Larry Bond - Vortex

He realized he was drifting. Vasquez had gone on to describe the next most likely Boer position, the town of Temba.

A small mining settlement, scouts following the retreating South Africans had seen them retreat into it. A minor road junction, it had the added complication of lying across a small river. The terrain was definitely tricky.

Vasquez pointed to a sketchy map, which had been heavily annotated.

“Although the setup is more complex, I have reconnaissance personnel scouting the terrain for dead zones and potential approach routes. They should be back in this afternoon. We are also trying to build up a picture of the enemy’s order of battle, but—the colonel, paused, hesitating-“we are having some difficulty doing so.”

Vega nodded, a little impatiently. Vasquez had done well in a job that had grown harder and harder. Reconnaissance assets had been scarce to begin with, and now American aircraft made any movement dangerous. The chance of any aerial reconnaissance was also nil, especially after two of his precious reconnaissance aircraft had been shot down by carrier-based fighters.

Still, everyone knew the problems, and also the solutions, or the best ones that could be found. He looked at the colonel.

“Well?”

“We are seeing massive movement, not only in the town but on the roads leading to it.”

“That only makes sense,” Vega countered.

“It is the South Africans’ next defensive position, and we are getting closer to the capital all the time.

It’s only natural-“

“Sir, my worst-case estimate for the Afrikaner defenses was a composite battalion of armor, two understrength infantry battalions, and two batteries of artillery.” Everyone on the staff who heard the list winced.

Such a strong defense would make Temba nearly impossible to take.

“We have hard information about two battalions of armor, both stronger than we expected. One of them appears to be made up exclusively of tanks!”

“What?” Vega’s look of puzzlement was natural. The entire South African

Army didn’t have a complete battalion of tanks left anywhere.

“We’ve had several reconnaissance vehicles killed at long range, in excess of three thousand meters, by antitank missiles. the launchers were masked, but appeared to be deployed around the flanks of the town.”

The intelligence officer continued, “We are also seeing helicopters operating near Temba. They are not approaching close enough for us to make them out, but my scouts cannot recognize the type.”

Vega was intrigued.

“What do you think they are up to, Colonel?”

“We can only conclude that it is a last-ditch effort, sir. We are much closer to Pretoria than the Americans, and the Boers have always put the bulk of their forces in against us. The American front to the south has been quiet in the last few days. It may be that they have run into the same kind of supply problems we have faced, but their supply-hungry army cannot operate as well on short rations.

“My assessment is that they have been stripping the American front of every unit they can, and especially after our victory last night, have committed their national reserves from Pretoria. “

The general said, “Other possibilities?”

“I see none, sir. We had very good information on their strengths before we started the war, and there are simply no other units left. If we don’t include the units fighting the Americans and British, this brigade is the last major South African force in existence.”

“Then let’s start planning. If we can organize another night attack, concentrating on only. one portion of the brigade, we can do to them what we did to that battalion last night.” Vega’s voice was full of energy, and it galvanized the entire staff. They could take on a dug-in force almost as large as their own, and win.

Vega and his officers were clustered around the map, trying to take it apart and visualize the terrain, when the radio operator interrupted them.

“Sir, one of the scouts reports a jeep moving north from Temba under a white flag.”

Vega, already deep in his element, took this development as one more piece of a very interesting puzzle. What could the Boers want from him?

What was in the commander’s mind?

“Halt them at the edge of our defenses, but do not molest them,” Vega ordered.

The general grabbed his hat and battered uniform coat.

“Come on,” he said.

“I will not meet the Boers in the middle of a bookstore. We will meet them at our front lines.”

The party climbed into a GAZ jeep and drove south at high speed. An escorting party of soldiers barely had time to pile into another and follow them.

The road south to Temba cut through a line of low hills, the same ones that had held the Boer defenders but now held Cuban soldiers.

The command group approached the spot, and Vega noticed a strange-looking vehicle parked under one of the few trees in the area. It was an American jeep, neatly painted in sand and green colors. A small knot of men lounged or sat in the vehicle, under extremely heavy guard.

As their own jeep neared the scene, the men stood up and appeared to be speaking to each other. ‘the circle of guards tightened, as if to prevent any sudden treachery.

Vega’s group was now close enough to see them clearly, and his mask of calm was nearly shattered by the sights of not only a South African officer, but what looked like American and British officers as well. What in the world were they doing here? Witnesses? Observers?

Regaining control, he stepped out as the jeep slowed to a stop and then waited patiently as his staff also climbed out and assembled themselves.

He let Vasquez take the lead, and they crossed the ten meters or so to where the enemy officers stood, waiting. Vasquez spoke English, and so would act as interpreter. Vega spoke only Spanish and Russian.

The colonel approached the South African, who appeared to be a brigadier, or one-star general.

“I have the honor to be Colonel Jaume Vasquez of the

Cuban Revolutionary Ground Forces. I would like to present General

Antonio

Vega, supreme commander of the Socialist Armies in Africa.” Vega nodded politely.

The South African returned Vasquez’s salute, although he managed to do it in such a way that the colonel could feel the man’s hatred. The brigadier’s tone was cold, and stiff, and the clipped English only accented his anger.

“I am Brigadier Deneys Coetzee, chief of staff of the

South African Defense Forces and provisional head of the South African government. “

Vasquez’s reaction was so obvious that Coetzee smiled. They’d had no idea. News of Vorster’s fall had been suppressed, easy to do in the tightly controlled media Vorster’s regulations had created. That had given Coetzee and the Americans valuable time to consolidate, and more importantly, to prepare a rude surprise for the Cubans.

Coet/ee allowed the colonel just enough time to translate this introduction for Vega before introducing the other two men.

“This is

Major General Samuel Weber of the United States Army, and Colonel Nigel

Moore, of the British Army. “

Vega as well as Vasquez recognized Weber’s name from the intelligence reports. He commanded the American 24th Mechanized Division. Late reports had placed it on National Route 3, fighting its way north toward

Johannesburg. Vega felt a wave of cold creeping up his spine.

Coetzee spoke again.

“Tell your general that the South African government has ceased hostilities with the American and British governments and has now asked for their assistance in repelling the communist forces that have invaded our territory. “

Vasquez bristled slightly, but translated the sentence. Vega maintained his impassive expression, but from the expressions of the rest of his staff, the information hit home.