Larry Bond - Vortex

The President nodded. There was a political stake here. If the Soviets abandoned their socialist ally now, they would bear the blame for Cuba’s defeat. He looked around the table, and there was no sign of dissension.

“Then we are agreed to supply the material.” Turning to Kamenev, the

President said, “When can you start?”

“We will begin staging transport aircraft immediately. With luck, we can have the first supplies down there by tomorrow night. The ships will take longer, of course.”

The President nodded, then swept the entire group with his gaze.

“Understand, this means turning a short war into a long one. “

The foreign minister said, “Yes, Comrade President-one that will tic the

West’s economy into knots. We are not risking Russian lives, only spending a little that will cost the West much more.

WARM BAD

In the growing light, Vega inspected the command bunker, dug out and concealed by the headquarters group, with the assistance of the engineers.

Built in the basement of a collapsed house on the outskirts of town, the roof was alternating layers of wooden beams and earth almost two meters thick. The entire bunker, including the signs of its construction, was carefully camouflaged. The general had even given permission for a dummy transmitter to be set up, in hopes of drawing enemy attention away from the real headquarters.

It had been a welcome relief to find out that they had the whole night to prepare. Initial plans had revolved around a hasty improvement of the existing positions, but when the sun disappeared with no sign of the enemy, Vega had taken a risk and ordered more extensive preparations.

Outside of a few enemy overflights, probably reconnaissance aircraft, they had not been molested.

The entire Army had dug frantically all night, knowing what lay in store with the dawn. The general was proud of his men. Exhausted from a series of night battles, underfed and understrength, they had still dug in with a will, sweating now to avoid bleeding when the enemy came.

Vega hadn’t left it entirely to his men, though. He had drafted every remaining able-bodied citizen of Warrnbad to assist in digging the emplacements, under the direction of his engineers. White or black, they had worked under the guns of his men until near dawn, when they had been released, fleeing into the countryside.

He didn’t blame them, Vega thought. You didn’t have to

be a military genius to see that the Cubans were preparing for trouble.

Vega was still inspecting the exterior of the bunker when the radio operator called out, “Captain Morona reports incoming aircraft. “

Vega hustled toward the entrance. He’d been caught by surprise once, but would not make the same mistake again. He’d been lucky the first time, but wanted to save his good luck for more important things.

The newly installed field-telephone network allowed Vega to reach all of his battalion commanders, the forward outposts, and the air defense sites. There were alternate lines, and critical lines had been buried so they wouldn’t accidentally be cut.

A muffled rumbling could be heard through the bunker’s heavy door.

Putting his hand on the cement wall, he could feel the vibrations, the slamming sensation of explosions against the earth.

“All posts report,” he said.

The switchboard operator relayed his order, then listened, relaying the words as they came in.

“Twenty-fifth battalion reports no attacks. It sees aircraft bombing targets in town, though. They are engaging with small arms and machine guns. “

Vega nodded approvingly. Standing orders directed every soldier to fire his weapon straight up as enemy aircraft passed overhead. An entire company or battalion of men, all firing up, was a threat no airplane willingly accepted.

The other three battalions gave similar reports, and his artillery was similarly untouched. What became clear, though, was that the aircraft were concentrating on the air defenses-in huge numbers.

“Outpost five reports at least six jet aircraft attacking B Battery.” The switchboard operator paused, then tried to call the battery directly.

“No answer.”

Again and again reports came in of heavy air attacks, all concentrating on the air defense units. Vega had three batteries of 57mm guns, and three of 23mm weapons. While they had been carefully dug in, they were not supposed to stand this kind of pounding.

Normally aircraft would evade antiaircraft units or settle for suppressing them, since the idea was to bomb the target, not the target’s defenders. His combat units were virtually untouched, though.

After twenty minutes of aerial bombardment, Vega challenged his staff directly. He had his own opinion, but he wanted their evaluations.

“What is the enemy planning, gentlemen?”

Vasquez spoke first.

“It is a calculated plan to first destroy our air defense, then concentrate on the rest of our forces.”

Suarez agreed.

“They may have underestimated the strength of our emplacements. It cost , s them less in blood to pound us from the air. We may be in for a morning of air raids, then a ground attack later in the day.”

Vega nodded. He hoped they were right.

After a full thirty minutes of aerial attacks, Vega sensed it was time for a shift. None of the antiaircraft batteries responded, and the outposts and other units that could see them reported no signs of movement. A volunteer runner from a nearby emplacement had risked a dash to B Battery and back, only to report heavy casualties and many wrecked guns.

Vega had to concede, although it made no difference to the Americans overhead, that his air defenses were gone.

“Outpost three reports more aircraft approaching from the east. “

A little irritated, Vega demanded more information.

“Tell Three they can do better than that. We need numbers, type, altitude. “

The operator relayed Vega’s criticism and then listened, eyes widening.

“Three says about ten aircraft, that they are very large, and are at high altitude. They cannot make out the type. “

“I can,” said Vega, and grabbed a pair of binoculars. Opening the bunker’s door, he stood in the opening and scanned the sky. Suarez and the rest of his staff held looks

of puzzlement or confusion. What were the Americans doing now?

Vega knew, or thought he did. He had been an observer in Vietnam. He was looking up, but raised the glasses still more. There. The aircraft were almost too high to be seen, but even at that altitude, the long, thin wings and fuselages were unmistakable.

The instant of recognition galvanized him. Spinning and slamming the door, he said, “American B-52 bombers. Grab something and hold on.”

Setting an example, he tucked the binoculars in the space between the desk and the wall, then sat down, bracing himself. His staff quickly followed his example.

Inside the bunker, they couldn’t hear the high-altitude jets. The first sound they heard was the bombs landing.

Four cells of three 13,52Gs had been launched from Diego Garcia five hours before. The order to launch had actually come before nightfall,

South African time, but it had taken time to fuel the eight-engine monsters and load each plane with fifty-one 750-pound bombs.

The bombers came over in level flight and tight formation. A squadron of

F/A-18s provided close escort, and one of F14s ranged farther out. After three squadrons of attack aircraft had pounded the ground defenses, no real opposition was expected from them, either.

The bomber laid a perfect, tight pattern on top of Warrnbad.

The sound of the explosions swelled quickly, so quickly that it was overhead before they could measure its approach.

What had been a distant rumbling became a nearby thunderstorm and then a cascade of explosions that Vega thought would tear the bunker open. The sound grew still more, into a nauseating concussion that threw him away from the wall, and finally to a single, continuous, deafening roar.