Vortex (71 page)

Metje looked at the leveled barrels in horror. His knees buckled and he sagged forward against the handcuffs holding him to the tree. He started sobbing.

“Nooooo! You can’t! I am an Afrikan-” Fire! ”

Four bullets slammed into Metje’s head, chest, and abdomen. He died instantly. His nation’s death wouldn’t come so easily.

NOVEMBER
14-
THE
WHITE
HOUSE
,
WASHINGTON
, D.C.

The once steaming-hot cup of coffee sitting on the President’s desk had long since grown stone cold. Now it sat off to one side, pushed aside and abandoned after a particularly abrupt hand gesture threatened to spill its contents across an important stack of telexes, reports, and maps.

“Indeed, Prime Minister, you’re absolutely right. The situation is quite intolerable.”

Vice President James Forrester slid his own empty cup onto the low side table by his chair and leaned forward. The President’s sudden formality was a sign that the hour-long, early-mo ming conversation with Britain’s prime minister was drawing to a close. Until now, everything had been on a strictly first-name basis.

“Exactly. My people will be meeting within the hour,” The President arched an eyebrow at Forrester, looking for confirmation.

He nodded back. Most of the NSC’s key players had al506

ready been at their posts for more than twenty-four hour sever since the first unsettling reports of the new Cuban offensive started pouring into official Washington. And a Marine Corps helicopter was already parked out on the White House lawn, on standby to fly him across the Potomac to the

Pentagon.

“Yes, Prime Minister, I’ll call you the moment I have more detailed information from this end. Yes. And thank you, too. ” The President put the phone down, his expression grim.

Forrester couldn’t control his curiosity.

“Well?”

The President looked up.

“It’s a go, Jimmy. The British are in.” He seemed older somehow.

“I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. But I just don’t see that we have any other real choice. ”

Forrester felt his pulse accelerating. He rose from his chair.

“In that case, Mr. President, I’ll be on my way. Hurley has his group waiting for me.”

He glanced behind him as he left the Oval Office. The President sat still behind his desk-staring sadly at nothing in particular. Not for the first time, Forrester realized that it was a hell of a lot easier to follow orders than it was to give them.

EMERGENCY
CONFERENCE
ROOM
,
THE
PENTAGON

At the President’s direction, the NSC’s Southern Africa Crisis Group had shifted its day-to-day operations over to the Pentagon. The basement

Emergency Conference Room there was larger, had better communications facilities, and allowed faster access to the latest intelligence data from the region.

Almost as important, the Pentagon had more parking and entrances and exits than the White House. And that, in turn, made it easier to hold a serious meeting without creating a three-ring media circus. The print and

TV reporters who prowled through the White House looking for fast-breaking news had limousine-counting down to a science.

Besides, the Conference Room looked a lot more like a

hightech command center than did the rather dingy White House Situation

Room. A bank of six-foot-high computer display screens, most of them blank at the moment, lined one whole wall, three across and two rows high. The length of a T-shaped table accommodated Crisis Group staffers and aides, while members of the Crisis Group sat across one end. A microphone stood in front of every seat at the table. Podiums, with as much audiovisual equipment as a small high school, allowed the entire group to be briefed on developments.

Doors led to the basement hallway outside, an adjacent communications center, a pair of small apartments with beds and washrooms, and a carefully guarded cubicle crowded with terminals linked directly to the mainframe computers at every major U.S. intelligence agency.

The Conference Room was supposed to be filled with organized chaos.

Instead, it was just chaos. Cuba’s attack into South Africa had caught the

Crisis Group in mid move turning what was supposed to be a smooth transition into a frantic scramble.

Officers and enlisted personnel from all four military services came and went in a steady stream, mixing with little knots of harried-looking civilian aides. Technicians clustered on one side of the room, trying to get the right images displayed on the room’s wall-mounted computer screens.

Maps for southern Africa were on file, but they hadn’t yet been converted to the Pentagon’s new computer format.

More enlisted men staggered in, carrying scaled boxes of highly sensitive intelligence reports. An extremely tense Air Force captain stood in the doorway to the tiny intel cubicle, checking off each report’s title and serial number. Under normal circumstances, he would have counted every page of every report to make sure that none were missing-but circumstances were clearly not normal.

A low whistle broke across all the activity. The assorted technicians, officers, and enlisted men scattered through the chamber turned to see a short, bowlegged Army sergeant major waving them out.

“Meeting’s on, gents.

Secure the room.

In the sudden exodus, pen flashlights, tech manuals, tools, and reams of paper were all left lying in place. They’d be needed again once the politicos and higher brass were done jawing at each other.

Flanked by his military aide and civilian chief of staff, Forrester entered at a fast walk-his hair still windblown after a wild, rain-drenched helicopter landing outside the Pentagon. Shrugging off his wet overcoat, he moved to the spot marked for him at the conference table. He nodded once to red-eyed Edward Hurley, plainly weary after a long, sleepless night spent monitoring developments, and took his seat.

All conversation around the T-shaped table died away.

Forrester glanced to either side, unsurprised to see that the Crisis

Group’s membership had expanded overnight to include the Joint Chiefs, the
CIA
director, the secretaries of defense, treasury, and commerce, and a small army of high ranking assistants. So much for the original idea of a small, manageable group. Washington’s political and military leaders were drawn to international crises like moths to a flame.

He rapped once on the table.

“I’ll make this short and sweet. I met with the President this morning.”

Everyone at the table opened notebooks and grabbed pens. Guidance from the Man would make their task a lot clearer. Not easier-jUSt. clearer.

Forrester paused briefly before plowing straight ahead.

“The President has decided to authorize direct American intervention in southern Africa.

Direct military intervention. ”

He raised his voice, overriding the surprised murmuring coming from around the table.

“We have three objectives: One, bouncing Vorster and his goons out of power. Two, preventing Cuba from gaining control over

South Africa’s strategic minerals. Third, and most important, securing world access to those resources by restoring some kind of civil order over there.” He glanced at the wall clock showing local time It was already ten forty-five A.M.

“The President’s scheduled a full cabinet meeting for seven o’clock tonight. He wants our recommendations and preliminary plans by then.”

:,

“Good God. Christopher Nicholson broke the stunned

silence. The
CIA
director had been fiddling uneasily with the cap of one of his pens, pulling it off and pushing it back on.

“Mr. Vice President, we are still gathering information on the invasion, on Cuban intentions and capabilities. We don’t know how many troops are involved, we don’t know where they are located. We can’t possibly act without a better idea-”

“I’m sorry, Chris, but we can’t wait for you to produce some glossy intelligence product.” Forrester’s tone combined urgency and impatience.

“We just don’t have time to dot every i and cross every t. Hell, you’ve all seen the financial news this morning.”

Most of the men and women around the table nodded grimly. The world financial markets were in an uproar. Prices for South African-produced minerals were skyrocketing. Gold alone was trading at more than a thousand dollars an ounce. The New York, Tokyo, London, and other stock markets were all in sustained free-fall. Several governments had shut down their exchanges in a frantic effort to slow the collapse.

Commentators and self-proclaimed economic experts were openly predicting a new world recession. Others were using the word depression.

Forrester looked down the row of stunned faces.

“We simply don’t have any choice, folks. The President wants a solid plan he can present to the nation by this time tomorrow morning. Not a ‘spin’ and not a ‘slant.”

”

He nodded toward the one lit display screen-a map showing the known war zones in Namibia and South Africa.

“The world’s too small a place for this kind of crap.”

More nods. This wasn’t America’s first reminder that the nominal end of the Cold War hadn’t automatically ushered in a millennial age of peace and prosperity.

Forrester turned toward the Air Force general sitting to his left.

“Walt, the President has one key question he needs answered right away. Can the

Cubans win if we don’t intervene?”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

The civilians around the table were openly surprised by Hickman’s blunt answer. Senior military officials, like their civilian counterparts, tended to be more comfortable with carefully hedged assessments.

Nicholson spoke up first.

“How can you be so sure, General? My analysts estimate that the total Cuban attack force is still smaller than the whole South African army. They’re outnumbered by at least two to one. How can Castro hope to beat those kind of odds?”

Hickman shook his head impatiently.

“The overall numbers don’t matter worth a damn, Director. What counts is combat power on the front line.

And right now the front lines are in South Africa itself-not Namibia.

Cuba’s probably got a ten-to-one force ratio there.”

He left the conference table and moved to the display screen.

“Look here.

Half of Vorster’s reliable troops are dangling out here in Namibia-more than a thousand miles away from the real action. Most of the rest are scattered around in penny packets, chasing down black guerrillas and rebel commandos.” He faced Forrester directly.

“So the question is, can

Pretoria shift its heavy armor and infantry units out of Namibia fast enough?”

Hickman shook his head again, answering his own question.

“I doubt it.”

He traced a sparse network of red and black lines shown on the flickering display map.

“South Africa’s road and rail net is just too limited. Plus,

Cuban MiGs have achieved almost total air superiority. They can pound the hell out of troop trains or truck convoys moving by day.”

1, SoT I

“So South Africa’s troops are going to arrive piecemeal -if at all.

They’ll slow the Cubans down some, maybe even a lot, but they’re not going to stop them. Not short of Pretoria anyway. And they’ll be cut to pieces in the process.”

Hickman stalked back to his seat in the silence that followed.

Nicholson cleared his throat.

“I still believe we should offer the

President some alternative to an ill-conceived and unilateral commitment of U.S. forces.”

Forrester stopped him there.

“Hold on, Chris. The British have agreed to send troops as well.”

“Are their troops going to stop every bullet the South Africans or Cubans fire, Mr. Vice President?” Nicholson shot back.

“We’re talking about going to war against a country that has more than a hundred thousand men under arms -a country that’s already at war with Cuba and itself. This isn’t going to be a walk in the park. We’re talking about a casualty list that could run into the thousands.”

Forrester’s eyes narrowed at the unsubtle dig, but he kept his temper under control. Beneath all his bluster, the
CIA
chief spoke for a sizable fraction of the cabinet, the Congress, and the American people. Nobody wanted to rush into another bloody, unwinnable quagmire like Vietnam.

“The alternative to military action is another Great Depression-tens of millions of people out of work, hunger, riots.

“Neither the President nor I claim to be infallible, Director. Do you see an option we’ve overlooked?”

“Yes. Why not press for action by the UN Security Council instead. Get a resolution calling on all parties to withdraw to”

For the first time, Edward Hurley spoke up.

“Won’t work, I’m afraid. The

Soviets would veto any such resolution like that!” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

The secretary of commerce backed him up.

“That’s true. Moscow has too much power and prestige invested in a Cuban victory. They can’t afford to let the UN intervene.”

Again, the men and women seated around the long table nodded gravely.

A

Cuban victory meant de facto Cuban control over South Africa’s mineral wealth. That, in turn, meant the West would have to pay sharply higher prices for the strategic minerals it needed. For the first time in decades, Cuba wouldn’t need annual billion-dollar infusions of Soviet economic and military aid.

Even more important, from Moscow’s point of view, the prices paid for the

USSR’s own chromium, titanium, gold, and other mineral resources would climb dramatically-pouring badly needed hard currency into the State

Treasury. And if those higher prices produced a worldwide economic slump, so much the better. A depression in the industrial giants of the West would level the playing field. Power is relative not an absolute.