Vortex

After they’d gone, Emily stayed motionless for several minutes, lost in thought. Muller … the name was familiar. She’d heard it pronounced contemptuously by her father. And also by Ian. But who was this Muller?

Clearly some kind of official in Vorster’s old Ministry of Law and Order.

An official disliked by his peers and apparently heavily involved in

Vorster’s “dirty work.” Just the kind of man who would know whether or not Vorster had had advance warning of the ANC’s plans to attack the Blue

Train.

Her hands closed tighter around the tray. She had to find some way to get word of what she suspected to Ian. He would know how to turn the fragments she’d gathered into a coherent, supportable news report. Her heart pounded with excitement. Why, this could turn out to be the big break Ian had been searching for so desperately. If it could be proved, such a story was bound to create the biggest news flash in South Africa’s recent history.

Her excitement grew as she realized that it could have even more far-reaching consequences-political consequences. Few things were more abhorrent to Afrikaners than treachery. So how would her fellow countrymen react to the discovery that their new president was nothing more than a black hearted back stabber

Emily scarcely noticed when Beatrix Viljoen tracked her down under the acacia tree and dragged her back to the kitchen.

CHAPTER

Capital Moves

AUGUST 3-STATE SECURITY COUNCIL CHAMBER,

PRETORIA

Maps and charts covered the walls of the small, windowless meeting room.

Each showed a separate piece of the elaborate preparations for Operation

Nimrod-South Africa’s planned reconquest of Namibia. And each had played a part in the defense minister’s final briefing for Vorster and the members of his State Security Council.

For two hours, the men seated around the large rectangular table had been bombarded with facts, figures, and freely flowing military terms. Phase lines. Airlift requirements and resupply capabilities. Mobilization tables.

Free-fire zones. All had been woven into a single sean-dess portrait of impending and inevitable victory.

As Constand Heitman, the minister of defense, took his seat, Karl Vorster’s eyes flickered back and forth, scanning the faces of his subordinates. This was the first time most of them had heard the details of his plans for

Namibia. He expected their reactions to be instructive.

He nodded his thanks to Heitman and turned to face the rest of the

Council.

“Well, gentlemen? Are there any further questions?”

One of those seated at the far end of the table started to lean forward to speak and then stopped.

“Come, Helmoed, what troubles you? Have you seen some flaw in our proposal?” Vorster’s voice was deceptively calm.

The man, Helmoed Malherbe, the minister of industries and commerce, swallowed hard. No one was ever eager to appear to oppose any of the

State President’s cherished plans. A month in power had already shown

Vorster’s unwillingness to tolerate those who disagreed with him.

Malherbe of eared his throat.

“Not a flaw, Mr. President. Nothing like that. It is just a small concern. “

“Out with it then, man.” Vorster’s polite facade cracked slightly.

Malherbe bobbed his head submissively, obviously rattled.

“Yes, Mr.

President. It’s the scale of Citizen Force mobilization this operation requires. If Nimrod takes longer than planned, the prolonged absence of these men from our factories could have a serious impact on our economy.”

Vorster snorted.

“Is that all? Very well, Malherbe. Your concern is noted.”

He looked at the others around the table.

“So, gentlemen. You have heard the industries minister? If the kaffirs can hold back our tanks with their rifles for a month or two, we may have to ask our people to tighten their belts a little. Terrible, eh?”

Chuckles greeted his heavy-handed attempt at humor. Malherbe sat redfaced, shamed into silence.

Satisfied, Vorster turned to Erik Muller, sitting quietly by his side.

“What of the other black states-Mozambique, Zimbabwe, and the rest? Can they interfere with Nimrod’s smooth completion?”

Muller shook his head decisively.

“No, Mr. President. Our covert operations have them all off-balance. They’re too deeply embroiled in their own internal troubles to give us much trouble.”

Marius Van der Heijden snorted contemptuously, but said nothing.

Muller frowned. Van der Heijden was the leader of those on the cabinet who despised him, and the man’s enmity was coming more and more to the surface. What had once been a simple rivalry for power and position was fast taking on all the signs of a blood feud. It was a feud Vorster had done little to discourage. Instead, the President seemed perfectly content to watch their infighting as if it were some kind of sporting event staged solely for his amusement.