“If you don’t have any comments, I’m going to turn that over to our military lawyers and let them draw it up.”
Hurley’s eyebrows raised, Craig hoped approvingly. Good intentions were all well and good, but this was the test. Could they work together, and who really was the boss in the political sphere?
Hurley was reading, half to himself, half aloud.
“Legalization of all political parties except any advocating racial superiority. Removal of all AWB members from any public office. Release of any prisoner held for political crimes only. Freedom of the press. Labor unions. Integrating the armed forces. Prison reform.”
Craig was following the list in his mind, and Hurley paused for a moment.
“You don’t mess around, General.”
“Call me Jerry, Ed. I might as well tell you. I move fast, and I view these as just preliminary steps. It buys us time with the black opposition groups, and the white conservatives can blame us, instead of the new government, for those moves. “
Hurley smiled admiringly.
“Jerry, I foresee a brilliant future for you in politics,” He then returned to the list.
The last item was guaranteed to be a shocker.
“Total replacement of the police force?” Hurley’s voice was hard to read, but Craig knew it deserved some explanation.
“The civil war’s shattered their organization. They’d have to overcome their own mutual distrust as well as the distrust of the black population. After some of Vorster’s excesses, even the whites don’t trust the police.
“I’m bringing in every Military Police unit we and the British can find.
I’ve already got my civil affairs people in place. We can do the job until the new constabulary is formed. That’s not a problem.”
Craig leaned forward, pressing his point home.
“I want the South
Africans, black and white and in between, to think like we do: if you get in trouble, you call a cop. That’s the last thing a black does. We’ll have new personnel, new uniforms, and a new set of rules.”
“Okay, Jerry, I see your point and agree. But what rules will they enforce?”
“That’s the hard part.”
JANUARY 21ON NATIONAL ROUTE 1
Nxumalu Mchwenge was a Xhosa, He was also an ex-member of the ANC, the
South African Defense Forces, where he had been a spy, and of Vega’s army.
Mchwenge had gladly acted as a scout for the Cubans. They had promised to drive
the Boers out, to bring about the socialist paradise that he had always dreamed of.
Then had come Potgietersrus. Thousands of black civilians had been gassed, shocking all of the native Africans working with the Cubans. A delegation sent to Vega’s chief of staff had been turned away, and two men who had protested more vigorously had been arrested, never to be seen again.
So Mchwenge had acquired another enemy. They had fled the Cuban column and joined the army opposing them. His army had no name, but with others, they had bombed and raided the Cuban liberators-tumedinvaders. Sometimes, they had even worked with white farmers to attack the Cuban soldiers, but that had been an exception, not the rule.
The war was over between the Cubans and the Boers now, but they were still his enemies. The Americans and British were probably his enemies as well, even though they had ended the war. Mchwenge had decided that he had a very short list of allies.
Now Mchwenge lay in a small rock pile fifty meters from the highway. The small, stocky black was used to the heat and discomfort, especially on a mission such as this. He had been tracking the retreating Cuban column for days, watching and thinking. Finally he had picked his spot.
Preparing carefully, he had quietly lain since before dawn, easily evading the patrols that covered the highway. Now he clutched the controller and waited.
Headquarters was the back of a truck. Its canvas cover provided protection from the summer sun, and its bed was more than ample for the few functions Vega’s staff still had to perform.
Gen. Antonio Vega, Liberator of Walvis Bay, sat easily on a camp stool in the moving truck, reading a summary of the previous day’s casualties.
The truck was moving slowly, out of deference to the thousand-plus men who still had no transport.
Facing to the open rear, he looked out and saw the entire column laid out behind him. Vega’s truck was first, not only to avoid the dust but to make him easy to find. Even with the lead position, the dust and the heat had become more than irritating, almost intolerable.
Twin lines of men filled the road, with trucks interspersed among them carrying the column’s wounded, as well as its food, water, and other supplies. There were nowhere near enough trucks to carry all the men.
Virtually all of Vega’s own transport had been destroyed on that terrible morning. These were supply vehicles that had been en route from the north, their original cargoes dumped or consumed.
His men were suffering in the heat. A week on the road had weeded out the weak or infirm, but even the strong were tested by the midday sun and the dust. There was nothing to do but march, though.
The enemy had stopped molesting his supply line and had virtually given over National Route I for his exclusive use, as long as he marched north.
A company of American and British military police preceded him, clearing the road and making sure none of the Cubans strayed. A similar unit followed, picking up any stragglers. They had also picked up more than a few deserters” defectors in Western idiom.
It angered him that all the men under his command did not share his desire to return to Cuba. Even with Castro’s wrath to look forward to, the general’s only impulse was to get home. So far, his demands for the deserters’ return had been ignored. Of course, it’s easy to ignore a beaten general.
His leg still hurt, his clothes were filthy, and he ached in a hundred places. The rigors of life in the field seemed to be no different from before, but now there was no purpose to them, nothing else to occupy his mind.
Nothing except the casualty list, he thought, returning to the paper. No deaths, he was grateful to see, but more casualties to heatstroke, foot-related injuries, and two men who were hit by a truck.
They would last, though. Without any enemy assistance, he would march his forces out of South Africa and onto the airplanes in Zimbabwe. The
Americans and British had prohibited any landings by Soviet aircraft or personnel in South
Africa, and no amount of paint would ever convince them that the Cuban Air
Force had suddenly acquired 11-76 cargo planes.
More trucks would arrive over the next few days. Once his entire column was mounted, they would move ten times as fast. He allowed himself a faint anticipation. Even with delays, General Vega knew he would be home in a week.
Mchwenge felt the column’s approach in the ground beneath him, then saw the dust plume. Finally, almost an hour after the first warning of its approach, the column’s head appeared on the horizon.
They were slow, walking at the pace of an infantryman’s tired stride. The same slowness that had made it easy to pace and scout the Cubans now maddened him, filling him with impatience.
The Xhosa picked up the controller, then put it down, then picked it up again, checking the settings on its simple controls. He put it down again, almost throwing it, and fought the urge to pick it up again and check for damage.
The rock pile was waist high and had been altered slightly by Mchwenge to provide overhead concealment, as well as shade. Gaps at various points allowed him to peer out, and his comrades, checking the day before, had assured him that he was invisible from more than a meter away.
Mchwenge lay in the dark heat and waited, watching the steady progress of the column. His original plan had been to sneak looks occasionally, remaining completely concealed to minimize the risk of detection.
When the trucks had actually appeared, though, he had found it impossible to tear his eyes away, as if from half a mile’s distance they could suddenly zoom past the spot before he could react.
So he had watched through the gaps and waited, and finally, after half a morning of waiting, he reached for
