“Your battalion gained ground, true?” The brigadier risked a glance over his shoulder. Hertzog leaned carelessly against the opposite tent wall, cold eyes carefully fixed on them.
Kruger slammed a fist onto the map, startling several nearby staff officers.
“Oh, we gained ground all right, Brigadier. Three hundred blery meters of open, useless wasteland and one stinking gully! And capturing that fucking ground cost me ten killed and thirty-six wounded! At that rate, our whole verdomde country will be bled white before we reach
Windhoek! ”
Strydom grabbed him by the arm again and leaned closer, his voice low, fearful, and urgent.
“Shut up, Kruger! Do you want to be arrested, too?
Do you want your men commanded by someone like that?” He jerked his head in Hertzog’s direction.
Kruger shook his head reluctantly. A thug and political hack in charge of his battalion? Madness.
“Now listen to me, Henrik, and listen closely. Your attack today was successful-just as your attack tomorrow will be successful. Pretoria does not want to hear about failure, about supply difficulties, or about casualties. Do you understand me?”
Kruger stood motionless for what seemed an eternity. What Strydom was suggesting violated every tenet of his training and experience as a South
African officer. What had happened to his nation? How could it have fallen into the hands of such brutal incompetents? He glanced again at
Hertzog’s smug, gloating face and nodded slowly, feeling ashamed as he did so.
He would buckle under for the moment-but only for the moment. Only to save some of his men.
SEPTEMBER
I
O-THE
KREMLIN
,
MOSCOW
, R.S.F.S.R.
Outside the Kremlin’s redbrick walls, the streets of Moscow were full of shoppers-shoppers standing in record-long lines for a few of the basic necessities. Bread already gone stale in warehouses. Shriveled potatoes.
Rotting cabbage. Rare cuts of meat more gristle and bone than anything else.
Soap that wouldn’t lather, and gasoline so filled with impurities that it wrecked almost as many engines as it powered.
It was the seventh year of perestroika, the grand program of economic restructuring. It was the seventh year of continuing failure.
Within the Kremlin’s walls, the Soviet State Defense Council met in a small, elegantly furnished chamber. Ten chairs surrounded a rectangular oak table topped only by notepads, pens, and a tray holding two bottles of vodka. The State’s anti alcohol campaign continued unabated, but serious decisions always seemed to call for something more stimulating than tea or fizzy mineral water. A German-manufactured word-processing system occupied one corner of the room, ready for use by the secretaries who would record any major decisions for later translation into action directives for specific ministries or individuals.
Only six of the ten chairs were occupied. The Soviet State Defense Council was made up of the highest-ranking members of the Politburo, itself a body of elite decision makers whose power had been only partly diluted by the
USSR’s newly formed Congress of People’s Deputies. Any large body takes its lead from a smaller body, and from smaller and smaller groups, until finally the power is wielded by a few key individuals.
The President of the Soviet Union looked wearily around the table, his red-rimmed eyes roving from face to face. The minister of defense, plump and pudgy despite a precisely tailored suit and rows of unearned medals.
Next to him, the chief of the general staff, seated stiffly in full dress uniform. Directly across the table, the cherubic, bushy-eye browed chairman of the
KGB
, who sat next to the foreign minister
-apparently on the general principle that one should always stay close to one’s greatest rival. And to his immediate right, the boyish face of a comparative newcomer, the academician who now served as the President’s chief economic advisor.
One face was missing, the gray, skeletal visage of the Communist Party’s chief ideologist. The old man had been in the hospital for several weeks, fighting a losing battle with pneumonia. It was just as well, the President thought. If he wanted lectures on abstract political philosophy, he could always get them from his wife. The Soviet Union’s national security decisions needed a firmer basis in reality. Now more than ever.
Behind him, a clock softly chimed three times, signaling the passage of as many fruitless hours since they’d begun debating Fidel Castro’s astounding call for the direct invasion of South Africa. He rapped the table sharply with a pencil, interrupting a heated exchange over the KGB’s failure to give them advance warning of Castro’s intentions.
“Comrades, please, we’re not getting anywhere with this squabbling. Time is short. We should confine ourselves to the matter directly at hand.”
In theory, this discussion was unnecessary. In theory, he held more personal power than any Soviet leader since Joseph Stalin. In theory, he could simply impose his will on these five men, and through them on the
USSR’s still potent instruments of political power-the military, the secret police, and the bureaucracy. The President laughed inwardly. As usual, theory meant little in the real world.
The members of the Defense Council couldn’t topple him from power. He had that much security. But their opposition to his policies could render him an ineffective figurehead. He’d seen it happen to other Soviet leaders as illness or repeated mistakes robbed them of their authority. Orders could be misinterpreted or simply shunted to the wrong place within the USSR’s vast, unresponsive bureaucracy. Directives could either be simply ignored or put into action with crippling slowness.
No, he needed a consensus from these men.
Castro’s proposition had hit them hard. Accepting it would mean dramatically altering the USSR’s established national security policy.
No one knew that better than he did.
Under his guidance, the Soviet Union had turned inward in the late 1980s-no longer interested in costly “foreign adventures. ” The change hadn’t come out of the goodness of his heart. It had come as part of a desperate attempt to head off total economic collapse.
By cutting its losses overseas, the
USSR
had been able to reduce its military spending-freeing more resources for the production of the consumer goods increasingly demanded by Soviet citizens. Those sweeping changes in foreign policy had been accompanied by equally sweeping changes at home-changes symbolized by the terms glasnost and perestroika.
But both glasnost and perestroika were foundering. Too many of the USSR’s constituent republics were clamoring for full independence. And too many of perestroika’s economic reforms were being smothered by the dead weight of a Soviet system unable to tolerate individual initiative and private enterprise.
The President shook his head.
So now Cuba, which had rejected and condemned his reform program, and which cost billions of rubles in military aid and price supports for its sugar crop, wanted to involve the Soviet Union in a war at the end of the world!
On the surface, it would seem easy to refuse Castro’s request. And yet, there were certain possibilities … The foreign minister’s elegant, carefully modulated voice broke into his private train of thought.
“I tell you, comrades, Castro’s plan is simply too costly. I’ve seen the reports. Just supplying Cuba’s army in Namibia is draining our hard-currency reserves and absorbing a substantial portion of our transport aircraft and ships. We cannot afford to expand our involvement in this conflict.”
“I disagree, Alexei Petrovich.” The head of the
KGB
leaned forward in his chair, his deceptively kindly face creased by a frown.
“We’ve gained important international
goodwill by helping the Narnibians-goodwill we may yet be able to translate into trade and technology agreements.”
That was unlikely, the President knew. Goodwill and words of praise were cheap. Trade and technology agreements were costly. So far, the West’s leaders had proven extraordinarily adept at avoiding serious commitments.
And while it was pleasant to be portrayed as being on the side of freedom and human progress, kind words were no substitute for the material aid the
USSR
desperately needed to revitalize its deteriorating economy and its aging industrial infrastructure. No substitute at all.
The foreign minister turned sideways in his seat to face his rival.
“These agreements you speak so glowingly of will not materialize in the aftermath of an embarrassing defeat, Comrade Chairman! And that is precisely what this Cuban proposal will produce. ” He looked toward the minister of defense.
“Isn’t it true, Dmitri, that South Africa’s army remains the most powerful on that continent-despite being stalemated in Namibia?”
“True. ” The defense minister paused, pouring a tiny dram of vodka into a newly emptied glass.
“Military logic argues that this invasion Castro plans would be doomed before it began. ”
For the first time during the debate, Marshal Kamenev, the chief of the general staff stirred.
The President glanced curiously at him. Unlike his superior, the defense minister, Kamenev had a proven combat record-both in the Great Patriotic
War and in Afghanistan.
“Yes, Marshal? You have a comment?”
Kamenev nodded slowly.
“Yes, Comrade President. I agree that South Africa’s armed forces appear on paper to be immeasurably superior to those of its current enemies. But appearances can be deceiving, no?”
The President was intrigued.
“Go on, Nikolai.
“Much of Pretoria’s strength is tied down within its own borders holding the blacks and other races in check. If they strip the interior of enough men to crush Castro’s invasion force, South Africa’s whites risk leaving their own homes defenseless. I don’t believe that’s a risk they’ll be willing to run.”
Kamenev shrugged.
“As matters stand, I believe we see an equal correlation of forces in southern Africa-superior South African ground strength matched by weakness at home. And under those circumstances, Castro’s plan could succeed. ““But at what cost?” the foreign minister countered.
“Do we want to provoke American intervention on South Africa’s side? Do we want a direct military confrontation with the United States? Now? That could well be the result of helping Cuba escalate this war!”
“Calm yourself, Alexei Petrovich.” The KGB’s chairman smiled sardonically.
“Washington would not dare aid Pretoria’s racist regime.
Such an imperialist move would outrage its own people, its allies, and all the world’s ‘nonaligned’ nations.
“And even if the Americans were foolish enough to involve themselves,
Cuba’s plan does not require direct action by our troops or aircraft, merely political support and logistical backing. The risk of direct contact or combat losses is minimal!”
The foreign minister’s face turned a dangerous shade of red.
“Nevertheless, comrades, we have nothing to gain and much to lose!”
The embarrassed silence surrounding this outburst was broken by the sound of a throat being nervously cleared. The President looked to his right.
“You have something to add, Professor Bukarin?”
His economic advisor nodded slowly.
“Yes, Comrade President.” He turned to the beet-red foreign minister.
“Your statement was not quite accurate,
Comrade Minister. Between us, South Africa and the
USSR
produce substantial portions of some of the world’s most important strategic minerals.”
“I’ve seen the trade figures,” the foreign minister said curtly.
Bukarin nodded politely.
“My point is this, comrades. The previous South
African government once asked us to join them in a world gold cartel. It was an idea with some merit.
And would not a friendlier, more accommodating South African government be eager to join a broader cartel-one controlling the world’s strategic-minerals market? Surely that would be a logical development-a small price to be paid for our support?”
So it would. Much of what the young man said made perfect sense. The
President stroked his chin reflectively. De facto control of South
Africa’s resources would give the Soviet Union a vital economic edge in its bargaining with the West. Soviet state export companies could match any price increases initiated by a new “revolutionary government—greatly increasing the flow of needed hard currency into Moscow’s treasury. And at the same time, those higher prices would greatly retard the West’s economic growth-giving the
USSR
a chance to close the gap. That would also prove to the world that the rumors of the Soviet state’s impending demise were greatly exaggerated.
Slowly forming smiles on several of the faces around the table showed that many of his colleagues saw the same advantages. But not all. Both the foreign minister and the defense minister looked unconvinced.
The President frowned. Consensus still eluded him, Very well, perhaps he could offer them a face-saving compromise. He rapped the table briskly.
“Comrades, I think we have discussed this issue long enough. What I propose is this: we will back Cuba’s preliminary military buildup while withholding final approval for the invasion itself. That can await further developments in Namibia and in South Africa itself. And we shall insist on absolute secrecy. In that way, we can keep our options open.”
He locked glances with the foreign minister. “if nothing else, such a troop buildup might give us a stronger bargaining position in any negotiations to end the Namibian conflict. True, Alexei?”
The foreign minister bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the point.
“Good. Then this matter is settled. We’ll inform President Castro that his plans can proceed-though with the conditions I’ve outlined. Clear?”
Heads nodded around the table, some with enthusiasm, others with evident reluctance.
Keys rattled in the corner as one of the Defense Council’s secretaries typed the President’s decision into the electronic record. Fidel Castro would get the ships, planes, and supplies he needed to prepare his counter stroke against Pretoria.