Vortex

Vorster slowly opened his clenched fist, revealing the piece identified as the 20th Cape Rifles. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and coldly precise.

“Listen to me carefully, General. I want this unit of renegades hunted down and exterminated. I want no survivors left to flaunt their treason in our faces. Is that understood?”

Surprisingly, de Wet shook his head.

“I understand your anger, Mr.

President, but I do not believe it would be wise to waste valuable forces searching for these men. We face far more powerful enemies on several fronts. Six or seven hundred fugitives can do us little real harm.”

Privately, van der Heijden agreed. With the Americans preparing some new amphibious strike at South Africa’s coastline, and the Cubans pressing hard for Pretoria, they could ill afford to scatter needed troops across the countryside in a vengeance hunt.

Vorster disagreed. His voice grew colder still.

“Do not even think to dispute this matter with me, General de Wet. Your pronouncements and predictions have too often been wrong.” He looked sternly around the now-silent circle of officers and cabinet members.

“Never forget, my friends, a rebellion unpunished is a rebellion that will spread. That is why those who would betray our sacred fatherland must pay a heavy price.

And that is why they must be seen to pay a heavy price. “

He laid the wooden block marked 20CR down on the table and pointed to it with a thick, calloused finger.

“I want Kruger and his men killed before their example tempts other cowards and weaklings into disobedience.” He studied de Wet and the other assembled officers for a moment longer. One by one, they dropped their eyes, unable to meet his grim, unyielding gaze.

“One word of warning, General.” Vorster turned back to a white-faced de

Wet.

“I will not tolerate any further failure. “

The general nodded stiffly.

“You may rely on me, Mr. President. The

Twentieth Cape Rifles will be annihilated.”

He clasped his hands behind his back to hide the fact that they were shaking.

Marius van der Heijden stared down at the map-covered table to conceal his own growing uncertainty. Cuba’s communists and the capitalists of the

West might not have to work very hard to destroy the Afrikaner nation.

Karl Vorster seemed only too willing to do their work for them.

HEADQUARTERS, 44TH PARACHUTE BRIGADE

REACTION FORCE, NEAR VILJOENSDRIF, SOUTH OF

JOHANNESBURG

The setting sun cast long, red-tinted shadows over the orange groves and green, irrigated lawns surrounding Jan Bode’s whitewashed two-story farmhouse. Flocks of bright-plumed birds circled overhead through a cloudless sky before landing along the banks of the nearby Vaal River.

Faint traces of dirty-gray smoke lingered on the western horizon-visible signs of Vanderbij1park’s iron and steel plants and clear proof that not all of South Africa was a pastoral and peaceful land.

But there was more than enough evidence of that closer to hand.

Three hundred South African paratroops in full combat gear lounged beside the sixteen helicopters dotting the farmhouse’s open lawns. Assault rifles, boxes of ammunition, and fuel drums were stacked under the brown-and-green camouflage netting covering each helicopter. Mechanics and air crews in grease-stained overalls clustered around several of the helicopters-performing routine maintenance work on Puma and Super Frelon troop transports.

Maj. Rolf Bekker paused in the farmhouse door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight. He nodded slowly to himself, glad to see his men seizing every opportunity for both rest and needed repair work. They were all combat veterans, and veterans knew the value of time.

He stepped out onto the lawn, wincing slightly at a momentary twinge in his left leg. The doctors had assured him that he’d made a full recovery from the wounds he’d received during the battle for Keetmanshoop Airfield. Right. Knowit-all bastards.

Bekker spotted the man he’d been looking for and instantly forgot all about the pain from his old wounds.

“Sergeant!”

Staff Sergeant Roost hurried over from the pile of supplies he’d been inspecting.

“Sir?”

“Find Captains Recheck and der Merwe and tell them I want to see them at the farmhouse in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, sir. ” The short, wiry noncom turned to go and then turned back.

“Are we going to see some action soon, Major?”

Bekker nodded.

Roost smiled, a fierce, quick grin.

“Do we kill Americans or Cubans this time?”

“Neither, Sergeant. ” He shook his head grimly.

“This time we hunt our own kind.”

If the thought of killing fellow South Africans bothered Roost, he certainly didn’t let it show on his face. Instead, he just touched his hand to his beret in a casual salute and moved off to obey his orders.

Bekker stood motionless for several moments, watching as the sergeant headed away in search of his two company commanders. At least this once, he thought, Pretoria’s orders were clear and concise. The men and helicopters of the Parachute Brigade’s Reaction Force were to find, attack, and destroy