“Excuse me, gentlemen. Back in a moment.” He left the wardroom for his own sea cabin. As he stepped into the passageway, his chief of staff,
Gen. George Skiles, intercepted him.
Skiles was an Army brigadier general, part of the “joint,” all-service staff Craig had inherited as part of his new post. A good administrator, he’d taken a lot of the paperwork load off Craig’s shoulders.
“Well?”
“I just got off the secure phone with the State Department. They say that they have almost no information on the “Independent Cape Government,” and that they have every confidence in your judgment. ”
Nuts. Twentyfive years of micromanagement and the one time he needed them, the Foggy Bottom boys left him alone. He shook his head. Two things were certain. They’d show up again as soon as he worked out an acceptable deal. And if he screwed up, he’d hang alone.
“All right.” Craig walked down the passageway and entered his cabin. He thought for a few minutes, washed his face, took a deep breath, and summoned Skiles.
“Get Taylor out of the wardroom, by himself, and bring him up to the bridge wing. ”
“Fraser won’t like you talking to him alone.”
Craig frowned.
“I don’t care. Tell Taylor he’s got a message from his wife. Think of something. Keep the good deputy governor busy. I won’t be long.”
Skiles nodded and left.
Craig climbed the two decks up to the bridge wing and waited, but not for long. Metallic footsteps clattering up the ladder preceded Taylor. The
South African joined him at the railing, his uniform tunic fluttering in the wind.
Taylor’s tone was stiffly formal.
“I came because you requested it, sir, but I will not negotiate with you separately. Mr. Fraser is our sole voice in these matters.”
Craig nodded quietly.
“I understand, Brigadier.”
“And even if I were to come to some sort of separate agreement, I would not have the power to impose it on the civilian authorities.”
“Is that true, Brigadier?” Craig asked.
“After all, you control Cape
Town’s military forces.”
“I will not use those forces to interfere with civil authority again.
”
Taylor’s tone softened.
“I am sure we share a certain dislike for politicians “he smiled-but they hold the reins, and any other way leads to chaos.”
Craig matched his smile.
“I agree. But I asked you up here because I want you to understand my situation. To
give you information that only a military man can appreciate. ”
Taylor arched an eyebrow.
Craig spoke carefully, picking his way through a verbal minefield. He wanted this man as an ally-not pointing a rifle from the other side of the beach.
“I have at my disposal an immense force-more than a division of embarked Marines, air, and artillery. At least two more divisions are at airfields in the States waiting for word that D. F. Malan airport is open. Those men can begin arriving within twenty-four hours of the time
I give that word.”
Taylor nodded. America’s rapid deployment capabilities were widely known.
“You also know we’re on a timetable-a tight one. And that timetable was drawn up in response to allied needs, not the needs of the “Independent
Cape Province’ or the rest of South Africa. We’re burning precious time right now.”
Again Taylor nodded. The Cubans were already hundreds of kilometers inside the Transvaal region. Unless Craig and his men got ashore soon,
Castro’s two remaining armored columns would reach Pretoria,
Johannesburg, and the Witwatersrand minerals complex well ahead of them.
Craig paused. Now for the hard part.
“I’ll be blunt, Brigadier. You know the strengths and abilities of your forces, and you’ve seen some of our capabilities. Now, I want your forces working with us, but if we can’t reach agreement soon, I’ll land my troops without your approval and proceed on my own. ”
“We would have to fight you.”
“Yes. And you and I would both lose men. And time, which would cost more lives, later on. And I’d win.”
Taylor nodded, not bothering to hide the truth. His forces, short on everything except confusion, could not stop the Americans. He could slow them down, inflict casualties, and bog them down in house-to-house fighting-but to what end?
Cape Town had always been a beautiful city. He hated the holdouts on
Table Mountain for what they were doing to the city and its people. That would be nothing compared to a full-scale invasion. Unbidden, pictures of the damage the Wisconsin’s shells could cause flashed into his mind.
Craig had been leaning on the rail. He turned now to face Taylor, and he moved half a step toward the younger man.
“The only reason I’ve put up with Fraser’s bullshit this long is because I want to avoid bloodshed between people who should be friends. But I can’t stall out here forever.
We’re getting close to the point where lost time means more than lost lives.”
Taylor stared back at him, his face held rigid.
“All I need is the airfield. I don’t care what shape the rest of the town is in.” Craig paused.
“That sounds cruel, but the alternative is even worse. Brigadier, you’re a professional, and I respect professionals of any nation. You know the score, and you know your duty. But I can’t afford to waste any more time.”
Craig stopped speaking and turned back to the rail. There was a somber expression on his face, and Taylor wrestled with words, looking for the best reply. Finally, he said nothing and turned to go back to the wardroom.
A few seconds after Taylor’s footsteps faded, Skiles appeared on the ladder.
“General, do you need anything?”
“Ask for a recess. Give the South Africans about fifteen minutes alone, then we’ll start again.”
Craig walked into the wardroom at the appointed time to find a circle of expectant faces waiting for him. His staff looked weary but hopeful, confident that he could find some solution. Taylor and Spier were clearly worried. Fraser, on the other hand, seemed genuinely angry, but he also seemed able to control his rage with a politician’s skill.
Craig sat down heavily, and Fraser spoke, carefully choosing each word.
“General Craig, we have been discussing the issue of the Cape Province’s sovereignty. While we feel it is vital to our interests, we do not wish to delay your essential military operations any longer. Are you willing to state that you are at least unopposed to the concept of an independent
Cape Province?”
Craig was tempted to throw him a bone, but he was angered that this politician was still attempting to drag him into some sort of last-minute commitment.
“Mr. Fraser, I will only state that the political status of the Cape Province is of no concern to me, one way or the other. ” He leaned toward Fraser, looking him in the eyes.
“My only responsibility is to my men and the accomplishment of my mission here.”
He leaned back.
“State Department negotiators can discuss the matter with you at length-once we are ashore.”
Craig caught a flash in the man’s eyes, but Fraser only nodded.
“Very well. Then we are agreed.”
There was a sudden bustle in the room. Skiles slipped a typed agenda in front of the general, and Craig spotted Spier handing Taylor a fat folder. Time to get down to business.
DECEMBER
8-C
GUN
, 1 ST
CAPE
ARTILLERY
,
TABLE
MOUNTAIN
GARRISON
Sgt. Franz Skuller slept next to his gun. It wasn’t devotion to the thing.
After weeks of being besieged, and thousands of rounds fired, the sergeant secretly hoped the blasted piece would break-split its barrel from muzzle to breech, or something else so catastrophic it would be beyond repair.
But the garrison was badly overcrowded, and space was at a premium.
Alerts were constant, and there wasn’t time to run through a maze of passages and still get the first shot off quickly. No, sleeping next to his gun was really the path of least resistance. Anyway, he was so tired he could have slept anywhere.
Skuller stirred in his sleep, reacting to a noise, but it was only
Langford and Hiller, performing one of the countless maintenance tasks that kept the gun in working order. Once the clank of tools and the men’s voices would have awakened him, but he had long since ceased being a light sleeper.
During the initial confusion of the mutiny, he and his gun crew had fought for three days straight. Skuller was part of the existing garrison. He’d watched from above as troops loyal to Vorster’s government had fought for control of the city-using Table Mountain’s commanding position as the anchor of their defense. But they’d been defeated, and he’d also seen their fighting withdrawal turn into a scramble for cover in the mountain’s underground complex.
Since then his crew had been kept hopping by constant alerts, raids, bombardments, and fire missions. His gun was one of six buried in Table
Mountain, and not a night had passed when he hadn’t fired at some target in the city below.
His gun had begun life as a standard G-5 artillery piece. It had a 155mm bore-just a little wider than six inches, moderately big as artillery goes. The G-5, built by South Africa’s
ARMSCOR
, was probably the best weapon of its class in the world. A special shell design, stolen from the
Americans, combined with other improvements, had resulted in a gun of phenomenal accuracy and range. Some G-5s had even scored first-round hits on targets forty kilometers away.
Normally, the G-5 was towed from place to place, but since these guns were “static,” permanently em placed its wheels had been removed. Now it sat on twin rails that ran the length of the tunnel. Electric motors ran the weapon forward and back on those rails. They also elevated and traversed the gun automatically, in response to signals from a fire control computer buried deep in the complex. Laser range finders and fire control radars sited around the circumference of the mountain fed target ranges to the computers, ensuring that if the first salvo didn’t hit, the second would.
When not in use, C Gun was pulled back into the tunnel and an armor-steel blast door covered the tunnel mouth. As soon as the gun was needed, the counterbalanced door swung up and the gun ran out. Its own shield neatly fitted the opening, providing some protection for its crew.
There were motorized ammunition hoists, a filtered ventilation system;
everything needed to defend Cape Townor hold it at bay Skuller smiled grimly in his sleep, wrapped in his blankets. Yes, they’d been driven in here, but he’d seen the storerooms and magazines. They could hold out for months, maybe another two or three if the officers he’d heard were right. He and his comrades had more food than the citizens below.
Successive assaults and raids had all failed to dislodge them, and
Skuller knew that once the Cubans had been wiped out in the north,
Vorster would deal harshly with Cape Town’s rebels. All they had to do was hold out until then.
An earth-shattering clanging filled the tunnel, echoing off the rock walls and filling his head. It was mercifully short, but Skuller still took his time rolling out of his blankets and stretching. Just because he could steep on a rock floor didn’t mean that it felt great. The kink in his back felt as if it would never go away.
Privates Langford and Hiller quickly finished their work as the rest of the gun crew arrived at a dead run. Skuller hooked up his headset at the front of the tunnel as the gun began rolling forward down its rails.. “C
Gun on line, sir.”
“Look alive down there, Sergeant.” Lieutenant Dassen’s voice carried excitement.
“There are American ships approaching. ”
The Americans! So the rumors had been true. Skuller smiled. This would be different. A moving ship would be a real challenge, although Table
Mountain’s guns had never had problems engaging trucks or other moving targets.
C Gun whined forward and tripped a release built into the rail. Smoothly, the inches-thick blast door swung up, letting in sunlight. Skuller filled his lungs with the cool morning air. Once the gun started firing, the ventilators wouldn’t keep the stink of the gun’s propellant from filling the tunnel.
The 155mm gun’s muzzle and then the front two-thirds of its tube emerged into the sunlight. His brief dose of sunlight ended as the shield skid into place, and he heard latches on the rail lock the gun carriage into firing position.
-C gun is in battery,” Skull eT reported over the intercom.
“Ready to fire.”
USS
VOSCONSIN
Capt. Thomas Malloy,
USN
, wished he’d been able to persuade Craig to leave the ship with the South Africans. Most of his staff had gone back to the
Mount Whitney, but the general had insisted, as only generals can, that he needed to observe the bombardment firsthand. In fact, only a tour of the Mk40 gun director had convinced him that there wasn’t room inside for him to watch from there.
Of course, Craig might just have wanted to see the director, but Malloy didn’t think the general was pulling his leg.
“Twenty-seven miles to Green Point, Captain,” reported the phone talker.
“Very well, sound general quarters. ” The Klaxon’s echoes throughout the ship were almost an anticlimax. Having been warned earlier about the upcoming bombardment, most of the crew were already at their stations.
Gunner’s mates had been sweating over their machinery half the night, making sure that every piece of equipment functioned perfectly, and practicing the countless actions necessary to send a one-ton shell twenty miles with pinpoint accuracy.
A boatswain’s mate handed Malloy his helmet, mask, and gloves. Every crewman was required to wear protective equipment at battle stations, and
Malloy believed in setting a good example. The cloth hood and gloves were good protection against flash burns, and even in the summer heat, nobody with any sense complained about wearing them.