The Cuban

by Paul Eksteen

  About the author

  Paul Eksteen was born in Pretoria in 1966 to Andre and Julie (Kruger) Eksteen. He grew up in Pietersburg (now Polokwane) and matriculated at Pietersburg High School whereafter he completed his two years’ compulsory military service. After his military service he studied to become a geologist at the University of Pretoria. During his university years he represented University of Pretoria and Northern Transvaal in underwater hockey and later also represented South Africa from 1995 to 2002.

  He has always had a passion for hunting and the shooting sports and represented South Africa in IPSC from 2012 and in clay target shooting from 2018. He is a founder member of the Limpopo Arms and Ammunition Collectors’ Association and an avid hunter, sports shooter and firearm collector.

  He and his wife live close to Polokwane on a small farm where he has Airedale terriers and farms with goats.

  He still practises as a geologist and also owns a gun shop and firearm training academy in Polokwane. He is a partner in a game ranch close to Musina, where he breeds game and hunts frequently.

  The Cuban

  Paul Eksteen

  The Cuban

  Vanguard Press

  VANGUARD KINDLE

  © Copyright 2021

  Paul Eksteen

  The right of Paul Eksteen to be identified as author of

  this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions

  of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library.

  ISBN (PAPERBACK) 978-1-80016-040-8

  Vanguard Press is an imprint of

  Pegasus Elliot MacKenzie Publishers Ltd.

  www.pegasuspublishers.com

  First Published in 2021

  Vanguard Press

  Sheraton House Castle Park

  Cambridge England

  Printed & Bound in Great Britain

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to those who taught me the art of reading.

  Acknowledgements

  Many people generously offered knowledge and insight during the writing of this novel, a novel which started with an inspiration and many mixed thoughts. Thoughts that originated through friendships, life experiences, and current and past affairs in my home country, South Africa. I would like to thank friends and family who assisted with this novel. Some of them wish to remain anonymous, but I would still like to thank them sincerely.

  My passion for reading originated with my dad and his brother, Uncle Louis, who never failed to supply me with adequate reading material. My eighth birthday gift from Uncle Louis was a subscription to Daan Retief Boek Klub, which would supply me with monthly packages of the latest children’s story books. My dad bought me my first Afrikaans Louis L’Amour book when I was ten-years-old, with the idea of getting me hooked on Westerns. After reading a few of his books, my dad introduced me to his ‘library’, consisting of the complete Louis L’Amour series in English. As soon as I was comfortable with reading in English, Desmond Bagley, Jack Higgins, Alistair MacLean, Robert Ludlum, Frederick Forsyth, Dick Francis, Jeffery Archer and many more were to follow.

  At the same time, my cousin Nerina (Uncle Louis’s daughter), and I started writing letters to each other in our secret mirror script. She introduced me to the world of Roald Dahl, and for that I am forever grateful. She was the first person to proofread the rough and uncut version of The Cuban, after which she guided me very discreetly towards a couple of book-writing courses.

  After completing the courses and rewriting most of my novel, my second victim was my wife, Marietjie, who had no option but to read and offer minimal comments. Completing the third draft, the novel was ready to be sent to Craig Rosser, Grant and Cecilia van Loggerenberg, and my brother, Heinrich Eksteen, for their input. They had the patience to read and comment so as to enable me to compile the final draft.

  The final draft was sent to the Pegasus team in the UK, who assisted in the cover design as well as in the final proofreading and formatting of the novel before publication.

  Then, lastly, a great deal of thanks to Rose Fraser, who did the final check before we went into print.

  Quite a process, and one would think that you have created a flawless novel; nevertheless, there will be errors and for them I claim sole credit.

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  GLOSSARY

  BakkiePickup truck

  BoereworsSausage made from spiced minced beef, venison and pork and stuffed in a pork casing

  BoerseunFarmer boy

  BosbefokShell shocked

  BraaiBarbeque

  BuffelAnti-landmine armoured personnel carrier, with a seat assembly for ten troops in an uncovered troop compartment

  DorpsjapiesTownsfolk, city dwellers

  FMJFull Metal Jacket

  Also Ball ammunition

  Ammunition with a lead core and a copper jacket

  FrikadelleMeatballs

  KaggelFireplace, hearth

  KakiesBritish soldier, tommy

  KettieSlingshot

  KoppiesHills

  KraalAn enclosure for cattle or sheep

  LobolaAfrican bride price (money or cattle)

  MakgowaSotho for white people

  MiesiesMadam

  MofgatNancy-boy, queer (derogatory)

  OomUncle

  OumaGrandmother

  PapMaize meal porridge

  ParabatA Parachute Battalion member

  PolokwanePreviously known as Pietersburg

  RecceA Reconnaissance Battalion member

  RotsvasRock solid

  SADFSouth African Defence Force

  SangomaTraditional healer of Southern Africa

  ShebeenBootleggers’ bar, informal drinking place

  SoutieAn Englishman living in South Africa, standing with his one foot in Britain and the other in Africa, his privates hanging in the sea

  SoutpielSalty penis (see above)

  SpookasemCandyfloss

  SpoorThe marks or scent left by an animal or person

  StoepVeranda

  TannieA term of respect for an older woman, aunty

  TekkiesTrainers, running shoes

  UNISAUniversity of South Africa

  ViennasGerman processed sausages

  MAP 1: NORTHERN PART OF SOUTH AFRICA

  MAP 2: CLARENS AREA

  PROLOGUE

  Southern Angola — August 1987

  I felt the nudge against my shoulder. My brain misfired for a second as my mind toggled between sleep and consciousness. Another nudge and I was wide awake. I was lying on my left side with my head inside a small bush.

  As I opened my eyes, I could see Kwinzee lying on the other side of my Steyr SSG rifle, staring through his spotting scope.

  “The time has come,” he murmured.

  I slowly removed a rock that I had placed in front of me and gazed towards the river.

  I was suddenly wide awake.

&nb
sp; Four hundred and seventy metres.

  That was the distance to the far side of the river, where a Russian-made jeep stood idling with what seemed like a driver and a passenger sitting inside.

  Kwinzee and I had been lying in our dugout for the past thirty-six hours on the northern side of a small incline to the south of the Lomba river in southern Angola.

  Dropped by Puma helicopter three days ago, twenty kilometres to the south-east of our current position, we had to hoof it here. We had to find the crossing point of the battalion (as briefed four days ago at Fort Foot near Rundu), and then to identify the ideal spot to snipe our target from (our initiative).

  Our target, Cuban Captain Arnaldo Fernandez, was in charge of 21 Battalion, consisting of three hundred FAPLA soldiers and between fifteen and twenty Russian-made T-55 tanks, enroute from Cuito Cuanavale to Mavinga.

  FAPLA was the paramilitary wing of MPLA (People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola), who has ruled Angola since the country’s independence from Portugal in 1975. Their mission was to cross the Lomba River, reinforce the FAPLA defences at Mavinga, and ultimately take control over the town of Jamba, a UNITA-controlled stronghold close to the South West African (Independent Republic of Namibia from 21 March 1990) border.

  UNITA (The National Union for the Total Independence of Angola) was the second largest political party in Angola and was founded in 1966 by Jonas Savimbi. UNITA initially fought alongside MPLA in the struggle against Portuguese colonialism, but MPLA split away from UNITA in 1975 after independence. The MPLA was determined to control the whole of Angola with the aid of Cuban arms and soldiers.

  UNITA, therefore, fought against the MPLA in the Angolan civil war between 1975 and 2002, with UNITA receiving military aid from the United States of America and South Africa, while the MPLA received support from the Soviet Union and its allies, such as Cuba.

  As commander of a two-man sniper team of SADF B Squadron Special Forces Regiment, I was responsible to identify the target, and subsequently to eliminate the threat.

  We had already radioed a situation report through to HQ in Rundu the previous day, after identifying the river crossing and digging ourselves in. At the command centre, SADF 61 Mechanized Brigade was waiting for positive feedback from us to start with Operation Moduler.

  Two things needed to happen before Ops Moduler could get going.

  Firstly, good news back from the twelve operators from 4 Recce, who started the trip with us in two Puma helicopters, but who were dropped further north in Angola. Their mission was to blow up the Cuito River Bridge near Quito Cuanavale, to stop the transport of reinforcements to the south. They were equipped with two-man Klepper canoes and scuba gear and were dropped seventy kilometres north of Cuito Cuanavale on the banks of the Cuito River. From there they had to work in pairs, swimming downstream to place their explosive charges on the Cuito River Bridge, and then carry on downstream after blowing up the bridge.

  And secondly, the good news that, I, Sergeant Tom Allen ‘DC’ Coetzee had rid the world of Cuban Captain, Arnaldo Fernandez, and by doing so, had ‘decapitated’ FAPLA’s 21st Brigade.

  All of us were to be picked up by Puma helicopter fifteen kilometres to the south-west of where Kwinzee and I were currently lying.

  My rifle, a .308 Winchester Steyr SSG 69, was lying pointing in the direction of the river crossing. Between Kwinzee and I, we had to identify the captain, where-after I had to take the shot.

  There had been a lot of waiting time in my life. Sometimes it was cat-time, watching for your prey to stick its head out. Sometimes it had been mouse-time, where you had to lie and wait all through the day for night-time and darkness to make your escape.

  We had been taking turns sleeping, four hours on, four hours off, and at long last the prey stuck its head out. I slowly moved my rifle into position. It was already cocked and ready for the shot.

  Both doors of the jeep opened simultaneously, as if practised before. The driver was looking back the way they had come, while the passenger was holding a mike in his right hand, talking vehemently. The jeep was still idling, making it difficult for us to hear the voices clearly.

  It was a few minutes after five in the afternoon and twilight was already setting in. Good for the getaway. Not so good for the perfect shot.

  Mr Mike was wearing the typical Cuban uniform of olive-green battle fatigues with a green cap. I lowered my head to enable me to see through my riflescope to try and identify his prominent features. The door covered the lower half of his body, with the window frame hiding part of his face.

  Now would be a good time to take the shot, while the rest of the battalion was still catching up with them. I had to be sure of his identity though. There would not be time for engaging another target, if this was not the correct one.

  Mr Mike dropped the microphone back in the jeep, stepping clear of the vehicle and slamming the door. I could see his canvas pistol holster on the right hip and a leather belt crossing over his left shoulder. There was some sparrow shit on his shoulders, but I could not identify the rank clearly.

  I could feel the sweat running down the side of my face in faint driblets. I could also feel a light breeze cooling the sweat on my left temple. A breeze of between three and five miles per hour maximum, I guestimated. I would have to hold off six inches to the left.

  “DC, target identified,” hissed Kwinzee. We could see the captain limping away from the jeep. The limp was one of Captain Arnaldo Fernandez’s prominent features.

  I started prepping the trigger, ninety-nine per cent sure of the target. The next moment the Cuban stopped and started to fiddle in his left shirt pocket, removing a cigar and lighting it from a book of matches.

  The crosshairs of my riflescope centred where his neck met his torso, and as he turned to face me directly, I moved the crosshairs six inches to my left. I had to compensate for the light breeze that was blowing on my left cheek, and I kept on squeezing the trigger slowly, controlling my breathing until I could feel the crisp break of the trigger.

  I had both my eyes open and, as I felt the recoil of the rifle in my shoulder, I could see the Cuban going down at the same time. The rifle was zeroed at three hundred metres and the hundred and forty-three grain full metal jacket bullet travelled true, to hit him in the centre of the breastbone, ensuring a fatal shot.

  There was no time to hang around or for high fives, so I grabbed my rifle and started crawling backwards. Kwinzee had his scope in his left hand and was also already crawling over the ridge which was thirty metres behind us. This would be the one and only time we would be visible to whoever was looking for us.

  We shouldn’t have worried. The driver of the jeep was busy crawling under the jeep while his captain lay dead in the dirt. At the same moment, the two snipers were crawling over the ridgeline and disappeared into the brush on the other side.

  We had our backpacks stashed away another kilometre back in a gully and had no problem collecting them and scrambling the fifteen kilometres to the rendezvous point.

  Our kit weighed close to twenty kilograms and included black-is-beautiful paint, extra water, rations, ammunition, hand grenades, a medical kit, extra batteries for the radio and flares. The radio, maps and knives we had carried with us to our observation point.

  We were picked up by Puma helicopter ten hours later just before the break of dawn after making radio contact and reporting back to HQ.

  Ten of the twelve operators from 4 Recce also made it to the rendezvous point. They had severely damaged the Cuito Bridge but had not destroyed it. The damage was severe enough to stop FAPLA from moving supplies with vehicles, or from moving tanks over the bridge. They had to make use of helicopters or a ferry to transport supplies over the river.

  The other two operators made it to the emergency rendezvous point a while later. One of them was attacked by a crocodile on the way to the rendezvous point. He swam behind his comrade, and was pulled underwater with his legs clamped in a set of mighty jaws. He was lucky enou
gh to be able to lay his hands on his fighting knife, which he used to stab the crocodile numerous times in the eyes and neck. The crocodile eventually let go of him and he miraculously managed to escape a horrid death.

  The end of another successful mission, and the start of Operation Moduler.

  CHAPTER 1

  Western Cape — Sunday, 1 February 2009

  “Shoot the fuckers,” Mizen screamed.

  “Hold your fire,” the police sergeant screamed back. “Don’t fire! Hold it!”

  The stench of burning rubber and human flesh filled my nostrils.

  I was going to puke.

  I had to get away from here.

  I started the Buffel and engaged low range.

  “Stay put!” the police sergeant screamed at me. “Wait!”

  I disengaged the gears and secured the fibreglass cover over my head.

  The next moment a flat pitched rock hit the sergeant squarely on the ear, dropping him like a stone.

  “Shoot the motherfuckers! Kill them!” he screamed.

  “Coetzee, get us out of here!”

  A bright flash of light in my eyes made me bolt upright, wide awake.

  The stench of burning rubber and flesh was replaced by the smell of medicinal alcohol and pine gel.

  A sharp pain in my left arm restrained me. I looked down and saw an IV tugging at the skin of my forearm.

  Where am I? What happened?

  I was alone in a bright white room. My head was throbbing, and it felt like my chest and right shoulder were on fire.

  I was injured and in some sort of a medical facility, somewhere.

  This was not my first injury on duty, but what bothered me was that I couldn’t remember what had happened.