or perhaps the explosions of artillery shells.
Clearly, the Afrikaners were still fighting, but the Allied staff had already seen the orders of battle for each side. Craig agreed with the common wisdom: the Cubans could be in Pretoria in three days, four at the outside.
They studied the pictures in silence for several minutes. Then Skiles spoke up, obviously expressing the unstated opinion of the whole Joint
Staff.
“Unless we do something fast, General, we’re screwed.”
Craig nodded.
“True. It’s a win-win situation for Cuba, and this guy Vega knows it. He’s turned into a spoiler, and we’ve got to stop him.” He turned to the naval commander.
“Move Independence and Vinson up the coast, Admiral. Start launching air strikes against the Cuban forces immediately. Don’t attack South African ground forces unless they get in the way, but shoot down anything that flies.”
Rear Adm. Andrew Douglas Stewart arched an eyebrow.
“What about
Washington, General? Will the President approve an escalation like this?”
Craig pointed to the photos.
“My original orders cover engaging the
Cubans, if it becomes necessary. Don’t worry about D.C.” Andy. By the time they’ve spent five minutes looking through these, they’ll be howling for action.”
Many of his staff nodded in acknowledgment, but Skiles looked troubled.
“General, why not use just one carrier? That would slow them down some and still leave one ship to support our own advance. Our air cover is still a little thin. “
Craig shook his head.
“No, George, send them both. We’re gonna have to depend on land-based air, and the Cubans are going to need a lot of stopping.” He looked as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.
“I hate to look like we’re defending the Afrikaners, but if Vega reaches Pretoria, the show’s over.
We’d wind up doing nothing but fighting over Vorster’s dead body and the ashes of South African industry . “
He looked off into space for a brief moment, silently calculating the kind of delay the Navy’s air strikes could impose on Cuba’s an-no red columns. The answer he kept coming up with was unpalatable and equally undeniable. Some, but not enough. He lowered his gaze to the small group of waiting staff officers.
“All right, gentlemen. We’ve run out of sensible options. It’s time to go for broke. We have to authorize Quantum.
“
First Skiles and then the others reluctantly nodded.
Craig dialed a single-digit number preprogrammed into his command phone.
It was answered on the first ring.
“O’Connell.”
“Rob, this is Jerry Craig. Listen carefully. Your operation is a go. You have forty-eight hours to prepare.”
PRETORIA
Brig. Deneys Coetzee looked up sharply as the phone in his downtown flat buzzed repeatedly. That wasn’t his normal line. That was the second phone.
The one he’d had installed covertly and with an unlisted number known only to a special few.
He raced to answer it.
“Yes?”
“Deneys? This is Henrik.”
Coetzee sat down abruptly. Kruger. This was incredible. He chuckled suddenly.
“My God, man, but you gave me a shock there.”
Kruger laughed softly with him.
“I thought I might.” He turned serious.
“Tell me, can you speak freely?”
“I can. What’s up?”
As Kruger told him, Coetzee began to feel hope for his nation for the first time in months. Despite what he’d always been taught and believed, these Americans and British had guts.
CHAPTER
Checkmate
JANUARY I O-QUANTUM STRIKE FORCE, OVER SWARTKOP MILITARY AIRFIELD,
PRETORIA
From the outside the C-130 Hercules looked exactly like one of the three such planes left in South Africa’s inventory. U.S. Air Force maintenance crews had worked round the clock repainting the aircraft with the right camouflage colors and insignia. One of Brig. Deneys Coetzee’s conspirators inside the SAAF had even given them the side number for a real South
African C-130, currently undergoing emergency repairs at Upington Military
Airfield-more than eight hundred kilometers from Pretoria. The impostor was considerably closer than that, now just two minutes’ flying time from
Swartkop’s main runway.
The ninety grim-faced men riding inside the Hercules were also flying under false colors. All of them wore South African uniforms and carried
South African weapons-weapons and clothing provided by Cape Province units. Beneath their uniforms they were a mixed bunch-a reinforced Ranger rifle platoon, a British SAS troop, and several Afrikaans-speaking volunteers from Henrik Kruger’s 20th Cape Rifles. They had much in common, though:
physical and mental toughness, superb combat skills, and a driving determination to carry out their mission at any cost. Their commanders shared those same attributes.
From his seat near the C-130’s rear ramp, Col. Robert O’Connell checked the magazine on his R4 assault rifle and slid it back in place. His hands still shook, but only slightly. Not enough for anybody not looking closely to notice. He kept his hands busy by checking the rest of his gear: a pistol with a separate, concealed silencer, a sheathed knife, and two colored-smoke grenades for signaling purposes. Somehow it didn’t seem like enough. Then he shrugged. Even in battle dress, a South African officer couldn’t go waltzing about Pretoria looking like a walking arsenal.
Satisfied that he was as ready as he’d ever be, O’Connell glanced at the men seated to either side of him. Capt. David Pryce, the tall, mustachioed SAS officer he’d picked as his XO for Quantum, was making the same kind of last-minute personal inspection.
Major Cain, the senior SAS man in South Africa, had kicked and screamed to come along, too. But Craig had vetoed that on the sensible grounds that the Joint Special Warfare units being readied at Durban needed an experienced and battle-tested commander.
If Quantum failed, General Craig would need every Ranger team and SAS patrol he could lay his hands on. Those in country were already prepping for what would almost certainly be a series of desperate and abortive commando raids on South Africa’s radioactive-waste-filled mining facilities. O’Connell’s mind shied away from imagining what a bloody shambles those attacks were likely to be. Then he laughed inwardly, If
Quantum failed, he wouldn’t be around to see it all happening.
Beside him, Commandant Henrik Kruger wore a headset plugged into the
Hercules’s intercom system, listening as a former South African Air
Force lieutenant handled the C 130’s cockpit conversations with air traffic controllers on the ground.
As O’Connell watched, Kruger slipped the headset off with a decisive gesture.
“We’ve been cleared to land. One minute.”
