Vortex

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.