Vortex

CHAPTER 42 Retreat

JANUARY 14-CLOSE-UP FLIGHT, OVER NATIONAL ROUTE I

“Ice” Isaacs fought his instincts and flew straight and level, following the road. Below him stretched the entire Cuban Army, or the remains of it, at least.

Lacking anything else to do, Ice checked on Spike Faber. His wingman was in position, and when he saw Ice turn his head to face him, he waved cheerfully, then slow-rolled his Hornet in place.

Isaacs fought the urge to give him at least a mild chewing out.

Acrobatics such as that on a combat mission were strictly forbidden, for good reason, but this was like no combat mission he’d ever flown.

Thousands of armed Cubans passed beneath his wings, and then the road was empty. Isaacs continued north, extending the distance before his turn.

At three hundred feet and slow speed, every detail of the column was visible. The trucks, the long lines of men on foot, some of them limping, and best from his point of view, not a weapon raised against them.

Isaac pulled the Hornet up in a long, graceful curve, taking the time to enjoy the sensation. This was no five-g turn designed to bend the airplane onto a new course as quickly as possible. There was no hurry, and nothing more dangerous than the afternoon thermals to occupy his attention.

Lieutenant Isaacs was a little relieved, actually. He had of course been briefed that the Cubans would not fire, and that they were expecting close overflights, but there was always the chance some hothead would take a potshot at them. He smiled. Maybe the flight of A-6 Intruders a thousand feet up and a mile off to the left had cooled any hot tempers.

Ice finished his turn and lined up on the road again. The long shadows were going to make the photo interpreters’ lives a lot easier. In a few hours headquarters would have an excellent idea of the retreating Cubans’ strength.

He triggered the cameras and started a second pass.

General Vega looked up at the jets, sure the pilots were laughing at him and his men. The urge to shoot, to lash out at his enemies, was almost as great as his shame, but the certainty of death was too great.

He was proud of his men, and his sole goal was to ensure that they all reached home successfully. The thought of Cuba pulled him forward, even as the American tanks and troops pushed from behind.

The enemy had been generous. Victors can afford to be. He and his men, stunned from the massive bomber raid, had spent the morning digging out survivors, then at noon had started out on the long march home.

Along the way, they would meet supply convoys, en route before the great reversal. Like a snake eating its own tail, Vega’s army would march back unopposed, but unassisted.

JANUARY 15-DEFENSE COUNCIL, THE KREMLIN, RSFSR

Marshal Kamenev stood before the council, holding the message as if were news of a loved one’s death.

Tumansky. the foreign minister, asked, “Is there no action we can take, no promise that will make him stop this retreat?”

Kamenev shook his head.

“I have met General Vega and have read his messages over the months. I know him. He is beaten. “

Reading aloud, the marshal said, “

“The correlation of forces is too great for any conceivable force to overcome. Even with Cuba’s whole armed forces, I could not stand against the Western alliance.”

“

Kamenev looked up from the paper.

“He rebukes us, comrades. He is implying that he stands alone against the West, and that Cuba cannot stand, but that we could.”

“Could we, comrade?” Tumansky’s face was a mask of concern.

“Our goal was clear. The socialist forces fought a real enemy, the last capitalist power in Africa. World opinion was on our side.”

“More importantly,” the President added, “we could have put a noose around the Western economies’ necks, while ours grew strong. ” He turned to Kamenev.

“What military options are open to us?”

The marshal sighed.

“If we wish to continue fighting, we would have to land Soviet troops, in division strength, in Mozambique and Zimbabwe.

Vega’s men are finished. We would have to provide the forces ourselves.

Once secure airheads had been established, we could then begin advancing south, along the same routes used by Vega’s forces.”

The chairman of the KGB nodded.

“The prize might be worth a risk of war with the Americans.”

The President and other members of the Defense Council did not appear to share his feelings.

“How long to execute such a plan, comrade?”

“I could have airborne forces moving in twenty-four to forty-eight hours.” The marshal’s positive words did not match his reluctant tone.

“Category A divisions could be taken from the strategic reserve. It would take a minimum of two weeks to build up, then a campaign of several months before we would reach

Pretoria, if at all.”

The President prompted, “And the chance of success?”

“Very poor, sir. American and British forces are already in place in the area. We could expect to be bombed by carrie rand land-based aircraft as soon as our troops started appearing. They would undoubtedly bring in more units, matching our buildup. Our interventions might trigger other

Western countries into joining the Americans. We would be fighting an armed and ready enemy, on ground of his choosing, far beyond our normal reach. It could take much longer than several months. “

Tumansky said, “A long war would be a disaster. If we can move quickly, outpace world opinion-“

Kamenev interrupted him.

“We do not have the initiative, Minister. A wise man picks his fights carefully. This is not the time.”

The foreign minister was silent.

“Then we have no options?” The President’s question was accompanied by a long look around the table. The other Defense Council members remained silent.

“Comrade President. With your permission, I will start ferrying Cuban troops back to Luanda, and then to Havana.”

The President sighed.

“Approved.” It would be a long time before they’d risk another ruble in Africa.

JANUARY 16-ALLIED EXPEDITIONARY FORCE HEADQUARTERS, DURBAN

The visitor from the State Department looked out of place, his suit and tie clashing with the drab camouflage colors surrounding him. General

Craig had half-dreaded and halfexpected his arrival.

Normally, a military government was set up in the conquered territory until order could be restored and a civilian government established.

Craig knew he could do the job.

In this case, though, the civilian government was already

established. In this day and age, too, Washington would want to maintain much closer control over the situation.

Craig sighed. He’d spent a lot of time in the Pentagon and the Navy

Annex, but that didn’t make him an insider. Washington would want one of their own men in charge.

With the State Department in the act, his job would be over. What would happen to him next? A staff job for the commandant? He smiled, remembering the current assignments. If they could stash him somewhere for a few months, the assistant commandant’s slot would open when Bud retired….

Edward Hurley was special ambassador to South Africa, reporting directly to the secretary of state. A small, professorial type, he looked the part of an academic right down to a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and tortoiseshell glasses. The general had heard Hurley’s name mentioned during the crisis, always favorably. Obviously, he’d done well and was now reaping the reward-a top diplomatic post.

Craig thought that he looked young for the job-only in his late thirties or early forties. Still, he’d need the energy. He was welcome to the headaches.

They had been exchanging pleasantries for several minutes now, and Craig was impatient to get on with the meeting. Stories about the weather change and the gossip in Washington only delayed the inevitable.

Finally, Craig broke in.

“I’m grateful that the State Department has sent you personally, rather than just sending me a new set of orders.”

“I wanted the chance to introduce myself and make sure that we could work together.” Hurley’s tone toward the general was respectful, something he didn’t hear from a career bureaucrat that often.

“I take orders pretty well, Mr. Ambassador. I’m sure there won’t be any trouble.”

Hurley smiled.

“I think we’d better take care of the paperwork before we go any further, General. ” He reached into his briefcase and withdrew an envelope.

“This should clarify our relationship.”

Craig accepted what had to be his orders with a feeling of resignation, and a little apprehension. Every military man feels a little uneasy tearing open the envelope. It still wasn’t too late for a booby prize.

The Marine tore open the envelope and pulled out the two sheets of paper, both from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The first page appointed Gen. Jerome

D. Craig, USMC, as military governor of South Africa, responsible for preparing for the restoration of civil government….

Craig looked up at Hurley.

“Then I’m to be left in charge?”

“As head of a military government until the South Africans establish their own.”

“But there is a government. Brigadier Coetzee .

“Has absolutely no power, except what you give him. And too many people in Washington are unhappy with the idea of a ‘military junta’ taking

Vorster’s place. Trans Africa wants us to hand everything over to the ANC, the conservatives in Congress want guarantees that the government will not have any socialist elements, and so on.”

Hurley held both hands, open, in front of him.

“Don’t get me wrong. The

State Department would love to have much more ‘direct participation’ —Hurley smiled—which translated, means running things itself. The problem is that it’s just too hot a political issue right now. Any move made by the State Department will be criticized. The consensus is that a military transition government will be seen as apolitical. “

“Unpolitical is more like it,” Craig grumbled. He didn’t bother to protest the order or try to evade it. Craig was puzzled, though.

“What is your role?”

“That’s on the next page,” Hurley answered.

Craig turned to the second of the two sheets. Special Ambassador Hurley was assigned as a political advisor to the military governor of South

Africa, and official U.S. representative to the new government.

As he finished the page, Hurley added, “I’m going to try and take the heat on some of the political questions, General. Washington wants you in charge, though. You’re a popular man. You won the war. Did you really think your job was finished?”

“The Cubans are shattered, Mr. Ambassador, and the civil war is over.”

“There are still bands of guerrillas, both black and white, all over the country, General. Some of them are no more than bandits. Those that we can’t persuade to surrender will have to be… dealt with.”

Craig noticed Hurley’s distaste at the idea of hunting guerrillas. They both remembered the Vietnam experience.

Then the ambassador smiled.

“Besides, General, your political skills have been underrated. Your settlement of the Cape Town question-“

“All I did was stall.”

“Which is at least half of politics, and not always the bad half,” Hurley countered.

“And sir, I hope you can just call me Ed.”

Craig smiled, but kept most of it inside. So he was still in charge. No man likes to hand over the reins, but the easy job in South Africa was over. From now on, it would be politics and more politics. Part of him shuddered. He’d take war over politics any day.

Craig reached out and shook Hurley’s hand again.

“Welcome aboard, Ed.”

The Marine turned to General Skiles, standing nearby.

“George, we need to get Ambassador Hurley an office right next to mine.”

Skiles nodded and left.

“As long as you’re here, Ed, here is a list I’ve been working on. It’s the ‘easy stuff.” I’ll pass this by you, before I go any further.” He handed a sheet of paper to Hurley, who took it and started to read.

“If you don’t have any comments, I’m going to turn that over to our military lawyers and let them draw it up.”

Hurley’s eyebrows raised, Craig hoped approvingly. Good intentions were all well and good, but this was the test. Could they work together, and who really was the boss in the political sphere?

Hurley was reading, half to himself, half aloud.

“Legalization of all political parties except any advocating racial superiority. Removal of all AWB members from any public office. Release of any prisoner held for political crimes only. Freedom of the press. Labor unions. Integrating the armed forces. Prison reform.”

Craig was following the list in his mind, and Hurley paused for a moment.

“You don’t mess around, General.”

“Call me Jerry, Ed. I might as well tell you. I move fast, and I view these as just preliminary steps. It buys us time with the black opposition groups, and the white conservatives can blame us, instead of the new government, for those moves. “

Hurley smiled admiringly.

“Jerry, I foresee a brilliant future for you in politics,” He then returned to the list.

The last item was guaranteed to be a shocker.

“Total replacement of the police force?” Hurley’s voice was hard to read, but Craig knew it deserved some explanation.

“The civil war’s shattered their organization. They’d have to overcome their own mutual distrust as well as the distrust of the black population. After some of Vorster’s excesses, even the whites don’t trust the police.

“I’m bringing in every Military Police unit we and the British can find.

I’ve already got my civil affairs people in place. We can do the job until the new constabulary is formed. That’s not a problem.”

Craig leaned forward, pressing his point home.

“I want the South

Africans, black and white and in between, to think like we do: if you get in trouble, you call a cop. That’s the last thing a black does. We’ll have new personnel, new uniforms, and a new set of rules.”

“Okay, Jerry, I see your point and agree. But what rules will they enforce?”

“That’s the hard part.”

JANUARY 21ON NATIONAL ROUTE 1

Nxumalu Mchwenge was a Xhosa, He was also an ex-member of the ANC, the

South African Defense Forces, where he had been a spy, and of Vega’s army.

Mchwenge had gladly acted as a scout for the Cubans. They had promised to drive

the Boers out, to bring about the socialist paradise that he had always dreamed of.

Then had come Potgietersrus. Thousands of black civilians had been gassed, shocking all of the native Africans working with the Cubans. A delegation sent to Vega’s chief of staff had been turned away, and two men who had protested more vigorously had been arrested, never to be seen again.

So Mchwenge had acquired another enemy. They had fled the Cuban column and joined the army opposing them. His army had no name, but with others, they had bombed and raided the Cuban liberators-tumedinvaders. Sometimes, they had even worked with white farmers to attack the Cuban soldiers, but that had been an exception, not the rule.

The war was over between the Cubans and the Boers now, but they were still his enemies. The Americans and British were probably his enemies as well, even though they had ended the war. Mchwenge had decided that he had a very short list of allies.

Now Mchwenge lay in a small rock pile fifty meters from the highway. The small, stocky black was used to the heat and discomfort, especially on a mission such as this. He had been tracking the retreating Cuban column for days, watching and thinking. Finally he had picked his spot.

Preparing carefully, he had quietly lain since before dawn, easily evading the patrols that covered the highway. Now he clutched the controller and waited.

Headquarters was the back of a truck. Its canvas cover provided protection from the summer sun, and its bed was more than ample for the few functions Vega’s staff still had to perform.

Gen. Antonio Vega, Liberator of Walvis Bay, sat easily on a camp stool in the moving truck, reading a summary of the previous day’s casualties.

The truck was moving slowly, out of deference to the thousand-plus men who still had no transport.

Facing to the open rear, he looked out and saw the entire column laid out behind him. Vega’s truck was first, not only to avoid the dust but to make him easy to find. Even with the lead position, the dust and the heat had become more than irritating, almost intolerable.

Twin lines of men filled the road, with trucks interspersed among them carrying the column’s wounded, as well as its food, water, and other supplies. There were nowhere near enough trucks to carry all the men.

Virtually all of Vega’s own transport had been destroyed on that terrible morning. These were supply vehicles that had been en route from the north, their original cargoes dumped or consumed.

His men were suffering in the heat. A week on the road had weeded out the weak or infirm, but even the strong were tested by the midday sun and the dust. There was nothing to do but march, though.

The enemy had stopped molesting his supply line and had virtually given over National Route I for his exclusive use, as long as he marched north.

A company of American and British military police preceded him, clearing the road and making sure none of the Cubans strayed. A similar unit followed, picking up any stragglers. They had also picked up more than a few deserters” defectors in Western idiom.

It angered him that all the men under his command did not share his desire to return to Cuba. Even with Castro’s wrath to look forward to, the general’s only impulse was to get home. So far, his demands for the deserters’ return had been ignored. Of course, it’s easy to ignore a beaten general.

His leg still hurt, his clothes were filthy, and he ached in a hundred places. The rigors of life in the field seemed to be no different from before, but now there was no purpose to them, nothing else to occupy his mind.

Nothing except the casualty list, he thought, returning to the paper. No deaths, he was grateful to see, but more casualties to heatstroke, foot-related injuries, and two men who were hit by a truck.

They would last, though. Without any enemy assistance, he would march his forces out of South Africa and onto the airplanes in Zimbabwe. The

Americans and British had prohibited any landings by Soviet aircraft or personnel in South

Africa, and no amount of paint would ever convince them that the Cuban Air

Force had suddenly acquired 11-76 cargo planes.

More trucks would arrive over the next few days. Once his entire column was mounted, they would move ten times as fast. He allowed himself a faint anticipation. Even with delays, General Vega knew he would be home in a week.

Mchwenge felt the column’s approach in the ground beneath him, then saw the dust plume. Finally, almost an hour after the first warning of its approach, the column’s head appeared on the horizon.

They were slow, walking at the pace of an infantryman’s tired stride. The same slowness that had made it easy to pace and scout the Cubans now maddened him, filling him with impatience.

The Xhosa picked up the controller, then put it down, then picked it up again, checking the settings on its simple controls. He put it down again, almost throwing it, and fought the urge to pick it up again and check for damage.

The rock pile was waist high and had been altered slightly by Mchwenge to provide overhead concealment, as well as shade. Gaps at various points allowed him to peer out, and his comrades, checking the day before, had assured him that he was invisible from more than a meter away.

Mchwenge lay in the dark heat and waited, watching the steady progress of the column. His original plan had been to sneak looks occasionally, remaining completely concealed to minimize the risk of detection.

When the trucks had actually appeared, though, he had found it impossible to tear his eyes away, as if from half a mile’s distance they could suddenly zoom past the spot before he could react.

So he had watched through the gaps and waited, and finally, after half a morning of waiting, he reached for the controller again.

The small black box had a wire running from it. He looked it over carefully and again fought the urge to fiddle with its insides. He had put in fresh batteries that morning and so limited himself to one press of the test button. The yellow test light came on, and Mchwenge knew he had a circuit.

He had placed a small stone twenty meters from the spot, and as the lead truck’s tires passed, he lifted a cover on the controller’s box and flipped a toggle switch up. A red light next to the yellow one came on.

The circuit was armed.

The actual spot was easy to see. The meta led road had been torn up here, by weather or fighting. Even tracked vehicles crossing it could have created the break, but it was just what he had needed.

It was no different from a hundred other gaps, but it was close to the crash site and had made their trip relatively short. Besides, why should the Cubans be suspicious? The fighting had stopped.

There was no sign of any reaction in the column, just a slow, steady march north that took them right over the break in the road.

A few miles from here, a South African jet had crashed, a forced landing by the looks of it since the airframe was still intact, The pilot had died on landing. Mchwenge’s comrades had found his dessicated body, still gripping the stick.

The plane’s ordnance load had also survived, or almost. Two five-hundred-pound bombs had been found near the wrecked plane, and one was adjudged safe enough by ordnance experts to be moved.

As the truck rolled over the gap in the meta led road, Mchwenge pressed the firing button, sending an electric pulse through a buried wire to five pounds of C4 plastic explosive. It detonated, serving the same purpose as the bomb’s damaged fuze. Two hundred pounds of Minol detonated exactly under the lead truck’s center.

Colonel Vasquez saw the explosion. He had gotten out to walk for a while, not only to give the general a little room but to think about his own future, personally and professionally. Castro was not a tyrant, shooting people at whim, but they had failed their leader, and he would need scapegoats. What would be their fates?

He was looking at Vega, sitting in the back of the truck,

when a bright flash and a roar knocked Vasquez over, stunning him. He had one brief impression of the surprised general, unable even to lift his eyes from the paper, before the entire vehicle was enveloped in smoke and flame.

Vasquez came to a moment later as a soldier dragged him away from the fire. A thick column of greasy smoke rose from the blackened, shattered remains of a Russian-built ZIL heavy truck.

Panic filled Vasquez, and he grabbed at the arms pulling at his. He looked up into the soldier’s face and shouted, “Did anyone get out? Where is the general?”

“He is gone, Comrade Colonel. Nobody escaped.”

Vasquez refused to give up.

“Maybe someone was blown clear.” Maybe that someone was Vega.

“No, Comrade Colonel, the explosion was too great. They were all killed instantly.”

The soldier, absorbed in their conversation, was still dragging the officer. Vasquez shook off the man’s hands and stood up unsteadily. His uniform was torn and blackened from the blast, and he saw, but did not feet, blood trickling from a few small cuts.

He took one unsteady step back toward the wreckage, then another, until he could clearly see that only the bare metal skeleton of the vehicle remained. The wooden flooring had a four-foot hole blown in the center, and the frame was twisted, as if it had been softened by the heat and then dropped. He could see no sign of any bodies and knew that any human remains that might be found would be in pieces too small to identify.

Vega was gone, and Suarez, and Gomez, who had been driving, and perhaps others he would have to search for. His sadness was mixed with relief for his comrades. At least they would not have to make the long journey home to face Castro’s anger.

“Colonel, what should we do?” One of the lieutenants nearby, in charge of a group of men that had once been a company, looked to him for orders.

Vasquez was almost certainly the senior officer in the force now. He looked again at the wreckage of Vega’s truck. It was one post he had never wanted.

The lieutenant repeated the request.

“Colonel, what can we do now?”

Vasquez pointed ahead and to the side of the road.

“Bear left and keep marching.”