“You understand the importance of this assignment, Franz?”
Diederichs nodded once.
“Yes, Minister.”
Van der Heijden ignored him. In his view, subordinates were, by definition, incapable of fully understanding anything they hadn’t heard at least twice.
“The President’s decision to give this ministry direct control over KwaZulu reflects his personal confidence in our ability to get the job done. Nothing must shake that confidence, understood?”
Diederichs nodded again, carefully concealing his impatience. Both van der Heijden’s mannerisms and his ambitions were well-known to those who worked for him.
“Good.” The deputy minister of law and order laced his fingers across a prominent paunch.
“Then you will also understand my insistence that this ‘insurrection’ —he sniffed
contemptuously, as though that were too significant a term for what was happening in Natal—be smashed as quickly as possible.”
Diederichs leaned forward.
“Will I be able to call on additional police units or troops, Minister?”
Van der Heijden shook his head.
“No. Manpower is too scarce at the moment. Every trained man is needed for service on the Namibian front or to help maintain order in the townships. You must work with what you have. You must use terror, Franz!” He pounded his desk once and pointed a plump finger in Diederichs’s direction.
“Terror must swell your ranks!”
His outstretched finger swiveled and came to rest, aimed now at the portrait of Karl Vorster hung prominently on the far wall.
“The President himself agrees with this precept. In his own words, Brigadier. In his own words! He has said that he wants one hundred dead Zulus as payment for every policeman they have so foully murdered. Ten kraals are to be wiped from the face of the earth for every white farm they dare to attack!
Blood must answer for blood! And fire for fire! Show no mercy toward these traitorous blacks, Franz.” Van der Heijden paused, breathing hard.
“End their cowardly ambushes. Root them out. And then kill them!”
For the first time since entering the room, Diederichs allowed himself a single, short smile.
CHAPTER 12
Storm Warning
SEPTEMBER 7-CNN HEADLINE NEWS
The dramatic images from Namibia occupied center stage during CNN’s hourly news recap. “in a visit designed to show the depth of Cuba’s support for
Namibia, Cuban president Fidel Castro today landed in Walvis Bay on a whirlwind tout of the war zone. ” A smiling, cigar-chomping Castro seemed perfectly at home in a sea of military uniforms. His apparent vigor contradicted persistent rumors of ill health, though the bushy, once-brown beard had gone almost completely gray.
The video image showed Castro, with Vega at his side, touring the captured South African port. Several Cubanflagged merchant ships could be seen behind them hurriedly off-loading tanks, planes, and artillery onto Walvis Bay’s long piers. Antiaircraft units and SAM batteries guarded against South African air attack.
The view shifted to show troops in fortifications outside the town, cheering wildly as Castro and his general appeared.
The footage ended with a close-up shot of a jubilant Fidel Castro pumping his clenched fist in the air in triumph.
Castro’s elated image vanished and CNN’s hightech Atlanta studio reappeared.
“In other news from overseas, India’s foreign minister again insisted that Pakistan abandon its covert support for… “
FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY
FORCE, THE STRAND HOTEL, SWAKOPMUND, NAMIBIA
Night had fallen across the Namibian coast.
Thirty kilometers north of Walvis Bay’s ship-choked anchorage, high-ranking Cuban officers again filled the Strand Hotel’s formal dining room. Candlelight gleamed off polished silverware, fine crystal, and shoulder boards crowded with stars. Black waiters and busboys moved from table to table, for once plainly happy in their work. The Strand’s white managers and wine stewards were not happy. They clustered near the kitchen entrance, sour faced and carefully supervised by armed guards.
Outside, the Atlantic surf boomed, sending the hissing, foam-flecked remnants of waves surging onto Swakopmund’s sandy beaches. The infantry squads dug in above the high water mark were all alert-their machine guns, mortars, and other heavy weapons manned and ready. Searchlights mounted on T-62 tanks parked hull-down among the dunes probed out to sea, stabbing through the darkness at precise, timed intervals.
Inside, the assembled officers ate, gossiped, toasted one another, and covertly eyed the two men who sat alone at the head table.
Gen. Antonio Vega toyed with his pastry dish, conscious that Cuba’s president and absolute ruler ate with lip-smacking gusto beside him. He frowned slightly at the sugary and fruit filled concoction. He’d always preferred plainer fare, soldier’s fare-rice and beans, sometimes mixed with a little beef or chicken. Food that satisfied hunger without leaving one lolling about in an overfed stupor. The kind of food you could get in
Cuba-at home.
His leader’s tastes were quite different, and Vega knew better than to try imposing his own culinary views on Fidel Castro. Particularly not when he was about to urge that communist Cuba undertake one of the largest political, military, and strategic gambles in its short history.
Vega sipped his wine, studying the crowded dining room over the rim of his glass. It was an astonishing sight. There were probably more senior
Cuban military men concentrated here in this tiny hotel on Africa’s most desolate coast than there were left in all of Havana.
So many men in fact that the Strand Hotel had been hardpressed to accommodate them all. Vega had gladly turned his quarters over to Castro, but their two staffs had engaged in a very careful assessment of relative ranks before the remaining rooms could be assigned. In the end, several of Swakopmund’s wealthiest burghers had been turned out of their homes to make room for some of the junior officers.
This evening’s dinner had been served in shifts, with the lowest-ranking officers and staff members eating quickly and early, so that the two principals and their higher aides could eat at a fashionable hour, before moving on to the important business at hand.
Important business, indeed, Vega thought, keeping a tight rein on his expression. Castro and his entourage must see only the outer man-calm, cool, collected, and thoroughly professional. The storm of mingled emotions-excitement, nervousness, and joy-that ebbed and flowed inside him had to stay hidden. Marxist-Leninism was a scientific faith, and its true believers were supposed to remain unswayed by sentiment, personal ambition, or petty hatreds.
“Excellent, Antonio. A fitting conclusion to a glorious day.” Castro pushed his empty plate aside and absentmindedly combed his fingers through his beard, brushing away small crumbs and flakes of pastry crust.
Vega lowered the wineglass and inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment.
Castro bent his own head for a moment, puffing one of his trademark cigars alight. Then he looked up, shrewd eyes fixed on Vega’s face.
“You may begin the briefing, General. Medals and propaganda films have their own time and place, but now we must contemplate the next steps in this war. And as the saying goes, the wise man makes sure his shoes are tied before setting out on any journey. “
Vega smiled. As always, Castro knew how to get to the heart of the matter.
Vega nodded to one of his hovering staff officers, who in turn motioned to the cadre of young lieutenants stationed at the door.
Instantly, they spread through the room-shepherding the waiters and other hotel workers outside. The low buzz of conversation from the other tables died away as several more junior officers brought in a large, cloth-covered easel.