Vortex

by Larry Bond

  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-alt
itude 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.”

  CHAPTER

  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?”