Vortex (75 page)

Four BRDM-2 scout cars led the column, their turrets spinning continuously from side to side as gunners sought out potential targets. Scouts who grew sloppy and complacent were scouts who were soon dead.

So when the lieutenant commanding the lead
BRDM
saw movement in a clump of brush just off the road, he didn’t hesitate before screaming a shrill warning. The heavy machine gun in the scout car’s turret was already firing as it slewed on target. And more than a hundred rounds of 14.5mm machinegun ammunition slammed into the patch of brush.

The scout car and its companions swept on past in a swirl of dust and torn vegetation.

Ten minutes later, the first BTR-60 troop carriers thundered by. Cuban infantrymen riding with their hatches open turned curious eyes on the site of the attempted ambush. Two old men dressed in ill-fitting South African uniforms lay bloody and unmoving, entwined around a dull-gray metal tube-an ancient World War II-era bazooka.

The road to the small fanning town of Bodenstein lay open and undefended.

And Cuba’s Third Brigade Tactical Group was just one hundred and seventy kilometers from Johannesburg.

NOVEMBER
21STATE
SECURITY
COUNCIL
CHAMBER
,
PRETORIA

Fear has its own peculiar smell-the sour stench of sweat triggered by sheer, gut-twisting panic and not by hard manual labor.

It was an odor Marius van der Heijden knew well. As a young policeman and later a senior security official, he’d smelled fear in dozens of small, sterile interrogation rooms. He’d witnessed the terror of men confined in brutal prisons or awaiting death on a gallows.

But now he caught its unmistakable scent in a room full of South Africa’s self-proclaimed leaders. The men seated around Karl Vorster were, quite plainly, frightened almost out of their wits.

The arrows and lines drawn on the large map at one end of the room explained their growing panic.

“in sum, Mr. President, we face an impossible military situation.” Gen.

Adriaan de Wet looked haggard and worn, aged beyond his years by a series of unprecedented disasters.

“We simply do not have the manpower or equipment to hold Namibia, crush local rebellions, and fend off this

Cuban offensive. It cannot be done.” His hand shook as he tried to hold the map pointer steady.

Van der Heijden listened with a sinking heart. The battalions rushed back from Namibia to face the Cuban columns driving on Pietersburg and

Nelspruit were fighting hard, slowing the enemy’s advance. But they were being destroyed in the process. Reinforcements and replacements sent to them were swallowed up within hours.

Even worse, the
SAD
IF had almost nothing left to throw at the third Cuban invasion force-now within one hundred and fifty kilometers of

Johannesburg. Many of the Afrikaners who’d rebelled against the government were returning to the fold-willing to bury their own grievances to fight a foreign enemy. But it was all too little and too late, Hastily assembled task forces made up of understrength infantry companies, ill equipped commandos, and outdated artillery pieces had either been smashed to pieces or swallowed whole. South Africa’s back door was wide open.

De Wet finished his grim briefing and stepped away from the situation map.

Every head swiveled toward the dour-faced man seated at the head of the table. But as always of late, Karl Vorster sat silent and unapproachable.

An uncomfortable silence dragged. De Wet shifted his pointer nervously from hand to hand.

Finally, Fredrik Pienaar, the minister of information, waved a thin, bony finger at the map.

“What about the troops garrisoning Voortrekker Heights and other bases? Can’t they be used to defeat this third Cuban force?”

De Wet shook his head.

“Most of those battalions are badly understrength themselves. And they’re needed to defend vital installations in and around

Pretoria against possible guerrilla attack. We can’t afford to fight one fire by leaving our enemies free to set others.”

Heads around the table nodded in hurried agreement. De Wet’s definition of “vital installations” included their own homes and offices.

Pienaar reddened.

“Very well, General. Then what about the rest of our army? What about the troops and tanks you’ve managed to leave dangling uselessly in Namibia?”

De Wet turned red himself, his fear almost submerged by anger.

“We’re shifting forces as quickly as we can, Minister. But our air, rail, and road transport capabilities are stretched to the limit. We simply can’t move soldiers, equipment, or supplies fast enough to matter!”

“And whose fault is-”

“Enough!” Karl Vorster slammed the table with one clenched fist.

“Enough of this childish squabbling!”

He turned angrily on his cabinet.

“Start acting like men, not whimpering schoolboys. Or worse, like cowardly kaffirs! ”

The deadly insult stiffened backs throughout the room.

Vorster shoved his chair back and rose to his full height, towering over every other man in the room. He strode over to the situation map, pushing past a startled de Wet.

He turned.

“You look at maps, at scraps of paper, and see the end of the world! ” A contemptuous hand thumped the map, almost toppling it off its stand.

“I look at the same drawings, the same lines of ink and pencil, but I do not see defeat and disaster! I see our final victory!”

Marius van der Heijden shivered. Had the man he’d followed blindly for so many years gone mad? Others around the table stirred uneasily, grappling with the same fear.

Vorster shook his finger at them like a sorrowful father chiding unruly children.

“Come now, my friends. Can’t you see God’s design in all of this?”

His voice dropped, becoming softer and more persuasive. It was less the voice of a politician and more the voice of a preacher.

“Like the ancient

Israelites we stand surrounded by our foes-outmatched and seemingly overpowered. But just as God raised up David to smite Goliath, so God has given us the weapons we need to destroy our enemies. Weapons of awesome power and cleansing fire.”

He turned and pointed to a small dot on the map-a dot just outside

Pretoria.

“Weapons that wait there for our orders, my friends.”

His finger rested on the hill called Pelindaba-the “place of meeting.”

ADMINISTRATION
CENTER
,
PELINDABA
RESEARCH

COMPLEX

The atomic research site called Pelindaba sat high on a bluff overlooking a tangle of winding valleys and low hills just south of Pretoria. Lush green lawns and immaculately landscaped rock gardens gave its laboratories, living quarters, and gleaming steel-and-glass administration building the look of a quiet college campus. In such surroundings, the squat, square, windowless bulk of Pelindaba’s uranium-enrichment facility and the tall smokestacks of an adjacent coal-fired power plant seemed alien-obtrusive reminders of the intrusion of a hostile industrial machine into what appeared to be a placid academic world.

Inside the Administration Center, Col. Frans Peiper stared out an upper-floor window to hide his irritation from the young woman receptionist. A face marked by cold gray eyes, a straight, pointed nose, and a tight-lipped mouth scowled back at him. He clasped his hands behind his back to avoid the embarrassment of unconsciously looking at his watch again.

As usual, Pelindaba’s civilian director was late. For a man of great learning, Peiper thought savagely, Dr. Jakobus Schumann had such an imperfect concept of time.

He turned as the rotund, whitehaired administrator came bustling in through the door, an apology already tumbling out through a smiling mouth.

“Terribly sorry for the delay, Colonel. Afraid I got myself tangled up in a small liquefaction problem over at the labs.”

Peiper nodded stiffly, unsure whether Schumann’s “small problem” involved uranium enrichment or a drunk technician.

“But here I am at last, eh?” The older man ushered him into his office.

“Now then, Colonel, what can I do for the esteemed commander of our garrison?”

Peiper came to attention. His news required a formal delivery.

“It is more a question of what you will do for me, Director. I have received new orders from Pretoria.” He paused, watching Schumann’s face carefully.

“Headquarters informs me that the State Security Council has issued a

Special Weapons Warning Order.”

Schumann paled.

“Are you sure of that, Colonel? That would mean .. – ”

“Quite sure, Director. ” Peiper nodded in grim satisfaction.

“All scientists, engineers, and other personnel at Pelindaba are now under my direct command. Further, effective immediately, this facility is on full war alert. No one goes in or out without my permission.”

He glanced out the window over Schumann’s shoulder and caught a glimpse of soldiers in full battle dress scattering throughout the compound.

Good. He didn’t expect any trouble. All the South African scientists and engineers working here were handpicked Afrikaners of proven loyalty.

Still,

it never paid to take chances.

“Do you have any questions?”

Schumann moistened suddenly dry lips.

“Just one, Colonel. Have they told you how many weapons will be assembled or where they might be used?”

“No.” Peiper looked down at the nervous old man, secretly rejoicing in a welcome sense of power and control.

“And I haven’t asked. Such questions are beyond our need to know.”

He fingered the
AWB
button pinned to his uniform jacket.

“One matter remains, Director. These Israeli scientists of yours … “They are not mine, Colonel. They’re invited guests of our government.”

If anything, that was an understatement. The atomic weapons programs of

Israel and South Africa had been closely linked for decades. It was an alliance of convenience—not conviction. Israel had much of the essential scientific and engineering expertise, while South Africa had the vast expanses of unpopulated wasteland needed for weapons tests.

Peiper waved away the distinction as unimportant.

“I want their names, pictures, and dossiers delivered to Captain Witt as soon as possible.”

Schumann’s eyes widened.

“My God, you’re not planning to hold them as prisoners here, are you?”

“Of course.” Peiper grimaced.

“We can’t allow these Jews out to broadcast our plans to the world. They’ll be kept under close guard until Pretoria decides their fate.

“In the meantime, we have work to do. ” He leaned closer.

“A special Air

Force team will be here within the hour, and I expect your best technicians to be ready to offer them any necessary assistance. I trust that is perfectly clear?”

The older man nodded in a daze.

Peiper smiled scornfully at Schumann’s pudgy, quivering face.

“Cheer up,

Director. You and your colleagues have worked diligently for many years to make this moment possible. You should give thanks and be glad that you’ve lived to see such a day.”

He spun on his heel and left, amused at the old man’s sudden display of nerves. Academics! They lived so far outside the real world.

To Peiper, the equation was perfectly simple. Communists and rebels of all races threatened South Africa’s existence as a white-ruled nation.

But South Africa possessed a stockpile of nuclear weapons.

And weapons were meant to be used.

NOVEMBER
22-
THE
WHITE
HOUSE
,
WASHINGTON
, D.C.

The White House Rose Garden looked dead in the dull gray light. Bare rose bushes and patches of brown, withered grass stretched beyond the covered walkway outside the Oval Office-a gloomy vista made more depressing by the dark, overcast day. Unsmiling pairs of White House policemen or Secret

Service agents trudged through the garden at irregular intervals, bundled up against the cold and damp of a late-fall morning.

“I quite agree, Mr. Prime Minister. Yes, it’s extremely unfortunate.

”

Vice President James Malcolm Forrester held his hand cupped over the extension’s mouthpiece and looked across the Oval Office. The President, a tall, lanky man, sat rigid behind his desk, fingers drumming angrily as he spoke. The President’s voice was a far cry from his usual mix of the clipped, nasal New England accent of his boyhood and the lazy drawl adopted later in life. Every word seemed to

“2

hang in midair, chosen coldly and precisely to convey an impression of tightly controlled wrath.

Forrester listened intently to the voice emerging from the phone-crystal clear despite being scrambled at one end, bounced halfway round the world via satellite, and then unscrambled at the other. Israel’s prime minister sounded embarrassed, unusually meek, and only too well aware that his news wouldn’t win any new friends for his country inside America’s highest policy-making circles.

“I see. Yes, yes, we’ll have people standing by to meet this scientist of yours.” The President stabbed an impatient finger at an aide listening in on the second extension. The man nodded hastily and punched to another phone line to begin making arrangements.

“No, I think that’s all we need discuss for the moment, Mr. Prime

Minister.” The President swiveled round in his chair, stared out the window at the bleak, barren view, and then spun round again.

“Yes, I’ll pass this information on to London as soon as possible. Goodbye, Mr.

Prime Minister.” He put the phone down with slightly more force than was necessary to cut the connection.

Forrester hung up at the same time and moved to a chair across the

President’s desk.

The President rubbed tired eyes.

“Well, what’d you think of our Israeli friend’s little bombshell?”

“That we’ve got even more trouble than we thought we did,” Forrester said evenly.