Larry Bond - Vortex

Suarez must have seen his pleasure because he risked a

question of his own.

“Have the Soviets discussed a starting date for our operation yet, Comrade General?”

Vega scowled.

“No, they haven’t. And I understand that Castro’s last inquiry came back with the damned standard line about the need to wait for a ‘more favorable correlation of forces.”

” If they hadn’t been indoors,

Vega would have spat to relieve the foul taste the bureaucratic nonsense left in his mouth.

“Our soldiers are dying, wearing down the South African Army with their blood, while the gutless Russians wait for the most opportune moment to promise us their continued support.” Vega stood up and started pacing back and forth, in front of the map board. He’d been pacing a lot lately.

The casualty figures and the strain involved in running one campaign while planning for another, wider war were to blame for that. His nerves were also being stretched tight by the Soviet Union’s continuing refusal to commit itself fully to the invasion of South Africa.

Abruptly, the room seemed too small, too stifling. He needed fresh air and open skies, if only for a few moments.

“Colonel, walk with me.”

Suarez rose with him and together they stepped out of the headquarters-a nondescript block of office flats that had once housed a car rental firm, an accounting firm, and a small printing shop. Now the brick building housed more than one hundred staff officers responsible for guiding the largest military operation on the continent.

A squad of armed guards at the entrance snapped to attention as Vega and his chief of staff emerged into the evening air. It was pleasantly cool, and Vega ambled across the street to a small municipal park, surrounded by a bubble of quiet and privacy that would be breached only by desperate emergency. He ignored the thin screen of security troops fanning out around the park. They, like the weight of the stars on his shoulders, were always with him.

“The Russians are using us, Josd, just as they always have. “

Suarez nodded grimly, apparently unsurprised by his commander’s disenchantment with the Soviet Union. It was a disenchantment shared by many in Cuba’s higher political and military echelons.

They’d long looked to the Soviet Union as a source of spiritual inspiration, but Moscow’s revisionist moves had shaken that faith. The

Kremlin’s political bosses were increasingly viewed as little more than corrupt, tepid socialists-not as the dynamic leaders needed by the international communist movement.

The military situation in southern Africa was widening that gap. The

Soviets seemed perfectly content to sit back and reap all the benefits of Cuba’s armed struggle, while avoiding any of the risks. It was intolerable.

After they had walked in silence for a few minutes, Vega spoke again.

“Our buildup should be complete by the middle of November. Correct?”

Suarez nodded. All the troops, equipment, and supplies should be in place by then-poised within a hundred kilometers of South Africa’s borders.

Very well. If the Soviets don’t give us their full support by then, we will attack without them.”

Suarez started to exclaim, but Vega hushed him.

“We won’t be operating completely on our own, Colonel. We’ve received assurances of additional aid from Libya and North Korea-should it prove necessary. We could also cut the number of attacking columns from three to two. That would reduce the logistical load significantly, true?”

He could see his chief of staff running through the figures in his mind.

Suarez’s razor-sharp brain was one of the things about him that Vega most prized. They’d planned to have thirty days’ worth of fuel, food, and ammunition stockpiled before striking into South Africa. Reducing the number of troops involved in the invasion would allow them to stretch those supplies beyond the thirty-day mark.

Vega’s face lit up in excitement.

“Think of it, Colonel. Think of the looks on those long, sad Russian faces when Cuba shows them their duty!

And when we win, Cuba will gain the lion’s share of the rewards-not just the crumbs allowed us by our socalled Soviet brothers!”

Suarez studied the ground for a few seconds before looking

up.

“Such an attack is possible, General. But we’ll be taking a tremendous risk.”

“More than we are already taking? More than we will take when we launch the attack? High stakes are involved here, Josd, but it’s a game I know. We will strike South Africa with such speed and such fury that we’ll hold

Pretoria before the damned Afrikaners can react. And before Moscow’s caution can thwart us!”

Vega smiled. The war in southern Africa would spread, whether or not the

Soviet Union really wanted it to.

CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

Christopher Nicholson tried to make sense of the information in front of him. Operatives in Libya had reported battle tanks, armored personnel carriers, and artillery being moved from storage dumps and loaded on freighters. The numbers were impressive-enough for an army, literally. But where was it going?

The newest piece of information involved an increased level of diplomatic communications between Mozambique, Zimbabwe, and Cuba. Not disturbing in itself, since it just indicated they were talking a lot. Nicholson rubbed his burning eyes. But what were they talking about?

One more piece of the puzzle. Parts of it were scattered all over his desk.

Or was it the same puzzle? What if it was more than one? And what if

Pretoria’s enemies had slipped some false pieces onto the table?

The director of the CIA, and by statute director of central intelligence for the U.S. national decision-making apparatus, worried the pieces for another hour or so, but in the end put them back in the box until more could be found.

OCTOBER 12-WOMEN’S STAFF CANTEEN, MINISTRY OF LAW AND ORDER, PRETORIA

In a desperate attempt to ward off utter boredom, Emily van der Heijden risked another glance away from the young woman chattering amiably at her from across the table. Unfortunately, her surroundings did nothing to dispel the growing feeling that she was trapped in a place where boredom reigned supreme and idle gossip passed for thoughtful conversation.

Certainly, the architects and interior decorators who’d crafted the

Ministry’s women’s dining area had created a masterpiece of drab institutionalism. Fading off-white walls matched the canteen’s fading black-and-white checkerboard pattern tile floor. Narrow, unwashed windows opened out onto a small interior courtyard long since converted into a parking lot. The dresses worn by the forty or so women still eating lunch provided the only touch of color-and little enough of that. Most of the secretaries, typists, and other

clerical workers clustered around identical, government-issue aluminum tables seemed content with plain white blouses and black or gray knee-length skirts. It was like staring at the bureaucratic soul made flesh.

“Really, Miss van der Heijden, I’m so glad you asked me to sit with you.

It’s such an honor. I mean, imagine me Irene Roussouw-taking lunch with the deputy minister’s own daughter. It’s fantastic!”

Emily forced her wavering attention back on track. She smiled sweetly at the young, red-haired woman in front of her.

“Come now, Irene. None of that “Miss van der Heijden’ nonsense. You’ll make me feel old! My name’s

Emily, remember?” She hoped her real feelings weren’t showing. Flattery was bad enough, but to be flattered and fawned over simply because she was her father’s daughter was infinitely worse!