There was only one way to find out.
He settled his helmet firmly on his head and strode briskly toward the two sentries posted at the command tent’s main entrance.
One checked his ID while the other kept a flashlight centered on his face. Kruger noticed that both were careful not to glance toward the gallows.
Twenty officers and as many noncoms and enlisted men bustled to and fro inside the tent-reports and message flimsies clutched in their hands.
Maps crowded with military symbols hung from canvas walls or rested on trestle taps.
Powerful radio sets crackled and hissed over the low-voiced mutter of a dozen whispered conversations All the usual signs of a higher military headquarters busy preparing for the next day’s operations.
He glanced around the tent. No sign of Maj. Richard Forbes. Where the devil was the man?
Brig. Jakobus Strydom stood shoulder to shoulder with another, much taller man looking at one of the maps. He turned as Kruger approached.
“Ah, Henrik… it’s good to see you.”
“Sir.” Kruger nodded and saluted, intentionally staying formal.
The shadow of a frown crossed Strydom’s narrow face. He gestured toward the fleshy, redfaced man beside him.
“I don’t think you know Kolonel
Hertzog.”
-Kolonel. ” Kruger inclined his head politely.
“The kolonel is a special visitor from Pretoria, Henrik. One of the
President’s own military aides.”
So. This was one of Vorster’s spies. Kruger looked more carefully at the man and got another shock. Hertzog wore an AWB pin on his uniform coat.
Involuntarily, Kruger’s mouth curled upward in disgust. Cold eyes stared back at him out of a puffy, double-chinned face.
“You’ve seen something that troubles you, Kommandant Kruger?” Hertzog’s smug, arrogant voice mirrored his appearance.
Kruger addressed his words to Strydom.
“The gallows outside this tent-“
“Are filled with traitors, Kommandant. Hostages executed in just reprisal for futile attacks on our supply columns,” Hertzog interrupted him.
“My idea, actually. In accordance with the wishes of our beloved President.
I trust that you have no objection?”
Kruger stared openmouthed at him, scarcely able to believe what he’d just heard. Hostages? Innocent civilians rousted from their beds at gunpoint and killed simply because Namibian soldiers were shooting at supply trucks? It was worse than insane. It was criminal. He’d seen dead civilians be foremen women, and children caught by artillery or in a cross fire. You expected such things in war. But this was something quite different. Cold, deliberate, calculated butchery.
Strydorn took him by the arm and turned him away from Hertzog.
“Never mind about the methods used to ensure rear area security, Henrik. They’re out of your jurisdiction.” The unspoken warning in the brigadier’s voice was plain.
Kruger closed his mouth and looked closely at his superior. A nerve twitched irregularly beneath Strydom’s right cheek. My God. The man was frightened. Scared out of his wits by this bloody bully boy Hertzog.
“Now, as to why I summoned you hereStrydom’s evident unease intensified.
“Your secondin-command… Kruger held up a hand.
“Yes, sir. Where is Major Forbes?”
“Major Forbes is under arrest, Kommandant.” Hertzog moved closer, a grim smile on his face.
“He’s on his way back to Pretoria under guard at this very moment.”
“What?” Kruger’s hands balled into fists.
“What in God’s name for?”
“For suspected treason.” Hertzog’s smile grew less grim and more smug.
“Earlier this afternoon, I myself heard the Englishman slandering our president and the chief of staff. Naturally, I arrested him at once. One cannot allow such insults to go unpunished. I’m sure you agree.” Hertzog spun round on his heel and walked away without waiting for a reply.
Kruger glared at the man’s departing back, fighting the temptation to pull his pistol and pump the bastard full of 9mm slugs. He didn’t doubt that Forbes had used a few choice swear words to describe his dissatisfaction with recent events, but certainly nothing that any sane man would call treasonous. And if that was how Vorster and his cronies planned to define treason, who then was safe?
Strydorn moved into his line of sight.
“Keep your mouth shut, Henrik, I beg of you. I cannot spare any more of my experienced officers.”
He led Kruger over to a map table. Several junior officers scattered out of their path. Strydom leaned over the map, tracing the positions held by the 20th Cape Rifles with a thumbnail.
“Your attack today was a success, I see.”
“A success?” Kruger found it difficult to talk through clenched teeth.
“Your battalion gained ground, true?” The brigadier risked a glance over his shoulder. Hertzog leaned carelessly against the opposite tent wall, cold eyes carefully fixed on them.
Kruger slammed a fist onto the map, startling several nearby staff officers.
“Oh, we gained ground all right, Brigadier. Three hundred blery meters of open, useless wasteland and one stinking gully! And capturing that fucking ground cost me ten killed and thirty-six wounded! At that rate, our whole verdomde country will be bled white before we reach
Windhoek! “
Strydom grabbed him by the arm again and leaned closer, his voice low, fearful, and urgent.
“Shut up, Kruger! Do you want to be arrested, too?
Do you want your men commanded by someone like that?” He jerked his head in Hertzog’s direction.
Kruger shook his head reluctantly. A thug and political hack in charge of his battalion? Madness.
“Now listen to me, Henrik, and listen closely. Your attack today was successful-just as your attack tomorrow will be successful. Pretoria does not want to hear about failure, about supply difficulties, or about casualties. Do you understand me?”
Kruger stood motionless for what seemed an eternity. What Strydom was suggesting violated every tenet of his training and experience as a South
African officer. What had happened to his nation? How could it have fallen into the hands of such brutal incompetents? He glanced again at
Hertzog’s smug, gloating face and nodded slowly, feeling ashamed as he did so.
He would buckle under for the moment-but only for the moment. Only to save some of his men.
SEPTEMBER I O-THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW, R.S.F.S.R.
Outside the Kremlin’s redbrick walls, the streets of Moscow were full of shoppers-shoppers standing in record-long lines for a few of the basic necessities. Bread already gone stale in warehouses. Shriveled potatoes.
Rotting cabbage. Rare cuts of meat more gristle and bone than anything else.
Soap that wouldn’t lather, and gasoline so filled with impurities that it wrecked almost as many engines as it powered.
It was the seventh year of perestroika, the grand program of economic restructuring. It was the seventh year of continuing failure.
Within the Kremlin’s walls, the Soviet State Defense Council met in a small, elegantly furnished chamber. Ten chairs surrounded a rectangular oak table topped only by notepads, pens, and a tray holding two bottles of vodka. The State’s anti alcohol campaign continued unabated, but serious decisions always seemed to call for something more stimulating than tea or fizzy mineral water. A German-manufactured word-processing system occupied one corner of the room, ready for use by the secretaries who would record any major decisions for later translation into action directives for specific ministries or individuals.
Only six of the ten chairs were occupied. The Soviet State Defense Council was made up of the highest-ranking members of the Politburo, itself a body of elite decision makers whose power had been only partly diluted by the