic had already told him. Kotane and his men wouldn’t be returning.

It was past time to leave.

Long past time, in fact. The ANC’s Cape Town safe house was a three-hour drive away under normal conditions. And conditions were unlikely to be normal. Oost roughly wiped the sweat from his palms onto his jeans and turned toward the front door of his cottage.

“Marta! Come on! We’ve got to go!”

His wife appeared in the doorway, staggering under the weight of a box piled high with photo albums and other mementos of their married life.

Oost swore under his breath. She had no business bringing those. Things such as those were sure to arouse suspicion if they were stopped at a security checkpoint before reaching Cape Town.

He stepped in front of her, blocking her path to the truck.

She looked up guiltily.

“I know, Riaan, I know. But I couldn’t bear to leave them behind.” She sniffed, fighting back tears.

Oost felt his anger fade in the face of her sadness.

“I am sorry. ” His voice was gentle.

“But you’ve got to leave them here. It’s too risky.”

He reached out and took the box out of her unresisting hands.

In silence, she watched him carry her small treasures back into the cottage.

Neither could bear to look back as they drove away from the vineyard they’d labored in for six years.

Oost was careful to drive slowly and precisely down the winding, dirt road, anxious to avoid any obvious sign of panic. With luck, they’d be on the main highway and hidden among other travelers before the security forces noted their absence.

He glanced off to the side at a marker post as they came round a sharp bend in the road. Only two more kilometers to the highway and comparative safety! He felt himself begin to relax.

” Riaan!

Startled by his wife’s cry, Oost looked up and slammed on his brakes.

The pickup slid to a stop just yards from two camouflaged armored cars and a row of armed troops blocking the road. My God, he thought wildly, the

Afrikaners are already here.

Beside him, Marta moaned in fear.

One of the soldiers, an officer, motioned them forward. Oost swallowed convulsively and pulled the pickup closer to the roadblock. It must be routine. Please let it be nothing more than a routine checkpoint, he prayed.

The officer signaled him to stop when they were within twenty feet of the armored cars. Two machine guns swung to cover them, aimed straight at the truck’s windshield. Oost glanced quickly to either side. The soldiers surrounding them had their rifles unslung and ready for action. He felt sick. The government knows, he thought. They have to know. But how? Could one of Kotane’s men already have broken under interrogation? It seemed possible.

The sound of a car door slamming shut roused him. For the first time he noticed the long, black limousine parked just beyond the armored cars. It was the kind of car favored by high-ranking security officers. Its occupant, a tall, fair-haired white man in a dark suit and plain tie, strode arrogantly past the soldiers and stopped, his hands on his hips, a few feet away from the pickup truck.

Oost looked at the man’s eyes and shivered. They were a dead man’s eyes, lifeless and uncaring.

“Going somewhere, Meneer Oost?” The security agent’s dry, emotionless voice matched his eyes.

“A curious time to take a trip, isn’t it?”

Oost could hear Marta sobbing softly beside him, but he lacked the strength to comfort her. Prison, interrogation, torture, trial, and execution. The road ahead held nothing good.

“Get out of the car, please. Both of you.” Still that same dry, sterile voice.

“Now.”

Oost exchanged a single, hopeless glance with his wife and obeyed. Still crying, she followed suit. The hard-faced man motioned them toward the waiting limousine.

The soldiers parted to let them pass, watching wordlessly as Oost and

Marta stumbled along in shock with the security officer close behind.

The man didn’t speak again until they were near the long, black car.

“It’s a pity you’re both trying to escape from my custody, meneer. But your actions give me no choice.”

Oost heard cloth rustling and the sound of something rubbing against leather. For an instant he stopped, completely confused. What did the man mean? Then, in the split second he had left to understand, he felt oddly grateful.

The men waiting at the roadblock started as two pistol shots cracked in the still air, echoing off the rocky hills to either side of the road.

Birds, frightened by the sudden noise, fled their perches and took to the air, a lazy, swirling, circling cloud-black specks against a deep blue sky.

His job done, Muller’s agent slid behind the wheel of his car, started it, and drove off in satisfied silence.

EMILY VAN DER HELIDEN”S FLAT, CAPE TOWN

South Africa’s state-owned television cameras showed only what the government wanted them to show. And right now they showed a grim-faced

Karl Vorster standing rigidly at a

podium-backed by an enormous blue-, white-, and orange striped national flag.

“My fellow countrymen, I stand before you on a day of sorrow for all South

Africans.” Vorster’s harsh voice emphasized the guttural accents of

Afrikaans as he spoke, pausing with evident reluctance for the simultaneous translation into English.

“I come with dreadful news-news of a bloody act of terrorism so horrible that it is without parallel in our history. I must tell you that the reports you’ve undoubtedly been hearing all this evening have been verified. At approximately one o’clock this afternoon, a band of black ANC communists murderously attacked the Blue Train as it passed through the Hex

River Mountains.”

Vorster’s rough-edged, gravelly voice dropped another notch.

“I have now been informed that the train was completely destroyed. There were no survivors. The President of our beloved Republic is dead.”

Ian Sheffield felt Emily’s grip on his hand tighten. He glanced at her. She wasn’t making any effort to hide the tears welling in her eyes. No surprise there. She’d hoped that Haymans would be the leader who could orchestrate a peaceful reconciliation of South Africa’s contending races. He looked back at the stern visage dominating the television screen. There wasn’t much chance that Vorster would continue Haymans’s negotiating efforts. Much chance? Hell, he thought, no chance. Even Gandhi would have been reluctant to trust the good will or good faith of the ANC after this attack on the

Blue Train.

Ian wondered about that. What could the ANC have thought it would gain? How could they have been so stupid?

“As the government’s senior surviving minister, I have assumed the office and duties of the presidency. I have done so in accordance with the

Constitution-compelled by my love of God and this country, and not by any misplaced sense of personal ambition. I shall govern as president only until such time as the present emergency has passed.”

Right. Ian shook his head, not believing a word. Methinks thou dost protest too much, Vorster old son.

“Accordingly, my first action as president has been to declare an unlimited state of emergency extending to all provinces of the Republic.”

Vorster’s hands curled around the edge of his podium.

“I intend to root out this terrorist conspiracy in our country once and for all. Those responsible for the deaths of so many innocents will not escape our just vengeance.”

As South Africa’s new and unelected president continued speaking, Ian felt Emily shiver and understood. Vorster’s grim words spelled the end of every step toward moderation her nation had taken over the past decade. The newly declared state of emergency imposed dusk-to-dawn curfews on all black townships; allowed the security forces to shoot anyone violating those curfews; restored the hated pass laws restricting nonwhite movement and travel, and reimposed strict government controls on the press and other media.

Ian knew that, under normal circumstances, that last bit of news would have really pissed him off. But circumstances were far from normal. There didn’t seem to be much that Vorster’s new government could do to him as a reporter that his own network hadn’t already done.

When reports of the Blue Train attack first started to spread, he and

Knowles had filmed a quick segment and shipped it off to New York on a rush satellite feed. Flushed with triumph, they’d notified the network of their plans to fly immediately to Pretoria so they could cover the government’s reaction to the ANC attack.

But they hadn’t even had time to crack open a bottle of champagne in celebration before New York’s top brass quashed their plans. He and his cameraman weren’t needed in Pretoria, Ian had been told. The network’s top anchor and his personal news team were already en route to cover the developing story firsthand. Instead, he and Knowles were supposed to “stand by” in Cape Town, ready to provide “local color” stories, should any be needed. The fact that on-site anchoring had become network-news standard procedure since the Berlin Wall came tumbling down did nothing to cushion the blow. Just because New York’s story-hogging

had a historical precedent did nothing to make it any more palatable.

Ian gritted his teeth. Here they were in the middle of the biggest South

African news event in recent memory, and he’d been shunted off to the sidelines without so much as a thank you Christ, talk about a career on the skids! He’d slipped off into a black hole without even realizing it.

“Oh, my God…” Emily’s horrified whisper brought him back to the present.

Vorster was still on-screen, rattling off a list of those he’d named to a “temporary” Government of National Salvation. Cronje, de Wet, Hertzog,

Klopper, Malherbe, Maritz, Pienaar, Smit, and van der Heijden. Ian ran through the list in his mind. Some were names he didn’t recognize, but those he did recognize belonged to notorious diehards. All were

Afrikaners. Clearly, Vorster didn’t intend to give the Englishdescended

South Africans and other Uitlanders any share in government. Wait a minute … van der Heijden?

He looked sharply at Emily.

Stricken, she stared sightlessly into the screen and then, slowly, turned her eyes toward him. She nodded.

“My father, yes. “

Ian pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. He’d known that Emily’s father was some kind of government bureaucrat. But he’d always imagined someone more suited to handling crop insurance or international trade figures-not the kind of man who’d apparently just taken the number two spot in South Africa’s security forces.

For an instant, just an instant, he found himself thinking of Emily not as a beautiful and intelligent woman who loved him, but as a possible information source-as a conduit leading straight into the heart of South

Africa’s new government. Then he saw the sadness in her eyes and realized that was just what she feared. She was afraid of what her father’s newfound power would do to what they had together.

Wordlessly, Ian reached out and took her in his arms, holding her closely against his chest. One hand stroked her hair and the back of her neck.

But he found his eyes straying back to the tall, grim-faced man still filling the airwaves with words and phrases that promised vengeance and rekindled racial hatred.

JUNE 30-STATE SECURITY COUNCIL CHAMBER,

PRETORIA, SOUTH AFRICA

Pretoria, South Africa’s administrative capital, lay at peace beneath a cloudless blue sky. Though several newly built steel-and-glass office buildings dotted its skyline, Pretoria still seemed more a quiet, nineteenth-century university town than the prosperous, bustling governmental center of a twentiethcentury state. Rows of jacaranda trees shading wide streets and an array of formal, flower-filled gardens helped maintain the illusion.

On a low hill overlooking the central city, the Union Buildings-two sprawling, three-story structures connected by a semicircular colonnade-sat surrounded by their own carefully manicured gardens.

Thousands of bureaucrats, some petty, others powerful, occupied the two mirror-image buildings. From their offices emerged the constant stream of directives, reports, regulations, and queries required to govern the sovereign Republic of South Africa.

On the surface, nothing much had changed. The various ministries and departments functioned according to time tested procedures-still carrying out the moderate policies of men whose bodies lay hundreds of miles away in a temporary morgue alongside the Cape Town railway. But all who worked in the Union Buildings knew those policies were as dead as the men who’d formulated them.

South Africa now had a more ruthless set of masters.

To defeat any attempts at electronic eavesdropping, the members of the new State Security Council met in a small, windowless room buried deep inside the Union Buildings complex. The fifteen men now in charge of their country’s foreign policy apparatus, military services, and security forces sat quietly around a large rectangular table. All of them

owed their appointments to one man, Karl Vorster, and all were acutely aware that their futures depended on continued obedience to his will.

Now they waited for an indication of just what that will might be.

Vorster studied the map laid out by his deputy minister of law and order.

Red circles outlined South Africa’s most troublesome black townships. Other colors designated varying degrees of past resistance to Pretoria’s policies.

“The circles dotting the map were surrounded by abstract symbols-symbols that stood for the sixty thousand active-duty and reserve police officers awaiting his orders.

He nodded vigorously.

“Magtig, Marius. This plan is just what we need. Show the kaffirs who’s boss right from the start and save a lot of trouble later, eh?”

Marius van der Hejjden flushed with pleasure at Vorster’s praise.

“Yes, Mr.

President. A thorough sweep through the townships should flush out the worst rabble-rousers and malcontents. Once they’re in the camps, we’ll have a much easier time keeping order.”

Vorster abandoned his contemplation of the map and looked up at the other members of his Security Council.

“Any comments?”

One by one, they shook their heads.

Every member of Vorster’s handpicked government saw the immediate security problem they faced. Years of misguided pampering by the dead Haymans and his liberal cronies had allowed the blacks to build up a network of their own leaders and organizations. Organizations around which violent opposition to a strengthened apartheid system could coalesce. And that was intolerable. The black anti apartheid movements would have to be crushed and crushed quickly.

What van der Heijden proposed was simple, straightforward, and bloody.

Teams of armed police troops backed by armored cars would descend on the most radical townships en masse-searching house to house for known agitators. Anyone resisting arrest would be shot. Anyone obstructing the police in the lawful performance of their duties would be shot. And anyone who tried to flee the closing police net would be shot. Those who escaped death would find themselves penned up in isolated labor camps, unable to spread their gospel of poisonous dissent.

Vorster bent down and signed the top page of the thick sheaf of arrest orders with a quick flourish.

“Your plan is approved, Marius. I expect immediate action.”

“At once, Mr. President.”

From his seat next to Vorster, Erik Muller watched with ill-disguised contempt as the beefy, barrel-chested man hurriedly gathered his papers and maps and rushed from the room. Van der Heijden really wasn’t anything more than a typical, block headed provincial policeman. The man’s socalled plan relied entirely on the application of brute force and overwhelming firepower to gut any internal resistance to the new regime. And where was the subtlety or gamesmanship in that?

He would have preferred a more surgical approach involving carefully selected arrests, assassinations, and intimidation. Muller shrugged mentally. Van der Heijden’s Operation Cleansing Fire appealed to the new president’s bias for direct action. Besides, the Transvaaler was just the kind of bluff, hearty kerel, or good fellow, that Vorster liked. So be it. Let the new deputy minister win this opening round. Muller would pour his energies into maintaining his authority over foreign intelligence-gathering and special operations.

Those were the next items on the State Security Council’s agenda. Muller grew conscious of Vorster’s scrutiny.

“Director Muller is here to bring us up-to-date on activities designed to punish the nearest kaffir-ruled states for aiding our enemies. Isn’t that right, Erik?”

“Yes, Minis… Mr. President.” Muller caught himself in time. Although he’d occupied the chief executive’s office for just two days, Vorster had already shown himself a stickler for titles. Muller beckoned a waiting aide over and watched through slitted eyes as the man unrolled a large-scale map of southern Africa.

Then he rose and leaned over the map. One finger traced the jagged outline of Mozambique.

“I trust you’re all familiar with our covert support for Renamo?”

Heads nodded. Limited involvement in guerrilla operations against

Mozambique’s Marxist government had been a staple of South Africa’s foreign policy for more than a decade. Under growing international pressure, the Haymans government had tried to untangle itself gradually from Renamowith only minor success. Too many lower-echelon officers and bureaucrats, including most of the men now sitting on the Security

Council, had been unwilling to end a campaign that was so successfully destroying Mozambique’s economy. They’d kept supplies and intelligence reports flowing to the guerrillas despite Pretoria’s orders to the contrary.

“Well, I’m pleased to report that the President” Muller inclined his head in Vorster’s direction—has authorized an expanded assistance program for Renamo. As part of this program, we’ll be meeting a much higher percentage of their requests for heavier weaponry, more sophisticated mines, and additional explosives.”

Muller paused, watching interest in his words grow on the faces around the table.

“Naturally, in return we’ll expect a stepped-up pattern of attacks. Especially on the railroads connecting Zimbabwe with the port at Maputo and the oil terminal at Beira.”

Pleased smiles sprouted throughout the small, crowded room. By cutting those rail lines, Renamo’s guerrillas would once again destroy the only independent transportation links between the black states of southern

Africa and the rest of the world. All their other railroads led through

South Africa. Pretoria’s economic stranglehold on its neighbors would be dramatically strengthened at a relatively small cost in arms and ammunition. Best of all, those doing the fighting and dying would all be black. No white blood need be shed.

One man, Fredrik Pienaar, the new minister of information, coughed lightly, seeking recognition.

“What about the American, British, and

French military advisors in Mozambique? Can they interfere with our plans?”

Vorster scowled.

“To hell with them. They’re nothing.”

“The President is quite right, Minister,” Muller said with a cautious glance at Pienaar. The tiny, wasp-wasted man now controlled the government’s vast propaganda machine. And as a result, he could be either a powerful friend or a dangerous foe. To a considerable degree, the official “truth” in South Africa would be shaped by the press releases and radio and TV broadcasts Pienaar approved.

Muller tapped the map lightly as he went on.

“The Western soldiers in

Mozambique are there strictly as training cadres. Their own governments have forbidden them any combat role. Once Renamo’s expanded operations get going, these cadres will have little effect on our plans. The white-ruled countries may be outwardly sympathetic to these black socialist states, but they are really providing only token aid. They no more want them to prosper than we do.” His finger traced an arc along

South Africa’s northern border.

Muller wasn’t so sure of that. The socalled democracies were often unpredictable. He consoled himself with the thought that his first analysis was undoubtedly correct. Surely no sane European or American politician would seriously want to assist a country such as Mozambique.

He sank back into his chair at Vorster’s signal. His part in this afternoon’s orchestrated chorus of approval for long planned actions was over.

Vorster stood, towering above the members of his inner circle.

“One major threat to our fatherland remains unchecked.”

His hand hovered over the map and then slammed down with enough force to startle the older men around the table.

“Here! The communists who now rule in SouthWest Africa. In what they call “Namibia. He pronounced the native word contemptuously.

His subordinates muttered their agreement. South Africa had governed the former German colony of SouthWest Africa for seventy years. During that time, the diamonds, uranium, tungsten, copper, and gold produced by

Namibia’s rich mines had poured into the hands of South Africa’s largest industrial conglomerates. Just as important, the colony’s vast, and wastelands had proved an invaluable buffer zone against

guerrilla attacks on South Africa itself. A ragtag, native Na

mibian guerrilla movement, Swapo, had caused casualties and destroyed property, but it had never seriously threatened Pretoria’s hold on its treasure trove.

But all Namibia’s benefits had been thrown away when the National Party’s ruling faction agreed to cede the region to a black, Swapo-dominated government. To Vorster and his compatriots, South Africa’s subsequent

UN-supervised withdrawal had been the clearest signal yet that Haymans’s “moderates” planned a complete surrender of all white privilege and power.

Every man now sitting on the State Security Council believed that the negotiated surrender of Namibia was a stain on South Africa’s honor. A stain that would have to be erased.

Vorster saw their frowns and nodded.

“That’s right, gentlemen. So long as communists have free rein on our western border, so long will our people be threatened.”

His scowl grew deeper.

“We know that these Swapo bastards give shelter to our terrorist enemies!

“We know that the mines dug with our labor, our money, and our expertise now pay for the weapons used to murder men, women, and children across this land!

“We know that these black animals openly boast of their victory’ over us-a ‘victory’ given them by treachery within our own government. “

Muller watched with interest as Vorster’s normally florid face grew even redder. He had to admit that the man’s rhetoric was effective. The

President could whip men into a hate filled frenzy even faster than the old Bible-thumping dominie at Muller’s boyhood church. The security chief quickly shied away from the comparison. It awakened too many long-buried memories of mixed pleasure and shame.

A tiny fleck of spittle from Vorster’s mouth landed by Muller’s right hand, and he stared at it in sick fascination as his leader’s tirade reached its climax.

“it shall not be so. We will not allow these enemies of our blood to laugh at us, to mock us, to freely plot our downfall! They will be punished!”

Clenched fists thumped the table in a wild, drumming rhythm as he finished speaking.

Vorster, smiling now, let his followers show their approval for a moment, then held up a hand for silence. His rage seemed to have vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating expression.

“Accordingly, I ask the ministers of defense and foreign affairs, and the director of miliary intelligence, to confer with me on specific means aimed at ridding us of this abomination, this “Namibia. “

Vorster stared directly into the eyes of each of the three men he’d named.

“I shall impose only three conditions on our deliberations. The actions we contemplate must be swift, they must be certain, and they must be final.”

Muller looked back at his leader and felt a cool shiver of delight run down his spine. He and his counterparts were being given a free hand to decide the fate of one and a half million people. It was the closest thing imaginable to being a god.

Something stirred in his loins and Muller shifted uncomfortably, wondering again at the way he always found thoughts of power and death so sexually arousing. He shook his head irritably. One thing was certain.

It was a mystery that would cost the Namibian people dearly.

And that was a pleasant thought.