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
Mountain-the answer to his prayers. Air attacks had proved futile against the recessed, heavily armored gun positions. The battleship’s one-ton shells were both precise and powerful enough to knock out the guns. In addition, sixteen-inch shells were cheap, and the Wisconsin could pound the battery again and again, until it was gone.
Craig and Capt. Thomas Malloy, the Wisconsin’s skipper, were having an animated discussion about gun safety and backblast, and Taylor sagged against the railing and tried to rest. His morning on the battleship had been his first day of relative peace since the civil war started.
He looked up as Craig nodded to his guests.
“Gentlemen, I recommend that we remain inside the bridge during the firing. “
Taylor was reluctant to leave the bridge wing’s fresh air and wider view, but he sensed that Craig knew his business.
As soon as they stepped inside the bridge, sailors rushed forward to swing the armored doors shut, dogging them tightly. During their brief tour, Taylor had noticed the heavy steel forming both the doors and the bulkheads they were set
in. With its six inches of all-around steel protection and splinter-proof glass windows, Malloy referred to the bridge as part of his ship’s armored “citadel,” a term that seemed highly appropriate.
Responding to Malloy’s orders, the Wisconsin changed course. As the ship turned, Taylor saw its massive forward gun turrets start moving. A ringing alarm bell warned anyone foolish enough to be on deck to keep clear of the moving machinery.
Each turret swung out to starboard, pointing harmlessly out to sea. Craig explained that an artificial target was being fed into gunnery plot, many decks below, and that the guns would fire a salvo at this imaginary enemy.
Muzzles whined upward on the two forward turrets.
Taylor heard a “Stand by!” from the phone talker, followed by a shrill beep-beep, and the second beep ignited an explosion that filled his world with sound.
Smoke and flame splashed off the armored glass windows in front of him, and his feet carried the firing shock up his legs and spine until it shook inside his head. Nine sixteen inch shells, each weighing one ton, howled twenty miles downrange. Each shell was twenty times larger than those fired by the guns on Table Mountain. For a brief instant, the whole battleship seemed to stagger and rock back under the force of its broadside.
The bridge windows cleared as the Wisconsin’s motion carried it out of the smoke cloud. Mist still streamed from the gun tubes. In the silence following the explosion, Taylor turned to the Marine general and nodded firmly.
“That should do the job, I would think “
WARDROOM, USS VWSCONSIN
Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig wanted to rub his eyes, get up and walk around, and take a breath of fresh air. He wanted to leave, to get back to his command center where the only problems he faced involved killing an armed and alert enemy.
Fraser was speaking.
“General Craig, I must insist that your government has already recognized our government by our reception here. We welcome that recognition and ask only that you formalize it before we proceed with any military planning. “
Fraser had been insisting on the same thing for the past two hours, using fine points of international law, the Bible, and his own rhetorical skills to hammer his point home: the Cape Province was now an independent nation.
But Craig had other things he wanted-no, needed-to discuss: logistical support, communications, intelligence on the enemy forces. Fraser’s insistence on diplomatic recognition had come as a complete surprise.
There had been no indication to anyone that this would be on the agenda.
The politician wanted Craig’s assurances that any civil affairs personnel landed would act in accordance with Cape Province law. He wanted Craig’s promise that the U.S. consulate would be reopened soon as a full embassy, and he asked for the general’s agreement in principle on an aid and mutual defense treaty-all prior to landing any American or British troops.
Internally, Craig fumed. It was a stickup, plain and simple. His forces had to land at Cape Town, and quickly, if there was going to be anything left to save in South Africa. Instead, the Cape Town authorities seemed to be more concerned with assuring their own political survival.
Fraser wasn’t leaving much doubt about that.
“The Cape has always had a different cultural makeup and a different political philosophy from the rest of South Africa. We’ve no use for these stiff-necked Boers. And this is a historic opportunity to chart the course of our country. Free of outside control, free to develop as we want. I tell you, General, apartheid has already ended here.”
That might be true, Craig thought, but he wasn’t buying it. He’d seen the hard numbers during his Pentagon briefings. The Afrikaners had been working to fragment their population for years-the old divide-and-conquer rule. So it was natural that the Englishdescended Cape Towners should want to go
it alone. Facts didn’t take much notice of wishes, though. The provincial economies were too interdependent. South Africa’s separate pieces simply could not stand on their own.
Fraser’s quiet, impassioned, and utterly self-interested tirade went on and on.
So far, the two military officers, Taylor and Spier, had sat quietly and uncomfortably throughout the entire discussion. At one point, Craig asked
Taylor for his views.
Fraser had interrupted as the brigadier opened his mouth to speak.
“We have the full support of our military in this matter, General.”
Right. Craig remembered the fat briefcase that Spier had carried aboard under his arm. It lay on the table now, next to Taylor’s elbow, and he had to force himself to stop staring at it. Everything his men needed was in there, he was sure of it.