SAAF Headquarters Pretoria. May 1983.

The traffic light turned to red. Freddie glanced anxiously in the rear view mirror and was horrified to see a Police van come to a stop behind him. He also noticed the military vehicle parked on the opposite side of the road. He wondered `if it were possible that the security police were onto them?' They were running late and Freddie was feeling the mounting pressure. Sweat prickled in his armpits and he was experiencing a rising temptation to abandon the mission and run. He might well have done so but for Ezekial sitting in the passenger seat beside him. His fellow MK cadre had left the Kombi that was to be their `getaway' vehicle at a nearby parking garage. Freddie looked at Ezekial questioningly. His companion, guessing Freddie's doubts, simply shrugged and said, "Aboo told us we must not fail the cause, we carry on!"

A second quick look in the mirror provided Freddie a little relief as the Boer police did not appear interested in the stolen vehicle, its occupants or their activities. The light changed to green and Freddie Shongwe thought, it would not do to stall the vehicle now! He made sure his indicator was flickering then concentrated on a smooth pull away into the busy intersection. It was almost half past four in the afternoon when the two ANC operatives drove their cream Colt Gallant and almost 50 kilograms of high explosives into Church Street.

A short distance to the East, commuters were making their way onto buses parked in Church Square. The imposing statue of Paul Kruger, President of the South African republic at the time of the second Boer war, stood at the centre of the square. `Oom Paul', as he was affectionately known to the Afrikaner Volk, had been at the forefront of Boer resistance during both wars against the British. The statues of four Boer commandoes, placed on the sides and at the bottom of the plinth completed the structure from which the bearded figure, dressed in Top hat and frock coat, gazed down onto the square's lawns and walkways. Church square was surrounded by imposing and architecturally significant buildings dating from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. One of these buildings was the uniquely turreted Palace of Justice in which Nelson Mandela and ten other senior members of the ANC had been prosecuted during 1963 and 1964. At the end of the `Rivonia trial' as it became known, Mandela, the leader of the ANC and a future President of South Africa, had been sentenced to life imprisonment.

The late afternoon sun lacked any warmth and although the weather had been pleasantly mild at mid-day the mercury was now dropping rapidly. Small grey clouds scudding across the sky and a cold wind heralded the approach of mid-winter. Days were already shorter and the cold early nights when temperatures plunged sixteen and more degrees, often reaching zero and below, were not far off.

Church Street was a major route of ingress and egress for the country's capital city and traffic flow was beginning to build as the clock steadily approached rush hour. Some buildings were already disgorging staff onto the pavements. Parking spaces were filled as quickly as they emptied as cars arrived to collect family members and loved ones. The street would be busy for thirty to forty minutes as the office buildings emptied and their day time occupants returned to their apartments or suburban homes. All in all, it was a typical winter's evening.

Joyce Wilkins was parked in front of the bank building on the South side of Church Street. She was sitting, waiting for her daughter to leave work and watching the building's entrance. She could not help but notice the cream coloured saloon car as it hastily pulled in to park a few spaces from her own vehicle. At that moment her daughter appeared on the pavement, stopping momentarily to chat and laugh with her companion, a pretty young blonde girl. Recognising her mother's parked car, the youngest member of the Wilkins family said goodbye to her new friend and climbed into the waiting passenger seat.

"Who was that?" Joyce asked her daughter as she watched the young blonde woman walk towards two other women standing at the bus stop.

"Anneline Grobelaar, she's new at the bank. She seems like a nice girl. Her father is some big shot in the army!"

Anneline Grobelaar was feeling excited and happy with her life. She had recently celebrated her eighteenth birthday and had just started her first job where she had made new friends. She was about to hitch a ride home with her father who was attending a meeting in the Air force offices. She would normally use the bus along with many of the other office workers but tonight she would be at home earlier than usual. Anneline was looking forward to a long hot bath in preparation for her date with a new admirer, later that evening. She was preoccupied with what was she going to wear when she suddenly felt a gust of cold wind. She shuddered and wrapped the jacket tightly about herself. It was going to be a cold night she thought and that would make a difference to what she chose to wear. A carelessly discarded sweet wrapper, given life by the wind, danced its way across the pavement in front of her as she made her way to the entrance of South African air force headquarters.

Several floors above street level, Brigadier General Piet Grobelaar sat across the table from his air force counterpart. The two men knew each other well and their discussion over the past hour had included personal and social updates along with detail of the military situation in South West Africa where Grobelaar had commanded the South African forces.

"We estimate that the fourteen groups of SWAPO's Volcano force comprised approximately 1200 of which Operation Phoenix accounted for at least seventy percent, killed, wounded and captured. Intelligence gathered from the interrogation of prisoners indicates extensive training by East German, Cuban and Russian instructors. Cuban battalions are based at Cahama and Cuvelai along with FAPLA brigades and SWAPO." General Grobelaar sipped at a fresh cup of coffee, his sixth for the day, before continuing. "As a result we need to plan a new joint forces operation for this coming November. We are going to need a lot of air support......." The explosion ended their conversation, shattering windows and filling the air with lethal glass shards. Both men were knocked to the floor, bleeding and momentarily dazed.

Downstairs, Joyce Wilkins had started her car's engine and was about to engage gear when the bomb detonated. The explosion tore apart the cream coloured car parked ahead of her. Badly damaged and destroyed vehicles were burning furiously. Fire, death and devastation was apparent all around the entrance to the bank and air force building. The pavement was littered with debris, body parts, mutilated dead and badly injured people. Some survivors were running away bleeding and confused. People from neighbouring buildings, unconcerned for their own safety, quickly arrived on the scene to help the wounded. Shop fronts and office windows were non-existent in a large area around the blast, glass, masonry and mangled shop fittings were strewn everywhere. Nineteen people lay dead or dying.

Anneline Grobelaar was among the injured, her right leg and right arm mangled beyond recognition, her face and torso punctured by shrapnel and glass. She was to be one of the so called `lucky ones' along with over two hundred others who suffered injuries from the terrifying blast. She was alive but was to lose both limbs and the sight in one eye. Her life would never be the same and she would endure many years of plastic surgery in an effort to improve her disfigurement. The physical and mental scars were to remain with her and many other victims for the rest of their lives.

Police were quick to cordon off the scene. Bomb disposal units commenced a thorough search for additional explosive devices while the fire brigade doused the flames and emergency services attended to the wounded. Sirens, blue and red flashing lights, stretchers, emergency personnel and the ambulances rushing to and from the scene all added to the drama and trauma of the moment. The scene of carnage that greeted General Piet Grobelaar when he exited the building was straight out of Dante's Inferno. The ghastly injuries to his beautiful daughter, the apple of her father's eye, were to further harden Piet Grobelaar's heart against the perpetrators, communists and the African National Congress in particular.

It did not take long for Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK), the armed wing of the ANC who carried out the deadly rush hour attack on the SAAF headquarters, to claim responsibility for this action against the pariah state. The two MK operatives who were killed when the bomb detonated prematurely were duly declared heroes of the struggle. Some years later, the master mind, Aboobaker Ismail, was to be pardoned by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission for his role in the bomb attack that mostly claimed the lives of civilians.

Pretoria. February 1988

Jan Lombard, the man who was the head of South Africa's top secret nuclear weapons programme, said in answer to a question, `I will be ready to deliver in three months!'

`Can we wait that long?' asked Andre Minaar

General Piet Grobelaar replied, `The Cubans have poured thousands of fresh troops into Angola, and the Russians have recently supplied new missile systems and equipment. Our forces, along with Savimbi's UNITA, have inflicted heavy casualties on both the Cubans and Angolans. We have some of the best fighting men in the world, more than a match for SWAPO terrorists and the Angolans. The trouble is, our enemies have a never- ending supply of cannon fodder! Our artillery and air force have completely outgunned the enemy until now, but we are in danger of losing air superiority. If that happens, we will be in deep trouble! Our aging aircraft are no match for the MiG-23s, even though we have the better pilots. We can't afford to lose a single plane and nor can we match the weapon supply if Russia opens the floodgate. We need to use that bomb!'

Both men listened to and respected the views of the distinguished serving major general.

`Piet, your grandfather and mine were founding members of the Broederbond. They were committed to the survival and future of the Afrikaner Volk. Your father too, Jan! He was a respected member of the bond. We have to stop the communists and the savages who would take this land from us!' Anxiety and infection left Andre Minaar short of breath.

It was an extremely hot summer day and the three men had been out on the water for over two hours. It had become humid and unbearable under the canvas awning in the motionless boat. Minaar stood up and saw that the vessel was drifting towards a dense bank of water hyacinth. He told his friends to reel in their lines and went to the wheel.

The outboard motor started easily, purring to life with just a hint of blue-grey vapour. Andre eased the craft out into deeper water, away from the shoreline and the floating island of green weed. He cut the motor and two lines were quickly cast as the boat slowed. To anyone who might have taken an interest, they would appear to be three serious fishermen trying their luck, not three conspirators discussing the use of a weapon of mass destruction!

Minaar, who lived on the shores of the Hartebeespoort dam, had chosen this quiet stretch of water for their meeting. The spot was tucked back and away from any mid-week skiers and joyriders for whom the dam was a popular playground. The flow of the Crocodile and Magalies rivers had been interrupted to create this calm stretch of water among the picturesque hills of the Magaliesburg range. The concrete dam wall caused the rising waters to flood into valleys older than the Cradle of Humankind, whose caves had been discovered in the nearby hills. The older man had recovered his breath; he turned towards the general and picked up where he had left off.

`The Broederbond promoted our cause and made it possible for us to take control of our destiny. The bond gave our people strength and broke the chokehold that the English and the Jews had on our land. We have reclaimed economic power and elected every state president since that traitor Jan Smuts.'

`Ja, Andre, that is true, but look at our fellow Broederbonders today, many of them have gone soft. De Klerk and his bunch are intent on releasing Mandela and giving away our birthright. There will be anarchy and chaos when they unban the ANC and release the political prisoners. We need that bomb, and we need to use it before it is too late. It is the only way that we will unite our Volk again and save the nation!'

`I will have the weapon ready in time, but how are we going to get it out of the Circle Building?' asked Professor Jan Lombard.

`Leave that to me. I am more worried about how we will deliver it!' replied Piet Grobelaar.

The three men fell silent; heat and humidity had drained their energy, and each man was occupied with his own demons and relationship with his maker. Andre Minaar was the first to speak.

`So we are agreed then?'

The others nodded and lowered their eyes as the older man continued.

`Almighty God, we thank you for your divine guidance and blessing. We pray that your bountiful wisdom will continue to guide and protect us in this, our sacred mission. With your blessing, we will defeat the communists and heathen who threaten our land and its people. In return we promise to uphold Christian values and dedicate ourselves to your service. Amen.'

The three senior members of the ultra-secret Spionkop cell of the Broederbond embraced and shook hands.

Prayer over, they lowered and stowed the canopy. Andre Minaar started the motor again, brought the boat around, and opened the throttle. The craft, a sturdy Seven Seas 21, surged forward, lifted its bow, and made for a swathe of green on the bank opposite them. Minaar cut the engine, just as he had done a hundred times before, and allowed momentum and drift to bring the craft alongside the jetty. The vessel nudged gently at the hanging buoys as General Piet Grobelaar scrambled ashore. There was nothing nautical about the knot he tied as he roped the boat firmly to a bollard. Professor Jan Lombard, the youngest of the group, climbed onto the wooden structure. He turned to offer his hand to the retired and ageing Andre Minaar. The frail-looking seventy-four-year-old politely brushed the hand aside and determinedly made his way ashore. Minaar led them up the lawn towards the thatched house nestling under a canopy of jacaranda and acacia thorn trees. The three men settled themselves comfortably in the shade of the large veranda. Two ceiling fans and fly screens provided welcome relief from the heat and glare they had suffered out on the water. Hannetjie, Andre's wife, had thoughtfully provided a large jug of sweetened lemon water. She poured three glasses and retired to the house. Jan Lombard drank and leaned his elbows on the long hard wood table around which they were seated.

`The detonation could kill more than a hundred thousand people!' He made the comment suddenly and unexpectedly, then realised that it might sound as if he was having second thoughts.

He added promptly, as if to reassure, `Of course it will depend on the target we choose. It will have to be strategic and decisive. We don't have too many options with only one bomb. I fear it will soon be too late!'

Piet Grobelaar looked at Jan questioningly although neither he nor Andre said a word in reply.

Jan Lombard lapsed into silence, staring out over the lush lawns interspersed with pockets of brightly coloured shrubs and bougainvillea. He looked out across the water towards the surrounding hills. The same hills that saw the birth of mankind and now housed Pelindaba, the country's nuclear research facility as well as the top secret uranium enrichment plant. Jan felt that the Lord had been good to them thus far. The front section of the gun-type nuclear bomb was complete and the rear section almost so. He knew that barring the unexpected, he was on track to complete the warhead well within the estimated three months. However, the professor also knew that unless they completed the bomb soon and removed it from the top secret facility, their luck would run out and then not even the Lord's blessing would be of help to them!

Lombard, the country's top nuclear scientist, had been given a mandate to produce eight gun-type nuclear bombs that the politicians claimed were necessary as a negotiating tool. He had direct access to the state president, minister of Defence, and whoever else was deemed useful to the cause. Jan had assembled a small team of Afrikaners, all of whom had been given the highest level of security clearance by the state's intelligence and security police services. They had successfully built—and reported the existence of—six weapons, a secret `seventh' was nearing completion, and an official seventh was in progress.