Vortex

“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.