His mouth tightened. He didn’t like Peiper at all. The 61 st’s colonel was a very nasty customer indeed-an
AWB
fanatic to the core, and a murderous bastard if even half the stories of his atrocities in Namibia were true.
Kruger stood up straighter as four canvas-sided trucks appeared on the highway, moving slowly south. What? All that firepower as security for four vehicles? Then he remembered where Peiper’s battalion was stationed, and he grew colder by the second.
The trucks rolled past his vantage point and turned left through the main gate into Swartkop Air Base.
Two of South Africa’s ten nuclear weapons were already outside
Pelindaba’s bombproof storage bunkers.
NOVEMBER
23-
THIRD
BRIGADE
TACTICAL
GROUP
,
ALONG
ROUTE
47,
BETWEEN
BODENSTEIN
AND
MAKOKSKRAAL
The cool desert night would fade into full day soon, much missed by the
Third Brigade Tactical Group’s Cuban and Libyan soldiers. The days were pure hell-long hot stretches of driving through a region short on potable water and long on thick, choking dust that clung to everything. South Africa’s high veld was moving into summer, with daytime temperatures soaring to over ninety degrees Fahrenheitclimbing quickly from midnight lows in the sixties.
The Libyans were more used to it than the Cubans, but enlisted men from the two nations had few chances to mix or share their knowledge. Aside from the basic problems of language and culture, the Cuban and Libyan political officers were feuding over everything from supply allocation to Marxist-Leninist doctrine. As a result, separate units went their separate ways, connected only by liaison officers at the brigade headquarters-a kind of socialist apartheid.
It also reduced efficiency. But then the brigade didn’t really have to be very efficient. It just had to keep moving. The Afrikaners still hadn’t managed to scrape up much more than a thin corporal’s guard to oppose its steady advance on Johannesburg.
The Third Tactical Group contained five battalions, plus a number of attachments” smaller specialist units. Three of the five were motorized rifle units, one of them Libyan. One battalion each of T-62 tanks and self-propelled 122mm howitzers completed the force.
When the brigade halted for the night, each battalion formed its own “strongpoint”-a defensive position with all-round fields of fire. This deep in enemy territory, an attack could come from any direction.
At the moment, the Third’s battalion strong points were strung out along the highway like a succession of huge oval beads several hundred meters across. Gaps of two or three hundred meters between them made it impossible for any would-be attacker to strike one strongpoint without taking fire from its neighbors.
This pattern of separation and mutual support was repeated inside each battalion strongpoint. Individual rifle and tank companies had each “laagered” their vehicles in separate formation. Ironically enough, the very word laager came from Afrikaans. It had slipped into worldwide military usage after South African troops reinvented the old Boer tactic during World War II.
In laager, tanks and APCs were parked nose-out in a rough oval, their turrets turned outward against the hostile landscape while the men slept inside the ring. Once the vehicles were parked, it only took a little digging to create a first-class defensive position.
So went the theory, anyway. Right now, the Third Brigade Tactical Group lay camped on an and plateau, rising in elevation to the north. Covered with low scrub and tufts of grass, the ground was dust dry. The rocky soil complicated digging in, but at least their foxholes weren’t muddy.
Supply and maintenance units also sheltered inside these company laagers, ensuring that the entire brigade was protected by an armed and armored fence.
The brigade’s surface-to-air missile batteries and antiaircraft guns were scattered throughout the battalion encampments. And while the rest of the
Third Brigade Tactical Group caught a few hours of desperately needed sleep, several
SAM
radar operators rubbed red eyes and stared at their scopes. Nighttime air raids had become a part of life, and they were sure they’d be hit before dawn.
JERICHO
FLIGHT
,
SOUTHWEST
OF
PRETORIA
Four Mirage aircraft flew west at one thousand meters over the darkened
South African countryside, heading straight for Cuba’s Third Brigade
Tactical Group. Capt. Jon Heersfeld piloted the lead plane. He was nervous, almost to the point of distraction.
Well, he thought, who wouldn’t be on a mission such as this?
Heersfeld was a professional. He’d flown combat missions over Angola during the long, undeclared war there. In recent months, he’d seen more combat in the skies over Namibia. And in just the past week, he’d flown a dozen-plus sorties against the Cuban forces invading the Transvaal. In short, he knew his business as well as any attack pilot in the Air Force.
Which was probably why he had been picked for this mission. But did the
Air Force higher-ups have to make such a production out of it? First he’d been pulled off combat operations without any explanation and ordered to sleep. Then the wing commander himself issued the attack order, leaving his poor squadron commander standing there like a fifth wheel.
And the briefing! My God, every major, commandant, and colonel on the base, along with the de Wet himself, had wormed his way into the auditorium. Didn’t the brass have any work to do?
Heersfeld scowled. It was a good thing they were flying immediately, because any chance of secrecy was shot.
Even his preflight had been bizarre. The tired old Mirage, which he’d sometimes been forced to fly with only basic flight instruments working, had been groomed and tweaked and even cleaned until it gleamed.
Technicians had spent most of the day installing special weapons control equipment in its cockpit,
His squadron commander, the maintenance officer, and one of the government’s brown shirted fanatics had all accompanied him as he circled the aircraft, looking for the smallest fault. There hadn’t been any, thank God.
He’d inspected the weapon itself, of course, not that looking at it told him much. It hung from the Mirage’s centerline hardpoint, under the fuselage. One drop tank hung under each wing, and the plane carried two
Kukri heat-seekers-one on each wingtip. The missiles were there almost out of habit. Considering the heavy fighter escort assigned to this mission, he shouldn’t need them. Still, they didn’t weigh much, and his wingtip rails couldn’t carry anything else. Besides, Heersfeld hated to fly naked. He’d already downed one Cuban MiG-23 during an attack mission.
The weapon was shaped like a standard low-drag bomb, a little bigger than most, but no heavier. Its surface was simply polished aluminum or steel, with a few small black patches near the nose and tail. It was totally unremarkable, and Heersfeld had been forced to depend on the technicians to tell him it was ready to go.
His wingman’s Mirage had received a similar going-over and had also been pronounced mission-ready. Mulder’s plane carried a second bomb as a backup in case he was shot down or forced to abort.
Heersfeld had almost expected a band to serenade him as he climbed in the cockpit, but instead the majors, commandants, colonels, and the general had just watched as he strapped himself in, connected the leads, and started the Mirage’s Atar engine.
Takeoff had been clean, and he’d hoped that once away from the confusion at the airfield, he could treat this as just another mission.
He’d been wrong.
The nature of his payload preyed on his mind. Nobody had asked his opinion on whether or not this kind of weapon should be used, or where.
The fact that it was being dropped inside South African territory had raised more than a few eyebrows at the briefing. Still, the nearest inhabited town was more than ten kilometers away from his aim point-and upwind.
Heersfeld shook his head and checked his instruments. Militarily, South
Africa really didn’t have much choice. His squadron alone had lost a third of its planes and pilots, without doing much more than slowing the enemy advance. Rumor said the ground-pounders were being hammered even worse.
So what was left to his people? How would they explain building such weapons and then losing a war because they were too frightened to use them? No, South Africa must use all its weapons, all its strength, in this conflict. Too much was at stake for anything less.
Heersfeld scanned the air behind and beside him again. There, outlined against the star-studded night sky, he could just make out the shape of a Mirage Fl.CZ fighter, this one armed purely with missiles. Another fighter escorted Mulder’s aircraft, a few hundred meters in trail.
The fighters were ready to protect his valuable plane from any air attack, although none was expected. So far, the Cuban Air Force hadn’t shown much taste for night intercepts. Heavy air attacks and fighter sweeps were being launched farther north-all designed to draw off any enemy aircraft capable of attacking them.
Other South African planes had already played a vital role in this attack.
Two precious reconnaissance aircraft from South Africa’s diminishim, fleet had overflown their target earlier in the evening, so pre strike data was good, for a change. And good data allowed the mission planners to calculate both the weapon’s aim point and its release point with special care.
Heersfeld checked his kneeboard once more. There were few landmarks in this part of the country, and fewer still that were visible at night.
Watching the map, he could only steer as well as his aircraft’s
antiquated avionics allowed. No inertial trackers, no moving map displays in this beauty. The arms embargo by the West hadn’t been entirely without effect.
Ten minutes to target. Heersfeld was flying down Route 47, using the road as his compass. He glanced down and saw a pattern of parallel lights leading west. Although the small town of Ventersdorp was normally blacked out against Cuban air attack, security forces there had turned on the streetlights along the main highway to help him verify his position.
He clicked a switch on his microphone.
“Springbok, this is Jericho Lead.
Over initial point.”
Heersfeld tapped a button on his control stick, jettisoning the two now-empty drop tanks. Two heavy clunks, one right after the other, confirmed that the fuel tanks were gone spinning down toward the ground below. Then, after aligning his Mirage carefully on the correct compass heading, he advanced his throttle to maximum. The aircraft kicked forward, accelerating smoothly through calm air.
Two clicks in his earphones told him that Mulder and his escort were turning away, starting a series of long, lazy circles. They wouldn’t come any closer to the target unless something happened to him. And right now the air raid sirens in Ventersdorp and every other town for fifty kilometers around were supposed to be going off-warning civilians to get down and stay down.
He started a shallow climb, calculating the appropriate variables in his head. Both speed and altitude at release were critical. A few practice runs over the veld yesterday had helped build his confidence for this mission, but they’d also convinced him of the importance of precision.
THIRD
BRIGADE
TACTICAL
GROUP
Sgt. Jorge Jimenez stared at the radar scope. He took his job seriously, but he’d been battling sleep all through the second half of this night. He looked forward to dawn, when the column would be moving again. His radar could only be deployed while the vehicle was stationary, so it was then that he slept.
Jimenez kept watch in one of the tactical group’s four “Romb” air defense vehicles. A lightly armored wheeled box, it carried four surface-to-air missiles code-named SA-8 Gecko by
NATO
, and a search radar
NATO
called
Land Roll. Each vehicle was a self-contained firing unit, and all four vehicles in the battery were deployed in a flattened diamond that provided complete coverage over the Cuban position.
A blip appeared on the edge of the scope, and despite what it meant, the sergeant was secretly relieved. Finally, something to break up the boredom of a night watch.
He spoke into his intercom.
“Comrade Lieutenant, I have an inbound target at thirty kilometers. No response on
IFF
. the target appears to be four fighter-sized aircraft.”
The
SAM
battery’s assistant commander shook off sleep and leaned over his shoulder.
“What’s their speed and altitude?”
“Medium altitude, sir.” There was no direct readout of speed on the scope, but the blip’s movement was clear.
“It’s moving fast!”
“Right. No time to be subtle. Turn on your tracking radar and warm up the missiles.”
While Jimenez acknowledged the order, the lieutenant alerted his battery commander and the other
SAM
vehicles.
“Watch your sectors. This may be a feint to distract us from the real attack.”
Outside, he heard warnings being shouted throughout the camp.
“Air alert!”
He remembered the flyby earlier. Although they’d done their best, both
South African reconnaissance planes had escaped unharmed. This attack was almost certainly the result. Jimenez nodded to himself, watching his radar screen with hawklike intensity. The going had been far too easy.
He leaned forward as the pattern on his radar scope changed.
“Separation,
Conrade Lieutenant! Two aircraft turning away.” But two blips were still closing.
“Speed is up over one thousand
KPH
. Altitude now four thousand meters.
”
“Probably going for another reconnaissance pass at maximum speed. This may not be an attack after all,” the lieutenant speculated.