“Well, I’m pleased to report that the President” Muller inclined his head in Vorster’s direction—has authorized an expanded assistance program for Renamo. As part of this program, we’ll be meeting a much higher percentage of their requests for heavier weaponry, more sophisticated mines, and additional explosives.”
Muller paused, watching interest in his words grow on the faces around the table.
“Naturally, in return we’ll expect a stepped-up pattern of attacks. Especially on the railroads connecting Zimbabwe with the port at Maputo and the oil terminal at Beira.”
Pleased smiles sprouted throughout the small, crowded room. By cutting those rail lines, Renamo’s guerrillas would once again destroy the only independent transportation links between the black states of southern
Africa and the rest of the world. All their other railroads led through
South Africa. Pretoria’s economic stranglehold on its neighbors would be dramatically strengthened at a relatively small cost in arms and ammunition. Best of all, those doing the fighting and dying would all be black. No white blood need be shed.
One man, Fredrik Pienaar, the new minister of information, coughed lightly, seeking recognition.
“What about the American, British, and
French military advisors in Mozambique? Can they interfere with our plans?”
Vorster scowled.
“To hell with them. They’re nothing.”
“The President is quite right, Minister,” Muller said with a cautious glance at Pienaar. The tiny, wasp-wasted man now controlled the government’s vast propaganda machine. And as a result, he could be either a powerful friend or a dangerous foe. To a considerable degree, the official “truth” in South Africa would be shaped by the press releases and radio and TV broadcasts Pienaar approved.
Muller tapped the map lightly as he went on.
“The Western soldiers in
Mozambique are there strictly as training cadres. Their own governments have forbidden them any combat role. Once Renamo’s expanded operations get going, these cadres will have little effect on our plans. The white- ruled countries may be outwardly sympathetic to these black socialist states, but they are really providing only token aid. They no more want them to prosper than we do.” His finger traced an arc along
South Africa’s northern border.
Muller wasn’t so sure of that. The socalled democracies were often unpredictable. He consoled himself with the thought that his first analysis was undoubtedly correct. Surely no sane European or American politician would seriously want to assist a country such as Mozambique.
He sank back into his chair at Vorster’s signal. His part in this afternoon’s orchestrated chorus of approval for long planned actions was over.
Vorster stood, towering above the members of his inner circle.
“One major threat to our fatherland remains unchecked.”
His hand hovered over the map and then slammed down with enough force to startle the older men around the table.
“Here! The communists who now rule in SouthWest Africa. In what they call “Namibia. He pronounced the native word contemptuously.
His subordinates muttered their agreement. South Africa had governed the former German colony of SouthWest Africa for seventy years. During that time, the diamonds, uranium, tungsten, copper, and gold produced by
Namibia’s rich mines had poured into the hands of South Africa’s largest industrial conglomerates. Just as important, the colony’s vast, and wastelands had proved an invaluable buffer zone against
guerrilla attacks on South Africa itself. A ragtag, native Na
mibian guerrilla movement, Swapo, had caused casualties and destroyed property, but it had never seriously threatened Pretoria’s hold on its treasure trove.
But all Namibia’s benefits had been thrown away when the National Party’s ruling faction agreed to cede the region to a black, Swapo-dominated government. To Vorster and his compatriots, South Africa’s subsequent
UN-supervised withdrawal had been the clearest signal yet that Haymans’s “moderates” planned a complete surrender of all white privilege and power.
Every man now sitting on the State Security Council believed that the negotiated surrender of Namibia was a stain on South Africa’s honor. A stain that would have to be erased.
Vorster saw their frowns and nodded.
“That’s right, gentlemen. So long as communists have free rein on our western border, so long will our people be threatened.”
His scowl grew deeper.
“We know that these Swapo bastards give shelter to our terrorist enemies!
“We know that the mines dug with our labor, our money, and our expertise now pay for the weapons used to murder men, women, and children across this land!
“We know that these black animals openly boast of their victory’ over us-a ‘victory’ given them by treachery within our own government. “
Muller watched with interest as Vorster’s normally florid face grew even redder. He had to admit that the man’s rhetoric was effective. The
President could whip men into a hate filled frenzy even faster than the old Bible-thumping dominie at Muller’s boyhood church. The security chief quickly shied away from the comparison. It awakened too many long-buried memories of mixed pleasure and shame.
A tiny fleck of spittle from Vorster’s mouth landed by Muller’s right hand, and he stared at it in sick fascination as his leader’s tirade reached its climax.
“it shall not be so. We will not allow these enemies of our blood to laugh at us, to mock us, to freely plot our downfall! They will be punished!”
Clenched fists thumped the table in a wild, drumming rhythm as he finished speaking.
Vorster, smiling now, let his followers show their approval for a moment, then held up a hand for silence. His rage seemed to have vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating expression.
“Accordingly, I ask the ministers of defense and foreign affairs, and the director of miliary intelligence, to confer with me on specific means aimed at ridding us of this abomination, this “Namibia. “
Vorster stared directly into the eyes of each of the three men he’d named.
“I shall impose only three conditions on our deliberations. The actions we contemplate must be swift, they must be certain, and they must be final.”
Muller looked back at his leader and felt a cool shiver of delight run down his spine. He and his counterparts were being given a free hand to decide the fate of one and a half million people. It was the closest thing imaginable to being a god.
Something stirred in his loins and Muller shifted uncomfortably, wondering again at the way he always found thoughts of power and death so sexually arousing. He shook his head irritably. One thing was certain.
It was a mystery that would cost the Namibian people dearly.
And that was a pleasant thought.
CHAPTER
Crackdown
JULY 15-PURSUIT FORCE LION, ON THE NAMBIAN
FRONTIER
One thousand feet above the arid, rolling Namibian veld, a tiny, single-engined Cessna 185 orbited-circling round and round through a crystalline blue sky. Its shadow, cast by the rising winter sun, rippled over low, barren hills and sheer walled gullies strewn with bare-limbed trees and brown, thorn-crowned brush.
Strapped into an observer’s seat in the plane’s cramped cockpit, Commandant
Henrik Kruger squinted through his binoculars into the early-mo ming glare.
The movement emphasized the wrinkles spreading through the skin around his steel-gray eyes-crow’s-feet worn into his otherwise boyish looking face by years of exposure to the sun and wind. They were the marks left by nearly two decades of dedicated military service to his country.
With one hand, he reached back and rubbed a neck grown sore from too many minutes of hunching down to
