Vortex

by Larry Bond

  As the Transall leveled out, its engine noise dropped from a roar, down past the previous drone to a steady low hum. Bekker knew the pilot was throttling down to minimum speed, trying to reduce the rush of air past the aircraft. At the same time, the jumpmaster prepared the two side doors, one after the other.

  Swinging inside and back, the opening door let in bone chilling cold air and the roar of laboring engines. Bekker had to steady himself against the buffeting as the air roared in.

  The jumpmaster nodded, and the captain swung forward to stand in the opening, hands gripping the door’s edge on either side.

  Bekker looked out and down on a brown and hilly landscape. One dry riverbed to the south was marked by a dotted pale-green line of stunted trees and brush. Rocky hills rose farther to the southeast, with a single road paralleling them to one side, leading straight to their target,

  Keetmanshoop.

  The town of Keetmanshoop had no industry. There weren’t any diamond or uranium mines nearby, and only enough farms to feed the local population of some fifteen thousand souls. But Keetmanshoop was worth its weight in gold to the South African invasion force.

  From his perch, Bekker could see the town laid out in a precise, right-angled grid below him. Columns of smoke from burning buildings showed where Air Force Impalas had bombed and strafed identified Namibian army barracks and

  command centers just moments before. He could also see what did make

  Keetmanshoop so valuable-the meta led two lane roads leading to it like a spiderweb, and the rail lines arcing out to the east, north, and south.

  And most important of all, the airport.

  Just a single two-thousand-foot strip, it was the logistical anchor on which Operation Nimrod rested. Without that small runway, South Africa wouldn’t be able to move men and supplies into Namibia quickly enough to sustain its offensive. With it, they could just squeak by.

  One small burden disappeared as he scanned the runway. The field seemed undamaged, and there weren’t any Namibian military aircraft parked on the tarmac. Even better, he couldn’t see any fire rising from the two or three sandbagged antiaircraft positions clustered around the airport’s small redbrick terminal.

  The bell rang again, and the light over the cargo door flashed from red to green. The Jumpmaster slapped his shoulder. Now!

  First in line, without thinking or feeling, Bekker simply stepped out the open door and into space. A blast of cold air punched into his lungs. He dropped earthward in a split second of gut-wrenching free-fall before he felt the static line tug.

  The parachute streamered out of its pack and snapped open-slamming him painfully against his harness in sudden deceleration. He glanced up and saw the billowing, sand colored canopy that meant he could add another successful jump to his logbook. Now high overhead, the huge Transall lumbered on, still spewing out men and weapons canisters. Other transports followed, each laying its own drifting trail of slowly failing parachutes.

  Bekker looked down and felt adrenaline surging through his veins. Fifty meters. Thirty. Twenty. This was what he lived for-being in the front of the assault wave, leading the attack.

  The ground rushed up to meet him, and he bent his legs and rolled as he hit.

  CUBAN EMBASSY, RUA KARL MAM LUANDA,

  ANGOLA

  The sun, rising in a cloudless early-mo ming sky, bathed Luanda’s government ministries, shops, and dense-packed shanties in a pitilessly clear light-revealing layers of dirt and spray-painted political slogans coating once-whitewashed walls. The capital city of the People’s Republic of Angola had grown shabbier with each passing year of bloody civil war and Marxist central planning.

  Luanda’s government offices were still shut, their outer doors padlocked and windows dark. The bureaucratic workday never began till long after sunup.

  Angola’s socialist ally and military protector evidently had a somewhat different attitude toward time. Lights were already winking on all across the fortified Cuban embassy compound on Rua Karl Marx-Karl Marx Street.

  Gen. Antonio Vega was still dressing when Corporal Gomez knocked on the door and without waiting burst into the room.

  “Comrade General, our embassy in Windhoek is on the phone. They’re saying that someone just attacked the city with aircraft! The Vega a tall, slender man with a stern, narrow face and gray-streaked black hair, stood facing a small mirror propped up on his nightstand. At the moment, he was only half clothed one bare shoulder showing the delicate tracery of scar tissue left by fragments from an exploding mortar round. It was a scar he’d earned more than thirty years before while leading one of Fidel Castro’s guerrilla units against the old

  Batista government.

  Visibly annoyed at being interrupted, Vega snorted.

  “What? Ridiculous.

  Those idiots must be seeing things.” He continued pulling on his uniform shirt, though with slightly more speed than usual.

  “It would be straining their military expertise to recognize an air raid, even if one did occur.”

  Gomez blushed. Vega had a razor-sharp tongue-a tongue that matched his wits. It was said that even Castro felt the edge of the general’s icy sarcasm from time to time. The

  corporal doubted that. Senior military men who angered Fidel Castro once never lived long enough to anger him a second time.

  Gomez, waiting with noticeable impatience near the door, did not agree or disagree, but instead volunteered, “The ambassador was on the phone to

  Windhoek when I was sent to find you, sir.”

  Vega finished buttoning his shirt and grabbed his uniform coat. He strode quickly out the door, not bothering to close it or order Gomez to follow.

  The corporal did both without being told and raced after him down the carpeted hall toward the embassy’s Command Center.

  Cuba’s ambassador to Angola, Carlos Luiz Tejeda, stood surrounded by a small crowd of wildly gesticulating aides and officers. He had one ear pressed hard against a red telephone, trying to listen amid the increasingly frantic din.

  Vega slowed to a walk.

  The noise level dropped abruptly as all of the officers and most of the political aides in the Command Center stopped talking and moved to the sides of the room. The general’s contempt for unnecessary chatter was well-known.

  Tejeda saw Vega and nodded gravely, but continued talking on the phone. A chair materialized near the general and he sat down.

  Tejeda ended his phone conversation by asking for hourly updates and hung up. He stood silent for a moment. Then he took off his gold-rimmed glasses before wearily rubbing one hand over his face.

  Vega realized with some surprise that Tejeda was unshaven and dressed only in slacks and a half-buttoned dress shirt. In all the years they’d worked together, he’d never seen the man so unkempt. The ambassador was ordinarily something of a dandy. Things must be serious.

  Tejeda’s next words confirmed that.

  “General, I have grave news. We now have confirmation that South African forces have invaded Namibian territory. “

  Vega sat quietly as the ambassador outlined the situation -at least as far as it could be determined from the first sketchy reports. An air raid on

  Windhoek. Airborne landings in Keetmanshoop. And unconfirmed sightings of South African armored columns pouring across Namibia’s southern border.

  “Widespread attacks,” Vega commented.

  “This isn’t just a simple cross-border raid, Comrade Ambassador.”

  Tejeda put his glasses back on.

  “Agreed. I’ve already put a call through to

  Havana. I expect to hear from the foreign minister himself in half an hour or so.”

  Surprised, Vega checked his watch. It was past midnight in Cuba, an ungodly hour even in a godless country. The foreign policy apparatus wasn’t usually so quick off the mark.

  Tejeda nodded.

  “Yes, Havana is greatly concerned. That is why I shall need to give the minister your assessment of the curren
t military situation in

  Namibia. And he will also expect our joint recommendations for reaction to this South African aggression.”

  “Our what?” Vega was nonplussed.

  “On the basis of fragmentary phone reports?” His voice was testy, almost angry I “General, please.” Tejeda tried to soothe him.

  “You are the senior Cuban officer in Africa and we need your expertise. I have little experience in military matters. Certainly there must be broad conclusions you can draw, measures you can recommend to safeguard our interest.”

  Vega knew he was being soothed. Tejeda had served as an officer in the

  Cuban Army, and even if he had never seen combat, he had to understand what this meant. Still, he didn’t mind being soothed, and the foreign minister, and ultimately Castro himself, would not be put off. He stood and walked over to the map of the area on the wall.

  As chief of his country’s military mission to the Luanda government, Vega commanded the Cuban infantry, armor, and air defense units left in Angola.

  It was an army that had been shrinking steadily for the past several years.

  Since the signing of the Brazzaville Accords, which promised South African withdrawal from Namibia in return for Cuban withdrawal from Angola, his command had fallen steadily from a high of fifty thousand troops down to its present level of barely ten thousand men.

  It was a reduction in strength he felt sure Havana already regretted.

  Vega had held his command for four years, fighting Unita-the guerrilla movement opposing Luanda’s Marxist government-and occasionally Unita’s South

  African backers. He knew the area, and he knew his friends and his enemies.

  And all sides in the conflict recognized him as a brilliant tactician and a courageous combat soldier.

  He pondered the map for a moment, conscious of the eyes fixed on his uniformed back. He tapped a road junction circled in red near the bottom.

  “Keetmanshoop may be the first step in South Africa’s invasion, but it cannot be the last. “

  His finger traced the road northward and stopped.

  “There. That is where they must go to succeed. Windhoek. Namibia’s capital and economic center.”

  Vega moved his hand west, to the Namibian coast.

  “No competent general would launch a single-pronged attack on such an important objective. There must be a second enemy column moving inland from the enclave at Walvis Bay.

  “Two columns. Both converging on Windhoek to trap and crush the Narnibians like this!” He clapped his hands together, startling several of the junior officers in the room.

  Others nodded slowly. Vega’s logic was impeccable. With Windhoek in hand and Namibia’s new army smashed or scattered, South Africa would once again control three quarters of its former colony’s mineral wealth and transportation net.

  Tejeda looked up from a pad of hastily scribbled notes.

  “Did we have any intelligence about South African movements? Was there any warning at all?”

  Vega saw every piece of information the DCI, the Cuban intelligence service, collected in Africa. He shook his head.

  “Nothing that made a pattern or indicated an operation this massive. But naturally, we’ll go back and reevaluate the data to see if any of it falls into place now.” He nodded to one of the officers, who stiffened to attention and then hurriedly left the room.

  Tejeda looked even more worried.

  “Can the South Africans win?”

  “Certainly, if Pretoria commits enough troops. Troop strength is the key.

  Namibia may be weak, but it’s still a huge area-seven times larger than all Cuba.” Vega paused, calculating.

  “Vorster and his madmen would have to commit virtually all of their regular forces. That would leave them weak everywhere else.” There was a speculative tone to his last sentence.

  “So what can we do to counter this aggression, General?” Tejeda asked.

  “Right away?” Vega clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the troop dispositions shown on the map.

  “Freeze the withdrawal. No more units should be removed until we know what Unita will do. I’m sure that the South

  Africans will use their stooges to try to distract us.”

  He spun round from the map, looking for his chief of operations.

  “Colonel

  Oliva, you will put all our units on immediate alert. Tell them to expect increased Unita attacks. And pass the warning on to the Angolans as well.”

  Oliva headed for a phone.

  Tejeda stepped closer to Vega.

  “I’m sure Havana will agree to stopping the withdrawal. We’ve certainly halted it in the past for less.”

  Vega nodded, agreeing, and walked back over to a chair. He sat down heavily.

  “Another year and I could have been home. The damned Boers just can’t leave anyone alone. And the Americans. They’re behind this, too.” He grimaced.

  “As long as the capitalists have an outpost in Africa, there will be no peace in this region.”

  Tejeda looked concerned. Vega rarely showed fatigue or strong emotion.

  “Do you have any other recommendations, General?”

  “Not at the moment, Comrade Ambassador.” Vega suddenly sounded tired, as if the thought of further service in this cursed country had drained him of energy.

  “I may have other ideas when we get more information. “

  Tejeda’s secretary entered the Command Center.

  “Sir, Minister Fierro is calling.”

  Vega left as the ambassador picked up the phone. He had a lot of thinking to do.

  CNN HEADLINE NEWS

  CNN’s Atlanta-based anchorman managed to convey an impression of dispassionate concern with little deliberate effort.

  “Our top story this hour, South Africa’s invasion of Namibia. “

  The screen split, showing a stylized map of Namibia in the upper right-hand corner, just over the anchor’s shoulder.

  “Roughly eight hours ago, at dawn local time, South African warplanes, paratroops, and tanks struck deep into the newly independent nation of Namibia. Heavy fighting is reported, and there are also unconfirmed reports that UN peacekeeping troops along the

  Namibian border have been disarmed and penned in their compounds by units of South Africa’s invasion force. “

  The newsman’s dapper image disappeared, replaced by soundless file footage of one of Vorster’s angry, arm-waving speeches. The invasion took most experts by surprise despite Pretoria’s recent claims that black guerrillas have been using the former colony as a staging area for attacks inside

  South Africa. “

  Vorster’s image disappeared, replaced by that of a grave faced man the anchor identified as a spokesman for the Namibian government.

  “This attack is clearly aimed at reestablishing Pretoria’s domination over our country.

  Namibia will not surrender. We will not yield. Instead, we call on the

  United Nations Security Council for immediate assistance in repelling this aggression.”

  The anchorman reappeared, flanked this time by a picture of the White

  House.

  “In Washington, the State Department has issued a short statement condemning South Africa’s military action. The White House is expected to issue its own statement later in the day.

  “In related news, violent incidents inside South Africa have been rising steadily in the wake of President Vorster’s new security measures…. “

  CUBAN EMBASSY, LUANDA, ANGOLA

  Night had come almost unnoticed to Luanda.

  A single hooded lamp cast shadows on the wall as Gen. Antonio Vega sat eating alone in his office, reviewing the latest sketchy intelligence coming out of Windhoek. No clear picture had yet emerged, but one thing was obvious. Namibia’s young army was losing and losing fast. And in a war still less than a day old.

  He looked up in intense irritation when Corporal Gomez stuck his head through
the door to let him know that the ambassador wanted to see him.

  Again.

  Vega swore briskly, swept the sheaf of intelligence reports into a neat pile, and strode out the door with Gomez in tow.

  Tejeda’s office faced an arc-lit inner courtyard-a safe haven should any of the many Angolans who loathed their country’s nominal protectors decide to turn sniper. The ambassador was now fully and formally dressed, but he looked much worse, plainly a man deprived of needed sleep and having had a very full day.

  Tejeda glanced up from the message flimsy he’d been studying carefully.

  “We have new orders, General.” His tone was portentous, almost comical, but Vega knew he was serious. The ambassador never joked about orders from Havana. It wasn’t healthy.

  Vega took the message from him. It wasn’t long. The important ones never were.

  “Cuba has pledged its internationalist support of the Namibian people against South Africa’s imperialist aggression. Under an agreement reached this afternoon with the Swapo government, this will include the deployment of military units in combat operations against Pretoria’s racist invaders.”

  Tejeda nodded.

  “Radio Havana will broadcast that—he looked at his watch—in about half an hour. I have direct orders for you as well.

  Orders from the Defense Ministry.

  Another telex message. Longer this time.

  “Gen. Antonio Vega’s area of responsibility is expanded to include

  Namibia. Use existing forces and reinforcements

  (see attached) to assist the Swapo government in defeating South Africa’s invasion force.”

  A list of units and estimated arrival times followed. Vega felt lightheaded. Fighters, armor, the best infantry units Fidel was evidently prepared to send the cream of the Cuban armed forces into combat against

  South Africa!

  But there were problems. He looked up, meeting Tejeda’s watchful gaze.

  “Comrade Ambassador, have the Russians agreed to support this?” Vega had to force the question out through clenched teeth. Just asking it seemed to reinforce Cuba’s dependence on an increasingly untrustworthy patron.

  The Cuban Army’s presence in Angola was possible only because Soviet cargo planes and ships kept it in supply and up to strength. Cuba itself had only a few ships and a scattering of light transport aircraft. Not enough to support a sizable force outside the island’s own shores. So none of