“Also true, Piet. And van der Heijden agrees with us. But what can we do about it? So long as
Muller does the dirty work, he’ll have the leader’s ear and confidence.
After all, no man throws away an ax that’s still sharp.”
“Then we must sharpen our own axes, my friend. And I know just the neck
I’d like to use them on….”
Their voices faded as the two men sidled away from the tree, returning to the larger group standing around the open air barbecue pit.
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.
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.
And why not? Muller thought. Our sparring doesn’t threaten his hold on power, and it prevents either of us from gaining too much control over the security services. His respect for Vorster’s shrewdness climbed another notch-as did his carefully concealed dislike for the older man.
Vorster turned to the foreign minister, a gaunt, sallow man. Rumor said he was fighting some form of deadly cancer. It was a fight he seemed to be losing.
“And what of the world’s other nations, Jaap? Have we anything to fear from them?”
The foreign minister shook his head.
“Nothing more than words, Mr.
President. The Western powers have already done their worst. Their sanctions can scarcely be made stricter. And the Russians haven’t the resources left to threaten us. They’re too busy watching their empire crumble to be concerned with what happens ten thousand kilometers from
Moscow.”
Vorster nodded approvingly.
“True. Very true.
He looked around the table again.
“Very well, gentlemen. Any last comments?”
The silence dragged on for several seconds.
At last, one of the junior cabinet ministers raised a reluctant hand.
“One thing still troubles me, sir.”
“Go on. ” Vorster’s temper seemed more in check than it had earlier.
“The Western intelligence services and spy satellites are bound to spot signs of our mobilization for Nimrod. Since it’s essential that we obtain tactical and strategic surprise for this campaign, shouldn’t we have some kind of cover story to explain our troop movements?”
Vorster smiled grimly.
“A very good point, young Ritter. And one that has already been taken into consideration.”
He nodded toward Fredrik Pienaar, the minister of information.
“Fredrik and I have already begun to lay the groundwork. Tomorrow, I shall speak to our most loyal supporters from the Transvaal. And when the interfering democracies hear what I have to say, they’ll be quite convinced that our soldiers are going to be used only for cracking kaffir heads inside this country. Little “Namibia’ will be the furthest thing from their minds.”
The men around the conference table nodded in understanding and agreement.
“Good. That’s settled, then.” Vorster turned to the minister of defense.
“Very well, Constand. Notify all commands. Operation Nimrod proceeds as planned.”
South Africa was on its way to war.
AUGUST
4-ABC”S
NIGHT
LINE
The reporter stood at the corner of C and Twenty-third streets in downtown
Washington, D.C. The gray government building behind her provided a neutral background for her carefully coiffed hair and green summer dress.
More importantly, the sign saying
STATE
DEPARTMENT
told her viewers where she was and that great events were afoot. Bright white TV lights lit the sky.
“If congressional Democrats can agree on anything these days, it’s that the administration’s response to recent developments in South Africa has been halting, confused, and wholly inadequate. And as Pretoria’s violent crackdown on dissent continues, congressional demands for further economic sanctions seem likely to intensify. All this at a time when administration officials are already working late into the night-trying desperately to restructure a South Africa policy thrown badly out of whack.”
The camera pulled back slightly, showing a lit row of windows at the top of the State Department.
“And something else seems certain. South African state
president Karl Vorster’s latest public harangue will do absolutely nothing to douse the sanctions furor building up on Capitol Hill. If anything, his rhetoric appears calculated to send apartheid opponents around the world into fits.”
She disappeared from the screen, replaced by footage showing Vorster standing on a flag-draped dais. The bloodred, three-armed-swastika banners of the Afrikaner Weerstandbeweging mingled with South African blue-, white-, and orange-striped national flags.
Vorster’s clipped accent made his words seem even harsher.
“We have given the blacks of our country every chance to participate in a peaceful exchange of ideas. Every chance to work toward a sharing of power and increased prosperity, for them and for all South Africans.”
He paused dramatically.
“But they have shown themselves to be unworthy!
Their answer to reform is murder! They reply to reason with violence!
They are incapable of peaceful conduct, much less of participating in the government. They have had their chance, and they will not have another.
Never again! That I promise you, never again.”
A roar of approval surged through the hall and the camera panned around, showing a sea of arm-waving, cheering white faces.
As the thunderous applause faded, the camera cut back to the reporter standing on the State Department steps.
“Vorster’s speech, one of his first since taking over as president, came at the close of a day-long visit to the rural Transvaal, his home territory and a stronghold of ultraconservative white opinion. And nobody who heard him speak can have any doubt that he’s giving South Africa’s diehards just what they’ve always wanted. Tough words and tougher action.
“This is Madeline Sinclair, for “Nightline.”
”
The camera cut away to show the program’s New Yorkbased anchorman.
“Thank you, Madeline. Following this break, we’ll be back with Mr. Adrian Roos, of the South African Ministry of Law and Order, Mr. Ephriarn Nkwe, of the now-banned African National Congress, and Senator Steven Travers of the
Senate Foreign Relations ComiTtittee. ”
The anchorman’s sober, serious image vanished, replaced by a thirty-second spot singing the praises of a Caribbean cruise line.
AUGUST
5—
THE
RUSSELL
SENATE
OFFICE
BUILDING
,
WASHINGTON
, D.C.
Sen. Steven Travers’s innermost congressional office was decorated with a mixture of autographed photos, the Nevada state flag, and a stuffed lynx nicknamed Hubert by his aides.
“Hubert” disappeared whenever any of the most prominent animal-rights lobbyists paid a visit. But the lynx always reappeared to reassure home-state visitors that Travers-no matter how liberal he might be in foreign affairs-was still the plain, gun-toting cowboy his campaign commercials always showed.
The photos crowding the office’s rich, wood-paneled walls included shots of the senator with his wife and family, with two presidents (both
Democrats), and with several Hollywood stars-all famous for the various liberal causes they supported. A recent addition was a picture of himself in the Capitol rotunda, shaking hands with
ANC
leader Nelson Mandela.
The pictures all showed a tall, slim man with sandy hair slowly going gray and a handsome, angular face. He looked good in a suit-a fact that hadn’t endeared him to other, less telegenic senators back when cameras first started recording every minute of the Senate’s floor debates for posterity. Right now the suit hung on a hanger in his office closet, and
Travers lounged comfortably behind his desk wearing jeans, a Lacoste shirt, and loafers.
His small, normally neat office seemed crowded with two legislative aides, two staff lawyers, and a close friend. Coffee cups and boxes of doughnuts littering the floor and desk made it clear that they had either started very early or worked very late.
“Hey, guys, time’s awasting. I’ve got a committee meeting
in three hours,” said Travers, looking at his watch, “with a
CBS
interview thirty minutes before that.”
He started to yawn and then closed his mouth on it.
“Not that the “Nightline’ spot didn’t come out pretty good, but I can’t keep spouting the same stuff over and over. Things are going wrong too fast over there.”
Travers reached forward and pulled a red-tagged manila folder out of the pile on his desk.
“I mean, look at this!” He flipped the folder open and tapped the first sheet.
“The
CIA
says that bastard Vorster’s even mobilizing more troops to go after the black townships. People are gonna look to me to provide the Senate’s response, and I can’t just go on repeating the same old tired calls for more sanctions. I need something new-something that’ll grab some headlines and grab Pretoria by the throat.”
Travers had championed the anti apartheid cause in the Senate ever since his election two terms ago. It had been a happy marriage of personal belief with a popular cause. And now he was one of the senators first on the media’s list for official reaction whenever South Africa hit the news.