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.
The face mask covered the wearer’s features, but Malloy knew the officers and enlisted men on the general quarters bill well by voice alone. If he did forget, the helmets were labeled with the wearer’s position, HELMSMAN
Or NAVIGATOR, for example. Malloy’s helmet read SKIPPER.
Craig accepted a spare set, and with the boatswain’s help, donned the gear. Someone had turned a spare helmet over to the Wisconsin’s Marine detachment, and the steel pot had been painted in camouflage colors to match his fatigues, then adorned with three black plastic stars and the
Marine Corps insignia. As Malloy watched, the short, stocky Marine general donned the helmet with a smile and a shake of his head.
The phone talker turned his phone set over to the man who held the position at general quarters, and the new talker reported the Wisconsin’s progress toward battle-ready status.
“Damage control is on the line.
Engineering reports all boilers lit off, ready to respond to all bells.
Gunnery reports all
turrets manned, all mounts manned, all guns in automatic.” His tone was calm, cold, clear, and completely factual. A good talker never let emotion cloud his repeated messages.
A final report was more immediate.
“Electronic Warfare module reports a
J-band radar bearing zero nine five.”
Probably a gunfire control radar, Malloy thought. The bearing was consistent with the mountain. Well, he hadn’t really expected to catch them napping.
Malloy watched the clock. Three and a half minutes after he’d ordered general quarters, the talker reported, “All stations manned and ready.
Damage control reports condition zebra set throughout the ship. ” They were ready, all right. Clearing for action usually took five minutes or more. Still, his crew was helping him look good in front of the general.
