Lydia Kowalski answered. ‘Vixen has refueled and is inbound.’ Vixen was the call sign for the Puma helicopter.
‘If it’s comin’,’ Gorilla replied, ‘I hope it’s panting hard, because Skid is. He’s been running for over an hour.’
‘Vixen copies all,’ van der Roos radioed. He had pushed the Puma to the red line and the indicated airspeed needle was bouncing off 150 knots.
‘Sandy,’ Kowalski asked, ‘can you discourage the opposition until Vixen is on station?’
‘We will if we can see ’em,’ Gorilla promised. Now it became a waiting game. Twice, Gorilla and Bag flew low passes hoping for a shot at Malone’s pursuers. Both times they lost sight of their target because of blowing dust and dirt. ‘The vis is getting worse,’ Gorilla radioed.
‘I have the Sandies in sight,’ van der Roos transmitted.
‘No tally on Skid,’ Gorilla said.
Malone’s voice came over the radio. ‘I’m in ... a gully.’ He was tiring but still running.
Gorilla rocked his Warthog up on its right wing and flew a tight circle at two hundred feet above the ground. Below him the wind was worse. On his second orbit, he saw a wide gully. Momentarily, he caught sight of two of the pursuers. One paused long enough to squeeze off a short burst of submachine gun fire at the A-10 before he started to run again. ‘I’ve got two of the bad guys in sight,’ Gorilla radioed. ‘I think they’re closing in.’
‘Where’s Skid?’ Bag asked.
‘No clue,’ Gorilla replied. ‘My best guess is that he’s a little ways in front.’
Van der Roos took over. ‘Sandy,’ he radioed, ‘you lead, I’ll follow. Run in from behind the bad guys and call when you’re overhead their position. I’ll be right behind you.’
Gorilla acknowledged and rolled in. He dropped his flaps and slowed so he wouldn’t outrun the helicopter. This time, he saw all four of Skid’s pursuers. He passed over and made the radio call. ‘Overhead now.’ At the same instant, he saw the pilot. ‘Skid’s less than fifty yards in front!’ he yelled.
‘Roger,’ van der Roos answered. His voice was calm, sounding a touch bored. He dropped his helicopter down to fifty feet and overflew the four men. He rolled into a tight right turn and told the American sergeant standing in the door to fire. The 7.62mm machine gun hammered away, deafening the men in the rear of the Puma.
‘I can’t see squat all,’ the gunner reported. ‘But nobody’s movin’ around down there.’
‘Cease fire, cease fire,’ van der Roos ordered. ‘I’ve got him in sight. We’re passing overhead ... now.’ The Puma passed over Malone and settled to the ground, less than twenty yards in front of him. The gunner swung the machine gun aside and pulled Malone on board.
‘GO!’ the gunner shouted into his boom mike. ‘We got him!’ Then, ‘We’re taking ground fire!’
‘Return the favor,’ van der Roos grunted as he lifted the Puma into the air. The machine guns on both sides of the Puma erupted, firing blind. ‘How’s our passenger?’
‘He’s a mess from running through thorn bushes,’ the gunner answered. ‘He’s cut up pretty bad.’ A short pause. ‘I’ve got him on a headset. You can talk while I clean him up.’
‘Where’s the beer?’ Malone asked. He had a raging thirst and felt he had earned it.
‘Sorry,’ van der Roos answered, ‘all our flight attendants are on strike demanding safer working conditions. What happened on the ground?’ Malone told them about his escape and the long run through the bush. ‘You sure you got the two white men?’ van der Roos asked.
‘They sure as hell looked dead,’ Malone answered. ‘I didn’t hang around to find out. The other four were after me in a flash. Those bastards can run.’ There was a grudging respect in his voice.
‘Can you can find the place again?’ the pilot asked.
‘In this blowin’ crap?’ Malone answered. ‘Who knows?’
The Puma banked to the left. ‘Let’s give it a try,’ van der Roos said.
‘Why?’
‘To get the bodies,’ van der Roos replied. ‘I want to know who was shooting at us.’
*
Tuesday, March 10
Near Colesberg, South Africa
*
‘Basher flight,’ Kowalski radioed. ‘I have trade for you.’
‘Go ahead, Lifter,’ Bull Menke answered.
‘Sterilize the open areas to the east and behind the train,’ Kowalski ordered.
‘Can do,’ Bull answered. The two Warthogs split apart to gain separation and sequence their attack. It looked easy as they rolled in one after another, pickling off their CBUs and repositioning for another run. The CBU, cluster bomb unit, was a bomb-like canister the A-10s used for area denial and soft targets. When one was released, it split open like a clamshell and spread 650 baseball-sized bomblets over a wide area. Each bomblet exploded into 260 fragments like a grenade and were guaranteed to discourage trespassing.
Bouchard’s voice came over the radio. ‘Blue Force is in radio contact with a commando,’ he told Kowalski. ‘Do you have an FM radio?’
‘Negative FM capability,’ Kowalski replied. ‘You will have to relay.’
‘The commando requests you stop bombing the area,’ Bouchard said.
‘What the hell is a commando?’ Bull asked.
‘The cavalry,’ Kowalski answered.
*
Sam’s ears were still ringing from the last of the CBUs when she saw Gordon running her way. The reporter darted from boulder to boulder, making use of whatever cover was available on the side of the ravine. She skidded to the ground next to Sam. ‘Any water?’ she asked. Sam handed her the last of the water they had taken from the train. Gordon took a small swallow and passed it back. ‘Give the rest to Marcus,’ she said. ‘Get your Betacam and let’s go.’
‘What’s happening?’ Sam asked.
‘According to Bouchard, we’re about to be rescued. He’s really angry.’
‘Whatever for?’ Sam asked.
‘It’s the Iron Guard doing the rescuing,’ Gordon told her.
Before they could move, gunfire erupted on their right. ‘It sounds different,’ Sam said. They heard the dull whump of mortars firing from behind them. Sam chanced a look and bobbed her head above the edge of the ravine. The hill on the far side of the train was laced with puffs of smoke as the mortars found their targets. She looked again. Two pickup trucks with machine guns mounted in the back were racing toward the hill. The gunners were firing and clearing a path for the trucks behind them. Sam stood up and recorded the action.
*
When the lead pickup truck reached the base of the hill, Sergeant Michael Shivuto radioed for his men to cease fire, abandon their weapons, and disappear. Shivuto focused his binoculars on Beckmann as he got out of the lead pickup and motioned his men to sweep the area, firing into the underbrush and lobbing grenades as they advanced up the hill away from Shivuto’s position. All was going as planned. Beckmann walked toward the spot where Shivuto was hidden.
When Beckmann was less than ten meters away, Shivuto stood up. He could see a pleasant smile on Beckmann’s face. ‘Koevoet did well,’ Beckmann called.
Shivuto nodded, basking in the general’s praise. All had gone exactly to plan and Koevoet had stopped the Blue Train. Beckmann motioned to him and Shivuto scrambled down the steep slope. Beckmann was still smiling pleasantly when he raised his submachine gun and fired, stitching Shivuto’s chest with six rounds.
‘Stupid kaffir,’ he muttered. ‘He should have surrendered as instructed.’
*
‘They put up almost no resistance, abandoned their weapons and fled into the bush,’ Beckmann told Bouchard. Sam zoomed in as the two men talked and framed Beckmann. Behind them, exhausted passengers were being loaded on to trucks for the journey to Bloemfontein.
‘I want to examine the bodies and weapons,’ Bouchard said.
Sam followed the men as they walked to a remote spot on the far side of the train. ‘
As I expected,’ Beckmann said, ‘it was a typical mix of AK-47s, RPGs, and stolen weapons. Kaffirs make good terrorists, not soldiers, and we only found one body.’ Beckmann nudged Shivuto’s body with his toe. ‘He had a radio and map and was probably the leader, but who knows?’
Sam panned the pile of weapons and for a reason she did not understand, briefly zoomed in on Shivuto. That’s the man that wanted to kill us, she thought. She lowered the Betacam and walked back to the trucks and Gordon. They still had to interview the survivors.
*
Wednesday, March 11
UN Headquarters, Constantia, Cape Town
*
Pontowski walked into de Royer’s offices at exactly six a.m. Van der Roos was right behind him carrying a briefing board with flip charts. Both men were showered and shaved and dressed in service uniforms as demanded by de Royer. Neither had slept and their fatigue was obvious, but they were ready. ‘Time to beard the lion in his den,’ Pontowski told his aide.
‘Mais oui,’ van der Roos agreed.
De Royer sat at his desk and listened without comment as Pontowski recapped the attack on the Blue Train, the successful SAR for Skid Malone, and how the Iron Guard had finally rescued the passengers and Blue Force. None of the anger Pontowski had seen Monday afternoon was there and the general was his normal, impassive self. But Pontowski sensed something different. Or, he thought, am I finally learning how to read the man?
When Pontowski had finished, the general stood and looked out the window, focusing on the sky. A bearded wisp of cloud was rolling off the top of Table Mountain and trailing out to the south.
‘There are many unanswered questions,’ de Royer said. ‘I am convinced the Iron Guard is behind the attack. But we have no proof other than a few captured weapons and I cannot act on suspicions. There is still the matter of the bomb that was dropped on the Blue Train that killed six people. Where did it come from? The Ministry of Defense is adamant that none of their aircraft were flying.’
The Iron Guard has a few Aeros,’ Pontowski said.
‘Unfortunately, no one saw the aircraft,’ de Royer said. ‘At least we know it wasn’t ours.’
Now it’s ‘ours’ and not ‘my’ aircraft, Pontowski thought. Well, that was some progress.
‘Also,’ de Royer continued, ‘there are the two men who Captain Malone killed and Captain van der Roos recovered. They were white, not wearing uniforms, and were well armed.’ De Royer sat down and fixed Pontowski with the old stare. ‘Finally, there has been a most unfortunate newscast by your Elizabeth Gordon who was on the train.’
Things are back to normal, Pontowski decided. ‘She’s not mine, General,’ Pontowski assured him. ‘I haven’t seen it.’
‘She is more aggressive than the other reporters covering our operation and her stories have caused severe criticism in your country,’ de Royer said. ‘She described my command as “amateurish” and the Iron Guard as a militia of volunteers protecting their country.’
‘Did she accuse us of dropping that bomb?’ Pontowski asked.
‘No,’ de Royer answered. ‘She was very clear on that. The situation is very confused, your government is reacting badly, and I have been summoned to the UN in New York. Until I return, I have stopped all operations.’ He fell silent and thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps this is an opportunity to present our case to the public.’
He walked over to the flip charts and turned the pages until he found the details on the death of Staff Sergeant Patricia Owens. He turned to van der Roos. ‘Arrange transportation for me, General Pontowski, and Sergeant Owens to Washington, D.C. We must all travel on the same plane. Military honors on arrival for Sergeant Owens with the press in attendance.’ He walked to the window. Pontowski assumed the meeting was over and started to leave.
‘General Pontowski, tell your people that I am very pleased with their performance.’
Back in his office, Pontowski telephoned Leonard at the air base. He quickly explained that he and de Royer were taking the body of Sergeant Owens back to the States and to pass on the general’s compliments to the working troops. ‘Tango, while I’m gone, I don’t want you flying. I need you on the ground to run the show.’
‘You’re doing a de Royer on me,’ Leonard protested. ‘I’m running a wing, not flying a desk at some headquarters.’
Pontowski remembered the bitterness he had felt when de Royer had grounded him. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Make Kowalski your deputy commander ...’
‘Kowalski!’ Leonard protested. ‘Give me a break. My God, the woman was passed over ...’
‘She can hack it,’ Pontowski shot back. ‘You want to fly? One of you is always on the ground.’
‘Will do, Boss.’
Pontowski hung up and spent the next hour clearing his desk. Finally, he stood up and looked out the window. I need some exercise, he told himself. Now what in the hell is bothering me? A vague itch at the back of his mind was tormenting him — something that he had forgotten or overlooked. But he couldn’t find it to give it a hard scratch.
Forget it, he told himself.
*
Thursday, March 12
Bloemfontein, South Africa
*
Sam climbed the scaffold that had been erected in King’s Park for the TV crews filming the rally. The CBS director was arguing with the media coordinator that ‘Dan is not going to like this type of treatment’, while the CNN crew fought with the BBC crew for the best position. Rather than fight with the heavyweights, she shouldered her Betacam, climbed down the stairs, and searched for Gordon.
She jostled her way through the crowd that was filling King’s Park as the sun set. Twice, she stopped to shoot families dressed in voortrekker costumes. Her press card gained her access to the area behind the wooden stage and she found Gordon sipping champagne under a marquee with the other distinguished guests. Sam hit the record button and panned the group before focusing on Gordon. Sam gave her high marks for her recovery from the ordeal on the Blue Train. Her long skirt and matching safari shirt were perfect for the occasion. A silk scarf held her hair in a loose bundle over one shoulder and not a strand was out of place.
Sam was all too aware that her own cheek was still badly bruised from the blow by Pendulo’s goon. But she wasn’t the one in front of the camera. She tried to catch Gordon’s attention but too many dignitaries were surrounding her. Nice to be a guest of honor, Sam thought as she made her way back through the park filming the crowd.
It was dark when she saw the torches coming through the city and up the boulevard. Little girls in voortrekker costumes ran past her, their faces flushed with excitement. ‘Sam,’ Gordon said from behind her, ‘give me the microphone.’ Sam turned and smiled. Gordon was still being the reporter and not giving into the celebrity status Beckmann had heaped on her as the ‘heroine of the train’. Well, at least not totally.
A huge bonfire had been lit and cast eerie shadows across the crowd as an ox-drawn wagon groaned past with a family in voortrekker costumes. A young giant of a man led the ox, his beard full grown, a long-stemmed pipe clenched between his teeth. Sam recorded the scene, focusing on the beautiful young woman sitting on the seat. Her blonde hair caught the torchlight and her dress was carefully arranged. A little boy, a miniature of his father, sat beside her, also dressed in costume.
Gordon was talking as the procession wound past: ‘... a scene from the past as the citizens of Bloemfontein honor the Iron Guard.’ Now the marchers paraded by, each carrying a torch. Then came the battered pickups and trucks carrying the commandos who had rescued the Blue Train. ‘The excitement is electric,’ Gordon said, ‘moving and delighting the crowd.’ As if by magic, they parted, forming a corridor leading to the stage. A lone man walked forward followed by a small group of the militia who had answered the call to rescue the train.
It was Beckmann wearing the battle dress uniform that had become his trademark with a beret stuffed under an epaulet. He took the stage as cheer after cheer roared over him,
a tidal wave of emotion and triumph. He started to speak in Afrikaans, his voice low and husky, compelling the two Americans to listen even though they didn’t understand a word. ‘What’s he saying?’ Gordon asked.
The man standing next to her partially translated. ‘An island of peace in a sea of chaos ... with our black brothers who are with us, we can march into the future ... Are we afraid of the future? ... We alone can hold the laager of freedom against the forces of violence ... this is our land ... do not forget your heritage ... your covenant with the land ... Think with your blood!’
The crowd surged forward, chanting: ‘Blut und Boden! Blut und Boden!’
Gordon turned to face the lens. ‘Hans Beckmann has electrified this crowd with his vision of a future. Perhaps we are witnessing a rebirth of this nation.’
Sam lowered her Betacam, staring at Gordon. The reporter was glowing with excitement. Sam turned and walked back to their hotel, sick with what she had seen. It was pure Nuremberg.
*
Friday, March 13
The Capitol, Washington, D.C.
*
Carroll sat at the witness table of the closed committee hearing while Mazie fanned out a stack of documents and reports on the table. Arrayed in front of them was a tier of senators and representatives, the Joint Senate-House Select Committee on Intelligence. As usual, a large group of aides milled around behind the seated legislators, ready to be of instant service.
The cantankerous chairman puffed a cigar to life and sent a bilious wave of smoke cascading over his fellow committee members. He smiled when he heard Ann Nevers politely choking. He was certain she would not complain and risk his displeasure. He gaveled the session to order. ‘Mr Carroll,’ he began, ‘let me personally thank you for appearing before this committee. Hopefully, we will not take too much of your valuable time.’
Carroll spoke into his microphone, carefully choosing his words. ‘Thank you, Senator. Please let me introduce my special assistant, Mrs Mazie Hazelton. While I will answer every question, in some cases I would prefer to let Mrs Hazelton fill in the details.’
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