Kruger shook his head again, mentally cursing both Karl Vorster’s callous determination to win this unwinnable war and die
ANC
bastards who’d put the new president in place by murdering Frederick Haymans.
“The Ministry, sir?” The corporal waiting by his car saluted and held the rear door open for him.
“Yes. ” Kruger returned the man’s salute and climbed into the staff car.
He sat up straight against the seat as they pulled away from the plane and turned onto an asphalt-paved access road. Half his mind busied itself by reviewing the arguments he intended to make to the chief of staff. One corner of his mouth flickered upward briefly in a wry smile. He was probably being too optimistic. He wasn’t likely to have the chance to get a single word in edgewise over the tongue-lashing he fully expected to receive.
Headquarters staffs, even in an army as flexible and in-3
formal as the
SADF
, always had their own rigid notions about such things as the chain of command and proper channels.
Something strange about the passing scenery tugged Kruger’s attention away from his upcoming ordeal. He looked more carefully out the windows to either side. They were paralleling Swartkop’s main runway and flight line.
Both looked nearly deserted. And that was odd. Very odd.
The airfield was ordinarily a hive of frenzied activity. With two squadrons of transport aircraft based here, Swartkop often seemed a practical demonstration of perpetual motion as small, single-engined Kudus and larger
C-47s landed, refueled, and took off again-ferrying men and equipment to the SADF’s far-flung military districts.
But not today. The Kudu that had carried him here sat all by itself, parked in isolation on a vast, empty expanse of concrete. There were no planes on the taxiway taking off or landing. Kruger stroked his freshly shaved chin.
Where were all the aircraft?
The staff car turned onto a wider road running past Swartkop’s huge, aluminum-sided hangars and repair shops. And there they were. Row after row of camouflaged transport planes either parked in the hangars or on the flight line close by. Tiny figures in grease-stained, orange coveralls swarmed over each aircraft, opening a panel here or tightening something down there. Repair and maintenance crews, all working at top speed.
Kruger stared out the window as they drove past, taken completely by surprise. Even under normal operating conditions, perhaps one in five of a squadron’s aircraft could be expected to need routine maintenance at any given time. But nothing about the frantic bustle around the forty or so parked planes struck Kruger as being routine. Had there been some unprecedented and completely unannounced act of
ANC
sabotage? It seemed unlikely. Even the Vorster government’s stringent new censorship laws couldn’t have prevented word of such a disaster from leaking out.
He sat up even straighter as a more plausible, but equally disturbing explanation presented itself. The Air Force must be preparing its planes for a prolonged surge in flight
operations-round-the-clock sorties that would make it impossible to provide normal maintenance.
Kruger’s mouth tightened. These were cargo aircraft and troop carriers, so whatever Pretoria had planned involved the Army. Were they finally going to reinforce the Namibian border? Maybe. He hoped so. It would certainly save him a lot of grief in his meeting with the chief of staff. He could take a scolding more easily if he knew in advance that the hierarchy agreed with his diagnosis of the situation.
The car rounded another corner, cutting off his view of the parked planes, and Kruger faced forward again. His eyes continued to sweep the surrounding terrain-automatically noting the six Cactus missile launchers of the base’s
SAM
battery off to one side and the swarm of harried-looking Air Force officers emerging from Swartkop’s Administration Center on the other. But the logical part of his mind remained fully engaged, raising and as quickly dismissing new explanations for all the activity he saw.
His first hope that the planes were slated to carry reinforcements to the
Namibian frontier seemed farfetched when viewed dispassionately. No one would send large numbers of troops and equipment by air when road convoys or rail transport could serve the same end more efficiently. No, he thought grimly, these planes were being prepared for the kind of high-stakes operation where speed mattered more than cost. A major airborne assault somewhere outside South Africa’s borders, for example. But where? Zimbabwe again? Or Mozambique? He’d heard that support for the Renamo guerrillas had been upped once more. Were these planes intended for one of their murderous operations?
Kruger’s frown tightened further still into a thin-lipped scowl. If whatever Pretoria had in mind wouldn’t help take the pressure off his men, the ears of the SADF’s chief of operations were going to burn with swear words the man probably hadn’t heard since his own days in the bush. And,
Kruger vowed silently, to hell with his career. The lives of his soldiers were more important than his own chances of ever wearing a colonel’s insignia.
Wrapped in increasingly bleak thoughts about his likely personal and professional future, he scarcely noticed as the staff car passed through Swartkop’s heavily guarded main gate and sped toward
Pretoria.
SADF
HEADQUARTERS
,
THE
MINISTRY
OF
DEFENSE
,
PRETORIA
The lieutenant commanding the Defense Ministry guard post looked from
Kruger’s ID card to his face and back down again. Apparently satisfied by what he saw, the young officer’s pen made a tick mark on a surprisingly crowded list of approved visitors.
Then he handed the ID card back and nodded at the burly noncom waiting patiently off to one side of the wood-paneled guard room.
“Thank you,
Kommandant. Sergeant Meinart there will show you to the briefing.”
Kruger pocketed his card with an abrupt nod and followed the sergeant out into the Ministry’s busy main hallway. The noncom walked right by a bank of elevators leading to the building’s upper floors and continued straight on down the hall toward the massive double doors of the Main Staff Auditorium.
Kruger kept pace easily, exchanging salutes with passing senior officers without much conscious thought. He had more interesting things than simple military courtesies to occupy his mind. It was becoming increasingly clear that he hadn’t been summoned to Pretoria for a personal harangue by the higher brass.
He shook his head slightly, irritated with himself for ever holding such a simpleminded, egotistical belief. Only an idiot could miss the signs of intense activity all around. First the frantic maintenance work at
Swartkop, and now this unannounced briefing being held in the Ministry’s largest meeting room. Something big was in the wind. Something very big.
His first glance around the crowded staff auditorium confirmed that impression.
More than a hundred field-grade officers packed the room-some swapping news and professional gossip in the
aisles, others sitting quietly among the rows of theater-style folding chairs. Steel-blue Air Force and dark blue Navy uniforms mingled with the sober brown jackets and ties of the Army. A sea of red-and-blue berets down front signaled the presence of representatives from each of the three
Permanent Force parachute battalions.
Kruger didn’t bother concealing his astonishment. He hadn’t seen this many of his fellow unit commanders together in one place for years. He scanned the room again, counting stars. My God, the auditorium held at least two-thirds of the Army’s Permanent and Citizen Force battalion commanders, six brigadiers, and the two complete division-level staffs.
He stiffened. No one in his right mind would assemble the kind of force these men represented for anything less than a massive, combined-arms operation. He grew even more uneasy at that thought. What was Vorster planning? Some sort of massive exercise? A real military operation?
Kruger’s uneasiness about the government’s intentions had nothing to do with any kind of misplaced pacifism. He loathed the ANC’s sneak attacks and terrorist bombings as much as any other serving South African officer.
Twenty years of cross-border warfare had taught him that the guerrillas were his enemies. And as enemies, they were legitimate targets for South
Africa’s military forces-no matter where they sought sanctuary. But quick, in-and-out commando raids were one thing. This implied something much bigger.
Military operations were always expensive. They consumed both lives and money at a breakneck pace. And the Republic’s economy was already under tremendous strain. Unemployment among the blacks, inflation, and interest rates were all rising. He’d seen the evidence on infrequent visits to his hometown in the northern Transvaal. In emptier shelves in the little country stores. In the growing numbers of able bodied black men slouching aimlessly by the roadsides or fields. In sky-high petrol prices that increasingly kept people at home unless travel was absolutely necessary.
Kruger shook his head. This wasn’t the right time for seeking high-priced military glory. He only hoped somebody on the Defense Staff Council had the balls to explain that to the new cabinet.
“Hey, Henrik, man! What’re you doing here, you blery foot slogger I thought this meeting was for officers and gentlemen only. ”
Kruger wheeled round, a grin spreading across his face despite his inner worries. Though he hadn’t seen Deneys Coetzee in person for more than two years, no one who’d met him could ever forget the cocky little man’s rough, gravelly voice and bluff, open face. Fifteen years before, they’d served together in Namibia as green-as-grass junior officers. Months of hard campaigning in the desolate, and Namibian bush had left both a complete trust in each other’s professional competence and a lasting friendship.
Kruger whistled out loud at the three stars and pentagon on Coetzee’s shoulder tabs.
“They made you a brigadier? Now I know the world is a crazy place.”
Coetzee waggled a finger in his face.
“Ag, man. You ought to show more blery respect for a superior officer. Besides, I’m not just a brigadier, you know. I’m on the Ministry staff now. ”
Kruger mimicked a slight bow.
“So you’ve finally escaped from the field, eh?”
“That’s right. ” Coetzee made a show of brushing invisible dust off his immaculately tailored jacket.
“No more mud, flies, or snakes for me, man.
I’m a happy desk warrior for the foreseeable future and glad of it.”
Kruger took a closer took at his friend. Coetzee hated paperwork and red tape more than anything in the world, so he must be lying. But staff assignments were the price one paid for professional advancement. Nobody who wanted to make general someday could avoid them forever. And like
Coetzee, Kruger knew he’d have to give up his own field command for a staff slot in the next couple of years. It wasn’t something to look forward to, but it was inevitable.
“Attention!” The shouted command silenced all conversation in the crowded auditorium and brought every officer in the room to his feet.
The tall, lanky, whitehaired figure of Gen. Adriaan de Wet, the SADF’s commander, strode onto the stage. Kruger grimaced. He’d served two tours under de Wet-the first as a company commander in a brigade commanded by the older man, and the second as a deputy operations officer at the divisional level. Neither assignment had taught him much respect for de Wet’s abilities as a combat commander or administrator. Army gossip said the general held on to his post by kissing up to whichever political faction held power at the moment-and Kruger believed the gossip.
De Wet crossed to a podium and stood silently for a moment, eyeing the assembled commanders and their staffs standing at attention. Then he waved them down.
“At ease, gentlemen. Find a seat if you haven’t already. We have much to do here today.”
Kruger and Coetzee settled themselves in two seats near the back.
At an impatient nod from de Wet, teams of junior officers began moving up and down the auditorium’s aisles, handing out red-tagged black binders.
Astonished gasps and muttered exclamations followed them through the room.
Kruger took one of the binders from a pile given him by a somber-faced lieutenant and passed the rest on down the row. He scanned the first page and felt the blood draining from his face.
OPERATION
NIMROD-MOST
SECRET
SADF
Order of Battle for Nimrod
44th Parachute Brigade -Brigade HQ -2nd Parachute Battalion -3rd Parachute Battalion -4the Parachute Battalion
8th Armored Division -Division HQ -81st Armored Brigade
-82nd Mechanized Brigade -83rd Motorized Infantry Brigade -84th Field Artillery Regiment
Elements of the 7th Infantry Division -Division HQ -71st Motorized Infantry Brigade -72nd Motorized Infantry Brigade
Elements of the Air Force Transport Command -No. 44 Squadron (C-47s) -No. 28 Squadron (C-130s and C-160s) -No. 18 Squadron (SA.330 Super Puma helicopters) -No. 30 Squadron (SA.330 Super Pumas)
Elements of the Air Force Strike Command -No. 2 Squadron (Mirage IIICZs) -No. 7 Squadron (MB 326 Impalas) -No. 4 Squadron (MB 326 Impalas)
Objectives for Nimrod
1) Reoccupation of the SouthWest Africa Territory (aka Namibia) as far north as the line running from Grootfontein through Karnanjab.
2) Restoration of complete military, political, and economic control over the reoccupied zones of the
SWA
.
3) Destruction of Swapo’s armed forces and political structure.
4) Destruction of all
ANC
base camps and command centres inside the
SWA
.
General Concept of Operations
Nimrod is designed around a series of swift, powerful thrusts into Namibia by powerful mechanized, motorized, and airborne elements of the
SADF
. These attacks will be aimed at key communications hubs and other geographic points of operational value.