His first hope that the planes were slated to carry reinforcements to the
Namibian frontier seemed farfetched when viewed dispassionately. No one would send large numbers of troops and equipment by air when road convoys or rail transport could serve the same end more efficiently. No, he thought grimly, these planes were being prepared for the kind of high-stakes operation where speed mattered more than cost. A major airborne assault somewhere outside South Africa’s borders, for example. But where? Zimbabwe again? Or Mozambique? He’d heard that support for the Renamo guerrillas had been upped once more. Were these planes intended for one of their murderous operations?
Kruger’s frown tightened further still into a thin-lipped scowl. If whatever Pretoria had in mind wouldn’t help take the pressure off his men, the ears of the SADF’s chief of operations were going to burn with swear words the man probably hadn’t heard since his own days in the bush. And,
Kruger vowed silently, to hell with his career. The lives of his soldiers were more important than his own chances of ever wearing a colonel’s insignia.
Wrapped in increasingly bleak thoughts about his likely personal and professional future, he scarcely noticed as the staff car passed through Swartkop’s heavily guarded main gate and sped toward
Pretoria.
SADF HEADQUARTERS, THE MINISTRY OF DEFENSE,
PRETORIA
The lieutenant commanding the Defense Ministry guard post looked from
Kruger’s ID card to his face and back down again. Apparently satisfied by what he saw, the young officer’s pen made a tick mark on a surprisingly crowded list of approved visitors.
Then he handed the ID card back and nodded at the burly noncom waiting patiently off to one side of the wood-paneled guard room.
“Thank you,
Kommandant. Sergeant Meinart there will show you to the briefing.”
Kruger pocketed his card with an abrupt nod and followed the sergeant out into the Ministry’s busy main hallway. The noncom walked right by a bank of elevators leading to the building’s upper floors and continued straight on down the hall toward the massive double doors of the Main Staff Auditorium.
Kruger kept pace easily, exchanging salutes with passing senior officers without much conscious thought. He had more interesting things than simple military courtesies to occupy his mind. It was becoming increasingly clear that he hadn’t been summoned to Pretoria for a personal harangue by the higher brass.
He shook his head slightly, irritated with himself for ever holding such a simpleminded, egotistical belief. Only an idiot could miss the signs of intense activity all around. First the frantic maintenance work at
Swartkop, and now this unannounced briefing being held in the Ministry’s largest meeting room. Something big was in the wind. Something very big.
His first glance around the crowded staff auditorium confirmed that impression.
More than a hundred field-grade officers packed the room-some swapping news and professional gossip in the
aisles, others sitting quietly among the rows of theater-style folding chairs. Steel-blue Air Force and dark blue Navy uniforms mingled with the sober brown jackets and ties of the Army. A sea of red-and-blue berets down front signaled the presence of representatives from each of the three
Permanent Force parachute battalions.
Kruger didn’t bother concealing his astonishment. He hadn’t seen this many of his fellow unit commanders together in one place for years. He scanned the room again, counting stars. My God, the auditorium held at least two-thirds of the Army’s Permanent and Citizen Force battalion commanders, six brigadiers, and the two complete division-level staffs.
He stiffened. No one in his right mind would assemble the kind of force these men represented for anything less than a massive, combined-arms operation. He grew even more uneasy at that thought. What was Vorster planning? Some sort of massive exercise? A real military operation?
Kruger’s uneasiness about the government’s intentions had nothing to do with any kind of misplaced pacifism. He loathed the ANC’s sneak attacks and terrorist bombings as much as any other serving South African officer.
Twenty years of cross-border warfare had taught him that the guerrillas were his enemies. And as enemies, they were legitimate targets for South
Africa’s military forces-no matter where they sought sanctuary. But quick, in-and-out commando raids were one thing. This implied something much bigger.
Military operations were always expensive. They consumed both lives and money at a breakneck pace. And the Republic’s economy was already under tremendous strain. Unemployment among the blacks, inflation, and interest rates were all rising. He’d seen the evidence on infrequent visits to his hometown in the northern Transvaal. In emptier shelves in the little country stores. In the growing numbers of able bodied black men slouching aimlessly by the roadsides or fields. In sky-high petrol prices that increasingly kept people at home unless travel was absolutely necessary.
Kruger shook his head. This wasn’t the right time for seeking high-priced military glory. He only hoped somebody on the Defense Staff Council had the balls to explain that to the new cabinet.
“Hey, Henrik, man! What’re you doing here, you blery foot slogger I thought this meeting was for officers and gentlemen only. “
Kruger wheeled round, a grin spreading across his face despite his inner worries. Though he hadn’t seen Deneys Coetzee in person for more than two years, no one who’d met him could ever forget the cocky little man’s rough, gravelly voice and bluff, open face. Fifteen years before, they’d served together in Namibia as green-as-grass junior officers. Months of hard campaigning in the desolate, and Namibian bush had left both a complete trust in each other’s professional competence and a lasting friendship.
Kruger whistled out loud at the three stars and pentagon on Coetzee’s shoulder tabs.
“They made you a brigadier? Now I know the world is a crazy place.”
Coetzee waggled a finger in his face.
“Ag, man. You ought to show more blery respect for a superior officer. Besides, I’m not just a brigadier, you know. I’m on the Ministry staff now. “
Kruger mimicked a slight bow.
“So you’ve finally escaped from the field, eh?”
“That’s right. ” Coetzee made a show of brushing invisible dust off his immaculately tailored jacket.
“No more mud, flies, or snakes for me, man.
I’m a happy desk warrior for the foreseeable future and glad of it.”
Kruger took a closer took at his friend. Coetzee hated paperwork and red tape more than anything in the world, so he must be lying. But staff assignments were the price one paid for professional advancement. Nobody who wanted to make general someday could avoid them forever. And like
Coetzee, Kruger knew he’d have to give up his own field command for a staff slot in the next couple of years. It wasn’t something to look forward to, but it was inevitable.
“Attention!” The shouted command silenced all conversation in the crowded auditorium and brought every officer in the room to his feet.
The tall, lanky, whitehaired figure of Gen. Adriaan de Wet, the SADF’s commander, strode onto the stage. Kruger grimaced. He’d served two tours under de Wet-the first as a company commander in a brigade commanded by the older man, and the second as a deputy operations officer at the divisional level. Neither assignment had taught him much respect for de Wet’s abilities as a combat commander or administrator. Army gossip said the general held on to his post by kissing up to whichever political faction held power at the moment-and Kruger believed the gossip.
De Wet crossed to a podium and stood silently for a moment, eyeing the assembled commanders and their staffs standing at attention. Then he waved them down.