Vortex

He looked up as the jets screamed overhead a hundred meters up. The sound deafened him. He was close enough to see the red and blue Cuban insignia, the shoulder-mounted

delta wings, the triangular tail, the square inlets. Cuban MiG23 Floggers.

The MiGs flashed by and he heard a few of the machine guns in his battalion firing as they pulled away. Fine. There wasn’t any point in trying to hide now, and the machine gunners might even hit something.

One of the jets pulled up, turning tighter than the rest. For a moment, von

Brandis thought it had been hit, but instead the MiG-23 gracefully turned and rolled and came back over his battalion. It made no move to attack, but he heard the jet’s howl as it made a single highspeed pass down the length of his defensive line.

Shit. So much for surprise.

Von Brandis scrambled back up the hill, yelling for his radioman to follow.

Both men flopped belly-down at the crest. The Cuban tanks and APCs were roughly two thousand meters away-still well outside effective range.

The South African colonel shook his head in resignation. It was just too damned bad that nothing in war ever went as planned.

“Tell all commanders to open fire. Aim for the APCs. “

FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY

FORCE

The air officer spun round in shock, one hand clapped to his earphones.

“Comrade General, one of our aircraft reports men and vehicles east of the road, near the railroad embankment! “

What? Vega sat bolt upright.

“Find out how many!”

He jumped up from his desk for a closer look at the map. That damned railroad embankment! He should have insisted that Pellervo’s recon units scout the area more thoroughly.

He was still moving when another radioman whirled in his direction.

“Colonel Pellervo reports he is taking fire from the east! “

Vega took the last few steps to the map at a run. No doubt about it. They’d been ambushed. Some South African was playing it pretty smart. But how smart? He snapped a question toward the air officer.

“How large is the enemy force?”

“The pilot says he can see over a dozen vehicles.”

That’s it, then, Vega thought. At least a company and probably more. He slammed a clenched fist into his cupped palm. He should have known better than to believe the radio intercepts they’d picked up from out in the

Namib.

No time now for recriminations. Quickly he ordered, “Have the fighters strafe the South African bastards! And then see how soon we can get another air strike out here.”

The air officer nodded hurriedly and turned to his radio set.

“Arrow

Lead, this is Forward Control…”

Vega turned his attention to the fast-developing ground battle. The South

African armored units behind the embankment were clearly a bigger threat than the infantry garrison cowering in what was left of Walvis Bay. They were now the primary targets. On the other hand, even antiquated antitank missiles fired from the town could wreak havoc on Pellervo’s units as they turned east. The garrison would have to be neutralized.

He looked for his artillery officer and found him hovering nearby.

“Signal the battery to lay smoke along the northern edge of the town.”

That should blind the Afrikaner bastards. Let them waste missiles firing at empty sand while Pellervo’s tanks annihilated the enemy sheltering behind the railroad embankment.

Vega motioned his operations staff closer.

“All right. Let’s get down to work. Tell Pellervo to deploy his tanks and infantry to the east for a dismounted attack. We’ll worry about the town later.”

Officers scurried toward the radios to obey.

5TH MECHANIZED INFANTRY

Von Brandis climbed into his Ratel and used the turret optics to examine the advancing enemy line. Johann, his driver,

now serving as turret gunner, waited nervously. The command Ratel’s small turret held only a heavy machine guna weapon that would irritate but not injure a T-62.

Stepping up to the highest magnification, von Brandis was gratified to see several burning BTRs topped by rising pillars of smoke. The 90mm guns on his Elands; hadn’t a prayer of knocking out a tank at two thousand meters, but their shells tore up the thinly armored Cuban personnel carriers like cheap tin cans. Boers have always been good shots, he thought, and we need that expertise now.

The tanks were wheeling now, the entire formation pivoting on its left flank. In less than a minute, his battalion faced a line of ten T-62s-gun barrels, turrets, and thick frontal armor all facing east. They’d stopped moving, though. Why? Then he saw infantry dismounting from some motionless BTRs, while other APCs, already empty, withdrew at high speed.

He shouted down into the Ratel’s crowded interior.

“Infantry attack forming. Lay mortar fire eighteen hundred meters in front of us and adjust for a walking barrage.”

Staff officers acknowledged and began issuing orders to the battalion’s heavy weapons company.

Von Brandis frowned. The mortar fire would help slow the oncoming infantry, but it wouldn’t even scratch the paint on the T-62s.