"Come on, LT," SEAL One said as Clayton bent to kiss his forehead. "I hate good-byes, get outta here already."
Jeffrey looked at the timer. "Thirty-eight minutes to go. Shaj, you take the point with the land mine sensor — they might have planted new ones. I'll bring up the rear, Ilse goes in front of me. Eight, Two, you guys grab the stretcher and we'll pick up Seven on the way. Same route we came in — not recommended practice, but for just that reason it might work. Now, at the gallop, move it!"
Gunther Van Gelder walked south along Prince Road, a block in from the beach, heading for the end of Addington Point. He heard the constant pounding of the surf, smelled it in the air, even felt it through the ground. He could see his way in the dark by the flashes of lightning and by the subdued blue glow from the covered headlights of occasional cars and trucks — the military blackout was very thorough. The curbs at each corner were painted Day-Glo white, to help prevent skinned knees and broken ankles. He glanced over his right shoulder, just as a distant lightning bolt backlit the clouds from over the horizon. Now that the weather was clearing, he could see well up the coast, even make out the silhouette of the darkened lighthouse at Umhlanga Rocks. He smiled to himself about his thrusting, panting labors of the past hour, then resumed course. Another sentry stopped him to check his papers. The soldier told him gruffly to put on his flash protectors. Van Gelder had a pair, a parting gift from the woman he'd just been with. She'd explained she could get a new pair in the morning — they were sold on the street by unemployed coloreds who made them by hand. The irony struck Van Gelder: if anthropologists were right about mankind evolving in Africa, then the native blacks, so-called Bantus, apartheid's lowest untouchables, had the only true pure blood in the world and everyone else was colored. The elation of his rutting, the savored sights and smells, the teasing and the giggles, the warm wet furry gripping, and his explosive flooding gift and release, all popped like a bubble.
Van Gelder sighed. He donned the protectors, a crude cardboard frame with Mylar lenses, like the things school kids used to watch a solar eclipse. The sentry said they weren't a joke; there was a stiff fine for civilians caught not wearing them. They were assembled with cheap glue, but the rain at last had stopped. Now with the damn things on his face, with their scratchy pinching earpieces, Van Gelder was almost blind. He had to brace them by hand — the wind was still doing a brisk Beaufort 6, some twenty-five knots, backing slightly now from out of the west to out of the west-southwest. Van Gelder made slow progress by looking down past the lenses at the sidewalk near his feet, and once in a while he'd cheat to see where he was.
He passed a small tank farm and then a heavily guarded prison. Rumor had it the jail was filled with interned American businessmen, with a separate cellblock facing downtown for senior VPs and up. Van Gelder finally reached the tip of the point. At the tug jetty he picked up the ferry across the harbor mouth.
The ride was short but rough — the incoming swell beyond the breakwater was nasty. The cross chop of the outgoing tide tossed the little launch, as big Natal Bay drained through the narrow entrance channel. By the time he stepped onto Bluff Quay, on the north side of the jutting Cape Natal peninsula, Van Gelder's uniform was damp from windblown spray.
The long quay paralleling the foot of the bluff was busy and loud, the air filled with machinery growling and clanking. Dock workers wearing night-vision goggles used forklifts to unload railroad cars, and there was steady traffic through the blast doors into the bluff. As lightning flashed yet again, Van Gelder spotted the prefabs of hostage camps along the seventy-five-meter-high summit of the bluff, alternating with big radomes, tall antenna masts, and hardened bunkers for missiles. Somewhere up there he thought he heard a baby cry.
He lifted his glasses a moment. At ground level a kilometer away, toward the foot of the peninsula, loomed more tank farms and storage silos, huge grain bins and coaling slips. Van Gelder could see the superstructures of bulk cargo vessels and tankers. In the foreground was Salisbury Island, part of the naval installation, really a Y-shaped appendage jutting from the cape. Tied up in berths 10 and 12 were two of the new Spanish-built Sitron-class strike corvettes, strengthening local antiaircraft defenses while they refueled. The wind carried a ceaseless cacophony from that part of the harbor, a throbbing of engines and pumps, a moaning and screeching of gears and hydraulics.
Van Gelder stepped aside as an Eland armored car rolled past, its 90mm high-velocity gun aimed straight ahead, its big tires splashing the puddles. He smelled its diesel exhaust, mixed with the odors of fuel oil and dead fish, pumped bilges and raw sewage and rotting trash. To him these were reassuring, his home port's waterfront at work, and the extra hubbub of the war effort lifted his mood.
Van Gelder had a few minutes before reporting. He decided to prolong his stroll, just to the beginning of Island-View Channel and back.
CHAPTER 15
The egress march was a mad dash of panting and peering, a downhill slalom speed record past a dozen-plus enemy mines, desperately scanning for Boer patrols the whole time. Twice Jeffrey and the others had to hit the deck and roll into the bushes, letting more soldiers go by, then it was back on their feet on the double. Loading the SDVs became a frenzy of silent activity, but finally everything was set. Otto was safely taped up in the KIA'ed chief's dolphin, the eyeholes shuttered, his Draeger set on heliox and his arms strapped to his sides, a mask on with no readouts and no sound. SEAL One's empty dolphin was slaved to Two's. Clayton controlled Otto's, Seven the cargo SDV, and SEAL Eight guided the other empty, Nine's. They went with the river this time, not against it, and in a wild charge of flailing mechanical flukes they were past the bridge, the pillboxes on the beach, even the barbed-wire entanglement. They rode the rip through the surf, using the outgoing tide, and after thunderous pounding and buffeting all ten SDVs were clear. Jeffrey had to keep swallowing; his punished eardrums hurt bad.
Jeffrey read his chronometer. Any second now.
"All numbers go deep," Clayton ordered. "The sea-water's good shielding."
"Don't get too close to the bottom," Jeffrey warned. He twisted his handgrips and dived. On his head-up display he saw the blips of the other dolphins.
There was a brilliant blue-green flash through Jeffrey's eyeholes, enough to light up the reef. There was a quick sharp bruising thump-thump, the ground-and airborne shock waves hitting the water. As the sparkling blue-green glow persisted, Jeffrey saw the bottom muck stir up, threatening to engulf him. There was another flash, more local, diffuse and flickering. Then things began to come down. His SDV was pelted. Jeffrey swore he saw a tail rotor go by. Five blades — an SA.330 Puma?
Jeffrey felt his dolphin back and surge.
"The seiche!" he heard Ilse shout, the terrible seismic sloshing. There must have been an underwater landslide. The outbound tsunami hit, tumbling him over and over and over.
CHAPTER 16
A demonic purple-white flash lit the sky, 10,000 times brighter than lightning. Van Gelder hit the deck as he felt an unnatural warmth. The eerie sensation continued and he knew he was too exposed. Holding his cheap goggles flat to his face, he rolled behind a cargo crate. He heard auto brakes squealing and then a very hard crash. He saw dock workers scramble for cover, pulling others too blinded or stunned. Sirens began to go off amid shouting and screaming. He looked up at the bluff. Its whole face stood out starkly in the unforgiving light. He saw people dash through the blast doors as the outer barriers closed. By a reflection in the side window of a staff car he saw something else in the distance, something that took his breath away, the most beautiful golden-yellow incandescence blooming into the air. He screwed his eyes shut and waited for the overpressure to kill him, but it didn't come. He heard a whimpering yell and a splash as a forklift ran off the quay. As ship horns hooted alarms, Van Gelder glanced again at the car window. A mushroom cloud rose over Umhlanga Rocks. By its harsh illumination he noticed the lighthouse there was gone. On the slimy ground by his feet he saw two rats running in circles. One of them, sightless and panicked, hit a gantry crane head-on. He felt a tremor through the ground, but still the airborne shock wave hadn't come. He remembered to cover his ears. Van Gelder watched the swirling, pulsing mushroom cloud shoot higher, frighteningly silent, red now near its base and capped by a giant smoke ring. The underside of the overcast glowed pink, and tendrils of ethereal blue now interlaced the fireball. Then a deafening crack sounded and the staff car windows were smashed. A sledgehammer punched Van Gelder's gut as the thundering roar went on. The negative pressure pulse hit, trying to tear out his lungs. The blast wind struck, moaning and screaming inhumanly, toppling unsecured cargo, enshrouding Van Gelder in sea spray and dust.