Vega hustled toward the entrance. He’d been caught by surprise once, but would not make the same mistake again. He’d been lucky the first time, but wanted to save his good luck for more important things.
The newly installed field-telephone network allowed Vega to reach all of his battalion commanders, the forward outposts, and the air defense sites. There were alternate lines, and critical lines had been buried so they wouldn’t accidentally be cut.
A muffled rumbling could be heard through the bunker’s heavy door.
Putting his hand on the cement wall, he could feel the vibrations, the slamming sensation of explosions against the earth.
“All posts report,” he said.
The switchboard operator relayed his order, then listened, relaying the words as they came in.
“Twenty-fifth battalion reports no attacks. It sees aircraft bombing targets in town, though. They are engaging with small arms and machine guns. “
Vega nodded approvingly. Standing orders directed every soldier to fire his weapon straight up as enemy aircraft passed overhead. An entire company or battalion of men, all firing up, was a threat no airplane willingly accepted.
The other three battalions gave similar reports, and his artillery was similarly untouched. What became clear, though, was that the aircraft were concentrating on the air defenses-in huge numbers.
“Outpost five reports at least six jet aircraft attacking B Battery.” The switchboard operator paused, then tried to call the battery directly.
“No answer.”
Again and again reports came in of heavy air attacks, all concentrating on the air defense units. Vega had three batteries of 57mm guns, and three of 23mm weapons. While they had been carefully dug in, they were not supposed to stand this kind of pounding.
Normally aircraft would evade antiaircraft units or settle for suppressing them, since the idea was to bomb the target, not the target’s defenders. His combat units were virtually untouched, though.
After twenty minutes of aerial bombardment, Vega challenged his staff directly. He had his own opinion, but he wanted their evaluations.
“What is the enemy planning, gentlemen?”
Vasquez spoke first.
“It is a calculated plan to first destroy our air defense, then concentrate on the rest of our forces.”
Suarez agreed.
“They may have underestimated the strength of our emplacements. It cost , s them less in blood to pound us from the air. We may be in for a morning of air raids, then a ground attack later in the day.”
Vega nodded. He hoped they were right.
After a full thirty minutes of aerial attacks, Vega sensed it was time for a shift. None of the antiaircraft batteries responded, and the outposts and other units that could see them reported no signs of movement. A volunteer runner from a nearby emplacement had risked a dash to B Battery and back, only to report heavy casualties and many wrecked guns.
Vega had to concede, although it made no difference to the Americans overhead, that his air defenses were gone.
“Outpost three reports more aircraft approaching from the east. “
A little irritated, Vega demanded more information.
“Tell Three they can do better than that. We need numbers, type, altitude. “
The operator relayed Vega’s criticism and then listened, eyes widening.
“Three says about ten aircraft, that they are very large, and are at high altitude. They cannot make out the type. “
“I can,” said Vega, and grabbed a pair of binoculars. Opening the bunker’s door, he stood in the opening and scanned the sky. Suarez and the rest of his staff held looks
of puzzlement or confusion. What were the Americans doing now?
Vega knew, or thought he did. He had been an observer in Vietnam. He was looking up, but raised the glasses still more. There. The aircraft were almost too high to be seen, but even at that altitude, the long, thin wings and fuselages were unmistakable.
The instant of recognition galvanized him. Spinning and slamming the door, he said, “American B-52 bombers. Grab something and hold on.”
Setting an example, he tucked the binoculars in the space between the desk and the wall, then sat down, bracing himself. His staff quickly followed his example.
Inside the bunker, they couldn’t hear the high-altitude jets. The first sound they heard was the bombs landing.
Four cells of three 13,52Gs had been launched from Diego Garcia five hours before. The order to launch had actually come before nightfall,
South African time, but it had taken time to fuel the eight-engine monsters and load each plane with fifty-one 750-pound bombs.
The bombers came over in level flight and tight formation. A squadron of
F/A-18s provided close escort, and one of F14s ranged farther out. After three squadrons of attack aircraft had pounded the ground defenses, no real opposition was expected from them, either.
The bomber laid a perfect, tight pattern on top of Warrnbad.
The sound of the explosions swelled quickly, so quickly that it was overhead before they could measure its approach.
What had been a distant rumbling became a nearby thunderstorm and then a cascade of explosions that Vega thought would tear the bunker open. The sound grew still more, into a nauseating concussion that threw him away from the wall, and finally to a single, continuous, deafening roar.
At first, the inside of the command bunker filled with airborne dust, all of it created by the vibrations from the bombs dropping outside. Loose gear started to rattle and fall over, but the men inside hung on as they looked at the ceiling and hoped it would hold.
In seconds, the crescendo of sound and vibration rendered thought impossible, and those unable to hold on literally flew across the room, slamming into anything in their way.
Vega was literally bounced out of his corner, and he collided with the switchboard operator, who either from duty or confusion had stayed seated at his panel. Now the equipment lay in a jumble of wires, and only the cabling that attached it to the wall kept it from flying around as well.
The lights went out, and Vega could hear yells and thuds as people and equipment collided in a room that seemed more and more mobile. For one moment, he thought the entire bunker had somehow become detached and was tumbling end over end, but he knew that the concrete-block walls could never survive that.
In the confusion of the tumbling men and darkness, Vega hardly noticed that the explosions had stopped. Coughing in the murky, dust-choked air, he fumbled to stand upright. Succeeding, he bumped his head on the ceiling.
Crouching as he rubbed the sore spot on his skull, the general remembered being able to stand upright in the bunker.
They had to get out, and quickly. Where was the door? The dust was so thick that it was impossible even to see the walls, but in the darkness, Vega could see a glow and stumbled toward it.
The wooden door was off its hinges, broken, then crushed when the frame surrounding it buckled. A concealing pile of lumber had been blown clear, and the general climbed up the ramp and out into the open.
The air outside was only a little better than that inside. Trying to breathe, he almost choked and bent over in a spasm of coughing.
It had to be a little clearer, though, since he could see some distance, almost a hundred meters. The town looked fairly intact, and he had begun to have some hope before he turned around and looked over where the 25the battalion should have been located.
Vega’s bunker was on the outskirts of Warmbad, on the northern side. He had deployed his battalions in a circle
around the town, each of the four occupying a ninety-degree sector. Dug in on the flat, treeless landscape,
