Larry Bond - Vortex

Morona shone a red flashlight onto the van’s side, and Vega could see dozens of fist-sized holes.

“The roof and the rear of the van are just the same,” Morona reported.

“We were hit by an anti radar missile. It detonated twenty or thirty meters up, off to this side and behind the radar. One man saw a streak of light, almost too fast for him to see.

Most of them heard a whoosh-boom and the radar was showered with these.

“

The captain offered Vega a handful of metal lumps. Taking them, the general could see that they were cubes, some deformed by their impact.

“Those were in the missile’s warhead. They littered the area after the explosion, and we have found over fifty inside the van-and its crew.”

Morona paused.

“I lost five men in that attack, sir, and another seven are wounded. We are working to get the optical backup on the van working, but even if I had the parts to fix the radar, I wouldn’t want to turn it on. We’d probably just attract another missile like this one.”

Vega shook his head. This was a dangerous attitude. Even if Morona’s statement held a ring of truth, there was an acknowledgment of the enemy’s strength that he didn’t like. Still, this man had shown he could do his job. B Battery had accounted for two American planes today, one of them in the same raid as the missile attack.

“Captain, I understand your reluctance-“

A shrill siren cut through his words, and both men realized the meaning of the sound. Another air raid was approaching.

“General! ” Morona shouted. ” You have to get back to headquarters!

“

Vega shook. his head and also raised his voice over the alarm.

“Headquarters may be the target again.” It had already been bombed, moved, and bombed again.

“I’ll stay here. “

“Into the command trench, then, sir.” Morona’s imperative, almost an order, made perfect sense, and the two men sprinted for the dugout, Vega following the captain’s lead.

Other men were running, dozens of them, as the gun crews settled into position. Phone circuits were hooked up and tested, and Vega saw gun barrels elevate and swivel as the aimers checked their mechanisms.

The two officers reached the command trench, little more than a six-foot-deep rectangular hole. The field phone operator shouted to

Morona as he leapt in, “At least eight aircraft, from the east!” Normally the report would have included altitude and speed, but Vega suspected this warning was based on a visual or sound sighting. The mobile air search radar had also fallen victim to an anti radar missile. Not only did this deny them information about the attacking aircraft, but also warning time. Those aircraft will be here any moment, Vega thought.

Morona picked up his own headset and listened briefly. Speaking into his microphone, he ordered, “Barrage pattern, one hundred meters altitude.

” Picking up a pair of field glasses, he scanned the night sky, looking for any sign of the oncoming raid.

Without taking his eyes from the sky, the battery commander spoke to

Vega.

“With both radars out, General, we cannot aim at individual aircraft, especially at night. All we can do is lay a pattern of fire in the sky at the right altitude and let them fly through it.”

“Why one hundred meters?” Vega asked.

“Because the American pilots Re to come in low, and that is the lowest they fly.”

The captain continued to scan with his binoculars and suddenly pointed to the southeast.

“Tracers! Troops on the ground are firing at the aircraft!” Pressing his mike switch, Morona said,

“Center sector on one three five. Barrage pattern! Commence!”

Half a second after he spoke, the four working guns of the battery opened up, filling the air with a rapid-fire roar. In addition to the guns themselves, Vega could hear the sound of the motor drives whirring and stopping, and the even higher-pitched sounds of the empty shell casings spilling from the guns. Fragments of shouted orders filled the small open spaces between the guns’ firing as men scurried to supply the guns with ammunition.

The S-60 can pump out seventy rounds a minute. The four in combination seemed to pour a stream of shells skyward, each one glowing and increasing in size as it flew. A few hundred meters up and about a kilometer away, the shells converged in a pattern of lines, hopefully intersecting the approaching aircrafts’ flight path. Even with aimed fire, it took thousands of rounds to get a single hit. Vega could only watch the display and hope.

“How many rounds do you have?” Vega shouted at Morona.

“More than two hundred rounds per gun ready,” he replied. Morona seemed to be almost leaning into the guns, as if the continuous muzzle blasts created a strong wind. Vega wished for six guns instead of four, and a functioning radar, then realized he was being foolish. He might as well wish for

Pretoria. His business was facts, and the hard reality of combat.

A high-pitched scream appeared behind the barking of the guns, and Vega saw a group of angular shapes appear to the southeast, crossing his field of view left to right. They were low and appeared only in silhouette against the moonlit sky. It was hard to tell their type, but they were almost certainly Intruders or Hornet attack jets. They seemed to approach slowly, even though he knew their speed must be a thousand kilometers an hour.

Yes! Their path was taking them through the flak barrage. and some of

the tracer streams wavered as the gunners attempted to track the fastmoving aircraft. As they neared, their apparent speed increased until they flashed past, gone before Vega had time to count them or guess their target.

“Down!” Hands grabbed his shoulders and roughly dragged him to the floor of the trench. As he started to protest, a deafening roar filled the air above, spilling over into their shelter. The roar ended in a popping, crackling sound that was even louder. As he fell full length to the dirt floor, fragments zinged around them, and choking dust filled the trench.

Vega felt a burning sensation in his left leg.

Shaking his head to clear it, Vega looked over at Morona, who stared back at him.

“I saw them coming in from the north while we tracked the first group of planes. Two aircraft. They were headed straight for us. ” The captain took a breath and nodded toward the lip of the trench.

“I think they just cluster-bombed the battery.”

The general started to stand up and suddenly sat down as his left leg gave way beneath him. He realized he couldn’t move it.

Morona leaned over him and took one look at the leg. His eyes widened, and he shouted, “The general’s been hit!”

Vega was curious about the damage to the battery and was insisting on trying to stand up as a medic appeared and began tekring at his pants leg. The general tried to help him, but suddenly felt dizzy and weak. As he leaned forward to look at the wound, the night spun around him and he remembered nothing else.

JANUARY 11 -WARM BAD VEGAS HEADQUARTERS

The third and latest headquarters was located in an anonymous-looking row of shops off a side street in town. Since they communicated solely by runners and field telephone, there was none of the exterior bustle and activity that marked it as a headquarters. There were no vehicles to spot, no radio traffic to detect. It was harder to do business, but they were still alive.

Vega had chosen a small bookstore for his own office, one of the prerogatives of command. Propped up in an easy chair from one of the apartments above, his leg elevated so that he was almost lying down, he didn’t feel foolish only because of the throbbing pain.

“The Russians have promised to replace our antiaircraft guns and send more and newer missiles to improve our defenses.” Suarez handed Vega the message slip.