Vortex

Of late, the Soviet Union’s support for Castro’s African policies had been lukewarm at best. As it foundered in a sea of internal political and economic troubles, the Kremlin had even begun grumbling about the above-market prices it paid for Cuba’s sugar crop. Prices that kept Cuba’s own failing economy afloat.

So what was the catch?

“Just what does Moscow expect in return?”

“Nothing, at least for now.” Tejeda shrugged.

“Apparently they see certain benefits in helping us help the Namibians. As the Americans would say, opposing South Africa is now good PR. “

“They can afford it. But can we?” Vega countered. Angola paid Cuba in hard cash for every Cuban soldier inside its borders. That money, most of it ironically coming from an American-owned oil refinery, would have been missed after the slated withdrawal from Angola. Cuba was a poor country.

For years, the Americans, the IMF, and everyone outside the shrinking communist world had been trying to starve Cuba’s economy into ruin, with marked success. The nation desperately needed foreign exchange. Given that, Vega wasn’t sure his country could bear the cost of a full-fledged war.

Tejeda frowned. Vega’s question wasn’t just defeatist, it could even be interpreted as a criticism of Havana’s decisions. And that wasn’t like the general at all.

“Surely that isn’t your concern, Comrade General, The

Foreign Ministry assures me that they are already negotiating the needed agreements with Windhoek. Finances will not be a problem.”

“Fine,” Vega said, “you broker the deal for Namibian diamonds. Just don’t tell me the money’s run out once I’ve committed my forces.”

Tejeda turned bright red.

“General, please. Fidel has already pledged

Cuba’s support for Namibian independence. A pledge that we will carry out even if we have to impoverish ourselves. “

Vega looked skeptical. Fidel Castro was a committed revolutionary, but not a madman. Cuba already stood on the brink of poverty. Revolutionary fervor wasn’t an adequate substitute for a steady and expensive stream of munitions, food, and fuel.

The ambassador hurried on.

“Besides, there are important geopolitical considerations at stake here. Considerations that cannot be ignored. We have always tried to lead third-world opinion. Fighting, actually risking

Cuban lives to save one of those third-world states, will help our image abroad. The next time a Western nation looks at us, they will have to see us as we really are. The Washington-controlled embargo will weaken, at least. It may even break.”

He smiled.

“Don’t worry, Comrade. We have much to gain by winning in

Namibia. You will have every resource you need.”

Vega nodded, somewhat reassured. Havana wasn’t ignoring the real world.

Good.

The treaty-mandated withdrawal from Angola had seemed likely to end

Castro’s influence on the continent. One more communist retrenchment in an era already filled with surrender. Leaving Luanda would also have meant abandoning a valuable source of hard currency for Cuba’s hardpressed economy.

His own reasons for intervening in Namibia were less complicated. Vega wanted to hurt South Africa, to wreck its plans. He and his troops had fought Pretoria’s expeditionary forces and Angola-based Unita stooges for years. Each encounter had carried its own grisly price tag in dead and wounded comrades, and none had been decisive. The war in Angola had been a series of pointless battles with no final objective.

Worn-out by years of fruitless skirmishing, Vega had been ready to return home-home to bask in Cuba’s warm Caribbean sun. South Africa’s invasion of

Namibia offered him a chance for a decisive, stand-up fight.

He was ready. Cuba had been fighting in Angola since 1975, so he had a pool of experienced officers, combat veterans who knew how to fight and who knew the conditions in southern Africa.

Vega also knew the risks the South Africans were taking in their drive to seize Namibia quickly. Risks Pretoria’s commanders were willing to take because they didn’t expect to meet competent military opposition. Risks he intended to make them regret.

UMKHONTC) WE SIZWE HEADQUARTERS, LUSAKA,

ZAMBIA

Col. Sese Luthuli fielded yet another frantic phone call. A panicked voice in the receiver said, “This is Jonas. ” At least he had enough sense to use his code name, Luthuli thought.

“I’ve gotten reports from all of my cells. The South Africans are moving in numbers, Colonel! The Gajab River camp has been overrun!”

Luthuli fought the urge to lash out at this man. He knew “Jonas,” an

Ovimbundu tribesman in his thirties with a good record in the struggle.

He had no sense, though, and could not be trusted in combat. This had relegated him to administrative duties, which had now probably saved his life.

The man’s information was hours old. Luthuli had to give him the bad news without panicking him entirely, and quickly. Nobody knew how fast the

Boers were moving.