No one responded, and Ferentez knew that they were all chagrined over the amateurish whooping and cheering that had filled the circuit seconds earlier.
“The loss of one of their flight mates barely tempered their enthusiasm. They had won an important victory.
None of them had seen combat before. Even Ferentez, who had flown a tour in Angola on MiG-21s, had never engaged
enemy fighters before. Still, he was professional enough to curb his elation over a successful combat. There was work to do. He checked his gauges.
Satisfied, he changed frequencies, reporting in to the controllers based at
Ondjiva Air Base, six hundred kilometers north-just inside Angola.
“Windhoek is clear. And we have fuel for another ten minutes’ patrol.”
Another flight of four MiGs were minutes behind him, screening the transports, and would relieve him before he had to return to base.
Ferentez was sorry the second Mirage had escaped. Eliminating South
Africa’s entire air patrol in one fell swoop would have been a smashing first victory. Nevertheless, he and his fellow pilots had accomplished their mission. Lumbering Soviet transports from Luanda, with close fighter escort, were now just thirty minutes away. Transports crammed with troops, weapons, and supplies to help bolster the defense of Windhoek. They would land without interference-thanks to his Fulcrums.
Ferentez smiled slowly. Pretoria couldn’t possibly ignore Cuba’s challenge to its aggression. This afternoon’s successful combat over Namibia’s capital was sure to be only the first of many.
U.S.
DEPARTMENT
OF
STATE
,
WASHINGTON
, D.C.
Edward Hurley’s office was lined with books. Most were about Africa, but they included every topic. He tried to keep the room neat, but there were always about five projects under way at the same time. Papers spilled off a side table and lay in heaps on the floor, like bureaucratic land mines for an unwary visitor.
The morning light illuminated his desk, also covered with papers, but of a much more immediate nature. It also shone down on Hurley’s form as he bent over them, trying to build a coherent picture of what was going on in South
Africa.
Hurley rubbed his eyes. Nobody he knew had gotten much sleep since the
Namibian War began. He’d spent the last three nights trying to build up a decent picture of what was going on. In addition to being cranky from lack of sleep, Washington needed answers.
Thankfully, he might be able to provide some. A picture was building, although most of it was inferred from scraps and rumor. Trying to get it right, quickly, was always risky. Based on satellite photos, embassy reports, and news reports, it looked as if Vorster’s government was succeeding in taking back Namibia-violently.
He smiled silently to himself. All their fears had come true. Remembering his unwilling prediction, Hurley wondered if this was the trigger that would tear South Africa apart. Still, at the moment it was just another foreign war. Find out as much as you can, then fit the pieces together. See if it will affect the U.S.” and keep out of it as much as possible. It was a job he’d done many times before, and he was good at it.
Hurley looked at his watch. There was an
NSC
meeting in about two hours.
That was enough time to have his notes typed, and for him to wash and get something to cat. He started assembling his briefing, making notes for the typist and arranging the papers in proper order.
He had almost finished when a staffer knocked on his open door. Bill Rock, a lanky Virginian, was his assistant. He had been awake almost as long as his boss and showed it. Now he handed Hurley another handful of papers.
“You’d better check this out, Ed. Hot stuff.”
Hurley took them, reluctantly, and looked for a place to set them on his desk. It was too late to add any more details to his brief, and ..
.
Rock noticed his intention and quickly spoke up.
“I mean it, boss. Some of our signals spooks are picking up a lot of Spanish radio transmissions-south of the Angolan-Namibian border. I checked at the Cuban desk, and there’s been activity-a lot of it.”
Sighing, Hurley started leafing through them, at first turning the pages slowly, but speeding up as he progressed, until finally he did little more than scan the heading on each page.
Half-abstractedly, he looked at Rock and said, “Get me more,” as he reached for the phone. Punching a four-digit number, he listened to a ring, then an answer.
“This is Assistant Secretary Hurley. I need to speak to the secretary immediately. ”
AUGUST
23-20TH
CAPE
RIFLES
,
NEAR
BERG
LAND
40
KILOMETERS
SOUTH
OF
WINDHOEK
Motor Route I ran straight through the small village of Bergland and continued, climbing steadily upward deeper into the rugged Auas Mountains.
Just north of Bergland, the South African construction crews who’d built the road had chosen to go through rather than over a steep boulder-and brush strewn ridge running from east to west. Armed with dynamite and bulldozers, they’d torn open a fifty-meter-wide gap, laid down the road, and moved on-never considering the difficulties their handiwork might create for a future invader.
They’d never imagined that their own sons would be among those trying to fight their way through the choke point they’d created.
Now Bergland’s narrow streets were crammed with armored cars and troop carriers. Their scarred metal sides and gun turrets looked out of place among pristine, gabled homes and shops dating from the German colonial period.
South Africa’s spearhead had ground to a complete and unexpected halt.
Commandant Henrik Kruger jumped down off the Ratel before it had even stopped moving and jogged toward the small group of dust-streaked officers clustered around a Rooikat armored fighting vehicle. A map case and canteen slung from his shoulder clattered as he ran. A young lieutenant followed him.
Maj. Daan Visser saw them coming and snapped to attention, an action swiftly imitated by his subordinates. All showed signs of increasing wear and tear. Visser’s bloodshot eyes were surrounded by dark rings, and sweat, oil, and grease stains further complicated the camouflage pattern on his battle dress. Five days of nonstop driving punctuated by several short, sharp, and bloody skirmishes had left their mark.
“What’s the holdup here, Daan?” Kruger didn’t intend to waste precious time exchanging meaningless pleasantries. His battalion was nearly a full day behind schedule, and the fact that the schedule was ludicrous did nothing to soften the complaints coming forward from Pretoria.
“My boys and I ran into some real bastards just beyond that ridge. ” The major gestured to the north, his words clipped by a mixture of fatigue and excitement.
“Caught us coming out of the cut.”
Kruger raised his glasses to study the spot. The paved two lane road crossed an east-west ridge there, and its builders had cut a path through the higher ground. The result was a narrow passage barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. The kommandant was certain that every antitank weapon the enemy possessed was pointed at the other end of that lethal channel. As he examined it, searching for other passes, the major continued to report.
“They were zeroed in on us. We didn’t have room to deploy, so we popped smoke and reversed back here to regroup. ”
Kruger nodded, agreeing with Visser’s decision. The defile was a potential death trap for any troops or vehicles trying to force their way through against determined opposition.
“Any casualties?”
Visser shook his head.
“None, thank God. But it was damned close.” He pointed to a thin wire draped over the Rooikat’s turret and chassis.
“Some kaffir swine nearly blew me to kingdom come with a fucking Sagger.”
Kruger pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. The Sagger, a wire-guided antitank missile, must have passed just centimeters over the Rooikat’s turret-leaving a length of its control wire as testimony of the near miss.
And Namibian missile teams on the other side of the ridge could mean only one thing: they planned to stop his battalion’s advance right here and right now.
Very well. If the Narnibians wanted to risk a stand-up slugging match, he’d oblige them. The more Swapo troops they killed now, the fewer they’d have to contend with later.
Kruger stared up the steep slope leading to the ridge crest.
“Can you get your vehicles over that?”
Visser nodded.
“No problem, sir. But I’ll need infantry and artillery support to deal with those blery missile teams. ”
“You’ll have it.” Kruger snapped open his map case, looking for a chart showing the terrain beyond the ridge. It wasn’t the best place he’d ever seen for a battle. Pockets of dense brush and small trees, ravines, boulder fields, and rugged hills all offered good cover and concealment for a defending force. He didn’t relish making a frontal assault against people holding ground like that, but there wasn’t any realistic alternative-not in the time available. Taking the only other southern route onto the Windhoek plateau would involve backtracking nearly sixty kilometers and then making another approach march over more than three hundred kilometers of mountainous, unpaved road.
Kruger shook his head wearily. He was out of bloodless options. The battalion would simply have to grind its way through the Namibian-held valley beyond Bergland-trusting in superior training, morale, and firepower to produce a victory.
He turned to the young lieutenant at his side.
“Radio all company commanders to meet me here in fifteen minutes.”
Operation Nimrod was about to escalate.
FORWARD
HEADQUARTERS
, 8TH
MOTOR
RIFLE
BATTALION
,
CUBAN
EXPEDITIONARY
FORCE
,
NORTH
OF
BERG
LAND
Senior Capt. Victor Mares crouched beneath the tan-and brown camouflage netting rigged to cover his wheeled BTR60
APC
. He shook his head slowly from side to side, not wanting to believe what he’d just heard through his earphones. He clicked the transmit button on his radio mike.
“Repeat that please, Comrade Colonel.”
The bland, cultured voice of his battalion commander took on a harder edge.
“You heard me quite well the first time, Captain. You are to hold your current position. No withdrawal is authorized. I repeat, no withdrawal is authorized. Our socialist brothers are depending on us.
Remember that. Out.
The transmission ended in a burst of static.
Mares pulled the earphones off and handed them back to his radioman. Had his colonel gone mad? Did the idiot really expect two companies of infantry, a few antitank missile teams, and a small section of 73mm recoilless antitank guns to hold off the entire oncoming South African column? It was insane.
The lean, clean-shaven Cuban officer ducked under the camouflage netting and moved forward to the edge of the small clump of trees occupied by his command group. Helmeted infantrymen squatting behind rocks or trees glanced nervously in his direction. Most carried
AKM
assault rifles, but a small number carried
RPK
light machine guns or clutched RPG-7s.
Fifteen other BTR-60s and infantry squads were scattered in a thin line about three hundred meters closer to the South African-held ridge-concealed where possible in brush, behind boulders, or in shallow ravines. The foot soldiers hadn’t even had time to dig in. Everywhere weak, nowhere strong, the captain thought in disgust.
Mares and his men had been rushed south from Windhoek in time to block the highway above Bergland, but not fast enough to seize the ridge just north of the village. In his judgment, that made the position completely untenable. The ridge blocked his companies’ lines of sight and lines of fire -allowing the South Africans to mass their forces in safety and secrecy. They could attack his overextended line at any point without warning.
And now his politically correct, but combat-wary commander had refused permission to retreat to more defensible positions closer to Windhoek.
All apparently to impress the Narnibians with Cuban courage and determination.
Wonderful. He and his troops were going to be sacrificed to make a political point. Madness, indeed.
“Captain!” A call from farther down the line. With one hand on his helmet to keep it from flying off, Mares dashed over to where one of his junior lieutenants crouched-scanning the ridge through a pair of binoculars.
“I see movement up there, Captain. Men on foot, in those rocks.” The lieutenant pointed.
Mares lifted his own binoculars. Uniformed figures, antlike despite the magnification, came into focus. South African infantry or forward observers deploying into cover. He slapped the lieutenant on the shoulder.
“Good eyes, Miguel. Keep looking.”
The young officer smiled shyly.
Mares rose and raced back to his command vehicle, breathing hard. The
South Africans might have all the advantages in this fight, but he still had a few surprises up his sleeve. A few high-explosive surprises.
The Cuban captain slid to a stop beside the camouflaged BTR-60 and grabbed the radio mike.
“Headquarters, I have a fire mission! HE! Grid coordinates three five four eight nine nine two five!”
B
COMPANY
, 20TH
CAPE
RIFLES
High on the ridge overlooking the road to Windhoek, Capt. Robey Riekert squatted behind a large rock, watching as his lead platoon filtered through the boulder field looking for good observation points and clear fields of fire. His senior sergeant and a radioman crouched nearby.
Engine noises wafted up from behind the ridge where two troops of Major
Visser’s armored cars, eight vehicles in all, were toiling slowly up the steep slope. Ratel APCs carrying B Company’s two remaining infantry platoons were supposed to be following the recon unit.