Vortex

CHAPTER 12 Storm Warning

SEPTEMBER 7-CNN HEADLINE NEWS

The dramatic images from Namibia occupied center stage during CNN’s hourly news recap. “in a visit designed to show the depth of Cuba’s support for

Namibia, Cuban president Fidel Castro today landed in Walvis Bay on a whirlwind tout of the war zone. ” A smiling, cigar-chomping Castro seemed perfectly at home in a sea of military uniforms. His apparent vigor contradicted persistent rumors of ill health, though the bushy, once-brown beard had gone almost completely gray.

The video image showed Castro, with Vega at his side, touring the captured South African port. Several Cubanflagged merchant ships could be seen behind them hurriedly off-loading tanks, planes, and artillery onto Walvis Bay’s long piers. Antiaircraft units and SAM batteries guarded against South African air attack.

The view shifted to show troops in fortifications outside the town, cheering wildly as Castro and his general appeared.

The footage ended with a close-up shot of a jubilant Fidel Castro pumping his clenched fist in the air in triumph.

Castro’s elated image vanished and CNN’s hightech Atlanta studio reappeared.

“In other news from overseas, India’s foreign minister again insisted that Pakistan abandon its covert support for… “

FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY

FORCE, THE STRAND HOTEL, SWAKOPMUND, NAMIBIA

Night had fallen across the Namibian coast.

Thirty kilometers north of Walvis Bay’s ship-choked anchorage, high-ranking Cuban officers again filled the Strand Hotel’s formal dining room. Candlelight gleamed off polished silverware, fine crystal, and shoulder boards crowded with stars. Black waiters and busboys moved from table to table, for once plainly happy in their work. The Strand’s white managers and wine stewards were not happy. They clustered near the kitchen entrance, sour faced and carefully supervised by armed guards.

Outside, the Atlantic surf boomed, sending the hissing, foam-flecked remnants of waves surging onto Swakopmund’s sandy beaches. The infantry squads dug in above the high water mark were all alert-their machine guns, mortars, and other heavy weapons manned and ready. Searchlights mounted on T-62 tanks parked hull-down among the dunes probed out to sea, stabbing through the darkness at precise, timed intervals.

Inside, the assembled officers ate, gossiped, toasted one another, and covertly eyed the two men who sat alone at the head table.

Gen. Antonio Vega toyed with his pastry dish, conscious that Cuba’s president and absolute ruler ate with lip-smacking gusto beside him. He frowned slightly at the sugary and fruit filled concoction. He’d always preferred plainer fare, soldier’s fare-rice and beans, sometimes mixed with a little beef or chicken. Food that satisfied hunger without leaving one lolling about in an overfed stupor. The kind of food you could get in

Cuba-at home.

His leader’s tastes were quite different, and Vega knew better than to try imposing his own culinary views on Fidel Castro. Particularly not when he was about to urge that communist Cuba undertake one of the largest political, military, and strategic gambles in its short history.

Vega sipped his wine, studying the crowded dining room over the rim of his glass. It was an astonishing sight. There were probably more senior

Cuban military men concentrated here in this tiny hotel on Africa’s most desolate coast than there were left in all of Havana.

So many men in fact that the Strand Hotel had been hardpressed to accommodate them all. Vega had gladly turned his quarters over to Castro, but their two staffs had engaged in a very careful assessment of relative ranks before the remaining rooms could be assigned. In the end, several of Swakopmund’s wealthiest burghers had been turned out of their homes to make room for some of the junior officers.

This evening’s dinner had been served in shifts, with the lowest-ranking officers and staff members eating quickly and early, so that the two principals and their higher aides could eat at a fashionable hour, before moving on to the important business at hand.

Important business, indeed, Vega thought, keeping a tight rein on his expression. Castro and his entourage must see only the outer man-calm, cool, collected, and thoroughly professional. The storm of mingled emotions-excitement, nervousness, and joy-that ebbed and flowed inside him had to stay hidden. Marxist-Leninism was a scientific faith, and its true believers were supposed to remain unswayed by sentiment, personal ambition, or petty hatreds.

“Excellent, Antonio. A fitting conclusion to a glorious day.” Castro pushed his empty plate aside and absentmindedly combed his fingers through his beard, brushing away small crumbs and flakes of pastry crust.

Vega lowered the wineglass and inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment.

Castro bent his own head for a moment, puffing one of his trademark cigars alight. Then he looked up, shrewd eyes fixed on Vega’s face.

“You may begin the briefing, General. Medals and propaganda films have their own time and place, but now we must contemplate the next steps in this war. And as the saying goes, the wise man makes sure his shoes are tied before setting out on any journey. “

Vega smiled. As always, Castro knew how to get to the heart of the matter.

Vega nodded to one of his hovering staff officers, who in turn motioned to the cadre of young lieutenants stationed at the door.

Instantly, they spread through the room-shepherding the waiters and other hotel workers outside. The low buzz of conversation from the other tables died away as several more junior officers brought in a large, cloth-covered easel.

Vega’s senior intelligence officer, Col. Jaume Vasquez, stepped forward and stood near the easel. Vasquez, a short, slender man with an aristocrat’s high cheekbones and long, thin nose, seemed to have taken special pains with his appearance this evening. Every crease on his tailored dress uniform hung razor-sharp and his polished black shoes gleamed brightly.

Only the faint sheen of nervous perspiration on his forehead marred the image of absolute perfection.

Vega sympathized with the colonel’s case of nerves. Few men ever stood so close to one of history’s great turning points. it still felt strange to realize that the whole course of a war and the very future of several nations would be determined here, in the rustic dining room of a small hotel off in the middle of nowhere.

The intelligence officer waited in silence until the dining room doors closed firmly-shutting out curious junior staffers and potential spies alle.

Vasquez pulled away the cloth covering his easel, revealing a map of northern and central Namibia. Red lines and arrows showed the current situation facing Cuba’s Expeditionary Force.

“Senor Presidente, SefJor

General, the battlefront has stabilized along an east-west line running from Walvis Bay to Windhoek to the village of Gobabis, here. ” He tapped the map, pointing out a small town near Namibia’s border with

Botswana.

“The enemy’s main force remains concentrated near the passes leading to Windhoek. Radio intercepts, prisoner interrogations, and air reconnaissance all indicate the presence of at least one mechanized brigade around the town of Rehoboth. “

Vasquez ran a lean, manicured finger up the highway north from Rehoboth, stopping at a tiny dot.

“This represents the deepest South African penetration into the Auas Mountains. One battalion holding the village of Bergland. All available evidence indicates that the South Africans periodically rotate troops forward to this area from their staging base at Rehoboth.

“

Castro sat forward in his chair, his bushy eyebrows arched.

“Why only a single battalion? If Windhoek truly is their main objective, why don’t the South Africans apply more combat power there?”

Vega nodded to himself. A good question. Now, would the colonel falter, or could he answer to Castro’s satisfaction?

The intelligence officer passed his unspoken test.

“They cannot move more than a single battalion forward, Senor Presidente, because the road net north of Bergland isn’t able to support a larger force. Cramming more troops and vehicles into a narrower frontage would only make life easier for our gunners and antitank missile teams. “

Castro chuckled and waved Vasquez on.

The colonel moved his hand westward until it touched the coast.

“Our position at Walvis Bay is doubly secure. The only roads come from

Windhoek or across five hundred kilometers of unsettled wilderness. Any

South African force trying to recapture the port must either come by sea or take one of these roads. “

Vasquez shrugged, as though it made little difference.

“The support of our gallant Soviet allies guarantees us control of the sea route, and we now hold unquestioned air superiority over this section of the front. As a result, no South African column can approach without being detected and bombed into oblivion.”

Vega watched Castro’s smile grow wider and matched it with one of his own. Bombed into oblivion. Now there was

a wonderful image. He almost hoped Pretoria would be foolish enough to order such a doomed counterattack. Any venture that sucked more South African troops deeper into Namibia’s near-road less hinterland would make his job easier later on.

Vasquez turned his attention and that of his audience to the east.

“Our units defending Gobabis are less secure, because the town is surrounded by a net of villages and roads, but from Gobabis all roads lead to Windhoek.

And we hold Windhoek in strength. ” Heads nodded sagely across the room.

All were agreed on the strategic value of the capital.

Vasquez turned slightly, facing Castro and Vega squarely.

“To all intents and purposes, South Africa’s attempt to seize Namibia in a lightning campaign has failed. True, its soldiers occupy the southern half of this country, but we control areas containing more than two-thirds of the population and most of the mineral resources. In addition, sources report that South Africa’s losses have been much higher than expected. “

Vega noted that Vasquez left the other half of that equation carefully unspoken. Cuba’s own casualties had also been heavy.

Castro flicked cigar ash onto one of the Strand’s best china plates.

“So then, what can we expect the madmen in Pretoria to try next, Colonel?”

Vasquez smiled thinly.

“Barring commando attacks by small parties, an attack of any size must come north along Route One, directly from Rehoboth and Bergland. Given the existing logistical and strategic situation, we can see no other serious option for the South Africans. The Afrikaners can do nothing but continue to batter away at our mountain defenses-choking the road with their corpses and with their wrecked vehicles. ” He stepped away from the easel, signaling the end of his formal remarks.

Vega allowed himself a moment’s self-congratulation. Vasquez had done a good job. Clear, concise, and factual. And like all successful presentations, the colonel’s briefing had ended on just the right theatrical note.

Castro nodded his satisfaction and sat quietly for an instant,

wreathed in cigar smoke. Then he looked up.

“Tell me, Colonel, how much of the enemy’s force is committed to this war?”

Vasquez didn’t even consult his notes.

“We’ve identified units belonging to three brigades, Senor Presidente-half of South Africa’s regular army.

Counting reserves, more than a third of its national forces.”

Castro countered, “But Pretoria hasn’t fully mobilized its reserves yet.

True?”

Vasquez bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the point.

“Selected units are still being called up, Senor Presidente. “

Castro turned to Vega. His words were blunt. Tact wasn’t a social grace often found in absolute rulers.

“So, General, you have stopped this first assault, but the Afrikaners haven’t fully committed their reserves.” He leaned closer, his eyes cold and hard.

“I need to know, Antonio. Can you hold against a second, even larger, offensive?”

Vega had been expecting the question. It dovetailed perfectly into the proposal he hoped to make in a moment.

“I can, Presidente. With the two brigades now in Namibia, I can stop up to two South African divisions.

As you know, the defender has the advantage, three to one.”

“But by the same rule, you need more than a division yourself to advance against the South Africans. And the road net south will not support an offensive of that size.”

Vega was pleased. Castro’s preferred nickname was El Artillero or “The

Gunner. He had not lost his military skills. Inwardly, the general took a deep breath, thinking, now it begins.

“That is true. As matters stand now, we are deadlocked, Presidente. We can build up above two brigades, but Pretoria can also reinforce its army-leaving both sides caught in an escalating stalemate. Such a stalemate would continue until one side or the other was exhausted.”

Castro frowned and Vega frowned with him. Cuba could not win such a prolonged war of attrition. It was a poor country, without even a fraction of South Africa’s resources. Vega knew that national will counted, but he was a practical man and he always calculated the odds before making a bet. And staying locked into the current military situation was the

equivalent of staking one’s entire life savings on an already disqualified horse. His army’s capture of Walvis Bay had staved off defeat-not guaranteed victory.

Vega watched his leader’s face as he considered the options, knowing that

Castro was running through the same set of unpalatable choices he’d already considered and rejected.

Withdrawal was out. Too much of Cuba’s international prestige was already at stake. Havana’s support for little Namibia had garnered both praise from the world community and much-needed revenue from the country’s diamonds, gold, and uranium.

On the other hand, they couldn’t simply accept the status quo. Pretoria’s armed forces would eventually exhaust Vega and his men-wearing them down, man by man.

And that seemed to leave one equally futile and even more expensive option-a desperate race to match South Africa’s steady troop buildup. A race that would still inevitably end in eventual exhaustion and defeat.

Castro’s disappointed scowl grew deeper. He’d come to Namibia for a celebration and instead found the likelihood of ultimate failure.

Vega nodded soberly to himself. Cuba’s president had a good military background, but he clearly couldn’t see a way out of their box, either.

The general drew himself up straighter. it was time to take his own gamble.

He cleared his throat.

“I have a plan, sir-a good plan, I believe. But it involves a certain amount of risk.”

Castro looked up sharply.

“Risk of loss is better than certain loss.” He eyed his general closely.

“Tell me of this plan of yours, Antonio.”

Purposefully, Vega stood up and strode over to the easel.

“Senor

Presidente, I am convinced that we must look beyond the struggle for

Windhoek, or even for Namibia. This invasion is only the latest in a series of South African aggressions on this continent. It demonstrates once and for all that Pretoria’s racist government is incapable of reform.”

Castro looked a little impatient. Political orations were usually left to him, but many of the staff officers clustered around the room nodded and Vega took heart from that.

“Our internationalist duty brought us here to fight against capitalist aggression. As loyal socialists, we are glad to do so. But we are only engaged in fighting the symptoms of this disease this racist blot on

Africa’s soil. Even a victory here in Namibia will not end Pretoria’s machinations. Therefore, I propose that we take direct action against these Afrikaner imperialists. “

Vega flipped the Namibian situation map over the back of the easel, revealing a map showing all of southern Africa. Red phase lines and arrows converged on Pretoria from three separate directions. He saw

Castro’s eyes widen in surprise.

“We must occupy South Africa, destroy its corrupt, capitalistic regime, and build an African socialist state in its place!”

Vega had expected shocked gasps or muttered exclamations. Instead, his words were met by absolute silence. All eyes were riveted on the map, and

Vega quickly motioned to a lieutenant, who started passing out copies of a thick document, first to Castro, then to everyone else in the room.

Cuba’s president glanced down at the binder in his hands and then back up at Vega in open disbelief.

“Let me see if I understand you correctly,

General. You are proposing that we invade South Africa itself?”

Vega nodded, aware that many in the room must think him mad.

“And you make this proposal for expanding the war after proving that we cannot win even a more limited campaign here in Namibia?” Castro didn’t bother concealing his sarcasm and Vega shivered slightly. The President’s biting wit had an unfortunate tendency to slide into murderous rage.

He composed himself.

“Yes.”

Castro visibly fought for control over his growing anger. Vega had a reputation as a brave and intelligent soldier, not as a suicidal idiot.

“Explain yourself, General.”

“It is a question of who holds the initiative, Senor Presidente.” Vega was careful to show every sign of respect.

“So long as we fight only in

Namibia, we are deadlocked. The war will move along the lines of a strict mathematical

formula. So many troops, tanks, and guns producing so many casualties and consuming such and such a proportion of each nation’s treasure. We will lose that kind of a war. I I

He paused as murmurs of agreement rose from the watching officers.

“And that is precisely why we must not fight the way Pretoria expects us to fight. Cuba must seize the initiative. Cuba must carry this war into a new arena, a new phase of revolutionary combat!”

He took a step toward Castro.

“South Africa’s whites are strong, Senor

Presidente, when they fight on foreign soil. But at home they are a weak, increasingly fearful minority -kept safe only by their monopoly on the instruments of military power. South Africa’s vast black and colored proletariat is polarized and anxious for liberation from the capitalists who keep it poor, undereducated, and underpaid.”

He could see Castro’s anger fade away, replaced by a look of dawning comprehension. The Cuban president muttered more to himself than anyone else.

“A revolution waiting to happen… “

Vega nodded.

“Exactly. A revolutionary fire storm we could ignite with a sudden, unexpected counterattack into South Africa itself.” He tapped the map contemptuously.

“With most of its professional army tied down in

Namibia, a wholesale uprising would shatter Pretoria’s racist state once and for all.

“We have already gathered tremendous international goodwill for our fight here in Namibia. Imagine our standing if we destroy the agent of Western imperialism in Africa-the last colonial power, still fighting to retain control of the scraps of its empire!” Vega’s eyes were shining now, and his voice was clear and strong.

He went on, hammering home every conceivable advantage.

“A socialist South

Africa would have tremendous resources at its disposal, sir. The gold, diamonds, uranium, and other strategic minerals the capitalists crave. The resources the plutocrats will come begging for. And with our guidance, this new South Africa could lead the rest of Africa fully out from under Western domination. We could revitalize the socialist movement worldwide!”

Castro was smiling now, a full-mouthed, toothy, sharklike grin. Then the smile faded.

“And what of the Soviet Union, Antonio. How will we persuade them to back such an audacious venture?”

With the prospect of riches, of course, thought Vega. Over the past few years, the Soviets had shown themselves to be fair-weather communists-unworthy of the great Lenin. But that was not what Castro would want to hear.

“We must remind the Soviets of their own history, drag them kicking and screaming back to their own revolution! This will be a war of liberation, waged not just by us, but by the entire international socialist movement against the last, worst vestige of

Western colonialism in Africa!”

Vega paused for breath and heard his voice replaced by the sound of clapping, first from just Fidel Castro, and then from the rest of the assembled officers-all of them applauding the Victor of Walvis Bay.

He stood motionless, smiling gravely, inwardly elated. Castro was ~onvinced. Cuba would carry its war into South Africa’s own streets, fields, and mines. Karl Vorster and his arrogant Afrikaners would reap the very whirlwind of death and destruction they themselves had sown.

SEPTEMBER 9-20TH CAPE RIFLES, NEAR BERG LAND NAMIBIA

Fires set by the day’s last artillery barrage flickered redly on distant hillsides-tiny points of light glowing against the dark mountains and darker sky. Nightfall hid the ugly debris left by war-open ground pockmarked by shell bursts, mangled wrecks that had once been fighting machines, and bare, boulder-strewn hills scarred by slit trenches and sandbag-topped bunkers.

Commandant Henrik Kruger lowered his binoculars. Nothing. No secondary explosions or any other signs that the

artillery fire had had any real effect. The Cubans were too well dug in.

From all appearances, this latest barrage had done nothing more than tear up a few more acres of worthless Namibian soil.

He sighed and turned away, half-walking, half-sliding down the ridge toward his command bunker. Clusters of weary, bedraggled men clambered upright from around small camp stoves as he passed by, some clutching mugs of fresh brewed tea, others half-empty mess tins.

Kruger forced a smile onto his face as he acknowledged their soft-voiced greetings. It wouldn’t do for the battalion to see its leader looking discouraged. Three weeks of hard marching, hard fighting, heavy casualties, and now this endless, wearing stalemate had ground the 20th

Cape Rifles down.

They still attacked with as much courage and expertise as ever, but without the boundless self-confidence and easy assurance of certain victory that had once characterized South Africa’s army. Too many of the best noncoms and junior officers were gone-dead or lying maimed in military hospitals. Those who survived were bone tired. Their rare moments of rest were disturbed by the disconcerting rumors flowing north out of South Africa. Rumors of defeats and crippling losses near Walvis

Bay. Of student riots and police shootings. Of a guerrilla war spreading like wildfire through Natal Province. Of a strained economy beginning to unravel.

Kruger ground his teeth together. Goddamn those idiots Vorster, de Wet, and all their mewling lap dogs In less than three months, they’d managed to drown the country in a sea of troubles-foreign war, civil insurrection, and economic chaos. What disaster would be next?

Scowling, he pushed through the bunker’s blackout curtain into a low-roofed room dindy lit by battery-powered lamps. Several officers and

NCOs filled the small space to capacity. All were working steadily-updating situation maps and logs to reflect the results of the day’s fighting and reports from other parts of the widely scattered

Namibian front. He paused to scan their handiwork.

“Wommandant?”

Kruger swung toward the voice. It belonged to Capt. Pieter Meiring, his bearded, bespectacled operations officer.

“Brigade called while you were up on the ridge, sir. The brigadier would like to see you as soon as possible.” Meiring’s tone was flat, drained by fatigue of any emotion.

Kruger bit back a savage oath. Blast it. It was a sixty kilometer trip to

Rehoboth. What the hell did the man want that couldn’t be discussed over the radio or field phone?

He looked at his watch. Nearly eight o’clock.

“Any word from Major

Forbes?”

“No, Kommandant.

Another irritation. He’d sent his secondin-command back to Rehoboth that morning on a mission to straighten out the battalion’s steadily worsening supply situation. Mortar rounds, rifle ammo, and petrol weren’t coming forward fast enough or in large enough quantities. So he’d told Forbes to go back and kick a little logistical ass. Men could fight for a time without adequate sleep, but they certainly couldn’t fight without bullets or fuel for their vehicles.

Kruger shook his head disgustedly. One more problem piled on his already overloaded platter. He looked up at Meiring.

“All right, Pieter. Get my

Ratel ready to go. I’ll bring Forbes with me and try to get back as soon as I can. Plan for an orders group at… ” He paused, estimating travel times and Brigadier Strydom’s well-known penchant for long winded shoptalk.

“Set it for oh one hundred hours. That should be late enough.

“

Meiring sketched a salute and hurried away.

Kruger turned to check the situation map again and absentmindedly rubbed his chin. Stubble rasped under his fingers.

“Andries!”

“Sir?” His orderly materialized out of the crowd.

“Bring me my razor and a bowl of hot water.” He smiled.

“I don’t want to shock our rear-echelon warriors, do I? They shouldn’t think we let a few minor problems like bullets and bombs interfere with our grooming.”

It was a feeble attempt, but it worked. Laughter rumbled through the bunker. Most South African staff officers were

veterans of combat in Angola and Namibia, but there were still enough spit-and-polish desk soldiers among their ranks for the old slanders to be funny.

Kruger chuckled with them, glad his men could still find something to laugh about.

82nd MECHANIZED BRIGADE HO, REHOBOTH, NAMIBIA

Rehoboth lay nestled among hills marking the southern edge of the Auas

Mountains. The town was home to a conservative, intensely religious, mixed-race group who’d fled north from Cape Town through the Namib more than two centuries before. Their plain, old-fashioned houses were a testament both to their faith and to their poverty. But the darkness and silence behind each window reflected a dusk-to-dawn curfew imposed by

South Africa’s army.

Outside the town, small herds of cattle and brown, black, and gray karakul sheep wandered over widely scattered grazing lands, slowly eating their way closer to slaughter or shearing. Several cows looked up from their rhythmic chewing, momentarily made curious by the sound of an engine growling past along the highway. Dim blackout headlamps briefly outlined them against the hillside and then swept away as the Ratel APC headed south toward a vast, new tent city on the outskirts of Rehoboth.

The cows lowed mournfully to one another for a few seconds before stooping again to the dry grass close at hoof.

The 82nd Mechanized Brigade’s tents, vehicle parks, supply dumps, and maintenance workshops sprawled over more than a hundred acres. Patrolling armored cars protected the brigade perimeter against ground attack, while a Cactus SAM battery and light flak guns offered coverage against Cuban air raids. Enough light leaked out through tent flaps or seams to show that many men were still wide-awake.

All lights were on at the large, peaked tent serving as Brigade headquarters.

Commandant Kruger clambered out his Ratel’s side hatch and stood looking up into the star-filled night sky. He breathed in and out a few times, clearing the sweat-sour stench of the APC’s cramped troop compartment out of his nostrils. He wasn’t in any particular hurry to find out what

Brigadier Strydom had up his perfectly tailored sleeve.

Kruger’s respect for his immediate superior had precipitously declined over the last three weeks. Strydorn had shown himself all too eager to tell Pretoria what it wanted to hear -and not what needed to be said.

He’d also demonstrated a fondness for issuing meaningless and contradictory orders in the midst of battle. In the kommandant’s view, his brigade commander should be up at Bergland seeing the situation for himself-not sitting sixty kilometers behind the front, cloistered with his toadying staff.

The cool, crisp breeze shifted slightly, bringing with it a new smell.

A sickly sweet odor that he recognized instantly. The smell of death and rotting corpses. Kruger frowned at the unpleasant aroma. There’d been no resistance here at Rehoboth, so why the smell?

He turned, looking for explanations, and found them dangling from a gallows erected beside the headquarters tent.

My God. Six bodies swung to and fro from long, creaking ropes rocked gently by the wind. None were in uniform. None were white. And two appeared to be women. Kruger swallowed hard against the bitter-tasting bile surging up from his stomach. What kind of madness was at work here?

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

USSR’s newly formed Congress of People’s Deputies. Any large body takes its lead from a smaller body, and from smaller and smaller groups, until finally the power is wielded by a few key individuals.

The President of the Soviet Union looked wearily around the table, his red-rimmed eyes roving from face to face. The minister of defense, plump and pudgy despite a precisely tailored suit and rows of unearned medals.

Next to him, the chief of the general staff, seated stiffly in full dress uniform. Directly across the table, the cherubic, bushy-eye browed chairman of the KGB, who sat next to the foreign minister

-apparently on the general principle that one should always stay close to one’s greatest rival. And to his immediate right, the boyish face of a comparative newcomer, the academician who now served as the President’s chief economic advisor.

One face was missing, the gray, skeletal visage of the Communist Party’s chief ideologist. The old man had been in the hospital for several weeks, fighting a losing battle with pneumonia. It was just as well, the President thought. If he wanted lectures on abstract political philosophy, he could always get them from his wife. The Soviet Union’s national security decisions needed a firmer basis in reality. Now more than ever.

Behind him, a clock softly chimed three times, signaling the passage of as many fruitless hours since they’d begun debating Fidel Castro’s astounding call for the direct invasion of South Africa. He rapped the table sharply with a pencil, interrupting a heated exchange over the KGB’s failure to give them advance warning of Castro’s intentions.

“Comrades, please, we’re not getting anywhere with this squabbling. Time is short. We should confine ourselves to the matter directly at hand.”

In theory, this discussion was unnecessary. In theory, he held more personal power than any Soviet leader since Joseph Stalin. In theory, he could simply impose his will on these five men, and through them on the

USSR’s still potent instruments of political power-the military, the secret police, and the bureaucracy. The President laughed inwardly. As usual, theory meant little in the real world.

The members of the Defense Council couldn’t topple him from power. He had that much security. But their opposition to his policies could render him an ineffective figurehead. He’d seen it happen to other Soviet leaders as illness or repeated mistakes robbed them of their authority. Orders could be misinterpreted or simply shunted to the wrong place within the USSR’s vast, unresponsive bureaucracy. Directives could either be simply ignored or put into action with crippling slowness.

No, he needed a consensus from these men.

Castro’s proposition had hit them hard. Accepting it would mean dramatically altering the USSR’s established national security policy.

No one knew that better than he did.

Under his guidance, the Soviet Union had turned inward in the late 1980s-no longer interested in costly “foreign adventures. ” The change hadn’t come out of the goodness of his heart. It had come as part of a desperate attempt to head off total economic collapse.

By cutting its losses overseas, the USSR had been able to reduce its military spending-freeing more resources for the production of the consumer goods increasingly demanded by Soviet citizens. Those sweeping changes in foreign policy had been accompanied by equally sweeping changes at home-changes symbolized by the terms glasnost and perestroika.

But both glasnost and perestroika were foundering. Too many of the USSR’s constituent republics were clamoring for full independence. And too many of perestroika’s economic reforms were being smothered by the dead weight of a Soviet system unable to tolerate individual initiative and private enterprise.

The President shook his head.

So now Cuba, which had rejected and condemned his reform program, and which cost billions of rubles in military aid and price supports for its sugar crop, wanted to involve the Soviet Union in a war at the end of the world!

On the surface, it would seem easy to refuse Castro’s request. And yet, there were certain possibilities … The foreign minister’s elegant, carefully modulated voice broke into his private train of thought.

“I tell you, comrades, Castro’s plan is simply too costly. I’ve seen the reports. Just supplying Cuba’s army in Namibia is draining our hard-currency reserves and absorbing a substantial portion of our transport aircraft and ships. We cannot afford to expand our involvement in this conflict.”

“I disagree, Alexei Petrovich.” The head of the KGB leaned forward in his chair, his deceptively kindly face creased by a frown.

“We’ve gained important international

goodwill by helping the Narnibians-goodwill we may yet be able to translate into trade and technology agreements.”

That was unlikely, the President knew. Goodwill and words of praise were cheap. Trade and technology agreements were costly. So far, the West’s leaders had proven extraordinarily adept at avoiding serious commitments.

And while it was pleasant to be portrayed as being on the side of freedom and human progress, kind words were no substitute for the material aid the

USSR desperately needed to revitalize its deteriorating economy and its aging industrial infrastructure. No substitute at all.

The foreign minister turned sideways in his seat to face his rival.

“These agreements you speak so glowingly of will not materialize in the aftermath of an embarrassing defeat, Comrade Chairman! And that is precisely what this Cuban proposal will produce. ” He looked toward the minister of defense.

“Isn’t it true, Dmitri, that South Africa’s army remains the most powerful on that continent-despite being stalemated in Namibia?”

“True. ” The defense minister paused, pouring a tiny dram of vodka into a newly emptied glass.

“Military logic argues that this invasion Castro plans would be doomed before it began. “

For the first time during the debate, Marshal Kamenev, the chief of the general staff stirred.

The President glanced curiously at him. Unlike his superior, the defense minister, Kamenev had a proven combat record-both in the Great Patriotic

War and in Afghanistan.

“Yes, Marshal? You have a comment?”

Kamenev nodded slowly.

“Yes, Comrade President. I agree that South Africa’s armed forces appear on paper to be immeasurably superior to those of its current enemies. But appearances can be deceiving, no?”

The President was intrigued.

“Go on, Nikolai.

“Much of Pretoria’s strength is tied down within its own borders holding the blacks and other races in check. If they strip the interior of enough men to crush Castro’s invasion force, South Africa’s whites risk leaving their own homes defenseless. I don’t believe that’s a risk they’ll be willing to run.”

Kamenev shrugged.

“As matters stand, I believe we see an equal correlation of forces in southern Africa-superior South African ground strength matched by weakness at home. And under those circumstances, Castro’s plan could succeed. ““But at what cost?” the foreign minister countered.

“Do we want to provoke American intervention on South Africa’s side? Do we want a direct military confrontation with the United States? Now? That could well be the result of helping Cuba escalate this war!”

“Calm yourself, Alexei Petrovich.” The KGB’s chairman smiled sardonically.

“Washington would not dare aid Pretoria’s racist regime.

Such an imperialist move would outrage its own people, its allies, and all the world’s ‘nonaligned’ nations.

“And even if the Americans were foolish enough to involve themselves,

Cuba’s plan does not require direct action by our troops or aircraft, merely political support and logistical backing. The risk of direct contact or combat losses is minimal!”

The foreign minister’s face turned a dangerous shade of red.

“Nevertheless, comrades, we have nothing to gain and much to lose!”

The embarrassed silence surrounding this outburst was broken by the sound of a throat being nervously cleared. The President looked to his right.

“You have something to add, Professor Bukarin?”

His economic advisor nodded slowly.

“Yes, Comrade President.” He turned to the beet-red foreign minister.

“Your statement was not quite accurate,

Comrade Minister. Between us, South Africa and the USSR produce substantial portions of some of the world’s most important strategic minerals.”

“I’ve seen the trade figures,” the foreign minister said curtly.

Bukarin nodded politely.

“My point is this, comrades. The previous South

African government once asked us to join them in a world gold cartel. It was an idea with some merit.

And would not a friendlier, more accommodating South African government be eager to join a broader cartel-one controlling the world’s strategic-minerals market? Surely that would be a logical development-a small price to be paid for our support?”

So it would. Much of what the young man said made perfect sense. The

President stroked his chin reflectively. De facto control of South

Africa’s resources would give the Soviet Union a vital economic edge in its bargaining with the West. Soviet state export companies could match any price increases initiated by a new “revolutionary government—greatly increasing the flow of needed hard currency into Moscow’s treasury. And at the same time, those higher prices would greatly retard the West’s economic growth-giving the USSR a chance to close the gap. That would also prove to the world that the rumors of the Soviet state’s impending demise were greatly exaggerated.

Slowly forming smiles on several of the faces around the table showed that many of his colleagues saw the same advantages. But not all. Both the foreign minister and the defense minister looked unconvinced.

The President frowned. Consensus still eluded him, Very well, perhaps he could offer them a face-saving compromise. He rapped the table briskly.

“Comrades, I think we have discussed this issue long enough. What I propose is this: we will back Cuba’s preliminary military buildup while withholding final approval for the invasion itself. That can await further developments in Namibia and in South Africa itself. And we shall insist on absolute secrecy. In that way, we can keep our options open.”

He locked glances with the foreign minister. “if nothing else, such a troop buildup might give us a stronger bargaining position in any negotiations to end the Namibian conflict. True, Alexei?”

The foreign minister bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the point.

“Good. Then this matter is settled. We’ll inform President Castro that his plans can proceed-though with the conditions I’ve outlined. Clear?”

Heads nodded around the table, some with enthusiasm, others with evident reluctance.

Keys rattled in the corner as one of the Defense Council’s secretaries typed the President’s decision into the electronic record. Fidel Castro would get the ships, planes, and supplies he needed to prepare his counter stroke against Pretoria.