The picture wasn’t improving. Dassen had reported three hits, so far, and several near-misses, but without visible effect. The Afrikaner gun crews were beginning to realize the power of the floating fortress that had decided to attack them.
Another salvo from the battleship rocked the mountain, and Skuller heard a scream on the line.
“We’ve lost E Gun.” Dassen didn’t elaborate further.
The cracks in the ceiling continued to grow. They were clearly visible now, if only Skuller had taken the time to look up.
Forty seconds later, nine more shells arrived, streaking in at more than 1,900 feet per second. Each an nor-piercing projectile weighed 2,700 pounds and bored thirty feet into the hard rock before exploding. Adding to the tremendous kinetic energy already possessed by each shell, 4,500 pounds of
TNT
detonated in nine separate explosions, sending pressure waves surging outward through the rock.
One shell slammed into the cliff just ten meters away from C Gun and almost directly overhead. The shock was strong enough to rattle the gun on its rails. Without the locks holding it in place, the G-5 would have leapt off and smashed into one of the tunnel walls.
Thrown to the floor by the pounding, deafening impact,
Skuller and his men scrambled to their feet and raced forward to check their weapon for damage. But as the sergeant bent over C Gun’s delicate sighting mechanism, a small piece of rock pattered off his shoulder. As he looked up at the ceiling, reacting to the impact, a second chunk rattled off the gun barrel, followed immediately by a third. Realization came, and on its heels, panic.
He ripped off his phone set.
“Out! Get out, now!”
But as he looked up to see how much time they had, the web of cables and pipes overhead was already falling-torn from the ceiling by man-sized chunks of rock. Skuller managed just two steps before his head and chest were crushed. Only Private Hiller made it to safety to report on the fate of C Gun and its eight-man crew.
USS
MSCONSIN
“Sir, the gunnery officer reports no firing from the mountain for five minutes now.”
“Very well. Cease fire.” A rolling blast from the battleship’s three gun turrets punctuated Malloy’s order, and the talker quickly relayed his command before the guns were reloaded.
The last wisps of gun smoke trailed away, and Malloy took a deep breath.
It would be a long time before the acrid powder smell was out of his nose, or his clothing. But he had other things to worry about right now.
He turned from the bridge windows.
“Navigator, course to the mountain?”
“Zero eight three, sir.”
“Helm, steer zero eight three. Indicate flank speed. Director, keep mounts one and two trained on the target. ” Malloy wasn’t going to give
Table Mountain’s defenders a chance to surprise him. He planned to run in fast. The Wisconsin would take station ten thousand yards off the beach. If anyone on the mountain fired again, he’d give them all nine guns at point-blank range.
Besides, his job wasn’t finished yet.
Malloy looked away from the gyro repeater to see Craig
studying the mountain. Dust and the smoke of fires started by their bombardment still obscured most of its heavily scarred surface. The Navy captain raised his own binoculars to the area.
Men and vehicles were visible between the columns of smoke, advancing slowly up the mountain along winding roads-Taylor’s Cape Province infantry were making their assault.
There were still defenders up in the tunnels and bunkers, though. The
Cape troops were moving slowly-pinned down from time to time by heavy machinegun and rifle fire. Even without its heavy guns, Table Mountain would be a tough nut to crack.
“Sir, lookouts report aircraft approaching from astern.”
Craig and Malloy stepped out onto the bridge wing to watch as a cloud of aircraft appeared over the horizon. As they closed, Malloy identified them as Marine Ospreys. The amphibious assault ship Saipan had launched two dozen Ospreys carrying two companies of U.S. Marines. The tilt-rotor aircraft were headed for the top of Table Mountain.
A flight of four AV-8B Harriers screamed past the battleship. Loaded with bombs and gun pods, they would hit any remaining defenders on top of the mountain-covering the LZ while the Marines landed.
Malloy’s grim smile matched Craig’s. Caught between two advancing forces, with the Wisconsin’s guns and Marine fighters in support, the Afrikaners would have nowhere to go. They’d have to surrender-or die in place.
For all practical purposes, the battle for Cape Town was over.
DECEMBER
I
O-TRANSIT
CAMP
, 101 ST
AIR
ASSAULT
DIVISION
,
NEAR
THE
D.
F.
MALAN
INTERNATIONAL
AIRPORT
,
CAPE
TOWN
The Marine helicopter touched down in a cloud of hot dust and wind. Its rotors were still turning as Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig,
flanked by his chief of staff and intelligence officer, jumped from the machine and marched over to a knot of men waiting near a long barbed wire fence. Craig noted that there were Marines, Army personnel, and South
African soldiers present. He hoped that was a good sign.
“Good morning, sir.” The senior officer, an Army lieutenant colonel, saluted, and Craig returned it quickly, still walking. The officer, a slim man with a carefully trimmed crew cut and a small scar on his chin, fell in beside him.
Ahead lay a massive tent city, still growing if the frantically working construction teams were any indication. Some men were erecting tents while others built more-permanent structures-mostly prefab hangars and maintenance sheds for the 101st’s helicopter fleet. Other troops were digging emplacements for heavy weapons at regular intervals along the fence line-an action prompted by last night’s incident.
“Over here, sir.” The party followed the fence line to a stretch of wire that had a six-foot gap cut in it. A row of bodies lay off to one side, covered by a green, Army-issue tarpaulin.
As Craig’s group approached, a young Army private standing near the fence came to attention and saluted. The lieutenant colonel nodded in his direction.
“This is
PFC
Moffett, General. ”
Then he turned to the private.
“At ease, Moffett. Tell the general about last night.”
Clearly nervous in the presence of so much rank, Moffett tried his best to report.
“Sir! I was assigned the midnight to-oh-four-hundred guard post last night, the ninth of December, when I detected unauthorized personnel near the fence. When I ordered them to halt, they engaged me with unauthorized small-arms fire. So I was forced to return fire while calling for the corporal of the guard.”
Craig fought down a sudden grin.
“Unauthorized” small arms fire? He’d have to remember that one.
“Good work, son. You did the right things at the right time. Were you nervous?”
The private relaxed slightly and turned his head to look at
Craig.
“Nervous, sir? I was scared shitless!” Suddenly remembering whom he was speaking to, he braced, exclaiming, “Oh, fuck! I mean, excuse me, sir!”
Craig’s grin broke out into the open.
“Don’t worry, Corporal. We need men who do their job even when they’re scared. ” He glanced at the Army officer beside him.
“I think we can forgive Corporal Moffett’s language, this time.
We need NCOs who can think on their feet. Right, Colonel?”
The man nodded.
“Definitely, sir. ” He jerked his head to one side. Moffett took the hint, saluted again, and sidled away, grinning at his good fortune.
Craig turned his gaze on the row of dead men. There were four of them, and the bare feet sticking out from under the tarpaulin showed that they were black.
Soldiers pulled back the sheet, revealing four young African men, all dressed in fatigue-style uniforms of mixed cut and color. Moffett had shot three of them, the Army officer explained. The fourth had been killed by another guard as he attempted to flee.
“All our sentries are equipped with nightvision gear, General. I don’t think they were ready for that.”
And Craig was not ready for black guerrillas.
“Who were they?” he asked.
“What were they trying to do?”
The lieutenant colonel shrugged.
“We didn’t find any documents, but one of them had an
ANC
pin on his shirt. Other than that slim link, nothing.” He frowned down at the row of corpses.
“As for what they were up to? Well, they had three AK-47s, one
RPG
launcher, and some satchel charges. And this part of the wire is opposite our helicopter park. That’s a pretty juicy target for a sabotage attack, sir. ”
Craig nodded reluctantly.
“Double your guards. We shouldn’t expect them all to have Corporal Moffett’s aim.”
He turned to the staff officers with him.
“Increase security at all our camps. I don’t want any frigging Beiruts on my watch, understand?”
They nodded. Nobody in the U.S. military took the threat of terrorist attacks lightly.
Craig spun back to face the Army lieutenant colonel.
“Send out a tracking party right away. See if you can pick up any further information about these guys-where they came from,
if they had any help.” Addressing the party as a whole, he said, “We’re not here to hunt down the
ANC
, but by God, we will protect our own people.”
Turning away, Craig headed for the helicopter. Shaking his head, he muttered under his breath, “Sounds good, anyway. ”
Another complication.
As his helicopter lifted off and headed back to the Mount Whitney, he cursed his luck. Cape Town was supposed to be a safe haven, a place where his men could prepare for their real job. While he didn’t view his primary mission as “liberating South Africa’s black population,” certainly booting out Vorster should be good news for them. Were these guerrillas working with the Cubans, or did they just hate armed strangers in their country?
New contingents of troops were landing constantly, crowding camps that were springing up like plants after a desert rain. Every airfield in the area was so choked with military aircraft that the precious engineer units had been diverted to expanding one of them.
Craig closed his eyes for a brief moment’s rest. Just coordinating this buildup was an exhausting, but vital, job. And now he faced this new distraction. Ashore among a fragmented and violent population, he longed for the relief of open combat.
DECEMBER
12-
CNN
HEADLINE
NEWS
A blond, thirtyish announcer sat before a now-familiar map of sub-Saharan
Africa.
“The American buildup in South Africa continues, amid criticism both at home and abroad. For different reasons, Senator Steven Travers of
Nevada and Soviet foreign minister Alexei Tumansky both released statements today condemning U.S. involvement in the region.”
The scene shifted to show Tumansky in front of the United Nations building, surrounded by aides and reporters. Bundled in an elegant overcoat and fur cap, the minister spoke earnestly.
“Our resolution is intended to call world attention to
the West’s intervention in support of the South African government.
”
As if on cue, one of the reporters surrounding him asked, “Washington has stated that it intends to remove the Vorster regime from office. Don’t both you and Washington have the same goal?”
“Washington merely intends to restore its own version of ‘law and order’ to South Africa. The socialist armies now liberating the country intend to let the people decide their new government. ”
The scene changed again, this time to show Senator Travers at a podium, in front of an applauding crowd. The anchor’s voice-over said, “And at a recent fund-raising dinner for Trans Africa Senator Travers castigated the administration for involving the U.S. in a ‘dangerous foreign adventure.”
” Travers’s voice became audible as he said, “Instead of starting our own private war, we should be assisting those forces in the area that are already fighting Vorster’s regime. The cold war is dead.
If the President can’t get used to the idea of joining hands with old enemies in a common cause, then it’s time for new leadership in the White
House. ” More cheers and applause greeted his words, which faded along with the senator’s image.
The anchor’s face returned, and in a calm, reassuring voice, he read a statement by the British foreign minister, speaking after a particularly noisy question period in the House of Commons.
“Britain remains committed to intervention in South Africa, both as a way of protecting our extensive commercial interests in the region, and to ensure that a democratic government is created, one that can end the frightful bloodshed now under way.”
Looking up from his script, the anchor let a little excitement creep into his voice.
“Meanwhile, the buildup continues.”
DECEMBER
12-
VOORTREKKER
HEIGHTS
MILITARY
CAMP
Commandant Henrik Kruger’s bungalow still showed signs of the damage it had suffered during the American attack on Pelindaba. Rough plaster patches covered cracks in every wall, and sheets of plastic were tacked over empty window frames. His standard-issue furniture hadn’t come through in any better shape. Thick pieces of canvas now covered a small sofa and three high-backed chairs whose upholstery had been torn to pieces by flying glass and steel splinters.
Brig. Deneys Coetzee paused in the doorway and made a show of carefully surveying his surroundings.
“What a pigsty, Henrik! You’d be more comfortable living in a tent or inside your Ratel!”
“Perhaps I would. ” Kruger smiled briefly and then glanced over Coetzee’s shoulder. None of his “trusted” junior officers were in sight. Good. He motioned the older man inside and shut the door behind him.