success. We’re hoping your years of experience will supply the pros and cons as judged by a human.”
“I can tell you the scheme is damn near impossible,” said Fawkes. “And for my money you can add ‘insane’ as well. What you’re proposing is terrorism at its worst.”
“Exactly,” agreed De Vaal. “By using a black hit-and-run force masquerading as members of the African Army of Revolution, we can swing international sympathy away from the blacks and to the white cause of South Africa.”
“We must have the support of countries like the United States to survive,” Zeegler explained.
“What happened in Rhodesia can happen here,” De Vaal went on. “All private property, farms, stores, banks, seized and nationalized. Blacks and whites slaughtered in the streets, thousands exiled from the continent with barely the clothes on their backs. A new black communist-oriented government, a despotic, tribal dictatorship suppressing and exploiting their own people in virtual slavery. You can be certain, Captain Fawkes, that if and when our government topples, it will not be replaced by one with democratic majority rule in mind.”
“We don’t know for sure that that will happen here,” said Fawkes. “And even if we could look into a crystal ball and predict the worst, it would not condone unleashing Operation Wild Rose.”
“I’m not after a moral judgment,” De Vaal said sternly. “You’ve stated the plan is impossible. I will accept that.”
After Fawkes left, De Vaal poured himself another drink. “The captain was frank. I’ll give that to him.”
“He was also quite right,” said Zeegler. “Wild Rose/s terrorism at its worst.”
“Perhaps,” De Vaal muttered. “But what choice does one have when one is winning battles while losing the war?”
“I am not a grand strategist,” Zeegler replied. “But I’m certain Operation Wild Rose is not the answer, Minister. I urge you to shelve it.”
De Vaal considered Zeegler’s words for several moments. “All right,
Operation Wild Rose I 69
Colonel. Gather all data pertaining to the operation and seal it in the Ministry vault with the other contingency plans.”
“Yes, sir,” said Zeegler, his relief obvious.
De Vaal contemplated the liquid in his glass. Then he looked up with a thoughtful expression.
“A pity, a great pity. It just might have worked.”
Fawkes was drunk.
If a monstrous claw had reached down and plucked away the long mahogany bar of the Pembroke Hotel, he would have fallen flat on his bandaged face. Dimly, he saw that he was the only patron left in the room. He ordered another drink, noting in a mild sort of sadistic glee that it was long past closing time and the five-foot-five-inch bartender was uneasy about asking him to leave.
“Are you all right, sir?” the bartender probed cautiously.
“No, dammit!” Fawkes roared. “I feel bloody-well awful.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, but if it makes you feel so bad, why do you drink it?”
“It’s not the whisky that turns my guts. It’s Operation Wild Rose.”
“Sir?”
Fawkes looked furtively around the room and then leaned across the bar. “What if I was to tell you I met with the Minister of Defence right down the street at the station, in his private railroad car, not more than three hours ago?”
A smug smile curled the bartender’s lips. “The Minister must be one hell of a wizard, Mr. Fawkes.”
“Wizard?”
“To be in two places at the same time.”
“Make your point, man.”
The bartender reached under a shelf and threw a newspaper on the bar in front of Fawkes. He pointed to an article on the front page and read aloud the caption.
” ‘Defence Minister Pieter De Vaal enters Port Elizabeth Hospital for surgery.’ “
“Impossible!”
“That’s this evening’s paper,” said the bartender. “You have to admit-not only does the Minister have extraordinary powers of recuperation, but one fast train as well. Port Elizabeth is over
“I can tell you the scheme is damn near impossible,” said Fawkes. “And for my money you can add ‘insane’ as well. What you’re proposing is terrorism at its worst.”
“Exactly,” agreed De Vaal. “By using a black hit-and-run force masquerading as members of the African Army of Revolution, we can swing international sympathy away from the blacks and to the white cause of South Africa.”
“We must have the support of countries like the United States to survive,” Zeegler explained.
“What happened in Rhodesia can happen here,” De Vaal went on. “All private property, farms, stores, banks, seized and nationalized. Blacks and whites slaughtered in the streets, thousands exiled from the continent with barely the clothes on their backs. A new black communist-oriented government, a despotic, tribal dictatorship suppressing and exploiting their own people in virtual slavery. You can be certain, Captain Fawkes, that if and when our government topples, it will not be replaced by one with democratic majority rule in mind.”
“We don’t know for sure that that will happen here,” said Fawkes. “And even if we could look into a crystal ball and predict the worst, it would not condone unleashing Operation Wild Rose.”
“I’m not after a moral judgment,” De Vaal said sternly. “You’ve stated the plan is impossible. I will accept that.”
After Fawkes left, De Vaal poured himself another drink. “The captain was frank. I’ll give that to him.”
“He was also quite right,” said Zeegler. “Wild Rose/s terrorism at its worst.”
“Perhaps,” De Vaal muttered. “But what choice does one have when one is winning battles while losing the war?”
“I am not a grand strategist,” Zeegler replied. “But I’m certain Operation Wild Rose is not the answer, Minister. I urge you to shelve it.”
De Vaal considered Zeegler’s words for several moments. “All right,
Operation Wild Rose I 69
Colonel. Gather all data pertaining to the operation and seal it in the Ministry vault with the other contingency plans.”
“Yes, sir,” said Zeegler, his relief obvious.
De Vaal contemplated the liquid in his glass. Then he looked up with a thoughtful expression.
“A pity, a great pity. It just might have worked.”
Fawkes was drunk.
If a monstrous claw had reached down and plucked away the long mahogany bar of the Pembroke Hotel, he would have fallen flat on his bandaged face. Dimly, he saw that he was the only patron left in the room. He ordered another drink, noting in a mild sort of sadistic glee that it was long past closing time and the five-foot-five-inch bartender was uneasy about asking him to leave.
“Are you all right, sir?” the bartender probed cautiously.
“No, dammit!” Fawkes roared. “I feel bloody-well awful.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, but if it makes you feel so bad, why do you drink it?”
“It’s not the whisky that turns my guts. It’s Operation Wild Rose.”
“Sir?”
Fawkes looked furtively around the room and then leaned across the bar. “What if I was to tell you I met with the Minister of Defence right down the street at the station, in his private railroad car, not more than three hours ago?”
A smug smile curled the bartender’s lips. “The Minister must be one hell of a wizard, Mr. Fawkes.”
“Wizard?”
“To be in two places at the same time.”
“Make your point, man.”
The bartender reached under a shelf and threw a newspaper on the bar in front of Fawkes. He pointed to an article on the front page and read aloud the caption.
” ‘Defence Minister Pieter De Vaal enters Port Elizabeth Hospital for surgery.’ “
“Impossible!”
“That’s this evening’s paper,” said the bartender. “You have to admit-not only does the Minister have extraordinary powers of recuperation, but one fast train as well. Port Elizabeth is over
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