Colonel Vasquez saw the explosion. He had gotten out to walk for a while, not only to give the general a little room but to think about his own future, personally and professionally. Castro was not a tyrant, shooting people at whim, but they had failed their leader, and he would need scapegoats. What would be their fates?
He was looking at Vega, sitting in the back of the truck,
when a bright flash and a roar knocked Vasquez over, stunning him. He had one brief impression of the surprised general, unable even to lift his eyes from the paper, before the entire vehicle was enveloped in smoke and flame.
Vasquez came to a moment later as a soldier dragged him away from the fire. A thick column of greasy smoke rose from the blackened, shattered remains of a Russian-built ZIL heavy truck.
Panic filled Vasquez, and he grabbed at the arms pulling at his. He looked up into the soldier’s face and shouted, “Did anyone get out? Where is the general?”
“He is gone, Comrade Colonel. Nobody escaped.”
Vasquez refused to give up.
“Maybe someone was blown clear.” Maybe that someone was Vega.
“No, Comrade Colonel, the explosion was too great. They were all killed instantly.”
The soldier, absorbed in their conversation, was still dragging the officer. Vasquez shook off the man’s hands and stood up unsteadily. His uniform was torn and blackened from the blast, and he saw, but did not feet, blood trickling from a few small cuts.
He took one unsteady step back toward the wreckage, then another, until he could clearly see that only the bare metal skeleton of the vehicle remained. The wooden flooring had a four-foot hole blown in the center, and the frame was twisted, as if it had been softened by the heat and then dropped. He could see no sign of any bodies and knew that any human remains that might be found would be in pieces too small to identify.
Vega was gone, and Suarez, and Gomez, who had been driving, and perhaps others he would have to search for. His sadness was mixed with relief for his comrades. At least they would not have to make the long journey home to face Castro’s anger.
“Colonel, what should we do?” One of the lieutenants nearby, in charge of a group of men that had once been a company, looked to him for orders.
Vasquez was almost certainly the senior officer in the force now. He looked again at the wreckage of Vega’s truck. It was one post he had never wanted.
The lieutenant repeated the request.
“Colonel, what can we do now?”
Vasquez pointed ahead and to the side of the road.
“Bear left and keep marching.”
CHAPTER 43
Settlement
FEBRUARY 15-CNN HEADLINE NEWS
In many ways, the televised images from Cape Town carried even more meaning than the reporter’s spoken commentary.
Pockmarks were still visible on the graceful columns fronting the Houses of Parliament. Sections of its iron rail fence were missing, warped, or shattered by shell bursts. Most of the century-old oak trees that once shaded Government Avenue’s gravel walk were also gone-blown down during the fighting and now replaced by newly planted saplings.
There were even more dramatic changes among the somber faces of the men and women filing slowly in past temporary metal and bomb detectors. Most wore business suits and many carried bulging leather briefcases. Unlike past gatherings in South Africa’s legislative chambers, however, those assembling for this first, full working session of the new Constitutional
Convention represented all of the nation’s varied races and ethnic groups. Some were lawyers and politicians. Others were farmers or doctors or teachers or businessmen, people with no experience in government. Despite their obvious differences, they had one important thing in common. All had opposed Vorster’s regime at the risk of imprisonment or death.
“Although innumerable problems remain to be settled, one thing is clear:
apartheid in South Africa is a thing of the past.
“With so many of the extremists on all sides dead or in prison, the way may finally be clear for others to lead South Africa’s separate peoples toward a better future together. The political settlement that emerges from this convention’s closed-door conference rooms is unlikely to be perfect, but it just might be workable.
“For CNN headline news, this is Tom Stavros, reporting from Cape Town,
South Africa.”
The camera cut away to show the network’s Atlanta studios and anchorwoman.
“In other South Africa-related news, reports that Witwatersrand mining operations were back to fifty percent of prewar levels sent commodities prices tumbling at exchanges around the world. Commerce Secretary Reid hailed the news as a ‘firm signal that the battered global economy is on the mend.”
“
MARCH 23-HEADQUARTERS, ALLIED PEACEKEEPING
FORCE, DURBAN
Both Gen. Jerry Craig and U.S. special ambassador Edward Hurley had kept their offices and headquarters in Durban instead of moving them to either
Cape Town or Pretoria. Part of their rationale for that was military common sense. After all, Durban was a central strategic point. Ships arriving at the city’s deepwater port supplied the U.S. and British units stationed throughout South Africa.
But their biggest reason for staying put was political. Both men were determined to avoid even the slightest appearance that the American and
British military presence in South Africa meant they were dictating every last word of the country’s new political framework. Periodic plane trips between
Cape Town and Durban were a small price to pay for making it clear that
South Africa’s ultimate fate rested in the hands of her own people.
“Hot off the fax machine, Jerry-a genuine historical document. ” Edward
Hurley couldn’t hide his excitement or his relief. He plopped a mass of thin papers on Craig’s desk, threw himself into a chair, and exhaled loudly. He looked more as if he’d run a race instead of just walking over from his office.
Craig arched an eyebrow.
“The Convention’s over?”
Hurley grinned.
“Christ, no. I expect they’ll be squabbling over the fine print for months yet. But that pile there—he pointed to the document on the desk-“shows the broad outline of what they’ve already agreed on.”
Unable to restrain his curiosity any longer, Craig flipped randomly through the pages, scanning boldfaced headings. “
“Powers of the Central
Government. Powers Reserved to the Provinces. Rights of the Individual’
He looked up.
“So what’s the gist?”
“Fundamentally?” At Craig’s nod, Hurley leaned back in his chair, looking even more professorial than ever.
“Not quite one man, one vote, but they’re headed there. For now, a lower house elected by popular vote, but with an upper house where every group has an equal voice. They’re trying to set up a system where everybody participates, but no one dominates. “
Craig chuckled softly.
“Good luck to them making that work. “
Hurley nodded, agreeing.
“Yeah. It is sort of like trying to figure out how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. “
The ambassador pointed to the section headed “Rights of the Individual.”
“What’s in there is more important than the rest, anyway. Guaranteed freedoms of religion, speech, assembly, and all the rest. Equal pay for equal work. Plus equal access to education through integrated schools and universities. The whole idea’s to shift more power to the individual—no matter what his skin color or tribe is.”
“No trace of apartheid?”
“None at all. After your setup in January, nobody even said boo when they proposed stripping away the last vestiges. I’ll say it again, General, you can come over to the State Department whenever you want. We need good diplomats.”