Vortex

The colonel’s English was accented but clear. He had been carefully chosen for this task. Smiling, he said, “Certainly Cuba is a small country. We have little to spend but our soldiers’ blood, and much of this would be impossible without fraternal assistance. We are receiving help from many of our socialist allies. Naturally, I cannot speak for the depth of any one country’s support. Any participation in this struggle for freedom is honorable, no matter how large or how small.”

The Cuban officer’s smile grew slightly less sincere.

“We would even welcome assistance from the West’s socalled democracies. South Africa’s aggression is a matter that should cross all ideological boundaries.”

The reporter hid a grimace. Political doublespeak made poor television.

He persisted.

“But what are your country’s long-range intentions in

Namibia? What do you hope to gain from your involvement in this war?”

Farrales puffed up his beribboned chest.

“Cuba’s My goal is to drive the

South Africans from Namibia and to secure its sovereignty for the future.

All our efforts, both diplomatic and military, are designed to achieve this result. That is why our forces are converging here, at Windhoek, to repel the completely unjustified attack made by Pretoria’s racist forces. Cuba is only fulfilling her internationalist duty.”

The Frenchman nodded. He could recognize a closing statement when he heard one. Fine. They wouldn’t get much useful play out of the colonel’s pompous rhetoric, but at least they’d be able to sell some good, dramatic pictures of Cuba’s massive airlift. He stepped back and made a cutting motion across his throat, signaling his cameraman to stop shooting.

“Thank you, Colonel.

You’ve been most helpful.”

Farrales took the Frenchman’s offered hand, shook it, and walked away-glad to have escaped so easily. Western journalists were usually irritatingly cynical and uncooperative. In any event, the reporter and his crew would be on an airplane bound for Luanda inside the hour. From there, their story would be edited and transmitted around the world-pouring visual evidence of

Cuba’s power and resolve into the homes of tens of millions.

Gen. Antonio Vega’s temporary headquarters occupied one wing of the small airport terminal, and Farrales made haste to report. After being passed through by the general’s aide and radio operator, the colonel knocked twice on a wooden door and entered without waiting.

Vega sat at a camp desk, surrounded by maps, books, and pieces of paper.

His uniform coat hung from a hook with his tie draped over it. Wearing a rarely seen pair of glasses, he worked steadily, punching in numbers on a

German-manufactured pocket calculator.

Farrales saluted.

“Report, Colonel.” Vega’s tone was impatient, and he did not look up from his work.

“Were you successful?”

“Yes, Comrade General. I included the information we wanted to make known and rubbed their noses in the West’s cowardice as well.”

Vega glanced at him, smiling now.

“Good. Very good.” He turned back to his work, still speaking.

“Since this interview went so well, Colonel Farrales, see how many others

you can set up. As long as the Western media is singing our song, let’s help them sing it. It’s nice to have them on our side for a change.”

Vega finished his calculations and made a series of rapid notations on one of the maps. Then he stood up, stretched, and started to clear the camp desk.

“Now, get my aide in here. I want to be on the next plane to

Karibib. “

Forty minutes later, the Frenchman and his film crew boarded an Angolan

TAAG airlines An-26, a Russian-built transport aircraft that was also used as a civil airliner. No amount of bright paint could hide its military origins. The rear loading ramp was 4 dead giveaway, as were the seats that folded up against the cabin sides.

As the An-26 took off and climbed high above the barren Namibian landscape, its pilot turned a little farther to the east than normal.

This ensured that the plane passed well out of sight of the small town of Karibib-140 kilometers northwest of Windhoek, as the transport flies.

It was 180 kilometers by what passed for a road.

Gen. Antonio Vega’s plane, a Cuban Air Force An-26 in a drab sand-and-green paint scheme, followed ten minutes behind-closely escorted by two MiG-29s. But instead of continuing north toward Luanda, the large twin turboprop slid west-on course for Karibib.

KARIBIB AIRHEAD, NAMIBIA

Twenty minutes out of Windhoek, Vega’s An-26 orbited, circling low over

Karibib’s single, unpaved runway. The traffic pattern over the small airstrip was jammed with military aircraft of all sizes and types.

For once, Vega had refused the privileges associated with his rank, content to wait his turn in the landing pattern. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with this operation especially not meaningless and time-wasting ceremony.

As the plane circled, he watched the frantic loading and unloading process going on below him. Huge 11-76, smaller