They’d driven the Cuban force back several kilometers, but the victory had been bought at too high a price. The battalion’s attached armored units needed time for rest and repair. His infantry companies were thoroughly disorganized and urgently needed replacements for those who’d been killed or wounded. And worst of all, Hennie Mulder’s heavy mortars were almost out of smoke rounds and were low on everything else, including HE.
Kruger swiveled north, his eyes narrowed-studying the thin asphalt strip of
Motor Route I as it wound its way higher and higher into the rugged Auas
Mountains. Every instinct and every ounce of experience told him that the days of lightning-swift advances and easy glory were over. One afternoon’s fiery engagement had blunted the SADF’s headlong plunge into Namibia.
Resolute and well-equipped defenders could hold that mountain pass with relative ease-parrying attacks launched on what would become an increasingly narrow front. The war would become a war of attrition-a war in which soldiers sold their lives for a few square kilometers of relatively worthless ground.
One thing was clear. If South Africa wanted Windhoek, it was going to have to pay a high price. A price Henrik Kruger wasn’t sure his country could afford.
8TH
MOTOR
RIFLE
BATTALION
High on a boulder-strewn hill six kilometers closer to Windhoek, Senior
Capt. Victor Mares sat slumped against the side of his BTR-60, surrounded by the remnants of his command group. A rust-brown bloodstain spread across his battle dress served as a reminder of his dead radioman-cut down by South African MG fire during the last frantic rush to board the
APC
and escape.
What was left of his two companies-five battle-scarred BTRs and a handful of ragged infantry-held temporary firing positions covering the road. The
Cuban captain doubted whether they’d last more than five minutes against a renewed South African attack. The 8th Motor Rifle Battalion had been decimated.
Oddly enough, though, the South Africans seemed in no hurry to press their advantage. Maybe they’d taken more damage than he’d realized. Maybe they were overconfident. Maybe they were retreating to try another route through the mountains. Mares was just too damned tired to care. Sleep crept up, filtering in through a nervous system already drained by the excitement and sheer terror of battle.
“Captain!”
Mares sat bolt upright and stared at the young lieutenant scrambling frantically up the hill toward him.
“Captain! They’re here! They’re here!”
Hell. He jumped to his feet, despair replacing fatigue. In minutes, he and his men would be dead or dying. And the damned South Africans would be racing past them to capture Windhoek.
Then Mares realized that the lieutenant was pointing north-not south.
North toward a long column of wheeled APCs and trucks towing antitank guns. A Cuban flag fluttered from the lead GAZ-69 jeep’s long, thin radio antenna.
His battalion’s sacrifice had not been in vain. The road to Namibia’s capital was closed.
AUGUST
24-
WNDHOEK
AIRPORT
,
NAMIBIA
Huge, multiengined jet transports orbited slowly low over Windhoek’s single airstrip, waiting for their turn to land on an already crowded runway. Those already on the ground taxied toward waiting work crews and fuel trucks.
Of all the hundreds of men at the airport, only four wore civilian clothing.
Several Cuban soldiers and two officers escorted the French freelance reporter and his camera crew-shepherding them through apparent chaos while they looked for just the right spot to shoot the promised interview.
Time and again they stopped, only to walk on when the sound man shook his head-driven on by a maddening combination of wind and roaring jet engines that made recording human voices impossible.
At last, they found a sheltered spot with a fine view of the flight line.
The Frenchman stepped out in front of the camera. He was a tall, rangy man, and years of outdoor assignments in world trouble spots and war zones had given him a wind burned and disheveled look that makeup could not conceal. One of the two Cuban officers followed him and stood at his side.
“Very well. Let’s try to do this in a single take, okay?”
His crew and the Cubans nodded, all hoping to get in out of the wind and noise. The cameraman lifted his Minicam onto his shoulder and punched a switch.
“Recording.”
“This is Windhoek Airport. Normally a small field serving the rustic capital of the world’s newest nation, it is now the center of a fierce military struggle. With South African military units about fifty kilometers away from the city, Cuban and Angolan reinforcements are being airlifted in at a breakneck pace. While the exact numbers are a closely guarded secret, each of the big 11 -76 transports you see landing behind me can carry more than one hundred fifty troops or two
armored fighting vehicles.” The reporter paused, waiting as a jet screamed past on final approach.
“And planes have been landing like this for the past two days.
“With me is Colonel Xavier Farrales of the Cuban Army.” The colonel was a short, dark-skinned man in dress uniform. Although the winter season moderated the heat somewhat, the colonel was clearly uncomfortable. He had his orders, though, and knew exactly what he had to say. He smiled warmly and nodded at the camera.
The Frenchman turned toward him, mike in hand.
“Colonel, Western intelligence sources have claimed that these big Ilyushin transports aren’t part of Cuba’s regular Air Force. And there’ve been other, as yet unconfirmed, reports of advanced surface-to-air missiles and other hardware being used here that aren’t normally in your country’s inventory. Certainly all this must be a tremendous financial drain on your country. How much financial and logistic support has the Soviet
Union promised to provide? And does Moscow plan to commit its own ground troops?”
The colonel’s English was accented but clear. He had been carefully chosen for this task. Smiling, he said, “Certainly Cuba is a small country. We have little to spend but our soldiers’ blood, and much of this would be impossible without fraternal assistance. We are receiving help from many of our socialist allies. Naturally, I cannot speak for the depth of any one country’s support. Any participation in this struggle for freedom is honorable, no matter how large or how small.”
The Cuban officer’s smile grew slightly less sincere.
“We would even welcome assistance from the West’s socalled democracies. South Africa’s aggression is a matter that should cross all ideological boundaries.”
The reporter hid a grimace. Political doublespeak made poor television.
He persisted.
“But what are your country’s long-range intentions in
Namibia? What do you hope to gain from your involvement in this war?”
Farrales puffed up his beribboned chest.
“Cuba’s My goal is to drive the
South Africans from Namibia and to secure its sovereignty for the future.
All our efforts, both diplomatic and military, are designed to achieve this result. That is why our forces are converging here, at Windhoek, to repel the completely unjustified attack made by Pretoria’s racist forces. Cuba is only fulfilling her internationalist duty.”
The Frenchman nodded. He could recognize a closing statement when he heard one. Fine. They wouldn’t get much useful play out of the colonel’s pompous rhetoric, but at least they’d be able to sell some good, dramatic pictures of Cuba’s massive airlift. He stepped back and made a cutting motion across his throat, signaling his cameraman to stop shooting.
“Thank you, Colonel.
You’ve been most helpful.”
Farrales took the Frenchman’s offered hand, shook it, and walked away-glad to have escaped so easily. Western journalists were usually irritatingly cynical and uncooperative. In any event, the reporter and his crew would be on an airplane bound for Luanda inside the hour. From there, their story would be edited and transmitted around the world-pouring visual evidence of
Cuba’s power and resolve into the homes of tens of millions.
Gen. Antonio Vega’s temporary headquarters occupied one wing of the small airport terminal, and Farrales made haste to report. After being passed through by the general’s aide and radio operator, the colonel knocked twice on a wooden door and entered without waiting.
Vega sat at a camp desk, surrounded by maps, books, and pieces of paper.
His uniform coat hung from a hook with his tie draped over it. Wearing a rarely seen pair of glasses, he worked steadily, punching in numbers on a
German-manufactured pocket calculator.
Farrales saluted.
“Report, Colonel.” Vega’s tone was impatient, and he did not look up from his work.
“Were you successful?”
“Yes, Comrade General. I included the information we wanted to make known and rubbed their noses in the West’s cowardice as well.”
Vega glanced at him, smiling now.
“Good. Very good.” He turned back to his work, still speaking.
“Since this interview went so well, Colonel Farrales, see how many others
you can set up. As long as the Western media is singing our song, let’s help them sing it. It’s nice to have them on our side for a change.”
Vega finished his calculations and made a series of rapid notations on one of the maps. Then he stood up, stretched, and started to clear the camp desk.
“Now, get my aide in here. I want to be on the next plane to
Karibib. ”
Forty minutes later, the Frenchman and his film crew boarded an Angolan
TAAG
airlines An-26, a Russian-built transport aircraft that was also used as a civil airliner. No amount of bright paint could hide its military origins. The rear loading ramp was 4 dead giveaway, as were the seats that folded up against the cabin sides.
As the An-26 took off and climbed high above the barren Namibian landscape, its pilot turned a little farther to the east than normal.
This ensured that the plane passed well out of sight of the small town of Karibib-140 kilometers northwest of Windhoek, as the transport flies.
It was 180 kilometers by what passed for a road.
Gen. Antonio Vega’s plane, a Cuban Air Force An-26 in a drab sand-and-green paint scheme, followed ten minutes behind-closely escorted by two MiG-29s. But instead of continuing north toward Luanda, the large twin turboprop slid west-on course for Karibib.
KARIBIB
AIRHEAD
,
NAMIBIA
Twenty minutes out of Windhoek, Vega’s An-26 orbited, circling low over
Karibib’s single, unpaved runway. The traffic pattern over the small airstrip was jammed with military aircraft of all sizes and types.
For once, Vega had refused the privileges associated with his rank, content to wait his turn in the landing pattern. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with this operation especially not meaningless and time-wasting ceremony.
As the plane circled, he watched the frantic loading and unloading process going on below him. Huge 11-76, smaller
Antonov aircraft like his own, and even Ilyushin airliners from Air Cuba, all had to land, unload, and fuel simultaneously, then turn round for an immediate takeoff. Karibib’s airfield only had room for three aircraft on the field at once.
Fighters circled higher, constantly on watch for snooping South African reconnaissance planes.
In the distance, Vega saw a small tent city and rows of parked vehicles.
There should have been more of them. But at this range from their bases, even the USSR’s big 11-76s could only carry two armored personnel carriers. As a result, it had taken more than thirty sorties over the past three days just to ferry in the equipment for a reinforced motorized rifle battalion.
Vega frowned. So small a force for such an important mission. He would have preferred sending a regiment-sized tactical group, but time was short and the opportunity he saw was bound to be fleeting. With calculation and a little luck, the gamble he planned to take would pay off. And in a pinch, he could skip the calculation.
” Antonov One One, you are cleared to land.” The controller’s voice sounded bone tired, reflecting nearly seventy two hours of nonstop flight operations directed from a small trailer parked off to one side of
Karibib’s dirt runway.
“Acknowledged, Control. On final, now.”
Vega slid forward against his seat belt as the transport dropped steeply and all but dove for the strip. He felt his stomach churn and swallowed hard, fighting to keep a placid appearance. Senior commanders in the
Cuban Army did not get airsick in front of their subordinates. He knew what was happening; it was only his stomach that hadn’t been informed.
The pilot’s combat landing was rough, but acceptable, and as soon as they had taxied to what passed for a tarmac, ground crewmen chocked the wheels and started to refuel the Antonov’s tanks from fuel bladders and a portable pump.
The plane’s rear ramp whined open before its propellers had even stopped spinning.
Col. Carlos Pellervo was waiting, breathless, with the rest of the battalion staff as Vega’s command group left the plane. He braced and saluted as the general approached.
Vega returned the salute, and both men dropped their hands. Pellervo remained at rigid attention.
Still feeling queasy from the flight, Vega sourly noted the man’s harried expression and partially unbuttoned tunic. Though politically well-connected, Pellervo hadn’t been his first choice for this post.
Unfortunately, the man’s battalion had been the first unit that could be spared from the buildup around Windhoek.
Vega frowned. He wasn’t a stickler for spit and polish, but there were certain standards to be maintained.
“Good afternoon, Colonel.” His voice grew harsher.
“I assume you received word of my intention to inspect your troops? I know for a fact that a message was sent more than two hours ago.
Have I interrupted a siesta or some other form of recreation?”