Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  Sara had submitted her resignation as a full-time Air Force Reserve technician the day before. She was two months pregnant and glowing with good health. Pontowski had tried to convince her to stay on as a regular reservist since he still needed an executive officer when the 442nd held its monthly unit training assembly. But common sense told her that becoming a mother again at forty-two years of age was a full-time job.

  ‘We’ll still be neighbors,’ she reminded him.

  Pontowski smiled at her. ‘I’ll settle for that.’ Having the Leonards as his next-door neighbors had solved many of his problems as a single parent. Martha Marshall, Sara’s mother, was his live-in nanny and Melissa, Sara’s thirteen-year-old daughter from her first marriage, was a ready-made baby sitter for Little Matt. In fact, Little Matt was becoming more and more of a fixture in the Leonard household. That worried Pontowski because he wanted to make a home for his son. A knock at the door announced John Leonard, Sara’s husband of less than two years.

  ‘Sara tells me the IG is after Maggot’s ass,’ he said. Pontowski motioned him to a seat. Leonard was a tall, well-conditioned, thirty-eight-year-old fighter pilot serving full-time as the 303rd squadron commander.

  Sara read from her notes, filling in the details of the sexual harassment complaint that had been filed against Maggot. She closed her notebook and folded her hands. ‘There is a loop-hole,’ she said.

  The two men looked hopefully at her. Maggot was Huckleberry Finn reincarnated as a fighter pilot and totally out of step with the times. But he had two redeeming qualities: no one could fly and fight better than Maggot Stuart, and when things went wrong, he got aggressive. Combat had taught them a hard lesson: that when the shooting started, it was the Maggots who got the job done.

  ‘Technically,’ Sara explained, ‘Maggot was not on duty during the banquet. He had not signed in on the computer and was not getting paid. We don’t have jurisdiction because he was in civilian status while at the banquet and not subject to the UCMJ.’ The UCMJ, or Uniform Code of Military Justice, only applied to reservists when they were on duty.

  ‘That sounds pretty weak to me,’ Leonard said.

  ‘It will work,’ Sara replied. ‘It would help if Maggot claims his freedom of speech is being violated. At the same time, we make a big fuss over his conduct and take corrective action by putting him into counselling. That might satisfy the legal beagles and let them sidestep a jurisdictional battle they will lose.’

  ‘Let’s see if we can make it fly,’ Pontowski said, recalling his briefings at the Pentagon. ‘John, get Maggot into counseling with one of the shrinks. Sara, open the back door to the judge advocate and ask for legal advice on how we can proceed without violating Maggot’s first amendment rights. Meanwhile, I’ll maintain I don’t have jurisdiction but am taking every positive corrective action I can.’ He kicked back in his chair. ‘Doggies,’ he groaned, ‘you’ve got to be a lawyer to run a wing these days. Anything else, Sara?’ She shook her head. ‘I am going to miss you.’ He grinned, dismissing the two officers.

  Outside, Leonard stopped his wife. ‘Do you think it will work?’

  ‘Probably,’ she answered. ‘The Boss wants it to work and the influence he carries definitely helps.’ She considered her next words. ‘Personally, I think it’s time Maggot grew up.’

  ‘He’s one of a kind,’ Leonard said. Sara gave him a look that said it was time for him to get real. ‘We’re lucky we’ve got him,’ Leonard protested. ‘I wish I had a dozen more.’

  ‘You’re rationalizing,’ she said.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Leonard moaned. ‘Maggot saved the Boss’s ass in China and now the Boss is returning the favor.’ It sounded corny and trite when he said it but both knew it was the truth.

  ‘Pontowski won’t cover for him again,’ Sara predicted. ‘You had better make that clear to Maggot. Very clear.’

  *

  Saturday, November 8

  Johannesburg, South Africa

  *

  The small shops across the street from the hotel’s patio cafe were opening when MacKay sat down for breakfast. He watched as clerks swept piles of garbage left by sidewalk vendors from the day before into the street. Arguments broke out when the same vendors returned, spread their wares on the sidewalk, and blocked the entrances to the shops. It was all part of the early-morning ritual that marked commercial life in Johannesburg.

  MacKay sat next to the low brick wall that fenced the patio and took it all in. As usual, the waiter ignored customers until he saw a tip on the table and even then, the service was minimal. MacKay decided to try a more direct method in the hope of getting a cup of hot coffee. He caught the waiter’s attention and smiled. That encouraged the waiter to adhere to the old standards and on this particular morning, both service and coffee were excellent.

  He scanned the sports section of his newspaper. Buried in one corner was a brief article on American college football that mentioned the traditional Army-Navy game. The memories came flooding back and he could hear the corps chanting when he ran on to the field at Soldier Stadium. It was the best time of his life.

  MacKay had thrived at ‘the Point’ and graduated number two in his class. He was five years too late for Vietnam and went through a series of assignments as the U.S. Army rebuilt, recovering from the damage it had suffered during that long war. MacKay had a small part in the transformation as he pursued a career centering on the Infantry, Rangers, and Special Forces. His graduate work was with the SAS, the British Special Air Service regiment, and there he had put the final polish on his training. He became, arguably, the Army’s leading expert on counterterrorism and special operations. All debate ended after his rescue of three American hostages from the heavily guarded compound of a powerful drug warlord in Burma.

  From there it had been a short step into covert intelligence operations and he had been offered the command of the Army’s Intelligence Support Agency, one of Pentagon’s ‘Boys in the Basement’. The ISA, shorthand for Intelligence Support Agency, went from one success to another under MacKay’s leadership and it soon developed a reputation as being a ‘can do’ organization — a rarity in the field of covert operations.

  MacKay’s agents could get results and it came as no surprise when the ISA was tasked for Operation Zenith, the penetration of Pelindaba. Pelindaba was the highly guarded nuclear plant and research facility outside Pretoria, South Africa, and MacKay suspected the ISA only got the job after the CIA had failed. Since MacKay was the only black member of the ISA, it was even more logical that he go into the field with two of his white agents. Just another chance to get my black ass shot off, he told himself.

  An African-American couple staying at the hotel entered and sat down at the table next to his. MacKay hid behind his newspaper and studied them: two prosperous, well-dressed, middle-aged blacks on tour. The man was as tall as MacKay and had the same growth of beard. He eavesdropped on their conversation and smothered a smile. Africa was not what they had expected and they were not coping with the experience. After being ignored for fifteen minutes and watching MacKay being served, the woman asked, ‘How do you get service here?’ Her voice was soft and full of hurt.

  MacKay felt sorry for them and broke his cover. ‘You need to get his attention. Tip him first.’

  ‘You mean bribe him first,’ the man grumbled.

  MacKay caught the waiter’s attention, looked at the couple, and nodded. The waiter received the message and hurried over to serve them. ‘Thank you,’ the woman said as Ziba Chembo entered the patio. All conversation stopped as she made her way to MacKay’s table and sat down. The two Americans fell into a quiet conversation, speculating about MacKay and Ziba. ‘Can you blame him?’ the woman whispered. ‘She’s striking.’

  ‘Regal,’ the man said. ‘Very regal.’

  MacKay forced himself to relax. He had received a vague message two days before to meet Ziba at this hotel and, lacking any other clues, had checked in and waited. It wouldn’t do to rush things
now, not after waiting three months. But the African tempo of doing business was driving him crazy. His tradecraft demanded they keep their exposure to a minimum when passing information and a leisurely breakfast did not meet his standards of operational security. But with Ziba sitting next to him, he was more than willing to roll with whatever she had in mind.

  ‘I like your beard,’ she said after ordering a cup of coffee.

  ‘It really helps with the pseudofolliculitis,’ he said, doubting if she had ever heard the term for the facial condition where his whiskers turned inward into an adjacent follicle and created pockets of infection. But she certainly understood the condition.

  ‘Have you ever been to a funeral rally?’ she asked, sipping her coffee. He shook his head. ‘There’s one today in Orlando Stadium in Soweto,’ she said. ‘I think we should go.’

  The woman sitting next to them interrupted. ‘Please forgive me, but I couldn’t help but overhear what you said. We would love to go with you. Who’s the funeral for?’

  MacKay gave an inward groan. This was getting out of hand.

  Ziba’s face came alive. ‘It’s for the six children who were murdered last week. They were on their way to school. Besides mourning for them, the funeral is a demonstration for peace and solidarity.’

  ‘Oh, we read about that,’ the woman said. ‘That was terrible. The papers said that whites had hired gangsters from Soweto to do it.’

  ‘Latisha, please,’ the man interrupted, his voice full and rich. ‘You’re imposing on these people.’ He turned to MacKay and introduced himself. ‘I’m Lionel Stevens and this is my wife Latisha. Please forgive the intrusion but she wants to experience everything while we’re here. Will it be safe?’

  It was time to discourage them. ‘You never know,’ MacKay answered. ‘There could be serious trouble. Actually, I’m surprised you’re touring South Africa at all, what with all the trouble. I thought the State Department was issuing warnings and discouraging tourism.’

  They are,’ Stevens explained. ‘But all our friends have made the tour and this was our only chance. We wanted to experience it while we still could and came in through Zambia. What brings you here?’

  ‘Winding up an import-export business,’ MacKay answered, easily falling into his cover story. ‘I’m getting out of here as soon as I can. You might want to do the same.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Stevens said, standing. The couple said goodbye and left.

  ‘I still think we should go,’ Ziba insisted.

  Torn by conflicting urges, MacKay gave a slight groan. He wanted a quick turnover of information but at the same time, the lower region of his abdomen was sending him a strong signal to linger. A vision of Ziba in his bed flitted in front of him. He had not been with a woman for a long time.

  Ziba made the decision. ‘We need to leave now.’ She stood and walked out. He followed her, mentally promising that his gonads would not do his thinking.

  Across the street, a sidewalk vendor watched Ziba use taxi talk, the system of hand signals that told minibus drivers where they wanted to go, to flag down a taxi. After the taxi had pulled away from the hotel, the vendor found a phone and dialed a number. A man with an Afrikaner accent answered and listened as the vendor said they were headed for the funeral at the soccer stadium in Soweto.

  The soccer stadium was only half full when they arrived and only one TV crew was covering the event. They blended in with the people and found seats at one end of the crowd, near an exit. ‘We used to fill the stadium to overflowing,’ Ziba said. ‘Seventy or eighty thousand people would come.’

  ‘How many can the stadium hold?’ MacKay asked.

  ‘Sixty thousand,’ she answered. ‘You could feel the foundation sway under our weight, with the strength of our spirit.’ Her face glowed as she recalled the time.

  A huge green, black, and gold banner was unfurled across the makeshift stage as six white coffins were carried out and set in a row in front of the stage. Then the singing began, thousands of voices blending into one, carrying a harmony that touched a chord deep in MacKay’s soul. He wanted to join in but didn’t know how. Ziba started to sing, her voice clear and strong. She carried an arching melody high above the others and her voice soared over the crowd.

  Slowly, the stadium filled as the scheduled time for the funeral passed. MacKay sensed the mood of the crowd, warm, friendly, and spontaneous. This was not the harsh, in-your-face attitude that marked American society, but a warm communal spirit. For the first time in years, MacKay was at peace with himself.

  A group of young men, maybe two hundred strong, jogged around the field in a group, chanting. It reminded MacKay of his first days at West Point as a Beast when he marched to the calls of a cadet sergeant and his voice joined with his squad, answering back in unison. But this was a toi-toi dance and it carried a message of anger and trouble. In the front rank, a leader carried a large wooden cutout of a submachine gun, a symbol of the group’s power. Three rows back, MacKay spotted the real thing — an AK-47.

  Then MacKay saw Lionel and Latisha Stevens, the couple from the hotel. They walked by in front, looking for seats. Latisha had changed into a colorful gold and black gown with a matching head scarf. It was a chic African-American creation from New York that highlighted her as a tourist. ‘What the hell?’ he mumbled. ‘They should have known better.’

  The relatives of the slain children took their places beside the coffins and the preaching began. MacKay was struck by how small the coffins were and felt the anguish of the crowd. The preaching turned into an angry speech and even though he could not understand the words, MacKay responded to the anger and tension of the crowd. Then a lone voice from deep in the stadium started to sing and the crowd joined in. It was a lullaby and the tension was broken.

  The coffins were placed on the back of a truck and a mournful procession formed to make its way out of the stadium to the cemetery. But a toi-toi dance started at the head of the procession and a new chant echoed over the crowd, more strident and loud. MacKay’s situational awareness kicked in and he sensed danger in the renewed tension sweeping the crowd. Rather than join the mourners, he angled Ziba toward an exit and pulled her into the shadows. Below him, he saw Lionel and Latisha Stevens join the back of the procession. ‘The idiots,’ he grumbled. For a moment, he considered rushing into the crowd and cutting them out, herding them to safety.

  Instead, he hurried Ziba outside and toward the taxi rank. He held up his forefinger, taxi talk for Johannesburg. But none of the minibuses moved, not willing to brave the crowd filling the street. Behind him, he heard shouting. Then the familiar bark of an AK-47 split the crowd and people surged past, running for cover. MacKay pulled Ziba into a minibus and snapped a command. ‘Johannesburg. Go!’

  The driver shot MacKay a dirty look and motioned them out of his taxi — he didn’t want to move and risk challenging the crowd’s anger. But a second look at MacKay convinced him that it wasn’t worth his life to argue. He gunned the engine and pulled out, pushing through the mass of people. Another taxi cut in front, forcing the driver to slam on the brakes. For a moment, the street was clear of people, as if a curtain had parted to reveal a grim, motionless scene. Latisha was lying in the street, a crumpled mass of gold and black cloth and blood. Lionel was on his knees beside her, bent over, looking down with lifeless eyes. A bullet had shattered the back of his head.

  In the background, a tall young man was waving an AK-47 and yelling at his comrades in triumph. Then a rush of people ran by, dropping the curtain on the scene as the minibus shot ahead, racing for safety. The poor bastards,’ MacKay said, his face frozen.

  ‘I’m sorry for your American friends ...’

  ‘The Stevens weren’t my friends,’ MacKay interrupted.

  ‘The Stevens were the wrong people,’ Ziba continued in a low voice so the driver could not hear.

  MacKay’s mind raced with implications. If Ziba was right, the Stevens had been mistakenly gunned down because Lionel fit
his general description — a tall and bearded American. Why didn’t they do it at the cafe in Johannesburg? Too obvious, he reasoned. Or maybe the gunman was not in position. Besides, I’d be more isolated in Soweto, without a backup. So they haven’t got a good make on me, he thought. But who were they? He scratched at his beard, determined to shave it off at the first opportunity. He hated the thought, knowing what it would do to his skin. But he needed to disappear and that would help. ‘We need to part company,’ he said.

  Ziba reached into her bag and pulled out a thick manila envelope. ‘The Afrikaners call it Prime,’ she said, handing the envelope to him. He undid the clasp and scanned the papers and photos inside. Every instinct he possessed shouted that Ziba had delivered up the secrets of Pelindaba. She was much more than a simple maid.

  ‘Why didn’t you give this to whoever replaced Charles?’ he asked.

  ‘No one has contacted me,’ she answered.

  Another thought came to him. ‘Why did we go to the funeral?’

  Ziba’s eyes captured his, intense and full of pain. ‘So you could meet my people,’ she said. The pain was also in her voice. All the good and the warmth of the stadium, of individuals joining together and finding strength and their humanity, had been brutally canceled by the violence of the streets.

  MacKay wanted to hold her and tell her he understood. But he couldn’t find the words. Ziba told the driver to stop, got out, and walked away, not looking back.

  *

  Wednesday, November 12

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  *

  Elizabeth Gordon gave her hair one last check in the mirror. ‘Damn,’ she moaned. ‘Why me?’ She had discovered another gray hair. She plucked out the offending hair, dropped the mirror in her makeup bag, clipped the remote microphone to her jacket, and turned, ready at last. ‘How do I look, Sam?’