Vortex

CHAPTER 41 Fait Accompli

JANUARY 10 - WARM BAD

Night had not brought any relief from the air attacks. The American aircraft could see in the dark better than his men could. In addition to the continuing damage, the aerial pounding was denying his men any sleep, or a chance to recover from the day’s raids.

It was near midnight now. Gen. Antonio Vega had spent the hours since sunset moving from unit to unit, gathering information, issuing orders, and reassuring his troubled men. Veterans of dozens of South African air raids, the men were unready for the volume and strength of the American attacks.

Instead of four Mirages dropping a ton of bombs each, four Intruders would drop four or five times that amount, and they would be preceded by two Hornets armed with anti radiation missiles and cluster bombs. Only after the fighters had worked over his flak and SAM sites would the heavily loaded attack aircraft arrive.

The first raiders had come at dawn and had continued to attack throughout the day. In pairs, fours, and once in an

entire squadron, they had come, and his carefully prepared advance had slowly ground to a halt. Right now he was trying to rally his men and see how they could get moving again.

Vega’s next stop was one of his antiaircraft batteries. In the darkness with just a quarter moon and no headlights, only his driver seemed to know the way, guiding him safely to the spot.

The battery had been deployed on an open patch of ground five hundred meters east of the town. This gave its guns clear arcs of fire and separated them from some of the more obvious targets.

Vega’s approach was unannounced, and he’d actually climbed out of the jeep before a lone sentry came forward, his weapon at port arms. He started to challenge the general, then recognized him and called for the sergeant of the guard. Vega continued to stride toward the guns, returning the sentry I s salute and listening as word of his arrival was passed along.

In less than a minute a stocky, hook-nosed captain came trotting up, still wiping grease from his hands. He stopped a few paces away and saluted.

“Captain Rudolfo Morona, commanding B Battery, ready for your inspection, sir. ” The general noticed an ironic smile creeping onto the captain’s face and fought back the urge to reprimand him for impertinence. It looked as if the man was doing his job.

“What is your status, Captain?”

“Four guns of the six are working, with a fifth under repair. We should have it working in about half an hour. The sixth is total loss.”

“How about the radar?” the general asked.

Morona shook his head.

“Not a chance, sir. ” He gestured with an arm.

“This way please, General. You can see for yourself. “

The two officers approached the radar, located on the edge of the antiaircraft site. The entire battery consisted of six S60 57mm guns, reliable weapons that provided protection against low-and medium-altitude attackers. They were an older design, though, towed by trucks and unarmored. Laid out in an evenly spaced circle, each weapon was connected by a cable to the SON-9 gunfire-control radar, code-named Flap Wheel by

NATO.

The radar was simple enough in appearance. A square sided van, mounted on four wheels, it carried a small parabolic dish on top. Again, it was an older design and had been in service for twenty years.

As they approached the van, Vega could see its shape in the moonlight.

It looked undamaged. As they got closer, though, the general could see that the van’s surface was covered with spots, giving it a mottled appearance. Then, looking up, he saw jagged, irregular holes in the radar dish.

Morona shone a red flashlight onto the van’s side, and Vega could see dozens of fist-sized holes.

“The roof and the rear of the van are just the same,” Morona reported.

“We were hit by an anti radar missile. It detonated twenty or thirty meters up, off to this side and behind the radar. One man saw a streak of light, almost too fast for him to see.

Most of them heard a whoosh-boom and the radar was showered with these.

“

The captain offered Vega a handful of metal lumps. Taking them, the general could see that they were cubes, some deformed by their impact.

“Those were in the missile’s warhead. They littered the area after the explosion, and we have found over fifty inside the van-and its crew.”

Morona paused.

“I lost five men in that attack, sir, and another seven are wounded. We are working to get the optical backup on the van working, but even if I had the parts to fix the radar, I wouldn’t want to turn it on. We’d probably just attract another missile like this one.”

Vega shook his head. This was a dangerous attitude. Even if Morona’s statement held a ring of truth, there was an acknowledgment of the enemy’s strength that he didn’t like. Still, this man had shown he could do his job. B Battery had accounted for two American planes today, one of them in the same raid as the missile attack.

“Captain, I understand your reluctance-“

A shrill siren cut through his words, and both men realized the meaning of the sound. Another air raid was approaching.

“General! ” Morona shouted. ” You have to get back to headquarters!

“

Vega shook. his head and also raised his voice over the alarm.

“Headquarters may be the target again.” It had already been bombed, moved, and bombed again.

“I’ll stay here. “

“Into the command trench, then, sir.” Morona’s imperative, almost an order, made perfect sense, and the two men sprinted for the dugout, Vega following the captain’s lead.

Other men were running, dozens of them, as the gun crews settled into position. Phone circuits were hooked up and tested, and Vega saw gun barrels elevate and swivel as the aimers checked their mechanisms.

The two officers reached the command trench, little more than a six-foot-deep rectangular hole. The field phone operator shouted to

Morona as he leapt in, “At least eight aircraft, from the east!” Normally the report would have included altitude and speed, but Vega suspected this warning was based on a visual or sound sighting. The mobile air search radar had also fallen victim to an anti radar missile. Not only did this deny them information about the attacking aircraft, but also warning time. Those aircraft will be here any moment, Vega thought.

Morona picked up his own headset and listened briefly. Speaking into his microphone, he ordered, “Barrage pattern, one hundred meters altitude.

” Picking up a pair of field glasses, he scanned the night sky, looking for any sign of the oncoming raid.

Without taking his eyes from the sky, the battery commander spoke to

Vega.

“With both radars out, General, we cannot aim at individual aircraft, especially at night. All we can do is lay a pattern of fire in the sky at the right altitude and let them fly through it.”

“Why one hundred meters?” Vega asked.

“Because the American pilots Re to come in low, and that is the lowest they fly.”

The captain continued to scan with his binoculars and suddenly pointed to the southeast.

“Tracers! Troops on the ground are firing at the aircraft!” Pressing his mike switch, Morona said,

“Center sector on one three five. Barrage pattern! Commence!”

Half a second after he spoke, the four working guns of the battery opened up, filling the air with a rapid-fire roar. In addition to the guns themselves, Vega could hear the sound of the motor drives whirring and stopping, and the even higher-pitched sounds of the empty shell casings spilling from the guns. Fragments of shouted orders filled the small open spaces between the guns’ firing as men scurried to supply the guns with ammunition.

The S-60 can pump out seventy rounds a minute. The four in combination seemed to pour a stream of shells skyward, each one glowing and increasing in size as it flew. A few hundred meters up and about a kilometer away, the shells converged in a pattern of lines, hopefully intersecting the approaching aircrafts’ flight path. Even with aimed fire, it took thousands of rounds to get a single hit. Vega could only watch the display and hope.

“How many rounds do you have?” Vega shouted at Morona.

“More than two hundred rounds per gun ready,” he replied. Morona seemed to be almost leaning into the guns, as if the continuous muzzle blasts created a strong wind. Vega wished for six guns instead of four, and a functioning radar, then realized he was being foolish. He might as well wish for

Pretoria. His business was facts, and the hard reality of combat.

A high-pitched scream appeared behind the barking of the guns, and Vega saw a group of angular shapes appear to the southeast, crossing his field of view left to right. They were low and appeared only in silhouette against the moonlit sky. It was hard to tell their type, but they were almost certainly Intruders or Hornet attack jets. They seemed to approach slowly, even though he knew their speed must be a thousand kilometers an hour.

Yes! Their path was taking them through the flak barrage. and some of

the tracer streams wavered as the gunners attempted to track the fastmoving aircraft. As they neared, their apparent speed increased until they flashed past, gone before Vega had time to count them or guess their target.

“Down!” Hands grabbed his shoulders and roughly dragged him to the floor of the trench. As he started to protest, a deafening roar filled the air above, spilling over into their shelter. The roar ended in a popping, crackling sound that was even louder. As he fell full length to the dirt floor, fragments zinged around them, and choking dust filled the trench.

Vega felt a burning sensation in his left leg.

Shaking his head to clear it, Vega looked over at Morona, who stared back at him.

“I saw them coming in from the north while we tracked the first group of planes. Two aircraft. They were headed straight for us. ” The captain took a breath and nodded toward the lip of the trench.

“I think they just cluster-bombed the battery.”

The general started to stand up and suddenly sat down as his left leg gave way beneath him. He realized he couldn’t move it.

Morona leaned over him and took one look at the leg. His eyes widened, and he shouted, “The general’s been hit!”

Vega was curious about the damage to the battery and was insisting on trying to stand up as a medic appeared and began tekring at his pants leg. The general tried to help him, but suddenly felt dizzy and weak. As he leaned forward to look at the wound, the night spun around him and he remembered nothing else.

JANUARY 11 -WARM BAD VEGAS HEADQUARTERS

The third and latest headquarters was located in an anonymous-looking row of shops off a side street in town. Since they communicated solely by runners and field telephone, there was none of the exterior bustle and activity that marked it as a headquarters. There were no vehicles to spot, no radio traffic to detect. It was harder to do business, but they were still alive.

Vega had chosen a small bookstore for his own office, one of the prerogatives of command. Propped up in an easy chair from one of the apartments above, his leg elevated so that he was almost lying down, he didn’t feel foolish only because of the throbbing pain.

“The Russians have promised to replace our antiaircraft guns and send more and newer missiles to improve our defenses.” Suarez handed Vega the message slip.

Vega reached for the paper, then weakly waved it away.

“How many SAMs will it take to protect us from two aircraft carriers, Colonel? Who will provide the advisors and training for the new equipment?” The general scowled. “it will help, but in addition to airdefense equipment, ask for smoke generators and more dummy equipment. “

Suarez nodded, smiling.

“That will serve two purposes: provide them with more targets, and fool the South Africans and Americans as to our real strength.”

Vega shook his head and smiled.

“I’d rather they both thought we were weaker, not stronger. It’s clear that South Africa is concentrating their remaining forces against us.

“We can beat them. What are the casualty figures this morning?”

“Roughly ten percent of our armored vehicles are lost, another ten percent damaged but repairable, especially with cannibalization from the destroyed ones. The figures are double that for specialist units: artillery and air defense units have been especially hard hit.”

Vega nodded soberly, remembering B Battery. They were reduced to two guns now and had suffered over twenty dead in last night’s raid. It gave sober reality to Suarez’s cold statistics.

“In return for that, we shot down seven aircraft and damaged another ten,”

Suarez reported.

Vega had learned long ago not to trust completely enemy body counts.

“How many wrecks have we found?”

“Three, sir. The other four were seen to be trailing smoke and in trouble as they left the area.”

The general shook his head.

“However many there were, I think they will lighten up now. We can still expect attacks, but not at the level of the past twenty-four hours. From now

on, we will conduct major movements at night. If we pay more attention to proper dispersal and concealment, we can continue with minimal casualties.”

Suarez tried to sound hopeful.

“As long as they don’t attack the airheads in Mozambique and Zimbabwe, we will still receive supplies.”

“The Americans don’t need to attack the airheads. The supply line is long enough for them to hit it between here and the border. The risk of hitting Russians or other foreign citizens is too great, just as the risk of losing a cargo aircraft or its crew is too great for the Russians to land here.” Vega remembered the airfield at Naboomspruit. It could easily handle large transport planes, but the Soviets had insisted on landing at the original airfields, now a hundred kilometers away. He understood their reasoning, but it didn’t keep him from hating them.

Vega had been half-sitting up, but suddenly fell back in the chair as all the strength left him. Lack of sleep and a hole in his thigh that had needed thirty stitches could not be ignored. Suarez was worried. The general had been pushing himself before the wound. Now he was pale, and obviously on the brink of exhaustion. Tired men don’t make good leaders.

“I’ll send in the medics and some lunch, sir. You should rest and heal.”

“So should the rest of the Army,” Vega replied.

A mild painkiller and some food had relaxed and refreshed him, and his chief of staff let him sleep until dinnertime. That gave Suarez time to organize the Army and the disrupted supply lines.

The general woke from his long nap, and while he was still pale and thin, he spoke more energetically and was much less defeatist. As they ate dinner, Vega issued a dozen directives, all designed to help deal with the American air attacks and the problems of night combat. He railed against the loss of half a day, and Suarez smiled. He would gladly spend half a day’s advance to get his general back.

Evidence of the American attacks was everywhere when the command group went forward to their observation position. Suarez was visibly uneasy, but Vega had insisted on observing the first night attack personally. None of them had any experience in large-scale night attacks, and Vega said that he needed to learn faster than anyone else in the Army, and hopefully faster than the South Africans.

Gomez parked the jeep in a gully formed where a dry streambed cut into the side of a hill. Although there were several groups of trees nearby, the Cubans’ first lesson had been to avoid prominent terrain features.

Instead, they sheltered it against the gully’s side, then moved forward slowly to the top of the hill.

The command group, consisting of Vega, Vasquez, Gomez with the radio, and two bodyguards, settled down to wait for the opening moves. Suarez would run the battle from headquarters. In fact, Vega thought, Suarez was shaping up nicely. Certainly, when the next list of generals was announced, Suarez should be on it. The man should have his own division. .

A rippling group of explosions woke Vega with a start.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“About half an hour, sir. There’s been nothing to see. and you needed the rest. The artillery barrage is just beginning. “

“Good.” Initially afraid that he’d missed something, his relief was mixed with irritation. Was everyone in the Army going to nursemaid him now?

Vega was lying on his back and rolled over, grabbing his field glasses.

Only the general outlines of the landscape could be made out. Scattered clouds blocked some of the starlight and a very new moon. A classic example of the veld, or savannah, making up much of northern South

Africa, it appeared flat, covered with scrub brush and tall grass.

Off to the left, he could see a glow and hear the explosions made by artillery shells as they landed. They had probably started a few fires in the grass, hopefully among the South African defenders.

The deceptively flat terrain was laced with dips and rises, some of them large enough to conceal an armored vehicle.

With time to prepare, vehicles could be dug in so that only their turret and gun were exposed, forming an excellent defensive position. Their slow progress had given the Boers more than enough time.

This battle was to regain the initiative. The South Africans had rebuilt their defenses, and Vega was going to have to knock them back on their heels. His wound notwithstanding, the general felt the old drive again.

He knew he could blow these damn Boers out of their holes, and the artillery was just the first step.

The barrage ceased, and Vega knew that kilometers back, the gun crews were hurriedly bringing the guns out of battery and moving them to their second firing position. He would lose the battery for half an hour, but better that than losing them forever.

Vega lay on the rise and watched, waiting. It was quiet again, and in the darkness, the only sound he could hear was a faint rumbling, far to the rear. Some part of his forces was being bombed, and Vega could only hope that Suarez could deal with the extra confusion.

The second phase was late, or seemed to be, and Vega felt himself displaying uncharacteristic nervousness. He was almost ready to reach for the radio when he heard the crack of high-velocity cannon, off to the left. There were no new lights, but as the tank cannon fired, he could see streaks of light fly forward and land all along the South African line. The T-62s probably wouldn’t hit anything, Vega decided, but they would get the Boers’ attention, and certainly their respect.

After a few shots, Vega saw streaks of fire going back the other way.

There was no sign of the source, or its effects, and he could only hope his men were giving the best part.

The general scanned the rest of the battlefield. Good. No lights, no sounds, no other sign of activity. Fifteen minutes had passed since the barrage had stopped, and the general nervously counted each one, hoping that his artillery would be redeployed in time.

They didn’t get the chance. A popping noise heralded a harsh, white, flickering light. Vega noted that the flares were fired over the right side of the battlefield and knew that his plan had been detected.

The magnesium light illuminated row after row of tanks and personnel carriers, advancing on the right toward the Boer lines. Somebody must have heard engines and called for flares. It had to happen eventually, but like all generals, Vega had wanted them to get a little closer before they were discovered.

The firing on his left had been by no more than a handful of tanks, picked for their cranky engines, but functional guns. Combined with a preparatory barrage, Vega’s feint had not only drawn the enemy’s attention but hopefully their reserves as well.

Vega watched his lines of armor advance. They were speeding up now, sacrificing neat formations to close quickly with the enemy. Breaking standard doctrine, they would not fire until they had a target, which would hopefully be at short range. As it was, they were only a kilometer or so from the Afrikaner line.

It only took a few seconds for the enemy to see the advancing battalion and realize their danger. Their positions erupted in tracers, bathing the advancing Cubans in explosives. There were a few hits, but the dark, moving targets held their fire and kept advancing.

Vega started to get up, but almost as soon as he stirred, he felt

Vasquez’s hand on his shoulder, urging him to stay.

“You won’t see anything if you get closer, sir. It would just increase the chance of you getting hit again, and we might not be as lucky.”

The general nodded and returned to his prone position. His urge to get closer was natural, but even at close range, a night battle was no more than a confused mix of sound and images. His best vantage point was up here, getting the “big picture,” even if it was a little dark.

The general shook his head a little. Normally he would have dismissed an impulse such as that without giving it a second thought. Vega could only wonder if his wound had weakened him, made him more emotional. He resolved to consider his actions carefully.

The storm of fire suddenly doubled, and Vega realized that his battalion must be close enough to see the Boer positions clearly. Fire was starting to come in from the left and center as well now. The general smiled as he imagined the confusion behind the enemy line-first sending units over to its left, then frantically trying to shift them as the true danger was revealed. Vega loved the chaos and confusion of battle-as long as it was behind the enemy’s lines.

Gomez spoke up.

“Battery commander reports ready for second fire mission.

“

Vega felt his spirits lift a little more.

“Tell him to execute as planned,” he ordered the radio man. He listened to Gomez relay his order as he studied the battle.

More of his tanks and APCs were burning now. The progress of the battalion could be followed by a widening wedge of flickering fires, and

Vega knew that for every burning vehicle there were probably two more that had been knocked out.

He hoped the men had escaped from their metal traps. More importantly, he hoped they would have the wit and the will to advance in the right direction in the swirling, lethal confusion.

A whooshing roar was followed by a hollow crump sound. His artillery was shelling the Afrikaner line, but the shells were smoke, not high explosive. Landing at right angles to the Boer positions, and lying across the center, the smoke would make the dark night darker, effectively isolating one third of the battlefield from the rest. It would not block all of the Boer fire, but it would reduce its effectiveness and slow any movement to that area.

The artillery stopped, and Vega knew they were moving again. American air power, even if not directed by the South Africans, was driving his tactics. Like weather or terrain, it had to be considered, but it could be dealt with.

“The assistant battalion commander says that his tanks have penetrated the line and are swinging left!” Gomez’s report was almost a cheer, and

Vega was glad that the darkness hid his grin. Then he stopped worrying about it.

With the tanks behind them and on their flank, the South

Africans would have to quickly retreat or face utter destruction. Vega almost hoped they didn’t. He imaged the panicked Boer infantry, turning their heads to see shadowed steel monsters emerging from the smoke almost on top of them.

Still, it had not been without cost. Obviously the battalion commander was unable to report. His tank was in the front rank, and Vega could only hope that his vehicle’s problems were limited to a broken radio,

The trick now was to seize the Afrikaner positions, dig in, and be ready for the morning light and a new round of air attacks. By the time the

Americans knew he was here, he wanted his men secure.

He stood up slowly, weakly, but victorious. He was a heartbeat away from

Pretoria. He and his men had survived nuclear weapons, guerrilla attacks,

American air power, all in addition to a dangerous enemy and a harsh landscape. Nothing could stop him.

JANUARY 13

Vega slept in that morning, unusual but quite reasonable. He was used to rising early and liked attacking difficult problems first thing, but that was before his wound, and before his forces had shifted to their new nighttime pattern.

His room, a former office in the back of the bookstore, was dark when he awoke. In his disorientation, for a moment he thought it was still before dawn, but he felt rested. Then, panicking, he thought he had passed the whole day asleep. There was another night attack to organize, and when he caught Suarez, he was…

He heard voices out in the front rooms, saw sunlight streaming through the shuttered windows, and finally looked at his watch. It was eleven o’clock.

He’d slept for eight hours, and even though his leg hurt like hell, he felt better than he had in weeks. It was time to plan the next battle, before the South Africans had time to dig in too deeply.

Vega dressed himself quietly, carefully, favoring his leg. He missed

Gomez’s presence, but the corporal was now

needed for other tasks at headquarters and could not be spared for orderly duty.

Drawing himself upright, he opened the door and stepped out into the main room, which was a common office for the headquarters staff.

Vasquez, Suarez, and several of the reconnaissance platoon officers were engaged in a heated, although not angry, discussion. Books and maps were scattered everywhere. They were so intent that they did not notice Vega’s presence until he was almost next to them.

Vasquez sensed his presence first and turning, gasped when he saw the general standing over him. The rest of the staff, embarrassed and a little frightened at not noticing Vega’s entrance, quickly came to attention.

The general responded to their muttered good mornings and gratefully sat down in the chair offered to him. Rustlings behind him soon resolved into a breakfast of bread and jam, some tinned meat, and strong coffee. As they handed him the plate, Vega remembered that fancy dinner in the Strand

Hotel. It seemed as if it had been years ago, but he remembered the elegant food clearly. He liked this much better.

“What is our situation, Colonel?” asked Vega as he picked up his coffee cup.

“Based on prisoners and other information, we believe the battalion we faced last night was a composite of several understrength units. They suffered at least twenty-five percent casualties, based on the bodies and destroyed equipment we have found.”

Suarez added, “Our casualties were closer to fifteen percent, including

Colonel Oliva.”

Vega nodded somberly. Night actions were always fought at close range, which meant a lot of hits and a lot of casualties. All the maneuvering and preparation in the world finally resolved into a hugger-mugger encounter where a bayonet was as good as an antitank missile. He was willing to sustain those losses, though, if he could reach Pretoria. A big victory would force the Russians to shorten his supply lines, pull in more of the socialist world as allies…

He realized he was drifting. Vasquez had gone on to describe the next most likely Boer position, the town of Temba.

A small mining settlement, scouts following the retreating South Africans had seen them retreat into it. A minor road junction, it had the added complication of lying across a small river. The terrain was definitely tricky.

Vasquez pointed to a sketchy map, which had been heavily annotated.

“Although the setup is more complex, I have reconnaissance personnel scouting the terrain for dead zones and potential approach routes. They should be back in this afternoon. We are also trying to build up a picture of the enemy’s order of battle, but—the colonel, paused, hesitating-“we are having some difficulty doing so.”

Vega nodded, a little impatiently. Vasquez had done well in a job that had grown harder and harder. Reconnaissance assets had been scarce to begin with, and now American aircraft made any movement dangerous. The chance of any aerial reconnaissance was also nil, especially after two of his precious reconnaissance aircraft had been shot down by carrier-based fighters.

Still, everyone knew the problems, and also the solutions, or the best ones that could be found. He looked at the colonel.

“Well?”

“We are seeing massive movement, not only in the town but on the roads leading to it.”

“That only makes sense,” Vega countered.

“It is the South Africans’ next defensive position, and we are getting closer to the capital all the time.

It’s only natural-“

“Sir, my worst-case estimate for the Afrikaner defenses was a composite battalion of armor, two understrength infantry battalions, and two batteries of artillery.” Everyone on the staff who heard the list winced.

Such a strong defense would make Temba nearly impossible to take.

“We have hard information about two battalions of armor, both stronger than we expected. One of them appears to be made up exclusively of tanks!”

“What?” Vega’s look of puzzlement was natural. The entire South African

Army didn’t have a complete battalion of tanks left anywhere.

“We’ve had several reconnaissance vehicles killed at long range, in excess of three thousand meters, by antitank missiles. the launchers were masked, but appeared to be deployed around the flanks of the town.”

The intelligence officer continued, “We are also seeing helicopters operating near Temba. They are not approaching close enough for us to make them out, but my scouts cannot recognize the type.”

Vega was intrigued.

“What do you think they are up to, Colonel?”

“We can only conclude that it is a last-ditch effort, sir. We are much closer to Pretoria than the Americans, and the Boers have always put the bulk of their forces in against us. The American front to the south has been quiet in the last few days. It may be that they have run into the same kind of supply problems we have faced, but their supply-hungry army cannot operate as well on short rations.

“My assessment is that they have been stripping the American front of every unit they can, and especially after our victory last night, have committed their national reserves from Pretoria. “

The general said, “Other possibilities?”

“I see none, sir. We had very good information on their strengths before we started the war, and there are simply no other units left. If we don’t include the units fighting the Americans and British, this brigade is the last major South African force in existence.”

“Then let’s start planning. If we can organize another night attack, concentrating on only. one portion of the brigade, we can do to them what we did to that battalion last night.” Vega’s voice was full of energy, and it galvanized the entire staff. They could take on a dug-in force almost as large as their own, and win.

Vega and his officers were clustered around the map, trying to take it apart and visualize the terrain, when the radio operator interrupted them.

“Sir, one of the scouts reports a jeep moving north from Temba under a white flag.”

Vega, already deep in his element, took this development as one more piece of a very interesting puzzle. What could the Boers want from him?

What was in the commander’s mind?

“Halt them at the edge of our defenses, but do not molest them,” Vega ordered.

The general grabbed his hat and battered uniform coat.

“Come on,” he said.

“I will not meet the Boers in the middle of a bookstore. We will meet them at our front lines.”

The party climbed into a GAZ jeep and drove south at high speed. An escorting party of soldiers barely had time to pile into another and follow them.

The road south to Temba cut through a line of low hills, the same ones that had held the Boer defenders but now held Cuban soldiers.

The command group approached the spot, and Vega noticed a strange-looking vehicle parked under one of the few trees in the area. It was an American jeep, neatly painted in sand and green colors. A small knot of men lounged or sat in the vehicle, under extremely heavy guard.

As their own jeep neared the scene, the men stood up and appeared to be speaking to each other. ‘the circle of guards tightened, as if to prevent any sudden treachery.

Vega’s group was now close enough to see them clearly, and his mask of calm was nearly shattered by the sights of not only a South African officer, but what looked like American and British officers as well. What in the world were they doing here? Witnesses? Observers?

Regaining control, he stepped out as the jeep slowed to a stop and then waited patiently as his staff also climbed out and assembled themselves.

He let Vasquez take the lead, and they crossed the ten meters or so to where the enemy officers stood, waiting. Vasquez spoke English, and so would act as interpreter. Vega spoke only Spanish and Russian.

The colonel approached the South African, who appeared to be a brigadier, or one-star general.

“I have the honor to be Colonel Jaume Vasquez of the

Cuban Revolutionary Ground Forces. I would like to present General

Antonio

Vega, supreme commander of the Socialist Armies in Africa.” Vega nodded politely.

The South African returned Vasquez’s salute, although he managed to do it in such a way that the colonel could feel the man’s hatred. The brigadier’s tone was cold, and stiff, and the clipped English only accented his anger.

“I am Brigadier Deneys Coetzee, chief of staff of the

South African Defense Forces and provisional head of the South African government. “

Vasquez’s reaction was so obvious that Coetzee smiled. They’d had no idea. News of Vorster’s fall had been suppressed, easy to do in the tightly controlled media Vorster’s regulations had created. That had given Coetzee and the Americans valuable time to consolidate, and more importantly, to prepare a rude surprise for the Cubans.

Coet/ee allowed the colonel just enough time to translate this introduction for Vega before introducing the other two men.

“This is

Major General Samuel Weber of the United States Army, and Colonel Nigel

Moore, of the British Army. “

Vega as well as Vasquez recognized Weber’s name from the intelligence reports. He commanded the American 24th Mechanized Division. Late reports had placed it on National Route 3, fighting its way north toward

Johannesburg. Vega felt a wave of cold creeping up his spine.

Coetzee spoke again.

“Tell your general that the South African government has ceased hostilities with the American and British governments and has now asked for their assistance in repelling the communist forces that have invaded our territory. “

Vasquez bristled slightly, but translated the sentence. Vega maintained his impassive expression, but from the expressions of the rest of his staff, the information hit home.

Vega said, “Ask him what happened to Vorster. ” Vasquez translated the question.

Coetzee replied, “That is none of your business, but since it will soon be public knowledge, we can tell you that he is under arrest and will soon be indicted, under South African law, on several counts of murder.”

When this was translated, Vega’s cold chill now turned his heart into a block of ice. He could almost feel it in his throat. Vorster would never have made peace with the Americans. He was ready to destroy his country before he’d loosen his grip. If Vorster was really gone, then the

Americans and British had a free hand.

The American walked two steps forward, facing Vasquez. Weber said, “I’m not going to mince words. If your intelligence people are on the job at all, you know who I am.” Without thinking, Vasquez nodded.

Jerking his thumb back behind him, Weber said, “I’ve already deployed a full battalion of M-1 tanks in that town back there, and I’m bringing up another two battalions of one of my brigades sometime soon. I won’t tell you boys exactly when, but you can assume the worst.”

He leaned closer to Vasquez, so that they were almost nose to nose.

“The other two brigades will be along presently.” He pointed to the British officer.

“That gentlemen there also has some units he controls, and there are other officers that couldn’t make it to this little meeting. Vaquez noted in passing that the British officer wore a red beret, which could only mean that he commanded a battalion of paratroopers.

“In short, Colonel, you tell your general back there that instead of facing a divided South African Army, he faces the combined forces of

South Africa, Britain, and the United States.”

Vasquez started to translate, but Weber cut him off.

“And tell General

Vega that we are fresh as fucking daisies. I’ve been fighting South

Africans for a while, and I haven’t enjoyed it too much. Now that

Vorster’s been taken care of, I’d love to kick some Cuban ass.”

Vasquez, controlling his temper, transmitted a paraphrase of Weber’s speech to Vega, which even in summary caused him to drop his mask of detachment and take one step toward the American.

Coetzee said, “We offer you these terms: Withdraw from South African territory immediately, using the same routes you came in on. You will be escorted along the entire route, but not molested. Once you have returned to Mozambique

and Zimbabwe, you will evacuate all national forces. On the Namibian front, we will institute an immediate cease-fire, followed by a mutual phased withdrawal with the purpose of restoring Namibian sovereignty.

“You have two hours to organize your forces and begin the retreat. If we have not seen you comply with our terms at the end of that time, we are going to blow you to hell.”

The jeep ride back to Warmbad was absolutely quiet. All of them had their own thoughts and recommendations, but if the general wanted them, he would ask for them.

I Vega’s own mind was on fire-calculating, considering, discarding. He had no intention of giving in limply to the threats of the South African and his Western friends.

Vorster was gone, and presumably any of his sympathizers as well. What did that mean for the South African government? They were obviously the creatures of the Americans and British, but it had always been that way.

If the Americans were moving into Temba in strength, then they already held Pretoria. Vega guessed that his threat to the mines was over, and with it the Cuban forces’ role as a spoiler.

The general kept trying to fit the pieces together, to reduce the situation down to its basics. Could he still take Pretoria? Not likely.

Not with his present forces and supply situation.

Could he hurt the West? Probably, if he could ruin the mines. Vega knew that simply by remaining in South Africa, the economies of many Western nations were being threatened.

That was a goal he could fight for.

The jeep pulled up in front of his headquarters-and Vega got out more slowly, favoring his sore leg.

“Send a message to Havana. Tell them about the new situation and request reinforcements. We will need an increased level of support from the Russians. Tell Castro that ‘the capitalist forces have united themselves against us, and it is time for the socialist forces to match them. This is the great confrontation.”

“

Vasquez ran off to compose the message. Vega made no immediate move to speak, and finally Suarez asked, “Then we are not retreating?”

“Yes, we are, Colonel, but only as far as Warmbad. Pass word to all the commanders that we are taking up defensive positions in town.” He saw their stares and added, “We have been advancing, which means that we were on the wrong end of the three-to-one equation.

“If we dig into Warmbad and let them come to us, we can easily hold off a division-sized attack. After we give them a bloody nose, we will launch limited counterattacks, concentrating on holding ground and killing his troops. No advances, no offensives. They will have to come to us, and we will make them bleed.

” By the time they can bring up enough forces to overwhelm us, Havana and

Moscow will have sent us the additional reinforcements we so desperately need.”

Suarez nodded. It was a good plan, but he was still worried.

“What about the American air attacks?”

“We have seen what their air power can do. We can ride it out if we are ready. Start pulling our men back right away. Make it obvious and noisy, then dig them in around the town. Dig hard and deep.”

JANUARY 14-DEFENSE COUNCIL MEETING, THE

KREMLIN, RSFSR

Vega’s message asking for additional reinforcements was under intense discussion. It was not an argument, because everyone in the council was agreed: Vega had done the impossible and was only inches short of his goal. The question was, how much more aid should be provided?

The council was also in complete agreement about the Cuban’s request to shorten the supply lines. It was dismissed out of hand. Transport aircraft landing in South African territory would certainly force a direct confrontation with the Americans. The Cubans would have to make do.

Marshal Kamenev, chief of the general staff, looked pale

and haggard after a night with his planners. The Defense Council had been unable to reply to Castro and Vega without hard numbers, and his job had been to find them.

Distilling the situation to its basics, Kamenev said, “Vega now faces forces not only of greater strength but of higher quality. His T-62s and

Sagger missiles will be facing M-Is and TOWs, as well as attack helicopters and high-performance fighters.”

Everyone nodded in agreement. Although only the defense minister and

Marshal Kamenev were military men, all of them could understand the advantage of first-line equipment over twenty-year-old castoffs.

“it is also clear that we can no longer plan on seizing the South African capital. The Americans and British have won that race, installing their own puppet government. Instead, we must plan on a strategy of economic denial. If Cuban forces can reach the Witwatersrand, they can dig in and hold on indefinitely. “

Kamenev’s aides started passing out copies of a thick document to each council member.

“This is a list of equipment we will have to make available if Vega is to fulfill his role as spoiler: advanced antitank missiles, artillery, air defense equipment, and especially more aircraft. “

The foreign minister interrupted.

“I have been in communication with several of our socialist allies. They are not prepared to offer more material assistance, but would welcome the chance to give their pilots combat experience. They will all make commitments to the fight, if we do.”

The President nodded. There was a political stake here. If the Soviets abandoned their socialist ally now, they would bear the blame for Cuba’s defeat. He looked around the table, and there was no sign of dissension.

“Then we are agreed to supply the material.” Turning to Kamenev, the

President said, “When can you start?”

“We will begin staging transport aircraft immediately. With luck, we can have the first supplies down there by tomorrow night. The ships will take longer, of course.”

The President nodded, then swept the entire group with his gaze.

“Understand, this means turning a short war into a long one. “

The foreign minister said, “Yes, Comrade President-one that will tic the

West’s economy into knots. We are not risking Russian lives, only spending a little that will cost the West much more.

WARM BAD

In the growing light, Vega inspected the command bunker, dug out and concealed by the headquarters group, with the assistance of the engineers.

Built in the basement of a collapsed house on the outskirts of town, the roof was alternating layers of wooden beams and earth almost two meters thick. The entire bunker, including the signs of its construction, was carefully camouflaged. The general had even given permission for a dummy transmitter to be set up, in hopes of drawing enemy attention away from the real headquarters.

It had been a welcome relief to find out that they had the whole night to prepare. Initial plans had revolved around a hasty improvement of the existing positions, but when the sun disappeared with no sign of the enemy, Vega had taken a risk and ordered more extensive preparations.

Outside of a few enemy overflights, probably reconnaissance aircraft, they had not been molested.

The entire Army had dug frantically all night, knowing what lay in store with the dawn. The general was proud of his men. Exhausted from a series of night battles, underfed and understrength, they had still dug in with a will, sweating now to avoid bleeding when the enemy came.

Vega hadn’t left it entirely to his men, though. He had drafted every remaining able-bodied citizen of Warrnbad to assist in digging the emplacements, under the direction of his engineers. White or black, they had worked under the guns of his men until near dawn, when they had been released, fleeing into the countryside.

He didn’t blame them, Vega thought. You didn’t have to

be a military genius to see that the Cubans were preparing for trouble.

Vega was still inspecting the exterior of the bunker when the radio operator called out, “Captain Morona reports incoming aircraft. “

Vega hustled toward the entrance. He’d been caught by surprise once, but would not make the same mistake again. He’d been lucky the first time, but wanted to save his good luck for more important things.

The newly installed field-telephone network allowed Vega to reach all of his battalion commanders, the forward outposts, and the air defense sites. There were alternate lines, and critical lines had been buried so they wouldn’t accidentally be cut.

A muffled rumbling could be heard through the bunker’s heavy door.

Putting his hand on the cement wall, he could feel the vibrations, the slamming sensation of explosions against the earth.

“All posts report,” he said.

The switchboard operator relayed his order, then listened, relaying the words as they came in.

“Twenty-fifth battalion reports no attacks. It sees aircraft bombing targets in town, though. They are engaging with small arms and machine guns. “

Vega nodded approvingly. Standing orders directed every soldier to fire his weapon straight up as enemy aircraft passed overhead. An entire company or battalion of men, all firing up, was a threat no airplane willingly accepted.

The other three battalions gave similar reports, and his artillery was similarly untouched. What became clear, though, was that the aircraft were concentrating on the air defenses-in huge numbers.

“Outpost five reports at least six jet aircraft attacking B Battery.” The switchboard operator paused, then tried to call the battery directly.

“No answer.”

Again and again reports came in of heavy air attacks, all concentrating on the air defense units. Vega had three batteries of 57mm guns, and three of 23mm weapons. While they had been carefully dug in, they were not supposed to stand this kind of pounding.

Normally aircraft would evade antiaircraft units or settle for suppressing them, since the idea was to bomb the target, not the target’s defenders. His combat units were virtually untouched, though.

After twenty minutes of aerial bombardment, Vega challenged his staff directly. He had his own opinion, but he wanted their evaluations.

“What is the enemy planning, gentlemen?”

Vasquez spoke first.

“It is a calculated plan to first destroy our air defense, then concentrate on the rest of our forces.”

Suarez agreed.

“They may have underestimated the strength of our emplacements. It cost , s them less in blood to pound us from the air. We may be in for a morning of air raids, then a ground attack later in the day.”

Vega nodded. He hoped they were right.

After a full thirty minutes of aerial attacks, Vega sensed it was time for a shift. None of the antiaircraft batteries responded, and the outposts and other units that could see them reported no signs of movement. A volunteer runner from a nearby emplacement had risked a dash to B Battery and back, only to report heavy casualties and many wrecked guns.

Vega had to concede, although it made no difference to the Americans overhead, that his air defenses were gone.

“Outpost three reports more aircraft approaching from the east. “

A little irritated, Vega demanded more information.

“Tell Three they can do better than that. We need numbers, type, altitude. “

The operator relayed Vega’s criticism and then listened, eyes widening.

“Three says about ten aircraft, that they are very large, and are at high altitude. They cannot make out the type. “

“I can,” said Vega, and grabbed a pair of binoculars. Opening the bunker’s door, he stood in the opening and scanned the sky. Suarez and the rest of his staff held looks

of puzzlement or confusion. What were the Americans doing now?

Vega knew, or thought he did. He had been an observer in Vietnam. He was looking up, but raised the glasses still more. There. The aircraft were almost too high to be seen, but even at that altitude, the long, thin wings and fuselages were unmistakable.

The instant of recognition galvanized him. Spinning and slamming the door, he said, “American B-52 bombers. Grab something and hold on.”

Setting an example, he tucked the binoculars in the space between the desk and the wall, then sat down, bracing himself. His staff quickly followed his example.

Inside the bunker, they couldn’t hear the high-altitude jets. The first sound they heard was the bombs landing.

Four cells of three 13,52Gs had been launched from Diego Garcia five hours before. The order to launch had actually come before nightfall,

South African time, but it had taken time to fuel the eight-engine monsters and load each plane with fifty-one 750-pound bombs.

The bombers came over in level flight and tight formation. A squadron of

F/A-18s provided close escort, and one of F14s ranged farther out. After three squadrons of attack aircraft had pounded the ground defenses, no real opposition was expected from them, either.

The bomber laid a perfect, tight pattern on top of Warrnbad.

The sound of the explosions swelled quickly, so quickly that it was overhead before they could measure its approach.

What had been a distant rumbling became a nearby thunderstorm and then a cascade of explosions that Vega thought would tear the bunker open. The sound grew still more, into a nauseating concussion that threw him away from the wall, and finally to a single, continuous, deafening roar.

At first, the inside of the command bunker filled with airborne dust, all of it created by the vibrations from the bombs dropping outside. Loose gear started to rattle and fall over, but the men inside hung on as they looked at the ceiling and hoped it would hold.

In seconds, the crescendo of sound and vibration rendered thought impossible, and those unable to hold on literally flew across the room, slamming into anything in their way.

Vega was literally bounced out of his corner, and he collided with the switchboard operator, who either from duty or confusion had stayed seated at his panel. Now the equipment lay in a jumble of wires, and only the cabling that attached it to the wall kept it from flying around as well.

The lights went out, and Vega could hear yells and thuds as people and equipment collided in a room that seemed more and more mobile. For one moment, he thought the entire bunker had somehow become detached and was tumbling end over end, but he knew that the concrete-block walls could never survive that.

In the confusion of the tumbling men and darkness, Vega hardly noticed that the explosions had stopped. Coughing in the murky, dust-choked air, he fumbled to stand upright. Succeeding, he bumped his head on the ceiling.

Crouching as he rubbed the sore spot on his skull, the general remembered being able to stand upright in the bunker.

They had to get out, and quickly. Where was the door? The dust was so thick that it was impossible even to see the walls, but in the darkness, Vega could see a glow and stumbled toward it.

The wooden door was off its hinges, broken, then crushed when the frame surrounding it buckled. A concealing pile of lumber had been blown clear, and the general climbed up the ramp and out into the open.

The air outside was only a little better than that inside. Trying to breathe, he almost choked and bent over in a spasm of coughing.

It had to be a little clearer, though, since he could see some distance, almost a hundred meters. The town looked fairly intact, and he had begun to have some hope before he turned around and looked over where the 25the battalion should have been located.

Vega’s bunker was on the outskirts of Warmbad, on the northern side. He had deployed his battalions in a circle

around the town, each of the four occupying a ninety-degree sector. Dug in on the flat, treeless landscape, the battalion should have been seen only as series of low mounds, and the turrets of its dug-in armored vehicles.

Instead, the uneven, churned-up earth showed no sign of plant or animal life, or anything of human construction. The smoke and dust cleared a little more, and Vega could see the individual craters made by the bombs.

They were huge, each almost a dozen meters across. More disturbingly, in the near distance he could see the shattered remains of an AK-47.

Vega heard voices behind him-exclamations, gasps, a few shouted orders.

His staff was also emerging from their barely adequate bomb shelter.

Ignoring them, he started to walk toward the 25this command post, a few hundred meters away.

A mild breeze was moving the dust, clearing the air. As it did so, the outlines of the landscape became harsher, and more details, all of them horrible, were visible.

Vega had taken no more than a few steps past the shattered weapon when he found a leg, half-buried in the dirt. The exposed hip joint was covered with dust. Moving forward more slowly, the general found more body parts, whether from the same man or another it was impossible to tell.

Vega had to pick his way carefully. A layer of loose earth, perhaps half a meter deep, covered everything. He remembered walking in freshly plowed fields back home, and this dirt had the same consistency.

He stepped and felt something solid under the surface. A rock, a man, or some piece of equipment, it was impossible to tell. Carefully picking his way in the uncertain footing, he almost bumped into the metal side of what had been an armored personnel carrier.

The vehicle was fairly intact, but was nearly covered with loose dirt.

Lying on its side, it was at least fifty or a hundred meters from the nearest spot APCs could have been em placed

Vega reached for a hatch, intending to check the crew, then dropped his hand. There was no point.

His staff found him there five minutes later. Looking out to the west, he made no move to turn to face them as they approached. When they stopped, sharing his silence, he said, “Send a messenger to the South

Africans.”

He turned to face them.

“We’re going home.”