Vortex

“In other news from overseas, India’s foreign minister again insisted that Pakistan abandon its covert support for… “

FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY

FORCE, THE STRAND HOTEL, SWAKOPMUND, NAMIBIA

Night had fallen across the Namibian coast.

Thirty kilometers north of Walvis Bay’s ship-choked anchorage, high-ranking Cuban officers again filled the Strand Hotel’s formal dining room. Candlelight gleamed off polished silverware, fine crystal, and shoulder boards crowded with stars. Black waiters and busboys moved from table to table, for once plainly happy in their work. The Strand’s white managers and wine stewards were not happy. They clustered near the kitchen entrance, sour faced and carefully supervised by armed guards.

Outside, the Atlantic surf boomed, sending the hissing, foam-flecked remnants of waves surging onto Swakopmund’s sandy beaches. The infantry squads dug in above the high water mark were all alert-their machine guns, mortars, and other heavy weapons manned and ready. Searchlights mounted on T-62 tanks parked hull-down among the dunes probed out to sea, stabbing through the darkness at precise, timed intervals.

Inside, the assembled officers ate, gossiped, toasted one another, and covertly eyed the two men who sat alone at the head table.

Gen. Antonio Vega toyed with his pastry dish, conscious that Cuba’s president and absolute ruler ate with lip-smacking gusto beside him. He frowned slightly at the sugary and fruit filled concoction. He’d always preferred plainer fare, soldier’s fare-rice and beans, sometimes mixed with a little beef or chicken. Food that satisfied hunger without leaving one lolling about in an overfed stupor. The kind of food you could get in

Cuba-at home.

His leader’s tastes were quite different, and Vega knew better than to try imposing his own culinary views on Fidel Castro. Particularly not when he was about to urge that communist Cuba undertake one of the largest political, military, and strategic gambles in its short history.

Vega sipped his wine, studying the crowded dining room over the rim of his glass. It was an astonishing sight. There were probably more senior

Cuban military men concentrated here in this tiny hotel on Africa’s most desolate coast than there were left in all of Havana.

So many men in fact that the Strand Hotel had been hardpressed to accommodate them all. Vega had gladly turned his quarters over to Castro, but their two staffs had engaged in a very careful assessment of relative ranks before the remaining rooms could be assigned. In the end, several of Swakopmund’s wealthiest burghers had been turned out of their homes to make room for some of the junior officers.

This evening’s dinner had been served in shifts, with the lowest-ranking officers and staff members eating quickly and early, so that the two principals and their higher aides could eat at a fashionable hour, before moving on to the important business at hand.

Important business, indeed, Vega thought, keeping a tight rein on his expression. Castro and his entourage must see only the outer man-calm, cool, collected, and thoroughly professional. The storm of mingled emotions-excitement, nervousness, and joy-that ebbed and flowed inside him had to stay hidden. Marxist-Leninism was a scientific faith, and its true believers were supposed to remain unswayed by sentiment, personal ambition, or petty hatreds.

“Excellent, Antonio. A fitting conclusion to a glorious day.” Castro pushed his empty plate aside and absentmindedly combed his fingers through his beard, brushing away small crumbs and flakes of pastry crust.

Vega lowered the wineglass and inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment.

Castro bent his own head for a moment, puffing one of his trademark cigars alight. Then he looked up, shrewd eyes fixed on Vega’s face.

“You may begin the briefing, General. Medals and propaganda films have their own time and place, but now we must contemplate the next steps in this war. And as the saying goes, the wise man makes sure his shoes are tied before setting out on any journey. “

Vega smiled. As always, Castro knew how to get to the heart of the matter.

Vega nodded to one of his hovering staff officers, who in turn motioned to the cadre of young lieutenants stationed at the door.

Instantly, they spread through the room-shepherding the waiters and other hotel workers outside. The low buzz of conversation from the other tables died away as several more junior officers brought in a large, cloth-covered easel.

Vega’s senior intelligence officer, Col. Jaume Vasquez, stepped forward and stood near the easel. Vasquez, a short, slender man with an aristocrat’s high cheekbones and long, thin nose, seemed to have taken special pains with his appearance this evening. Every crease on his tailored dress uniform hung razor-sharp and his polished black shoes gleamed brightly.

Only the faint sheen of nervous perspiration on his forehead marred the image of absolute perfection.