Vortex

Angola’s socialist ally and military protector evidently had a somewhat different attitude toward time. Lights were already winking on all across the fortified Cuban embassy compound on Rua Karl Marx-Karl Marx Street.

Gen. Antonio Vega was still dressing when Corporal Gomez knocked on the door and without waiting burst into the room.

“Comrade General, our embassy in Windhoek is on the phone. They’re saying that someone just attacked the city with aircraft! The Vega a tall, slender man with a stern, narrow face and gray-streaked black hair, stood facing a small mirror propped up on his nightstand. At the moment, he was only half clothed one bare shoulder showing the delicate tracery of scar tissue left by fragments from an exploding mortar round. It was a scar he’d earned more than thirty years before while leading one of Fidel Castro’s guerrilla units against the old

Batista government.

Visibly annoyed at being interrupted, Vega snorted.

“What? Ridiculous.

Those idiots must be seeing things.” He continued pulling on his uniform shirt, though with slightly more speed than usual.

“It would be straining their military expertise to recognize an air raid, even if one did occur.”

Gomez blushed. Vega had a razor-sharp tongue-a tongue that matched his wits. It was said that even Castro felt the edge of the general’s icy sarcasm from time to time. The

corporal doubted that. Senior military men who angered Fidel Castro once never lived long enough to anger him a second time.

Gomez, waiting with noticeable impatience near the door, did not agree or disagree, but instead volunteered, “The ambassador was on the phone to

Windhoek when I was sent to find you, sir.”

Vega finished buttoning his shirt and grabbed his uniform coat. He strode quickly out the door, not bothering to close it or order Gomez to follow.

The corporal did both without being told and raced after him down the carpeted hall toward the embassy’s Command Center.

Cuba’s ambassador to Angola, Carlos Luiz Tejeda, stood surrounded by a small crowd of wildly gesticulating aides and officers. He had one ear pressed hard against a red telephone, trying to listen amid the increasingly frantic din.

Vega slowed to a walk.

The noise level dropped abruptly as all of the officers and most of the political aides in the Command Center stopped talking and moved to the sides of the room. The general’s contempt for unnecessary chatter was well-known.

Tejeda saw Vega and nodded gravely, but continued talking on the phone. A chair materialized near the general and he sat down.

Tejeda ended his phone conversation by asking for hourly updates and hung up. He stood silent for a moment. Then he took off his gold-rimmed glasses before wearily rubbing one hand over his face.

Vega realized with some surprise that Tejeda was unshaven and dressed only in slacks and a half-buttoned dress shirt. In all the years they’d worked together, he’d never seen the man so unkempt. The ambassador was ordinarily something of a dandy. Things must be serious.

Tejeda’s next words confirmed that.

“General, I have grave news. We now have confirmation that South African forces have invaded Namibian territory. “

Vega sat quietly as the ambassador outlined the situation -at least as far as it could be determined from the first sketchy reports. An air raid on

Windhoek. Airborne landings in Keetmanshoop. And unconfirmed sightings of South African armored columns pouring across Namibia’s southern border.

“Widespread attacks,” Vega commented.

“This isn’t just a simple cross-border raid, Comrade Ambassador.”

Tejeda put his glasses back on.

“Agreed. I’ve already put a call through to

Havana. I expect to hear from the foreign minister himself in half an hour or so.”

Surprised, Vega checked his watch. It was past midnight in Cuba, an ungodly hour even in a godless country. The foreign policy apparatus wasn’t usually so quick off the mark.

Tejeda nodded.

“Yes, Havana is greatly concerned. That is why I shall need to give the minister your assessment of the current military situation in

Namibia. And he will also expect our joint recommendations for reaction to this South African aggression.”

“Our what?” Vega was nonplussed.

“On the basis of fragmentary phone reports?” His voice was testy, almost angry I “General, please.” Tejeda tried to soothe him.

“You are the senior Cuban officer in Africa and we need your expertise. I have little experience in military matters. Certainly there must be broad conclusions you can draw, measures you can recommend to safeguard our interest.”

Vega knew he was being soothed. Tejeda had served as an officer in the

Cuban Army, and even if he had never seen combat, he had to understand what this meant. Still, he didn’t mind being soothed, and the foreign minister, and ultimately Castro himself, would not be put off. He stood and walked over to the map of the area on the wall.

As chief of his country’s military mission to the Luanda government, Vega commanded the Cuban infantry, armor, and air defense units left in Angola.