Suarez tried to sound hopeful.
“As long as they don’t attack the airheads in Mozambique and Zimbabwe, we will still receive supplies.”
“The Americans don’t need to attack the airheads. The supply line is long enough for them to hit it between here and the border. The risk of hitting Russians or other foreign citizens is too great, just as the risk of losing a cargo aircraft or its crew is too great for the Russians to land here.” Vega remembered the airfield at Naboomspruit. It could easily handle large transport planes, but the Soviets had insisted on landing at the original airfields, now a hundred kilometers away. He understood their reasoning, but it didn’t keep him from hating them.
Vega had been half-sitting up, but suddenly fell back in the chair as all the strength left him. Lack of sleep and a hole in his thigh that had needed thirty stitches could not be ignored. Suarez was worried. The general had been pushing himself before the wound. Now he was pale, and obviously on the brink of exhaustion. Tired men don’t make good leaders.
“I’ll send in the medics and some lunch, sir. You should rest and heal.”
“So should the rest of the Army,” Vega replied.
A mild painkiller and some food had relaxed and refreshed him, and his chief of staff let him sleep until dinnertime. That gave Suarez time to organize the Army and the disrupted supply lines.
The general woke from his long nap, and while he was still pale and thin, he spoke more energetically and was much less defeatist. As they ate dinner, Vega issued a dozen directives, all designed to help deal with the American air attacks and the problems of night combat. He railed against the loss of half a day, and Suarez smiled. He would gladly spend half a day’s advance to get his general back.
Evidence of the American attacks was everywhere when the command group went forward to their observation position. Suarez was visibly uneasy, but Vega had insisted on observing the first night attack personally. None of them had any experience in large-scale night attacks, and Vega said that he needed to learn faster than anyone else in the Army, and hopefully faster than the South Africans.
Gomez parked the jeep in a gully formed where a dry streambed cut into the side of a hill. Although there were several groups of trees nearby, the Cubans’ first lesson had been to avoid prominent terrain features.
Instead, they sheltered it against the gully’s side, then moved forward slowly to the top of the hill.
The command group, consisting of Vega, Vasquez, Gomez with the radio, and two bodyguards, settled down to wait for the opening moves. Suarez would run the battle from headquarters. In fact, Vega thought, Suarez was shaping up nicely. Certainly, when the next list of generals was announced, Suarez should be on it. The man should have his own division. .
A rippling group of explosions woke Vega with a start.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“About half an hour, sir. There’s been nothing to see. and you needed the rest. The artillery barrage is just beginning. ”
“Good.” Initially afraid that he’d missed something, his relief was mixed with irritation. Was everyone in the Army going to nursemaid him now?
Vega was lying on his back and rolled over, grabbing his field glasses.
Only the general outlines of the landscape could be made out. Scattered clouds blocked some of the starlight and a very new moon. A classic example of the veld, or savannah, making up much of northern South
Africa, it appeared flat, covered with scrub brush and tall grass.
Off to the left, he could see a glow and hear the explosions made by artillery shells as they landed. They had probably started a few fires in the grass, hopefully among the South African defenders.
The deceptively flat terrain was laced with dips and rises, some of them large enough to conceal an armored vehicle.
With time to prepare, vehicles could be dug in so that only their turret and gun were exposed, forming an excellent defensive position. Their slow progress had given the Boers more than enough time.
This battle was to regain the initiative. The South Africans had rebuilt their defenses, and Vega was going to have to knock them back on their heels. His wound notwithstanding, the general felt the old drive again.
He knew he could blow these damn Boers out of their holes, and the artillery was just the first step.
The barrage ceased, and Vega knew that kilometers back, the gun crews were hurriedly bringing the guns out of battery and moving them to their second firing position. He would lose the battery for half an hour, but better that than losing them forever.
Vega lay on the rise and watched, waiting. It was quiet again, and in the darkness, the only sound he could hear was a faint rumbling, far to the rear. Some part of his forces was being bombed, and Vega could only hope that Suarez could deal with the extra confusion.
The second phase was late, or seemed to be, and Vega felt himself displaying uncharacteristic nervousness. He was almost ready to reach for the radio when he heard the crack of high-velocity cannon, off to the left. There were no new lights, but as the tank cannon fired, he could see streaks of light fly forward and land all along the South African line. The T-62s probably wouldn’t hit anything, Vega decided, but they would get the Boers’ attention, and certainly their respect.
After a few shots, Vega saw streaks of fire going back the other way.
There was no sign of the source, or its effects, and he could only hope his men were giving the best part.
The general scanned the rest of the battlefield. Good. No lights, no sounds, no other sign of activity. Fifteen minutes had passed since the barrage had stopped, and the general nervously counted each one, hoping that his artillery would be redeployed in time.
They didn’t get the chance. A popping noise heralded a harsh, white, flickering light. Vega noted that the flares were fired over the right side of the battlefield and knew that his plan had been detected.
The magnesium light illuminated row after row of tanks and personnel carriers, advancing on the right toward the Boer lines. Somebody must have heard engines and called for flares. It had to happen eventually, but like all generals, Vega had wanted them to get a little closer before they were discovered.
The firing on his left had been by no more than a handful of tanks, picked for their cranky engines, but functional guns. Combined with a preparatory barrage, Vega’s feint had not only drawn the enemy’s attention but hopefully their reserves as well.
Vega watched his lines of armor advance. They were speeding up now, sacrificing neat formations to close quickly with the enemy. Breaking standard doctrine, they would not fire until they had a target, which would hopefully be at short range. As it was, they were only a kilometer or so from the Afrikaner line.
It only took a few seconds for the enemy to see the advancing battalion and realize their danger. Their positions erupted in tracers, bathing the advancing Cubans in explosives. There were a few hits, but the dark, moving targets held their fire and kept advancing.
Vega started to get up, but almost as soon as he stirred, he felt
Vasquez’s hand on his shoulder, urging him to stay.
“You won’t see anything if you get closer, sir. It would just increase the chance of you getting hit again, and we might not be as lucky.”
The general nodded and returned to his prone position. His urge to get closer was natural, but even at close range, a night battle was no more than a confused mix of sound and images. His best vantage point was up here, getting the “big picture,” even if it was a little dark.
The general shook his head a little. Normally he would have dismissed an impulse such as that without giving it a second thought. Vega could only wonder if his wound had weakened him, made him more emotional. He resolved to consider his actions carefully.
The storm of fire suddenly doubled, and Vega realized that his battalion must be close enough to see the Boer positions clearly. Fire was starting to come in from the left and center as well now. The general smiled as he imagined the confusion behind the enemy line-first sending units over to its left, then frantically trying to shift them as the true danger was revealed. Vega loved the chaos and confusion of battle-as long as it was behind the enemy’s lines.
Gomez spoke up.
“Battery commander reports ready for second fire mission.
”
Vega felt his spirits lift a little more.
“Tell him to execute as planned,” he ordered the radio man. He listened to Gomez relay his order as he studied the battle.
More of his tanks and APCs were burning now. The progress of the battalion could be followed by a widening wedge of flickering fires, and
Vega knew that for every burning vehicle there were probably two more that had been knocked out.
He hoped the men had escaped from their metal traps. More importantly, he hoped they would have the wit and the will to advance in the right direction in the swirling, lethal confusion.
A whooshing roar was followed by a hollow crump sound. His artillery was shelling the Afrikaner line, but the shells were smoke, not high explosive. Landing at right angles to the Boer positions, and lying across the center, the smoke would make the dark night darker, effectively isolating one third of the battlefield from the rest. It would not block all of the Boer fire, but it would reduce its effectiveness and slow any movement to that area.
The artillery stopped, and Vega knew they were moving again. American air power, even if not directed by the South Africans, was driving his tactics. Like weather or terrain, it had to be considered, but it could be dealt with.
“The assistant battalion commander says that his tanks have penetrated the line and are swinging left!” Gomez’s report was almost a cheer, and
Vega was glad that the darkness hid his grin. Then he stopped worrying about it.
With the tanks behind them and on their flank, the South
Africans would have to quickly retreat or face utter destruction. Vega almost hoped they didn’t. He imaged the panicked Boer infantry, turning their heads to see shadowed steel monsters emerging from the smoke almost on top of them.
Still, it had not been without cost. Obviously the battalion commander was unable to report. His tank was in the front rank, and Vega could only hope that his vehicle’s problems were limited to a broken radio,
The trick now was to seize the Afrikaner positions, dig in, and be ready for the morning light and a new round of air attacks. By the time the
Americans knew he was here, he wanted his men secure.
He stood up slowly, weakly, but victorious. He was a heartbeat away from
Pretoria. He and his men had survived nuclear weapons, guerrilla attacks,
American air power, all in addition to a dangerous enemy and a harsh landscape. Nothing could stop him.
JANUARY
13
Vega slept in that morning, unusual but quite reasonable. He was used to rising early and liked attacking difficult problems first thing, but that was before his wound, and before his forces had shifted to their new nighttime pattern.
His room, a former office in the back of the bookstore, was dark when he awoke. In his disorientation, for a moment he thought it was still before dawn, but he felt rested. Then, panicking, he thought he had passed the whole day asleep. There was another night attack to organize, and when he caught Suarez, he was…
He heard voices out in the front rooms, saw sunlight streaming through the shuttered windows, and finally looked at his watch. It was eleven o’clock.
He’d slept for eight hours, and even though his leg hurt like hell, he felt better than he had in weeks. It was time to plan the next battle, before the South Africans had time to dig in too deeply.
Vega dressed himself quietly, carefully, favoring his leg. He missed
Gomez’s presence, but the corporal was now
needed for other tasks at headquarters and could not be spared for orderly duty.
Drawing himself upright, he opened the door and stepped out into the main room, which was a common office for the headquarters staff.
Vasquez, Suarez, and several of the reconnaissance platoon officers were engaged in a heated, although not angry, discussion. Books and maps were scattered everywhere. They were so intent that they did not notice Vega’s presence until he was almost next to them.
Vasquez sensed his presence first and turning, gasped when he saw the general standing over him. The rest of the staff, embarrassed and a little frightened at not noticing Vega’s entrance, quickly came to attention.
The general responded to their muttered good mornings and gratefully sat down in the chair offered to him. Rustlings behind him soon resolved into a breakfast of bread and jam, some tinned meat, and strong coffee. As they handed him the plate, Vega remembered that fancy dinner in the Strand
Hotel. It seemed as if it had been years ago, but he remembered the elegant food clearly. He liked this much better.
“What is our situation, Colonel?” asked Vega as he picked up his coffee cup.
“Based on prisoners and other information, we believe the battalion we faced last night was a composite of several understrength units. They suffered at least twenty-five percent casualties, based on the bodies and destroyed equipment we have found.”
Suarez added, “Our casualties were closer to fifteen percent, including
Colonel Oliva.”
Vega nodded somberly. Night actions were always fought at close range, which meant a lot of hits and a lot of casualties. All the maneuvering and preparation in the world finally resolved into a hugger-mugger encounter where a bayonet was as good as an antitank missile. He was willing to sustain those losses, though, if he could reach Pretoria. A big victory would force the Russians to shorten his supply lines, pull in more of the socialist world as allies…
He realized he was drifting. Vasquez had gone on to describe the next most likely Boer position, the town of Temba.
A small mining settlement, scouts following the retreating South Africans had seen them retreat into it. A minor road junction, it had the added complication of lying across a small river. The terrain was definitely tricky.