Vortex

CHAPTER 23 Afrikaner Nightmare

NOVEMBER 13-SADF HEADQUARTERS, PRETORIA, SOUTH AFRICA

Achieving surprise is the first goal of every military operation. Given ample warning, a well-prepared defending army can defeat an attacking force many times its own size. An alerted defender may have time to move units, call up reserves, or use other tactics to alter the odds in an upcoming battle.

Surprise prevents that. It guarantees an attacker the initiative, allowing him to set the pace of combat, forcing his victim to react-often in a predictable manner. But if a defender’s response is unpredictable, then the mantle of surprise-the initiative-may be transferred from one side to the other, and the cycle begins again.

Surprise also has one other effect. When a commander confronts an unexpected situation, he naturally takes more time to react because he has to discard all the preconceptions and prejudices that allowed him to be surprised in the first place. And if he delays too long, his enemy is able to attack a disorganized, leaderless force-presenting the luckless

4W

commander with yet another set of problems before he has even begun to solve the first.

The result is command paralysis, a sense of shock and helplessness that has lost many battles and many wars. The best commanders, the “great captains” of history, are those men who “keep their heads when all around are losing theirs. “

Newly promoted Kommandant Willem Metje hid a yawn as he watched staff officers plotting military movements on a large-scale map of Namibia.

Fluorescent lights and a lack of sleep were giving him a headache that not even a general, bubbling sense of triumph could completely dispel.

De Wet’s headquarters staff had been up since midnight, barraged by incomplete and contradictory reports of ANC guerrilla and Cuban commando raids in Namibia and all along South Africa’s northern border.

Several minor incidents near Pretoria-a grenade thrown at a police station and a few mysteriously downed power lines near Voortrekker

Heights-had prompted de Wet’s first positive order: an urgent call for more troops to guard the headquarters building and complex.

All in all, thought Metje crossly, it seemed a lot of effort for so insignificant a result.

But now at least things were finally moving in Namibia. Commanders on the front were reporting heavy air attacks, artillery bombardments, and ground assaults-all concentrated near the tiny town of Dordabis. And though South Africa’s forward battalions were expending massive amounts of ammunition, they were holding their ground with relative ease.

Castro’s vaunted offensive was failing.

Tall, whitehaired Adriaan de Wet moved closer and thumped Metje on the shoulder.

“Congratulations, Willem, the Cubans are doing exactly what you predicted.”

The younger man smiled back weakly and resisted the urge to rub his shoulder. Both his new rank insignia and his upset stomach seemed to settle a little in response to de Wet’s praise. And any qualms he might have had about orchestrating Colonel Heerden’s downfall vanished.

De Wet drew him forward to the edge of the map.

“So now we let our enemies ram their heads into our brick walls a little longer, eh?”

Metje nodded. The general always liked to see complete agreement from his subordinates.

De Wet leaned far out over the table.

“And when they are weak and reeling . then we strike, and strike hard!”

The other staff officers grouped nearby muttered their unreserved enthusiasm.

De Wet’s eyes shone with excitement as he pointed to a single unit counter positioned on the main highway leading to Windhoek.

“The Eighty-first

Armored should be able to punch through their lines in a matter of hours!

After the slaughter at Dordabis, the Cubans can’t have much left to stop our tanks!”

More nods. The 81st was a crack outfit. Its two armored and two mechanized battalions contained practically every Olifant main battle tank left in

South Africa’s inventory. And when it attacked, its tanks and APCs would be backed by the concentrated firepower of more than fifty G-5 and G-6 155mm guns. Cuba’s shattered forces shouldn’t stand a chance. The long, out-of-control war in Namibia might be over within weeks.

De Wet and his staff stood contemplating their upcoming counterattack, basking in the glow of anticipated victory.

KOMATIPOORT BORDER POST, IN THE CROCODILE RIVER VALLEY, WEST OF

MOZAMBIQUE

Late-spring days were always hot and humid in the wooded lowlands separating

South Africa from Mozambique. And though it had barely begun, this day promised more of the same.

A dense, damp haze already lingered motionless over citrus orchards, sugarcane fields, and the slow, eastward-rolling waters of the Crocodile

River. National Route 4, the main highway between Johannesburg and Maputo, stretched empty as far as the eye could see. High overhead, birds circled lazily through the still, warm air, their wings spread wide to generate every possible ounce of lift.

The only human activity seemed centered around a small wooden building adjacent to the highway and fifty meters back from a signpost marking the border. Shovels and pickaxes rose and fell together in a strange sort of rhythm as men in full combat gear dug foxholes and firing pits.

In a land as torn by violence as South Africa, border guards weren’t sleepy policemen checking for insects in contraband fruit. They were soldiers.

The commander of the Komatipoort Border Post, grayhaired Sgt. Uwe Boshof, laid his shovel aside and breathing heavily, plopped down on the edge of his shallow, hastily dug foxhole. Sweat stains soaked his short-sleeved khaki shirt-black patches of wetness spreading from under his armpits and across his broad back. The sergeant was a tall, big-boned man, and he carried a lot of meat on those bones. Too much, perhaps.

If so, he thought with weary amusement, he’d undoubtedly worked some of that excess weight off during the past several hours.

Boshof mopped his brow with a handkerchief and squinted east into the rising sun-an enormous orange-and-red orb flattened and distorted by the lowlying haze. Despite the clinging, sticky heat it was sure to bring, he was glad to see the day proper begin.

His night had been long on confusion and wild rumor and short on needed steep.

First, that idiot Private Krom had woken him up after hearing what he claimed were radio reports of some big guerrilla attack way up north along the Limpopo. When the story wasn’t repeated in the SABC’s next hourly broadcast, Boshof vaguely remembered going back to bed-but only after chewing Krom out for being a blithering, gutless moron.

He’d scarcely had time to drift off again before the first phone call came in-from the Army’s Eastern Transvaal Command, no less. Some staff flunkie wanting to know if they’d spotted any “unusual activity.” For a second, he’d been tempted to mention the pair of blesbok, or antelope,

he’d seen wander by earlier that evening. But only for a second. Staff officers had a notoriously poor sense of humor.

After that, he’d only been able to grab one fitful, restless hour of shut-eye before the kak, the shit, really started to hit the fan.

At two in the morning, reinforcements arrived-six more men dropped off from a truck making the rounds of every guard post along this stretch of the border. A hurried phone call to Battalion revealed only that both his captain and lieutenant were “unavailable.” They’d probably been comfortably asleep, he thought irritably.

His new men had been full of tales, though: blab bering all over creation about the whole base being put on alert, all leaves being canceled, and frantic quartermasters rushing around issuing field rations and a basic load of ammunition to every combat soldier. They were sure something big was happening.

Right. The Afrikaner noncom snorted at the memory. God save him from raw recruits who couldn’t tell the difference between real war and a blery drill.

Still, nobody was going to watch the grass grow under Sgt. Uwe Boshof’s feet. Drills were always followed by inspections. And who could tell?

This alert might even be real. Maybe the higher-ups had warning of an imminent ANC raid. Or maybe some farmer had spotted a rebel commando moving into the area.

Whatever. Even though nothing much was likely to happen at Komatipoort, he always believed that preparation for the worst was a wise precaution.

That was why he’d ordered his small twelve-man garrison to stand to. And that was why he’d ordered them to dig fighting positions around the border post itself.

If any of those murdering ANC bastards do come sniffing around here,

Boshof swore silently, they’ll feel as if they’ve tried to bite into a buzz saw. It was a promise he felt sure he could keep. Besides their R-4 assault rifles, his men had a heavy caliber Vickers machine gun, grenades, and even a hand-held 60mm patrol mortar. His garrison would be more than a match for any kaffir raiding force.

And if there were white rebels out and about recruiting, the traitorous swine would get short shrift from him. He’d spent twenty-five years in the

SADF-long enough to know how to take orders, even if they did mostly come from a pack of fools.

He yawned once. And a second time. Then his stomach growled, an unwelcome reminder they weren’t likely to eat anytime soon. Meal trucks wouldn’t make the rounds during an alert. Should he tell the boys to open some of their canned rations? Or was Battalion likely to call this whole thing off soon?

Boshof shrugged. Maybe his erstwhile superiors would tell him what the devil was going on when they bothered to get out of bed. He looked toward the guard shack, silently willing the phone to ring.

“Sergeant!”

Boshof turned toward the shout. He saw a slender, youthful figure climbing down out of a tree overlooking the border fence. As punishment for all his assorted sins and radio antics, Private Krom had spent the night in that tree, watching the Mozambican side of the frontier through a nightvision scope. Now he was scrambling down, waving one arm to attract his sergeant’s attention.

Christ on a plate, now what? He stood up and brushed the dirt off his trousers. Then he slung his assault rifle and ambled toward the border.

Krom ran to meet him.

“Sergeant! I can see vehicles on the highway! Dozens of them!”

Boshof groaned inwardly. Another pile of bullshit from the young idiot.

“Nonsense.”

“No, really, I swear it!” The younger man pointed back in the direction he’d just come from.

“I’m telling you, I could see them passing between those two hills there. Moving in convoy. They can’t be more than five klicks away.”

What? Privately, Boshof thought the young recruit was out of his tiny mind.

Still, it might be better to make absolutely sure of that before putting him up on a charge.

He focused his own binoculars on the spot Krom had indicated and grimaced.

The sun’s glare made it tough to make

anything out. If I go blind, he thought, I’ll kill the little son of a

.

His hands tightened around the binoculars. He’d just seen sunlight glinting off glass or polished metal. Krom hadn’t been hallucinating.

There were vehicles on the highway out there. Vehicles headed this way.

And that might mean trouble-big trouble. One thing was sure, Uwe Boshof hadn’t made it to sergeant by taking unnecessary chances.

He grabbed Private Krom by the arm and ordered, “Get on the phone to headquarters. Report ‘many vehicles approaching.” Go! “

Krom nodded and ran off.

Boshof swung round and bellowed, “Listen up, boys! I want everybody down in those fucking holes! Now!”

For a split second his squad stood frozen, shocked into immobility by the sudden order.

“Move!” Boshof was already lumbering back toward his own foxhole.

His men threw their shovels and pickaxes to one side, grabbed their weapons, and dropped flat in half-dug fighting positions. Boshof followed suit seconds later.

And not a second too soon.

Crouched low, with his binoculars glued to his face, the Afrikaner sergeant heard the clattering, howling roar of twin rotors and twin gas turbine engines an instant before he saw them-a pair of helicopters darting around the side of a low hill, racing westward just over the treetops.

At first they were just oval specks, black dots against the rising sun, but they quickly grew in size and shape until he could identify them as

Soviet-made Mi-24 helicopter gunships. Big ugly monsters, he thought.

He’d never seen a Hind up close before, but he’d seen enough photos and drawings to know what they were. Odd. Mozambique’s armed forces weren’t supposed to have any gear that sophisticated.

What were these gunships doing so near the border? No, strike that. What were they going to do, now that they were here?

His own orders from headquarters were clear. As long as the Mozambicans stayed on their own side of the line, they could do as they pleased. He did note, however, his men were tracking the two helicopters with every weapon they had. He just hoped some hothead didn’t open up without his say-so. He’d hate to get killed just because some kaffir pilot couldn’t resist showing off his brand-new, shiny toy.

The Hinds were still nose-on, closing fast just ten meters above the ground at two hundred kilometers an hour. They flew steadily, changing neither course nor speed. Orders or no, Boshof knew he couldn’t wait much longer. They’d be across the border in seconds. He tensed, readying a shouted command to open fire…

And held it in as the Hinds pulled up, glass-canopied noses wobbling as they suddenly slowed. The two gunships came to a complete stop, hovering twenty meters above the ground and about a hundred meters away, still inside Mozambique.

Boshof studied the two craft closely while waiting for his pounding heart to slow down. Their sloping front fuselages were almost completely glassed in. He could clearly see each Hind’s gunner, seated low and close to the nose. Their pilots were seated slightly higher and behind.

Both gunships hovered, motionless. Dust whirled away to either side, blown skyward by powerful rotors.

The Afrikaner sergeant shook his head angrily. What in God’s name were these kaffirs playing at?

Boshof trained his binoculars on the gunner in the left hand Hind, noticing that, whenever he turned his head, the gunship’s chin-mounted rotary cannon pivoted-mimicking the man’s movements. Interesting. And frightening. It made the helicopter seem more like a living, breathing predator than a simple machine.

Long seconds passed before he realized that both the gunner and the pilot were white. He snapped his binoculars over to the other Mi-24. Both its crewmen were white as well. Advisors? Mercenaries?

Boshof ‘s unspoken question was answered sooner than he would have wished.

The left-hand gunship started to swing right, moving across his front.

As soon as it turned, he saw the insignia on its side. A blue circle covered by a red triangle-with a white

star in the center. Jesus! That was the insignia of the Cuban Air Force!

He dropped the binoculars and grabbed his rifle.

“Fire! Fire! Fire! “

Boshof’s scream was all it took to free his troops from their paralysis.

Assault rifles cracked all around his small perimeter. Half a second later, their Vickers machine gun opened up with a hoarse, full-throated chatter-spraying steel-jacketed rounds toward the left-hand gunship.

At such short range, the South African machine gun couldn’t miss. Sparks jittered and bounced off the Hind’s streamlined fuselage, boxy heat suppressor, and tail rotor visible signs that its bullets were slamming home. But they were hitting without effect. The Mi-24 was just too well armored.

A fraction of a second later, both gunships cut loose hammering the shallow foxholes surrounding the South African border post with hundreds of 12.7mm machinegun bullets. Dust and dirt billowed high into the air, hiding a scene of sheer butchery.

Sgt. Uwe Boshof and his men were cut to pieces before they could figure out how to shoot down armored gunships with weapons meant only for infantry combat.

ADVANCE HEADQUARTERS, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE, NORTH OF MESSINA,

SOUTH

AFRICA

Two bridges spanned the rugged Limpopo River gorge, soaring high above a vista of sheer rock walls, foam-flecked rapids, and mist-cloaked waterfalls.

One, a steel-girder railroad bridge, was empty. In sharp contrast, the highway crossing next to it was full-choked by bumper-to-bumper columns of

Cuban tanks, APCs, and trucks streaming endlessly south along South Africa’s

National Route 1.

Dozens of SAM launchers and turreted ZSU-23-4 antiaircraft guns were parked on both sides of the gorge, their radars ceaselessly scanning the sky for signs of South African air craft. To the north, sunlight winked off the sleek, missile studded wings of

MiG-29s orbiting in slow, fuel-conserving racetrack patrol patterns.

Gen. Antonio Vega stood watching his First Brigade Tactical Group wend its way deeper into enemy territory. From time to time, he turned to study the southern horizon. Pillars of black smoke rising there marked several burning buildings on the outskirts of the copper mining town of

Messina-fruits of the brief and hopeless resistance put up by a mixed force of South African reservists and policemen.

“A glorious day, isn’t it, Comrade General?”

Vega turned toward the shorter black man standing at his side.

“Indeed it is, Colonel.”

He carefully controlled his irritation at the other man’s appearance. Col.

Sese Luthuli, commander of the ANC’s military wing, Umkhonto we Sizwe, wore camouflaged battle dress, a blue beret, a polished leather pistol belt, and a bayonet-tipped AK-47 slung over his shoulder. It all struck Vega as being ridiculously theatrical.

Luthuli’s presence was also a reminder of unwelcome political constraints imposed on him by Havana and Moscow. Leaders in the two capitals were eager that Cuba’s invading armies should be seen as liberators by both the black

South Africans themselves and by the larger world public. As a result, they’d insisted that each of his three attack columns be accompanied by ANC guerrilla units.

Vega frowned at the memory. Most of the ANC troops he’d inspected seemed poorly disciplined, badly led, and ill prepared for full-scale conventional warfare. Even worse, they filled trucks and personnel carriers he desperately needed for more effective units and supplies.

Luthuli missed the frown and grinned.

“I’m looking forward to leading my men into battle beside your troops, Comrade. Together, I’m sure that we can crush these white fascists once and for all.”

With their engines howling, two shark-nosed Su-25 attack aircraft flashed past at low altitude, sparing Vega the need to reply through suddenly clenched teeth. Fifty meters away,

the long columns of tanks and armored personnel carriers kept clattering south along the highway-moving steadily past the tall, grim-faced figure of their commander.

ADVANCED GUARD, FIRST BRIGADE TACTICAL GROUP, ON NATIONAL ROUTE 1,

SOUTH OF

MESSINA

Senior Capt. Victor Mares leaned far forward in the hatch of his BTR-60 as though he could somehow urge the wheeled command carrier to go faster.

Although his men were already advancing at a tremendous pace, at this moment, even a jet aircraft would have seemed much too slow.

Sooner or later, he knew, those buffoons in Pretoria were going to wake up.

So far their stupidity had cost them more than twenty kilometers of their territory. With any luck, it would cost them far more than that by the time this day was through. Still, this joyride was bound to end sooner or later.

And Victor Mares wanted to be deep inside South Africa when that happened.

“Scouts report men working on the road five kilometers ahead. ” His radio operator poked his head out of a top hatch, grateful for the excuse to get some air.

“They may be setting up a roadblock.”

Mares calculated rapidly. His BRDM scout cars were only lightly armed, and he didn’t know what kind of weapons the South Africans up ahead possessed.

It might be more sensible to call his scouts back and advance with the BTRs and BMPs.

No. It would take at least half an hour to deploy his lead company for a hasty-very hasty-attack. By that time, those bastards might have finished their defensive preparations. In any case, time was too precious. Even slowing long enough to deploy his troops would give the South Africans a minor victory. Certainly, if Vega heard about it, he would have his ears.

“Pass control of Axe and Dagger flights to the scouts. Have them attack as soon as the Su-25s have finished one pass. And tell the Hinds to back them up. Clear?”

“Yes, Comrade Captain.” The radio operator nodded his understanding and ducked back inside.

Two minutes later, two Frogfoot attack jets screamed down the length of his column, headed for the reported enemy position, waggling their wings as they passed.

“Damn show-offs, ” Mares muttered. He could put up with a little aviator strutting, though, if they could blast the Afrikaners loose before they took root.

He scanned the horizon with his binoculars-eager to see signs that his advance units were going into action.

A prolonged, rattling boom filled the air, the sound rising above the growling roar made by his BTR’s noisy diesel engine. The Frogfoots were already at work plastering the enemy force. Rippling cracks and explosions echoed over the treeless veld.

“Scouts are attacking, sir. They report heavy resistance.”

Sure, Mares thought. When you’re in a tin can with only a small gun on top, three farmers on donkeys looks like heavy resistance.

Five minutes passed with maddening slowness. Come on. Mares was getting ready to joggle his scout commander’s elbow when the radio operator spoke again.

“Lieutenant Morales says the Boers are running. Our gunships are in pursuit. “

Mares smiled grimly at the thought. An Mi-24 Hind helicopter, armed to the teeth, made a good pursuer.

“Excellent. Tell the scouts I want prisoners if possible.”

Twentyfive minutes later, Mares and his armored personnel carriers rolled past the shattered South African roadblock-a pile of old railroad ties, rusting civilian cars, and farm machinery. Smoking bomb and shell craters dotted the ground and the road.

His vehicles had to stop briefly as soldiers pushed the last of the wreckage off the road. Mares made out the twisted remains of an antiquated antitank gun and a single light machine gun. Bullet-riddled bodies wearing South African uniforms were heaped among unfilled sandbags.

A young lieutenant, Morales, ran up to Mares’s BTR and

saluted.

“We took two prisoners, Captain, and killed more than ten others.” His smile faded.

“But I lost three men myself-one killed and two wounded.”

Mares nodded. Losing men in battle was never easy. But it was inevitable.

He kept his own voice dry, businesslike.

“A small price to keep the brigade moving, Lieutenant. Were the Frogfoots effective?”

Morales grinned, his good humor restored by the memory.

“They blew those bastards clear off the road, Comrade. After that it was all broom and shovel work.”

Mares chuckled inside. Right now the war was going their way. Let the boy have his fun. The tough going would start soon enough. He leaned forward.

“Very well, Miguel. Get this mess cleaned up as soon as you can, then join up. We’ll need you for the victory parade when we reach Pretoria.”

The lieutenant laughed and moved off at a run.

Mares spoke into his microphone.

“Second Platoon, take the point. All units, move out.”

He studied the wrecked South African roadblock with contempt.

It would take more than that to stop Cuba’s advancing armies.

SADF HEADQUARTERS, PRETORIA

Commandant Willem Metje stared back and forth from the reports he held in his hand to the strategic map showing the northeastern Transvaal.

Something was wrong. Horribly wrong.

He’d expected the Cubans to launch a series of carefully planned diversionary attacks. Militarily, that only made common sense. After all, raids and other feints would tie down South African troops needed in

Namibia. Vega’s planners might also have hoped they could conceal the real axis of their attack. A successful raid could even do real damage, forcing South Africa to spend valuable time and resources repairing a vital radar station or supply depot.

But the Cubans seemed to be putting a lot of effort into their diversionary attacks. More effort than seemed either reasonable or even possible.

Metje moved closer to the map, consumed by a growing sense of panic.

Enemy contacts were represented by color coded pins. Yellow meant a simple sighting. Orange indicated skirmish-level combat-small-arms fire, nothing more. And red meant a determined attack, with heavy weapons or rockets.

A small tag attached to each pin showed the time of the contact.

Now, for the first time since the Cuban offensive began shortly after midnight, he was beginning to see a pattern emerging from all these “diversionary” contact reports-a damning and disastrous pattern. Although there were reports of enemy activity along all of South Africa’s borders, major enemy attacks were being reported in just two sectors-those containing the two major highways aimed at Pretoria and Johannesburg. Red pins were sprouting along those roads with frightening regularity.

To Metje’s suddenly very worried eyes, those two lines of red pins were beginning to look as though they were marching straight toward his nation’s administrative capital and industrial heartland. He glanced down at the sheaf of reports clutched in his hands. They all told much the same story:

-061513 Nov-EASTERN TRANSVAAL MILCOMContact lost with Komatipoort border post at 0610. No word from relief patrol dispatched 0625.”

-081513 Nov-NORTHERN TRANSVAAL MIL COM -Fragmentary call from SAP HQ in

Messina reports attack by hostile armored car units and unidentified aircraft. Report unconfirmed. Unable to reestablish contact with

Messina.” Below the text of this message, someone had scribbled, “Phone lines probably cut.”

He flipped from sheet to sheet. Each succeeding report showed enemy units pushing deeper into South African territory.

“Wommandant?”

Startled, Metje looked up into the somber face of one of his officers.

The man handed him two more telexed reports.

“I think you should see these, sir.”

“101513 Nov-NORTHERN TRANSVAAL MIL COM -Helicopter-borne infantry attacking

Wyllie’s Port. Infantry confirmed as Cuban, repeat, Cuban.”

” 10 1613 Nov-NORTHERN TRANSVAAL MIL COM -Louis Trichardt Air Base under heavy enemy air attack. Losses and runway status as yet unknown.”

“My God… ” Metje’s voice trailed away in shock and disbelief. More than eighty kilometers inside South Africa, Wyllie’s Poort was a narrow pass across the Soutpansberge -a chain of wooded mountains, ridges, and lichen-covered cliffs just north of Louis Trichardt and its military airfield. Two highway tunnels, each several hundred meters long, carried

National Route I through the mountains at this point. Whoever held the pass held the key to the whole northern Transvaal.

“I think General de Wet should know about this, don’t you, sir?”

What? Tell de Wet? But de Wet and the others were in another room, busy crowing over reports of rapid progress in Namibia. None of them were paying much attention to anything happening beyond the front lines outside Windhoek.

Metje struggled upward from his contemplation of complete and unmitigated failure.

“I’ll take care of these, Captain. Stick to your own knitting, if you please. Dismissed.”

Without saying another word, the younger officer stalked rigidly away-hurt, angry, and resentful.

Metje ignored him. He had problems of his own.

His body temperature seemed wildly variable. One minute he was shivering, chilled to the bone, and the next he was sweating profusely, convinced he was burning up. No matter how hard he tried to fit the pieces together into another, less threatening pattern, he kept coming face-to-face with a single, horrifying conclusion: Colonel Heerden had been right all along. The Cubans were attacking from the north and east driving hard for the undefended heart of the South African nation.

Metje could see that now. And in that realization he saw the certain end of his military career and all his political ambitions.

He ran a clammy hand over his face. It was so unfair. De Wet and the other generals would need a scapegoat, and he certainly filled the bill. Any court-martial would be swift and sure-able to reach only one conclusion and one sentence.

For an instant, just an instant, Metje was tempted to stay and play the farce through to its appointed end. Doing his duty up to the last possible moment was the only honorable course left open to him. But doing his duty would not mitigate his punishment.

Metje dropped the sheaf of contact reports on a nearby desk, turned on his heel, and left the room. His staff watched him go without saying anything.

They probably imagined he was on his way to report to de Wet.

Good. That would buy him time-the time he needed to get clear of the headquarters complex and Pretoria.

Metje suddenly understood how Heerden must have felt while fleeing this same post.

Sometimes it felt good to give in to impulse.

it took de Wet and the others almost an hour to realize that their new chief of military intelligence had vanished. It took them several minutes more to realize just how big a disaster they were facing.

And all that morning Cuba’s armored columns advanced.

BLOCKING FORCE, 2ND TRANSVAAL INFANTRY, ON NATIONAL ROUTE 4, NEAR

HECTORSPRUIT, SOUTH AFRICA

Commandant Neils Bergen stood on a low hill looking out over a panorama of bright green sugarcane fields and small square groves of orange trees. Off to his right, the Crocodile River wound its lazy way east toward Mozambique.

His shadow, lengthened by the setting sun, stretched east as well.

He shifted his binoculars, gazing downslope at his small team of engineers as they scurried to and fro-planting mines and building hasty, improvised barricades across the four lane highway running east to west.

With the double-tracked railroad line paralleling it to the

north, National Route 4 was ordinarily a supply officer’s dream and the best way to move an army fast from one place to another, unless that army happened to be Cuban. Now the highway was more like a dagger pointed straight at South Africa’s heart.

Bergen still couldn’t quite believe the chain of events that had landed him in this predicament. His Citizen Force battalion had been called to active duty just days ago-summoned to the colors as the mutinies and other insurrections spread. They’d mobilized quickly, caught up in a sense of wartime urgency that soon found them pressed into service hunting down ANC guerrillas and rebel commandos.

He hadn’t enjoyed that at all. Shooting or arresting fellow South Africans was unpleasant duty. Unfortunately, the presence of brown shirt Brandwag “special units” left him little freedom for maneuver. As it was, he’d nearly lost his command after refusing to execute several white prisoners found guilty at a “summary court” held by the area’s senior AWB representative.

That had been bad enough. But now he faced total disaster.

When the emergency orders from the Eastern Transvaal Military Command arrived, his three infantry companies were spread out over a hundred-kilometer square, dispersed in patrols and detachments. Just gathering the company-sized force he had here had taken most of the morning and afternoon.

The rest of his troops were digging in forty kilometers farther back-deep in the rugged foothills of the Great Escarpment. Bergen’s tiny blocking force was supposed to buy time for them, maybe even delaying the oncoming

Cubans long enough for reinforcements to arrive from Pretoria.

Sure. The commandant scowled. At least Leonidas and his Three Hundred

Spartans had fought with a terrain advantage. He didn’t have crap. Under ideal conditions, a well-supported, dug-in company might be able to fend off an armored brigade for a short time-with the emphasis on short. But conditions were far from ideal. This was a fragile force, poorly supplied and lightly armed. My God, he only had mortars for artillery and machine guns for protection against enemy aircraft.

Boots scraped on rock somewhere behind him. Bergen turned to see an elderly man in jeans and a plain white shirt climbing the hill. The man carried an

R-4 assault rifle slung over his shoulder. Clearly having trouble climbing the slope in this heat, he paused once, then made it to the crest with a final surge of energy.

“Andries Kaal, of the Hectorspruit Commando, reporting. “

The old man didn’t bother saluting, but he did come to attention-smiling slightly at some private joke.

Bergen wasn’t surprised by the man’s sudden appearance. The Boer tradition of the commando, or local militia, went back to the very roots of

Afrikanerdom. Even so, he considered Kaal coldly for several moments. He needed solid, dependable soldiers, not fat farmers who might run away in panic at the first shot. With that in mind, would the “Hectorspruit

Commando” be an asset or a liability?

At least this fellow’s bearing showed he was a veteran, Bergen decided. He nodded toward the distant town.

“How many men in your commando?”

“Fifty, with more coming in all the time.” Kaal smiled, showing a mouthful of extraordinarily bad teeth.

“We all have rifles, though most of them are not so new as my friend here. ” He patted his R-4 with real affection.

Fifty men, Bergen thought. He could have used five thousand. And since almost all white men of military age were already in uniform, Kaal’s commando was undoubtedly made up mostly of older men and teenage boys. He shrugged. No matter, this was a static defense. All they had to do was shoot straight. And die.

He pointed to the canvas-sided truck doubling as his command post.

“Talk to my operations officer. Tell him I said to put your men on the left flank, reinforcing the platoon I’ve already posted there.”

Kaal nodded once and skidded slowly down the rise.

Bergen lifted his binoculars and looked east again. The Cubans were out there somewhere-and closing fast. He wasn’t surprised that his hands were shaking, jiggling the view through the field glasses. He fought to hold them steady.

One minute later, the irregular, pulsing whup whup whup

of a rotor sounded behind him. The noise came from a tiny Alouette III utility helicopter practically skimming the ground on its way toward his position.

Bergen ran back down to the command truck, catching and passing Kaal as he plodded in the same direction.

He was still only halfway there when the Alouette flared out and landed in a swirl of dust and hot exhaust. Its engine whined down slowly-fading in time with its slowing rotor blades. The helicopter pilot, a young, stick-thin man with straw-colored hair, jumped out and hurried forward to meet him.

The young man’s clean, pressed uniform contrasted sharply with Bergen’s rumpled clothes, already filthy after several days in the field.

“Lieutenant Bankkop, reporting for duty. “

“Where the devil have you come from, then?” asked Bergen as he returned the pilot’s salute and then held out his hand.

Bankkop smiled ruefully.

“Normally I’m the shuttle pilot for VIPs, but the brigadier thought you might be able to use me today. “

Bergen nodded emphatically.

“He thought right, for once. You’re all the reconnaissance I’m going to get forward of my own positions. Understand?”

The pilot nodded back.

“Good, then get aloft and head east along the highway. See if you can locate the enemy column. I need to know how much time I have.”

Bankkop paused just long enough to agree on radio frequencies and to pick up a map before sprinting back to his machine. Less than a minute later, the Alouette was aloft, nose down and engine screaming as it gathered speed. It raced east just above the ground, darting around or over obstacles like some giant insect.

Bergen climbed into the back of the command truck and found a spot where he could sit and listen to the radio without getting in the way. A wise commander doesn’t disrupt his headquarters staff unnecessarily.

Nevertheless, he wanted to hear Bankkop’s radio reports for himself-the instant they came in. It was vital that he know the Cuban column’s exact position and approximate strength. In the meantime, he could rest.

He leaned back against the truck’s canvas wall and closed his eyes.

At two hundred kilometers an hour, the little helicopter should reach the

Cuban column’s last reported position in minutes at most. But every minute Bankkop flew east was another twenty minutes of preparation for his men.

Far too soon, the lieutenant’s voice came over the radio.

“I can see a group of scout vehicles. Roughly ten klicks from your position. I don’t think they’ve seen me. Continuing east. Out. “

Bergen kept his eyes closed, but his mind was racing at high speed. The

Cuban scouts were probably several kilometers ahead of their main force.

Given that, he tried to calculate when he could next expect to hear from the dapper young helicopter pilot. Even at cruising speed, it shouldn’t be more than a few seconds.

Then he remembered that the Alouette wouldn’t fly a straight-line course along the road. Like any scout advancing in hostile territory, Bankkop would move from cover to cover, searching carefully from a protected position before darting forward.

The speaker crackled with static: signs of… no fire… forward.

” Bergen frowned. Broken, static-laced transmissions were a common problem during low-altitude flight. Hills, trees, even the curvature of the earth itself could block a short-range radio signal.

Now they’d have to wait for the helo’s return before they got any information.

Suddenly it felt hot and stuffy inside the canvas-topped truck. Bergen stepped outside for a smoke. As he lit up, he scanned the hills to the east again. He heard a shout, saw one of the lieutenants pointing, and raised his binoculars.

There. A wisp of dust floating above the railroad line, half obscured by the raised embankment the tracks rested on. Searching slowly, he saw another, about fifty meters back. The Cuban scout cars Bankkop had spotted earlier were arriving.

But what else had the Alouette pilot seen?

Bergen quickly scanned his positions. His engineers were out in the open, still frantically building obstacles across the highway-They’d probably be under fire in another five or ten minutes. Were a few more mines and barricades in place worth risking their lives for? He shook his head and ordered them back in cover.

Someone shouted from the command truck. -Kommandant!” He ran the few steps back and quickly climbed inside.

Bankkop’s voice was on the speaker again, loud and clear, but hurried:

“.. . overcome interference, am at medium altitude. Main column coordinates Romeo three six, Yankee one five. Thirty plus tanks, large number APCs, self-propelled artillery, and SAMs in support.” The engine noise underlying Bankkop’s voice stepped up in pitch and he paused for a moment.

“Enemy aircraft in the area. Returning to your position now.

Out.”

Bergen silently thanked the pilot for the information, and for his bravery. By climbing he’d restored radio contract, but he’d undoubtedly also drawn unwelcome attention to himself.

The Kommandant, along with most of his staff, went outside.

He knew it would be only moments before the helicopter arrived back over his position. He could hear his operations officer relaying the order for all platoons to hold their fire.

They waited, and word quickly filtered down through the men until everyone watched the eastern sky.

Suddenly, Bankkop’s gnat-sized helicopter popped over a hill several kilometers away. It was moving fast, adding the speed from a shallow dive to that from its overworked engine.

Two specks appeared close behind the Alouette, weaving from side to side in what looked like a lethal dance. Then, as Bergen and the rest of his men watched in horror, a puff of white smoke appeared under one of the specks and stabbed out toward the fleeing South African helicopter.

He raised his binoculars in time to see the missile pass clear of the

Alouette. Christ, that was a near-run thing!

Bergen swept his binoculars back to the two enemy helos closing in on the South African scout. They were Mi-24 Hind gunships. His heart sank. Smaller, slower, and unarmed, the Alouette was completely outclassed. Bankkop dove right, racing for cover behind a grove of orange trees.

Two more missiles flashed out from under stubby wings of each Hind. They closed the narrow gap in seconds. One missed the violently maneuvering

Alouette-arcing aimlessly off into thin air. The other guided, though, homing in on the South African scout craft’s hot exhaust. It detonated in a short, sharp ball of orange flame, and the explosion blew the tiny helicopter’s tail boom clear of the shattered airframe.

The Alouette’s cabin section, boom, and blades all spiraled to earth separately, taking only seconds for the short trip. Then, without even decelerating, the two Soviet-made gunships gracefully turned away, careful to stay well out of machinegun range.

As they disappeared behind the railroad embankment, Bergen heard a roaring, whooshing sound arcing down out of the sky. Oh, shit.

“Down!”

He dove for cover in a slit trench next to the parked truck.

Artillery started to land all over the place, churning the earth in a rapid fire succession of enormous explosions. Big stuff, one fifty-twos and one twenty-twos, he thought.

“That meant at least two batteries supporting the Cuban brigade, more, probably three, with one moving forward while the other two fired.

At least half the shells were fuzed to airburst, exploding overhead and showering lethal fragments down on his men. Since only part of them had found the time to construct overhead protection, most were going to take a heavy beating.

He could see enemy aircraft, loitering off to the east. Once this barrage lifted, they’d come roaring in with cannon and rockets. He’d heard about what Frogfoots and Hinds could do, and he knew that his piddling light machine guns stood one chance in a hundred of piercing their armor.

And after that, he could expect a ground attack by at least one battalion of Cuban tanks, with infantry in support.

He didn’t stand a chance.

SECURITY CHECKPOINT 36, ON NATIONAL ROUTE 1, NEAR VENTERS BURG

Floodlights lit the highway from one side to the other, revealing cars and trucks backed up in both directions-their engines idling as drivers waited for their turn at the security checkpoint up ahead. Two canvas-sided trucks, a command jeep, and a wheeled Hippo personnel carrier were parked off to the left side of the highway. Soldiers in full combat gear stood chatting in small groups near their vehicles-utterly bored with what seemed a completely routine job.

Few of them paid much attention to the flashy red Astra stopped right in front of their barricade.

Commandant Willem Metje was sweating again. He was tired, hungry, and scared. Even nearly three hundred kilometers south of Pretoria, he still felt too close to both the Cuban offensive and his own government’s brown shirted enforcers, the Brandwag. He’d already bluffed his way past two other checkpoints by using a combination of rank, his AWB pin, and an overbearing manner. But doing that had left him a physical and mental wreck. He was not a good actor.

And in this case, the third time was most definitely not proving to be a charm.

He stared through his rolled-down window at the thin, sour looking officer who’d refused to let him through the checkpoint without seeing either a travel authorization or an identity card.

“Look, Lieutenant, we’re both busy men. After all, this is wartime. We have to expect these small irregularities to crop up occasionally. Just let me pass, and I’ll make sure your paperwork’s brought up-to-date as soon as I can. Right?”

The younger man’s face darkened in anger, and Metje winced inwardly, aware that he’d blundered badly. He’d meant to use his most cordial senior-officer-to-junior-officer tone. Instead, he’d sounded more like a smarmy, whining panhandler.

“And once again, Kommandant, I have my own orders. I cannot allow you to proceed without verifying your identity. “

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed and he stepped back a pace from the car door.

“Give me your ID card, sir… please.”

Metje saw the man’s hand drifting toward his holstered pistol. His heart fluttered once, then twice, and the sweat running down his back felt ice-cold. A loud clicking noise told him that one of the other soldiers at the barricade had just taken the safety off his assault rifle.

He folded. With his hand shaking uncontrollably, Metje passed the card through the Astra’s open window.

“Thank you, Kommandant.” The lieutenant slid the ID card into his shirt pocket.

“Park over there, off the road, while I call this in. Sir.”

Thoroughly cowed, Metje obeyed. He reversed the Astra and pulled off onto the highway’s gravel shoulder-stopping just ahead of the mammoth Hippo. His heart sank as he watched the officer walk over to his radio-equipped jeep and pick up a microphone, standing with his back to Metje.

His mind raced through the options left open to him, raising and discarding them in almost the same instant. Doing nothing was not an option.

“The

Defense Ministry was sure to have an alert out with his name on it by now.

Resisting arrest seemed even more absurd-pitting his poor pistol marksmanship against a squad of rifle-armed soldiers would be simple suicide.

And escape…

MetJe thought about that. The Astra was a fast car. If he could swerve around the single Army truck parked ahead, he might gain a large enough lead to evade any pursuit. It seemed worth trying. He reached for the ignition key with trembling fingers.

He glanced at his rearview miff or The young lieutenant had just spun round, his face a mask of anger. Oh, God. He knew.

Metje gunned the engine and felt his tires spin wildly in the loose gravel.

Come on! The Astra shot forward in a cloud of dust and thrown gravel, accelerating rapidly. For a millisecond, he felt a wild surge of exhilaration. He’d done it….

Flames stabbed out of the darkness-muzzle flashes from rifles firing at point-blank range. The Astra’s front windshield

starred and then shattered, shot out by the same bursts that shredded its front and rear tires.

Metje felt himself thrown forward against the steering column as his car skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust, torn rubber, and exhaust.

He was still recovering from the abortive ride when the car door slammed open. Rough hands yanked him out of his seat and out onto the road. Two grim-faced soldiers grabbed his arms, while a third quickly pulled his pistol from its holster.

As his hands were cuffed behind him, the lieutenant strode up, finally stopping with his face only centimeters away from Metje’s. The normal deference shown by a junior officer toward his superiors had vanished entirely.

“I checked with my headquarters, Kommandant Metje. They informed me that you are charged with dereliction of duty and desertion!

Those charges have been confirmed by General de Wet himself!”

Metje tried to protest, but the younger officer’s outraged voice rode roughshod over his words.

“Save your lies, man! It’s too late.”

The lieutenant jerked a thumb toward the darkness.

“Take him away.”

With a burly soldier pulling on each arm and his hands secured behind him, Metje was led, stumbling, toward the Hippo. As he walked, he tried vainly to put his shattered mind back in some kind of order. He’d have to get his story straight for the court-martial.

But the two soldiers led him straight past the personnel carrier and out to a small tree twenty meters away. Metje looked around, suddenly unsure of what was happening. The lieutenant and another two men were following along right behind him.

They dragged Metje over to the tree and roughly turned him around to face the parked APC. They took the handcuffs off just long enough to pull his hands around its slender trunk, then snapped them shut again. Oh, my God .

The lieutenant waved his men back and walked over to where Metje writhed, straining futilely against his bonds.

“We don’t have time for the pointless formality of a court martial. In any event, I’ve received direct orders as to the disposition of your case. Sentence will be carried out immediately. “

He turned to leave, stopped, and whirled back to face the shaking, white-faced officer. Wordlessly, he reached out and ripped the AWB pin from

Metje’s uniform. Then he strode over to where the four soldiers stood in a group.

Without even bothering to form them in a straight rank, the lieutenant barked, “Ready!”

Four assault rifles snapped up, aimed directly at Metje.

Metje looked at the leveled barrels in horror. His knees buckled and he sagged forward against the handcuffs holding him to the tree. He started sobbing.

“Nooooo! You can’t! I am an Afrikan-” Fire! “

Four bullets slammed into Metje’s head, chest, and abdomen. He died instantly. His nation’s death wouldn’t come so easily.