Vortex (80 page)

The bush veld mining town wasn’t quite the last bastion before Pretoria itself, but there weren’t many such spots left along National Route

1.

With its mixture of excellent defensive terrain, a strategic road junction, and important economic assets, Potgietersrus was a good place to make a stand.

The city sat overlooking a dry, rocky plain, its offices and smelters and homes rising out of the ground like an island of civilization in the wilderness. In ordinary times, thirty thou sand people called Potgietersrus home-ten thousand of them white, fifteen thousand black, the rest mixed and other races.

Naturally, the whites lived in the center of town and ran the mines and businesses that kept the city alive. Their homes were mostly spacious, tree shaded, and expensive.

Many of the blacks in Potgietersrus were single men who lived in migrant-worker barracks adjacent to the mines themselves-one hundred men crammed into each long, one room building. They lived there while fulfilling year-long labor contracts. At the end of each year, they were free to visit families, wives, and children who’d been left behind in

South Africa’s tribal homelands-or even in Mozambique or Zimbabwe. They returned as soon as possible, though. The mines were usually the only work to be had.

Some lucky blacks, either mine workers or laborers elsewhere in town, managed to bring their families with them. They crowded into the same kind of squalid shantytown visible just outside every South African city.

Technically, blacks were not allowed to own land or even live near white-populated areas, but necessity drove them to settle wherever they could-existing as squatters for white convenience and at the government’s sufferance.

Applying the word township to Potgietersrus’s slum gave it a dignity it did not deserve. No water, no electricity, and no sewage system would ever serve the tin and wood shacks that were home to the bulk of the city’s labor force.

Potgietersrus was an important mining center-nickel, tin, copper, and platinum were all found in profitable quantities close by. The Cubans might say they were fighting to liberate their black brothers and end apartheid, but the mines would be their reward if they won. Capturing them would also immediately deny vital resources now flowing to Pretoria.

South Africa’s military mobilization had already reduced mine output by stripping away most white supervisors and craftsmen. Only a fraction of the explosives experts were black. Even fewer of the machinery operators were nonwhite. Black laborers were starting to fill those roles, but they had little training and even less guidance.

Much of the white population had fled Potgietersrus before the Cubans even reached the city’s outer defenses. Most blacks were still there. They had nowhere else to go. The mine workers were actually being held under guard in their barracks whenever they went off shift. Since so many were foreign workers, the Brandwag felt they were a security risk. Considering their treatment, that was probably right.

So mining operations continued, even with Cuban armor and infantry units less than thirty kilometers away. Huge trucks carried refined metals and other valuable ores south toward Pretoria. They moved without interference.

Vega had ordered his artillery and air commanders to avoid firing on the mines and smelters. Leaving them untouched would reduce the time needed to get them back into full swing once they were captured.

In any case, the Cubans had more than enough military targets for their artillery. Potgietersrus sat on the western slope of a rugged mountain more than two thousand meters high, and its defenders had been preparing a new defensive line for several days. There were no shortages of digging tools in a mining town.

The South African garrison contained several understrength infantry battalions, Air Force personnel who’d abandoned the base at Pietersburg, and men of the local commando-a sizable force, though one with little heavy equipment. Defeated farther north, they’d collected themselves in this town, all survivors of at least one battle and hasty withdrawal. This time, though, they were dug in on good ground. This time, they would hold.

HEADQUARTERS
,
POTGIETERSRUS
DEFENSE
FORCE

Brig. Piet Boerson had retired from the
SADF
years ago, but Vorster’s full mobilization had reactivated his commission and placed him in command-defending the town where he had lived for more than half his adult life. The tall, thin man’s face was craggy from a life of hard work. He hadn’t always sat behind a desk.

He’d been perfectly happy as a senior manager responsible for production in one of the area’s most successful copper mines. Now he fought to protect his home, his job, his way of life. Thank God, his wife and children were gone, though they’d only fled as far as her sister’s place in Pretoria. Well, if they didn’t stop the Cubans soon, there wouldn’t be anywhere that was safe.

Boerson stared at the map and sighed, taking another swig of lukewarm coffee. He should be grateful. Considering his country’s disastrous strategic situation, he’d been dealt a fairly strong hand. In the three days since the fall of Pietersburg, he and his men had fended off three separate Cuban assaults, and he was confident he could hold his ground for some time to come.

But he was also sure the Cubans would try again-and soon. Probably at dawn.

Emergency reinforcements, scraped together from God knew where, had arrived shortly after midnight. He snorted. Reinforcements. A battery of

World War II-vintage artillery pieces and two companies of boys barely old enough to carry rifles. Barely enough men to replace those lost during the previous day’s fighting. Still, he’d thrown them into the line. Even boys with rifles were useful.

So far, Boerson’s “composite” brigade had survived air attacks, artillery barrages, and commando raids. And he’d used the last twenty-four hours of comparative quiet to rest his men and bolster their defenses. They’d even managed to fig mining explosives as command-detonated land mines.

The brigadier leaned over his map, studying his defenses for what seemed like the thousandth time. Was there anything more he could do?

Emplaced in an arc facing north and west of the city, his infantry were dug in deep in the stony soil, grimy and tired. Minefields and barbed wire covered the easiest approaches to their lines. He’d deployed the brigade’s single battery of 6-5 155mm guns on a low hill close to his front lines. From there, their shells could reach almost all the way back to Pietersburg. His two remaining missile launchers, each with three

Cactus SAMs left, guarded the guns. The newly arrived

artillery battery, with British-manufactured 5.5-inch guns that were half the size and five times the age of his 155s, covered the highway itself.

Finally, Potgietersrus’s local commando, unreliable as line infantry, were acting as scouts and snipers. They knew the area, and Boerson hoped to use their local knowledge to his advantage.

Yes, they could hold, but not to protect those fools in Pretoria, Boerson thought. They got us into this mess, and if we can survive, those idiots will be the first ones against the wall-Vorster’s brown shirted Brandwag notwithstanding.

Boerson turned to look at the other officers in the room. Two commandants and a colonel, each commanding a battalion, sat discussing the details of troop employment and artillery allocation, while a Brandwag monitor listened to every word, as though one of them were going to stand up suddenly and shout, “Long live the
ANC
.”

Groote Kempe, the commandant of the local commando, sat quietly in a corner. His men didn’t have radios or any heavy weapons except for some old Lewis machine guns. Their role was simple. Snipe at the enemy for as long as possible, then fall back to the main line of resistance.

The distant rumble of artillery fire served as a constant backdrop to their discussion. Harassing fire had been failing for the past twenty-four hours-small salvos designed to pin the South Africans in their positions, inflict a few casualties, and keep them short on sleep.

The tempo of the Cuban barrage suddenly picked up shells seemed to be raining down at the rate of three or four a minute. At the sound, the

South African officers looked up from their maps and discussion.

Boerson checked his watch: 0527 hours. A little early, he thought, but the Cubans probably plan to give us one hell of a pasting before they attack. Wonderful.

“Everyone, stand your units to. And tell your boys to make every shot count,” he ordered. Grabbing a helmet and a flashlight, he ran out into the night. Behind him, his battalion commanders scattered to their posts.

His headquarters occupied a two-story stone vacation home built near the mountain’s summit. In daylight, he had a view that stretched from one end of his line to the other. On a clear day, he could even make out Cuban-held Pietersburg as a blur far to the northeast.

Potgietersrus itself lay behind him. His staff officers kept complaining that he’d picked a spot too close to the front lines, but Boerson liked to see things for himself.

Night was just beginning to fade, with a thin line of pink appearing to the east. He could already make out the rugged landscape falling away to his front. Individual infantry positions were still cloaked in darkness, but he knew their locations. Bright flashes lit the skyline as Cuban shells burst over them.

The Cuban gunners were going for airbursts, he noted, a reasonable tactic considering how well his troops were dug in. Shells fused to explode on impact with the ground were ineffective against men in deep holes, unless one happened to land in the hole itself. But shells exploding twenty meters up could shower dug-in infantry with high-velocity fragments-forcing them to keep their heads down while armored troop carriers and tanks attacked.

It was light enough now for binoculars, and Boerson scanned the ground between Pietersburg and his positions. Yes, there they were. A dark wedge of dots moving toward him. Time to release the guns.

Stepping back into his headquarters, he said, “Order the one fifty-five battery to engage the enemy formation. Fuse for airburst. ” That would give the swine a little of their own back, he thought. It wouldn’t hurt their tanks much, but it would disrupt that pretty formation and give them something to think about.

He waited while the operator called the battery, located about eight hundred meters away. The man jiggled his receiver.

“Sir, there’s no reply,”

What? Boerson moved back outside, sweeping his binoculars toward his nearby artillery emplacements. He pursed his lips. Yes, they were being shelled, too, and by more airbursts. So much for concealment. The Cubans knew right where he’d hidden his guns.

Still, his gunners should have their battery fire-control center under cover. Had an explosion cut the telephone line?

Then, staring at the enemy barrage, he noted that the airbursts looked a little different. The explosions were smaller. Mortars, maybe? If so, when were the Cubans going to use their bigger guns? Each shell was also throwing off a tremendous amount of red-colored smoke. That was unusual.

Mixing smoke with high explosive was a common tactic, but not against artillery.

His signalman appeared in the doorway.

“Sir, Commandant Salter is on the line!” Traces of barely suppressed panic crept into his voice.

“He says his men are all dying.”

The brigadier leapt for the phone. What the hell was going on?

“Boerson here.”

“It’s gas… poison gas, bursting over us!”

My God. Gas. Of course. That explained the red mist and the small explosions. Each Cuban shell contained just enough explosive to scatter its deadly cargo over a wide area.

“Only a few of us have masks, and they don’t help anyway! Most of my men are already dead! I’ve got a mask on, but if I open up my vehicle, I’ll die from skin contact!” Salter’s abject terror came through clearly over the phone line.

“Pull back, George. Save yourself and anyone you can.” It was an automatic response, sensible in the circumstances but no less distasteful. Pulling back from the mountain meant abandoning

Potgietersrus to the communists.

The phone line went dead.

Boerson stood rooted in place, his mind in a mad, dizzying whirl. What could he do now? Salter’s infantry battalion and his best artillery battery were both gone. How much of the brigade had the Cuban poison-gas barrage hit?

He heard the crump of a muted explosion overhead, quickly followed by a handful more. His heart sank, and for the first time in his career, he hoped he was under fire by enemy high explosive.

Then he saw the mist drifting down toward him. Boerson wheeled to the white-faced, shaking signalman.

“Order a general retreat! ”

He was too late.

The red-tinted cloud settled slowly around the headquarters building and all up and down the South African defense line. It was not a true gas, but an aerosol, a spray of extremely fine droplets created by the small charge in each shell. An artillery airburst wasn’t as uniform or efficient as a spray nozzle, but it worked well enough.

The chemical itself was named GB, or sarin. A complex organic substance, it had been available since World War II. Unlike chlorine gas, which affects the human respiratory system, or mustard gas, a blister agent, sarin directly affects the human nervous system.

Chlorine has to be inhaled to kill or maim, and mustard gas must come in contact with a large area of exposed skin before it can seriously injure.

But a tenth of a gram of sarin, touching the body anywhere, is a lethal dose.

Troops who have the training and equipment to deal with chemical weapons must wear respirators and protective suits. Every piece of equipment touched by the chemical must be thoroughly washed before it can safely be used by anyone without protection.

But these suits are hot and heavy. Even in temperate climates, a soldier’s efficiency can be halved after only a few hours in his gear. On the high veld wearing chemical protection gear led to heatstroke-not lost efficiency.