Colonel Suarez knocked on the door.
“Comrade General, your car will be ready in five minutes. ”
Vega nodded heavily. It was time for him to visit the remnants of his once-proud First Brigade Tactical Group now encamped fifty kilometers down the road at Warmbad-only one hundred kilometers from Pretoria itself. Their final offensive would begin tomorrow, and as was his custom, he planned to inspect the assault units and say the encouraging things generals were always expected to say on such occasions.
There was a bittersweet feeling to this attack. He’d never doubted that there would be a last battle and a final victory. He had even acknowledged that it might be much harder than originally planned, and it had been. But if the Afrikaners carried out their monstrous threat, it would snatch the prize away moments before it became his.
Under his breath, Vega cursed Vorster again, but he also wondered if he might not have done the same thing under similar circumstances. The temptation to rob a hated enemy of victory must be overpowering.
He buried the thought and rose to follow Suarez. He and his troops had only one option left to them-charge hard for Pretoria and hope for the best.
Both Havana and Moscow had sent messages exhorting him on. They were reassuring, especially the Soviet Union’s promise of expanded logistic support, but also late and unnecessary. He’d scheduled this final Cuban push for tomorrow in any case. Karl Vorster and his cronies would soon learn that their threats could not deter Antonio Vega.
South Africa’s rulers had made one mistake in their calculations. They’d assumed that both the Cuban and U.S. forces would stop rather than risk loss of South Africa’s mineral reserves. Vega didn’t know the American commander Craig’s mind well enough to guess what he would do, but for
Vega there wasn’t any dilemma at all.
If he captured Pretoria and seized the mines intact, he won. The
Afrikaner regime would be destroyed and the West would lose its essential resources. On the other hand, if the mines were contaminated, Cuba and its allies would lose, but so would the Afrikaners and the West. And that, too, was good enough for him.
JANUARY
8-
DURBAN
The planning session had been going on since before breakfast. The scattered remains of a hotel meal still littered the table. For security reasons, the kitchen staff weren’t allowed in, and Craig refused to have his enlisted men acting as busboys.
“They can do it, sir. ” Craig’s intelligence officer sounded both sure of his facts and distressed by them.
JCS
has confirmed the new message from Vorster’s government this morning. It’s all there: materials, methods, everything needed to prove they have the capability.”
That eliminated some of the uncertainty, although there had never really been any doubt. Craig had been hoping for a miracle, some sign that the
Afrikaners were bluffing. Miracles were hard to come by down here.
The colonel continued,
JCS
has also revised their time estimates.
There’s no question that Pretoria has at least half its mining facilities wired already.” He frowned.
“And they’ll have the rest done by the end of the day.”
In response to Craig’s questioning look, the colonel explained, “Our original estimates included complete coverage of each mine by several explosive devices, all connected to a central control point and one alternate. It appears all the Afrikaners are doing is dropping one waste canister on the end of a wire into each mine and leaving one or two men behind to monitor it.”
Craig nodded. One canister of highlevel radioactive waste would be enough to poison a site for decades, maybe even centuries. They could always beef up the demolitions later, if they wanted to.
The discussion broke off as a sergeant came in hurriedly, clutching a sheaf of papers and photographs. He handed the material to the colonel and whispered briefly with him.
“he Cubans are moving.” The staff stirred in their seats at the halfexpected, half-dreaded news. Craig swore silently to himself.
With one hand, the J-2 cleared away some of the papers and dishes
littering the table. Spreading out a line of photo graphs he examined each one.
“These were taken this morning by reconnaissance aircraft from Vinson.” The photos, taken by advanced cameras and digitally enhanced, were clear. Long lines of vehicles, some tanks, clogged every road south of Warmbad.
One photograph had managed to catch a skirmish between the Boers and the
Cubans. The orderly columns were in disarray, and several smudges of smoke could indicate burning vehicles, or perhaps the explosions of artillery shells.
Clearly, the Afrikaners were still fighting, but the Allied staff had already seen the orders of battle for each side. Craig agreed with the common wisdom: the Cubans could be in Pretoria in three days, four at the outside.
They studied the pictures in silence for several minutes. Then Skiles spoke up, obviously expressing the unstated opinion of the whole Joint
Staff.
“Unless we do something fast, General, we’re screwed.”
Craig nodded.
“True. It’s a win-win situation for Cuba, and this guy Vega knows it. He’s turned into a spoiler, and we’ve got to stop him.” He turned to the naval commander.
“Move Independence and Vinson up the coast, Admiral. Start launching air strikes against the Cuban forces immediately. Don’t attack South African ground forces unless they get in the way, but shoot down anything that flies.”
Rear Adm. Andrew Douglas Stewart arched an eyebrow.
“What about
Washington, General? Will the President approve an escalation like this?”
Craig pointed to the photos.
“My original orders cover engaging the
Cubans, if it becomes necessary. Don’t worry about D.C.” Andy. By the time they’ve spent five minutes looking through these, they’ll be howling for action.”
Many of his staff nodded in acknowledgment, but Skiles looked troubled.
“General, why not use just one carrier? That would slow them down some and still leave one ship to support our own advance. Our air cover is still a little thin. ”
Craig shook his head.
“No, George, send them both. We’re gonna have to depend on land-based air, and the Cubans are going to need a lot of stopping.” He looked as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.
“I hate to look like we’re defending the Afrikaners, but if Vega reaches Pretoria, the show’s over.
We’d wind up doing nothing but fighting over Vorster’s dead body and the ashes of South African industry . ”
He looked off into space for a brief moment, silently calculating the kind of delay the Navy’s air strikes could impose on Cuba’s an-no red columns. The answer he kept coming up with was unpalatable and equally undeniable. Some, but not enough. He lowered his gaze to the small group of waiting staff officers.
“All right, gentlemen. We’ve run out of sensible options. It’s time to go for broke. We have to authorize Quantum.
”
First Skiles and then the others reluctantly nodded.
Craig dialed a single-digit number preprogrammed into his command phone.
It was answered on the first ring.
“O’Connell.”
“Rob, this is Jerry Craig. Listen carefully. Your operation is a go. You have forty-eight hours to prepare.”
PRETORIA
Brig. Deneys Coetzee looked up sharply as the phone in his downtown flat buzzed repeatedly. That wasn’t his normal line. That was the second phone.
The one he’d had installed covertly and with an unlisted number known only to a special few.
He raced to answer it.
“Yes?”
“Deneys? This is Henrik.”
Coetzee sat down abruptly. Kruger. This was incredible. He chuckled suddenly.
“My God, man, but you gave me a shock there.”
Kruger laughed softly with him.
“I thought I might.” He turned serious.
“Tell me, can you speak freely?”
“I can. What’s up?”
As Kruger told him, Coetzee began to feel hope for his nation for the first time in months. Despite what he’d always been taught and believed, these Americans and British had guts.
JANUARY
I
O-QUANTUM
STRIKE
FORCE
,
OVER
SWARTKOP
MILITARY
AIRFIELD
,
PRETORIA
From the outside the C-130 Hercules looked exactly like one of the three such planes left in South Africa’s inventory. U.S. Air Force maintenance crews had worked round the clock repainting the aircraft with the right camouflage colors and insignia. One of Brig. Deneys Coetzee’s conspirators inside the
SAAF
had even given them the side number for a real South
African C-130, currently undergoing emergency repairs at Upington Military
Airfield-more than eight hundred kilometers from Pretoria. The impostor was considerably closer than that, now just two minutes’ flying time from
Swartkop’s main runway.
The ninety grim-faced men riding inside the Hercules were also flying under false colors. All of them wore South African uniforms and carried
South African weapons-weapons and clothing provided by Cape Province units. Beneath their uniforms they were a mixed bunch-a reinforced Ranger rifle platoon, a British
SAS
troop, and several Afrikaans-speaking volunteers from Henrik Kruger’s 20th Cape Rifles. They had much in common, though:
physical and mental toughness, superb combat skills, and a driving determination to carry out their mission at any cost. Their commanders shared those same attributes.
From his seat near the C-130’s rear ramp, Col. Robert O’Connell checked the magazine on his R4 assault rifle and slid it back in place. His hands still shook, but only slightly. Not enough for anybody not looking closely to notice. He kept his hands busy by checking the rest of his gear: a pistol with a separate, concealed silencer, a sheathed knife, and two colored-smoke grenades for signaling purposes. Somehow it didn’t seem like enough. Then he shrugged. Even in battle dress, a South African officer couldn’t go waltzing about Pretoria looking like a walking arsenal.
Satisfied that he was as ready as he’d ever be, O’Connell glanced at the men seated to either side of him. Capt. David Pryce, the tall, mustachioed
SAS
officer he’d picked as his XO for Quantum, was making the same kind of last-minute personal inspection.
Major Cain, the senior
SAS
man in South Africa, had kicked and screamed to come along, too. But Craig had vetoed that on the sensible grounds that the Joint Special Warfare units being readied at Durban needed an experienced and battle-tested commander.
If Quantum failed, General Craig would need every Ranger team and
SAS
patrol he could lay his hands on. Those in country were already prepping for what would almost certainly be a series of desperate and abortive commando raids on South Africa’s radioactive-waste-filled mining facilities. O’Connell’s mind shied away from imagining what a bloody shambles those attacks were likely to be. Then he laughed inwardly, If
Quantum failed, he wouldn’t be around to see it all happening.
Beside him, Commandant Henrik Kruger wore a headset plugged into the
Hercules’s intercom system, listening as a former South African Air
Force lieutenant handled the C 130’s cockpit conversations with air traffic controllers on the ground.
As O’Connell watched, Kruger slipped the headset off with a decisive gesture.
“We’ve been cleared to land. One minute.”
The whining clunk of the aircraft’s gear coming down confirmed Kruger’s statement.
O’Connell sat back in his seat, trying to clear his mind of any thoughts or worries outside this mission. Total concentration on the job helped keep his fears at bay.
Touchdown . Coming in low and fast, the C-130 bounced once on Swartkop’s bomb-damaged runway and braked just enough to stay on the ground-rolling rapidly toward a small group of trucks and other vehicles parked at the far end. Once there, it braked still more, slowing as it swung through a 180-degree turn so that its nose pointed down the runway again.
Still in his seat, O’Connell felt a final shudder as the aircraft came to a complete stop. He unstrapped himself and stood up in a single fluid motion with his assault rifle gripped in his right hand. The men around him were doing the same thing.
A sliver of daylight appeared, growing larger as the C130’s rear ramp whined open. It dropped onto the runway and locked in place. Slinging his rifle, the Ranger officer trotted down the ramp with Kruger by his side.
The assault force followed him in a column of fours-emerging into a whirling chaos of turboprop-blown sand and dust.
Three uniformed Afrikaners stood waiting for them at the foot of the ramp, each holding his peaked cap on his head against the howling, artificial windstorm. Kruger went straight up to the shortest of the three and shook his hand, shouting to be heard over the noise.
“Deneys, man, you’re a sight for blery sore eyes!”
“You expected somebody different, maybe?” Brig. Deneys Coetzee grinned.
At Kruger’s gesture, he turned to 0”Con nell
“You are the American commander?”
O’Connell nodded.
“Good. I have the vehicles you need here.” Coetzee jerked a thumb at the ill-assorted collection of military trucks and jeeps visible behind him.
“I suggest you get your men aboard and we’ll talk later. In some place safer. Right?”
“Definitely.” O’Connell turned and waved his arm toward the waiting convoy. His troops scattered by squads, each jogging toward a different truck.
The group of six officers-the four South Africans, 0”Con nell and
Pryce-trotted after them at a slightly more sedate pace. The American kept his eyes open. The last time he’d seen Swartkop, it had been dark and most of the base had been on fire.
He was glad to see that the airfield still showed signs of the damage inflicted by his Rangers. Swartkop’s control tower stood silent-a burned-out, blackened ruin. Piles of twisted steel girders and warped aluminum siding were all that were left of maintenance hangars and storage sheds. For now, flight operations were being handled out of a small cluster of camouflage-draped tents set up next to a mobile radar van.