The general grimaced, already regretting his second cup of coffee over breakfast. “I’ll need a pee break very badly by the time we land to refuel.”
The Cuban NCO guffawed as he handed him a set of headphones with a boom microphone.
“Just don’t piss out the open door as we fly, sir,” the man stated, his tone turning morose as he continued. “The rotor wash will blow it back all over you, and everyone else in here. Ask me how I know that.”
Shpagin had to laugh as he nodded in response.
The helicopters lifted off with a snarling clatter of rotors, and turned west, staying low over the trees and bushes. A few minutes later the An-24 transport also took off, to fly high overhead and serve as a communications relay if required. A routine signal was dispatched to the Angolan air defense network at Cuito Cuanavale, to confirm that the flights had departed. The identity of the VIP passenger was emphasized, to ensure that no missiles were launched at him in error. Their Soviet benefactors would not be amused by such a mistake.
The routine signal was duly intercepted at Rooikop, and General Shpagin’s name noted. Within minutes a message was on its way to Pretoria.
* * *
The concrete had dried quickly under the hot African sun, and the Angolans clearly weren’t going to waste any time putting the landing pad into service. The fuel tankers had been driven closer to the edge of the pad, and the encampment had been tidied up. The construction crew were dressing in clean uniforms, while their NCO’s marked out parade positions for them.
Lieutenant Viljoen ordered everyone to pack their gear and be ready to move out on the run.
“If they come this morning, and we blow them up, they’re not going to be very pleased with us,” he pointed out with a grin. “We’ll have to get away before they can get organized. I’ll be on the detonator. Hannes, we don’t have anyone else to spare, so the two of us will have to be a quick-and-dirty snatch party. If we see an opportunity to take a prisoner, let’s grab him during the confusion when UNITA joins in. He can answer questions later. Boeta, you’re on the missile.” He nodded to the team’s sole SA-14 shoulder-launched ground-to-air missile, captured from the Angolans like all their weapons and equipment.
“Give them a chance to land,” Viljoen emphasized. “If one doesn’t, and you get a clear shot, take it down. Piet, you provide covering fire for the snatch team if we need it, then take point when we leave. Head back down the footpath we used to get here. As soon as we’ve broken contact we’ll change direction and start using anti-tracking to stop them following us.”
They waited in the thick brush as the sun rose higher, and the heat began to grow oppressive. At last, shortly after ten, the distant sound of helicopter rotors intruded on the silence and began to grow louder. “They’re coming!” the lieutenant exclaimed, his face lighting up. “Packs on, weapons ready, and stand by!”
Two familiar silhouettes appeared over the bushes and trees. The leading helicopter slanted down towards the pad in a curving approach, while the second circled above the clearing, obviously looking for any signs of danger. They ignored it. By now, camouflaging their positions against aerial observation was second nature to them. Boeta picked up the SA-14 launch tube, trying to get a clear view of the second helicopter.
The lead helicopter settled almost exactly where Lieutenant Viljoen had anticipated it would. His finger trembled on the detonator switch as he waited, hoping for the second aircraft to land, so that blast and fragments from the mines might damage it as well. Instead, as the engines of the first helicopter began to shut down, a smartly uniformed figure jumped down from it and hurried directly towards them, ducking beneath the rotor blades, one hand holding his cap on, the other fumbling with the fly of his trousers.
“Holy shit, boss, he’s coming right for us!” Hannes whispered urgently.
“Stand by to grab him!”
Viljoen waited until the new arrival had almost reached the bush behind which he was concealed, then hit the switch. With a colossal blast, the four landmines blew up beneath the concrete, sending fragments flying in all directions, including into the fuselage and fuel tanks of the helicopter above them. It came apart, erupting in flames as its undercarriage collapsed.
Instantly, chaos broke out. The UNITA patrol opened up with AK-47’s, RPK light machine-guns, RPG-7 rockets, and hand grenades. Both tanker trucks exploded, one after the other, in massive orange-red fireballs and billowing smoke, spraying burning fuel and debris in every direction. Many of the Angolan soldiers, who’d been drawn up in formation to honor the new arrivals, were mown down as if by a scythe. The survivors scattered in panic.
In the confusion, Hannes leapt to his feet and tackled the man who’d run towards them, clouting him a mighty blow on the jaw that knocked him out. His cap came off. Hannes picked it up, staring at it, then at his victim.
“Lieutenant! This guy isn’t Angolan or Cuban! It’s a white man, and he’s wearing a shitload of medal ribbons and what look like general’s stars. Who is this fucker?”
“I don’t know, but he’s got to be important. Come on! Let’s grab him and get out of here!”
* * *
In the second Mi-8, the pilot was screaming into his microphone. “Emergency! Emergency! The refueling pad is under attack! The lead helicopter has crashed and blown up! General Shpagin has been captured by the enemy—I saw them tackle him and bring him down! For God’s sake, somebody help us!”
Looking out of the open side door, Shpagin’s aide saw a trail of smoke erupt from a clump of bushes and head straight towards the helicopter. There was a loud explosion over his head, and pieces of the rotor blades flew in all directions. The aircraft dropped like a stone. The last thing he saw was the whirling ground coming up very fast before his eyes as the helicopter spun in.
High in the sky, the An-24 radio relay plane saw and heard it all. Even as its pilots hauled the plane around and clawed for more altitude, to put as much distance as possible between themselves and any other ground-to-air missiles, its radio operator passed the news to Namibe. From there, a message was broadcast at full power across southern Angola, in clear, to all FAPLA and Cuban forces. “General Shpagin has been captured in an enemy ambush at the new refueling pad! All available forces are to converge on that location and rescue him!” Map coordinates were provided. MiG fighters and Sukhoi strike aircraft scrambled, and helicopters launched to carry responding forces to the scene at top speed.
Almost as fast as the message spread through the Angolan armed forces, it reached South African Defense Force HQ in Pretoria via the Rooikop listening station. The initial reaction was one of shocked incredulity. Who could have launched such an attack, against such a high-value target? It didn’t take long for the Special Forces liaison officer to inform the Operations Room about Lieutenant Viljoen’s patrol, and his intention to take out the first helicopter to use the landing pad they had discovered. Was that what the Angolans were talking about?
“Send a signal to Viljoen at once!”
“We can’t, sir. He won’t be listening—in fact, if that was him, he’ll be running like hell to get clear before reaction forces arrive. His next scheduled communications window is tonight.”
“And until then, we’ll have the top brass jumping down our throats, demanding to know what’s going on. What are we going to tell them?”
* * *
The patrol had covered only a few hundred yards, dragging their unconscious prisoner with them, when they heard the roar of an overstressed engine drawing nearer from behind them. They scattered to either side of the narrow footpath as a Soviet ZIL-131 six-by-six military truck appeared, gears whining in low ratio, wheels churning in the thick soft sand, bashing through the bushes on either side of the track, its fear-crazed driver intent only on escape from the carnage behind him.
Sergeant Bothma spun in his tracks, shouldered his AK-47, and squeezed off a pair of snap shots that went through the door and killed the driver instantly. His foot came off t
he accelerator and the truck slowed to a standstill, jerking as its engine cut out. Bothma ran after it, pulling open the door to check on the driver.
“Well done, Piet!” Viljoen called breathlessly. “Throw him in the back, so he won’t be found, and take his place. I’ll join you. The rest of you, get in the back with the prisoner.”
Within moments, the truck was bouncing down the track again. Viljoen consulted his map. “This footpath comes out at the main east-west trail in about two clicks. When we get there, turn west towards the coast.”
“West, sir? But that’s closer to the enemy!”
“Yes, it is, but if our prisoner’s as important as he looks, they’re going to be after us with everything they’ve got. They’ll expect us to head east and south, towards our own forces. Let’s throw them off the scent by doing what they won’t expect. The truck’s wheels will leave ruts in the sandy soil, but you can’t tell from the rut which direction it was moving. Once we hit the main trail, they won’t know which way we went. We’ll abandon this truck somewhere convenient, and head south from there.”
“OK, sir. That guy’s uniform and insignia looked different from anything we’ve seen before. He may be Soviet. If he is, they’ll be flying in search parties from all directions. Moscow will be baying for our blood.”
“If you’re right, we’ve got less than an hour before aircraft will be overhead, looking for us. A truck moving alone will stick out like a sore thumb. Remember that convoy the Air Force hit two months ago, just east of here?”
“Yessir! The Angolans dragged all the wrecked trucks off to the side of the road, and abandoned them.” He sniggered. “The Air Force uses them as a navigational landmark now.”
“That’s right. It’s about thirty clicks from here. Let’s park this truck with them. I reckon no-one will bother to count, to see if there’s one more vehicle than there was before. That’ll buy us time to get away clean.”
“Great idea, sir!”
It took them thirty-seven agonizing minutes to reach the trucks, peering out of the windows all the while to spot any other vehicles or a fast-moving aircraft coming towards them. At last they reached the place. The lieutenant pointed. “Take us around the back there, into the bush, on the far side of the wrecks. That’ll put this one furthest away from passing traffic, so they’re less likely to notice it’s not damaged like the others.”
They parked the truck, then Viljoen hurried around to the rear while the sergeant started to knock the valve stems out of every tire. The prisoner had regained consciousness, and was sitting nursing his jaw, looking around balefully.
The lieutenant tried his meager, halting Spanish, learned in case he needed to interrogate Cuban prisoners. “¿Quién eres tú? ¿Cuál es su nombre?” No response. He switched to English. “Who are you? What is your name?”
“I am Major-General Shpagin of the Soviet armed forces. That is all I shall tell you.”
“What the hell are you doing out here in the middle of bloody Africa?” Silence. “Are you attached to the Angolan armed forces?” Silence. “What is your mission?” Silence.
“We can’t waste time making him talk, sir,” Boeta warned. “Listen!” They cocked their heads. Faintly, but growing louder, they heard the sound of jet engines at high altitude.
“Those will be MiGs, looking for us,” Lieutenant Viljoen agreed. He looked back at the general. “Sir, you’re a prisoner of war of the Republic of South Africa’s armed forces. We’re going to take to the bush and head south until we can arrange to be picked up. If you don’t make trouble, we’ll allow you to walk unrestrained. If you make trouble or try to escape, we’ll tie your hands, put a tether round your neck, and bring you with us the hard way. Understand me?”
“I understand.” Another baleful glare.
“Right. Everyone, fill your canteens.” Viljoen gestured to the drum of water tied down in the load bed. “When you’ve done that, drink as much as you can, then we’ll drain the rest of the water. Take what you need from that box of ration packs. They’re Angolan, so they won’t be very tasty, but they’re better than nothing. We’ll carry seven days’ food per man. Empty that backpack.” He pointed to what had presumably been the personal gear of the late driver. “Fill it with ration packs and the driver’s canteens. General, you’ll carry it. If you refuse, you’ll have nothing to eat or drink, so don’t argue. Hannes, make sure he’s unarmed—no dinky little officer’s pistol concealed anywhere. The rest of you, take the canvas cover off the truck, fold it a few times, and lay it in the load bed over the driver’s body. From the road or a low-flying chopper, this truck’s got to look like just another abandoned wreck.”
“Not going to booby-trap it, sir?” the sergeant asked as he straightened from removing a valve stem.
“No. If it explodes or burns, the Angolans will wonder why.”
Within ten minutes, the patrol moved out in single file, heading south, sticking to the cover of the trees and bushes, moving slowly and carefully, covering or disguising their tracks whenever possible. Their prisoner walked in the center of the formation. General Shpagin seethed inwardly, but made no trouble. South African troops had a well-earned reputation for violence towards anyone who resisted them. He had no doubt that any attempt at obstruction or escape would have extremely painful consequences.
* * *
The atmosphere in the meeting room at Soviet military headquarters in Moscow seethed and roiled with barely suppressed tension. The Defense Minister glared at the assembled senior officers. “How do you know it was the South Africans who got him? It could have been UNITA!”
“Minister, the reaction forces captured two UNITA guerrillas, part of a larger force trying to escape after the ambush. Under separate interrogation, both said their unit was ordered to join a South African Reconnaissance Regiment patrol, to help them attack the refueling pad. UNITA took no prisoners during the attack, so General Shpagin must be in South African hands.”
“And who the hell thought it was a good idea to send a Strategic Rocket Forces general to Angola in the first place? He knows our nuclear target lists for every NATO country! If the South Africans get him back to their base, the Americans will give their eye teeth and sell their own mothers to interrogate him!”
“H-he was just…available, Minister,” a hapless official stammered. “The Foreign Ministry said they wanted someone senior enough to impress the Angolans. General Shpagin had just returned from a period of leave. He said he was tired of sitting around, waiting for his predecessor to depart so he could take up his new post, and volunteered for the Angolan inspection mission in the interim. No one even thought about his branch of service.”
A wordless glare from the Minister promised retribution for so grievous an error of judgment. “What do you propose, Marshal?” he demanded, turning to the Commanding Officer of the Strategic Rocket Forces.
“Three things, Minister. First, I want the Air Force to send a couple dozen of their best pilots to Angola at once, by the fastest available means. Some good maintenance technicians would also be useful. They can take over some of the Angolan Air Force’s MiG-23’s to fly top cover, and some Mi-8 and Mi-24 helicopters. They’ll assume primary responsibility for stopping the South Africans from interfering, and, if we locate Shpagin, they can land troops to rescue him. Second, I want a Spetsnaz air assault unit sent to Angola, also by the fastest available means. They’ll mount the rescue mission if we find Shpagin. Finally, we need to send a very strong signal to South Africa that they’ve gone too far. I suggest ordering a Guards Air Assault Division to prepare for immediate deployment to Angola.”
“You’re crazy!” the Minister exclaimed. “The Politburo would never permit that! The Americans would regard it as an intolerable provocation!”
“We don’t have to send them, Minister—just order them to get ready to go, and let it slip that they’re preparing. The South Africans will get the message. If we don’t get Shpagin back quickly, their war in Angola is going to turn a
lot hotter than they bargained for.”
“And if they respond by calling up their own reinforcements?”
“Then let’s send the division. The South Africans can see how they like facing a real enemy, not third-rate Africans or second-rate Cubans. They won’t enjoy it.”
The Minister shook his head. “I doubt that’ll be approved. Remember, Secretary Gorbachev is putting a lot of emphasis on glasnost, reconciliation with the West. He won’t want to jeopardize that.”
“That’s a political consideration, Minister. We’re military men. We deal with military solutions.”
The Minister managed, not without some difficulty, to restrain himself from pointing out that those same military men had caused the problem in the first place, by sending General Shpagin where he should never have gone.
“Very well, Marshal. On my authority, get the aircrew and Spetsnaz unit moving. Tell the Air Force I want them to assign sufficient jet transports to get them to Angola as fast as possible, along with any equipment they need. They can arrange to refuel in Libya if necessary. Have the Foreign Ministry clear that with Gaddafi, and tell them not to take ‘No’ for an answer. Hold off on the Air Assault division for now. That’ll have to be discussed by the Politburo. Have the relevant agencies see to it—discreetly, of course—that the Americans and South Africans learn of these steps, but try to avoid the news spreading more widely.”
* * *
General Shpagin nibbled at a ration pack cracker, nursing his still-painful jaw, washing down the crumbs with water from a canteen as he watched Lieutenant Viljoen, forehead creased in concentration, compose and encrypt a message. At last, the officer sighed, pressed a button, and sat back. “There. That’s saved for transmission later.” He reached for his ration pack.
“Are you telling them you’ve captured me?” the prisoner asked.
Viljoen laughed. “I reckon they already know, General. You saw and heard all those aircraft flying around today. They were looking for you. I’m sure there’s signals all over the place about you, and I reckon our people will have intercepted some of them. We’ve thrown the searchers off the trail for a while, but sooner or later they’ll realize they’re looking in the wrong place. I hope we’ll have you across the border by then.”
Trouble in the Wind Page 41