Vortex

by Larry Bond

  JANUARY 2-OUTSIDE DURBAN

  The 101 st Air Assault division was based just to the north of the city.

  Space was at a premium along the coastal plain, but a helicopter didn’t need a lot of room to take off.

  Part of a two-lane asphalt road had been turned into a runway, while fields and shacks on either side had been bulldozed flat to make way for rows of sand and green helicopters. The Africans displaced by this had wisely been housed in some of the prefab accommodations brought along for the division.

  “Camp Zulu” was growing rapidly, with the engineers busily making plans for water and electrical utilities, security fences, and the other things that kept a military community running. They were very distressed when they were told to drop everything and help load stores onto the division’s sole operational brigade.

  Mechanics had worked all night under harsh floodlights, assembling and inspecting helicopters, repairing what was wrong, and scrounging for parts that were still “on the water. “

  Many helicopters, having been declared unfixable in the short time allowed, had been “canned” or cannibalized, their functional parts removed and installed to make some other

  aircraft flyable. A single helicopter could make three or more other aircraft functional by donating an engine to one, a part of the instrument panel to another, and so on. There would be time to restore the gutted hulk later.

  The confusion at the airfield was only amplified when Marine helicopters, some of them also needing maintenance, arrived to reinforce the 101st’s machines. Marine pilots were quickly taken aside and in one-on-one briefings, taught Army procedures by their opposite numbers.

  Even as the brigade’s transport and attack helicopters were frantically readied, the division, brigade, and battalion commanders quickly built the necessary elements into the attack plan. Even with a straightforward movement to objective and an assault, a hundred details, on which lives depended, had to be decided, checked, and then passed down the line.

  Maj. Gen. Greg Garrick, the division commander, had finished the basic attack plan while riding in a helicopter from the Mount Whitney back to his base. The brigade commander, Col. Tom Stewart, had been waiting with the rest of the division staff. By midnight they had fleshed out

  Garrick’s plan into a brigade assault, coordinating it with naval and

  Marine air support, a logistics plan, communications and intelligence procedures, air defense plans, chemical warfare plans, down to the locations for helicopters to land once they had delivered their loads.

  This detail-oriented procedure was complicated by a sketchy intelligence picture, and a changing list of the forces available. Halfway through the planning session, the maintenance officer came in with the news that enough helicopters were available to lift a fourth battalion. This was good news, but many plans had to be reworked.

  The battalion commanders were summoned at midnight and in a two-hour brief, filled in on their roles in the operation. Planning had been so hurried that no name for the assault had been picked, and someone had suggested Next-Day Air. Garrick had finally agreed to Air Express.

  The battalion commanders took their orders, expanded and implemented them for their own situations, and summoned the company commanders at three. The company commanders briefed their platoon leaders at four, and the squad leaders were finally given their orders at four-thirty.

  At five the lead helicopters took off.

  The noise and confusion inside the base drew the attention of the local citizenry, who stood outside the hastily erected fences and watched the lights and machinery and listened to the sounds of jet engines. The display of resources and technology was almost overwhelming, and frightening to many. What would these foreign conquerors want?

  Standing near the flight line, General Garrick saw the spectators outside the fence, but was more worried about the security aspect than their impressions. His grandmother’s cat could have figured out by now that the division was making an assault. Their salvation lay in speed. By the time a Boer spy sent the news to his superiors and they analyzed the report, his men and machines would be over the objective. He hoped.

  He watched, along with the spectators outside the fence, as the first rank of helicopters lifted off. The troop carriers, UH-60 Blackhawks and

  CH-47 Chinooks, took off first. They were the slowest and would set the pace for the rest of the formation. In twos and threes they used the improvised runway to make rolling takeoffs, compensating for their heavy loads. As soon as one group had cleared the runway, another taxied on and repeated the maneuver.

  The sound of hundreds of jet engines and rotor blades filled the air, and even with ear protectors, Garrick found it difficult to think. The citizens outside the fence could be seen backing up, trying to balance their curiosity against the blast of sound. A hot wind filled the air with dust, and the smell of burnt metal. By the time the force had lifted off, it would be ten degrees warmer in camp.

  The last of the troop carriers had lifted off, and Garrick could now see the scouts and attack birds going. The sleek OH-58s contrasted sharply with the long, angular Apaches. The faster machines would quickly overtake the “sticks” and assume positions in the van and the flanks.

  “It’s time, sir.” Garrick’s aide, a captain, escorted him over to the door of a waiting Blackhawk. The door gunners ignored him. Their faces hidden by helmets and visors, the two men seemed already intent on their task.

  While Colonel Stewart ran the battle from his forward ground headquarters, Garrick intended to see the assault himself. As a division commander, he would normally have to coordinate the actions of three brigades, but with only one in the field, this was a rare opportunity to see the fight firsthand and at the same time stay out of Tom’s way. He had a radio link both to Stewart and the division staff, located nearby.

  Belting himself in, he donned a headset, and even as he was checking the circuit, the command helicopter lifted off. More lightly loaded than its fellows, it would easily be able to follow the action.

  Garrick moved forward, through the cabin, so that he could stand near the cockpit and look out the forward windscreen. Stretched out ahead of them like a cloud of insects was an entire brigade. Elite troops, they were moving at a hundred plus knots toward their objective.

  They were headed west, away from the sun, but as they climbed, the morning light illuminated each aircraft enough to show its location. His command chopper continued to climb, and as he watched, the last stragglers assumed their positions.

  The troop carriers, “slicks,” each with a squad of infantry aboard, flew in trail formations, strings of four machines separated by a hundred yards and staggered at different altitudes. The larger Chinooks carried heavier weapons and supplies. On either side, teams of scout and attack helicopters served as “pouncers,” ready to attack any ground-based threat that appeared. In front, a wedge of gunships, all fully armed, slowly pulled ahead. They would hit the area just before the slicks landed and provide support to the attacking troops.

  Garrick knew that other aircraft ranged farther out. Marine AV-8Bs and

  Air Force F-16s, now based at Durban, would hit the target while a solid cover of F-15s would cover the entire assault force from South African fighters.

  Looking to the left, Garrick saw the mountain escarpment that marked the borders of Lesotho. The cliffs rose two miles above sea level on the side he faced. Below him was rugged, mountainous country. His admiration for the “straight-leg” infantry increased. If they were fighting their way through stuff like that, then this was the way to go to war.

  The cool morning air minimized the chance of downdrafts, and the assault force carefully picked its way along a river valley that ran to the northwest. In about half an hour, they would turn right and head through a mountain pass, flowing down like water onto the city below.

  LADY SMITH

  Commandant Korster hugged the ground under the radar van and watched as another flight of needle-nosed figh
ters roared overhead. This wasn’t the first time that the Americans had hit the town, but they seemed very serious about it today. Could they know about the radar?

  Korster was responsible for Ladysmith’s air defenses. Besides a battery of Cactus SAM launchers, he had some captured Russian antiaircraft guns and two batteries of South African twenty-and forty-millimeter guns.

  Only the SAMs were radar directed.

  He had been inspecting the radar van, talking to the technicians who were trying to somehow coax the balky electronics back to life. It was difficult enough to keep one of these things working in normal times, and these times were anything but normal.

  Their discussion had been interrupted by the sound of an explosion directly overhead, and the van had been rocked by a thousand hammers beating on the roof. Several holes had been punched through, and the zinging fragments had ruined several pieces of equipment and wounded the senior technician.

  Everyone had piled into the emplacement dug for the wheeled van, but

  Korster had taken one moment to look at the shredded antenna, tilted crazily off the vertical. A failed relay was now the least of its problems.

  They had been hit by an anti radar missile, and without the radar to warn them of the missile carrier’s approach, they had been unable to turn it off in time. It appeared the Americans had called his bluff.

  The radar was dug in on a small hill that not only gave it excellent coverage, but now afforded a ringside seat on the attack below. Jet aircraft, in pairs or flights of four, appeared over the ridges and hills. Rolling inverted as they passed over the crest lines, they would approach from different directions, sometimes separated only by seconds, it seemed.

  Korster watched as they bombed the equipment parks and antiaircraft sites. The SAM launchers seemed to be getting special attention from the fighters. He saw one or two missiles launched, probably in optical mode, but they failed to hit anything, and that was all the response the unready crews could muster.

  The manmade storm lasted about fifteen minutes. Korster waited two or three minutes to see if there were any later waves of attackers, but finally decided that the raid was over. He looked over the town. A gray haze covered large sections, the still morning air holding the smoke overhead. Several fires burned, and he could see two of his precious SAM launchers lying on their sides. Scattered figures wandered around, still in a daze.

  He had to get down there and see what was left. Turning to the senior technician, he saw that the man, a beefy sergeant, was sitting upright, being bandaged by one of his coworkers. Korster started to tell the sergeant to check the radar van for new damage when he heard a chattering sound to the southwest.

  It sounded as if his antiaircraft guns were firing again, and he was ready to dive for cover again when one of the men pointed.

  OVER LADY SMITH

  General Garrick watched the assault from five thousand feet up and two miles back. It was close enough, with effort, to see individual men through his binoculars.

  His headset, tuned to the frequency of the attack aircraft, allowed him to follow the aircrafts’ preparatory attacks, as well as their escape without casualties. The first wave of gunships had been timed to hit within a minute of the last jet’s attack, and for the most part, they made it.

  Coming in low, the Apaches raced toward pre briefed targets that had been found on the reconnaissance photos. The South Africans were recovering quickly, he noticed. Flak emplacements sent streams of tracers up, forcing the gunships to jink and dive. One gun, opening up on the flank of the oncoming choppers, caught a machine and slammed several rounds into the tail boom. Its anti torque rotor out, the aircraft spun twice then slammed into the ground.

  Returning fire with rockets, missiles, and chain guns, the gunships suppressed any location that opened fire. Garrick had heard the assault commander declare the LZ “cold,” and still in formation, the slicks started coming in. The Apaches and scout helicopters moved off to predetermined areas, covering both the landing zone and the town itself.

  “General, we’re at bingo fuel.” The voice in his headphones pulled him back from the landing zone to his noisy metal perch. Helicopters could not stay airborne forever, and the pilot had a long way to go.

  “Right. Take me to the division’s forward command post, please.” Garrick sighed. Oh, well, once the men were out of the slicks there would be little to see from the air anyway.

  LADY SMITH

  Korster and his technicians watched the landing and the right from their hilltop. Since the initial attack on their position, the enemy had not molested them, and Korster and the others

  had maintained a low profile. Three more R4 rifles and a pistol were not going to influence events below.

  The small group hugged the earth and watched as wave after wave of

  American helicopters landed and disgorged soldiers and heavy equipment.

  The firing in town started almost immediately, with Korster listening on the field telephone to the surprised garrison commander’s orders to dig in and hold in place.

  The South African defenders numbered no more than a weak battalion, but they knew the town and refused to budge from a building until they were blown out or killed in place.

  Korster visualized the Americans advancing up Poorte Street, and he heard his colonel radio the order to abandon the Royal Hotel, one of the buildings being used to billet the men. He waited, hoping that the defenders would somehow hold, but it was clear who the eventual victor would be. The kommandant gave them another hour at most.

  He stood up suddenly, surprising the other men.

  “Come on, we have work to do.”

  The technicians looked at him with amazement. They had followed and discussed the progress of the American attack. They had seen gunships and other helicopters fly directly over the ruined van. What did he think he was doing?

  “The sergeant needs to have his wound tended. I want every document shredded and piled in the center of the radar van. We will burn them and the van with them and deny both to the enemy.”

  For him, the fighting was over. He’d see what the Americans could do with this land.

  CHAPTER

  Death Trap

  JANUARY 2-44TH PARACHUTE BRIGADE REACTION

  FORCE, NEAR SKERPIONENPUNT

  Maj. Rolf Bekker burrowed farther under the camouflage awning he’d rigged over his foxhole and then lay motionless-imitating other animals he’d seen survive the desert’s bone-dry air and sun-drenched heat. Movement meant sweat. Sweat was lost water. And water was life.

  His watch alarm beeped softly. Time for another drink.

  He uncapped his third canteen and took a careful swig, swishing the body-temperature liquid around the inside of his mouth before swallowing.

  Despite the flat metallic tang imparted by the canteen itself, the water tasted good. And it felt good trickling down his parched throat. He recapped the canteen and hooked it to his web gear.

  Still thirsty, Bekker settled back to wait. It was ironic, though a self-imposed irony. While he and his three hundred paratroops rationed their precious water mouthful by mouthful, one of South Africa’s two significant rivers, the Oranje,

  lay only eight kilometers away-flowing northwest on its way toward the

  Atlantic. Eight kilometers south, that was all. Only a brisk two hours’ walk, perhaps less.

  Right now, though, the river might just as well have been on the far side of the moon. His own strict orders kept his men under cover in their fighting positions.

  There was a good reason for that. Bekker’s northernmost outposts were already reporting dust rising in the distance. Henrik Kruger’s renegade battalion was coming south down the only road he’d left open and apparently unguarded. In reality, the men of the 20th Cape Rifles were being lured right into a killing zone.

  The Afrikaner major studied his handpicked battlefield through slitted eyes. If anything, the brown, barren valley seemed even more suited to his purposes now than it
had when he’d ringed it on the map.

  Bordered by the rugged foothills of the Langeberg to the east and an only slightly less rugged ridge to the west, the valley sloped gently downhill from the Kalahari Basin before falling away sharply into the Oranje River basin. An unpaved secondary road ran down the eastern edge of the valley flanked by a long, low hill topped only by small patches of brush and three solitary, stunted trees.

  Bekker’s two infantry companies were posted along that hill, carefully dispersed in six camouflaged platoon strong points surrounded by thin, hastily em placed minefields. To give his infantry a stronger long-range punch, he’d attached a Carl Gustav 84mm recoilless rifle team to each platoon. Indirect fire support would come from the two sections of four 81mm, mortars in place behind the hill-their crews crouched ready and waiting in shallow pits scraped out of the dirt and sand. And finally, he had his two Puma gunships on standby several kilometers away.

  His battle plan was simple. Use HE from the mortars to kill Kruger’s truck-mounted infantry. Hit the enemy’s APCs with rounds from the Carl

  Gustavs. Finish any vehicles left moving with 30mm cannon bursts from his helicopter gunships, and then mop up with his rifle-and machine gun armed paratroops. Bekker smiled to himself. Simple, yes.

  And also damned effective. That was what combat experience taught you.

  Simple things worked. Complicated plans or weapons usually looked good on paper and then got you killed.

  His radio crackled softly.

  “Rover Foxtrot One, this is Tango Zebra

  Three.” Tango Zebra Three was the call sign for his northernmost observation post.

  Corporal de Vries passed the handset across the foxhole.

  “Go ahead,

  Three.”

  “Enemy scouting force in sight. Four Land Rovers ahead of the main column.”

  Bekker propped himself up against the lip of the foxhole and raised his field glasses. The lead Land Rover leapt into view-dented, travel stained, and armed with a heavy machine gun on a pivot mount. Four men in South African uniforms rode in the vehicle-a driver, gunner, and two others. He lowered the glasses and pressed the transmit switch.