Vortex

At the moment, the Third’s battalion strong points were strung out along the highway like a succession of huge oval beads several hundred meters across. Gaps of two or three hundred meters between them made it impossible for any would-be attacker to strike one strongpoint without taking fire from its neighbors.

This pattern of separation and mutual support was repeated inside each battalion strongpoint. Individual rifle and tank companies had each “laagered” their vehicles in separate formation. Ironically enough, the very word laager came from Afrikaans. It had slipped into worldwide military usage after South African troops reinvented the old Boer tactic during World War II.

In laager, tanks and APCs were parked nose-out in a rough oval, their turrets turned outward against the hostile landscape while the men slept inside the ring. Once the vehicles were parked, it only took a little digging to create a first-class defensive position.

So went the theory, anyway. Right now, the Third Brigade Tactical Group lay camped on an and plateau, rising in elevation to the north. Covered with low scrub and tufts of grass, the ground was dust dry. The rocky soil complicated digging in, but at least their foxholes weren’t muddy.

Supply and maintenance units also sheltered inside these company laagers, ensuring that the entire brigade was protected by an armed and armored fence.

The brigade’s surface-to-air missile batteries and antiaircraft guns were scattered throughout the battalion encampments. And while the rest of the

Third Brigade Tactical Group caught a few hours of desperately needed sleep, several SAM radar operators rubbed red eyes and stared at their scopes. Nighttime air raids had become a part of life, and they were sure they’d be hit before dawn.

JERICHO FLIGHT, SOUTHWEST OF PRETORIA

Four Mirage aircraft flew west at one thousand meters over the darkened

South African countryside, heading straight for Cuba’s Third Brigade

Tactical Group. Capt. Jon Heersfeld piloted the lead plane. He was nervous, almost to the point of distraction.

Well, he thought, who wouldn’t be on a mission such as this?

Heersfeld was a professional. He’d flown combat missions over Angola during the long, undeclared war there. In recent months, he’d seen more combat in the skies over Namibia. And in just the past week, he’d flown a dozen-plus sorties against the Cuban forces invading the Transvaal. In short, he knew his business as well as any attack pilot in the Air Force.

Which was probably why he had been picked for this mission. But did the

Air Force higher-ups have to make such a production out of it? First he’d been pulled off combat operations without any explanation and ordered to sleep. Then the wing commander himself issued the attack order, leaving his poor squadron commander standing there like a fifth wheel.

And the briefing! My God, every major, commandant, and colonel on the base, along with the de Wet himself, had wormed his way into the auditorium. Didn’t the brass have any work to do?

Heersfeld scowled. It was a good thing they were flying immediately, because any chance of secrecy was shot.

Even his preflight had been bizarre. The tired old Mirage, which he’d sometimes been forced to fly with only basic flight instruments working, had been groomed and tweaked and even cleaned until it gleamed.

Technicians had spent most of the day installing special weapons control equipment in its cockpit,

His squadron commander, the maintenance officer, and one of the government’s brown shirted fanatics had all accompanied him as he circled the aircraft, looking for the smallest fault. There hadn’t been any, thank God.

He’d inspected the weapon itself, of course, not that looking at it told him much. It hung from the Mirage’s centerline hardpoint, under the fuselage. One drop tank hung under each wing, and the plane carried two

Kukri heat-seekers-one on each wingtip. The missiles were there almost out of habit. Considering the heavy fighter escort assigned to this mission, he shouldn’t need them. Still, they didn’t weigh much, and his wingtip rails couldn’t carry anything else. Besides, Heersfeld hated to fly naked. He’d already downed one Cuban MiG-23 during an attack mission.

The weapon was shaped like a standard low-drag bomb, a little bigger than most, but no heavier. Its surface was simply polished aluminum or steel, with a few small black patches near the nose and tail. It was totally unremarkable, and Heersfeld had been forced to depend on the technicians to tell him it was ready to go.

His wingman’s Mirage had received a similar going-over and had also been pronounced mission-ready. Mulder’s plane carried a second bomb as a backup in case he was shot down or forced to abort.

Heersfeld had almost expected a band to serenade him as he climbed in the cockpit, but instead the majors, commandants, colonels, and the general had just watched as he strapped himself in, connected the leads, and started the Mirage’s Atar engine.