Phosphorescent foam showed where its powerful rotor wash hit the surface.
It
waited, hanging almost motionless in the air, until the South African signalman pointed his light at a clear section of the pier. Then the aircraft slid forward and came in to land.
The concrete pier was ten meters wide at this point. In earlier days,
Simonstown had served as a base for the Dutch, then the Royal Navy. Now it served what was left of the South African Navy-a force that had shrunk from scores of ships to the present handful of missile boats. Some of those had been lost in the fighting. The rest were hidden along the coast against future need. They would be of little help in assaulting the
Mountain.
As soon as the helicopter settled, Taylor shook a few hands, received heartfelt best wishes from his men, and trotted toward the aircraft, ducking under the still-turning blades. Spier and Fraser were close on his heels, and as they approached, a side door opened, revealing a red-lit interior.
The three men quickly clambered aboard, helped by experienced hands.
Crewmen, expressionless beneath bulky flight helmets, strapped them in.
As soon as they were secure, Taylor felt a steady pressure on his seat and spine. They were airborne.
Just as the helicopter started moving forward, a flash and the roar of an explosion broke the night’s calm. Taylor felt the machine shudder.
Spier, seated beside him, said, “It’s a ranging shot. They must have seen something. ”
True. The smallest flicker of movement could attract the attention of the guns hidden in Table Mountain’s tunnels. Even sound could prompt an attack.
A second shell landed closer to the pier than the first. White water spouted high in the air. Taylor swore softly. Even a near miss could tumble the slow-moving helicopter into the ocean.
He felt the helicopter’s engines roar as the pilot fire-walled the throttle. It skimmed over the water, gathering speed. A third round landed almost on top of their landing site, but they were well away, and
Taylor was sure that the men they’d left behind were long gone. You didn’t live long in Cape Town these days without knowing how to take cover.
The helicopter was a troop carrier, a Nighthawk version of the Sikorsky UH-60, equipped with navigation and nightvision gear.
Taylor and the other two rubbernecked for a few moments until an enlisted man handed’ each South African an intercom headset. Removing his beret,
Taylor put it on and heard, “Good morning, gentlemen. Lieutenant Colonel
Haigler, U.S. Marine Corps, at your service.”
Sure that lieutenant colonels did not normally pilot helicopters, Taylor replied, “Good morning, Colonel.”
Taylor, who still thought of himself as a major, fought the urge to call
Haigler “sit.” His commissions as commandant, colonel, and finally brigadier had been earned in combat, in response to the new province’s desperate need for an organized military force. His deputy, Adriaan
Spier, had been a lieutenant and was now a colonel.
“How far is it to your flotilla, Colonel?” asked Fraser.
The American officer’s slow, confident voice filled his earphones.
“About sixty miles-nautical miles.
ETA
over the task force is in roughly forty minutes.”
Taylor looked back. The dark coast behind them was invisible, and the
Nighthawk skimmed over the dark waves only twenty meters below them.
There were no marks to navigate by, and only fading starlight to see by.
He trusted the pilot’s navigational skills, though. He had to.
After about thirty minutes, the helicopter started climbing. The eastern horizon was already visibly lighter, and the three South Africans heard
Haigler say, “I thought you’d like to have a look before we set down.”
Taylor and his two companions peered out the port windows. They were climbing steadily. His ears popped uncomfortably, and he kept yawning, trying to clear them. Now he knew why so many American fliers seemed to chew gum all the time.
The sun was also climbing to meet them, casting its pale early-morning light farther and farther to the west. Suddenly, what had been a dark and empty seascape was full of gray painted ships.
Taylor was sure they were in some sort of formation, but all he could see was a mass of ships-some small, many large. He picked out what had to be a carrier, and as if to
reinforce the point, two F-14 fighters flew past the helicopter, close enough for a good look but just far enough away to avoid buffeting their craft.
The brigadier began to smell a setup. No doubt the Americans and their
British allies thought an initial display might influence the attitudes of their South African guests. Still, he appreciated the show. If nothing else, Taylor now had a much better idea of the task force’s size and fighting power.
The Nighthawk angled down, and Taylor realized they were not heading for the carrier, but for what had to be a battleship. He had heard and read of these vessels, but he had never seen one, certainly not like this. The warship seemed to symbolize the American intervention. It was massive, powerful, even pretty to look at. He was genuinely impressed.
In a long, slow, smooth arc, the helicopter came in to land on the battleship’s fantail. As soon as it touched down, two lines of Marines ran up, dressed in camouflaged battle dress but still looking crisp and neat despite that.
Fraser stepped out first, followed by Taylor and then Spier. Boatswains’ pipes shrilled, and they stopped momentarily as the Marines lined up to either side presented arms. Taylor and the others were escorted over to a group of officers drawn up on the fantail.
He consciously squared his shoulders. The ceremonies were almost over.
Now they’d get down to work.
Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig eyed the approaching South Africans carefully. They were potential allies, but that alliance was far from automatic. His mind sorted out names, faces, and first impressions while his ears listened to the routine introductions-the Wisconsin’s captain, the commander of the Marines Expeditionary Force, and so on.
He liked what he saw of Taylor. The South African commander was a weathered-looking man, a little younger than Craig, weary, with that same thousand-mile stare he’d seen in Vietnam-the look of a man who’d seen too much combat. Spier was similar, but more enthusiastic. It was clear the mande of responsibility was a heavy burden for the young brigadier.
Fraser was a different sort. Smooth, self-assured, he looked as if he hadn’t missed many meals-despite the shortages Craig had heard about.
Although Fraser was a South African, the general thought he could have stepped out of any city hall or state house in the States. He hated the politician instantly.
Well, it was time to start the festivities, Craig thought. As senior officer he was master of ceremonies.
“Will you gentlemen accompany us to the wardroom? We thought you might like some breakfast before we get down to business.”
Although billed as a training exercise, the gunnery drill was really a demonstration of the battleship’s firepower. An ample, “American-style” breakfast had been followed by a quick tour of the Wisconsin, capped off by this “exercise” firing. Taylor didn’t need the demonstration, but he was happy to watch. He’d be too busy when the Wisconsin actually fired her guns in anger.
The Wisconsin was the centerpiece of Taylor’s plan for clearing Table
Mountain-the answer to his prayers. Air attacks had proved futile against the recessed, heavily armored gun positions. The battleship’s one-ton shells were both precise and powerful enough to knock out the guns. In addition, sixteen-inch shells were cheap, and the Wisconsin could pound the battery again and again, until it was gone.
Craig and Capt. Thomas Malloy, the Wisconsin’s skipper, were having an animated discussion about gun safety and backblast, and Taylor sagged against the railing and tried to rest. His morning on the battleship had been his first day of relative peace since the civil war started.
He looked up as Craig nodded to his guests.
“Gentlemen, I recommend that we remain inside the bridge during the firing. ”
Taylor was reluctant to leave the bridge wing’s fresh air and wider view, but he sensed that Craig knew his business.
As soon as they stepped inside the bridge, sailors rushed forward to swing the armored doors shut, dogging them tightly. During their brief tour, Taylor had noticed the heavy steel forming both the doors and the bulkheads they were set
in. With its six inches of all-around steel protection and splinter-proof glass windows, Malloy referred to the bridge as part of his ship’s armored “citadel,” a term that seemed highly appropriate.
Responding to Malloy’s orders, the Wisconsin changed course. As the ship turned, Taylor saw its massive forward gun turrets start moving. A ringing alarm bell warned anyone foolish enough to be on deck to keep clear of the moving machinery.
Each turret swung out to starboard, pointing harmlessly out to sea. Craig explained that an artificial target was being fed into gunnery plot, many decks below, and that the guns would fire a salvo at this imaginary enemy.
Muzzles whined upward on the two forward turrets.
Taylor heard a “Stand by!” from the phone talker, followed by a shrill beep-beep, and the second beep ignited an explosion that filled his world with sound.
Smoke and flame splashed off the armored glass windows in front of him, and his feet carried the firing shock up his legs and spine until it shook inside his head. Nine sixteen inch shells, each weighing one ton, howled twenty miles downrange. Each shell was twenty times larger than those fired by the guns on Table Mountain. For a brief instant, the whole battleship seemed to stagger and rock back under the force of its broadside.
The bridge windows cleared as the Wisconsin’s motion carried it out of the smoke cloud. Mist still streamed from the gun tubes. In the silence following the explosion, Taylor turned to the Marine general and nodded firmly.
“That should do the job, I would think ”
WARDROOM
,
USS
VWSCONSIN
Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig wanted to rub his eyes, get up and walk around, and take a breath of fresh air. He wanted to leave, to get back to his command center where the only problems he faced involved killing an armed and alert enemy.
Fraser was speaking.
“General Craig, I must insist that your government has already recognized our government by our reception here. We welcome that recognition and ask only that you formalize it before we proceed with any military planning. ”
Fraser had been insisting on the same thing for the past two hours, using fine points of international law, the Bible, and his own rhetorical skills to hammer his point home: the Cape Province was now an independent nation.
But Craig had other things he wanted-no, needed-to discuss: logistical support, communications, intelligence on the enemy forces. Fraser’s insistence on diplomatic recognition had come as a complete surprise.
There had been no indication to anyone that this would be on the agenda.
The politician wanted Craig’s assurances that any civil affairs personnel landed would act in accordance with Cape Province law. He wanted Craig’s promise that the U.S. consulate would be reopened soon as a full embassy, and he asked for the general’s agreement in principle on an aid and mutual defense treaty-all prior to landing any American or British troops.
Internally, Craig fumed. It was a stickup, plain and simple. His forces had to land at Cape Town, and quickly, if there was going to be anything left to save in South Africa. Instead, the Cape Town authorities seemed to be more concerned with assuring their own political survival.
Fraser wasn’t leaving much doubt about that.
“The Cape has always had a different cultural makeup and a different political philosophy from the rest of South Africa. We’ve no use for these stiff-necked Boers. And this is a historic opportunity to chart the course of our country. Free of outside control, free to develop as we want. I tell you, General, apartheid has already ended here.”
That might be true, Craig thought, but he wasn’t buying it. He’d seen the hard numbers during his Pentagon briefings. The Afrikaners had been working to fragment their population for years-the old divide-and-conquer rule. So it was natural that the Englishdescended Cape Towners should want to go
it alone. Facts didn’t take much notice of wishes, though. The provincial economies were too interdependent. South Africa’s separate pieces simply could not stand on their own.
Fraser’s quiet, impassioned, and utterly self-interested tirade went on and on.
So far, the two military officers, Taylor and Spier, had sat quietly and uncomfortably throughout the entire discussion. At one point, Craig asked
Taylor for his views.
Fraser had interrupted as the brigadier opened his mouth to speak.
“We have the full support of our military in this matter, General.”
Right. Craig remembered the fat briefcase that Spier had carried aboard under his arm. It lay on the table now, next to Taylor’s elbow, and he had to force himself to stop staring at it. Everything his men needed was in there, he was sure of it.
He was also sure these two soldiers were ready to talk business, but
Fraser wanted his deal first.
Craig cleared his throat.
“LA)ok, these are all points that you can iron out with our State Department later. Right now, I need to work with
Brigadier Taylor and his people, coordinating the military aspects of this operation.”
Fraser was obstinate.
“And I insist, General, that before you can help us you must state whom you are going to help-and to what end.”
Craig bristled. Deputy governor or not, who the hell did this guy think he was?
“And I am not empowered to recognize a foreign country, Mr.
Fraser.”
“But you already have, by receiving us in our official capacity. ”
Aaarrggh. Craig unclenched his teeth long enough to spit out a quick,