Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  ‘They’re AWB,’ Sam whispered, turning her Betacam on.

  ‘Turn the damn camera off!’ the oldest of the four shouted.

  Sam ignored him and kept on shooting as Pontowski spoke to Dureau. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

  Relief flooded across the Frenchman’s face. ‘They ordered us to stop loading.’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ the same Afrikaner bellowed. Pontowski pegged him as their leader even though he was not displaying any signs of rank. ‘I said that only relief supplies can be loaded. Anything that is military in nature is forbidden.’

  ‘No problem,’ Pontowski replied. ‘We’re only in the relief business.’

  ‘We will inspect all cargo to make sure,’ the Afrikaner said. ‘Without our approval, nothing leaves this tent. We will shoot down any airplane or destroy any truck carrying cargo that has not been cleared by us.’

  Pontowski’s face turned rock hard and he stared at the man, forcing him to look away. ‘That would be a very bad mistake,’ he said, his voice low and quiet. But his tone carried a conviction backed with steely resolve. ‘A very bad mistake,’ Pontowski repeated. Sam turned her camera on him, making sure she captured the sound of his voice.

  The Afrikaner tried to regain control. ‘We have authorization from Madame Martine. She insists that the UN remain totally neutral and has ordered you to ...’

  ‘Wrong again,’ Pontowski interrupted, the steel in his voice still cutting. ‘General de Royer has command here, not Madame Martine. You’re wasting my time.’

  Much to Sam’s surprise, the Afrikaner barked a command at his men and they left. She shut off her camera. ‘I never realized Afrikaners could be so arrogant.’

  ‘Some of them are authoritarian, anal retentive, goose-steppers,’ Pontowski said. ‘Then it’s just a matter of throwing more authority around.’ His face softened and the hard edge in his voice was gone. ‘But most of the ones I have met are good, decent people.’

  ‘Like Piet and his family,’ she added.

  He smiled, drawing her in. ‘Like the van der Rooses.’

  ‘Colonel,’ Sam ventured, ‘I’d like to do a feature on you ... the senior-ranking American officer ... that sort of thing. I’d have to follow you around. But I’ll try not to get in your way.’

  Pontowski thought about it for a few moments. ‘I prefer to be called Matt,’ he said. ‘What exactly do you have in mind?’

  ‘Some coverage of you at work, maybe a shot of your living quarters.’

  He grinned at her. ‘To prove what a luxurious life we lead? Come on, I can show you my quarters now and you won’t have to come back later.’

  They left the tent and drove to the officers’ quarters. ‘Separate entrance,’ he said. ‘To impress reporters.’ He opened a side door and they stepped into a sparsely furnished room. A single bunk was pushed against a wall, opposite a desk and chair. The only concession to luxury was a comfortable easy chair with a reading lamp.

  She took in the room and shook her head. ‘The picture on the desk ...’

  ‘My son, Little Matt.’

  ‘Can I ...’

  ‘Film the room? Sure, go ahead. But I don’t think it’s going to make the news.’ He stepped back while she panned the room with her Betacam.

  ‘This is the human element our editors want,’ she explained. She finished and lowered the Betacam. ‘Matt, thanks.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, suddenly aware he was alone in his quarters with a very attractive woman. ‘Let’s go to lunch in the mess hall and then I’ve got a staff meeting. You can get an idea how I work.’

  He ushered Sam through the chow line and they sat with four young airmen. Much to her surprise, she found the men relaxed and at ease with their commander. Afterwards, they cleared their own dishes and walked back to the operations building.

  A group of twenty officers and sergeants was gathered for the staff meeting when Pontowski and Sam arrived. Gorilla almost called the room to attention but a warning gesture from Leonard strangled the words in his throat. ‘Bad news,’ Pontowski began. ‘This government-paid vacation to LaLa Land is over.’ Sam hit the record button and video taped the meeting.

  ‘Oh, no,’ a voice groaned in mock despair from the rear.

  ‘Come on’ — Pontowski grinned — ‘how much longer did you expect to go on sucking at the big blue tit of the Air Force?’ The staff meeting wasn’t what Sam expected and did not meet her image of a rigid military structure. But there was no doubt who was in charge. ‘It’s time to make some shit happen around here,’ Pontowski told them.

  ‘About time,’ a woman’s voice called from the rear.

  ‘Well, at least one person is ready to do some work,’ he said. ‘Okay, here we go. Tomorrow, we’re starting a full up training schedule. If we’re not flying relief missions, then we’re flying training sorties. Second, I want to turn this pig sty into a combined operations and intelligence center called the COIC.’ It sounded like ‘koe-ik’ to Sam’s ear. ‘We’re going to have a combined operations where we all work together — C-130s, Warthogs, you name it. If it wears an American flag, it’s here. Come on, follow me.’

  Sam followed the group through the building as Pontowski outlined his ideas. ‘I’m thinking of turning this room into a main briefing room. Think big, at least sixty seats.’ They continued to troop through the building as he outlined his plan. Finally they were back where they started. ‘You’ve got an idea of what I want,’ he told them. ‘So make it happen. Don’t be afraid to change things around to make it work. But do it. Get the word out to all the troops. If you’re not flying, you’re here working on the COIC.’

  Pontowski’s next stop was in scheduling with Kowalski and Leonard. ‘Sam,’ he said, ‘you’re welcome to stay if you want. But we’ve got a lot of boring work to do. We’re flying our first relief missions into Van Wyksvlei tomorrow.’

  ‘Is there any chance I can get on that flight?’ she asked. Like all journalists, she was always looking for a story and hoping to be in the right place at the right time.

  ‘I’ll have to clear it through the General,’ Pontowski told her. ‘Be here at 0700 if you want to go.’

  *

  The building was alive with activity when Sam walked in the next morning at exactly seven o’clock. Gorilla was already at work, leading a team tearing the room apart. She made her way through the debris until she found Tango Leonard. ‘Where’s the colonel?’ she asked.

  ‘At the UN,’ Leonard answered. ‘He called and said de Royer nixed your going on the flight. But you’re welcome here.’

  Disappointment showed in her face, ‘I’ll hang around,’ she said, and spent the morning taping the preparations for the first missions. It was a revelation the amount of hard work that was needed to launch just one sortie. She was at the C-130 recording the onload of cargo when Pontowski drove up in a staff car.

  ‘Sam, I’m sorry. I tried but the Old Man wouldn’t approve of any reporters going on this flight.’

  She nodded. He looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept. ‘Have you been up all night?’

  ‘I got about three hours sleep,’ he told her. ‘It gets easier after the system is up and working.’ A small bus drove up and the crew flying the mission got off. Pontowski introduced Captain Jake Madison, the aircraft commander, and his copilot, Captain Brenda Conklin. ‘Brenda’s a fully qualified aircraft commander,’ Pontowski explained. Conklin looked more like a very pretty blonde college student than a seasoned trash hauler.

  Sam came alert, sensing a story of sexual discrimination. ‘It’s not what you think,’ Conklin told her. ‘After a few sorties for familiarization, I’ll get an in-country check ride. It happens to everyone.’

  ‘It seems very arbitrary,’ she replied.

  ‘But it works,’ Pontowski said. Sam recorded more action as the crew went through the preflight, started engines, and taxied out.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Wait,’ Po
ntowski said. From the drawn look on his face, she knew he meant ‘sweat it out’.

  ‘Is waiting the hardest part?’ she asked.

  Pontowski watched the C-130 as it lifted into the sky. ‘We train ’em, give ’em the toys to play with, and now we got to trust them to do it all by themselves.’

  ‘You’d rather be up there, wouldn’t you? With them.’

  ‘Any day of the week,’ he said.

  *

  Friday, January 30

  Van Wyksvlei, Northern Cape Province

  *

  Erik Beckmann sat in the back of the van and listened to the two Africans talk on the radios. This was his first operation with the Azanians and he was appalled by their total lack of radio discipline. Why would anyone back this stupid bunch of kaffirs? he wondered. What decision, or fear, caused OPEC to pour money and arms into the Azanian cause? Did the Arabs think the Azanians were the key to South Africa?

  It had been a simple process to sign on with the Azanian Liberation Army after disposing of Reggie in Cape Town. He had flown to Durban and checked in at the George Hotel on Marine Parade overlooking the beach. Then he sat on the front veranda drinking with all the other mercenaries seeking gainful employment until he was approached by the right person. When he was satisfied that he had made contact with the Azanians, he mentioned the right names in the German Red Army Faction to establish his cover. After a large amount of money had been deposited in his Swiss bank account, he was flown to Kimberley. A car had taken him to a large farmstead on the Karoo where he met the two blacks he was now sitting with in the van outside Van Wyksvlei.

  ‘Do your men understand there must be no shooting?’ Beckmann asked. ‘We need hostages, not bodies.’ Although the two men reassured him that every single man understood, Beckmann doubted it. Still, they were the tools he needed to give his brother a prolonged hostage situation. Africans, and not the AWB, had to hold the hostages. Eventually, the Iron Guard would free the prisoners and return them safe and sound to the acclaim of the world press. It was simple in concept and difficult in execution because the Azanians lacked the traits needed: patience and discipline.

  Bloody stupid kaffirs, he thought. No wonder they need us. The radio crackled with the news that the C-130 was approaching the landing strip on the western edge of Van Wyksvlei.

  *

  ‘This was the second place we surveyed,’ Tech Sergeant Riley Stine, the flight engineer, told the two pilots. ‘We should have called it quits here and never gone on to Mata Mata.’

  ‘It won’t happen again,’ Jake Madison reassured him.

  Brenda Conklin studied the airstrip and small town spread out to the east. It looked peaceful enough in the afternoon sun and a small welcoming crowd was clustered on the parking ramp, well back from the runway. She saw a white pickup leading a procession of two flatbed trucks and a forklift across the ramp. ‘We’ll be offloaded and out of here in no time,’ she told Madison and Riley.

  ‘Not quick enough for me,’ Riley replied.

  Madison greased the landing and taxied clear of the runway as a French soldier wearing the blue beret of the UN held his arms up, showing them where to park. Two other soldiers, also wearing blue berets, were standing by the white pickup. They were the UN ground team responsible for the distribution of the food and medical supplies the C-130 was hauling. ‘I wish they were carrying guns,’ Riley groused as they shut down the engines.

  ‘Cock this puppy for a quick engine start,’ Madison ordered. He got out of his seat to talk to the soldiers. ‘Everyone stay on board.’ The memory of Mata Mata and Rob Nutting was still fresh in his mind and caution was in order.

  *

  Erik Beckmann got out of the van and walked to the edge of the low ridge overlooking the town. He raised his binoculars and saw the pallets of cargo coming off the back of the C-130. Not too soon, he told himself. They carry five pallets. Wait until all five are off and the three soldiers have moved away from the aircraft. Divide to conquer. ‘No!’ he shouted, willing the small crowd at the edge of the parking ramp to stand still.

  He ran back to the van and climbed inside. ‘Your men moved too soon!’ he yelled at the two Africans. ‘Damn you!’

  *

  Madison saw the crowd start to move and for a long moment he stood frozen, unable to think. Don’t be stupid, he told himself. It won’t happen again. He watched the people come at him. Now he could make out their faces. They were not half-starved villagers like in Mata Mata but young men, fit and well fed. They were chanting words he didn’t understand. When they were less than twenty-five yards away, he heard a distinct ‘Mata-Mata-Mata’.

  The chant galvanized him into action. ‘We got trouble!’ he yelled at the Frenchmen. ‘Get on board, we’re getting out of here.’ They ran for the crew entrance as Madison waved his right hand with the forefinger extended in a tight circle above his head — the signal for start engines. Conklin and Riley were ready and the shrill shriek of the auxiliary power unit coming to life split the air. The men leaped up the three steps of the crew entrance and pulled the hatch shut behind them as number three engine started to turn. The ramp at the rear of the aircraft was coming up and the cargo door coming down.

  Madison climbed on to the flight deck and settled into the left seat. ‘Taxi!’ he shouted. The big aircraft started to move, heading for the runway. A white pickup truck raced alongside with four men in the back. It pulled out in front of them and blocked the taxi path to the runway. Madison sawed at the small steering wheel on his left and headed for the other exit leading to the runway. But another truck was in front of him, winning that race. Men were running alongside and banging on the fuselage aft of the engines.

  ‘Goddamn it to hell,’ Madison roared over the intercom. ‘Have we got enough room to take off from here?’

  ‘Negative,’ Conklin answered, much calmer.

  ‘Perk,’ Madison shouted over the intercom at the loadmaster, Staff Sergeant Tanya Perko, ‘button ’er up.’

  ‘Working it,’ Perko answered. She was chaining closed every entrance that could be opened from the outside.

  The pilot cracked the throttles and outran the men who were swatting at the side of the aircraft like ineffectual flies buzzing around an elephant. ‘Don’t let them get at the tires,’ Conklin told him.

  ‘I’m gonna taxi across the rough,’ Madison said, turning the Hercules toward the open ground that separated the parking ramp from the runway. But a truck was running parallel to them and cut him off. Madison turned back, toward the center of the ramp. Men scattered in order to avoid the props. Another truck came up on the left side and he turned into it, making it give ground, before he circled back to the right.

  ‘Scanner in the top hatch!’ Madison yelled. Riley unstrapped and opened the emergency escape hatch behind his seat. He climbed up and sat on the edge, his feet dangling inside. The navigator, Captain Stan Sims, handed him a headset.

  ‘We’re fuckin’ surrounded!’ Riley shouted. ‘Keep turning! Fast!’

  *

  Erik Beckmann focused his binoculars and watched the C-130 move across the ramp. His lips were compressed into a tight line as the Hercules turned in a wide circle. Again and again, it circled, clearing an area around it. Whenever a truck moved to close, the C-130 headed for it, forcing the truck to give ground. One time, a truck refused to move and the C-130 bore down on it. The driver scampered to safety just as the Hercules turned away. When the tail of the aircraft was pointed directly at the truck, the pilot ran the engines up and the prop blast blew the truck over on to its side, skidding it twenty feet.

  Then the aircraft circled again, clearing its arena of any matador willing to challenge or goad it into action. Finally, it sat in the center of the ramp, not moving, a giant bull at bay. The men held back, honoring the circle it claimed as its own.

  One of the Azanians joined Beckmann. ‘Let my men use their weapons,’ he begged. ‘They can shoot out the tires.’

  Beckmann fought down the urge to
beat the man senseless. ‘If we start shooting, the army will come. Besides, I have seen your men shoot. They spray the air like madmen. We need hostages, not bodies.’

  ‘But they are safe inside,’ the African told him. ‘If we shoot at the engines or the tires, they cannot move.’ Stupid bastard, Beckmann thought. ‘Tell your men they can shoot if it makes it to the runway and tries to take off. Look, we already have them without firing a single shot. They aren’t going anywhere.’ The man looked confused. Beckmann shook his head, letting his displeasure show. ‘Soon, they will run out of fuel and the engines will stop. Then we can pry the aircraft open like a tin can. No one will answer their calls for help for two days and by then, we will be gone with our hostages. Now do you understand?’

  The Azanian nodded. ‘Good,’ Beckmann said. ‘Bring the officer who was in charge. He disobeyed his orders and moved too soon.’

  ‘Ja baas’ the Azanian blurted as he hurried back to the van to carry out his orders. Beckmann turned toward the airstrip. The outboard props on the C-130 were stopped and only the two inboard engines were still running. They’re conserving fuel, Beckmann told himself. For a moment, he considered using force to end it. No, he thought. Let them send out cries for help on their radios. It is much better to drag it out and show the world that the kaffir government and the UN are inept fools. Better and better. I should have thought of that in the first place. So it takes a little longer. I have the patience and forty-eight hours.

  He laughed to himself. Besides, he thought, there is the added pleasure of disciplining the stupid kaffir who bungled the operation to begin with.

  *

  Friday, January 30

  Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town

  *

  The command post controller came down from hanging new lights over his control console when he heard the SatCom radio squawk. He picked up the mike and hit the transmit button. ‘Go ahead, Lifter One. Groundhog reads you three-by.’ Although the straight-line distance between Ysterplaat and Van Wyksvlei was 275 nautical miles, the command post was patched by fifty thousand miles of skips to a satellite, back to another ground station, back to a second satellite, and finally to the C-130 on the ground at Van Wyksvlei. But the connection was good enough for him to hear every word and press the panic button.