strategic situation shown on his map.
Colored-pencil notations showed the last reported positions of all known
South African and Namibian units.
In a nonstop drive since crossing the frontier, Kruger and his men had steamrollered their way west to Grunau. Up a winding pass climbing through the Great Karas Mountains, then north toward the paratroop-held airhead at
Keetmanshoop. More than 280 kilometers in just thirty-six hours. Resistance had been light-almost nonexistent, in fact. Only a few easily crushed pockets such as the police post in this village. The column advancing from
Walvis Bay reported similar progress.
Good. But not good enough. Kruger folded the map with abrupt, decisive strokes and handed it to a waiting staff officer, a babyfaced lieutenant.
They were already eight hours behind schedule-at least according to the wildly optimistic invasion timetables prepared by Pretoria. That shouldn’t have come as a surprise to anyone. Moving long columns of men and equipment over vast distances was always a time-consuming business-even without meeting de ten-nined enemy resistance.
Kruger’s own advance was a case in point. The trucks and APCs carrying his battalion had been on the road continuously for more than a day and a half, pushing north with only scattered five-and ten-minute rest breaks. They were starting to pay a price for that. Exhausted drivers were falling asleep at the wheel or growing increasingly irritable. The result: a rising number of minor traffic accidents and breakdowns, each exacting additional delay. Resupply halts were taking longer too. Tired men took more time to refuel and re ann the it vehicles.
Something would have to be done about that.
With the young lieutenant trailing behind, he moved around to the armored side door of his squat, metal- hulled Ratel command APC. Up and down the length of the long column, other vehicle commanders were already gunning their overworked engines to life. Blue-gray exhaust billowed into the hazy air.
His mind was made up. Once the battalion reached the paratroops at
Keetmanshoop, it would have to halt for at least six hours to rest and recover. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t see any other realistic alternative. Not that that would leave him with a combat-ready unit. Still, every hour of added delay gave the Namibian Army more time to pull itself together. Plus there were rumors that the Cubans had promised their assistance.
Kruger frowned. That was a disquieting possibility. He respected the
Cubans. They were communists, it was true, but they made tough soldiers nonetheless.
He swung himself back inside the command vehicle’s cramped interior.
Moments later, the column of camouflaged APCs, trucks, and armored cars trundled north again, driving hard for Keetmanshoop and some promised sleep. The shattered village continued to burn behind them.
AUGUST 20-PANTHER FLIGHT, OVER WINDHOEK
Lt. Andreis Stegman always enjoyed flying, every second he was in the air.
And why shouldn’t he? He was one of the best pilots in the South African Air
Force. He had to be, because he’d been assigned to fly one of the SAAF’s thirty Mirage F. I CZ jet interceptors-the most advanced fighter in South
Africa’s inventory.
The Mirage was a beautiful plane, fast and maneuverable. Its South
African-built air-to-air missiles might not be the most modern in the world, but Stegman knew he could hold his own against any likely opponent.
Stegman and his wingman, Lt. Klaus de Vert, were on fighter patrol over
Windhoek. Their ability to loiter right over Namibia’s capital without any sign of opposition confirmed South Africa’s complete air superiority.
Namibia’s pathetic fleet of antiquated propeller-driven planes had been destroyed
on the first day-strafed on the ground or shot out of the sky with contemptuous ease.
The two swept-wing Mirages circled slowly at eleven thousand meters, orbiting over a light scud of clouds four thousand meters below. At this altitude, there wasn’t a hint of turbulence and the sky overhead was a bright pale blue. Except where drifting white patches of cloud blocked his view, Stegman could see more than three hundred kilometers of southern Africa’s dusty brown surface in every direction.
It wasn’t the most exciting flying, but Stegman loved it all.
He tried to concentrate on the task at hand. They were obviously supposed to attack any enemy aircraft that appeared, but their primary mission involved interdicting Windhoek’s airport. Cargo aircraft trying to take off or land at the field would be sitting ducks for his and de Vert’s high-performance fighters.
Stegman alternated between scanning the sky, checking his radar screen, and running his gaze over the Mirage’s flight instruments in a regular pattern. The pattern had long since become second nature to him. He had over five hundred hours in fighters, and even one kill to his credit.
He smiled cruelly behind his oxygen mask, remembering the frenzied air battle. It had happened over Angola during the SADF’s last major ground operation. They’d been supporting Unita, helping to repel a major Angolan and Cuban offensive against the guerrillas. Stegman, then just a junior lieutenant, had been flying as wingman to Captain de Kloof on a routine fighter sweep over the operational area.
They’d been jumped by two MiG-23 Floggers coming up from low-level with their radars off in a classic bushwhack. By rights de Kloof and he should have been dead. The Russian-built fighters were faster and equipped with radar-guided missiles. But Stegman had learned that day which is more important-a plane or its pilot.
In a vicious, swirling dogfight, de Kloof had closed the range and maneuvered into the MiGs’ rear cone. From there, two quick missile launches gave Stegman and him a kill apiece. It was a good memory and a valuable lesson. There’d been rumors that Cubans were piloting Angolan aircraft, but whoever had been flying, they hadn’t been able to match South African skill.
The victory had given Stegman his current status as a flight leader. And
Major de Kloof was now his squadron commander.
Stegman broke his scanning pattern to check his fuel level. They were about six hundred kilometers from base, and fighters drink fuel quickly, especially in combat. The same gas could keep him aloft for an hour on patrol, but only about three minutes in combat.
Good. They’d only used up about half their patrol time and still had a healthy reserve.
Suddenly, his radar warning receiver sounded, emitting a pulsed buzzing noise. Stegman stabbed a button that silenced the alarm and glanced at the bearing strobe on the dial. It showed a narrow fan of lines off to the northwest. Each line represented the bearing to an aircraft fire-control radar whose pulses were being picked up by sensors on the
Mirage’s fins.
“Klaus, bandits at three two zero!”
Stegman heard de Vert’s mike click twice in acknowledgment as he turned toward the incoming enemy planes. Stegman knew that his wingman was already maneuvering one hundred meters below to form line abreast with a half-mile spacing, all without any verbal order or discussion. In air combat, there wasn’t time for lengthy consideration or long orders.
Anything over one short sentence was long.
Every flight leader and his wingman spent long hours beforehand, working out a mutually agreeable set of air-to-air tactics and maneuvers. The Air
Force recommended certain general procedures and tactics, but any realistic agreement also had to measure the skill levels and personal fighting styles of the two pilots flying together. Their agreement, hammered out over many days and sorties, described exactly what each pilot would do in dozens of situations, automatically and without exception. A pilot would risk death rather than use an undiscussed maneuver, because to do so meant risking his wingman’s life instead.
Stegman’s own radar screen was blank, so the enemy
planes were at least thirty kilometers out. The Mirage’s French-designed
Cyrano IV radar could see larger aircraft at fifty klicks, but cargo aircraft didn’t carry fire-control radars. These
