Vortex

entire squadron, they had come, and his carefully prepared advance had slowly ground to a halt. Right now he was trying to rally his men and see how they could get moving again.

Vega’s next stop was one of his antiaircraft batteries. In the darkness with just a quarter moon and no headlights, only his driver seemed to know the way, guiding him safely to the spot.

The battery had been deployed on an open patch of ground five hundred meters east of the town. This gave its guns clear arcs of fire and separated them from some of the more obvious targets.

Vega’s approach was unannounced, and he’d actually climbed out of the jeep before a lone sentry came forward, his weapon at port arms. He started to challenge the general, then recognized him and called for the sergeant of the guard. Vega continued to stride toward the guns, returning the sentry I s salute and listening as word of his arrival was passed along.

In less than a minute a stocky, hook-nosed captain came trotting up, still wiping grease from his hands. He stopped a few paces away and saluted.

“Captain Rudolfo Morona, commanding B Battery, ready for your inspection, sir. ” The general noticed an ironic smile creeping onto the captain’s face and fought back the urge to reprimand him for impertinence. It looked as if the man was doing his job.

“What is your status, Captain?”

“Four guns of the six are working, with a fifth under repair. We should have it working in about half an hour. The sixth is total loss.”

“How about the radar?” the general asked.

Morona shook his head.

“Not a chance, sir. ” He gestured with an arm.

“This way please, General. You can see for yourself. “

The two officers approached the radar, located on the edge of the antiaircraft site. The entire battery consisted of six S60 57mm guns, reliable weapons that provided protection against low-and medium-altitude attackers. They were an older design, though, towed by trucks and unarmored. Laid out in an evenly spaced circle, each weapon was connected by a cable to the SON-9 gunfire-control radar, code-named Flap Wheel by

NATO.

The radar was simple enough in appearance. A square sided van, mounted on four wheels, it carried a small parabolic dish on top. Again, it was an older design and had been in service for twenty years.

As they approached the van, Vega could see its shape in the moonlight.

It looked undamaged. As they got closer, though, the general could see that the van’s surface was covered with spots, giving it a mottled appearance. Then, looking up, he saw jagged, irregular holes in the radar dish.

Morona shone a red flashlight onto the van’s side, and Vega could see dozens of fist-sized holes.

“The roof and the rear of the van are just the same,” Morona reported.

“We were hit by an anti radar missile. It detonated twenty or thirty meters up, off to this side and behind the radar. One man saw a streak of light, almost too fast for him to see.

Most of them heard a whoosh-boom and the radar was showered with these.

“

The captain offered Vega a handful of metal lumps. Taking them, the general could see that they were cubes, some deformed by their impact.

“Those were in the missile’s warhead. They littered the area after the explosion, and we have found over fifty inside the van-and its crew.”

Morona paused.

“I lost five men in that attack, sir, and another seven are wounded. We are working to get the optical backup on the van working, but even if I had the parts to fix the radar, I wouldn’t want to turn it on. We’d probably just attract another missile like this one.”

Vega shook his head. This was a dangerous attitude. Even if Morona’s statement held a ring of truth, there was an acknowledgment of the enemy’s strength that he didn’t like. Still, this man had shown he could do his job. B Battery had accounted for two American planes today, one of them in the same raid as the missile attack.

“Captain, I understand your reluctance-“

A shrill siren cut through his words, and both men realized the meaning of the sound. Another air raid was approaching.

“General! ” Morona shouted. ” You have to get back to headquarters!

“

Vega shook. his head and also raised his voice over the alarm.

“Headquarters may be the target again.” It had already been bombed, moved, and bombed again.

“I’ll stay here. “

“Into the command trench, then, sir.” Morona’s imperative, almost an order, made perfect sense, and the two men sprinted for the dugout, Vega following the captain’s lead.

Other men were running, dozens of them, as the gun crews settled into position. Phone circuits were hooked up and tested, and Vega saw gun barrels elevate and swivel as the aimers checked their mechanisms.

The two officers reached the command trench, little more than a six-foot-deep rectangular hole. The field phone operator shouted to