Vortex (48 page)

“More importantly, the materiel we’ve already heard about has to be worth twice this much!”

A haughty frown creased Merje’s lean, elegant face.

“True, Kolonel. That’s why I believe our agents must be overestimating the amounts of military equipment they have spotted. ”

“Are you saying they can’t count?” Heerden picked up a manila folder from the side of his desk and opened it.

“Take a look at this, for example.

Windmill reports sighting thirty T-62 tanks and one hundred wheeled armored personnel carriers parked in a wooded area near Moamba-practically right on our border. And they’re being guarded by nearly a brigade of Mozambican troops!”

Metje shrugged.

“How close a look could Windmill get if these tanks were really under such a heavy guard? And would this kaffir know a T-62 tank from a T-55, or a T-72

for that matter?” He shook his head contemptuously.

“The fool probably stumbled across a Red Cross convoy with ten or twenty trucks. At most, he might have seen a small group of new tanks parked in the jungle until the

Mozambicans train troops to man them.”

He smiled.

“Come now, Kolonel. We can’t base our analysis on the hallucinations of a few ignorant blacks.”

Heerden’s powerful hands closed tightly around the edge of the folder, crumpling it.

“I’m not proposing that we do that. But I am suggesting that we’ve received too many unsettling intelligence reports from

Mozambique and Zimbabwe. Reports that can’t be explained by something so convenient as this.” He flicked the tele typewritten copy of the wire-service report with a finger.

“Plane flights in at night to Harare and Maputo, security stepped up at the ports, increased troop activity . ”

“All of which the President has seen, Kolonel. He is convinced that these movements are related to their own anti guerrilla efforts. They show that our destabilization strategy is working. The black states have been forced to beg for help from the Soviets-for equipment that is being drained away from the Cubans fighting us in Namibia! Even if they are accurate, these reports that frighten you so much are proof of our success!” Metje’s impertinence was caused by his enthusiasm, which

Heerden tolerated, and safeguarded by his political credentials, which

Heerden despised. As an active member of the
AWB
, the major had his own channels of communication with the political leadership.

Heerden sat motionless for a moment, uneasily considering the possibility that Metje’s optimistic assessment was the right one. Certainly, it was what the new government wanted to hear. He shook his head. That alone made it suspect. The greatest intelligence failures occurred when analysts allowed their own wishful thinking to obscure inconvenient facts. Unfortunately, he didn’t have enough of those inconvenient facts on hand. A few reports from paid agents. A scattering of intercepted radio transmissions and radar intercepts. Not enough.

The colonel frowned. What he needed were aerial photographs. Solid, undeniable, pictorial proof of the military buildup he feared was taking shape on South Africa’s northern and eastern borders. But he couldn’t get it. He’d put in request after request for Mirage
IIIPZ
reconnaissance overflights of Zimbabwe and Mozambique. All had been rejected. The Air Force’s small photo recon squadron was already stretched too thin just trying to monitor Cuban movements inside Namibia.

Metje watched him carefully and then leaned forward to pick up the
UPI
news report.

“Well, Kolonel, have you come up with any other explanation for these Soviet arms shipments?” From his tone he knew that Heerden hadn’t-at least nothing that he could prove to anyone’s satisfaction.

“Then, sir, I recommend that we send the news of this trade agreement up the chain of command. It provides the obvious explanation of the activity we’ve spotted inside Mozambique. And I’m sure the President will be delighted to learn that his strategy has been vindicated. ”

His tone was soothing, almost patronizing, and Heerden struggled to control his temper. Metje was an ass, but he was a well-connected ass.

At last, with an almost inaudible sigh, Heerden nodded. Even if he submitted a different, more pessimistic analysis, the major would simply go behind his back. And the colonel didn’t have any doubts about whose version

Karl Vorster would choose to believe.

30TH
GUARDS
MOTORIZED
RIFLE
REGIMENT
,
MAIN

ASSEMBLY
AREA
,
NEAR
RUTENGA
,
ZIMBABWE

Dozens of acres of the fly-infested, unproductive flatlands outside the small town of Rutenga were now covered by camouflage netting, barbed wire, and protective minefields. Trains from the south arrived almost daily, pulling flatcars crowded with Cuban tanks, armored personnel carriers, and artillery pieces. And day by day, the equipment parks outside Rutenga grew larger.

Hard-eyed soldiers of Zimbabwe’s North Korean-trained Fifth Brigade patrolled the town’s streets and railway station-on constant guard against South African spies or commandos,

Travelers of every description were hauled in for questioning by local interrogators or taken north to the capital, Harare, for more rigorous investigation. Antiaircraft batteries dotted the surrounding landscape, ready to down any unauthorized plane that poked its nose into forbidden airspace.

Both Zimbabwe and Cuba were determined to prevent any word of their military buildup from leaking out. But their efforts were unnecessary.

South Africa’s leaders weren’t even looking in the right direction.

OCTOBER I I -CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE HEADQUARTERS, WNDHOEK, NAMIBIA

Col. Josd Suarez, Gen. Antonio Vega’s chief of staff, looked tired. Three days of ground-hugging airplane flights, stomach-wrenching helicopter rides, and secretive movement all across southern Africa had taken their toll. Most wearing of all had been Vega’s relentless questioning. He’d insisted on going over every last detail of the trip, and if Suarez hadn’t known what to expect, he would have been shattered by the persistent probing.

Vega knew that his fierce, pitiless questioning was just a symptom of his own frustration. For security purposes, he was supposedly planning a new offensive in Namibia-all the while staying as visible as possible to draw

South Africa’s eyes away from the buildup in Mozambique and Zimbabwe. It was a necessary task, but it left him unable to monitor directly the unfolding of his own plan. It also left him feeling like a caged lion.

Suarez answered his last question and sat back, looking even more tired.

Vega nodded. The colonel was one of his best officers. He’d given a good, concise summary of his impressions and activities.

Suarez must have seen his pleasure because he risked a

question of his own.

“Have the Soviets discussed a starting date for our operation yet, Comrade General?”

Vega scowled.

“No, they haven’t. And I understand that Castro’s last inquiry came back with the damned standard line about the need to wait for a ‘more favorable correlation of forces.”

” If they hadn’t been indoors,

Vega would have spat to relieve the foul taste the bureaucratic nonsense left in his mouth.

“Our soldiers are dying, wearing down the South African Army with their blood, while the gutless Russians wait for the most opportune moment to promise us their continued support.” Vega stood up and started pacing back and forth, in front of the map board. He’d been pacing a lot lately.

The casualty figures and the strain involved in running one campaign while planning for another, wider war were to blame for that. His nerves were also being stretched tight by the Soviet Union’s continuing refusal to commit itself fully to the invasion of South Africa.

Abruptly, the room seemed too small, too stifling. He needed fresh air and open skies, if only for a few moments.

“Colonel, walk with me.”

Suarez rose with him and together they stepped out of the headquarters-a nondescript block of office flats that had once housed a car rental firm, an accounting firm, and a small printing shop. Now the brick building housed more than one hundred staff officers responsible for guiding the largest military operation on the continent.

A squad of armed guards at the entrance snapped to attention as Vega and his chief of staff emerged into the evening air. It was pleasantly cool, and Vega ambled across the street to a small municipal park, surrounded by a bubble of quiet and privacy that would be breached only by desperate emergency. He ignored the thin screen of security troops fanning out around the park. They, like the weight of the stars on his shoulders, were always with him.

“The Russians are using us, Josd, just as they always have. ”

Suarez nodded grimly, apparently unsurprised by his commander’s disenchantment with the Soviet Union. It was a disenchantment shared by many in Cuba’s higher political and military echelons.

They’d long looked to the Soviet Union as a source of spiritual inspiration, but Moscow’s revisionist moves had shaken that faith. The

Kremlin’s political bosses were increasingly viewed as little more than corrupt, tepid socialists-not as the dynamic leaders needed by the international communist movement.

The military situation in southern Africa was widening that gap. The

Soviets seemed perfectly content to sit back and reap all the benefits of Cuba’s armed struggle, while avoiding any of the risks. It was intolerable.

After they had walked in silence for a few minutes, Vega spoke again.

“Our buildup should be complete by the middle of November. Correct?”

Suarez nodded. All the troops, equipment, and supplies should be in place by then-poised within a hundred kilometers of South Africa’s borders.

Very well. If the Soviets don’t give us their full support by then, we will attack without them.”

Suarez started to exclaim, but Vega hushed him.

“We won’t be operating completely on our own, Colonel. We’ve received assurances of additional aid from Libya and North Korea-should it prove necessary. We could also cut the number of attacking columns from three to two. That would reduce the logistical load significantly, true?”

He could see his chief of staff running through the figures in his mind.

Suarez’s razor-sharp brain was one of the things about him that Vega most prized. They’d planned to have thirty days’ worth of fuel, food, and ammunition stockpiled before striking into South Africa. Reducing the number of troops involved in the invasion would allow them to stretch those supplies beyond the thirty-day mark.

Vega’s face lit up in excitement.

“Think of it, Colonel. Think of the looks on those long, sad Russian faces when Cuba shows them their duty!

And when we win, Cuba will gain the lion’s share of the rewards-not just the crumbs allowed us by our socalled Soviet brothers!”

Suarez studied the ground for a few seconds before looking

up.

“Such an attack is possible, General. But we’ll be taking a tremendous risk.”

“More than we are already taking? More than we will take when we launch the attack? High stakes are involved here, Josd, but it’s a game I know. We will strike South Africa with such speed and such fury that we’ll hold

Pretoria before the damned Afrikaners can react. And before Moscow’s caution can thwart us!”

Vega smiled. The war in southern Africa would spread, whether or not the

Soviet Union really wanted it to.

CIA
HEADQUARTERS
,
LANGLEY
,
VIRGINIA

Christopher Nicholson tried to make sense of the information in front of him. Operatives in Libya had reported battle tanks, armored personnel carriers, and artillery being moved from storage dumps and loaded on freighters. The numbers were impressive-enough for an army, literally. But where was it going?

The newest piece of information involved an increased level of diplomatic communications between Mozambique, Zimbabwe, and Cuba. Not disturbing in itself, since it just indicated they were talking a lot. Nicholson rubbed his burning eyes. But what were they talking about?

One more piece of the puzzle. Parts of it were scattered all over his desk.

Or was it the same puzzle? What if it was more than one? And what if

Pretoria’s enemies had slipped some false pieces onto the table?

The director of the
CIA
, and by statute director of central intelligence for the U.S. national decision-making apparatus, worried the pieces for another hour or so, but in the end put them back in the box until more could be found.

OCTOBER
12-
WOMEN’S
STAFF
CANTEEN
,
MINISTRY

OF
LAW
AND
ORDER
,
PRETORIA

In a desperate attempt to ward off utter boredom, Emily van der Heijden risked another glance away from the young woman chattering amiably at her from across the table. Unfortunately, her surroundings did nothing to dispel the growing feeling that she was trapped in a place where boredom reigned supreme and idle gossip passed for thoughtful conversation.

Certainly, the architects and interior decorators who’d crafted the

Ministry’s women’s dining area had created a masterpiece of drab institutionalism. Fading off-white walls matched the canteen’s fading black-and-white checkerboard pattern tile floor. Narrow, unwashed windows opened out onto a small interior courtyard long since converted into a parking lot. The dresses worn by the forty or so women still eating lunch provided the only touch of color-and little enough of that. Most of the secretaries, typists, and other

clerical workers clustered around identical, government-issue aluminum tables seemed content with plain white blouses and black or gray knee-length skirts. It was like staring at the bureaucratic soul made flesh.