Slocomb he’d been pretty close to the mark.
The lights came up, and General Masters looked at him.
“Jerry, we want you to take the Second
MEF
to South Africa. ”
Bingo. His earlier guesses had been on the mark, too.
“Our people are still putting a plan together, but right now we anticipate an initial landing at Cape Town-followed by extensive operations inland and east along the South African coast. ”
With two briefings under his belt, Craig understood exactly what this entailed. Cape Town was eighty-five hundred miles from the Marine amphibious base at Camp Lejeune-an incredible distance for an operation of that kind. Automatically, he glanced at the map still displayed on the screen.
Masters anticipated his question.
“We understand the distance problem,
Jerry. But we’ve got several factors working for. us. First, South Africa’s
Navy is practically nonexistent, so we don’t have to worry about an opposed transit.” The Marine Corps commandant nodded politely toward the admiral sitting across the table and said, “The Navy’s promised us a fast trip.
“Second, we think you’ll only need one brigade loaded for assault. Cape
Town’s well away from the path of the Cuban invasion, and our contacts among the rebels there tell us they’d welcome American intervention as a stabilizing influence. ”
Swell. Craig hated the thought of relying on men he didn’t know-men who’d already betrayed one trust. He made another mental note to make sure his staff did their damnedest to combat-load more than one brigade.
“This is a major operation, Jer7y. To get the job done, we think we’re going to need your boys, the Seventh Light, the One oh One Air Assault, and the Twenty-fourth Mechanized. We’re gonna back you up with two or three carrier battle groups and a whole slew of Air Force tac air squadrons.”
Craig swallowed hard. They were talking about committing more than a quarter of a million men. Jesus Christ. He hadn’t even begun to imagine what “big” really meant. He tried a tentative joke.
“Is that all, sir?”
Masters smiled briefly and looked toward the Vice President.
“Not quite.
We’re expecting the British to join in, too.”
Craig felt everyone’s gaze converge on him. This was probably a historic moment, he thought, but no memorable oratorical gems came readily to mind.
“My Marines are ready, Commandant. When do we ship out?”
“As soon as you humanly can, Jerry. We’re on one helluva tight timetable for this op,” Masters replied.
“So who’s in command?” Craig needed to know whom he’d be working for.
Some grunt, probably. It might even be someone he knew.
For a split second Masters looked exactly like Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire
Cat at its most insufferable-all smiling teeth.
“You are. We’re making you Joint Task Force commander
Masters’s voice faded, and Craig suddenly felt hollow and a little dizzy,
Him? In charge of a combined operation? My God, they were offering him the equivalent to a corps command-no, better-a unified command. He’d be leading a mix of U.S. Army, Navy, and Air Force units, plus those of at least one other nation, into almost certain combat on the other side of the ocean.. – .
He suddenly realized he was woolgathering, and that it wasn’t a good idea to play space cadet in front of the Joint Chiefs. Might adversely affect his chance of promotion, he silently joked, and he realized he was a little euphoric.
“.. . amphibious operation so a Marine should be in overall command. You have a reputation for aggressiveness and energy, and you’ll need every bit of it. The President is planning to go on television tomorrow night, so we’ll be committed from the start. You can expect a lot of press attention, Jerry, and we need good press. ”
Masters leaned toward him.
“We know you can fight. Can you handle the rest of the job? We’re the only ones who know you’ve been tapped for overall command. ” The commandant
nodded to the men seated around the table.
“If you turn down the top slot, you’ll still take the Second
MEF
overseas. We’d be disappointed, though, because we think you’re the best man for the job.
“This isn’t an order, it’s a request. Will you take command?”
Not an order, Craig thought. The big ones never are. They always give you a chance to back out, with honor. Of course, backing out would mean he could kiss any further promotion good-bye. He wouldn’t stand a chance at taking the top slot after Wcs retired. The theory was sound, though. Some men would find it easier to risk losing a promotion than a whole war.
Craig sat quietly for no more than a second. He tried to think objectively, to weigh his own strengths and limitations dispassionately.
But he already knew his answer. It was impossible for him to say no.
The flight back seemed even shorter than the trip north. Strapped into the Hornet rear seat, he could barely open the briefing book they’d given him. Nevertheless, what he saw as he leafed through summaries of his force structure and the latest intelligence strengthened his original belief that he could do the job. 6 .
Then he got to the thick annex labeled “Political Considerations.” For the first time since receiving his orders, Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig began to have doubts.
NOVEMBER
15-
HEADQUARTERS
, 3
COMMANDO
BRIGADE
,
ROYAL
MARINES
,
DEVON
PORT
ENGLAND
Brig. Neil Pascoe was sound asleep when his bedside command phone rang.
It trilled loudly six times before his hand fumbled past the nightstand lamp and found the receiver.
“Yes. What the bloody bell is it?”
The brigade’s duty officer sounded properly contrite.
“Major General
Vaughn on the line, sir. ”
Pascoe came fully awake instantly. The commander of
Great Britain’s Commando Forces wasn’t known for calling his subordinates without good reason. Most especially not at half past two in the morning.
The line hummed and clicked.
“Pascoe?”
“Yes, sir. ”
Vaughn came right to the point.
“I’m afraid events in South Africa have taken rather a nasty turn for the worse. I’ve just spoken with the PM, and he’s asked us to come to seventy two hours’ notice to move.”
CNN
MORNING
WATCH
The reporter stood in front of the main gate to the U.S. Marine Base at
Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Behind him, a small crowd milled outside the base-workers entering or leaving, well-wishers waving small American flags, curiosity seekers, and a thin scattering of fringe-group protestors with signs. A mixed force of Marine MPs and North Carolina state troopers kept the two tiny groups apart-skinheads and
KKK
supporters to one side, leftists and aging Spartacus Youth League members to the other.
Green-painted trucks lumbered in and out of the gate, mixing with civilian cars and semitrailers. It made a picturesque background for his narrative.
“.. . catapulted into furious action by the events of the last forty-eight hours. Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, home of the Second
Marine Expeditionary Force, has erupted as the Marines prepare to embark on every available Navy hull and on several commercial vessels chartered by the Military Sealift Command. The container ship Guf Galaxy and several bulk cargo carriers are only the first of many that will be needed to carry the Marines and their equipment across the Atlantic to
South Africa.
“Ships are loading at Navy and commercial ports all along America’s
Atlantic coast, and overseas in Southampton, England, as the Royal
Marines embark as well.”
The image cut away to an aerial view of Wilmington. It was normally busy with merchant traffic and warships bound
for the shipyard or for the naval base there. Now it was choked with traffic, with dozens of ships literally filling the marked channels leading in and out of the busy waterway.
The camera zoomed in on the Navy base itself, showing cluttered gray ships pulled up to several piers, all the centers of frantic activity.
“These Navy ships will carry what official sources describe as ‘the leading elements of the Allied peacekeeping force.”
“Other Marines we’ve talked to used the term ‘assault echelon. ”
NOVEMBER
18-
ADVANCE
HEADQUARTERS
,
CUBAN
EXPEDITIONARY
FORCE
,
LOUIS
TRICHARDT
AIR
BASE
,
SOUTH
AFRICA
The South African air base showed all the signs of fierce resistance and thorough demolition. Mile-long concrete runways were peppered with craters torn and gouged by heavy artillery fire. The control tower, hangars, and storehouses were all pounded into burnt-out masses of scorched aluminum, twisted steel girders, and broken shards of brick, concrete, and rock.
Hanging over everything was the sickening, pungent tang of death, decay, and thousands of gallons of jet fuel poured out and left to evaporate or go up in flames.
Louis Trichardt Air Base had died an ugly and lingering death. But now its new owners were hard at work resurrecting the freshly captured corpse.
Four six-wheeled vehicles were parked at various points along the main runway, each mounting four “Romb” surface to-air missiles.
NATO
called them SA-8A Geckos. An acquisition radar mounted on each vehicle scanned the skies
above for any indication of an incoming air raid. The
SAM
battery had a conventional backup-eight towed 23mm antiaircraft cannon spaced at regular intervals along the rest of the airfield perimeter. Their long, twin gun barrels pointed toward the sky, ready to throw a fiery curtain of high-explosive rounds at any attacking plane.
Behind this protective screen of SAMs and automatic weapons, teams of
Cuban combat engineers supervised sweating gangs of black South African laborers filling in craters and clearing away wreckage by hand-volunteers” in the service of their own liberation. Other blacks were busy carting off the last few dead Afrikaners for disposal in a mass grave beside the main runway.
Gen. Antonio Vega watched the blacks working with a practiced eye, a slight, worried frown on his stern, narrow face. There were fewer genuine volunteers than he’d hoped for. His political officers and
ANC
liaisons blamed the dearth of willing labor on civilian casualties caused by artillery and air bombardments directed against
SADF
positions inside the black townships surrounding Louis Trichardt.
Well, perhaps that was so. The Cuban general shrugged. Did these South
African blacks expect to win freedom and a proper political structure without loss? If so, they would be bitterly disappointed. Wars and revolutions were always brutal and bloody affairs, he thought. And he should know. He’d fought through enough of both during more than thirty years of service to Fidel Castro and his people.
Some of the
ANC
officers assigned to him reported that a few of their people believed the Cubans to be nearly as racist as the Afrikaners they displaced. And why? Simply because the army of liberation needed their strong backs and unskilled hands. Vega scowled. Racism! What nonsense.
Why, he had black Cuban officers on his own staff. Brave and competent men-every one of them.
As for the charge that he used South African blacks only for manual labor, what of it? Hadn’t Karl Marx himself said it best?
“From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs.”
He dismissed the problem from his mind. Let the rear-area commissars worry about such matters. He had a war to fight and win.
Vega turned to the stout, mustachioed colonel of engineers waiting silently beside him.
“Well, Luis? How soon before our planes can land here?”
“Twenty-four hours, Comrade General.” The colonel sounded certain-always a safe tone to use around Vega.
“My heavy equipment should arrive before sundown, and when it does…” He waved away the waist-high piles of debris still littering the runways as though they were nothing more than dust before a broom.
Vega patted him on the shoulder and glanced at the shorter, thinner Air
Force officer attached to his personal staff.
“You hear that, Rico.
Twenty-four hours. That’s good news, eh?”
“Yes, sir. ” The Air Force major pointed toward the sweating work crews.
“Once they’ve got the main runway cleared, we can start flying in ground elements of the brigade. And once they’re here, we’ll have this base back in full operation within half a day.”
Vega nodded his understanding. Cuban forward air-base operations were organized around special brigades made up of all the skilled troops needed to keep jet aircraft flying and combat ready-air traffic controllers, mechanics, armament and fueling specialists, planning staff, and pilots.
Even more important, Cuba’s fighters and transport aircraft, like all Soviet-made planes, were able to use captured
NATO
rearming, refueling, and maintenance equipment. And the South Africans used
NATO
standard gear.
How thoughtful of them, Vega mused.
He stared beyond the airfield toward the multi lane highway running south.
South toward the vital road junction and minerals complex at Pietersburg, one hundred and twenty kilometers away. And south toward the enemy capital of Pretoria, two hundred and eighty kilometers beyond Pietersburg. A hint of yellowish dust and gray-white smoke on the horizon marked the position of his First Brigade Tactical Grouptanks, armored cars, and APCs driving steadily forward despite slowly stiffening Afrikaner resistance.
Vega allowed himself a short moment of self-congratulation. Capturing this air base would breathe new life and vigor into this portion of his grand offensive. Urgently needed supplies and spare parts could be flown in with ease instead of being trucked south from Zimbabwe over hundreds of kilometers of dangerous road. Even better, MiG fighters and fighter bombers based here would be only a few short minutes’ flying time from the battlefront-drastically increasing their time on station and the number of missions they could fly as they hunted for Afrikaner targets on the ground and in the air.