“How will you do that?”
“I don’t suppose I’m betraying any secrets when I tell you I’m going to ask for a helicopter pickup. That’s far and away the fastest method. Otherwise, it’ll be a three- to four-week walk through the bush. That’ll be no fun for any of us.”
“But you have only enough rations for a week.”
“We’ll live off the land, General. We’re used to that.”
“So you are like our Spetsnaz, then? Special Forces?”
“Yes. We’re Reconnaissance Commandos.” The pride in Viljoen’s voice was evident.
“I have heard something about you, yes.” The general hesitated a moment. “How can you fight for a government that denies the humanity of so many of its people, because of the color of their skin?”
“You mean the policy of apartheid?” Shpagin nodded, and Viljoen sighed. “I’m not saying South Africa’s perfect, General. We’ve got at least as many problems as any other nation, maybe more than most. What we’re doing, the four of us and others like us, is buying time for our country to sort out its own problems in peace. Have you ever seen what happens when a terrorist landmine goes off underneath a trailer full of kids on their way to school?”
“I…no, I never have.”
“I have. I still wake up screaming sometimes when I remember picking up the pieces of those kids…feet…hands…fingers…half a head that had come right off a little girl. She must have been pretty, once.”
The younger man’s eyes were far away, filled with remembered pain.
“That’s what we’re fighting to keep out of our land, General, for long enough that those bastards won’t dictate the solution to our problems out of the barrels of their guns.” He looked up. “I might as well ask why you serve a government that arms the terrorists who do such things, and that starved millions to death, and sent millions more to the gulag, and invaded Afghanistan. Doesn’t that make you just as bad as I am, General?”
Shpagin grunted. “A point to you, Lieutenant. I, too, want to make my country a better place. Perhaps we are not so different, you and I.”
“I don’t think military professionals are all that different, sir. I’ve met soldiers from Britain, the United States, and Israel. They’re all a lot like us, under the skin.”
“Yet, despite those similarities, you would shoot me without hesitation if I tried to escape.”
“Uh-huh, just like you’d shoot me if that was the only way you could escape.”
* * *
VIPs crowded a conference room in Defense HQ in Pretoria. When Lieutenant Viljoen’s signal reached them shortly after midnight, mingled jubilation and concern swept through the gathering. The Chief of the Defense Force swiftly called them to order.
“They’ve moved beyond our normal operational area. Can the Air Force get a Puma helicopter up there to collect them?”
The Chief of the Air Force frowned. “We have long-range tanks we can install in the cabin, sir. Trouble is, they’re all down here, for use during maritime rescue missions. We’ll have to take one—no, two, in case one goes wrong—out of choppers at the coast, fly them up to Grootfontein, and install them in helicopters there. That’ll take a full day, longer if there are technical issues. Meanwhile, you can bet the Angolans will be looking for our patrol with everything they’ve got.”
“Not just the Angolans. We heard from the Americans a short while ago. The Soviets are sending in their own pilots to take over some Angolan planes, and bringing a Spetsnaz air assault unit with them. If they can find and fix our people, they’ll lead the attack.”
“When will they get there, sir?”
“They left Moscow aboard Ilyushin-76 transports a few hours ago. They’ll have to refuel somewhere, but you can assume they’ll be in the operational area within 36 hours from now.”
“We’ll only just have finished installing the tanks by then, and test-flown the helicopters, sir. I can’t guarantee success if we have to infiltrate defenses manned by front-line Soviet pilots and technicians, particularly if they bring more advanced weapons with them—better air-to-air missiles, electronic warfare pods, that sort of thing.”
“We may have no choice but to try. What fighters do we have up there?”
“Half a dozen Mirage F1’s, sir, but they’re ‘A’ models, configured for ground attack rather than air-to-air.”
“Get some of the ‘C’ models up there right away, armed with the new Python-3 air-to-air missiles we bought from Israel. If our helicopters have to go in, the fighters will have to keep the MiGs off their backs while they pick up our people. Fortunately, the Angolans and Cubans don’t yet know we have Pythons. They’ll be a nice surprise for them, and the Soviets too.”
“Yes, sir. Will the Cabinet authorize us to engage Soviet forces?”
“Let me worry about that.” The Chief of the Defense Force turned to the Special Forces representative. “Danie, send a big ‘Well done!’ to Lieutenant Viljoen and his team from me personally; then tell them to crawl into a hole and pull the top in after them until we can sort out this mess. We’ve got their backs, and we won’t abandon them, but we have to avoid this thing getting any hotter than it is already. Right now, it’s like we’re all sitting around an open gunpowder keg, tossing lighted matches at it. If we’re not bloody careful, things are going to take on a momentum of their own—and then where will we be?”
“Won’t the United States back us against the Soviets, sir? They’ll have to, won’t they?”
“Why don’t you ask South Vietnam how well relying on America worked out for them?”
“Ah…I take your point, sir.”
* * *
Major Brinkerhoff was at Namibe airport to welcome the Spetsnaz assault team when it landed. He saluted the colonel in command. “Sir, I’ve put up tented accommodation for your unit behind that hangar. A field kitchen is ready to serve you a meal right away. It’s good food—I tasted it myself. When you’ve eaten, I’m ready to give you a briefing on local conditions, including a video of the action, and provide a current situation report.”
Colonel Voronezh looked at him with approval. “Major, you’re the most professional soldier I’ve run into since we landed in Angola! Thank you for making those arrangements. We’ll look forward to your briefing in half an hour.”
Some still chewing, the Spetsnaz officers and senior NCO’s assembled in a tent used as a briefing room and listened closely as the East German officer walked them through the events of the past few days. He showed them on a large-scale map of Southern Angola where various units were searching, and the patrol patterns they were using.
“What have the South Africans been doing?” Voronezh asked.
“They’ve brought up more Mirage fighters, but they haven’t flown across the border into Angola yet. Moscow signaled a short while ago that satellite imagery shows the newly arrived Mirages are carrying Israeli Python-3 air-to-air missiles. That’s a type our forces hadn’t seen on South African aircraft before. They’re extremely effective heat-seekers.”
“That’s not good news,” the Colonel grunted. “What about their helicopters?”
“Satellite reconnaissance showed two Puma helicopters being worked on outside a hangar, sir. It looked like they were installing long-range tanks in the cabins. They may be going to try for a pickup.”
“But they didn’t have them already fitted with the tanks, ready to go? That means they were surprised by General Shpagin’s presence. They can’t have expected to capture him.”
“I suppose not, sir.”
“Hmmm…As a military professional with local knowledge, Major, what’s your opinion of the South African special forces—these Reconnaissance Regiments, as they call them?”
“They’re as good as you can get, sir, within their scope. Let me explain. You Spetsnaz, and the American SEALs and Green Berets, and the British SAS, train to operate anywhere. You can jump into the Arctic, or into the Amazon jungle, and be equally at home. The Reconnaissance R
egiments are different. Their selection standards are as rigorous as any other Special Forces unit, anywhere in the world, but they train to operate in an African environment. You may spend three months training in Arctic warfare, then three months in the jungle, then three months mountaineering, and so on. They’ll spend all those months training just as hard, but focused solely on sub-Saharan African operations. That concentration of effort means that, man for man, on their home turf, they’re the best there is.”
The Spetsnaz officers looked thoughtfully at one another. They understood the professional evaluation for what it was, a sober reflection of reality. This was not going to be easy.
“So,” Voronezh said slowly, “if it comes to a fight, you’re saying we’ll have our work cut out for us, even though we’ll probably outnumber their small ambush team many times over.”
“Sir, if it comes to a fight, some of you won’t be coming back. Guaranteed. Even if you kill them all, they’ll bleed you first.”
“And the general?”
“I don’t know what their orders are, sir. If they’ve been instructed not to let him get away, you won’t recover him alive. They’ll make sure of that.”
“Thank you, Major. I’m going to make that point to Moscow when I speak to them in half an hour. They need to take that into account.”
* * *
When the recording of the colonel’s conversation with his superiors was played back to the Politburo, the shock on the faces of some of its members showed that they hadn’t considered that possibility.
“How can we ensure General Shpagin is not killed out of hand?” one demanded.
“If this comes down to a combat operation, we can’t,” the Defense Minister replied bluntly.
“Then we must make sure it doesn’t come down to a combat operation,” Secretary Gorbachev said quietly. “I think we’ll try extreme diplomatic pressure, and see what that can achieve.”
“But we don’t have diplomatic relations with South Africa,” another member objected.
“True—but the United States does.”
* * *
As the moon rose over the African bush, the Recce patrol settled down in a dense clump of trees and bushes. Two sentries kept watch at all times, one over the surrounding area, the other over their prisoner. The general hadn’t given any trouble, but that didn’t mean he might not do so if he got the chance. They were too professional to take that risk.
“May I ask a question?” the general asked as he ate his meager rations next to Lieutenant Viljoen.
“Sure, go ahead, sir.”
“Why have the Angolans not found us yet?”
“They’re probably still convinced we’re heading east and south, to get closer to our own forces or the border, sir. That would be our logical direction of movement, after all. We haven’t seen or heard many aircraft or helicopters over the past couple of days. They’re all searching over there trying to stop us getting through, while we’re sitting over here, not even trying to reach the border.”
“Why aren’t you trying?”
“Orders, sir. I reckon the brass have something in mind. They’ve been clear that we’re to take no chances, just sit tight and remain undiscovered until they get back to us. It grates, but they’re in charge.”
“I suppose so. It must be as frustrating for you as it is for me, just sitting here in the bush.”
“Yes, sir, but that’s what they pay us for.” Viljoen cocked his head, listening. “There’s a jet up there, very high. I reckon it’ll be carrying a reconnaissance pod. It’ll be looking for fires, heat signatures, things like that.”
“Is that why you don’t have fires at night?”
“Yes, sir. The glow is visible from a long way off, and their heat signature shows up on infrared like a flashlight in a dark room. So do vehicle engines. That’s why we dumped the truck, rather than use it to move at night.”
General Shpagin snorted. “And I suppose that’s why you took my lighter and cigars.”
“Yes, sir. We couldn’t risk you starting a fire. It wasn’t because we wanted them as souvenirs!”
“Why don’t the Angolans look at lower altitude with infrared sensors on helicopters?”
“Because they lose aircraft when they do that, sir. We shot down your second helicopter using a captured SA-14 missile. We don’t have any more with us, but the Angolans don’t know that. UNITA has American Stinger missiles. We’ve captured dozens of your old SA-7’s, a couple of SA-9 vehicle-mounted systems, a few SA-14’s, and recently we’ve started to come across your new SA-16’s.” He snickered. “You copied or stole so much American technology for it that we call it the ‘Stingerski.’ It’s a good missile—better than the Stinger in some ways, according to our comparative tests. Anyway, thanks to all those missiles, Cuban and Angolan aircraft generally don’t fly below fifteen thousand feet in the operational area, unless they’re flying nap-of-the-earth.”
“So, to put it bluntly, my country is one of your arms suppliers, whether we like it or not?”
Viljoen laughed.
“I’m not giving away any secrets by saying this, sir, because it’s either been publicized in South Africa, or the Angolans and Cubans know all about it from fighting us. We’ve captured literally tens of thousands of your infantry weapons over the years—SKS rifles, AK-47 assault rifles, grenades, land mines, and so on. We Recces carry them almost all the time.”
“Why?” Shpagin demanded. “Why not use your own weapons?”
“Oh, come on, General! If we left South African cartridge cases and other evidence lying around, it’d be obvious we’d been there. This way, the Angolans can’t tell that, since our debris looks the same as theirs or UNITA’s. South Africa has some of your T-34, T-55, T-62 and PT-76 tanks, against which we test and assess our own vehicles and tactics.”
Shpagin seethed as the South African officer continued.
“Our Army’s standard-issue rocket-propelled grenade launcher is your RPG-7, and we make better rockets for it. We have plenty of captured Soviet equipment in storage—heavy machine guns, mortars, anti-aircraft guns, cannon and rocket artillery, armored personnel carriers, and trucks. We gave a lot of our captured stocks to UNITA, and they’ve taken a lot themselves. Every time we beat FAPLA or the Cubans, we hand over more to UNITA, unless it’s something advanced like missiles we want for ourselves. In reality, the Soviet Union is arming both sides in this war and has been for years.”
The general’s mouth twisted bitterly.
When I return, certain people are going to hear about this in no uncertain terms, he thought angrily. That my aide died as the target of a Soviet missile is a disgrace! I cannot shoot the men responsible, but I can try to see to it that we stop arming the very people acting against our interests!
* * *
A gathering in Washington D.C. the following afternoon was, if anything, even more tense than the South African cabinet meeting under way at the same time. A CIA representative was ebullient. “We’ve lined up an interrogation team to head for South Africa the instant we’re notified that General Shpagin is there. He must know every Soviet nuclear target in NATO, and what weapons are aimed at it. That’ll reveal just how much they know about us. It’ll be the biggest intelligence coup of the decade!”
“But will South Africa let us have access to him?” a State Department advisor wondered.
“They’d better, if they want us to continue with constructive engagement in any form at all! We can throw them a bone or two—sell them some spares for their old C-130 Hercules transports, or turn a blind eye while they buy more missiles from Israel or West German fire control system components for their new armored vehicles, or something like that.”
The State Department man was about to reply when the telephone on the sideboard rang. An aide answered, listened briefly, and turned to him. “It’s for you, sir—the Secretary.”
The advisor walked over to the sideboard, took the phone, and listened for a long moment. “Yes, sir
…but are they serious?…I see…yes, sir. I’ll tell them. Thank you, sir.” He replaced the phone in its cradle, took a deep breath, and turned back to the conference table.
“There’s been a new development. Secretary Gorbachev has just spoken with President Reagan on the hot line.” A rustle of surprise ran around the room. “He’s made it clear that unless General Shpagin is returned at once, unharmed, the Soviet Union will withdraw from further negotiations on the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty.”
There was a stunned silence. At last the CIA man said, clearly astonished, “They can’t be serious! They’ve been working on that with us for years. Why would their diplomats call it off over a simple general?”
The State Department observer shook his head. “It’s not only the diplomats who have a say. Their military knows we’d love to learn all he can tell us, and they’re bound and determined to make sure that doesn’t happen. Gorbachev’s still settling into power after Chernenko’s death. He’s not yet secure in his position, and he can’t afford to ignore them. If he has to, he’ll strengthen his domestic position by going along with them, even at the expense of his most cherished diplomatic project.”
“What did the President say?”
“He’s called in the Secretary of State, and they’ve summoned the South African Ambassador. We’re to stand by until further notice.”
* * *
The Commanding Officer, Special Forces of the South African Defense Force put down the phone, and breathed a long, slow sigh of relief. He consulted a map, scribbled some notes, then picked up the phone again and dialed a number.
Trouble in the Wind Page 42
