Vortex

CHAPTER 33 Invasion

DECEMBER 14-FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE, POTGIETERSRUS

Gen. Antonio Vega tried not to let his anger and frustration show. It was important that his staff, and all his men, think that he was in absolute control, but inside, his inner drive was locked in its own private war with his patience. Damn it, they had to get moving again!

Castro’s latest message lay on his desk, an unwelcome reminder of his progress. The tone was encouraging enough: The presence of the Western imperialists shows that the South Africans must be on their last legs, otherwise their masters would not have to rescue them. Press on to victory!

Cuba has every confidence in you.

Press on with what? Despite an apparently overwhelming victory at

Potgietersrus more than two weeks before, his offensive had ground almost to a halt. The Afrikaners were proving unexpectedly resilient. And his own problems seemed to multiply with every passing day.

His own slow progress was especially galling in the face of the Americans’ removal of South Africa’s nuclear option and their successful landing at Cape Town. He had to move fast-his window was closing.

The loss of South Africa’s nuclear capability had not overly helped him, since his tactics of dispersion and civilian masking had worked well. It simplified his movement plans, but you had to be moving for that to matter.

His First Brigade Tactical Group had begun squandering the first fruits of its triumph in the first hours after its attack. When Colonel Mahmoud’s

Libyan motorized rifle battalion entered the city, it had stumbled into what its poorly trained, poorly paid soldiers regarded as their own private treasure trove. Hundreds of homes abandoned by their white owners-homes packed with portable radios, television sets, and stereo systems. Stores and shops crammed with rich foods, automobiles, and other luxury items.

Even with assistance from Cuban troops following close behind, it had taken

Mahmoud precious hours to bring his rioting, rampaging men to heel.

Then, when Vega’s troops were finally able to resume their drive south, they’d run headlong into more Afrikaner troops hurrying north-the first significant numbers of tanks and guns to arrive from the stalemated

Namibian front. So what should have been a cakewalk had turned into a bloody, bruising, two-day fight that left both sides exhausted and about where they’d started from. Even worse, the battle had consumed the Cuban tactical group’s carefully hoarded stockpiles of ammunition and fuel.

Supply. Vega rubbed his temples, feeling the start of another pounding headache. He’d always known that logistics would be his largest problem-especially for the First Brigade Tactical Group. He had a

Soviet-supplied airhead at Pietersburg, but cargo aircraft alone couldn’t carry the massive quantities of diesel fuel, ammunition, and spare parts a modern mechanized army needed to keep moving and fighting. Most of the supplies he needed had to go by sea to Maputo, then northward along the railroad to Rutenga, and from there south into South Africa-an overland distance of more than one thousand kilometers.

The distance alone presented his supply officers with an almost insoluble problem. The constant hit-and-run attacks on his truck convoys and freight trains only made things worse. Not only were white South African commandos attacking his columns, but breakaway guerrillas from the ANC and other black groups were making separate raids. He smiled grimly. It was probably the first time that the two sides had ever agreed on anything.

Vega remembered the early days of the offensive, when his men had been welcomed by villages they passed with gifts of food and beer. Now they got rocks if they were lucky, bullets if they were not.

He scowled. Whether he liked it or not, the First Tactical Group’s days of easy victories and rapid advances were over. The supplies it needed to go back on the offensive were coming in steadily-but only very slowly.

And until he had enough fuel and ammunition, his northernmost attack column was reduced to simple skirmishing-company-strength probes of the

Afrikaner defenses at Naboomspruit, fifty kilometers south of

Potgietersrus.

Farther south and east, his Second Brigade Tactical Group found itself in a similar situation. Closer to the port facilities at Maputo, its supply problems were less pronounced. But the Second had to fight its way up the tangle of mountains, ridges, and chasms called the Great

Escarpment. Despite heavy losses, its daily gains were often only measured in hundreds of meters.

And the Third…

Vega’s headache intensified. The split-second destruction of his third attack column had been even more disastrous than he’d first supposed. The

Third Tactical Group had been the striking arm that was supposed to outmaneuver the Afrikaner defenses. Without the “three” in his “one-two-three” punch, he was reduced to this damned crawling advance, attacking South Africa’s strongest defenses head-on. It was a formula for losing the war.

Maneuver was the way to win a war in Africa, but he didn’t have any units to maneuver with. At the moment, his sole reserve consisted of two companies of infantry, one of tanks, and a battery of self-propelled artillery.

Stripped of his strategic mobility and tactical flexibility, he’d counted on using chemical weapons to break open the war again. Unfortunately, since that first devastating attack, their effects hadn’t matched his hopes and expectations.

There were several reasons for that. First, the battle for Potgietersrus had used up most of his hastily obtained stocks of sarin. Acquiring more had proven unexpectedly difficult and time consuming. International condemnation and pressures were making even Castro increasingly reluctant to approve its use.

These political restrictions were matched by military difficulties.

Weather was sometimes a problem. To minimize self-inflicted casualties and delays, chemicals were best used when the winds blew from the northeast-toward the enemy lines and away from his own positions. At the same time, Vega knew the Afrikaners were learning how to fight in a chemical environment. They’d doled out a limited supply of protective gear to their front line troops and artillery crews. Unprotected troops were kept dispersed and well hidden. And accurate counter battery fire by long-range G-5 and G-6 155mm guns often wreaked havoc among his own artillerymen when they tried to fire chemical shells.

The Cuban general grimaced. Supply shortages. Commando raids. And the growing fear that his grand offensive might grind to a halt far short of its objectives. All of that was bad enough, however he looked at it. Very bad. But now he had to worry about the damned Western allies-the Americans and their British lackeys.

With the forces at his disposal, he didn’t have the slightest chance of interfering with the Western troop buildup in Cape Town. He’d never planned to fight a war that far away from South Africa’s northern and eastern borders. His strategy had always been to capture the centers of government and let the distant provinces fall into his lap.

Still, he thought, the important regions were within reach. Cape Town was famous for its wine and its wool. Well, he’d

rather have Pretoria’s diamonds and gold. Let Washington and London squabble over South Africa’s dregs.

“Colonel Suarez!” His chief of staff’s office was always next door, well within earshot. Suarez appeared immediately.

“Send a message to Havana, ” Vega ordered. “

“The Western presence means we must accept a limited, but still significant, victory-liberation of the

Transvaal and the Orange Free State. I am sure that you will see the necessity of this decision.”

“

Vega paused briefly, wondering if there was anything else he should add.

Nothing came immediately to mind.

“Send it. And call a staff meeting in five minutes. We have to get this offensive moving again.”

DECEMBER 15-USS MOUNT VsIHITNEY, SIMONS TOWN NAVAL BASE, CAPE TOWN

One thousand miles west of Durban, several anxious-looking staff officers crowded one of the Mount Whitney’s conference rooms. The U.S. and Great

Britain had a secure foothold in the Cape Province, but Cape Town had never been viewed as anything more than a stepping stone toward South Africa’s industrial and political heartland-Pretoria and Johannesburg. Going overland would take too long. Going by sea meant making another landing somewhere farther up the Natal coast-an opposed landing, where they would have to fight their way ashore. The sea route, in spite of its risks, had always been part of the plan, but it might not be fast enough.

“I just don’t see how we can be ready in time, General. The buildup’s just too far behind schedule. ” Brig. Gen. George Skiles, Craig’s chief of staff, was adamant, but also distressed. He was a hard worker, with a “can do” attitude, and it hurt Skiles’s professional pride to admit failure.

Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig sat glowering, a man unhappy with the news he’d received but unable to shoot the messenger. Shipping delays, bad weather in the Atlantic, and tired air crews had already put his buildup nearly three days behind its original schedule. That wasn’t bad when you considered how many tens of thousands of troops and pieces of heavy equipment were en route-streaming across thousands of miles of empty ocean and airspace.

But it wasn’t good enough. Neither the Cubans nor Vorster’s men showed any signs of adhering to the timetable established in Washington.

Photo recon missions over the Potgietersrus area showed massive and unmistakable signs of a Cuban supply buildup. This Vega character was planning to jump-start his own stalled offensive first. At the same time,

Afrikaner commanders up and down the Natal coast were doing what they could to strengthen their own defenses against an allied amphibious assault.

Craig frowned. The schedule for his own planned landing in Durban was looking more and more like a nonstarter.

The original plan called for a full division of U.S. Marines and a Royal

Marine Commando to make the landing, supported by a battalion-sized air assault on Durban’s Luis Botha airfield. Two Army divisions-the 7th Light and the 101st Air Assault-would move in once the airfield had been secured. Heavy armor units still sailing from the U.S. were scheduled to off-load directly at Durban-once its harbor was secure.

The operation was precisely timed and hard to change once the units were in motion. Craig remembered how carefully they’d all considered the date of the landing back in Washington. Tides, weather, and phases of the moon all had to be folded in along with the strategic situation. How quickly could American forces be ready? How fast could the Cubans move?

To allow some flexibility, he’d ordered alternate staff plans prepared.

One assumed landing a day early, one a day late. But by December 24, the planned D day, Vega could be drinking Cape wine in Pretoria, thumbing his nose at the Western allies from the Union Buildings.

Craig lowered his chin onto his chest, thinking hard. Like all good staffs, his people tended to be cautious and conservative-” risk averse” in DOD lingo. They often followed a general rule in putting together operations-figure out how much firepower you thought you’d need and double it. And usually they were right. An amphibious landing was

the riskiest kind of operation in military art. You had to assemble overwhelming firepower, with enough force to shove the bad guys off the beach. But what if your invasion was too late?

Sometimes, you needed to cut corners. Sometimes you had to take more risks. Such as now.

He looked up.

“Okay, here’s the way we play it. We’re landing in Durban on the twentieth, but with only two brigades plus the Commando. The third will have to follow when it can.” He looked at his shocked staff.

“All right, gentlemen. We’re under way in three days for Durban. Start loading. “

DECEMBER 17-HEADQUARTERS, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE, POTGIETERSRUS

“Every piece of data we have indicates the imperialists will land at

Durban, Comrade General. ” Colonel Vasquez pointed to the map.

“It has the best beaches and port facilities in all of South Africa. Plus, we know that the Boers have had a very difficult time with civil unrest and guerrillas in the area.”

He hesitated and then went on, “Durban is also too far away for us to do anything to interfere with their invasion.”

“Agreed, Colonel. An excellent analysis.” Vega looked disgusted.

“Now tell me what we can do with this fact.”

Up to now, this war had been fought on land and in the air. By adding a naval dimension, the Western allies had given themselves a freedom that neither Cuba or South Africa could hope to match. Operating without interference off the coast, the Allies could cause both belligerents great pain.

Even the Soviet Navy could not challenge the Western ships off the Natal coast. The Soviets did not want to risk a direct war with America and

Britain. They were willing to spend a few rubles and out-of-date equipment, but spilling Russian blood was out of the question.

Part of their reluctance to confront the West was certainly because of the distance from Russia’s ports. Their navy was structured for operations close to Soviet shores, in combination with land-based aircraft. Their chances of success against two carrier battle groups were just about nil.

Vega suspected that Castro hadn’t even bothered to ask for the Soviet

Union’s help. Just as well, anyway, he thought, They would only have refused us.

Vega pursed his lips.

“The devil of it is, Colonel, that I don’t even know if we should help the Americans or try to stop them.”

Vasquez took his commander’s statement as a request for information.

“Certainly, an Allied landing would draw off some of the Afrikaner troops now facing us.”

The Cuban general nodded sharply.

“Precisely, Colonel.” He slapped a hand down hard on the desk.

“Right! We cannot stop this invasion … so we’ll make use of it for our own ends. We’ll delay our own attack until after the Americans and British land.”

He laughed harshly.

“Let us allow the capitalists to stop Afrikaner bullets for a change. Once they’re ashore, we’ll crush what’s left at

Naboomspruit and drive hard for Pretoria.” He noticed Vasquez’s dutiful smile.

“Something troubles you, Comrade Colonel?”

“Yes, sir.” Vasquez pointed to the waters off South Africa’s southeast coast.

“Soviet satellite photos show that the American carrier

Independence has already left Cape Town to join the Carl Vinson. Soon they will be in easy striking distance of Durban, Pretoria-perhaps even our lines here. If we get too close to Pretoria, planes from those carriers could hit us.”

Vega’s tone was final.

“We are running out of options. All we can do is push as hard as we can and leave the rest to the uncertainties of war.”

DECEMBER 18-PROVISIONAL HEADQUARTERS, NATAL MILITARY COMMAND, DURBAN,

SOUTH AFRICA

Worried-looking men in military uniform hurried back and forth through

the halls and offices of Durban’s fortified police headquarters. Phones rang, maps were updated, and defense plans were changed in a . dizzying cycle of ever increasing urgency. Vorster loyalists still hiding in the Cape Town area had confirmed their worst fears-America’s aircraft carriers and amphibious ships were steaming eastward, preparing for another landing somewhere along South Africa’s coast.

Brig. Franz Diederichs stood in his office, watching with cold, detached contempt as his subordinates tried desperately to find ways to stop the unstoppable. Intelligence estimated that the Americans and British planned to storm ashore with at least a reinforced Marine division-backed by more than two hundred carrier-based planes and the guns of more than a dozen warships.

In contrast, he had scarcely a corporal’s guard to oppose them. Five understrength companies of security police. Three artillery batteries of superb G-5 and G-6 guns. And three weak infantry battalions already worn down by months of guerrilla war with the Zulus and by days of bloody street fighting during the city’s November rising. All were short on men and heavy weapons.

He grimaced. Common sense alone should tell the idiots on his staff that they had no chance of achieving victory at least not victory as it was ordinarily understood.

Logic argued that the Allies were moving on Durban itself. The city’s airfield and harbor were perfect staging points for an all-out Allied drive on Johannesburg and Pretoria. In fact, they were the only possible staging points. Essentially, all main roads on the Natal coast led to

Durban. Only there did they blend together into a single superhighway stretching north to South Africa’s mineral-rich interior.

Logic also argued that the Allies, though long on men and materiel were short on time. Even capturing the city would still leave this General

Craig and his men more than six hundred kilometers from their final objectives. And before the Americans and British could push farther inland, they’d need a secure supply line-the kind one could only build with unimpeded access to a major port.

Diederichs nodded slowly to himself. He and his soldiers couldn’t win the upcoming battle, but they could at least deny their enemies a quick victory. He leaned over his desk, studying a series of charts and diagrams showing Durban’s port facilities.

For more than a week now, his engineers and gangs of conscripted black and Indian laborers had been working night and day to wreck the harbor beyond easy repair. Some had planted demolition charges to destroy cargo-handling equipment along the waterfront itself. Others stood ready to scuttle freighters and tankers already trapped by the American blockade-b locking both the harbor’s narrow entrance and all its docks and anchorages.

Once the first waves of the Allied invasion force touched down,

Diederichs planned to pull the bulk of his small garrison into a perimeter enclosing most of Durban’s central city. Even with their overwhelming numbers and firepower, it would take the Uitlanders days to dig his troops out of their fortified skyscrapers and beachfront hotels.

And until they did, they couldn’t possibly begin repairing the damage to the all-important port facilities. At the same time, his artillery well hidden among the forested foothills of the Drakensberg Mountains-would interdict the Louis Botha Airport. Periodic barrages of high-explosive shells would make it impossible for the Americans to land their huge

C-141 and C-5 cargo planes.

With any luck, the Allied drive on Pretoria would soon sputter and stall-strangled at birth by a lack of food, fuel, and ammunition.

The Afrikaner brigadier smiled crookedly at that thought. Whatever the result, he wouldn’t be alive to see it. He planned to die fighting with his soldiers. Retreat out of the city was unthinkable and unsurvivable.

He didn’t have any illusions about his own government’s attitude toward unsuccessful officers. Pretoria’s firing squads would soon make short shrift of the man who’d lost Durban.

Surrender to the Americans or the British was equally unthinkable. He had no intention of appearing as chief defendant at a socalled war crimes trial. If necessary, he’d kill himself first, His thin lips creased in an ugly snarl. Better by far to

die by one’s own hand than to stand in chains before swaggering, kaffir-loving conquerors.

Diederichs straightened his shoulders and turned back to his work. Durban’s barricades, trenches, and fortified buildings would make the city more than just a graveyard for his own ambitions and dreams. They would end Allied hopes for a quick and bloodless end to the war in South Africa.

DECEMBER 19-SEAL TEAM ONE, ABOARD HMS

UNSEEN

Boatswain’s Mate First Class Joe Gordon, USN, left the Unseen’s hatch in a silvery cloud of bubbles. The three other men in his SEAL detachment were already out. They signaled him with a small light, dimly visible through the water.

After closing the diesel submarine’s hatch behind him, Gordon swam over to them and pointed to the compass on his wrist. If they were in position-and the Unseen’s skipper had assured them they were-their target lay two thousand yards to the north.

Gordon heard a dull, muffled clank behind him and turned to see the hatch opening again. His wasn’t the only raiding party going out tonight. The

Unseen also carried another party of SEALs and one of SBS, Britain’s

Special Boat Service.

His three men all looked at him, legs and arms paddling slowly to keep them in place against the offshore current. Even in their face masks and other scuba gear, Gordon knew them all, and knew what they could do. Motioning, he pointed north. They started swimming.

He was glad to be out of the British submarine. He’d ridden subs often enough, but he decided that he didn’t like the British variant. They talked funny, ate funny food, and the thing always stank of diesel oil. And they were too tight. A U.S. nuclear sub was crowded, but after a full day in a

British boat, Gordon had wanted to ask for a marriage license. All they could do was talk. He chuckled inwardly. At least those SBS guys told some fascinating lies.

The sub’s small size was perfect for this job, though. The Sturgeon-class

U.S. nukes couldn’t get any closer to shore than the sixty-fathom curve, dumping them miles from their objective. Here, it was just a short swim-only a mile underwater.

Swimming felt good, stretching out the muscles, burning off some of that adrenaline flowing through his veins. He kept a sharp lookout for sharks.

The waters off Durban were famous for them, and he didn’t want an encounter to screw up the timetable. They were supposed to be ashore just after midnight.

The water was dark and the shoreline empty. Gordon could only rely on his compass and skills honed by long years of training to get him ashore. He certainly wouldn’t find any friends on the beach. Not that he expected any. SEALs were always the first in, and that was exactly what he wanted.

SECOND MARINE EXPEDITIONARY FORCE, SEA ECHELON AREA, OFF DURBAN

Fifty American and British ships lay shrouded in darkness fifty miles off the Natal coast. Massive, flat-decked amphibious assault vessels mingled with smaller ships carrying landing craft, tanks, and tracked LVTP-7 amphibious vehicles. Destroyers and frigates steamed back and forth, screening the formation against air or submarine attack. Inside each ship,

Marines and Navy crewmen worked through the night stowing gear, readying aircraft, cleaning weapons-making all of the thousands of last-minute preparations necessary for survival on a hostile shore.

SEAL TEAM ONE, NEAR THE LOUIS BOTHA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, SOUTH OF

DURBAN

Boatswain Gordon lifted his head above the surface of the water. The shoreline was a smooth expanse of sloping sand,

perfect for amphibious ships, but lousy for SEALs. He quickly scanned the area. They couldn’t be that far off.

There, off to the right. Reunion Rocks, a jumble of boulders jutting out from the shore, verified his navigation. Signaling silently to the rest of his men, Gordon submerged and without surfacing again, headed straight for the place where a small stream emptied into the Indian Ocean.

The roar of surf as he emerged from the water matched his mood. He was in hostile territory and ready for trouble.

The three other swimmers were only steps behind him, and they quickly moved into the cover provided by the rocks. Once there, they stripped off their swim gear and tore waterproof coverings from the rest of their equipment.

It was a warm night, but all of them wore dark-colored clothing from head to toe, including balaclavas.

A roaring scream ripped through the quiet night, and for one fraction of a second, Gordon thought they’d been ambushed. Instantly he and his three comrades hugged the ground, tearing at the coverings on their weapons and wondering what had gone wrong.

Then, as he frantically scanned the immediate area, his ears recognized the sound. It wasn’t gunfire, it was the sound of revving jet engines echoing off the airfield in front of them.

Their targets-the airfield’s runways and control tower were separated from the beach by a short strip of industrial buildings. At this time of night, the warehouses and factories would be empty, and the buildings should provide the cover they needed to reach their objectives safely.

Gordon had been given a general brief on the invasion plan. Nothing specific-he was too far into enemy territory to be risked with detailed information. SEALs, though, were expected to act with initiative, and that required knowledge.

The main landing beaches lay just south of Durban. The Navy and Marine brass aboard the Mount Whitney had chosen the southern side of the city to stay close to Louis Botha Airport-only about ten kilometers from the city center.

The first Marines ashore would fan out to secure the beachhead for follow-on waves. At the same time, other Marines would come in by air, dropping right on top of Louis Botha itself. From there, the American and British troops would push inland—surrounding the city itself. Seizing Durban’s airfield and capturing its port facilities were the first steps on the long road to

Pretoria.

Reconnaissance photos had shown that the port was already blocked. The

American naval blockade had already put an end to South Africa’s maritime trade, so the Afrikaners had nothing to lose by wrecking it.

But the airfield was still in constant use. Although it no longer served as an international airport, military transports and cargo aircraft landed and took off on a regular basis. Gordon looked at his watch and smiled. In a little over an hour, Navy aircraft were going to close the airport, violently.

So far, U.S. carrier-based aircraft had stayed far away from the Durban airport. Allied commanders didn’t want to spook the Afrikaners into destroying its runways, control tower, and refueling facilities prematurely.

Gordon’s mission was simple. In the few hours remaining before the first assault waves touched down, his and the other two SEAL teams had to find any explosive charges and disable them. If possible, they had to do all that while making the Afrikaners think they still had the airport wired for demolition.

The SEAL smiled grimly. The airport garrison three kilometers from here was going to have one hell of a rough night.

COMANCHE FOUR, ABOARD THE USS CARL VINSON

Comanche Four leapt off the deck. Even when it was fully loaded with fuel and bombs, the Vinson’s portside catapult still had the strength literally to throw the A-6E attack jet into the air.

Lt. Mark Hammond quickly lowered the Intruder’s nose, depending on instinct more than the instruments to keep the big plane in the air. The cat could get him into the air, but it always took a few seconds for the

A-6E to decide if it liked it or not.

Hammond felt the machine steady under him, and for the first time he looked for the rest of his flight. The three other Intruders had been launched from the carrier just minutes ahead of Comanche Four. He scanned the still-dark night sky ahead. There! He spotted their navigation lights blinking low over the water.

The three Intruders were already heading west-toward the city just sixty or so miles away. This close in to their target they didn’t have to worry about tanking up from the KA-61)s already aloft. But they weren’t going downtown just yet. The air commanders aboard the Carl Vinson and the

Independence planned a coordinated alpha strike on key military targets scattered throughout the Durban area. So Comanche flight’s four A-6Es would orbit at a predesignated point until all the fighter and attack aircraft were launched. Both carriers were launching full deck loads-putting more than one hundred and twenty warplanes in the air.

The four planes of Comanche Flight quickly reached their holding point,

Sierra Twelve, and orbited slowly—circling round and round at low altitude. Night formation flying kept Hammond busy enough, but his bombardier navigator Rob Wallace, was even busier checking out the

Intruder’s complex electronic suite. Even with built-in test equipment, making sure everything worked took a while.

“This is Overlord. Execute. ” The order to move came after only a few minutes. Watching his flight leader carefully, Hammond followed his movements automatically, without radio conversation.

The four attack jets had been orbiting at two thousand feet, but now they eased down to a tenth of that as they made their run in toward Durban.

Hammond felt his heart pounding faster. This was for real. They’d been assigned to take out the 20mm and 30mm antiaircraft guns ringing Louis

Botha Airport.

About twenty miles out from the shoreline, the Intruder’s thermal imager started picking up buildings and other heat sources. The heat-sensitive

TV camera allowed them to navigate and find their target in total darkness. The camera didn’t need light, just heat.

As they closed the beach, taller structures appeared, and bright, glowing spots appeared on the screen. Hammond squinted at the screen. Fires? He nodded to himself. Yeah. Big ones burning out of control. Set by other strikes, maybe. Then he realized that they were too widespread and too well developed. The city was already burning.

It looked as if an invasion could only improve things.

USS MOUNT “ITNEY

Silhouetted against the rising sun, Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig leaned over the rail, staring through binoculars at the crowded ships steaming slowly to either side. Helicopters and other aircraft were already spooling up, engines howling across the water. A strong offshore breeze tugged at his jacket, whining through the Mount Whitney’s massive arrays of radio antennas and satellite dishes.

By rights he knew he should be down in the ship’s comfortable, computer-display-lit Fleet Command Center. But he couldn’t resist the chance to take one last look at the forces under his command.

“Sir?”

Craig turned to find a Navy lieutenant commander standing behind him.

“Yes, Commander?”

“General Skiles wanted me to tell you we’ve gotten word from the Vinson.

Our initial air strikes are complete.” The Navy officer’s face broke into a sudden smile.

“We pounded the hell out of ‘em, sir.”

Craig nodded.

“Good.” He headed for the ladders leading down to the command center.

“Signal all ships. Land the landing force.

USS SAIPAN

Columns of heavily armed Marines were still climbing aboard their waiting planes when the order came to launch. Barely heard over the howling rotors and jet engines, cursing sergeants and officers of all

ranks hurried the camouflaged soldiers aboard. Men piled into seven Ospreys at the run. And as their hatches slammed shut, the heavily loaded troop carriers skittered forward and off the deck, their rotors straining to pull them skyward.

Even as the first wave of aircraft lifted off, the Saipan’s elevators brought up another set, which taxied into takeoff position. With well-practiced movements, more men emerged from the island and in snaking columns trotted up to their assigned aircraft just as they reached position.

The evolution was being repeated on the USS Wasp and Inchon. Clouds of fighter and attack aircraft covered them as twenty-one Ospreys orbited, assembling, then turned and headed inland.

Skimming the wavetops at almost three hundred knots, the formation hurtled toward the smoke-shrouded beach. Troops in the cargo compartment sat strapped in, facing each other on crash-proof seats, but they still had to hang on as the Ospreys plowed through the bumpy, low-altitude air.

The Osprey pilots, most of them converted over from the old Sea Knights helicopters, looked out to either side, gratified to see loaded attack aircraft and armed fighters pacing them.

When riding shotgun, the “fast movers” normally looped over and around helicopter troop carriers, but the Ospreys were fast enough to keep up with a cruising jet. That made for tighter control, better support, and a warm, fuzzy feeling for the Osprey drivers. Higher airspeed also meant the vulnerable troop carriers were exposed to enemy flak for a much shorter time.

In fifteen minutes, five of them spent assembling, the assault formation was over the Louis Botha International Airport. Over, in this case, was a relative term, since the Ospreys came in low and hot-screaming in no more than a hundred and fifty feet off the ground.

As their wings tilted upward to vertical flight mode, the Ospreys bucked and shuddered-dumping speed. In less than a minute, three-hundred-knot turboprop planes became fifty knot helicopters, gently settling down on the runways and taxiways and any other paved areas. The second their gear touched down, rear ramps dropped and Marines poured out onto the airfield.

They fanned out across the tarmac in an almost eerie silence broken only by whining rotors, shouted commands, and crackling flames. Nobody was shooting at them.

The airport’s antiaircraft batteries and ground defenses had been thoroughly pasted. A-6E Intruders dropping dozens of five-hundred-pound bombs had turned them into crater-rid died smoking piles of torn sandbags and mangled metal. Now orbiting AH-I Sea Cobras and Harriers waited for any sign of serious opposition, but columns of thick black smoke billowing into the air were the only signs of movement.

Despite the terrific aerial pounding it had taken, however, Louis Botha’s runways were still intact. The Allied invasion force had uses for them.

Empty now, the Ospreys lifted off, buzzing low over abandoned factory buildings and warehouses as they headed back to the formation, fifty miles distant, to pick up the second wave.

The freight-train roar of heavy artillery broke the silence. Shells began bursting among the Marines scattering across the open tarmac-exploding in huge fountains of earth and flame. Three batteries of Afrikaner guns pounded the airport mercilessly, killing American Marines with every carefully directed salvo.

USS MOUNT WWITNEY

Craig stared at the computer-generated map, wishing it were a wide-screen

TV. He wanted to see what was going on. Trouble was, if he left the Mount

Whitney, he wouldn’t be able to do his job. The ship carried the sophisticated communications and computer systems he needed to control all his forces-those already onshore and those still waiting to hit the beach.

“How bad is the shelling?” he asked Skiles.

“Hayes says his men are completely pinned down. He’s taken moderate to heavy casualties. He also reports that the LZ’s way too hot for the second wave.”

Craig nodded.

“I concur. Hold the second wave twenty miles out, and let’s see what we can do about the artillery.”

“We’re getting nothing on radio intercepts,” Skiles reported.

“We don’t know where the guns or the observers are. 11

Skiles scribed a forty-kilometer arc on the map, centered on the airfield. Craig sighed. The damn guns could be two thirds of the way to

Pietermaritzburg. It was rough country, far too big an area to search.

Thinking out loud, Skiles said, “They must be using landline, regular telephones to communicate. In a big city like that, they’ve got a built-in secure communications system.”

“The initial bombardment was supposed to hit the phone centers along with the radio stations. Every target was reported to be pasted.” Craig took off his hat and rubbed his forehead.

“Damn it, the only part of the system we know about is the com ms Hit the communications target list again,” Craig ordered.

“And do it fast.”

NAVAHO FLIGHT, OFF THE NATAL COAST

“Navaho One, this is Overlord. Target.” The radio call was a welcome relief for Lt. John “Rebel” Lee and his wingman. Everyone in the world was hip deep in the war, but his flight was “in reserve,” assigned to orbit forty miles off the beach until the right target appeared.

It took time to arm, launch, and fly aircraft to targets, so pairs of strike aircraft had been place “on call—ready to hit targets of opportunity on command. Navaho Flight was one of six launched by the two

American carriers after they’d flown off their first strike planes. And he’d listened anxiously as first one flight, then two more, were given missions by their carriers. Now it was his turn.

Continuing to circle, Lee clicked his mike.

“Overlord, this is Navaho -Lead. Say target.”

The strike controller aboard the Carl Vinson responded with a string of coordinates-and a quick description.

“Target is a telephone switching station-concrete structure.”

Lee repeated the information back to Overlord.

The Vinson signed off.

“Roger your last, Navaho Lead. This is urgent priority. Hit it fast.”

Lee punched the coordinates into his flight computer, and as soon as he hit the ENTER key, a course indicator appeared on his HUD.

His earphones carried Overlord’s voice again as the remaining pairs of aircraft were given their missions, all urgent. Something was up, he decided. Well, he’d hold up his end, at least.

Lee checked his armament switches. Since the carriers were so close to

Durban, his F/A-18 Hornet was fully armed, with Sidewinders on the wingtips, a single drop tank on the centerline, and eight five-hundred-pound bombs under the wings.

The map display showed his target, buried deep in the city. It also showed each leg of his plotted course. Lee whistled. Luckily, Afrikaner flak had been light and enemy fighters nonexistent, because this was one bitch of a route. Lee hit the radio switch.

“Turning to first leg,

Panther.”

Lee heard two clicks in his earphones. He glanced to the right and saw his wingman, “Panther” Lewis, turning to follow. Lewis was changing formation, sliding from aft and right of Lee’s Hornet to dead astern, in preparation for what was certain to be an “E” ticket ride.

USS MOUNT WHITNEY

“The strike coordinator says he’ll have aircraft on top of the targets momentarily,” Skiles reported. He frowned.

“But I’m worried about the second air assault wave, sir. We’re going to start cuffing into their fuel reserve in a few minutes. We may have to bring them back, refuel, and launch them again. “

Craig shook his head.

“Hell, George, we do that and we’ll

be delaying the whole operation.” He glared angrily at the map.

“But I agree, we can’t land any more men until we’ve knocked those guns off target.” Visions of burning aircraft caught while landing haunted him.

He turned to the admiral commanding the amphibious task force.

“Steve, take your ships closer to the beach. If the Ospreys don’t have to fly so far coming back, we can buy ourselves a few extra minutes.” Of course, it would also bring them all closer to the South African shore defenses.

As the admiral reached for the command phone by his chair, Craig added,

“And be sure the carriers are rearming all their aircraft as soon as they land. We’ll need them.”

NAVAHO FLIGHT

“Coming up on the IP, Panther. Slow to four fifty knots.” Lee heard his wingman acknowledge with two clicks just as he turned the Hornet over to its attack heading.

Throttling back, he watched his airspeed fall. They’d made a fast trip from their holding station to the initial point, but from here on, he wanted to take it slow and careful. Flying in a built-up area, against a non briefed target, he needed to look the situation over.

Lee switched his HUD to air-to-ground mode and made sure that his bombs were selected. He always took extra care with the ordnance panel-especially after an incident in training. He’d made a perfect bomb run on the target, only to find that he’d dropped his centerline tank instead.

The uneven surface of Durban’s rooftops flashed beneath him, individual homes and buildings blurring by too fast to make out much detail. His HUD showed the range to the target, which at this speed looked just like any other structure. An open box was centered over the computed position of the building, and Lee kept one eye on the box while he used the other to make sure he didn’t fly into anything.

An F/A-18 ordinarily attacked at six hundred knots or more, but that was usually at sea or over open terrain. Here,

the buildings rushing by made even a slower speed seem more like Mach two.

There still wasn’t any fire from the ground, and with a little relief, he concentrated on pinpointing his target. His targeting box seemed centered on a thick smoke column billowing high into the air. In a flash the scene filled his windscreen.

Lee’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t seen what he’d expected to see. The target was obvious, an already-bombed building in the exact center of the box. It was in ruins, no more than a pile of dirty brick and twisted steel. With an error of less than one foot, he couldn’t argue with the coordinates. That was the target.

During his one split second overhead, he saw people pointing up at his aircraft, running for cover. He had a momentary image of sandbags in front of the building next door, and men among them, and then he was past.

Lee checked his wingman. Panther Lewis was still in position. He waved a gloved hand as he spotted Lee looking him over.

“What’s the plan, boss?”

“Proceed as ordered, I guess.”

Panther’s voice revealed his doubts.

“There’s not much left to hit.”

” I know, but we don’t know the story, so we stick to plan A.”

By this time the two aircraft had “extended” away from the target-gaining enough distance to turn and line up on their programmed target again. Lee clicked his radio switch again.

“Reverse course, turn left in place. Now.”

Both Hornets dropped their left wingtips and neatly pivoted one hundred eighty degrees. Lee lined up on Lewis, the new leader, and pushed the throttle forward as his wingman said, “Accelerating.”

A four-fifty-knot stroll looking over the target was one thing, but they’d make the real attack run at full speed. Flying faster would make their bomb drop more accurate, increase their separation from the explosions, and make them harder targets for the now-alerted defenders.

The rooftops flashed by below them, and Lee followed his partner in.

MAIN TELEPHONE EXCHANGE, ON WEST STREET

The soldiers guarding the phone exchange watched the American planes scream past. They had a fleeting impression of sharp noses and gray, square-cut wings, combined with a roar that filled their heads.

The enemy planes were dangerous, but seemingly random in their destruction.

Less than two hours before, they had bombed the office building across the street into oblivion, while leaving the telephone building unscathed.

One soldier had suggested that there must have been secret military work going on in there, and that was why the Americans had bombed it. Among the laughter, the consensus had been that they were just poor shots. They had been lucky. That was something soldiers could understand.

NAVAHO FLIGHT

Rebel divided his attention between the rooftops, the cues on the HUD, and his wingman, now a mile in front of him. At six hundred knots, that distance became a six-second separation, barely enough time for the fragments from

Panther’s bombs to clear. The idea was to do this in one quick pass, in and out before the enemy recovered enough to shoot back.

Rebel’s HUD was filled with lines and numbers. Altitude, airspeed, weapons settings, steering, and aiming cues covered the angled glass in a confused jumble. Compared to air-to ground attacks, dogfighting was simple. His target box was still centered on the ruined building, but the target itself was obscured by the surrounding buildings.

Panther’s Hornet bobbed, and Rebel worried that something was making him break off the run. In the time it took him to think that, though, the plane in front of him steadied and then dove sharply, its nose pointing at the ground for a few short seconds.

He saw bombs fall from the wings, and in the same moment, tracers flew up from the ground, narrowly missing Panther’s aircraft. It was hard to tell, but they seemed to be coming from the building he had noted earlier. It was impossible to tell the exact type of weapon. It was probably just a machine gun, but it was the first flak they had seen.

A split second later, the bombs hit, and as Rebel closed on the target, he gauged Panther’s pattern to be a direct hit.

Fuck it, Rebel thought. The rubble’s been bounced and someone in that building shot at my wingman. Mentally, he reclassed his mission from “strike” to post attack flak suppression “

He lowered his nose.

MAIN TELEPHONE EXCHANGE

The soldiers were congratulating themselves. Once again, the American planes were bombing the other building, not them. Crouched behind their sandbag barriers, they smiled at their continued good fortune.

Their luck was running low.

A second screaming roar filled their ears as something big and gray streaked low overhead. Dark objects came off its wings, and eight five-hundred-pound bombs exploded in the street and on the building.

Those who were not killed by the fragments or the blast were finished when the telephone center collapsed on top of them.

LOUIS BOTHA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

The artillery fire slackened momentarily, and Sgt. Jim Cooper looked out across the aAeld. Most of his squad crouched nearby-taking shelter inside a hangar near the LZ, hiding from the relentless Afrikaner barrage. But four of his men,

the slower ones, lay out on the tarmac, wounded or dead. He couldn’t tell which-not from this distance.

Cooper faced a serious dilemma. If he ran out to recover them, he might attract unwelcome attention to the hangar and the rest of his men.

Aluminum sheeting offered concealment-not protection.

But he couldn’t leave the guys lying out there, maybe bleeding to death.

He couldn’t.

Cooper slipped off his pack and laid his M16 down. If he moved fast enough, he might be able to get any survivors under cover while the unseen enemy gunners were shifting targets.

The barrage stopped.

Cooper sprinted out, gut-twisting fear pushing him the dozens of meters in record time. He skidded to a stop by the nearest man-PFC Olivera. He gagged. Ollie was gone, a hole in his neck the size of a fist. The next two he checked were dead, too. But the last Marine, Ford, was still alive.

The sergeant scooped his squad mate up in one clean motion and slung him over his shoulder like a side of beef. Then he started jogging and trotting back toward the hangar-expecting the first deadly shell burst at any moment.

It finally came, screaming in far off to the left-on top of a cluster of earlier craters. What the hell? Whatever or whoever had been there earlier was long gone to ground.

Cooper didn’t know why the Afrikaner artillerymen were wasting their rounds tearing up an empty piece of real estate, but he didn’t need to be told what to do next.

He made it back to the hangar, and as eager hands lifted Ford gently off his shoulders, he said, “You people waiting for an engraved invite? Stand to while I find the LT. We got work to do.”

USS MOUNT W*TNEY

General Skiles’s tone was filled with suppressed excitement.

“Sir, Colonel

Hayes reports that artillery fire in the LZ is landing off target. And it isn’t being adjusted. “

Craig grinned and stood up.

“Looks like the air strikes did the trick.

Land the second wave before those damned gunners figure out what’s going on. We’re back in business.”

Minutes passed-minutes filled with increasingly optimistic reports from the landing area.

“Second wave is ashore, General. No casualties.”

Craig nodded. With their telephone net scrambled, the Afrikaner guns were in a world of hurt. His people had been waiting on their secondary radio frequencies when the perplexed gunners came on line. And now direction-finding and jamming would make short work of the South African artillery.

Meanwhile, his first LVTP-7s and landing craft were heading for the beach, and on-scene commanders reported that the airfield would be cleared in half an hour. Some units were already moving inland on foot-securing strategic hilltops overlooking the assault beaches and the roads leading into the city itself.

Craig stared at the constantly updated computer displays in sober satisfaction. His Marines were winning. True, they hadn’t won yet. He still expected some hard fighting for the city over the next day or two.

Urban combat was never easy and always bloody.

Nevertheless, he was confident of final victory in the battle for Durban.

He planned to hammer the Afrikaner defenders with overwhelming force, and he knew they wouldn’t be able to talk to each other.

Craig let himself relax a little. He and his troops had their second foothold in South Africa.