South Africa’s spearhead had ground to a complete and unexpected halt.
Commandant Henrik Kruger jumped down off the Ratel before it had even stopped moving and jogged toward the small group of dust-streaked officers clustered around a Rooikat armored fighting vehicle. A map case and canteen slung from his shoulder clattered as he ran. A young lieutenant followed him.
Maj. Daan Visser saw them coming and snapped to attention, an action swiftly imitated by his subordinates. All showed signs of increasing wear and tear. Visser’s bloodshot eyes were surrounded by dark rings, and sweat, oil, and grease stains further complicated the camouflage pattern on his battle dress. Five days of nonstop driving punctuated by several short, sharp, and bloody skirmishes had left their mark.
“What’s the holdup here, Daan?” Kruger didn’t intend to waste precious time exchanging meaningless pleasantries. His battalion was nearly a full day behind schedule, and the fact that the schedule was ludicrous did nothing to soften the complaints coming forward from Pretoria.
“My boys and I ran into some real bastards just beyond that ridge. ” The major gestured to the north, his words clipped by a mixture of fatigue and excitement.
“Caught us coming out of the cut.”
Kruger raised his glasses to study the spot. The paved two lane road crossed an east-west ridge there, and its builders had cut a path through the higher ground. The result was a narrow passage barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. The kommandant was certain that every antitank weapon the enemy possessed was pointed at the other end of that lethal channel. As he examined it, searching for other passes, the major continued to report.
“They were zeroed in on us. We didn’t have room to deploy, so we popped smoke and reversed back here to regroup. “
Kruger nodded, agreeing with Visser’s decision. The defile was a potential death trap for any troops or vehicles trying to force their way through against determined opposition.
“Any casualties?”
Visser shook his head.
“None, thank God. But it was damned close.” He pointed to a thin wire draped over the Rooikat’s turret and chassis.
“Some kaffir swine nearly blew me to kingdom come with a fucking Sagger.”
Kruger pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. The Sagger, a wire-guided antitank missile, must have passed just centimeters over the Rooikat’s turret-leaving a length of its control wire as testimony of the near miss.
And Namibian missile teams on the other side of the ridge could mean only one thing: they planned to stop his battalion’s advance right here and right now.
Very well. If the Narnibians wanted to risk a stand-up slugging match, he’d oblige them. The more Swapo troops they killed now, the fewer they’d have to contend with later.
Kruger stared up the steep slope leading to the ridge crest.
“Can you get your vehicles over that?”
Visser nodded.
“No problem, sir. But I’ll need infantry and artillery support to deal with those blery missile teams. “
“You’ll have it.” Kruger snapped open his map case, looking for a chart showing the terrain beyond the ridge. It wasn’t the best place he’d ever seen for a battle. Pockets of dense brush and small trees, ravines, boulder fields, and rugged hills all offered good cover and concealment for a defending force. He didn’t relish making a frontal assault against people holding ground like that, but there wasn’t any realistic alternative-not in the time available. Taking the only other southern route onto the Windhoek plateau would involve backtracking nearly sixty kilometers and then making another approach march over more than three hundred kilometers of mountainous, unpaved road.
Kruger shook his head wearily. He was out of bloodless options. The battalion would simply have to grind its way through the Namibian-held valley beyond Bergland-trusting in superior training, morale, and firepower to produce a victory.
He turned to the young lieutenant at his side.
“Radio all company commanders to meet me here in fifteen minutes.”
Operation Nimrod was about to escalate.
FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, 8TH MOTOR RIFLE BATTALION, CUBAN EXPEDITIONARY
FORCE, NORTH OF BERG LAND
Senior Capt. Victor Mares crouched beneath the tan-and brown camouflage netting rigged to cover his wheeled BTR60 APC. He shook his head slowly from side to side, not wanting to believe what he’d just heard through his earphones. He clicked the transmit button on his radio mike.
“Repeat that please, Comrade Colonel.”
The bland, cultured voice of his battalion commander took on a harder edge.
“You heard me quite well the first time, Captain. You are to hold your current position. No withdrawal is authorized. I repeat, no withdrawal is authorized. Our socialist brothers are depending on us.
Remember that. Out.
The transmission ended in a burst of static.
Mares pulled the earphones off and handed them back to his radioman. Had his colonel gone mad? Did the idiot really expect two companies of infantry, a few antitank missile teams, and a small section of 73mm recoilless antitank guns to hold off the entire oncoming South African column? It was insane.
The lean, clean-shaven Cuban officer ducked under the camouflage netting and moved forward to the edge of the small clump of trees occupied by his command group. Helmeted infantrymen squatting behind rocks or trees glanced nervously in his direction. Most carried AKM assault rifles, but a small number carried RPK light machine guns or clutched RPG-7s.
Fifteen other BTR-60s and infantry squads were scattered in a thin line about three hundred meters closer to the South African-held ridge-concealed where possible in brush, behind boulders, or in shallow ravines. The foot soldiers hadn’t even had time to dig in. Everywhere weak, nowhere strong, the captain thought in disgust.
Mares and his men had been rushed south from Windhoek in time to block the highway above Bergland, but not fast enough to seize the ridge just north of the village. In his judgment, that made the position completely untenable. The ridge blocked his companies’ lines of sight and lines of fire -allowing the South Africans to mass their forces in safety and secrecy. They could attack his overextended line at any point without warning.
And now his politically correct, but combat-wary commander had refused permission to retreat to more defensible positions closer to Windhoek.
All apparently to impress the Narnibians with Cuban courage and determination.
Wonderful. He and his troops were going to be sacrificed to make a political point. Madness, indeed.
“Captain!” A call from farther down the line. With one hand on his helmet to keep it from flying off, Mares dashed over to where one of his junior lieutenants crouched-scanning the ridge through a pair of binoculars.
“I see movement up there, Captain. Men on foot, in those rocks.” The lieutenant pointed.
Mares lifted his own binoculars. Uniformed figures, antlike despite the magnification, came into focus. South African infantry or forward observers deploying into cover. He slapped the lieutenant on the shoulder.
“Good eyes, Miguel. Keep looking.”
The young officer smiled shyly.
Mares rose and raced back to his command vehicle, breathing hard. The
South Africans might have all the advantages in this fight, but he still had a few surprises up his sleeve. A few high-explosive surprises.
The Cuban captain slid to a stop beside the camouflaged BTR-60 and grabbed the radio mike.
“Headquarters, I have a fire mission! HE! Grid coordinates three five four eight nine nine two five!”
B COMPANY, 20TH CAPE RIFLES
High on the ridge overlooking the road to Windhoek, Capt. Robey Riekert squatted behind a large rock, watching as his lead platoon filtered through the boulder field looking for good observation points and clear fields of fire. His senior sergeant and a radioman crouched nearby.