Heerden had been right all along. The Cubans were attacking from the north and east driving hard for the undefended heart of the South African nation.
Metje could see that now. And in that realization he saw the certain end of his military career and all his political ambitions.
He ran a clammy hand over his face. It was so unfair. De Wet and the other generals would need a scapegoat, and he certainly filled the bill. Any court-martial would be swift and sure-able to reach only one conclusion and one sentence.
For an instant, just an instant, Metje was tempted to stay and play the farce through to its appointed end. Doing his duty up to the last possible moment was the only honorable course left open to him. But doing his duty would not mitigate his punishment.
Metje dropped the sheaf of contact reports on a nearby desk, turned on his heel, and left the room. His staff watched him go without saying anything.
They probably imagined he was on his way to report to de Wet.
Good. That would buy him time-the time he needed to get clear of the headquarters complex and Pretoria.
Metje suddenly understood how Heerden must have felt while fleeing this same post.
Sometimes it felt good to give in to impulse.
it took de Wet and the others almost an hour to realize that their new chief of military intelligence had vanished. It took them several minutes more to realize just how big a disaster they were facing.
And all that morning Cuba’s armored columns advanced.
BLOCKING FORCE, 2ND TRANSVAAL INFANTRY, ON NATIONAL ROUTE 4, NEAR
HECTORSPRUIT, SOUTH AFRICA
Commandant Neils Bergen stood on a low hill looking out over a panorama of bright green sugarcane fields and small square groves of orange trees. Off to his right, the Crocodile River wound its lazy way east toward Mozambique.
His shadow, lengthened by the setting sun, stretched east as well.
He shifted his binoculars, gazing downslope at his small team of engineers as they scurried to and fro- planting mines and building hasty, improvised barricades across the four lane highway running east to west.
With the double-tracked railroad line paralleling it to the
north, National Route 4 was ordinarily a supply officer’s dream and the best way to move an army fast from one place to another, unless that army happened to be Cuban. Now the highway was more like a dagger pointed straight at South Africa’s heart.
Bergen still couldn’t quite believe the chain of events that had landed him in this predicament. His Citizen Force battalion had been called to active duty just days ago-summoned to the colors as the mutinies and other insurrections spread. They’d mobilized quickly, caught up in a sense of wartime urgency that soon found them pressed into service hunting down ANC guerrillas and rebel commandos.
He hadn’t enjoyed that at all. Shooting or arresting fellow South Africans was unpleasant duty. Unfortunately, the presence of brown shirt Brandwag “special units” left him little freedom for maneuver. As it was, he’d nearly lost his command after refusing to execute several white prisoners found guilty at a “summary court” held by the area’s senior AWB representative.
That had been bad enough. But now he faced total disaster.
When the emergency orders from the Eastern Transvaal Military Command arrived, his three infantry companies were spread out over a hundred-kilometer square, dispersed in patrols and detachments. Just gathering the company-sized force he had here had taken most of the morning and afternoon.
The rest of his troops were digging in forty kilometers farther back-deep in the rugged foothills of the Great Escarpment. Bergen’s tiny blocking force was supposed to buy time for them, maybe even delaying the oncoming
Cubans long enough for reinforcements to arrive from Pretoria.
Sure. The commandant scowled. At least Leonidas and his Three Hundred
Spartans had fought with a terrain advantage. He didn’t have crap. Under ideal conditions, a well-supported, dug-in company might be able to fend off an armored brigade for a short time-with the emphasis on short. But conditions were far from ideal. This was a fragile force, poorly supplied and lightly armed. My God, he only had mortars for artillery and machine guns for protection against enemy aircraft.
Boots scraped on rock somewhere behind him. Bergen turned to see an elderly man in jeans and a plain white shirt climbing the hill. The man carried an
R-4 assault rifle slung over his shoulder. Clearly having trouble climbing the slope in this heat, he paused once, then made it to the crest with a final surge of energy.
“Andries Kaal, of the Hectorspruit Commando, reporting. “
The old man didn’t bother saluting, but he did come to attention-smiling slightly at some private joke.
Bergen wasn’t surprised by the man’s sudden appearance. The Boer tradition of the commando, or local militia, went back to the very roots of
Afrikanerdom. Even so, he considered Kaal coldly for several moments. He needed solid, dependable soldiers, not fat farmers who might run away in panic at the first shot. With that in mind, would the “Hectorspruit
Commando” be an asset or a liability?
At least this fellow’s bearing showed he was a veteran, Bergen decided. He nodded toward the distant town.
“How many men in your commando?”
“Fifty, with more coming in all the time.” Kaal smiled, showing a mouthful of extraordinarily bad teeth.
“We all have rifles, though most of them are not so new as my friend here. ” He patted his R-4 with real affection.
Fifty men, Bergen thought. He could have used five thousand. And since almost all white men of military age were already in uniform, Kaal’s commando was undoubtedly made up mostly of older men and teenage boys. He shrugged. No matter, this was a static defense. All they had to do was shoot straight. And die.
He pointed to the canvas-sided truck doubling as his command post.
“Talk to my operations officer. Tell him I said to put your men on the left flank, reinforcing the platoon I’ve already posted there.”
Kaal nodded once and skidded slowly down the rise.
Bergen lifted his binoculars and looked east again. The Cubans were out there somewhere-and closing fast. He wasn’t surprised that his hands were shaking, jiggling the view through the field glasses. He fought to hold them steady.
One minute later, the irregular, pulsing whup whup whup
of a rotor sounded behind him. The noise came from a tiny Alouette III utility helicopter practically skimming the ground on its way toward his position.
Bergen ran back down to the command truck, catching and passing Kaal as he plodded in the same direction.
He was still only halfway there when the Alouette flared out and landed in a swirl of dust and hot exhaust. Its engine whined down slowly-fading in time with its slowing rotor blades. The helicopter pilot, a young, stick-thin man with straw-colored hair, jumped out and hurried forward to meet him.
The young man’s clean, pressed uniform contrasted sharply with Bergen’s rumpled clothes, already filthy after several days in the field.
“Lieutenant Bankkop, reporting for duty. “
“Where the devil have you come from, then?” asked Bergen as he returned the pilot’s salute and then held out his hand.
Bankkop smiled ruefully.
“Normally I’m the shuttle pilot for VIPs, but the brigadier thought you might be able to use me today. “
Bergen nodded emphatically.
“He thought right, for once. You’re all the reconnaissance I’m going to get forward of my own positions. Understand?”
The pilot nodded back.
