American help. Taylor, his secondin command, Adriaan Spier, and Deputy
Governor Fraser were all going out to meet the American invasion fleet steaming toward the Cape Town coast.
Making sure that his hooded light was pointed out to sea, one of the soldiers escorting Taylor’s party shone a beam toward the advancing aircraft. As if making sure that was the proper recognition signal, the helicopter paused about fifty meters away, hovering over the water.
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
