Vortex

  And vehicles once caked in dust and oil now gleamed in the spring sunshine.

  But all the cleaning and polishing couldn’t conceal the fact that the weeks of fruitless fighting had reduced his battalion to a shadow of its former self. Sergeants led infantry platoons now barely the size of squads, and two of his companies were commanded by second lieutenants scarcely out of school. Fewer than half the soldiers who’d marched into Namibia with him were still ready for battle. Wounds, deaths, and combat fatigue had stripped away man after man in a never ending round of artillery bombardments, outpost skirmishes, and massed assaults.

  No, there couldn’t be any doubt. The 20th Cape Rifles was fought out.

  Now it was going home. Home to South Africa. Home to rest. Home to absorb new faces and new names as willing and unwilling replacements alike filled its shattered ranks. The battalion’s mortar tubes and armored cars would remain in Namibia to equip the reservist units being sent to replace it.

  ” An impressive display, Henrik. Very impressive, indeed. Your men are a credit to our nation. It’s been an bon or to command them.”

  Kruger looked up sharply, suddenly aware that he’d been drifting along behind Brigadier Strydom in his own private haze. Sleep was a high-priced luxury in combat-one he’d rarely been able to afford over the past few weeks. With an effort, he gathered his thoughts.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll pass your commendation on.

  I’m sure the battalion will appreciate your kind words.”

  Strydom nodded.

  “Good.” He studied Kruger carefully, a rare look of concern on his narrow face.

  “You may dismiss your men, Kommandant.”

  Kruger drew himself to attention, saluted, and held the salute until the brigadier returned it. Then he swung round, his weary, red-rimmed eyes scanning the officers ranked before him.

  “Captain Meiring! Dismiss the battalion!”

  “Sir!” The bearded officer who’d replaced Forbes as Kruger’s secondin-command stepped forward smartly, stiffened, and wheeled to bellow the order across the parade ground. Instantly, the battalion broke its ordered ranks-each man heading at a fast walk for his tent or for the crowded mess line.

  Kruger grimaced as he caught sight of a familiar, loathe some and fleshy face disappearing amid the sea of patched uniforms. So that damned AWB fanatic Hertzog was still here, eh? Still circling about like a vulture seeking easy prey-unarmed civilians or officers too tired to guard their tongues. Camp gossip told of continued mass executions and midnight arrests. Without realizing it, he took a step after Hertzog.

  “Leave it, Henrik.” Strydom took him by the arm.

  “You can’t win a fight with that man. Hertzog has too many friends-too many powerful friends.

  Believe me I know.” He sighed.

  Kruger stared at him.

  Strydom shook his head.

  “Go home, Henrik. Go home and rebuild your battalion. Concentrate on that. You are a soldier, not a politician.”

  A soldier? Perhaps. Kruger wasn’t sure how much longer that could remain true. At what point did one stop being a soldier who simply followed orders and become something lower, something fouler-an accomplice?

  He frowned. He’d read stories of the German soldiers who’d found themselves trapped between their patriotism and

  their code of personal honor. But he’d never expected to find himself caught in that same agonizing dilemma. Never.

  Henrik Kruger turned slowly toward his tent-praying that, if it proved necessary, he would have the wisdom and the strength of heart to choose the right path.

  OCTOBER 6-PORT SECURITY ZONE, MAPUTO,

  MOZAMBIQUE

  Harsh white arc lights flared along the length of Maputo’s inner harbor-turning night into eerie, shadowless day. Beneath their unwavering glare, dozens of stevedores swarmed around the long, rust-streaked hull of a Soviet freighter, the Cherepavets. Distorted images of the lights and bustling work crews were reflected in the oil-smeared waves gently lapping round the ship and against Maputo’s old, cracked concrete quay. High above the water, massive cranes hovered, hesitated, and then dipped into the freighter’s open cargo holds -each coming up in turn bearing an assortment of bulky crates and loaded pallets. All of the cargo was covered, either by tarpaulins or crates. Some of the crates were large enough to contain disassembled aircraft.

  Most of Cherepovets’s cargo went onto a special twenty car train waiting on a side track paralleling the waterfront. Other crates and cargo pallets went into warehouses just off the pier. They were packed with ammunition, small arms, and communications gear-the first promised installment payment for the use of Mozambique’s largest port and its most important railroad line.

  Soldiers patrolled the chain link fence separating the harbor from

  Maputo’s darkened streets. Others behind them manned a deadly array of heavy machine guns, light antiaircraft cannon, and SAM batteries-all sweeping back and forth across preset sectors of the clear night sky.

  Cigarettes glowed red near the front of the waiting train, marking the presence of more soldiers. The momentary flare of a match illuminated lighter-skinned faces and different uniforms. Cuba’s generals didn’t plan to entrust their valuable equipment to the safekeeping of Mozambique’s slipshod army. Cuban troops would guard the train on its long journey north to secret assembly areas deep inside

  Zimbabwe.

  Whistles blew shrilly across the harbor, urging the dockworkers to greater efforts. The Cherepovets was only the first of many Soviet cargo ships bound for Maputo.

  OCTOBER I O-DIRECTORATE OF MILITARY INTELLIGENCE HEADQUARTERS,

  PRETORIA

  START = XMT: 12:26 Mon Oct 10 EXP: 12:00

  Tue Oct I I

  Soviet Union and Mozambique Announce New Trade Agreement

  MAPUTO (October 8) UPI-A spokesman for the Mozambican government today announced the signing of a new three-year trade agreement with the Soviet

  Union. Under the agreement, which has an estimated value of approximately 40 billion metecais, roughly 88 million dollars, Mozambique will exchange its agricultural products for Soviet manufactured goods. When pressed, the government spokesman admitted that the agreement would include substantial shipments of Soviet military equipment.

  Western diplomatic sources expressed no surprise at this revelation.

  Mozambique’s armed forces, poorly armed and trained, have been on the losing side of a ten-year struggle against a South African -backed insurgency. New Soviet equipment and advisors are seen by Mozambique’s ruling party as essential to reversing the worsening military situation.

  “Here it is, Kolonel. Here is the piece of the puzzle we needed.” Maj.

  Willem Metje knocked on the doorframe as he walked into his superior’s office.

  Col. Magnus Heerden looked up with irritation from his work. He was responsible for coordinating the SADF’s intelligence-gathering operations in Mozambique, Zimbabwe, and Botswana. The job had once been time consuming and stressful. Now it was simply impossible. He’d once had five men, four of them trained analysts, under his command. Now four were gone-pulled out from under him to bolster the battlefield intelligence effort in Namibia.

  That left just himself-and Metje.

  The major excitedly fluttered the thin piece of paper in his hand and laid it down in the center of Heerden’s desk, obscuring the map of Zimbabwe he had been studying.

  “This explains it all, sir. It’s just as I supposed.

  These reports you’ve found so troubling are simply a reflection of this new arms deal between Mozambique and the Russians.”

  The colonel scanned the UPI story and shook his head.

  “Major, I don’t see how this trade agreement could account for all the unusual movement we’re seeing in Mozambique, and—he emphasized-“in Zimbabwe as well.”

  Heerden looked at the wire-service report again.

  “More importantly, the materiel we’ve already heard about has to b
e worth twice this much!”

  A haughty frown creased Merje’s lean, elegant face.

  “True, Kolonel. That’s why I believe our agents must be overestimating the amounts of military equipment they have spotted. “

  “Are you saying they can’t count?” Heerden picked up a manila folder from the side of his desk and opened it.

  “Take a look at this, for example.

  Windmill reports sighting thirty T-62 tanks and one hundred wheeled armored personnel carriers parked in a wooded area near Moamba-practically right on our border. And they’re being guarded by nearly a brigade of Mozambican troops!”

  Metje shrugged.

  “How close a look could Windmill get if these tanks were really under such a heavy guard? And would this kaffir know a T-62 tank from a T-55, or a T-72

  for that matter?” He shook his head contemptuously.

  “The fool probably stumbled across a Red Cross convoy with ten or twenty trucks. At most, he might have seen a small group of new tanks parked in the jungle until the

  Mozambicans train troops to man them.”

  He smiled.

  “Come now, Kolonel. We can’t base our analysis on the hallucinations of a few ignorant blacks.”

  Heerden’s powerful hands closed tightly around the edge of the folder, crumpling it.

  “I’m not proposing that we do that. But I am suggesting that we’ve received too many unsettling intelligence reports from

  Mozambique and Zimbabwe. Reports that can’t be explained by something so convenient as this.” He flicked the tele typewritten copy of the wire-service report with a finger.

  “Plane flights in at night to Harare and Maputo, security stepped up at the ports, increased troop activity . “

  “All of which the President has seen, Kolonel. He is convinced that these movements are related to their own anti guerrilla efforts. They show that our destabilization strategy is working. The black states have been forced to beg for help from the Soviets-for equipment that is being drained away from the Cubans fighting us in Namibia! Even if they are accurate, these reports that frighten you so much are proof of our success!” Metje’s impertinence was caused by his enthusiasm, which

  Heerden tolerated, and safeguarded by his political credentials, which

  Heerden despised. As an active member of the AWB, the major had his own channels of communication with the political leadership.

  Heerden sat motionless for a moment, uneasily considering the possibility that Metje’s optimistic assessment was the right one. Certainly, it was what the new government wanted to hear. He shook his head. That alone made it suspect. The greatest intelligence failures occurred when analysts allowed their own wishful thinking to obscure inconvenient facts. Unfortunately, he didn’t have enough of those inconvenient facts on hand. A few reports from paid agents. A scattering of intercepted radio transmissions and radar intercepts. Not enough.

  The colonel frowned. What he needed were aerial photographs. Solid, undeniable, pictorial proof of the military buildup he feared was taking shape on South Africa’s northern and eastern borders. But he couldn’t get it. He’d put in request after request for Mirage IIIPZ reconnaissance overflights of Zimbabwe and Mozambique. All had been rejected. The Air Force’s small photo recon squadron was already stretched too thin just trying to monitor Cuban movements inside Namibia.

  Metje watched him carefully and then leaned forward to pick up the UPI news report.

  “Well, Kolonel, have you come up with any other explanation for these Soviet arms shipments?” From his tone he knew that Heerden hadn’t-at least nothing that he could prove to anyone’s satisfaction.

  “Then, sir, I recommend that we send the news of this trade agreement up the chain of command. It provides the obvious explanation of the activity we’ve spotted inside Mozambique. And I’m sure the President will be delighted to learn that his strategy has been vindicated. “

  His tone was soothing, almost patronizing, and Heerden struggled to control his temper. Metje was an ass, but he was a well-connected ass.

  At last, with an almost inaudible sigh, Heerden nodded. Even if he submitted a different, more pessimistic analysis, the major would simply go behind his back. And the colonel didn’t have any doubts about whose version

  Karl Vorster would choose to believe.

  30TH GUARDS MOTORIZED RIFLE REGIMENT, MAIN

  ASSEMBLY AREA, NEAR RUTENGA, ZIMBABWE

  Dozens of acres of the fly-infested, unproductive flatlands outside the small town of Rutenga were now covered by camouflage netting, barbed wire, and protective minefields. Trains from the south arrived almost daily, pulling flatcars crowded with Cuban tanks, armored personnel carriers, and artillery pieces. And day by day, the equipment parks outside Rutenga grew larger.

  Hard-eyed soldiers of Zimbabwe’s North Korean-trained Fifth Brigade patrolled the town’s streets and railway station-on constant guard against South African spies or commandos,

  Travelers of every description were hauled in for questioning by local interrogators or taken north to the capital, Harare, for more rigorous investigation. Antiaircraft batteries dotted the surrounding landscape, ready to down any unauthorized plane that poked its nose into forbidden airspace.

  Both Zimbabwe and Cuba were determined to prevent any word of their military buildup from leaking out. But their efforts were unnecessary.

  South Africa’s leaders weren’t even looking in the right direction.

  OCTOBER I I -CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE HEADQUARTERS, WNDHOEK, NAMIBIA

  Col. Josd Suarez, Gen. Antonio Vega’s chief of staff, looked tired. Three days of ground-hugging airplane flights, stomach-wrenching helicopter rides, and secretive movement all across southern Africa had taken their toll. Most wearing of all had been Vega’s relentless questioning. He’d insisted on going over every last detail of the trip, and if Suarez hadn’t known what to expect, he would have been shattered by the persistent probing.

  Vega knew that his fierce, pitiless questioning was just a symptom of his own frustration. For security purposes, he was supposedly planning a new offensive in Namibia-all the while staying as visible as possible to draw

  South Africa’s eyes away from the buildup in Mozambique and Zimbabwe. It was a necessary task, but it left him unable to monitor directly the unfolding of his own plan. It also left him feeling like a caged lion.

  Suarez answered his last question and sat back, looking even more tired.

  Vega nodded. The colonel was one of his best officers. He’d given a good, concise summary of his impressions and activities.

  Suarez must have seen his pleasure because he risked a

  question of his own.

  “Have the Soviets discussed a starting date for our operation yet, Comrade General?”

  Vega scowled.

  “No, they haven’t. And I understand that Castro’s last inquiry came back with the damned standard line about the need to wait for a ‘more favorable correlation of forces.”

  ” If they hadn’t been indoors,

  Vega would have spat to relieve the foul taste the bureaucratic nonsense left in his mouth.

  “Our soldiers are dying, wearing down the South African Army with their blood, while the gutless Russians wait for the most opportune moment to promise us their continued support.” Vega stood up and started pacing back and forth, in front of the map board. He’d been pacing a lot lately.

  The casualty figures and the strain involved in running one campaign while planning for another, wider war were to blame for that. His nerves were also being stretched tight by the Soviet Union’s continuing refusal to commit itself fully to the invasion of South Africa.

  Abruptly, the room seemed too small, too stifling. He needed fresh air and open skies, if only for a few moments.

  “Colonel, walk with me.”

  Suarez rose with him and together they stepped out of the headquarters-a nondescript block of office flats that had once housed a car rental firm, an accou
nting firm, and a small printing shop. Now the brick building housed more than one hundred staff officers responsible for guiding the largest military operation on the continent.

  A squad of armed guards at the entrance snapped to attention as Vega and his chief of staff emerged into the evening air. It was pleasantly cool, and Vega ambled across the street to a small municipal park, surrounded by a bubble of quiet and privacy that would be breached only by desperate emergency. He ignored the thin screen of security troops fanning out around the park. They, like the weight of the stars on his shoulders, were always with him.

  “The Russians are using us, Josd, just as they always have. “

  Suarez nodded grimly, apparently unsurprised by his commander’s disenchantment with the Soviet Union. It was a disenchantment shared by many in Cuba’s higher political and military echelons.

  They’d long looked to the Soviet Union as a source of spiritual inspiration, but Moscow’s revisionist moves had shaken that faith. The

  Kremlin’s political bosses were increasingly viewed as little more than corrupt, tepid socialists-not as the dynamic leaders needed by the international communist movement.

  The military situation in southern Africa was widening that gap. The

  Soviets seemed perfectly content to sit back and reap all the benefits of Cuba’s armed struggle, while avoiding any of the risks. It was intolerable.

  After they had walked in silence for a few minutes, Vega spoke again.

  “Our buildup should be complete by the middle of November. Correct?”

  Suarez nodded. All the troops, equipment, and supplies should be in place by then-poised within a hundred kilometers of South Africa’s borders.

  Very well. If the Soviets don’t give us their full support by then, we will attack without them.”

  Suarez started to exclaim, but Vega hushed him.

  “We won’t be operating completely on our own, Colonel. We’ve received assurances of additional aid from Libya and North Korea-should it prove necessary. We could also cut the number of attacking columns from three to two. That would reduce the logistical load significantly, true?”