Lacking anything else to do, Ice checked on Spike Faber. His wingman was in position, and when he saw Ice turn his head to face him, he waved cheerfully, then slow-rolled his Hornet in place.
Isaacs fought the urge to give him at least a mild chewing out.
Acrobatics such as that on a combat mission were strictly forbidden, for good reason, but this was like no combat mission he’d ever flown.
Thousands of armed Cubans passed beneath his wings, and then the road was empty. Isaacs continued north, extending the distance before his turn.
At three hundred feet and slow speed, every detail of the column was visible. The trucks, the long lines of men on foot, some of them limping, and best from his point of view, not a weapon raised against them.
Isaac pulled the Hornet up in a long, graceful curve, taking the time to enjoy the sensation. This was no five-g turn designed to bend the airplane onto a new course as quickly as possible. There was no hurry, and nothing more dangerous than the afternoon thermals to occupy his attention.
Lieutenant Isaacs was a little relieved, actually. He had of course been briefed that the Cubans would not fire, and that they were expecting close overflights, but there was always the chance some hothead would take a potshot at them. He smiled. Maybe the flight of A-6 Intruders a thousand feet up and a mile off to the left had cooled any hot tempers.
Ice finished his turn and lined up on the road again. The long shadows were going to make the photo interpreters’ lives a lot easier. In a few hours headquarters would have an excellent idea of the retreating Cubans’ strength.
He triggered the cameras and started a second pass.
General Vega looked up at the jets, sure the pilots were laughing at him and his men. The urge to shoot, to lash out at his enemies, was almost as great as his shame, but the certainty of death was too great.
He was proud of his men, and his sole goal was to ensure that they all reached home successfully. The thought of Cuba pulled him forward, even as the American tanks and troops pushed from behind.
The enemy had been generous. Victors can afford to be. He and his men, stunned from the massive bomber raid, had spent the morning digging out survivors, then at noon had started out on the long march home.
Along the way, they would meet supply convoys, en route before the great reversal. Like a snake eating its own tail, Vega’s army would march back unopposed, but unassisted.
JANUARY
15-
DEFENSE
COUNCIL
,
THE
KREMLIN
,
RSFSR
Marshal Kamenev stood before the council, holding the message as if were news of a loved one’s death.
Tumansky. the foreign minister, asked, “Is there no action we can take, no promise that will make him stop this retreat?”
Kamenev shook his head.
“I have met General Vega and have read his messages over the months. I know him. He is beaten. ”
Reading aloud, the marshal said, ”
“The correlation of forces is too great for any conceivable force to overcome. Even with Cuba’s whole armed forces, I could not stand against the Western alliance.”
”
Kamenev looked up from the paper.
“He rebukes us, comrades. He is implying that he stands alone against the West, and that Cuba cannot stand, but that we could.”
“Could we, comrade?” Tumansky’s face was a mask of concern.
“Our goal was clear. The socialist forces fought a real enemy, the last capitalist power in Africa. World opinion was on our side.”
“More importantly,” the President added, “we could have put a noose around the Western economies’ necks, while ours grew strong. ” He turned to Kamenev.
“What military options are open to us?”
The marshal sighed.
“If we wish to continue fighting, we would have to land Soviet troops, in division strength, in Mozambique and Zimbabwe.
Vega’s men are finished. We would have to provide the forces ourselves.
Once secure airheads had been established, we could then begin advancing south, along the same routes used by Vega’s forces.”
The chairman of the
KGB
nodded.
“The prize might be worth a risk of war with the Americans.”
The President and other members of the Defense Council did not appear to share his feelings.
“How long to execute such a plan, comrade?”
“I could have airborne forces moving in twenty-four to forty-eight hours.” The marshal’s positive words did not match his reluctant tone.
“Category A divisions could be taken from the strategic reserve. It would take a minimum of two weeks to build up, then a campaign of several months before we would reach
Pretoria, if at all.”
The President prompted, “And the chance of success?”
“Very poor, sir. American and British forces are already in place in the area. We could expect to be bombed by carrie rand land-based aircraft as soon as our troops started appearing. They would undoubtedly bring in more units, matching our buildup. Our interventions might trigger other
Western countries into joining the Americans. We would be fighting an armed and ready enemy, on ground of his choosing, far beyond our normal reach. It could take much longer than several months. ”
Tumansky said, “A long war would be a disaster. If we can move quickly, outpace world opinion-”
Kamenev interrupted him.
“We do not have the initiative, Minister. A wise man picks his fights carefully. This is not the time.”
The foreign minister was silent.
“Then we have no options?” The President’s question was accompanied by a long look around the table. The other Defense Council members remained silent.
“Comrade President. With your permission, I will start ferrying Cuban troops back to Luanda, and then to Havana.”
The President sighed.
“Approved.” It would be a long time before they’d risk another ruble in Africa.
JANUARY
16-
ALLIED
EXPEDITIONARY
FORCE
HEADQUARTERS
,
DURBAN
The visitor from the State Department looked out of place, his suit and tie clashing with the drab camouflage colors surrounding him. General
Craig had half-dreaded and halfexpected his arrival.
Normally, a military government was set up in the conquered territory until order could be restored and a civilian government established.
Craig knew he could do the job.
In this case, though, the civilian government was already
established. In this day and age, too, Washington would want to maintain much closer control over the situation.
Craig sighed. He’d spent a lot of time in the Pentagon and the Navy
Annex, but that didn’t make him an insider. Washington would want one of their own men in charge.
With the State Department in the act, his job would be over. What would happen to him next? A staff job for the commandant? He smiled, remembering the current assignments. If they could stash him somewhere for a few months, the assistant commandant’s slot would open when Bud retired….
Edward Hurley was special ambassador to South Africa, reporting directly to the secretary of state. A small, professorial type, he looked the part of an academic right down to a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and tortoiseshell glasses. The general had heard Hurley’s name mentioned during the crisis, always favorably. Obviously, he’d done well and was now reaping the reward-a top diplomatic post.
Craig thought that he looked young for the job-only in his late thirties or early forties. Still, he’d need the energy. He was welcome to the headaches.
They had been exchanging pleasantries for several minutes now, and Craig was impatient to get on with the meeting. Stories about the weather change and the gossip in Washington only delayed the inevitable.
Finally, Craig broke in.
“I’m grateful that the State Department has sent you personally, rather than just sending me a new set of orders.”
“I wanted the chance to introduce myself and make sure that we could work together.” Hurley’s tone toward the general was respectful, something he didn’t hear from a career bureaucrat that often.
“I take orders pretty well, Mr. Ambassador. I’m sure there won’t be any trouble.”
Hurley smiled.
“I think we’d better take care of the paperwork before we go any further, General. ” He reached into his briefcase and withdrew an envelope.
“This should clarify our relationship.”
Craig accepted what had to be his orders with a feeling of resignation, and a little apprehension. Every military man feels a little uneasy tearing open the envelope. It still wasn’t too late for a booby prize.
The Marine tore open the envelope and pulled out the two sheets of paper, both from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The first page appointed Gen. Jerome
D. Craig,
USMC
, as military governor of South Africa, responsible for preparing for the restoration of civil government….
Craig looked up at Hurley.
“Then I’m to be left in charge?”
“As head of a military government until the South Africans establish their own.”
“But there is a government. Brigadier Coetzee .
“Has absolutely no power, except what you give him. And too many people in Washington are unhappy with the idea of a ‘military junta’ taking
Vorster’s place. Trans Africa wants us to hand everything over to the
ANC
, the conservatives in Congress want guarantees that the government will not have any socialist elements, and so on.”
Hurley held both hands, open, in front of him.
“Don’t get me wrong. The
State Department would love to have much more ‘direct participation’ —Hurley smiled—which translated, means running things itself. The problem is that it’s just too hot a political issue right now. Any move made by the State Department will be criticized. The consensus is that a military transition government will be seen as apolitical. ”
“Unpolitical is more like it,” Craig grumbled. He didn’t bother to protest the order or try to evade it. Craig was puzzled, though.
“What is your role?”
“That’s on the next page,” Hurley answered.
Craig turned to the second of the two sheets. Special Ambassador Hurley was assigned as a political advisor to the military governor of South
Africa, and official U.S. representative to the new government.
As he finished the page, Hurley added, “I’m going to try and take the heat on some of the political questions, General. Washington wants you in charge, though. You’re a popular man. You won the war. Did you really think your job was finished?”
“The Cubans are shattered, Mr. Ambassador, and the civil war is over.”
“There are still bands of guerrillas, both black and white, all over the country, General. Some of them are no more than bandits. Those that we can’t persuade to surrender will have to be… dealt with.”
Craig noticed Hurley’s distaste at the idea of hunting guerrillas. They both remembered the Vietnam experience.
Then the ambassador smiled.
“Besides, General, your political skills have been underrated. Your settlement of the Cape Town question-”
“All I did was stall.”
“Which is at least half of politics, and not always the bad half,” Hurley countered.
“And sir, I hope you can just call me Ed.”
Craig smiled, but kept most of it inside. So he was still in charge. No man likes to hand over the reins, but the easy job in South Africa was over. From now on, it would be politics and more politics. Part of him shuddered. He’d take war over politics any day.
Craig reached out and shook Hurley’s hand again.
“Welcome aboard, Ed.”
The Marine turned to General Skiles, standing nearby.
“George, we need to get Ambassador Hurley an office right next to mine.”
Skiles nodded and left.
“As long as you’re here, Ed, here is a list I’ve been working on. It’s the ‘easy stuff.” I’ll pass this by you, before I go any further.” He handed a sheet of paper to Hurley, who took it and started to read.
“If you don’t have any comments, I’m going to turn that over to our military lawyers and let them draw it up.”
Hurley’s eyebrows raised, Craig hoped approvingly. Good intentions were all well and good, but this was the test. Could they work together, and who really was the boss in the political sphere?
Hurley was reading, half to himself, half aloud.
“Legalization of all political parties except any advocating racial superiority. Removal of all
AWB
members from any public office. Release of any prisoner held for political crimes only. Freedom of the press. Labor unions. Integrating the armed forces. Prison reform.”
Craig was following the list in his mind, and Hurley paused for a moment.
“You don’t mess around, General.”
“Call me Jerry, Ed. I might as well tell you. I move fast, and I view these as just preliminary steps. It buys us time with the black opposition groups, and the white conservatives can blame us, instead of the new government, for those moves. ”
Hurley smiled admiringly.
“Jerry, I foresee a brilliant future for you in politics,” He then returned to the list.
The last item was guaranteed to be a shocker.
“Total replacement of the police force?” Hurley’s voice was hard to read, but Craig knew it deserved some explanation.
“The civil war’s shattered their organization. They’d have to overcome their own mutual distrust as well as the distrust of the black population. After some of Vorster’s excesses, even the whites don’t trust the police.
“I’m bringing in every Military Police unit we and the British can find.
I’ve already got my civil affairs people in place. We can do the job until the new constabulary is formed. That’s not a problem.”
Craig leaned forward, pressing his point home.
“I want the South
Africans, black and white and in between, to think like we do: if you get in trouble, you call a cop. That’s the last thing a black does. We’ll have new personnel, new uniforms, and a new set of rules.”