Tejeda’s office faced an arc-lit inner courtyard-a safe haven should any of the many Angolans who loathed their country’s nominal protectors decide to turn sniper. The ambassador was now fully and formally dressed, but he looked much worse, plainly a man deprived of needed sleep and having had a very full day.
Tejeda glanced up from the message flimsy he’d been studying carefully.
“We have new orders, General.” His tone was portentous, almost comical, but Vega knew he was serious. The ambassador never joked about orders from Havana. It wasn’t healthy.
Vega took the message from him. It wasn’t long. The important ones never were.
“Cuba has pledged its internationalist support of the Namibian people against South Africa’s imperialist aggression. Under an agreement reached this afternoon with the Swapo government, this will include the deployment of military units in combat operations against Pretoria’s racist invaders.”
Tejeda nodded.
“Radio Havana will broadcast that—he looked at his watch—in about half an hour. I have direct orders for you as well.
Orders from the Defense Ministry.
Another telex message. Longer this time.
“Gen. Antonio Vega’s area of responsibility is expanded to include
Namibia. Use existing forces and reinforcements
(see attached) to assist the Swapo government in defeating South Africa’s invasion force.”
A list of units and estimated arrival times followed. Vega felt lightheaded. Fighters, armor, the best infantry units Fidel was evidently prepared to send the cream of the Cuban armed forces into combat against
South Africa!
But there were problems. He looked up, meeting Tejeda’s watchful gaze.
“Comrade Ambassador, have the Russians agreed to support this?” Vega had to force the question out through clenched teeth. Just asking it seemed to reinforce Cuba’s dependence on an increasingly untrustworthy patron.
The Cuban Army’s presence in Angola was possible only because Soviet cargo planes and ships kept it in supply and up to strength. Cuba itself had only a few ships and a scattering of light transport aircraft. Not enough to support a sizable force outside the island’s own shores. So none of
Castro’s extravagant promises to the Namibian government could be met without extensive Soviet backing. Vega had few illusions left about
Moscow’s continued devotion to its socialist brothers overseas.
Tejeda smiled thinly. He shared the general’s disdain for the USSR’s fair-weather communists.
“Surprising though it may seem, Comrade General,
Moscow’s response to our requests have been very positive. Defense Minister
Petrov himself telephoned Fidel to say that four merchant ships and twenty
Ilyushin cargo aircraft will be transferred to our control. Also, advanced
MiGs are being flown from Russia for use by our pilots. They’re scheduled to arrive within twenty four hours.”
Incredible. It was a generous offer, especially the fighter flights. Cuba’s own MiGs didn’t have the range to fly clear across the Atlantic, and just crating them for seaborne passage would have added a week to the time needed to get them into combat over Namibia.
A generous offer, indeed. And that was strange.
Of late, the Soviet Union’s support for Castro’s African policies had been lukewarm at best. As it foundered in a sea of internal political and economic troubles, the Kremlin had even begun grumbling about the above-market prices it paid for Cuba’s sugar crop. Prices that kept Cuba’s own failing economy afloat.
So what was the catch?
“Just what does Moscow expect in return?”
“Nothing, at least for now.” Tejeda shrugged.
“Apparently they see certain benefits in helping us help the Namibians. As the Americans would say, opposing South Africa is now good PR. “
“They can afford it. But can we?” Vega countered. Angola paid Cuba in hard cash for every Cuban soldier inside its borders. That money, most of it ironically coming from an American-owned oil refinery, would have been missed after the slated withdrawal from Angola. Cuba was a poor country.
For years, the Americans, the IMF, and everyone outside the shrinking communist world had been trying to starve Cuba’s economy into ruin, with marked success. The nation desperately needed foreign exchange. Given that, Vega wasn’t sure his country could bear the cost of a full-fledged war.
Tejeda frowned. Vega’s question wasn’t just defeatist, it could even be interpreted as a criticism of Havana’s decisions. And that wasn’t like the general at all.
“Surely that isn’t your concern, Comrade General, The
Foreign Ministry assures me that they are already negotiating the needed agreements with Windhoek. Finances will not be a problem.”
“Fine,” Vega said, “you broker the deal for Namibian diamonds. Just don’t tell me the money’s run out once I’ve committed my forces.”
Tejeda turned bright red.
“General, please. Fidel has already pledged
Cuba’s support for Namibian independence. A pledge that we will carry out even if we have to impoverish ourselves. “
Vega looked skeptical. Fidel Castro was a committed revolutionary, but not a madman. Cuba already stood on the brink of poverty. Revolutionary fervor wasn’t an adequate substitute for a steady and expensive stream of munitions, food, and fuel.
The ambassador hurried on.
“Besides, there are important geopolitical considerations at stake here. Considerations that cannot be ignored. We have always tried to lead third-world opinion. Fighting, actually risking
Cuban lives to save one of those third-world states, will help our image abroad. The next time a Western nation looks at us, they will have to see us as we really are. The Washington-controlled embargo will weaken, at least. It may even break.”
He smiled.
“Don’t worry, Comrade. We have much to gain by winning in
Namibia. You will have every resource you need.”
Vega nodded, somewhat reassured. Havana wasn’t ignoring the real world.
Good.
The treaty-mandated withdrawal from Angola had seemed likely to end
Castro’s influence on the continent. One more communist retrenchment in an era already filled with surrender. Leaving Luanda would also have meant abandoning a valuable source of hard currency for Cuba’s hardpressed economy.
His own reasons for intervening in Namibia were less complicated. Vega wanted to hurt South Africa, to wreck its plans. He and his troops had fought Pretoria’s expeditionary forces and Angola-based Unita stooges for years. Each encounter had carried its own grisly price tag in dead and wounded comrades, and none had been decisive. The war in Angola had been a series of pointless battles with no final objective.
Worn-out by years of fruitless skirmishing, Vega had been ready to return home-home to bask in Cuba’s warm Caribbean sun. South Africa’s invasion of
Namibia offered him a chance for a decisive, stand-up fight.
He was ready. Cuba had been fighting in Angola since 1975, so he had a pool of experienced officers, combat veterans who knew how to fight and who knew the conditions in southern Africa.
Vega also knew the risks the South Africans were taking in their drive to seize Namibia quickly. Risks Pretoria’s commanders were willing to take because they didn’t expect to meet competent military opposition. Risks he intended to make them regret.
UMKHONTC) WE SIZWE HEADQUARTERS, LUSAKA,
ZAMBIA
Col. Sese Luthuli fielded yet another frantic phone call. A panicked voice in the receiver said, “This is Jonas. ” At least he had enough sense to use his code name, Luthuli thought.
“I’ve gotten reports from all of my cells. The South Africans are moving in numbers, Colonel! The Gajab River camp has been overrun!”