by Larry Bond
Outside, the Atlantic surf boomed, sending the hissing, foam-flecked remnants of waves surging onto Swakopmund’s sandy beaches. The infantry squads dug in above the high water mark were all alert-their machine guns, mortars, and other heavy weapons manned and ready. Searchlights mounted on T-62 tanks parked hull-down among the dunes probed out to sea, stabbing through the darkness at precise, timed intervals.
Inside, the assembled officers ate, gossiped, toasted one another, and covertly eyed the two men who sat alone at the head table.
Gen. Antonio Vega toyed with his pastry dish, conscious that Cuba’s president and absolute ruler ate with lip-smacking gusto beside him. He frowned slightly at the sugary and fruit filled concoction. He’d always preferred plainer fare, soldier’s fare-rice and beans, sometimes mixed with a little beef or chicken. Food that satisfied hunger without leaving one lolling about in an overfed stupor. The kind of food you could get in
Cuba-at home.
His leader’s tastes were quite different, and Vega knew better than to try imposing his own culinary views on Fidel Castro. Particularly not when he was about to urge that communist Cuba undertake one of the largest political, military, and strategic gambles in its short history.
Vega sipped his wine, studying the crowded dining room over the rim of his glass. It was an astonishing sight. There were probably more senior
Cuban military men concentrated here in this tiny hotel on Africa’s most desolate coast than there were left in all of Havana.
So many men in fact that the Strand Hotel had been hardpressed to accommodate them all. Vega had gladly turned his quarters over to Castro, but their two staffs had engaged in a very careful assessment of relative ranks before the remaining rooms could be assigned. In the end, several of Swakopmund’s wealthiest burghers had been turned out of their homes to make room for some of the junior officers.
This evening’s dinner had been served in shifts, with the lowest-ranking officers and staff members eating quickly and early, so that the two principals and their higher aides could eat at a fashionable hour, before moving on to the important business at hand.
Important business, indeed, Vega thought, keeping a tight rein on his expression. Castro and his entourage must see only the outer man-calm, cool, collected, and thoroughly professional. The storm of mingled emotions-excitement, nervousness, and joy-that ebbed and flowed inside him had to stay hidden. Marxist-Leninism was a scientific faith, and its true believers were supposed to remain unswayed by sentiment, personal ambition, or petty hatreds.
“Excellent, Antonio. A fitting conclusion to a glorious day.” Castro pushed his empty plate aside and absentmindedly combed his fingers through his beard, brushing away small crumbs and flakes of pastry crust.
Vega lowered the wineglass and inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment.
Castro bent his own head for a moment, puffing one of his trademark cigars alight. Then he looked up, shrewd eyes fixed on Vega’s face.
“You may begin the briefing, General. Medals and propaganda films have their own time and place, but now we must contemplate the next steps in this war. And as the saying goes, the wise man makes sure his shoes are tied before setting out on any journey. “
Vega smiled. As always, Castro knew how to get to the heart of the matter.
Vega nodded to one of his hovering staff officers, who in turn motioned to the cadre of young lieutenants stationed at the door.
Instantly, they spread through the room-shepherding the waiters and other hotel workers outside. The low buzz of conversation from the other tables died away as several more junior officers brought in a large, cloth-covered easel.
Vega’s senior intelligence officer, Col. Jaume Vasquez, stepped forward and stood near the easel. Vasquez, a short, slender man with an aristocrat’s high cheekbones and long, thin nose, seemed to have taken special pains with his appearance this evening. Every crease on his tailored dress uniform hung razor-sharp and his polished black shoes gleamed brightly.
Only the faint sheen of nervous perspiration on his forehead marred the image of absolute perfection.
Vega sympathized with the colonel’s case of nerves. Few men ever stood so close to one of history’s great turning points. it still felt strange to realize that the whole course of a war and the very future of several nations would be determined here, in the rustic dining room of a small hotel off in the middle of nowhere.
The intelligence officer waited in silence until the dining room doors closed firmly-shutting out curious junior staffers and potential spies alle.
Vasquez pulled away the cloth covering his easel, revealing a map of northern and central Namibia. Red lines and arrows showed the current situation facing Cuba’s Expeditionary Force.
“Senor Presidente, SefJor
General, the battlefront has stabilized along an east-west line running from Walvis Bay to Windhoek to the village of Gobabis, here. ” He tapped the map, pointing out a small town near Namibia’s border with
Botswana.
“The enemy’s main force remains concentrated near the passes leading to Windhoek. Radio intercepts, prisoner interrogations, and air reconnaissance all indicate the presence of at least one mechanized brigade around the town of Rehoboth. “
Vasquez ran a lean, manicured finger up the highway north from Rehoboth, stopping at a tiny dot.
“This represents the deepest South African penetration into the Auas Mountains. One battalion holding the village of Bergland. All available evidence indicates that the South Africans periodically rotate troops forward to this area from their staging base at Rehoboth.
“
Castro sat forward in his chair, his bushy eyebrows arched.
“Why only a single battalion? If Windhoek truly is their main objective, why don’t the South Africans apply more combat power there?”
Vega nodded to himself. A good question. Now, would the colonel falter, or could he answer to Castro’s satisfaction?
The intelligence officer passed his unspoken test.
“They cannot move more than a single battalion forward, Senor Presidente, because the road net north of Bergland isn’t able to support a larger force. Cramming more troops and vehicles into a narrower frontage would only make life easier for our gunners and antitank missile teams. “
Castro chuckled and waved Vasquez on.
The colonel moved his hand westward until it touched the coast.
“Our position at Walvis Bay is doubly secure. The only roads come from
Windhoek or across five hundred kilometers of unsettled wilderness. Any
South African force trying to recapture the port must either come by sea or take one of these roads. “
Vasquez shrugged, as though it made little difference.
“The support of our gallant Soviet allies guarantees us control of the sea route, and we now hold unquestioned air superiority over this section of the front. As a result, no South African column can approach without being detected and bombed into oblivion.”
Vega watched Castro’s smile grow wider and matched it with one of his own. Bombed into oblivion. Now there was
a wonderful image. He almost hoped Pretoria would be foolish enough to order such a doomed counterattack. Any venture that sucked more South African troops deeper into Namibia’s near-road less hinterland would make his job easier later on.
Vasquez turned his attention and that of his audience to the east.
“Our units defending Gobabis are less secure, because the town is surrounded by a net of villages and roads, but from Gobabis all roads lead to Windhoek.
And we hold Windhoek in strength. ” Heads nodded sagely across the room.
All were agreed on the strategic value of the capital.
Vasquez turned slightly, facing Castro and Vega squarely.
“To all intents and purposes, South Africa’s attempt to seize Namibia in a lightning campaign has failed. True, its soldiers occupy the southern half of this country, but we
control areas containing more than two-thirds of the population and most of the mineral resources. In addition, sources report that South Africa’s losses have been much higher than expected. “
Vega noted that Vasquez left the other half of that equation carefully unspoken. Cuba’s own casualties had also been heavy.
Castro flicked cigar ash onto one of the Strand’s best china plates.
“So then, what can we expect the madmen in Pretoria to try next, Colonel?”
Vasquez smiled thinly.
“Barring commando attacks by small parties, an attack of any size must come north along Route One, directly from Rehoboth and Bergland. Given the existing logistical and strategic situation, we can see no other serious option for the South Africans. The Afrikaners can do nothing but continue to batter away at our mountain defenses-choking the road with their corpses and with their wrecked vehicles. ” He stepped away from the easel, signaling the end of his formal remarks.
Vega allowed himself a moment’s self-congratulation. Vasquez had done a good job. Clear, concise, and factual. And like all successful presentations, the colonel’s briefing had ended on just the right theatrical note.
Castro nodded his satisfaction and sat quietly for an instant,
wreathed in cigar smoke. Then he looked up.
“Tell me, Colonel, how much of the enemy’s force is committed to this war?”
Vasquez didn’t even consult his notes.
“We’ve identified units belonging to three brigades, Senor Presidente-half of South Africa’s regular army.
Counting reserves, more than a third of its national forces.”
Castro countered, “But Pretoria hasn’t fully mobilized its reserves yet.
True?”
Vasquez bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the point.
“Selected units are still being called up, Senor Presidente. “
Castro turned to Vega. His words were blunt. Tact wasn’t a social grace often found in absolute rulers.
“So, General, you have stopped this first assault, but the Afrikaners haven’t fully committed their reserves.” He leaned closer, his eyes cold and hard.
“I need to know, Antonio. Can you hold against a second, even larger, offensive?”
Vega had been expecting the question. It dovetailed perfectly into the proposal he hoped to make in a moment.
“I can, Presidente. With the two brigades now in Namibia, I can stop up to two South African divisions.
As you know, the defender has the advantage, three to one.”
“But by the same rule, you need more than a division yourself to advance against the South Africans. And the road net south will not support an offensive of that size.”
Vega was pleased. Castro’s preferred nickname was El Artillero or “The
Gunner. He had not lost his military skills. Inwardly, the general took a deep breath, thinking, now it begins.
“That is true. As matters stand now, we are deadlocked, Presidente. We can build up above two brigades, but Pretoria can also reinforce its army-leaving both sides caught in an escalating stalemate. Such a stalemate would continue until one side or the other was exhausted.”
Castro frowned and Vega frowned with him. Cuba could not win such a prolonged war of attrition. It was a poor country, without even a fraction of South Africa’s resources. Vega knew that national will counted, but he was a practical man and he always calculated the odds before making a bet. And staying locked into the current military situation was the
equivalent of staking one’s entire life savings on an already disqualified horse. His army’s capture of Walvis Bay had staved off defeat-not guaranteed victory.
Vega watched his leader’s face as he considered the options, knowing that
Castro was running through the same set of unpalatable choices he’d already considered and rejected.
Withdrawal was out. Too much of Cuba’s international prestige was already at stake. Havana’s support for little Namibia had garnered both praise from the world community and much-needed revenue from the country’s diamonds, gold, and uranium.
On the other hand, they couldn’t simply accept the status quo. Pretoria’s armed forces would eventually exhaust Vega and his men-wearing them down, man by man.
And that seemed to leave one equally futile and even more expensive option-a desperate race to match South Africa’s steady troop buildup. A race that would still inevitably end in eventual exhaustion and defeat.
Castro’s disappointed scowl grew deeper. He’d come to Namibia for a celebration and instead found the likelihood of ultimate failure.
Vega nodded soberly to himself. Cuba’s president had a good military background, but he clearly couldn’t see a way out of their box, either.
The general drew himself up straighter. it was time to take his own gamble.
He cleared his throat.
“I have a plan, sir-a good plan, I believe. But it involves a certain amount of risk.”
Castro looked up sharply.
“Risk of loss is better than certain loss.” He eyed his general closely.
“Tell me of this plan of yours, Antonio.”
Purposefully, Vega stood up and strode over to the easel.
“Senor
Presidente, I am convinced that we must look beyond the struggle for
Windhoek, or even for Namibia. This invasion is only the latest in a series of South African aggressions on this continent. It demonstrates once and for all that Pretoria’s racist government is incapable of reform.”
Castro looked a little impatient. Political orations were usually left to him, but many of the staff officers clustered around the room nodded and Vega took heart from that.
“Our internationalist duty brought us here to fight against capitalist aggression. As loyal socialists, we are glad to do so. But we are only engaged in fighting the symptoms of this disease this racist blot on
Africa’s soil. Even a victory here in Namibia will not end Pretoria’s machinations. Therefore, I propose that we take direct action against these Afrikaner imperialists. “
Vega flipped the Namibian situation map over the back of the easel, revealing a map showing all of southern Africa. Red phase lines and arrows converged on Pretoria from three separate directions. He saw
Castro’s eyes widen in surprise.
“We must occupy South Africa, destroy its corrupt, capitalistic regime, and build an African socialist state in its place!”
Vega had expected shocked gasps or muttered exclamations. Instead, his words were met by absolute silence. All eyes were riveted on the map, and
Vega quickly motioned to a lieutenant, who started passing out copies of a thick document, first to Castro, then to everyone else in the room.
Cuba’s president glanced down at the binder in his hands and then back up at Vega in open disbelief.
“Let me see if I understand you correctly,
General. You are proposing that we invade South Africa itself?”
Vega nodded, aware that many in the room must think him mad.
“And you make this proposal for expanding the war after proving that we cannot win even a more limited campaign here in Namibia?” Castro didn’t bother concealing his sarcasm and Vega shivered slightly. The President’s biting wit had an unfortunate tendency to slide into murderous rage.
He composed himself.
“Yes.”
Castro visibly fought for control over his growing anger. Vega had a reputation as a brave and intelligent soldier, not as a suicidal idiot.
“Explain yourself, General.”
“It is a question of who holds the initiative, Senor Presidente.” Vega was careful to show every sign of respect.
“So long as we fight only in
Namibia, we are deadlocked. The war will move along the lines of a strict mathematical
formula. So many troops, tanks, and guns producing so many casualties and consuming such and such a proportion of each nati
on’s treasure. We will lose that kind of a war. I I
He paused as murmurs of agreement rose from the watching officers.
“And that is precisely why we must not fight the way Pretoria expects us to fight. Cuba must seize the initiative. Cuba must carry this war into a new arena, a new phase of revolutionary combat!”
He took a step toward Castro.
“South Africa’s whites are strong, Senor
Presidente, when they fight on foreign soil. But at home they are a weak, increasingly fearful minority -kept safe only by their monopoly on the instruments of military power. South Africa’s vast black and colored proletariat is polarized and anxious for liberation from the capitalists who keep it poor, undereducated, and underpaid.”
He could see Castro’s anger fade away, replaced by a look of dawning comprehension. The Cuban president muttered more to himself than anyone else.
“A revolution waiting to happen… “
Vega nodded.
“Exactly. A revolutionary fire storm we could ignite with a sudden, unexpected counterattack into South Africa itself.” He tapped the map contemptuously.
“With most of its professional army tied down in
Namibia, a wholesale uprising would shatter Pretoria’s racist state once and for all.
“We have already gathered tremendous international goodwill for our fight here in Namibia. Imagine our standing if we destroy the agent of Western imperialism in Africa-the last colonial power, still fighting to retain control of the scraps of its empire!” Vega’s eyes were shining now, and his voice was clear and strong.
He went on, hammering home every conceivable advantage.
“A socialist South
Africa would have tremendous resources at its disposal, sir. The gold, diamonds, uranium, and other strategic minerals the capitalists crave. The resources the plutocrats will come begging for. And with our guidance, this new South Africa could lead the rest of Africa fully out from under Western domination. We could revitalize the socialist movement worldwide!”