Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  The aide smashed a fist into her face but Sam only held on to the camera more tightly. She ejected the cassette and dropped it on the floor. ‘Take it,’ she said, kicking it to him.

  A nasty grin split his face as he scooped up the cassette and shoved it into his belt. He started to swing at Sam’s head but Marcus, the attendant she had recorded earlier, was there. He stepped in between them and took the blow full on his shoulder. The two men glared at each other. Pendulo’s aide snarled angrily but Marcus only stood there and stared him down. Finally, the aide retreated down the corridor. Marcus didn’t take his eyes off the man.

  ‘Thank you,’ Sam said to him. ‘I appreciate your getting involved.’ Marcus looked at her, not understanding. ‘I mean,’ she told him, ‘you took a big risk defending a white against another ...’ Her voice trailed off at the expression on his face.

  ‘Miss Darnell,’ Marcus explained, his voice matter-of-fact, ‘you are a passenger on the Blue Train and in my care. Let me help you to your suite and I’ll get some ice for your face.’

  ‘My God!’ Gordon said when she returned to their suite. It was broad daylight but the curtains were still drawn. ‘What happened?’ Sam was huddled on her bed, an ice pack on her face.

  ‘Pendulo’s goon,’ Sam said. ‘He wanted the tape.’

  ‘Did he get it?’ Gordon asked. Sam nodded. ‘I doubt if we could have used it anyway,’ Gordon said worriedly. ‘The track is torn up in front of us. We’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘We’ll get out of here,’ Sam said. She moved to the window and cracked a curtain. ‘Look, you can see two A-10s circling.’ The sight of the two warbirds helped to ease the tension that had bound her. ‘Liz, something’s funny. Whoever is out there could have attacked again last night. So why are they waiting?’

  *

  Monday, March 9

  Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town

  *

  Lori handed Pontowski a mug of steaming coffee the moment he came through the door of the COIC. Three hours of sleep and a shower had given him a second wind. ‘Captain van der Roos is waiting for you in Colonel Leonard’s office,’ she told him.

  As usual, Waldo Walderman was the duty officer behind the chest-high scheduling counter and was posting the crew availability. All the pilots and crewmembers from Sunday’s mission were in crew rest and wouldn’t be available until after 1200 hours. The most experienced A-10 pilot he had on duty was Skid Malone and he was paired with Waldo. ‘Don’t get your ass shot off today,’ Pontowski told him. ‘It got tough out there yesterday.’

  ‘Not to worry, sir,’ Waldo replied.

  Pontowski found van der Roos in Leonard’s office. The Afrikaner was wearing his BDUs and drinking coffee. ‘What’s up, Piet?’ Pontowski asked.

  ‘Sir, I want to get involved.’

  ‘Like Bouchard?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  ‘I fly helicopters.’

  ‘I know that, Piet,’ Pontowski said. ‘But there’s two problems. First, what will you do if I order you to fly against your own countrymen? I’m thinking of Afrikaners, Piet.’

  ‘I don’t know what I would do,’ van der Roos admitted. ‘But my father says we must fight the people who are destroying our country because we have no place to go. You can go home after this. Many of the English can go to Great Britain or Canada, but for the Afrikaner, this is our home. We must fight for it.’

  ‘Second problem,’ Pontowski said, ‘what about your government? They’d have to approve it.’

  ‘I spoke to my Air Force and the generals have convinced the President to lend the UN four Pumas and eight pilots.’

  ‘Let me think about it, Piet.’ They walked back to the scheduling desk and Pontowski poured himself another cup of coffee.

  The phone rang and Waldo answered. ‘Sir,’ he was almost shouting, ‘we got tasking from the UN! General de Royer is on the secure line in the command post.’

  Pontowski bolted. Just before he went through the door, he turned to van der Roos, his decision made. ‘Piet, just don’t paint the choppers white.’

  Inside the command post, the controller handed Pontowski a phone. De Royer came right to the point. ‘I have spoken to the President. He has requested that we intervene and rescue the passengers. Colonel Bouchard will be at the base shortly to plan the operation. You may use whatever force is necessary.’

  ‘Why the sudden change of heart on their part?’ Pontowski asked.

  ‘I explained the situation to them,’ de Royer said, breaking the connection.

  ‘You do work fast,’ Pontowski said into the dead phone.

  Then it came to him; de Royer had told him what to do, not how to do it.

  *

  Pontowski sat in Leonard’s pickup truck with van der Roos as two C-130s, call sign Lifter One and Two, taxied out of the chocks, their cargo decks jammed with Bouchard’s paratroopers. Pontowski listened to the radio chatter as they took off and headed to the northeast. One hour thirty minutes flying time, he told himself.

  Ten minutes later, four Warthogs taxied out. Skid Malone was the lead pilot and Waldo Walderman his wingman as Basher One and Two. Bull Menke and Goat Gross were flying the second element as Basher Three and Four. Waldo gave Pontowski a thumbs-up as they taxied into the quick check area. Crew chiefs and weapons personnel gave the jets a quick inspection, pulling safety pins from the ordnance hung under the wings, checking the tires, and scanning for loose panels and leaks.

  ‘Less than four hours,’ van der Roos told him. ‘That was very quick to plan a mission, load the paratroopers, and take off.’

  They’re a bunch of hustlers,’ Pontowski said. Now, with de Royer, he had to wait, the burden of all commanders.

  *

  Monday, March 9

  Near Colesberg, South Africa

  *

  Skid Malone’s orders were crisp and clear as his formation of four A-10s approached the area where the Blue Train was last reported. ‘Basher flight, go tactical. Waldo, take spacing.’ His wingman moved out 2000 feet to his right and descended 1000 feet. He was stacked up sun and below Skid. That way, Waldo did not have to look into the sun to see Skid. It also worked for Skid who looked down at the ground, and not into the sun when he searched for his wingman. The second pair of two A-10s, Bull and Goat, angled off to the right for separation. They were ready to enter the area.

  ‘Herks in sight,’ Skid transmitted.

  *

  In the rear of Lifter One, the lead C-130 and command ship, the jumpmaster stood between the paratroop doors. ‘Prepare to stand!’ he bellowed in French. ‘Stand up!’ Bouchard stood and looked back over his shoulder. His men were on their feet, twenty to a side. ‘Hook up!’ Forty hands snapped their static lines to the anchor line above their heads. ‘Check equipment!’ Each man jerked and tugged at his equipment, making sure all was secure. When Bouchard was finished, he took the slack out of his static line by making a bight and clenching it tightly in his left fist.

  ‘One minute warning,’ the American navigator said over the intercom.

  ‘Stand in the door!’ the jumpmaster shouted. The red light was on. Bouchard shuffled forward, his stick behind him. He would be the first out his side, leading his legionnaires. He felt good and the right side of his face smiled.

  The red light flickered to green and Bouchard was out the door as the jumpmaster shouted: ‘Allons! Allons! Allons!’ Let’s go!’

  *

  Skid Malone rolled up on his left wing to watch the two C-130s below him as they passed over the Blue Train. Parachutes mushroomed out, swung once, and hit the ground. He keyed his radio and called Waldo. ‘Blue Force is on the ground.’

  ‘No bouncers,’ Waldo said. The legionnaires had jumped at 500 feet to minimize their time in the air. If a jumper suffered a malfunction, he would have hit the ground before his emergency chute deployed.

  Skid scanned the nearby hills and saw a few, very faint, extremely rapid flashes. ‘Lif
ter One!’ he shouted. ‘Jink! Ground fire!’ He was out of position and swore eloquently as he circled for an attack.

  *

  Jake Madison, the aircraft commander of Lifter One, heard Skid’s call and cranked the yoke to the left, turning his C-130 as hard as he dared without ripping off the wings. Immediately, he cut back to the right and pulled on the yoke, gaining altitude. Then he rolled the Hercules to the left. But it was only a feint as he rolled back to the right and descended. He danced the C-130 back and forth for another thirty seconds until he was sure they were clear.

  ‘Lifter Two,’ Madison radioed, calling the second C-130. ‘Say position.’

  ‘Right behind you,’ came the answer.

  ‘Check for damage,’ Madison ordered. His own crew checked the C-130 carefully, looking for battle damage. The loadmaster scanned the underside of the wings and raised the cargo door to check the empennage section under the tail. The flight engineer checked the fuel systems and electrical buses while the pilots did a controllability check. Both aircraft were unscathed. ‘Lifter Two, you’re cleared to return to homeplate,’ Madison transmitted, sending the second C-130 back to Ysterplaat.

  Lifter One climbed to 24,000 feet and entered a racetrack pattern, holding fifteen miles south of the Blue Train. A voice with a heavy French accent came over the UHF radio. ‘Lifter One, Blue Force is on the ground and at the train.’

  ‘Roger, Blue Force,’ Madison replied. He told his navigator to relay their status to Groundhog at Ysterplaat. He directed his copilot to fly the aircraft and grabbed his clipboard. For the next five hours they would orbit overhead and act as an airborne command ship and radio relay.

  *

  ‘Lifter,’ Skid radioed, ‘Basher One has activity on the ground.’

  ‘Cleared in hot,’ Madison answered. He almost told Skid to stay well clear of the train, but Skid had heard Pontowski explain the Rules of Engagement and it was unnecessary.

  ‘Waldo,’ Skid transmitted, ‘fly cover.’ He dropped to the deck and headed for the hillside where he had seen the flashes. He called the leader of the second flight. ‘Bull, do you have me in sight?’ Bull Menke answered in the affirmative. ‘Sequence in behind me.’

  Skid saw the train and firewalled the throttles as he dropped to 200 feet above the ground and displaced to the right of the railroad track. He jinked back and forth in small, random heading changes. But there was no reaction from the ground. ‘Come on, you son of a bitch!’ he yelled. He was deliberately challenging the gunner that had shot at the C-130s and the paratroopers.

  Ahead of him and to the right, the twin-barrels of an anti-aircraft gun slewed in his direction. It was a German 20mm Twin Gun built by Rheinmetall of Dusseldorf, and this time it was loaded with HEI, high explosive incendiary rounds, and not TP, target piercing ammunition, like the night before. The gun crew had learned from their mistakes and the loss of six friends when Gorilla’s Warthog had destroyed the other gun of their battery.

  The gunner punched the A-l0’s speed and distance into the input panel, used the joystick to acquire the warbird in his open sight, and then transitioned to the optical sight. He placed the reticle on the nose of the aircraft and mashed the joystick down, slaving the gun to the Italian-built P56 fire control system. The computer did the rest and triggered the gun automatically when it had a firing solution.

  Each of the twin barrels fired at a rate of 1000 rounds per minute and gave out a long burst of rapid, staccato-like pounding. The gunner held the joystick down, emptying the two 550-round ammo boxes that fed each barrel, and sent an almost solid stream of 20mm rounds toward the Warthog. It was payback time.

  A hard jolt shook the Warthog’s airframe and Skid felt the stick go numb, losing much of its responsiveness. ‘I’m hit!’ he yelled over the UHF. Then, much calmer, ‘Coming off to the east. Climbing. Control problems, fire on number two and losing hydraulic pressure.’ Five 20mm rounds had raked the right wing and one had hit the right engine. But Fairchild’s engineers had designed the A-10 to take battle damage and still fly. They had done their job well.

  Skid’s hands danced around the cockpit in a well-practiced routine, first retarding the right throttle, then pulling the right engine fire pull handle. His left hand dropped on to the emergency flight control panel on the left console. He glanced at the panel before throwing the switches for manual reversion, the mode that gave him a minimum amount of control so he could still fly the aircraft.

  Waldo joined on him to check for battle damage.

  The second two Warthogs cut a wide circle around the train at altitude, holding clear until Skid was out of the area. Bull keyed his UHF and called the command C-130. ‘Lifter One, Basher Three and Four can troll for the Trip A that nailed Skid.’

  ‘Basher Three and Four,’ Madison replied, ‘hold clear in case I need you to assist Basher One.’ It was a good decision and Bull pulled off to the north.

  Waldo joined on Skid and scanned the underside of the stricken Warthog. ‘It looks bad,’ he radioed. ‘The underside of your right wing is shot to shit, hydraulic fluid is pouring out, and your right engine is still on fire.’

  Skid’s breathing was labored. ‘Heading south. This Hog ain’t long for the world.’ His Warthog was sending him unmistakable signs that it was dying. The warbird lumbered south, slowly losing altitude. When it passed through 2000 feet, Skid radioed, ‘Ejecting.’

  The canopy snapped back into the airstream, the Aces II ejection seat shot up the rails, and the Warthog pitched over into its final dive as Skid’s parachute deployed, separating him from the seat. Less than three seconds after pulling the ejection handle, Skid was drifting toward the ground under a good canopy.

  Waldo orbited the chute, marking the location on his navigation computer. ‘He’s on the ground,’ Waldo radioed when Skid landed. On his second orbit, he saw four small trucks, each packed with men, racing across the open terrain and headed directly for the downed pilot. ‘Skid’s got company coming his way,’ Waldo told Lifter One.

  ‘They may be friendly,’ Madison answered.

  ‘I’ll check ’em out,’ Waldo replied. He rolled in on the lead truck arid overflew it at low level. The men in the truck waved at him. ‘They seem friendly enough,’ Waldo said.

  Skid’s voice came over the radio. ‘Skid on Guard. How do you read?’ The downed pilot was clear of his chute and transmitting on his PRC-103 Survival Radio.

  ‘Five by,’ Madison replied. ‘Four trucks headed your way. East of your position about two miles. They may be friendly.’

  ‘Sure,’ Skid said. ‘And the check’s in the mail. I think I’ll hide.’

  While Skid found a spot to hide, Madison worked the problem of mounting a search and rescue mission for Skid and checking on the status of the Blue Train. ‘I can see a lot of smoke coming from the train,’ Bull warned him.

  Bouchard’s voice came over the radio. ‘Lifter One, this is Blue Force. The train is under attack and we are taking casualties.’

  Madison was sweating hard. The situation was coming apart and he was in over his head. ‘Bull, talk to Blue Force directly and support as able. You own the area around the train.’

  ‘Shit hot!’ Bull yelled to himself. Madison had a clue. He called Bouchard and his wingman, Goat Gross, over to a discrete radio frequency.

  Skid’s voice came over the radio, low and barely audible. ‘Those trucks are hostile,’ he said. ‘They’re hosing down everything in sight.’ The pilots could hear the rattle of submachine guns in the background.

  ‘I’m in,’ Waldo radioed. ‘Say position.’

  ‘On the side of the hill to the west of the trucks,’ Skid told him. ‘About two-thirds the way up.’

  ‘That’s mighty close,’ Waldo said. He selected WD-1 on his weapons panel and the gunsight appeared in his HUD head-up-display. Because of the close distances, bombs or CBUs, cluster bomb units, were out of the question. He was going to perform 30mm surgery with his cannon. He flew down the shallow valley where the
trucks had parked and squeezed off a long burst. Three trucks exploded and he pulled up to circle for another run. The Warthog was in its element, doing what it did best. Waldo repositioned for another run and nailed the last truck with a short burst. It disappeared in a towering column of smoke and flames.

  He pulled off sharply to the right and ruddered the big fighter around, never losing sight of the trucks and the men who were running for their lives. Again, he dropped for a strafing run. Smoke belched from the nose of his Hog. Only Skid was moving when he pulled off. The pudgy, easy-going, compliant, eager-to-help Waldo was a top gun.

  ‘Waldo,’ Madison radioed, forgetting to use Waldo’s call sign Basher Two, ‘where’s Skid?’

  ‘He’s up and running over the crest of the hill,’ Waldo replied. ‘Look at the son of a bitch go!’ He could see the downed pilot sprinting down the backside of the hill, well clear of his pursuers.

  ‘This is turning into a piece of shit,’ Madison allowed.

  Waldo clicked his radio transmit button twice in agreement.

  *

  An explosion shattered the quiet and Sam heard a woman screaming in the corridor. She chanced a glance outside as two more explosions rocked the train. A legionnaire ran down the corridor shouting to them to abandon the train.

  Elizabeth Gordon stood frozen, unable to move. ‘Come on!’ Sam yelled, grabbing her camera and gadget bag. A loud explosion shattered the compartment’s window and only the heavy curtain saved them from being shredded by glass splinters. Still, Gordon didn’t move. Sam jammed two bottles of Perrier water into her bag and pushed Gordon out the door. Marcus was sitting in the corridor, his face cut by flying glass.

  ‘Help him!’ Sam shouted. Gordon ran back into the compartment and returned with a wet towel and a first aid kit. Together, they helped Marcus to his feet as smoke filled the corridor. The train was on fire. The legionnaire was back and led them to a door.