So went the theory, anyway. Right now, the Third Brigade Tactical Group lay camped on an and plateau, rising in elevation to the north. Covered with low scrub and tufts of grass, the ground was dust dry. The rocky soil complicated digging in, but at least their foxholes weren’t muddy.
Supply and maintenance units also sheltered inside these company laagers, ensuring that the entire brigade was protected by an armed and armored fence.
The brigade’s surface-to-air missile batteries and antiaircraft guns were scattered throughout the battalion encampments. And while the rest of the
Third Brigade Tactical Group caught a few hours of desperately needed sleep, several SAM radar operators rubbed red eyes and stared at their scopes. Nighttime air raids had become a part of life, and they were sure they’d be hit before dawn.
JERICHO FLIGHT, SOUTHWEST OF PRETORIA
Four Mirage aircraft flew west at one thousand meters over the darkened
South African countryside, heading straight for Cuba’s Third Brigade
Tactical Group. Capt. Jon Heersfeld piloted the lead plane. He was nervous, almost to the point of distraction.
Well, he thought, who wouldn’t be on a mission such as this?
Heersfeld was a professional. He’d flown combat missions over Angola during the long, undeclared war there. In recent months, he’d seen more combat in the skies over Namibia. And in just the past week, he’d flown a dozen-plus sorties against the Cuban forces invading the Transvaal. In short, he knew his business as well as any attack pilot in the Air Force.
Which was probably why he had been picked for this mission. But did the
Air Force higher-ups have to make such a production out of it? First he’d been pulled off combat operations without any explanation and ordered to sleep. Then the wing commander himself issued the attack order, leaving his poor squadron commander standing there like a fifth wheel.
And the briefing! My God, every major, commandant, and colonel on the base, along with the de Wet himself, had wormed his way into the auditorium. Didn’t the brass have any work to do?
Heersfeld scowled. It was a good thing they were flying immediately, because any chance of secrecy was shot.
Even his preflight had been bizarre. The tired old Mirage, which he’d sometimes been forced to fly with only basic flight instruments working, had been groomed and tweaked and even cleaned until it gleamed.
Technicians had spent most of the day installing special weapons control equipment in its cockpit,
His squadron commander, the maintenance officer, and one of the government’s brown shirted fanatics had all accompanied him as he circled the aircraft, looking for the smallest fault. There hadn’t been any, thank God.
He’d inspected the weapon itself, of course, not that looking at it told him much. It hung from the Mirage’s centerline hardpoint, under the fuselage. One drop tank hung under each wing, and the plane carried two
Kukri heat-seekers-one on each wingtip. The missiles were there almost out of habit. Considering the heavy fighter escort assigned to this mission, he shouldn’t need them. Still, they didn’t weigh much, and his wingtip rails couldn’t carry anything else. Besides, Heersfeld hated to fly naked. He’d already downed one Cuban MiG-23 during an attack mission.
The weapon was shaped like a standard low-drag bomb, a little bigger than most, but no heavier. Its surface was simply polished aluminum or steel, with a few small black patches near the nose and tail. It was totally unremarkable, and Heersfeld had been forced to depend on the technicians to tell him it was ready to go.
His wingman’s Mirage had received a similar going-over and had also been pronounced mission-ready. Mulder’s plane carried a second bomb as a backup in case he was shot down or forced to abort.
Heersfeld had almost expected a band to serenade him as he climbed in the cockpit, but instead the majors, commandants, colonels, and the general had just watched as he strapped himself in, connected the leads, and started the Mirage’s Atar engine.
Takeoff had been clean, and he’d hoped that once away from the confusion at the airfield, he could treat this as just another mission.
He’d been wrong.
The nature of his payload preyed on his mind. Nobody had asked his opinion on whether or not this kind of weapon should be used, or where.
The fact that it was being dropped inside South African territory had raised more than a few eyebrows at the briefing. Still, the nearest inhabited town was more than ten kilometers away from his aim point-and upwind.
Heersfeld shook his head and checked his instruments. Militarily, South
Africa really didn’t have much choice. His squadron alone had lost a third of its planes and pilots, without doing much more than slowing the enemy advance. Rumor said the ground-pounders were being hammered even worse.
So what was left to his people? How would they explain building such weapons and then losing a war because they were too frightened to use them? No, South Africa must use all its weapons, all its strength, in this conflict. Too much was at stake for anything less.
Heersfeld scanned the air behind and beside him again. There, outlined against the star-studded night sky, he could just make out the shape of a Mirage Fl.CZ fighter, this one armed purely with missiles. Another fighter escorted Mulder’s aircraft, a few hundred meters in trail.
The fighters were ready to protect his valuable plane from any air attack, although none was expected. So far, the Cuban Air Force hadn’t shown much taste for night intercepts. Heavy air attacks and fighter sweeps were being launched farther north-all designed to draw off any enemy aircraft capable of attacking them.
Other South African planes had already played a vital role in this attack.
Two precious reconnaissance aircraft from South Africa’s diminishim, fleet had overflown their target earlier in the evening, so pre strike data was good, for a change. And good data allowed the mission planners to calculate both the weapon’s aim point and its release point with special care.
Heersfeld checked his kneeboard once more. There were few landmarks in this part of the country, and fewer still that were visible at night.
Watching the map, he could only steer as well as his aircraft’s
antiquated avionics allowed. No inertial trackers, no moving map displays in this beauty. The arms embargo by the West hadn’t been entirely without effect.
Ten minutes to target. Heersfeld was flying down Route 47, using the road as his compass. He glanced down and saw a pattern of parallel lights leading west. Although the small town of Ventersdorp was normally blacked out against Cuban air attack, security forces there had turned on the streetlights along the main highway to help him verify his position.
He clicked a switch on his microphone.
“Springbok, this is Jericho Lead.
Over initial point.”
Heersfeld tapped a button on his control stick, jettisoning the two now-empty drop tanks. Two heavy clunks, one right after the other, confirmed that the fuel tanks were gone spinning down toward the ground below. Then, after aligning his Mirage carefully on the correct compass heading, he advanced his throttle to maximum. The aircraft kicked forward, accelerating smoothly through calm air.
Two clicks in his earphones told him that Mulder and his escort were turning away, starting a series of long, lazy circles. They wouldn’t come any closer to the target unless something happened to him. And right now the air raid sirens in Ventersdorp and every other town for fifty kilometers around were supposed to be going off-warning civilians to get down and stay down.