Vortex

CHAPTER 28 Vengeance

NOVEMBER 24-HEADQUARTERS, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE, PIETERSBURG, SOUTH AFRICA

Military traffic moving south filled Pietersburg’s wide streets-rumbling past burned-out homes, crater-choked public parks, and barren, blasted jacaranda trees. Smoking piles of charred blue and pale-purple blossoms littered the ground beneath each tree. Stray dogs, some unfed for days, roamed side roads and alleys in packs.

The advancing Cuban troops had appropriated a small, two-story brick office building as Vega’s new forward headquarters. Col. Jose6 Suarez walked into the splinter-scarred building past piles of discarded papers and wrecked furniture heaped outside.

The building’s outer offices had been taken over by the expeditionary force’s supply, communications, and other support sections.

Worried-looking staff officers bustled back and forth from room to room as they tried, sometimes in vain, to manage the advance of Cuba’s two remaining columns.

5”

Others sat stunned, still horrified by the split-second annihilation of the

Third Tactical Group.

Suarez knew the confusion he saw here was only a fraction of the chaos sweeping the dead brigade’s rear areas. A dozen different supply, maintenance, and medical units, working to support what had been a spectacularly rapid advance, now found themselves suddenly fighting for their lives against local Afrikaner commandos. At the same time, they were working hard to save those few dazed survivors found wandering back down the highway. Well, he thought sadly, there won’t be any survivors left by tomorrow. Heat, a lack of potable water, and Boer bullets will see to that.

He moved deeper into the building and knocked quietly on a closed door. No answer. He turned the knob quietly and peered inside.

Gen. Antonio Vega, Liberator of Walvis Bay, victor of a dozen battles, the man who held a knife to South Africa’s throat, sat staring at a map. He held a sheaf of papers in his hands, the air reconnaissance photos taken over the site of the Third Brigade Tactical Group’s destruction. Suarez knew what those photos showed. He had given them, and the rest of the data on the column’s death, to Vega over two hours ago.

Daylight had revealed a crater a hundred meters wide and fifty meters deep near what had once been the brigade’s lead battalion. Mounded debris spread far and wide past the rim of the crater itself, creating a scene that looked as though it belonged on the surface of the moon-not on earth.

Blackened vehicles and bits of equipment littered the gray landscape, mixed with the scorched remains of men, brush, and trees. For the most part, the vegetation had burned itself out, but some of it was still smoking, and a pall lay over the desert floor, dimming the harsh sun.

Only about fifty men had been found alive from the first four battalions, mostly extended scouts or pickets. All were hurt-burned or blasted and in shock. The fifth battalion, a Libyan motorized rifle unit, had lost ninety percent of its equipment and three-quarters of

its men. Only the brigade’s supply battalion, strung out fifty kilometers behind, had survived as a unit. Altogether, more than three thousand men were dead, and another thousand or so were badly wounded-emergency-room cases who weren’t expected to live out the week.

Winds from the southeast were pushing the fallout across a dozen small towns and villages scattered over the plateau. Lichtenburg, with its art museum, bird sanctuaries, and farms, would be the largest town to suffer.

It would have to be evacuated. Suarez smiled grimly. How the Afrikaner bastards were going to do that wasn’t his concern, but if they didn’t, many people were going to die slow, nasty deaths from radiation sickness.

Some of the fallout would fall in Bophuthatswana, as well, eventually fanning out into the unpopulated wilderness. Another nuclear bomb for the scientists to study, he thought.

The colonel shook his head. His musings were almost as bad as Vega’s.

He’d stood in the door patiently for several minutes now, waiting to be noticed. This had happened before when the general was working or thinking, and Suarez was sure they could stand like this the rest of the day.

“Comrade. General ..” He spoke softly, as if he were trying to wake

Vega, or avoid startling him.

Vega didn’t even look up.

“Colonel, I am a fool. You told me that South

Africa had nuclear weapons. I’d seen their order of battle. So what made me think they would not use them?”

“You stated that they would be unlikely to use them inside their own borders,” Suarez answered quietly.

“You also thought that the instability and confusion in their government reduced the odds of their successfully employing such weapons. “

“Dry words to cover wishful thinking, Jose6. These people seem willing to do anything to stop us, even if they destroy their own lands in the process. I know that now.”

Vega suddenly stood up. He made a visible effort to master his dismay.

“We confront two related problems, Colonel. First, how do we continue our attack with only two-thirds of our forces? And second, how can we avoid being annihilated by South

Africa’s atomic weapons?”

Suarez looked uncertainly at his commander.

“Perhaps a reinforced air defense network could’ Insufficient Vega shook his head.

“All the SAMs in the world can’t guarantee the destruction of every attacking aircraft. No, Colonel, we must take measures that are more aggressive, more active. “

Suarez knew his face revealed his bewilderment.

“Read this. ” Vega pulled a message form out of the papers in his hand and gave it to him.

The chief of staff read: President Castro shares your anger and outrage.

The South Africans have joined the United States, their bankrupt leader, as the only nations in the world ever to use nuclear weapons against other human beings. Use any means at your disposal, or any means you can obtain, to wipe this regimeftom the face of the earth.

Suarez looked puzzled. Stripped of the rhetoric, Castro’s message just said to fight harder.

“What can we do that we haven’t already done?”

“While you’ve been busy trying to bring order out of this mess, I’ve been talking with our socialist allies.” Vega’s voice turned grim.

“Two cargo aircraft are already in the air, en route to us. One is from Libya, the other from North Korea. By the end of this day, I expect to have enough nerve gas on hand, in 152mm artillery shells and aircraft bombs, to destroy a significant part of the South African Army. From now on, we’re making chemical weapons a part of our arsenal. “

Suarez felt a hundred questions welling up inside him. Like their Soviet counterparts, Cuban troops were trained in the use of chemical weapons-up to a point. But, except for limited bombardments in Angola, they’d rarely used chemicals in combat.

For one thing, chemical weapons sometimes created almost as many problems for an attacker as they did for the defender. There were special protective suits for the assault troops, decontamination procedures, special reconnaissance vehicles

Vega reassured him.

“I know what you are thinking, Josd. Do not worry.

We will be using nonpersistent nerve agents, and every weakness we have in chemical arms is mirrored in the enemy twofold. They have no training and very little equipment. “

Suarez spoke slowly, still troubled despite his commander’s sudden assurance.

“But this will simply escalate the war, Comrade General. Even if these weapons are effective, their use will only enrage the

Afrikaners. They may actually incite further atomic attacks on our forces.”

“I had thought of that, Comrade Colonel.”

Suarez shivered inwardly. He’d never heard Vega’s voice quite so cold and forbidding.

“For that reason, I want every base and higher headquarters moved immediately. We will plant our flags squarely in the middle of South

Africa’s own towns and cities. ” Vega stressed every word.

“I also want you to round up several thousand civilians-white civilians, they don’t care about blacks or other races-for use as shields around every unit headquarters above company level.”

The Cuban general’s face darkened with anger.

“If need be, we will send photographs to this madman Vorster-daring him to bomb our units under those circumstances. If they want to butcher tens of thousands of their own women and children, we will make it easy for them. This war has changed, Colonel. We will match these Afrikaners threat for threat.

Escalation for escalation.”

Suarez shook his head.

“These precautions may protect our men from nuclear attack, sir, unless our enemies are truly insane. But I still have reservations about using chemical weapons. Residues, decontamination, these are all things we are not prepared for. Our own casualties could be high.”

“For once we have had a little luck, Colonel. ” Vega smiled thinly.

“Our

Libyan comrades-in-arms have more experience in this than we do, so their troops will lead the assault.”

Suarez nodded sagely. The Libyans had used poison gas many times during their unsuccessful attempts to conquer Chad. By fights, they should know enough about such weapons to avoid killing themselves.

“Both cargo aircraft also carry technicians and extra protective equipment.” Vega faced his chief of staff squarely.

“Cheer up, Jose6.

These chemicals will help us break the back of South Africa’s remaining defenses. They’ll replace the combat power we lost yesterday. With luck, we’ll destroy the Afrikaner army in its foxholes!”

“Let us hope so, Comrade General.”

Vega stared at him, obviously unsure whether his subordinate’s flat, impassive tone signaled continued doubt or growing confidence. Vega walked over to the map and pointed to it.

“The planes are scheduled to arrive later this afternoon. Ensure that our best people are in the tower. We do not want a landing accident today.” He smiled grimly.

“I

want those munitions moved to our forward units tonight. Tighten security, both on the ground and in the air. Clear?”

Suarez nodded.

“Good. Tomorrow, at dawn, we will use the weapons in preparatory bombardments against the enemy’s main line of resistance.” Vega pointed to a spot south of their position on National Route 1. “There.”

HEADQUARTERS, 1/75TH RANGERS, HUNTER ARMY AIRFIELD, GEORGIA

Frowning, Lt. Col. Robert O’Connell flipped from page to page of the war game after-action report. Board games and computer simulations couldn’t predict real-world battle results with total precision, but they were useful tools. Done right, they could highlight unexpected glitches or weaknesses in plans. Sometimes, they offered valuable insights into possible enemy counter moves Right now, though, he thought, the battalion’s simulations were just depressing.

So far, each of the three mock battles fought using the I/ 75this initial attack plan had ended in unmitigated American disaster. Casualties over 75 percent, no objectives seized, complete loss of command and control-the list of foul-ups went on for more than four pages. He shook his head in frustration. It was pretty clear that the battalion’s command

team would have to rethink drastically the Brave Fortune operations plan all the way from landing to extraction.

Someone knocked on the doorframe.

“Come. 11

Maj. Peter Klocek, the 1/75this operations officer, poked his head through the open doorway.

“I just got off the phone with Cheyenne

Mountain, Colonel. It’s for real. No media hype. They’re already using those nukes we’re supposed to grab. 11

“God.” O’Connell had been praying it was all a mistake ever since he’d heard the first panicked reports from South Africa.

“But I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear that the world community is up in arms over this.” Klocek didn’t hide his cynicism.

“I understand there are reports of protest notes, peace demonstrations, and threats of further unspecified sanctions rolling in from all over.”

“Great. Just great.” O’Connell scowled. Sanctions, demonstrations, and protests didn’t matter a damn now. Not when the Afrikaners had already shown they were prepared to wage total war-nuclear war. The only real way to stop Pretoria’s madmen would be to take the bombs away from them.

He glanced down at the reports littering his desk. At the moment, that scarcely seemed possible.

NOVEMBER 25-POTGIETERSRUS

The shattered remnants of several South African battalions held

Potgietersrus like a drowning man clinging to a rope.

The bush veld mining town wasn’t quite the last bastion before Pretoria itself, but there weren’t many such spots left along National Route

1.

With its mixture of excellent defensive terrain, a strategic road junction, and important economic assets, Potgietersrus was a good place to make a stand.

The city sat overlooking a dry, rocky plain, its offices and smelters and homes rising out of the ground like an island of civilization in the wilderness. In ordinary times, thirty thou sand people called Potgietersrus home-ten thousand of them white, fifteen thousand black, the rest mixed and other races.

Naturally, the whites lived in the center of town and ran the mines and businesses that kept the city alive. Their homes were mostly spacious, tree shaded, and expensive.

Many of the blacks in Potgietersrus were single men who lived in migrant-worker barracks adjacent to the mines themselves-one hundred men crammed into each long, one room building. They lived there while fulfilling year-long labor contracts. At the end of each year, they were free to visit families, wives, and children who’d been left behind in

South Africa’s tribal homelands-or even in Mozambique or Zimbabwe. They returned as soon as possible, though. The mines were usually the only work to be had.

Some lucky blacks, either mine workers or laborers elsewhere in town, managed to bring their families with them. They crowded into the same kind of squalid shantytown visible just outside every South African city.

Technically, blacks were not allowed to own land or even live near white-populated areas, but necessity drove them to settle wherever they could-existing as squatters for white convenience and at the government’s sufferance.

Applying the word township to Potgietersrus’s slum gave it a dignity it did not deserve. No water, no electricity, and no sewage system would ever serve the tin and wood shacks that were home to the bulk of the city’s labor force.

Potgietersrus was an important mining center-nickel, tin, copper, and platinum were all found in profitable quantities close by. The Cubans might say they were fighting to liberate their black brothers and end apartheid, but the mines would be their reward if they won. Capturing them would also immediately deny vital resources now flowing to Pretoria.

South Africa’s military mobilization had already reduced mine output by stripping away most white supervisors and craftsmen. Only a fraction of the explosives experts were black. Even fewer of the machinery operators were nonwhite. Black laborers were starting to fill those roles, but they had little training and even less guidance.

Much of the white population had fled Potgietersrus before the Cubans even reached the city’s outer defenses. Most blacks were still there. They had nowhere else to go. The mine workers were actually being held under guard in their barracks whenever they went off shift. Since so many were foreign workers, the Brandwag felt they were a security risk. Considering their treatment, that was probably right.

So mining operations continued, even with Cuban armor and infantry units less than thirty kilometers away. Huge trucks carried refined metals and other valuable ores south toward Pretoria. They moved without interference.

Vega had ordered his artillery and air commanders to avoid firing on the mines and smelters. Leaving them untouched would reduce the time needed to get them back into full swing once they were captured.

In any case, the Cubans had more than enough military targets for their artillery. Potgietersrus sat on the western slope of a rugged mountain more than two thousand meters high, and its defenders had been preparing a new defensive line for several days. There were no shortages of digging tools in a mining town.

The South African garrison contained several understrength infantry battalions, Air Force personnel who’d abandoned the base at Pietersburg, and men of the local commando-a sizable force, though one with little heavy equipment. Defeated farther north, they’d collected themselves in this town, all survivors of at least one battle and hasty withdrawal. This time, though, they were dug in on good ground. This time, they would hold.

HEADQUARTERS, POTGIETERSRUS DEFENSE FORCE

Brig. Piet Boerson had retired from the SADF years ago, but Vorster’s full mobilization had reactivated his commission and placed him in command-defending the town where he had lived for more than half his adult life. The tall, thin man’s face was craggy from a life of hard work. He hadn’t always sat behind a desk.

He’d been perfectly happy as a senior manager responsible for production in one of the area’s most successful copper mines. Now he fought to protect his home, his job, his way of life. Thank God, his wife and children were gone, though they’d only fled as far as her sister’s place in Pretoria. Well, if they didn’t stop the Cubans soon, there wouldn’t be anywhere that was safe.

Boerson stared at the map and sighed, taking another swig of lukewarm coffee. He should be grateful. Considering his country’s disastrous strategic situation, he’d been dealt a fairly strong hand. In the three days since the fall of Pietersburg, he and his men had fended off three separate Cuban assaults, and he was confident he could hold his ground for some time to come.

But he was also sure the Cubans would try again-and soon. Probably at dawn.

Emergency reinforcements, scraped together from God knew where, had arrived shortly after midnight. He snorted. Reinforcements. A battery of

World War II-vintage artillery pieces and two companies of boys barely old enough to carry rifles. Barely enough men to replace those lost during the previous day’s fighting. Still, he’d thrown them into the line. Even boys with rifles were useful.

So far, Boerson’s “composite” brigade had survived air attacks, artillery barrages, and commando raids. And he’d used the last twenty-four hours of comparative quiet to rest his men and bolster their defenses. They’d even managed to fig mining explosives as command-detonated land mines.

The brigadier leaned over his map, studying his defenses for what seemed like the thousandth time. Was there anything more he could do?

Emplaced in an arc facing north and west of the city, his infantry were dug in deep in the stony soil, grimy and tired. Minefields and barbed wire covered the easiest approaches to their lines. He’d deployed the brigade’s single battery of 6-5 155mm guns on a low hill close to his front lines. From there, their shells could reach almost all the way back to Pietersburg. His two remaining missile launchers, each with three

Cactus SAMs left, guarded the guns. The newly arrived

artillery battery, with British-manufactured 5.5-inch guns that were half the size and five times the age of his 155s, covered the highway itself.

Finally, Potgietersrus’s local commando, unreliable as line infantry, were acting as scouts and snipers. They knew the area, and Boerson hoped to use their local knowledge to his advantage.

Yes, they could hold, but not to protect those fools in Pretoria, Boerson thought. They got us into this mess, and if we can survive, those idiots will be the first ones against the wall-Vorster’s brown shirted Brandwag notwithstanding.

Boerson turned to look at the other officers in the room. Two commandants and a colonel, each commanding a battalion, sat discussing the details of troop employment and artillery allocation, while a Brandwag monitor listened to every word, as though one of them were going to stand up suddenly and shout, “Long live the ANC.”

Groote Kempe, the commandant of the local commando, sat quietly in a corner. His men didn’t have radios or any heavy weapons except for some old Lewis machine guns. Their role was simple. Snipe at the enemy for as long as possible, then fall back to the main line of resistance.

The distant rumble of artillery fire served as a constant backdrop to their discussion. Harassing fire had been failing for the past twenty-four hours-small salvos designed to pin the South Africans in their positions, inflict a few casualties, and keep them short on sleep.

The tempo of the Cuban barrage suddenly picked up shells seemed to be raining down at the rate of three or four a minute. At the sound, the

South African officers looked up from their maps and discussion.

Boerson checked his watch: 0527 hours. A little early, he thought, but the Cubans probably plan to give us one hell of a pasting before they attack. Wonderful.

“Everyone, stand your units to. And tell your boys to make every shot count,” he ordered. Grabbing a helmet and a flashlight, he ran out into the night. Behind him, his battalion commanders scattered to their posts.

His headquarters occupied a two-story stone vacation home built near the mountain’s summit. In daylight, he had a view that stretched from one end of his line to the other. On a clear day, he could even make out Cuban-held Pietersburg as a blur far to the northeast.

Potgietersrus itself lay behind him. His staff officers kept complaining that he’d picked a spot too close to the front lines, but Boerson liked to see things for himself.

Night was just beginning to fade, with a thin line of pink appearing to the east. He could already make out the rugged landscape falling away to his front. Individual infantry positions were still cloaked in darkness, but he knew their locations. Bright flashes lit the skyline as Cuban shells burst over them.

The Cuban gunners were going for airbursts, he noted, a reasonable tactic considering how well his troops were dug in. Shells fused to explode on impact with the ground were ineffective against men in deep holes, unless one happened to land in the hole itself. But shells exploding twenty meters up could shower dug-in infantry with high-velocity fragments-forcing them to keep their heads down while armored troop carriers and tanks attacked.

It was light enough now for binoculars, and Boerson scanned the ground between Pietersburg and his positions. Yes, there they were. A dark wedge of dots moving toward him. Time to release the guns.

Stepping back into his headquarters, he said, “Order the one fifty-five battery to engage the enemy formation. Fuse for airburst. ” That would give the swine a little of their own back, he thought. It wouldn’t hurt their tanks much, but it would disrupt that pretty formation and give them something to think about.

He waited while the operator called the battery, located about eight hundred meters away. The man jiggled his receiver.

“Sir, there’s no reply,”

What? Boerson moved back outside, sweeping his binoculars toward his nearby artillery emplacements. He pursed his lips. Yes, they were being shelled, too, and by more airbursts. So much for concealment. The Cubans knew right where he’d hidden his guns.

Still, his gunners should have their battery fire-control center under cover. Had an explosion cut the telephone line?

Then, staring at the enemy barrage, he noted that the airbursts looked a little different. The explosions were smaller. Mortars, maybe? If so, when were the Cubans going to use their bigger guns? Each shell was also throwing off a tremendous amount of red-colored smoke. That was unusual.

Mixing smoke with high explosive was a common tactic, but not against artillery.

His signalman appeared in the doorway.

“Sir, Commandant Salter is on the line!” Traces of barely suppressed panic crept into his voice.

“He says his men are all dying.”

The brigadier leapt for the phone. What the hell was going on?

“Boerson here.”

“It’s gas… poison gas, bursting over us!”

My God. Gas. Of course. That explained the red mist and the small explosions. Each Cuban shell contained just enough explosive to scatter its deadly cargo over a wide area.

“Only a few of us have masks, and they don’t help anyway! Most of my men are already dead! I’ve got a mask on, but if I open up my vehicle, I’ll die from skin contact!” Salter’s abject terror came through clearly over the phone line.

“Pull back, George. Save yourself and anyone you can.” It was an automatic response, sensible in the circumstances but no less distasteful. Pulling back from the mountain meant abandoning

Potgietersrus to the communists.

The phone line went dead.

Boerson stood rooted in place, his mind in a mad, dizzying whirl. What could he do now? Salter’s infantry battalion and his best artillery battery were both gone. How much of the brigade had the Cuban poison-gas barrage hit?

He heard the crump of a muted explosion overhead, quickly followed by a handful more. His heart sank, and for the first time in his career, he hoped he was under fire by enemy high explosive.

Then he saw the mist drifting down toward him. Boerson wheeled to the white-faced, shaking signalman.

“Order a general retreat! “

He was too late.

The red-tinted cloud settled slowly around the headquarters building and all up and down the South African defense line. It was not a true gas, but an aerosol, a spray of extremely fine droplets created by the small charge in each shell. An artillery airburst wasn’t as uniform or efficient as a spray nozzle, but it worked well enough.

The chemical itself was named GB, or sarin. A complex organic substance, it had been available since World War II. Unlike chlorine gas, which affects the human respiratory system, or mustard gas, a blister agent, sarin directly affects the human nervous system.

Chlorine has to be inhaled to kill or maim, and mustard gas must come in contact with a large area of exposed skin before it can seriously injure.

But a tenth of a gram of sarin, touching the body anywhere, is a lethal dose.

Troops who have the training and equipment to deal with chemical weapons must wear respirators and protective suits. Every piece of equipment touched by the chemical must be thoroughly washed before it can safely be used by anyone without protection.

But these suits are hot and heavy. Even in temperate climates, a soldier’s efficiency can be halved after only a few hours in his gear. On the high veld wearing chemical protection gear led to heatstroke-not lost efficiency.

The South African Defense Force had never worried much about the threat posed by chemical weapons. Faced with limited funds and a severely limited threat, they’d concentrated on other areas. Most of the SADF’s real-world experience with chemicals involved the ubiquitous CS, or tear gas. Line troops were only trained to use gas masks, and commandos and other defenders weren’t issued any protection at all.

The men defending Potgietersrus never had time to complain.

When the first shells burst over their trenches and foxholes, those few regulars who still carried them quickly donned their gas masks. But by the time they turned to face the oncoming enemy, the sarin was already killing them.

A nerve agent works by interfering with the nervous system, causing signals to be blocked, amplified, and generally scrambled. In seconds, hundreds of men were dying-staggering around wildly in their foxholes and tearing, at their masks in a futile effort to breathe.

The brigade died in a five-minute bombardment.

Boerson knew what was happening, but he couldn’t control the panic flooding over him as he saw his death approaching. He ran inside, searching frantically for a room whose windows hadn’t been shattered by the bombardment. The mist finally found him crouched in the cellar, trying to seal a leaky door with tape.

He suddenly felt dizzy, and his skin was instantly covered by a thick sheen of sweat. He felt sick to his stomach. His hands were already growing heavier as he struggled with the roll of tape. Then they took on a life of their own, and he fell, legs and arms twitching, onto the floor. His lungs were bursting. He had to breathe. He needed air. Clean air. The South African brigadier vomited onto the floor.

Random bursts of pain surged through him as his synapses fired uncontrollably, mixing with sensations of heat, cold, and motion. Every sensor his body had was going wild.

Piet Boerson had just enough coordination left to roll over. With one last desperate gesture, he grabbed for the tape he’d dropped, but then the sarin reached his brain cells. He flickered mercifully into unconsciousness. A few seconds later his brain stopped telling his heart to beat. From beginning to end, he had taken less than thirty seconds to die.

PEOPLE’S GUARD MOTOR RIFLE BATTALION

Col. Hassan Mahmoud stood high in the commander’s hatch of his armored personnel carrier-calculating the distance separating his battalion from the outer South African defenses. One thousand meters, perhaps. It was time to deploy.

He lifted his radio mike.

“All units. Form line. Continue the advance.

“

Jubilant acknowledgements flooded into his earphones. Mahmoud scowled.

Young idiots. They were acting as though this were some kind of peacetime joyride.

Luckily, there wasn’t much left out there to oppose them. The defending fire had been light, very light. These peasants might actually be able to execute the maneuver, he thought.

The gas appeared to be working. In this heat it would only be effective for another ten minutes. After that, it would begin breaking down-decomposing into harmless compounds.

Other nerve gases, such as Soman, or GD, would have lasted for days-true “persistent” agents. Vega had chosen sarin precisely because it was “nonpersistent.” With proper care, Mahmoud’s battalion ought to be able to seize its objectives without suffering any self-inflicted losses.

The Libyan colonel was optimistic. The Afrikaners appeared to have been taken completely by surprise. Even the wind favored them, a light breeze from behind and to his left that should push the poisonous mist completely clear of his men.

POTGIETERSRUS

The wind blew from the northeast, moving at between ten and fifteen kilometers an hour. In the fifteen minutes that the nerve gas remained effective, it drifted a little over three kilometers-mixing and fanning out over Potgietersrus in a deadly cloud.

Most of the city’s remaining white population had taken refuge in improvised bomb shelters when they heard the Cuban barrage echoing down the mountain. A sizable fraction did not bother, however. Three days of living within earshot of constant fighting had made war seem almost routine.

People outside-especially those working or breathing hard-were immediately affected. And the residents of the black township, living in windowless shacks, might just as well have been outside. There were no bomb shelters for them.

The gas was starting to break down, though, so it was

somewhat less lethal. The very young and very old were vulnerable, as was anyone with respiratory trouble-a common ailment among miners. And even when weakened, sarin can still paralyze and blind its victims. Once destroyed, nerve tissue does not heal.

Six-year-old Alice Naxula lived in a one-room hut with her mother, grandmother, and uncle. A typical black child in the townships, she was about to go out, to play and to forage for food. Wartime chaos had emptied store shelves, so she and her mother had to split up and hunt in the city, while her uncle worked in the mine and her grandmother sat quietly in the shack’s one chair, remembering.

Her uncle was already awake, ready to catch the six-o’clock bus to the mine. They all rose early to see him off each day, sharing the leftover porridge from last night’s dinner. In the darkness, none of them saw the gas seeping in through their tattered, rusting walls and a blanket-draped doorway. Even in the daylight, it was spread so thin as to be invisible, but still lethal.

The first sign of trouble came when her grandmother started coughing uncontrollably. She had bronchitis, common among the old, brought on from scores of winters spent living in unheated shacks. Suddenly, the old woman howled once in agony and threw herself out of the chair. She landed on the dirt floor in a writhing, twitching heap.

Alice’s own eyes were stinging. Her mother started to scream something, pointing at her grandmother. With an instinct born from years of police sweeps, the little girl dove under a pile of bedding in one corner and froze, lying motionless. Her mother had taught her this years ago, so that the adults could flee from the township police when they made one of their sporadic sweeps. Alice looked on the pile of patched bedding as a place of refuge.

She waited in terror, hearing screams and thumps all around, but she knew she would be safe. The rags smelled, and the air was stifling, but the police had never found her in here.

The screams stopped, and she wanted to get up and see what had happened, but Alice remembered her mother’s instructions. There was a silly song about a monkey and a rhinoceros that she was supposed to sing three times, and so she sang it to herself, always enjoying the part where the monkey tricked the rhino.

Then she finished and scrambled out from her hiding place, shaking off the rags and blankets.

Her mother lay on the floor, next to her grandmother and uncle. Shaking her only elicited a faint moan. Alice ran for water. The police had whipped her mother once during a raid-leaving her bruised and bloody. And her uncle had told her to fetch water. That had helped.

She was halfway to the pump when she heard her mother screaming, “I cannot see. I cannot see!”

Alice ran back and tried to rouse her uncle or grandmother to help her, but they were both dead. She knew how to check, and she answered her mother’s questions about them. Neither had any wounds, but their staring, horrified expressions showed that they’d died in agony.

“Momma, what should I do?”

There was no answer.

Several thousand South African civilians-blacks and whites alike-lay dead or wandered maimed through Potgietersrus.

NOVEMBER 25-HEADQUARTERS, CUBAN

EXPEDITIONARY FORCE, PIETERSBURG

Jonathan Sasolo served as Gen. Antonio Vega’s liaison with the African

National Congress. Classified by South Africa’s laws as “mixed race,” he was a wide man, with big hands and a loud voice. He held the rank of major in the ANC’s military arm, Umkhonto we Sizwe, and theoretically was accorded that rank here at headquarters. Vega’s staff hadn’t treated him with enough respect, though-an injustice that only served to amplify his anger and outrage.

“Is this how you liberate us? Kill half of our people and let the rest starve?”

Vega was trying to be diplomatic, and both Suarez and Vasquez were present to lend their arguments as well.

“Comrade Sasolo, please understand. We had no control over the wind.

“

“But you knew its direction and strength. And you ignored the very predictable results of a nerve gas barrage!” Sasolo leaned over Vega’s desk, yelling at him in a way that left his staff aghast.

“More than a thousand dead, Vega, and thousands more maimed. There are so many dead that we haven’t yet had time to count them. What kind of a victory is this?”

“An important one,” Vega retorted.

“Our forces, which include your men,

I might add, lost only fourteen dead and thirty-seven wounded while annihilating an entire enemy brigade. “

Vasquez nodded.

“Think of the shock in Pretoria, Comrade Major. Think of how much closer this brings us to victory.”

Sasolo scowled angrily.

“Victory? I tell you, man, there will be far fewer people to celebrate this victory of yours if you continue like this. Especially if your troops confiscate every scrap of food in the city! What are my people supposed to live on?”

“We only took food from stores in the white areas, Major.” Suarez’s tone was calm.

“All the blery food is in the white districts, you bastard! There is no food anywhere else.”

Vega answered him this time, clearly losing patience.

“The supply echelon will bring up more food soon, comrade. Our own logistics have been snarled by air raids and commando attacks. Fuel and ammunition have first priority anyway. That’s why we had to collect food in the first place.”

“Letting my people starve.”

Vega’s tone began to harden.

“Major, I am concerned only with the rapid, efficient advance of my forces. My men are fighting and dying to liberate your people from this fascist regime. I am sorry about the deaths here. Many others will no doubt die before we are done. But their deaths will not be in vain.”

Sasolo stood his ground.

“Pretty speeches won’t change the masses’ minds,

Vega. They’ve seen the Boers, and now they’ve seen you. They say, “Where is the differenceT ” The ANC major stepped back from the desk.

“I have been discussing this matter with our executive committee.”

Vega nodded. Vasquez had told him of several coded communications passing back and forth between ANC headquarters in Lusaka and Sasolo-codes that the Cubans hadn’t been able to break.

The major continued, “I now believe that we should withdraw from this alliance. That we must chart our own course for the liberation of South

Africa. You are using us… just as the Soviets once used you.”

Vasquez went to the door.

“That’s enough, Major.”

Sasolo turned to see two Cuban soldiers, rifles pointed at him.

Vega pointed to the ANC guerrilla.

“Arrest him.”

Sasolo’s astonished protests quickly faded away as they grabbed him and hustled him out of the room.

Vasquez shook his head.

“He’s not alone, Comrade General. Many of the ANC troops are grumbling. We may have trouble with them over this matter.”

“I know, Vasquez, I’ve read the reports, too.” Vega sighed.

“Weaklings.

They can’t see the need for sacrifice.” He shook his head.

“True socialism does not come easily. It must be earned with blood and hard work.”

The general stood up and looked over at Suarez.

“Very well, Comrade

Colonel. Disarm and detain any group of ANC guerrillas you think may be disloyal.”

His face darkened.

“I will not tolerate mutinies among my forces. Not when we stand on the threshold of victory. Dismissed. “

He stood brooding, staring out the window as his officers filed out the door. Sasolo’s cowardice and treason left a bitter taste in his mouth.

ABOARD USS MOUNT WHITNEY, BETWEEN

ASCENSION ISLAND AND CAPE TOWN

Long columns of gray-painted ships steamed through the night at high speed, bow waves and trailing wakes gleaming pale blue in the dark. Aboard the ships, thousands of American and British Marines ate or slept or played cards. And they talked. They talked about sports and women and anything at all except South Africa.

Their officers weren’t so fortunate.

“General Craig?” The orderly softly called him away from a knot of officers in the command center. It was hard to get his attention in the bustle and noise of the crowded compartment, but it was considered rude to shout at a lieutenant general.

Finally, Craig turned and nodded to the corporal, who approached and handed him a single sheet of paper. The enlisted man saluted and left as

Craig absentmindedly returned his salute, reading the message while his staff waited expectantly.

Craig’s posture sagged a little, but he recovered quickly. He turned to face Brig. Gen. Clayton Maller. As his J-3, Maller was in charge of operations for the invasion force.

“Clay, revise the training schedule.

I want at least one full day spent on chemical warfare training. Drills, protective suits, the works.”

Maller whistled softly.

“You mean .

“Yeah. The Cubans gassed a town north of Pretoria that was putting up a stiff fight. The message doesn’t say what they used, but total casualties are several thousand. Hit the civilians pretty hard, according to our intel.”

“Shit.” Maller sat down heavily, letting out his breath in a whoosh.

“First, nuclear protection drills, now this. Sir, the men are liable to acquire a negative attitude about this operation. ” He smiled to hide his concern, but the message was all too real.

Craig nodded somberly, his thoughts several thousand miles away.

Maller didn’t know about the planned Ranger raid on Pc-7

lindaba. In fact, only five officers outside the Ranger battalion itself,

Craig included, had even heard it mentioned.

His staff would only be told about Brave Fortune when it was under way.

The security classification “need to know” didn’t include a separate category for those who needed a quick morale boost. Besides, he wasn’t sure knowing the details of what sounded like a suicide mission would make anyone any happier.

Craig only prayed that this harebrained Ranger attack would be successful. He’d never seen an amphibious task force turn tail and run before, but that would be the only sensible course if the Afrikaners held on to their nukes.