Vortex

CHAPTER 10 Dead End

AUGUST 26-5TH MECHANIZED INFANTRY, 150 KJLOMETERS EAST OF WALVIS BAY

The blackened trucks and bodies stood out against the Namib Desert’s harsh landscape. Sun-scorched sand and rock did nothing to soften or hide the shattered remains of the battalion’s resupply convoy.

Dismounted scouts were already searching the area for possible survivors as von Brandis’s Ratel reached the scene and stopped. The wrecks were cold and the bodies blackened by a full day’s exposure to the sun.

Lieutenant Griff, the scout platoon leader, ran over as the command vehicle halted and called up to his colonel, “Nothing usable left, sir. And nobody left alive, either. ” Von Brandis sighed as the lieutenant continued his report.

“Definitely an air attack, Kolonel. No shell casings or tracks except those belonging to the convoy.”

Griff motioned toward the mass of charred wreckage and corpses.

“We’ve found eleven bodies and seven burnt

2M

V

out vehicles, including three fuel tankers and what must have been two ammo trucks. There are signs of one vehicle headed back west, but I can’t tell how many men were in it.”

Von Brandis nodded coldly, his expressionless face matching the scout officer’s matter-of fact tone. They’d both seen too many dead men in the past few days to care much about seeing several more. The wrecked convoy’s cargo was a much more serious loss.

He climbed out of the Ratel’s roof hatch and jumped down to the ground.

Stretching, he worked out the kinks that had formed in the last six hours of travel. They’d been moving since well before dawn, rattling and rolling along Route 52’s unpaved gravel surface. He smiled sardonically.

No doubt this road would have been a lot easier to drive in the BMW parked outside his home in Bloemfontein.

Von Brandis paced slowly around the remains of the resupply convoy, keeping clear of burial parties now going about their work with grim efficiency. Although the desert’s scavengers had already paid the dead men a first visit, nobody wanted to leave the Namib’s jackals anything more to eat.

Behind him, he heard the rest of his battalion slowing to a halt. Hatches clanged open as the troops got out and talked in low tones.

At first, he wandered almost aimlessly, his body working automatically as his brain tried to plow though the confusion to devise a workable plan. The Sth Mechanized Infantry’s officers and men knew how serious a setback this was, and von Brandis had to provide them with firm, decisive leadership.

They’d depended on this convoy for fuel and ammunition and food. Without it, they had barely enough fuel to reach Walvis Bay. F-ach of the battalion’s armored car and infantry units carried almost a full load of ammunition, but ammo disappeared fast in battle. At least they had rations and water for a couple of days.

All right. The Cuban column was still reported moving toward Walvis Bay. Von Brandis had orders to return and defend the port. The equation seemed simple and straightforward. Scouting, contact, and one hell of a fight.

He glanced at the horizon, silently calculating distances and fuel consumption rates. Right. It could be done. With effort, the 5th Mechanized could get back to the port with just enough fuel and ammo for one last battle-a battle it would simply have to win. As von Brandis turned and walked back to the parked Ratel, he was already starting to feel tentative ideas and plans forming.

His officers had anticipated his calling an orders group and were already gathered in the shade of the vehicle. The group of tired and dirty soldiers looked at him expectantly.

Von Brandis drew a deep breath and strode up confidently. He had to infuse strength and purpose into these men.

“All right, gentlemen. We’re inconvenienced, but we’re not out of options.”

He waved a hand down the length of the stalled column.

“Move the logistics vehicles off the road into laager and drain their petrol tanks. Strip off everything of value as well. Spare antiaircraft machine guns, medical kits, tool kits. Everything. We don’t want to make some wandering black scavenger rich, do we?”

“That drew a quick, guttural laugh. Good. They still had some spirit left in them.

“And Jamie, just before we leave, broadcast a message over the HF set-in the clear. Tell Pretoria that we’re critically short of fuel and will laager here until another supply convoy can reach us.”

More smiles and slow, delighted nods.

Von Brandis showed his teeth.

“That’s right, gentlemen. Let’s let the bastard Cubans think they’ve trapped us.” He clasped both hands behind his back.

“We’ll show them just how wrong they were at Walvis Bay.”

Half an hour later, the much-diminished battalion road column moved on, driving west in a cloud of dust.

AUGUST 27-FORWARD HEADQUARTERS,

CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE,

SWAKOPMUND, ON THE NAMIBIAN COAST

The Strand Hotel’s restaurant windows looked out on a deceptively peaceful vista-a wide expanse of sandy beach and endless, rolling, white-capped waves. Tables crowded with late-morning diners reinforced the momentary illusion that life in the tiny seaside town was still moving slowly along its placid, everyday track. Only the fact that all of those eating were men in Cuban Army uniforms shattered the illusion.

One man sat eating alone at a table with the best view. Polished stars clustered on his shoulder boards.

Gen. Antonio Vega had taken a calculated risk in flying to Swakopmund.

Two risks, actually, if one included the antiquated An-2 utility plane that had carried him on a low level engine-sputtering flight from

Windhoek to Swakopmund. The real risk, though, was leaving the central fight, the defense of the capital, to oversee the progress of this secondary attack . “

But just as a well-balanced machine can rotate on a single pivot, the battle for Windhoek would be won or lost out here, at the coast.

Though Swakopmund was technically Namibian territory, when the war started it had been swiftly occupied and garrisoned by a company of South

African Citizen Force reservists. Since then, they’d been content to hold in place and enjoy the light sea breezes while the rest of the SADF fought its way through Namibia’s harsh deserts and rugged mountains.

Their easy life had ended the day before when Colonel Pellervo’s armored personnel carriers and T-62 tanks appeared on the horizon-driving fast for the town and the Atlantic coast.

Vega smiled sardonically. According to the reports he’d seen, the

Afrikaner conscripts had fled Swakopmund without firing a shot. A sensible decision, he thought, eyeing one of the two long-gunned tanks left by Colonel Pellervo to protect the Cuban Army’s hold on the former

German colonial town.

After its bloodless victory, Pellervo’s 21st Motor Rifle

Battalion had spent the night resting and refitting for its push south against the operation’s primary objective-Walvis Bay. It was a pause Vega regretted but knew to be necessary. The two-hundred-icilometer road march from Karibib had left the battalion’s officers and men short of sleep, fresh food, and water. More importantly, it had pushed many of their vehicles to the edge of mechanical breakdown. Longdistance travel was always hard on tank treads and engines.

Fortunately, ten hours of rest and frantic repair in a campsite on the south side of Swakopmund had worked miracles on the motor rifle unit’s combat readiness. It had also given Pellervo a chance to secure the town fully. Under his martial law decrees, the black residents who’d welcomed the Cubans as liberators were free to go about their daily business. The surly, suspicious white descendants of Swakopmund’s German colonists weren’t so lucky. They’d been confined to their homes to prevent them from passing information about the Cuban battalion’s movements and strength to the South Africans still holding Walvis Bay. They’d also been warned that anyone caught outside could look forward to a short trial and a speedy execution amid the sand dunes surrounding the town.

Vega and his forward headquarters staff had arrived at dawn and immediately occupied the Strand Hotel, picked because it offered the best food and accommodations available in this small resort town. He was detached enough to appreciate the irony of a Cuban general eating a meal of bratwurst and sauerkraut while fighting a war in Africa.

Finished, he rose from his early lunch. It was past time to get back to the business at hand.

The forward headquarters itself had been set up in one of the hotel’s larger meeting rooms, and Vega was pleased to see it busy but quiet as he walked in. Following his standing orders, only the two sentries by the door saluted and snapped to attention, but almost everyone else nodded in his direction. Generals always had a magnetic effect on those under their command.

Acknowledging his staff’s various greetings, he walked briskly over to the situation map tacked to one wall. It showed both Swakopmund and Walvis Bay, thirty kilometers to the south. A half hour’s ride in a good car, but a full morning’s travel for a motorized battalion deployed for combat.

The two towns sat like islands surrounded by a desert sea. Two-lane highways spanned out north, south, and east, linking them with other towns hundreds of kilometers away. The real sea, the Atlantic Ocean, lay to the west.

Pellervo’s battalion had started for Walvis Bay at dawn, but was only now nearing the South African port. It wasn’t a large city. In fact, it was just a small, ugly town, more famous for its fish processing plant than anything else. But Walvis Bay possessed the only deepwater harbor on the

Namibian coast.

And that made Walvis Bay worth fighting for.

The port had remained in South Africa’s hands when the rest of Namibia gained its independence on a simple technicality. Occupied by the British before World War I, Walvis Bay had been handed over to South Africa directly instead of being included as part of the old League of Nations mandate over the SouthWest Africa Territory. As a result, the 1989 UN agreement that gave the rest of the ex-German colony its freedom from

Pretoria hadn’t covered Walvis Bay’s vital port facilities.

And that is how the West divides up its spoils, and how South Africa keeps its stranglehold on what is supposed to be a sovereign country,

Vega thought, frowning.

A more cheerful thought wiped away his frown. In attacking Walvis Bay, his troops were invading South African territory, undoing some of the harm done to Namibia by the West. And capturing the port would not only deprive Pretoria of a vital naval base and supply center, it would also give Cuba and its socialist allies the facilities they needed to pour in shiploads of heavy tanks and guns, troops, and equipment. The men and material needed to crush South Africa’s imperial ambitions once and for all.

Vega studied the situation map closely. Markers showed Pellervo’s 2 1 st

Motor Rifle approaching the outskirts of Walvis Bay. Other markers depicted the likely defensive positions of the two companies of enemy infantry holding the port.

Vega mused again, calculating the odds. Two companies, dug in, against a reinforced battalion. The South Africans knew the area better, but his air bases were closer. The general smiled. An even match for a strategic goal.

A discreet cough drew his attention to the expectant face of one of his operations officers.

“Yes?”

“Sir, Colonel Pellervo reports receiving some small-arms fire. Probably from enemy outposts. He requests artillery support. “

Vega shook his head impatiently.

“Tell him to press on. The South African outposts will fall back. The Twentyfirst has to keep moving or the timing of our air strike will be off. “

He glanced at his air officer, who saw his expression and automatically confirmed that.

“The MiGs are on schedule, Comrade General. ETA in ten minutes.”

Vega checked the map one more time. Good. Very good. The battle for Walvis

Bay would open with one hell of an airborne bang.

5TH MECHANIZED INFANTRY Ha OUTSIDE WALVIS BAY

Col. George von Brandis lay prone, hugging the cold, stony ground. Through binoculars, he watched the enemy’s dust cloud approaching.

He hated being outside the cover offered by the port’s houses, aluminum-sided canneries, and entrenchments, but there hadn’t been time to get the battalion inside before first light, and he couldn’t risk being caught unprepared in the open. His vehicles were down to their last few liters of fuel, and the men were exhausted.

The 5th Mechanized had spent the dark, predawn hours finding hides and defilades along the road between Swakopmund and Walvis Bay. The best defensive position lay close to the port itself where a railroad line paralleled the road-its raised embankment offering perfect cover for his infantry, jeep-mounted antitank missiles, and cannon-armed Elands.

Von Brandis adjusted the focus on his binoculars and saw squat shapes emerging from the hazy, yellow dust cloud. The Cubans couldn’t be farther than five kilometers away. Come on, you bastards. Keep coming.

With so little fuel left and only its basic load of ammunition available, his battalion had only one viable option-a devastating short-range attack aimed at the Cuban flank. Hit them hard enough with a surprise attack and those Latin bastards will samba their way back to Luanda, he thought.

And the attack should damn well be a surprise. Two volunteers had stayed behind in Hougaard’s abandoned command Ratel, They were continuing to transmit status reports and requests for aid. His own force had maintained radio silence while speeding westward through the night to minimize the chance of being spotted by enemy air reconnaissance.

Not even the defenders in Walvis Bay knew they were here. He had considered sending in a runner, but two kilometers of open terrain separated his nearest positions from the town. Too far. Whomever he sent would almost certainly be captured or killed.

Von Brandis grinned mirthlessly. The reservists holding Walvis Bay must be feeling a lot like the British soldiers who’d defended Rorke’s Drift against the Zulus a century before-outnumbered and all alone. They will be a happy bunch when we show ourselves, he thought.

The Walvis Bay garrison didn’t really need to know that the 5th Mechanized was here anyway. The tactical setup was simple. The Cubans could only advance down one road to attack the town. Von Brandis had deployed his men about eight hundred meters east of that road, ready to shoot only after the garrison opened fire. With luck, the Cubans wouldn’t realize they were being shot at from more than one direction until after his Elands and antitank missiles had slammed in a few unanswered volleys. Another slight edge, von Brandis thought, and I’ll need every advantage I can get.

He planned to open fire only when the Cubans were at close range, under a thousand meters. To make sure surprise was maintained, only one man in each of his companies was allowed to observe the enemy and report. The rest of his infantry stayed hidden below the railroad embankment. All vehicle engines were also off. Normally kept running to provide electrical power to the guns, the engines were shut down both to save fuel and to reduce noise.

They would only be turned over at the last minute.

The Cubans were still closing, now just about three thousand meters away.

They were leading with their tanks, clanking, big-gunned monsters spread out in line abreast. Wave after wave of BTR armored personnel carriers followed the tanks.

The tanks were tough customers, but the BTRs were just big wheeled boxes with light armor at most. They were vulnerable to cannon, antitank missiles, even heavy machine guns. Von Brandis sighed. There were a hell of a lot of them, though.

Smaller armored cars prowled round the flanks of the Cuban formation, accompanied by a couple of mobile antiaircraft guns, ZSU-23-4s with their radar antennas deployed and ready.

Suddenly, von Brandis heard a cross between a scream and a roar coming from the north, coming closer fast. Jets! He swiveled his binoculars up and beyond the oncoming Cuban formation.

There they were. Four winged, arrowhead shapes emerged from the dust cloud-flying straight down the road toward Walvis Bay in two pairs. As the

MiGs flashed over the town’s low, flat-roofed houses and warehouses, small cannisters fell from their wings and tumbled end over end toward the ground.

Afterburners roaring, the MiGs accelerated and turned right, thundering out over the ocean. Thousands of frightened birds burst into frenzied motion, blackening the sky over Walvis Bay’s lagoon.

Behind the accelerating jets, the cannisters, cluster bombs, broke apart into falling clouds of tiny black dots. Walvis Bay disappeared-cloaked by smoke and dust as hundreds of bomblets went off almost at once. Tiny flashes of orange and red winked through the smoke, accompanied by a loud, crackling series of explosions that reminded von Brandis of the noise made by the firecrackers tossed at

Chinese New Year’s parades.

Each bomblet carried enough explosive to wreck an aircraft or a vehicle, and each blast sent dozens of highspeed fragments sleeting through the air and any walls or roofs in the way. Von Brandis hoped that Walvis

Bay’s defenders had dug deep trenches.

The sound of the MiGs faded.

He switched his attention back to the advancing Cuban formation, now a few hundred meters closer. The tanks were near enough for him to make out the shape of their turrets, and he could see a large bore evacuator halfway up the gun barrel. T-62s. Bloody great big, thick-armored T-62s.

Wonderful.

He heard the jets again and swiveled to look over the town. The MiGs must have turned again out over the water, because this time they were coming head-on from the west-flying just above the wavetops.

The four aircraft suddenly pulled up, quickly gaining attitude, then dove. Each jet’s nose disappeared in a stuttering, winking blaze of light-cannon hammering the garrison crouching in its foxholes and slit trenches. Flames and oily, black smoke rose from burning cars and buildings. Von Brandis couldn’t see any tracers rising from defending antiaircraft guns. They’d either been knocked out or abandoned by frightened crews.

Again, the MiGs broke off their attack, but this time they didn’t turn over the town. Instead, they flew on, straight toward him! Von Brandis shouted, “Down!” and scrambled down off the small rise he occupied, knowing already it was futile. His battalion was concealed from the road, but not from aerial observation. The Namib’s barren terrain simply offered nowhere to hide.

He looked up as the jets screamed overhead a hundred meters up. The sound deafened him. He was close enough to see the red and blue Cuban insignia, the shoulder-mounted

delta wings, the triangular tail, the square inlets. Cuban MiG23 Floggers.

The MiGs flashed by and he heard a few of the machine guns in his battalion firing as they pulled away. Fine. There wasn’t any point in trying to hide now, and the machine gunners might even hit something.

One of the jets pulled up, turning tighter than the rest. For a moment, von

Brandis thought it had been hit, but instead the MiG-23 gracefully turned and rolled and came back over his battalion. It made no move to attack, but he heard the jet’s howl as it made a single highspeed pass down the length of his defensive line.

Shit. So much for surprise.

Von Brandis scrambled back up the hill, yelling for his radioman to follow.

Both men flopped belly-down at the crest. The Cuban tanks and APCs were roughly two thousand meters away-still well outside effective range.

The South African colonel shook his head in resignation. It was just too damned bad that nothing in war ever went as planned.

“Tell all commanders to open fire. Aim for the APCs. “

FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY

FORCE

The air officer spun round in shock, one hand clapped to his earphones.

“Comrade General, one of our aircraft reports men and vehicles east of the road, near the railroad embankment! “

What? Vega sat bolt upright.

“Find out how many!”

He jumped up from his desk for a closer look at the map. That damned railroad embankment! He should have insisted that Pellervo’s recon units scout the area more thoroughly.

He was still moving when another radioman whirled in his direction.

“Colonel Pellervo reports he is taking fire from the east! “

Vega took the last few steps to the map at a run. No doubt about it. They’d been ambushed. Some South African was playing it pretty smart. But how smart? He snapped a question toward the air officer.

“How large is the enemy force?”

“The pilot says he can see over a dozen vehicles.”

That’s it, then, Vega thought. At least a company and probably more. He slammed a clenched fist into his cupped palm. He should have known better than to believe the radio intercepts they’d picked up from out in the

Namib.

No time now for recriminations. Quickly he ordered, “Have the fighters strafe the South African bastards! And then see how soon we can get another air strike out here.”

The air officer nodded hurriedly and turned to his radio set.

“Arrow

Lead, this is Forward Control…”

Vega turned his attention to the fast-developing ground battle. The South

African armored units behind the embankment were clearly a bigger threat than the infantry garrison cowering in what was left of Walvis Bay. They were now the primary targets. On the other hand, even antiquated antitank missiles fired from the town could wreak havoc on Pellervo’s units as they turned east. The garrison would have to be neutralized.

He looked for his artillery officer and found him hovering nearby.

“Signal the battery to lay smoke along the northern edge of the town.”

That should blind the Afrikaner bastards. Let them waste missiles firing at empty sand while Pellervo’s tanks annihilated the enemy sheltering behind the railroad embankment.

Vega motioned his operations staff closer.

“All right. Let’s get down to work. Tell Pellervo to deploy his tanks and infantry to the east for a dismounted attack. We’ll worry about the town later.”

Officers scurried toward the radios to obey.

5TH MECHANIZED INFANTRY

Von Brandis climbed into his Ratel and used the turret optics to examine the advancing enemy line. Johann, his driver,

now serving as turret gunner, waited nervously. The command Ratel’s small turret held only a heavy machine guna weapon that would irritate but not injure a T-62.

Stepping up to the highest magnification, von Brandis was gratified to see several burning BTRs topped by rising pillars of smoke. The 90mm guns on his Elands; hadn’t a prayer of knocking out a tank at two thousand meters, but their shells tore up the thinly armored Cuban personnel carriers like cheap tin cans. Boers have always been good shots, he thought, and we need that expertise now.

The tanks were wheeling now, the entire formation pivoting on its left flank. In less than a minute, his battalion faced a line of ten T-62s-gun barrels, turrets, and thick frontal armor all facing east. They’d stopped moving, though. Why? Then he saw infantry dismounting from some motionless BTRs, while other APCs, already empty, withdrew at high speed.

He shouted down into the Ratel’s crowded interior.

“Infantry attack forming. Lay mortar fire eighteen hundred meters in front of us and adjust for a walking barrage.”

Staff officers acknowledged and began issuing orders to the battalion’s heavy weapons company.

Von Brandis frowned. The mortar fire would help slow the oncoming infantry, but it wouldn’t even scratch the paint on the T-62s.

Moving slowly, very slowly, the tanks started clanking forward, smoke pouring from the rear of each vehicle. They were making smoke by spraying diesel fuel on their engine exhausts, coveting the infantry coming on behind in a gray white blanket.

Mortar rounds began throwing up sand and smoke in front of the advancing

Cuban line. He jumped down out of the turret and let the young artillery observer climb into his seat. From there, the lieutenant would be able to see well enough to adjust the barrage right on top of the enemy force.

Trying to find a place to stand, von Brandis almost tripped over someone’s feet, then jammed his leg into the map table. Good God. Running a battle from inside this metal zoo was like trying to conduct a symphony on a commuter-packed subway train. Fed up, he grabbed his headset, opened one of the roof hatches, and climbed out onto the Ratel’s armor plated roof where he could see.

The mortars were now landing in the smoky haze behind the Cuban tanks.

He couldn’t tell if they were doing damage, but at least they were bursting in the right spot. His armored cars had ceased fire, out of easy

BTR targets and not even bothering to test their lighter cannon against the T-62s’ angled frontal armor until they were much closer.

The rattle of antiaircraft guns broke his attention away from the tanks.

The aircraft were back! Von Brandis quickly scrambled off the Ratel’s roof and dropped to a crouch behind its left side. Peering around the front of his vehicle, he saw the Flogger approach and make its attack.

From the Cuban pilot’s point of view, he knew that his battalion was deployed in an ideal formation. Spread out in line along the embankment, with no cover to the top or rear, his Ratels and Eland armored cars were terribly vulnerable.

The plane came over fast, its automatic cannon blazing again-chewing up sand and rock in a straight line along the 5th Mechanized. Something blew up about three hundred meters away, but the MiG-23 didn’t break off.

Instead, its nose came up for a few seconds, looking for all the world like a hunting dog seeking new prey. Then the nose dipped again, firing at a new target. ‘

This time he saw the cannon shells strike around a nearby Ratel personnel carrier. There wasn’t any clear-cut impression of a line of shells walking toward the vehicle-just a flurry of fiery explosions on and around it. At least three shells struck the Ratel, and one hit a man outside, literally blowing him into pieces.

Von Brandis heard screaming, and men poured out of the Ratel’s side and roof hatches in a torrent of boiling black smoke. Several were wounded, bloodied, or burnt. Damn. The vehicle was wrecked and its squad was crippled.

He heard another jet roaring in and hoped that this time the battalion’s antiaircraft battery would bring it down. He glanced at the nearest gun-a twin 20mm mounting. It was manually pointed and lacked radar ranging, but at least the

blasted thing was better than a vehicle-mounted machine gun. Four of them were deployed up and down his line.

Tracers arced upward into the air, passing close to the second MiG, but none hit it. Instead, the MiG destroyed an Eland armored car, fire balling its fuel tank in a spectacular orange and red explosion.

There was a new note to the sounds around him, and von Brandis realized his Elands had opened fire again. He climbed up the embankment and flattened himself along the railroad tracks-binoculars already up and focused. The Cuban tanks were less than a kilometer away. An Eland fifty meters to the right fired, and he felt a momentary exhilaration as he saw the shell strike a T-62 dead center.

But when the smoke cleared, the tank rolled on apparently unharmed. A bright smear on the bow armor showed where the 90mm armor-piercing shell had struck and been deflected.

Movement to the left caught his eye, and he saw a flickering black dot reach a tank. Smoke, fire, and sand fountained into the air. Another hit!

This time, though, the Cuban T-62 shuddered to a squealing halt as all its hatches blew open in a sheet of flame. Nobody appeared in the hatch openings.

At least the antitank missiles were working, von Brandis thought. Another jet roared low overhead and he turned to see one more of his Ratels and an antiaircraft gun burning. Dead or wounded men lay sprawled close by each of them.

Damn it. They were being murdered by these bloody MiGs. Where the hell were their own planes? He felt a twinge of self-doubt. Maybe he should have risked a radio call to Pretoria instead of seeking complete surprise.

The noise of battle was increasing as the range closed and more weapons on both sides were able to fire. He watched a few more shots by the armored cars as they tried to knock out the T-62s, all ineffective against their heavy front armor. Sand sprayed around him as a stray Cuban shot slammed into the embankment. Time to go.

Von Brandis scrambled down the embankment to the waiting Ratel. Its turret was now firing, and he instinctively sheltered under its sides as another MiG screamed over.

He grabbed the dangling radio headset and put it on. Turning the earphone volume to maximum, he shouted, “Foxtrot Delta One, redeploy to the south!

You need to get flank shots on the tanks! Over!”

The reply was barely audible, but D Squadron’s commander spoke slowly.

“Cannot move. Not enough fuel. Two vehicles empty, laying turret manually. Aiming at tank tracks, will immobilize.” The bang-clank of a cannon’s firing punctuated his words.

More MiGs raced down the length of his line, strafing everything in their path. Each pass left more of his vehicles burning or abandoned.

Crack! Crack! Crack! The Cuban T-62s were now in range. Even though they had larger guns, it was hard to hit a small, dug-in target from a moving tank, so they’d held their fire until now. The crash of big armor-piercing shells filled the air.

HEADQUARTERS, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE

The young staff officer’s high-pitched voice revealed his excitement.

“Comrade General! Colonel Pellervo reports that his tanks are just five hundred meters from the enemy!”

Vega nodded gravely. Now for the kill.

“All right, order our aircraft home, then shift the artillery fire as planned. Adjust, then pour a full rate of fire onto the enemy for three minutes. “

He allowed himself the faintest flicker of a smile as his orders were repeated over the radio. He’d spent years imagining the best way to crush a South African battalion in combat, drawing up and rejecting plan after plan-each aimed at matching his army’s strengths against the enemy’s weaknesses. Now it was working. The South Africans caught behind the railroad embankment simply couldn’t match his air power or artillery superiority.

5TH MECHANIZED INFANTRY

When von Brandis saw the aircraft leave, it was the first ray of hope in what had become an increasingly bleak situation. The MiGs must finally have run low on fuel or ammunition. Then he started wondering if he could get his remaining antiaircraft guns up to the embankment and redeployed before the Cuban infantry reached it. Those 20mm cannon would work well against personnel.

“It was getting hard to see. Each explosion kicked up sand and dust, and the smoke of the burning vehicles only added to the murk. It clung to his skin and filled his lungs. The enemy troops were visible only as dim, moving shapes though luckily still clear enough to aim at.

The Cuban foot soldiers were still advancing, coming on at an energy-conserving walk while their tanks had stopped and were firing their cannons and machine guns over their heads. Von Brandis could only see three T-62s on fire. Two or three more had been stopped by track hits, but that didn’t keep them from shooting.

He lowered his binoculars, considering his next move. He and his men weren’t out of trouble yet, but concentrated small-arms fire should be enough to stop this damned infantry attack. He didn’t have to expose his surviving armored cars and APCs to the T-62s.

Von Brandis started to grin. The Cuban commander had made his first serious mistake. The man should have kept his tanks together with the infantry.

In the roar of battle around him, he didn’t even hear the first few artillery shells whirring in from high overhead.

21 ST MOTOR RIFLE BATTALION, CUBAN

EXPEDITIONARY FORCE

The battery of towed 122mm howitzers attached to Colonel Pellervo’s battalion was eight kilometers back, deployed out of sight amid a sea of sand dunes fronting the Atlantic. But the artillery observer who controlled their fire occupied the tank next to Pellervo’s.

He was good and needed just four sighting rounds to get the battery on target. The first two were long, the third a little short, but the fourth landed squarely on the railroad tracks.

“Fire for effect!”

Each D-30 122mm gun could fire four shells a minute, for a short period of time. There were six howitzers in the battery, so twenty-four shells a minute rained onto the exposed South African battalion-shattering infantrymen caught out in the open, spraying fragments through open vehicle hatches, and fire balling armored cars with direct hits.

The Cuban gunners kept firing for three long, murderous minutes.

5TH MECHANIZED INFANTRY

Whammm! Whammm! Whammm!

Von Brandis felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach by a mule as the first full Cuban salvo landed—each impact jarring and rattling the ground. He flattened, face pressed down into the heaving earth, deafened by the noise.

Each explosion threw a geyser of dirt into the air, sometimes mixed with fragments of men or equipment. Vehicles were torn open or simply blown to pieces. Fragments whizzing out more than twenty meters from the point of each explosion cut down anyone not totally prone-making it impossible for his men to keep firing and stay alive.

Von Brandis knew exactly what the Cubans were doing and knew they had won. But he couldn’t stop fighting. Walvis Bay was vital, and he had to keep trying to save it. He started crawling down the line, finding any officer or noncom still alive-screaming the same thing over and over.

“Call the men back four kilometers. Run with whatever you’ve got. We’ll try to regroup and slip into town.”

Holding their bodies tight against the storm of explosions, most nodded their dazed understanding. A few had simply

stared at him, shell-shocked beyond the ability to comprehend.

Von Brandis had been able to find two of his officers and three noncoms when the shell found him. He never felt it.

FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE

Vega watched his operations officer acknowledge the incoming transmission and pull his earphones off. The man’s wide, white-toothed grin signaled good news. So did the way he straightened to attention.

“Comrade General, the

Twentyfirst Motor Rifle reports overrunning the South African line. They did not withdraw.”

Vega nodded. He’d never denied that the Afrikaners were brave.

“What are our losses?”

Another smile. More good news, then.

“Roughly fifteen percent, Comrade

General. But Colonel Pellervo believes many of his tanks can be repaired.”

Vega sighed with relief. His casualties were acceptable. Especially for such a close-fought action. The 21st Motor Rifle was still combat capable.

He turned to his radio operator.

“Send this message to the embassy in

Windhoek: “Defeated enemy counterattack outside Walvis Bay. Expect to take port by dusk. Send information on freighter arrival times.”

“

As his staff crowded round to congratulate him on the victory, Vega allowed himself a brief, wintry smile. Then he shook his head.

“I thank you, comrades. But we are not finished here. Tell Pellervo to get turned around.

We’ve got to be in Walvis Bay by nightfall.”

South Africa’s army had lost a precious battalion, and Cuba would have the harbor it needed.