Larry Bond - Vortex

He steadied his binoculars and looked again. Yes, that was better. The tiny image of a whitewashed, gabled farmhouse leapt into view. Mares scanned left and then back right. The high cylindrical shape of a grain silo rose behind the farmhouse. Two separate barns were set off to one side, surrounded by wire enclosures for cattle or other animals. A row of tall trees planted for shade and as a windbreak lined the eastern edge of the Afrikaner farm. A tidy little place, he thought. Much more prosperous looking than the agricultural cooperatives and collectives back home in Cuba.

He lowered his binoculars a fraction, looking for the squat, four-wheeled shapes of his recon platoon’s BRDM-2 scout cars. They were about five hundred meters from the farmhouse, spread out in a rough wedge formation and moving fast. Maybe too fast.

After all, that farm might house more than just a South

African artillery OP. Its stout stone walls and barns would make a good defensive strongpoint for troops assigned to hold this sector. Too good for any sensible South African commander to pass up, Mares thought.

The first few days of the offensive had been a cakewalk, a lightning drive against scattered opposition by lightly armed Afrikaner commandos.

But that couldn’t continue forever. Pretoria must be going mad trying to redeploy its forces from Namibia.

Another shell burst fifty meters ahead of the column. Mares ducked again and made a quick decision. Where the South Africans had heavy artillery they were also likely to have regulars-regulars armed with their own APCs and armored cars. He lifted his radio mike to order the scouts back.

Too late! A sudden flash from near the farmhouse, followed seconds later by a blinding explosion and a billowing column of oily black smoke. The lead BRDM lay canted at an angle, mangled and on fire. Its two companions were frantically wheeling away at high speed.

Mares focused his binoculars hastily. Shit. An Eland armored car armed with a 90mm cannon. He’d been shot at by too many of the damned things in Namibia to make any mistake about that. More than just one, of course.

He could see another ugly, snouted turret poking out from behind one of the barns. Small figures scurried into position in windows and doors and in hurriedly dug foxholes.

A second sun-bright flash erupted from the first Eland’s main gun. Mud sprayed high beside one of the fleeing scout cars, and both took wild evasive action, twisting and turning sharply as they raced north.

Mares stood high in his commander’s hatch, studying the approaches to the

South African-held farmhouse. It didn’t look good. The farm occupied a commanding position, perched precisely at the crest of a low rise and surrounded by open fields. No orchards. No convenient hillocks offering cover and concealment. No sunken roads. Nothing but the wide open space of a ready-made killing ground.

He swore softly to himself. If the South Africans held that farmhouse and its outbuildings in force, he and his men were in for a bloody and protracted fight. And his brigade commander would not be pleased. Well, the sooner they started, the sooner they’d finish.

Mares dropped down through the hatch into the BTR’s crowded interior. He stabbed a finger at the young corporal strapped to a seat in front of the radio.

“Get me Brigade HQ! “

The radioman nodded and started changing frequencies on his bulky,

Soviet-made set.

Mares whirled to the rest of his staff-a captain, two babyfaced lieutenants, and a tough, competent-looking sergeant.

“We’re going to have to dig the bastards out. Order the column to reform in line abreast.

And remind everyone to keep at least fifty meters between vehicles. I don’t want any idiots bunching up like cowardly sheep.”

Another near-miss rocked the BTR from side to side, pounding his point home.

They nodded seriously. Dispersing your vehicles under artillery bombardment was only common sense. Every meter of extra open space dramatically complicated an enemy’s attempts to adjust his fire and reduced his odds of scoring a direct hit. Unfortunately, too many soldiers under heavy fire abandoned common sense in favor of the age-old pack instinct that screamed out, “When in danger, join together. 11

“I have Brigade on the line, Major.”

He took the offered handset.

“Tango Golf One, this is Alpha Two Three.”

“Go ahead, Two Three.” Mares recognized the dry, academic tones of the

Brigade’s operations officer. Good. The man wasn’t very personable, but he did his job damned well.

The major outlined his situation in a few terse sentences.

“And your recommendation?”

Mares thumbed the transmit button.

“I can attack in twenty minutes, but we’ll need an air strike to soften the place up first. “

“Impossible.” The operations officer didn’t bother sounding apologetic.

Facts were facts, and courtesy couldn’t change

them.

“The Air Force reports a new storm front moving in. They expect all their attack aircraft to be grounded from now until sunrise tomorrow.

“

Damn it. Mares wished that Cuba had all-weather bombers like those available to the United States. He hunted for an alternative.

“What about artillery?”

The dry, matter-of-fact voice doused that hope as well.

“Our batteries won’t be up for another three hours. Can you try a hasty attack?”

“Negative, Tango One.” Mares shuddered inwardly at the thought. Charging across that killing zone out there without air or artillery cover would only lead to disaster-a sure and certain harvest of wrecked and blazing personnel carriers and dead and maimed men. He took the map offered by his staff sergeant.

“We’ll look for an alternate route, but I don’t think we’ll find one. This country’s too open. We may need that artillery deployed yet. “

“Understood, Two Three. Tango Golf One, out.”

Mares got busy with his map. He couldn’t see any way for his two remaining BRDMs to pick their way around the farmhouse strongpoint without being spotted. The South Africans had too good a view from their commanding hilltop. And he wasn’t sure that he had enough men and vehicles to take that strongpoint-even with artillery support. He might need help from the heavy tank and infantry units lumbering along with the main column.

In fact, he was sure of only one thing. The First Brigade Tactical

Group’s easy romp through the northern Transvaal was over.

They’d pay in blood for every kilometer gained from here all the way to

Pretoria.

NOVEMBER 19-SECOND BRIGADE TACTICAL GROUP, NEAR THE MPAGEN1 PASS,

SOUTH

AFRICA

he rattle of heavy rifle and machinegun fire echoed oddly through the night air, bouncing off high rock walls and mingling with the whispering rush of water tumbling downstream. With a screaming hiss and a soft pop, a parachute flare burst into incandescent splendor a thousand meters over the pass and began drifting slowly downwind.

The flare cast strange shadows among the giant ferns and tall yellowwood trees crowding the valley floor, and it lit small, shaggy clumps of aloe and thorn scrub dotting the rugged cliffs above. A troop of wild baboons, already frightened by the gunfire and sickly sweet odor of high explosives, scurried frantically up the cliffs-seeking shelter from this eerie, horribly bright sun rising where there should be only welcome, restful darkness.

Five hundred meters farther down the winding road, men trying desperately to sleep beside camouflaged T-62 tanks, BTR personnel carriers, and towed artillery pieces stumbled out of their bedrolls and stared west toward the slowly falling flare. Did the small-arms fire and illumination round signal an unexpected South African counterattack? Some, less experienced than their comrades, groped for assault rifles or swung themselves into their vehicles. Others, older and wiser in the ways of war, noted the conspicuous lack of franfic activity around the Brigade Group’s lantern-lit command term swore bitterly, and settled back to snatch a few hours of needed rest.