Larry Bond - Vortex

KARIBIB AIRHEAD, NAMIBIA

Twenty minutes out of Windhoek, Vega’s An-26 orbited, circling low over

Karibib’s single, unpaved runway. The traffic pattern over the small airstrip was jammed with military aircraft of all sizes and types.

For once, Vega had refused the privileges associated with his rank, content to wait his turn in the landing pattern. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with this operation especially not meaningless and time-wasting ceremony.

As the plane circled, he watched the frantic loading and unloading process going on below him. Huge 11-76, smaller

Antonov aircraft like his own, and even Ilyushin airliners from Air Cuba, all had to land, unload, and fuel simultaneously, then turn round for an immediate takeoff. Karibib’s airfield only had room for three aircraft on the field at once.

Fighters circled higher, constantly on watch for snooping South African reconnaissance planes.

In the distance, Vega saw a small tent city and rows of parked vehicles.

There should have been more of them. But at this range from their bases, even the USSR’s big 11-76s could only carry two armored personnel carriers. As a result, it had taken more than thirty sorties over the past three days just to ferry in the equipment for a reinforced motorized rifle battalion.

Vega frowned. So small a force for such an important mission. He would have preferred sending a regiment-sized tactical group, but time was short and the opportunity he saw was bound to be fleeting. With calculation and a little luck, the gamble he planned to take would pay off. And in a pinch, he could skip the calculation.

” Antonov One One, you are cleared to land.” The controller’s voice sounded bone tired, reflecting nearly seventy two hours of nonstop flight operations directed from a small trailer parked off to one side of

Karibib’s dirt runway.

“Acknowledged, Control. On final, now.”

Vega slid forward against his seat belt as the transport dropped steeply and all but dove for the strip. He felt his stomach churn and swallowed hard, fighting to keep a placid appearance. Senior commanders in the

Cuban Army did not get airsick in front of their subordinates. He knew what was happening; it was only his stomach that hadn’t been informed.

The pilot’s combat landing was rough, but acceptable, and as soon as they had taxied to what passed for a tarmac, ground crewmen chocked the wheels and started to refuel the Antonov’s tanks from fuel bladders and a portable pump.

The plane’s rear ramp whined open before its propellers had even stopped spinning.

Col. Carlos Pellervo was waiting, breathless, with the rest of the battalion staff as Vega’s command group left the plane. He braced and saluted as the general approached.

Vega returned the salute, and both men dropped their hands. Pellervo remained at rigid attention.

Still feeling queasy from the flight, Vega sourly noted the man’s harried expression and partially unbuttoned tunic. Though politically well-connected, Pellervo hadn’t been his first choice for this post.

Unfortunately, the man’s battalion had been the first unit that could be spared from the buildup around Windhoek.

Vega frowned. He wasn’t a stickler for spit and polish, but there were certain standards to be maintained.

“Good afternoon, Colonel.” His voice grew harsher.

“I assume you received word of my intention to inspect your troops? I know for a fact that a message was sent more than two hours ago.

Have I interrupted a siesta or some other form of recreation?”

Pellervo blanched.

“No, Comrade General!” He hurried on, practically stammering.

“I was called away a short time ago to resolve a problem with our ammunition storage. It has just been corrected. “

Vega looked him up and down.

“Comrade Colonel, you should not let one crisis upset your plans or cause you to rush. I need officers who can remain calm in confusion, who can improvise and overcome difficulties. Is that clear?”

Pellervo nodded several times, his face pale beneath a desert-acquired tan.

Vega changed tack, satisfied that his reprimand had hit home.

“Are your preparations on schedule?”

“Si, Comrade General, everything is going according to plan.” Pellervo waved a chubby hand toward the busy airfield, obviously relieved to be out of the spotlight.

“Excellent. ” Vega turned away, hands clasped behind his back.

The attack slated to begin in just five hours was still risky, but he couldn’t see any reasonable alternative. Soviet air transports could ferry in enough men and gear to hold Namibia’s northern regions against South

Africa’s invasion force, but they couldn’t carry large numbers of heavier weapons and armor. The tanks and heavy artillery he needed to mount a successful counteroffensive could only come by ship.

And just one port on the Namibian coast was large enough to accommodate the Soviet-owned freighters and troop transports already at sea. Just one.

Vega stared southwest, away from Karibib’s busy airport, his eyes scanning the barren Namibian desert. South Africa’s high command was about to learn that two could play this game of strategic hide-and-seek and misdirection.

AUGUST 25-5TH MECHANIZED INFANTRY, SEVENTY

FIVE KILOMETERS WEST OF WINDHOEK, ON ROUTE 52

The eastern sky had brightened from pitch-black to a much lighter, pink-tinged gray-a sure sign that sunrise wasn’t far off. Sunrise and the start of another day of war.

he hulls of dozens of South African armored vehicles stood out against the vast sand wastes of the Namib Desert. To the south, the rocky, rugged slopes of the Gamsberg rose twenty-three hundred meters into the cloudless sky, punching up out of the desert floor like a giant humpback whale coming up for air. Other mountains rose beyond it, all shimmering a faint rosy red in the growing light, and all leading generally east toward the Namibian capital of Windhoek.

Col. George von Brandis sat atop his Ratel command vehicle studying his map. Von Brandis, a tall, slender, balding officer, was not happy. Not with the position of his battalion. Not with his mission. And not with his orders.

He and his men had been driving steadily eastward since leaving Walvis

Bay, South Africa’s coastal enclave, before dawn on the eighteenth-crushing a few minor border posts and a company-sized Namibian garrison holding the Rossing uranium mine in the process. Since then, they’d met little resistance and made tremendous progress.

By rights he should have been exhilarated by the 5th Mechanized

Infantry’s successes, but von Brandis couldn’t help looking worriedly over his left shoulder-off into the vast emptiness to the north. General de Wet and his staff were fools if they thought the Angolans and Cubans were going to leave him alone. Luanda’s Marxists had too much to lose if

South Africa reoccupied its former colony. They were

bound to hit him soon. Even if there weren’t any major enemy units to the north, there certainly weren’t any South African units out there either.

The flat, and landscape stretched off to his left like an unknown world.

Von Brandis looked at his map. His supply lines also concerned him. He’d taken everything but a small security detachment with him when he left

Walvis Bay. Follow-up reinforcements were slated to garrison the port, but until they arrived, the place was almost defenseless. And any enemy who captured Walvis Bay would control his battalion’s only link with

South Africa.

Damn it. He crumpled the map and stuffed it into a pocket of his brown battle dress. Pretoria’s orders posed an un resolvable dilemma. He’d read the careful, staff-written phrases a hundred times, but being carefully crafted didn’t make them any clearer.