scout cars, and both took wild evasive action, twisting and turning sharply as they raced north.
Mares stood high in his commander’s hatch, studying the approaches to the
South African-held farmhouse. It didn’t look good. The farm occupied a commanding position, perched precisely at the crest of a low rise and surrounded by open fields. No orchards. No convenient hillocks offering cover and concealment. No sunken roads. Nothing but the wide open space of a ready-made killing ground.
He swore softly to himself. If the South Africans held that farmhouse and its outbuildings in force, he and his men were in for a bloody and protracted fight. And his brigade commander would not be pleased. Well, the sooner they started, the sooner they’d finish.
Mares dropped down through the hatch into the BTR’s crowded interior. He stabbed a finger at the young corporal strapped to a seat in front of the radio.
“Get me Brigade HQ! “
The radioman nodded and started changing frequencies on his bulky,
Soviet-made set.
Mares whirled to the rest of his staff-a captain, two babyfaced lieutenants, and a tough, competent-looking sergeant.
“We’re going to have to dig the bastards out. Order the column to reform in line abreast.
And remind everyone to keep at least fifty meters between vehicles. I don’t want any idiots bunching up like cowardly sheep.”
Another near-miss rocked the BTR from side to side, pounding his point home.
They nodded seriously. Dispersing your vehicles under artillery bombardment was only common sense. Every meter of extra open space dramatically complicated an enemy’s attempts to adjust his fire and reduced his odds of scoring a direct hit. Unfortunately, too many soldiers under heavy fire abandoned common sense in favor of the age-old pack instinct that screamed out, “When in danger, join together. 11
“I have Brigade on the line, Major.”
He took the offered handset.
“Tango Golf One, this is Alpha Two Three.”
“Go ahead, Two Three.” Mares recognized the dry, academic tones of the
Brigade’s operations officer. Good. The man wasn’t very personable, but he did his job damned well.
The major outlined his situation in a few terse sentences.
“And your recommendation?”
Mares thumbed the transmit button.
“I can attack in twenty minutes, but we’ll need an air strike to soften the place up first. “
“Impossible.” The operations officer didn’t bother sounding apologetic.
Facts were facts, and courtesy couldn’t change
them.
“The Air Force reports a new storm front moving in. They expect all their attack aircraft to be grounded from now until sunrise tomorrow.
“
Damn it. Mares wished that Cuba had all-weather bombers like those available to the United States. He hunted for an alternative.
“What about artillery?”
The dry, matter-of-fact voice doused that hope as well.
“Our batteries won’t be up for another three hours. Can you try a hasty attack?”
“Negative, Tango One.” Mares shuddered inwardly at the thought. Charging across that killing zone out there without air or artillery cover would only lead to disaster-a sure and certain harvest of wrecked and blazing personnel carriers and dead and maimed men. He took the map offered by his staff sergeant.
“We’ll look for an alternate route, but I don’t think we’ll find one. This country’s too open. We may need that artillery deployed yet. “
“Understood, Two Three. Tango Golf One, out.”
Mares got busy with his map. He couldn’t see any way for his two remaining BRDMs to pick their way around the farmhouse strongpoint without being spotted. The South Africans had too good a view from their commanding hilltop. And he wasn’t sure that he had enough men and vehicles to take that strongpoint-even with artillery support. He might need help from the heavy tank and infantry units lumbering along with the main column.
In fact, he was sure of only one thing. The First Brigade Tactical
Group’s easy romp through the northern Transvaal was over.
They’d pay in blood for every kilometer gained from here all the way to
Pretoria.
NOVEMBER 19-SECOND BRIGADE TACTICAL GROUP, NEAR THE MPAGEN1 PASS,
SOUTH
AFRICA
he rattle of heavy rifle and machinegun fire echoed oddly through the night air, bouncing off high rock walls and mingling with the whispering rush of water tumbling downstream. With a screaming hiss and a soft pop, a parachute flare burst into incandescent splendor a thousand meters over the pass and began drifting slowly downwind.
The flare cast strange shadows among the giant ferns and tall yellowwood trees crowding the valley floor, and it lit small, shaggy clumps of aloe and thorn scrub dotting the rugged cliffs above. A troop of wild baboons, already frightened by the gunfire and sickly sweet odor of high explosives, scurried frantically up the cliffs-seeking shelter from this eerie, horribly bright sun rising where there should be only welcome, restful darkness.
Five hundred meters farther down the winding road, men trying desperately to sleep beside camouflaged T- 62 tanks, BTR personnel carriers, and towed artillery pieces stumbled out of their bedrolls and stared west toward the slowly falling flare. Did the small-arms fire and illumination round signal an unexpected South African counterattack? Some, less experienced than their comrades, groped for assault rifles or swung themselves into their vehicles. Others, older and wiser in the ways of war, noted the conspicuous lack of franfic activity around the Brigade Group’s lantern-lit command term swore bitterly, and settled back to snatch a few hours of needed rest.
“Acknowledged, Captain. Keep me posted. Out.” Col. Raoul Valladares slipped the headset off and tossed it back to a yawning radioman.
“Well?” Gen. Carlos Herrera glared at his trim, dapper subordinate while he struggled into his jacket and strained to button his tunic collar.
Unfortunately, not even the most creative military tailor could design a uniform that made the general look anything less than grossly overweight. Spiky tufts of black hair sticking straight up offered clear proof that Heffera had been sound asleep when the shooting started.
“Nothing more than an outpost skirmish, Comrade General.” Valladares ran lean fingers through his own tousled hair.
“One of our sentries thought he saw movement and opened fire.”
Herrera grunted sourly and left his collar hanging open. He moved closer to the situation map and stood frowning at the portrait it painted.
Valladares understood his commander’s irritation. In the first four days of Vega’s offensive, the Second Brigade Tactical Group had driven deep into the eastern Transvaalplowing forward more than one hundred kilometers through the low veld’s orange groves and banana plantations.
But the past day’s progress had been painfully slow and costly as the brigade’s tanks and infantry fought their way up steep hills and across rugged river gorges on a front sometimes only one road wide.
The colonel shook his head wearily. They’d planned to punch through the two-thousand-foot-high escarpment separating the low veld from the high veld before the South Africans could mount an effective defense.
Crystal-clear hindsight showed how wildly optimistic they’d been. Even a small number of determined defenders can delay an attacker advancing through rough country. And the South Africans were nothing if not determined.
They’d probed and harassed the oncoming Cuban column at every opportunity. An ambush here. A stoutly
