Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  After MacKay had left, Standard returned to his desk and opened the drawer. He picked up the ID card and carefully examined it. He punched at his intercom and rang up the basement. ‘Get the Boys,’ he said. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

  *

  Wednesday, January 14

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  *

  The two Secret Service agents walked slowly, following the National Security Advisor as he walked through the President’s Park on the south side of the White House. A convoy of three limousines drove up the circular drive from East Executive Avenue to deposit some foreign dignitary at the south portico. ‘Why does it always happen to the good guys?’ Wayne Adams asked. He was the older of the two and considered himself the more philosophical.

  ‘Who knows?’ Chuck Stanford answered. ‘Why do the scumbags always survive? Son of a bitch! I’ve got a few candidates I’d rather see this happen to instead of him.’ He thought for a moment. ‘It’s changed him.’ Carroll stumbled and the two darted forward but stopped when they saw he had regained his balance. ‘He won’t give in to it,’ Stanford said.

  One step at a time, Carroll told himself. Don’t let the monkey ride you. Who am I kidding? Wayne and Chuck? They know. So enjoy the walk while you can.

  Carroll sat on a bench near the tennis courts. Two junior White House assistants were playing, taking advantage of the break in the weather. Carroll watched them for a moment. They were a vigorous, healthy young couple, both married, but not to each other. He wanted to warn them what would happen if they stepped across the foul line and crawled into the same bed. He allowed a little smile to cross his face. Very few people understood the power structure in the White House.

  The earphone in each agent’s ear spoke. ‘How about that?’ a woman’s voice said. ‘He actually smiled.’ They weren’t the only agents on duty.

  Stanford lifted his hand and spoke into his whisper mike under his cuff. ‘He is working, asshole.’

  ‘My, we are being protective today,’ the voice replied, her words silky smooth.

  Indeed, the National Security Advisor was working. On one mental level, he recalled factual data while on another level, he rearranged the hard facts into combinations, trying to create a reality. But more important, he wanted to peer into the future. Repeatedly, he came up against the impenetrable wall that surrounded the enigma called Prime. Was cold fusion a reality?

  Cold fusion, he mused to himself. Was it only a dream? How was the Israeli scientist doing it? According to the CIA, Slavin was using two isotopes of hydrogen, deuterium and tritium, and forcing their hydrogen nuclei to fuse without exploding or melting down. Carroll was not a physicist so he found it ironic that two substances, which were basically the same, could combine in so many different ways and the result could either be disastrous or the hope of the future.

  But did it work? Was he wasting his time when he should be concentrating on more important issues?

  ‘Sir, are you all right?’ It was Adams’s voice. Carroll looked up, surprised that it was raining. The two agents were standing over him, holding umbrellas. The couple had left the tennis court and for a brief moment, Carroll wondered if they would ever get safely together. Then he made the connection — people and hydrogen fusing together to make new combinations. The two agents helped him stand and he walked, more slowly, back to his office.

  ‘Isn’t it ironic,’ he told them, ‘that Prime is happening in the country where the same thing is happening to the people?’ The two agents walked beside him, not understanding what he was talking about, their umbrellas held over his head, keeping him dry.

  Chapter 9

  Monday, January 19

  UN Headquarters, Constantia, Cape Town

  *

  Pontowski stood up from his desk, walked to the window of his office, and stretched. Outside, moonlight cast a gentle, soothing glow over the gardens and veranda. He watched as de Royer’s tall figure walked slowly back and forth. His hands were clasped behind his back and his head bent, deep in thought. So you’re frustrated too, Pontowski thought.

  His own frustration level ratcheted up to a higher level as he considered the problems facing the UN. We’ve been here almost three weeks and haven’t done a damn’ thing, he told himself. What we need is a concept of operations ... some idea on how to go about this. He settled back into his chair and grabbed the UN manual on peacekeeping operations.

  Twenty minutes later, Bouchard appeared in his doorway. ‘General de Royer requests you join him in his office.’ Pontowski stood and they walked quickly down the hall. Bouchard spoke in French. ‘Madame Martine and the South African Minister of Defense, Joe Pendulo, are with the General. Be careful what you say. Pendulo remembers everything and understands nothing.’ Pontowski thanked him and entered de Royer’s office.

  As usual, the French general was wearing his dead-fish look. Only this time, his cold stare was fixed on Joe Pendulo. What a pleasant change, Pontowski thought, glancing at the Minister of Defense. Pendulo was a short, wiry Xhosa whose beard was trimmed into a goatee. A diamond ring flashed on each hand and he wore a gold Rolex watch that hung loose on his wrist, like a bracelet. His dark silk suit was tailored to his slender frame and his legs were crossed revealing expensive, hand-stitched shoes and white socks. What have we got here? Pontowski wondered.

  Elena was sitting in the chair next to Pendulo, looking cool and beautiful in a white linen business suit. The jacket was worn buttoned and gave the impression she was not wearing a blouse beneath. It was both businesslike and provocative. How does she do it? Pontowski wondered. Her low voice matched the seductive image as she made the introductions. ‘We are discussing the UN’s area of responsibility.’

  The stability of my country,’ Pendulo said, ‘is being threatened by a small group of white fascists.’ His voice was in total contrast to his image. He spoke with an upper-class British accent. ‘Are you familiar with the AWB?’ Pontowski nodded an answer. ‘Unfortunately, they have an army, the Iron Guard. We want you to destroy it.’

  ‘Why don’t you use your own forces?’ Pontowski asked.

  ‘The leadership of our Defense Forces is entirely white and I cannot guarantee their loyalty if I order them to attack their white brothers. Better they remain in garrison than desert.’

  ‘The United Nations cannot do what you ask,’ Elena told him. ‘We are here in a peacekeeping function. You are asking us to take an active role in supporting the government against the AWB. That is peace enforcement, which is beyond our charter.’

  Pontowski expected Pendulo to explode in a temper tantrum. It didn’t happen. ‘What do you intend to do?’ the defense minister asked, his voice reasonable and calm.

  ‘It is our intention,’ de Royer said, ‘to establish safe zones as we did in Bosnia.’

  This is the first I’ve heard about it, Pontowski thought.

  Pendulo looked pleased. ‘That is acceptable to my government. As you know, many of my people are starving because of the instability caused by the AWB and its thugs. Will you use these safe zones for humanitarian relief?’

  ‘That is our intention,’ de Royer replied.

  No sign of emotion crossed Pendulo’s face. ‘Then my government will provide protection, not your forces. If there is trouble, you must coordinate through my office.’

  What good will that do with the South Africans in garrison? Pontowski thought. But before he could object, Elena answered. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘You,’ Pontowski told them, ‘have just taken away our right of self-defense.’

  ‘How so?’ Pendulo asked.

  Pontowski decided to let his anger show. ‘If anyone starts shooting at us, we can’t do squat all about it until we “coordinate” through your office. We’re sitting ducks.’

  ‘Then keep your aircraft on the ground,’ Pendulo replied, as if he was speaking to a child. He stood to leave. ‘It is late,’ he said. ‘I must go.’ Elena escorted him out and Pontowski gritted his teeth until th
e door was closed.

  ‘General,’ Pontowski said, ‘that little shit is using us. We either do it his way, or we get the livin’ crap shot out of us by any thug who wants some target practice. No way am I going to put my people in that kind of situation if ...’

  ‘The decision has been made,’ de Royer interrupted.

  ‘Fuck me in the heart,’ Pontowski muttered, loud enough for de Royer to hear.

  ‘Colonel,’ de Royer said, giving no indication that he had heard, ‘schedule a C-130 to fly a survey team around the country to identify safe zones. Madame Martine will be in charge of the team and you will accompany her. The worst food shortages are in Northern Cape Province, so we will start there.’

  ‘And the A-10s?’

  ‘Keep them on the ground. That will be all.’ He turned to look out the window.

  Pontowski stormed out of the office. We’ve got to get the hell out of here, he told himself.

  *

  Wednesday, January 21

  Northern Cape Province, South Africa

  *

  Pontowski shifted his weight, trying to find a comfortable position on the crew bunk that served as a bench at the back of the C-130’s flight deck. He was bored and envied the pilots who were flying, caught up in the action of the survey mission. He shuffled through the notes on his clipboard and rank-ordered the three airfields they had already surveyed as possible safe zones for UN relief centers. He handed his list to Elena Martine who was sitting beside him making her own choices. One more to go, he thought. Then we can head for home.

  ‘You sure that’s it?’ Captain Rob Nutting asked over the intercom. He was flying in the left seat of the C-130 as it approached the landing strip on the south side of the town of Mata Mata.

  ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ Lydia Kowalski answered. She was giving Rob Nutting an in-country check out and was playing copilot to his aircraft commander while he flew Pontowski and the survey team around. So far, he had done an outstanding job. She keyed the intercom and spoke to Elena and Pontowski. ‘This one doesn’t look very promising,’ she told them. ‘Too isolated, not enough people. Do you want to land and check it out?’

  Elena came forward and studied the land below her. Everything the pilot had said was true. But according to her notes, there was abundant water at this strip and that was a definite plus. ‘Let’s land,’ she decided.

  ‘Do you have enough runway?’ Pontowski asked, not liking what he saw.

  ‘No problem,’ Nutting assured him. ‘It’s just a bit narrow. We’ll do an assault landing on this one.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Kowalski said. Rob was on top of it.

  Pontowski scanned the field with his binoculars and focused on a group of villagers gathered on the left side of the landing strip. ‘Looks like we’ve got a reception committee,’ he said. He and Elena strapped in on the crew bunk while Rob flew a standard pattern and brought the C-130 down final, nose high in the air. ‘I got some kid standing on the right side of the runway,’ Kowalski said.

  ‘Got him,’ Rob told her. ‘No problem.’

  The pilot slammed the big cargo plane down on the exact point he was aiming for. Just as he raked the throttles aft, Kowalski saw movement off to the right side. The kid she had seen moments before was running across the runway. ‘Look out!’ she shouted. But it was too late. Rob had committed to the landing and had lifted the throttles over the detent, throwing the props into reverse. They felt a slight bump.

  If a high-speed camera had filmed the landing, it would have recorded the main gear sinking into the surface and pushing up a small wave of dirt in front of the tires. As the wheels emerged from the depression, the dirt flowed back into place, leaving tread marks and some wrinkles to mark the C-l 30’s touchdown point. The camera would have also recorded a ten-year-old boy being sucked under the right gear and disappearing into the depression before being thrown up against the underside of the fuselage like a flattened rag doll.

  What the camera could not record was the fear that had driven the boy across the runway. The size and noise of the Hercules had totally overwhelmed him and the only refuge he could see was his father — standing on the other side.

  The props threw a cloud of dust and debris out in front as the Hercules howled to a stop. Pontowski and the loadmaster were the first off, checking for damage. All they found were a few wet brown stains on the fuselage aft of the right main gear and a piece of cloth hanging on the gear door. Rob joined them as they finished inspecting the aircraft. ‘I killed a kid, didn’t I?’ The anguish in his words matched the look on his face.

  Before Pontowski could answer, a group of villagers surrounded them. A man carried the mangled remains of his son and yelled while two women sent a loud keening lament over the crowd.

  Elena Martine climbed off the Hercules and headed for the three Americans. A hand reached out and grabbed her shirt, ripping it, while another woman pushed her to the ground. The villagers had finally found scapegoats for all their troubles. Pontowski heard Elena scream and pushed through the crowd. But two men blocked his way, yelling, and pointed at the dead child. Elena screamed again and Pontowski bulldozed his way through with Rob and the loadmaster right behind him.

  Kowalski heard the shouting, jumped out of her seat and ran back through the cargo compartment. She reached the rear ramp in time to see Pontowski, Rob, and the loadmaster standing back to back as they were hit and kicked by the angry villagers. They were holding their own but not for long.

  She ran back on to the flight deck and jumped in the left seat. ‘Starting three!’ she yelled at the flight engineer as she cranked the right inboard engine. They quickly brought the left inboard engine on line. ‘Riley,’ she shouted at the flight engineer, ‘sit in the right seat and keep ’em revved up.’ She grabbed her helmet and ran for the rear of the aircraft.

  ‘Follow me,’ she yelled at the three men from the UN survey team still standing in the cargo compartment. They didn’t move. ‘Come on!’ she roared. Still, they made no attempt to follow her. ‘Screw you!’ She pulled her white helmet on, lowered the green visor, and picked up a tie down chain. She was going it alone.

  Lydia Kowalski was a big woman, strong by any standard, and full of resolve. She jumped off the ramp and headed for the villagers, swinging the chain. A man saw her and froze. She had emerged out of the blowing dust like a demon from hell and the C-130’s blaring engines were her war cry. The man wanted none of it and started to run. But he slipped and fell into his comrades, yelling incoherently. Now they saw her and, like him, they ran. The riot was over and only the Americans and Elena were left behind with a small body.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ Kowalski shouted as she picked Elena up off the ground. She was bruised and dirty, but okay.

  Rob pointed at the body. ‘I hit the kid,’ he yelled.

  ‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ Pontowski shouted. ‘Before they come back.’

  *

  Thursday, January 22

  UN Headquarters, Constantia, Cape Town

  *

  Piet van der Roos was waiting for Pontowski when he came to work an hour later than usual. It had been a long night sorting out the aftermath from the survey mission and Pontowski had waited for the results of the blood test before returning to his quarters. Both pilots had tested free of any drugs or alcohol, which for Pontowski ended the incident. He had told them it was sad but not their fault. Now the aftershocks of the mission were reaching him.

  ‘Pendulo was on TV last night,’ van der Roos told him. ‘He said the UN was responsible for the accident and the pilot will be held accountable. Whites can no longer kill blacks without fear of justice.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Pontowski grumbled. ‘Absolutely, fucking lovely.’ He filled a coffee cup and drank. He still needed one more cup to clear the cobwebs of sleep away. ‘He never asked for our version of what happened.’

  ‘Pendulo’s turning it into an issue,’ van der Roos told him. ‘He wants to control the UN and make it do
his bidding.’

  ‘What will he do next?’

  Van der Roos shook his head. ‘I don’t know. He’s a very clever man and wants the presidency.’

  The answer came just before noon when Bouchard appeared in Pontowski’s office. ‘The general wishes to see you,’ he said. ‘It is about the survey mission.’

  Pontowski took the few steps to de Royer’s office and found him, as usual, standing at the window. Doesn’t he ever sit down? Pontowski wondered. ‘I have spoken to Madame Martine,’ de Royer began, speaking in French. ‘Minister Pendulo has asked the Minister of Justice to swear out a warrant for the arrest of Captain Nutting, the pilot on yesterday’s mission.’

  ‘Martine was there,’ Pontowski said, ‘and she knows what happened. Didn’t she explain it to Pendulo? I thought that was her job. The kid ran in front of a landing C-130. What the hell did he expect Nutting to do?’

  De Royer stared at him, unblinking. ‘The warrant is for Captain Nutting’s arrest,’ he repeated and turned to look out the window. Pontowski assumed the meeting was over. De Royer’s voice stopped him as he left. ‘You have a little time,’ the general said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Pontowski replied. Now what does that mean? he wondered. Then it came to him. De Royer was telling him that he had some time to act before the warrant was served. ‘I’ll be damned,’ he muttered to himself. He grabbed his hat and ran to his car.

  *

  The operations building at Ysterplaat was all but deserted when Pontowski entered. The Duty Officer, Gorilla Moreno, looked up from his desk, glad to have someone to talk to. ‘I need to see Colonel Leonard and Colonel Kowalski — now,’ Pontowski said. ‘And get Rob Nutting in here ASAP.’

  ‘Colonel Leonard is flying,’ Gorilla told him. ‘Colonel Kowalski is in her office and Rob has the day off. I think he went down to Victoria Harbor with a couple of the guys.’

  ‘Gorilla, find Nutting. Get every warm body you got and search until you do. But get him here. Quick.’