two men sprinted for the dugout, Vega following the captain’s lead.
Other men were running, dozens of them, as the gun crews settled into position. Phone circuits were hooked up and tested, and Vega saw gun barrels elevate and swivel as the aimers checked their mechanisms.
The two officers reached the command trench, little more than a six-foot-deep rectangular hole. The field phone operator shouted to
Morona as he leapt in, “At least eight aircraft, from the east!” Normally the report would have included altitude and speed, but Vega suspected this warning was based on a visual or sound sighting. The mobile air search radar had also fallen victim to an anti radar missile. Not only did this deny them information about the attacking aircraft, but also warning time. Those aircraft will be here any moment, Vega thought.
Morona picked up his own headset and listened briefly. Speaking into his microphone, he ordered, “Barrage pattern, one hundred meters altitude.
” Picking up a pair of field glasses, he scanned the night sky, looking for any sign of the oncoming raid.
Without taking his eyes from the sky, the battery commander spoke to
Vega.
“With both radars out, General, we cannot aim at individual aircraft, especially at night. All we can do is lay a pattern of fire in the sky at the right altitude and let them fly through it.”
“Why one hundred meters?” Vega asked.
“Because the American pilots Re to come in low, and that is the lowest they fly.”
The captain continued to scan with his binoculars and suddenly pointed to the southeast.
“Tracers! Troops on the ground are firing at the aircraft!” Pressing his mike switch, Morona said,
“Center sector on one three five. Barrage pattern! Commence!”
Half a second after he spoke, the four working guns of the battery opened up, filling the air with a rapid-fire roar. In addition to the guns themselves, Vega could hear the sound of the motor drives whirring and stopping, and the even higher-pitched sounds of the empty shell casings spilling from the guns. Fragments of shouted orders filled the small open spaces between the guns’ firing as men scurried to supply the guns with ammunition.
The S-60 can pump out seventy rounds a minute. The four in combination seemed to pour a stream of shells skyward, each one glowing and increasing in size as it flew. A few hundred meters up and about a kilometer away, the shells converged in a pattern of lines, hopefully intersecting the approaching aircrafts’ flight path. Even with aimed fire, it took thousands of rounds to get a single hit. Vega could only watch the display and hope.
“How many rounds do you have?” Vega shouted at Morona.
“More than two hundred rounds per gun ready,” he replied. Morona seemed to be almost leaning into the guns, as if the continuous muzzle blasts created a strong wind. Vega wished for six guns instead of four, and a functioning radar, then realized he was being foolish. He might as well wish for
Pretoria. His business was facts, and the hard reality of combat.
A high-pitched scream appeared behind the barking of the guns, and Vega saw a group of angular shapes appear to the southeast, crossing his field of view left to right. They were low and appeared only in silhouette against the moonlit sky. It was hard to tell their type, but they were almost certainly Intruders or Hornet attack jets. They seemed to approach slowly, even though he knew their speed must be a thousand kilometers an hour.
Yes! Their path was taking them through the flak barrage. and some of
the tracer streams wavered as the gunners attempted to track the fastmoving aircraft. As they neared, their apparent speed increased until they flashed past, gone before Vega had time to count them or guess their target.
“Down!” Hands grabbed his shoulders and roughly dragged him to the floor of the trench. As he started to protest, a deafening roar filled the air above, spilling over into their shelter. The roar ended in a popping, crackling sound that was even louder. As he fell full length to the dirt floor, fragments zinged around them, and choking dust filled the trench.
Vega felt a burning sensation in his left leg.
Shaking his head to clear it, Vega looked over at Morona, who stared back at him.
“I saw them coming in from the north while we tracked the first group of planes. Two aircraft. They were headed straight for us. ” The captain took a breath and nodded toward the lip of the trench.
“I think they just cluster-bombed the battery.”
The general started to stand up and suddenly sat down as his left leg gave way beneath him. He realized he couldn’t move it.
Morona leaned over him and took one look at the leg. His eyes widened, and he shouted, “The general’s been hit!”
Vega was curious about the damage to the battery and was insisting on trying to stand up as a medic appeared and began tekring at his pants leg. The general tried to help him, but suddenly felt dizzy and weak. As he leaned forward to look at the wound, the night spun around him and he remembered nothing else.
JANUARY 11 -WARM BAD VEGAS HEADQUARTERS
The third and latest headquarters was located in an anonymous-looking row of shops off a side street in town. Since they communicated solely by runners and field telephone, there was none of the exterior bustle and activity that marked it as a headquarters. There were no vehicles to spot, no radio traffic to detect. It was harder to do business, but they were still alive.
Vega had chosen a small bookstore for his own office, one of the prerogatives of command. Propped up in an easy chair from one of the apartments above, his leg elevated so that he was almost lying down, he didn’t feel foolish only because of the throbbing pain.
“The Russians have promised to replace our antiaircraft guns and send more and newer missiles to improve our defenses.” Suarez handed Vega the message slip.
Vega reached for the paper, then weakly waved it away.
“How many SAMs will it take to protect us from two aircraft carriers, Colonel? Who will provide the advisors and training for the new equipment?” The general scowled. “it will help, but in addition to airdefense equipment, ask for smoke generators and more dummy equipment. “
Suarez nodded, smiling.
“That will serve two purposes: provide them with more targets, and fool the South Africans and Americans as to our real strength.”
Vega shook his head and smiled.
“I’d rather they both thought we were weaker, not stronger. It’s clear that South Africa is concentrating their remaining forces against us.
“We can beat them. What are the casualty figures this morning?”
“Roughly ten percent of our armored vehicles are lost, another ten percent damaged but repairable, especially with cannibalization from the destroyed ones. The figures are double that for specialist units: artillery and air defense units have been especially hard hit.”
Vega nodded soberly, remembering B Battery. They were reduced to two guns now and had suffered over twenty dead in last night’s raid. It gave sober reality to Suarez’s cold statistics.
“In return for that, we shot down seven aircraft and damaged another ten,”
Suarez reported.
Vega had learned long ago not to trust completely enemy body counts.
“How many wrecks have we found?”
“Three, sir. The other four were seen to be trailing smoke and in trouble as they left the area.”
The general shook his head.
“However many there were, I think they will lighten up now. We can still expect attacks, but not at the level of the past twenty-four hours. From now
on, we will conduct major movements at night. If we pay more attention to proper dispersal and concealment, we can continue with minimal casualties.”
Suarez tried to sound hopeful.
“As long as they don’t attack the airheads in Mozambique and Zimbabwe, we will still receive supplies.”
“The Americans don’t need to attack the airheads. The supply line is long enough for them to hit it between here and the border. The risk of hitting Russians or other foreign citizens is too great, just as the risk of losing a
