Maggot rolled back in, jinking hard, challenging the men on the ground shooting at him. Sweat poured off his face and he disregarded the sharp pings as small arms fire bounced off the cockpit’s armor plating. Two rounds punctured the canopy above his head. He pressed the attack. ‘Buns!’ he radioed.
‘Reversing now,’ his wingman replied. Buns had held to his contract and after crossing Maggot’s run in at ninety degrees, had pulled off straight ahead to clear the area for Maggot to reattack. Once he had separation, Buns pitched back into the attack, holding to the original tactic Maggot had called for.
Maggot walked a burst of cannon fire into the heart of the Triple A shooting at him. He stood the Warthog on its right wing and turned ninety degrees. Now he was heading in the same directions as Buns who was right behind him, two miles in trail. An explosion lit the ground between them and smoke pillared into the sky. Buns flew through the smoke and found his target. His cannon fired and he rolled left ninety degrees to pull away from Maggot who was in the pop again, reversing course to reattack.
In the hands of an aggressive pilot like Maggot, the Warthog was in its element and it was too much for the defenders. Shooting at the A-10s only seemed to make them more angry and more determined to reattack. It was a type of personal attention they did not want. As suddenly as they had begun, the defenders stopped firing, abandoned their weapons, and ran for safety.
‘We got ’em running,’ Maggot said over the UHF. He kicked the rudders and lined up on another target. The sight picture was perfect and he sent eighty rounds into a line of trucks. He mashed the trigger again before pulling off to the target.
‘Two’s in,’ Buns replied. ‘Got ’cha in sight.’
Maggot circled over the huts. The villagers were also running away. He wondered why so many of them were falling to the ground. He tightened up his circle and dropped to a hundred feet. A loud ‘Sumbitch!’ exploded when he saw two men shooting at the fleeing men and women. He horsed the A-10 around and climbed, never taking his eyes off the two shooters. He was flying on pure instinct. The sight picture in the HUD was perfect when he brought his Hog’s nose to bear on the shooters. He was about to perform lethal surgery, this time with malice.
His right forefinger flicked on the trigger and he fired seven rounds. The two men simply disappeared, torn apart by the high explosive cannon shells. Again, he circled the huts, relieved to see more people running away. He radioed Bouchard. ‘It looks like everybody is out of the village. Who was shooting at them?’
‘Nice work,’ Bouchard answered. ‘From here it looked like the soldiers were shooting.’
‘At their own people?’ Maggot was incredulous.
‘Trucks are moving,’ Buns interrupted.
‘CBU time,’ Maggot replied. ‘You in position?’
‘Rog,’ Buns answered.
‘Cleared in. I’ll cover.’
Buns popped to 3000 feet, rolled, and came down the wire at a twenty-degree dive angle. His airspeed was riveted on 350 knots when he hit the pickle button at 2000 feet. Four canisters of CBU-58 separated cleanly from under the wings and split open, spewing a deadly hail of baseball-sized bomblets. The exploding bomblets cut a wide path through the trucks.
‘This is too good to be true,’ Maggot radioed. ‘I’m in.’ It was a repeat of Buns’s delivery, except this time his path was at a ninety-degree angle to his wingman’s. ‘I’m clear.’ Maggot called the second flight. ‘Skid, you’re cleared in hot. We’re off to the south.’
‘Copy all,’ Skid answered.
Another voice came over the radio. ‘I hope you left some for us.’ It was Gorilla, Skid’s wingman.
‘Plenty to go around,’ Maggot assured him. ‘And the welcoming committee done left the party.’ Buns joined on his right wing and they headed for Ysterplaat.
*
Bouchard watched the second flight of two A-10s work the Azanians over. It’s turned into a turkey shoot, he thought. He focused his binoculars on a car and truck racing for safety at the far end of the valley. A lone A-10 chased them down and pulled off as a huge fireball engulfed the vehicles. The A-10 banked hard to the left and disappeared behind the dark cloud. ‘That’s some secondary,’ Rogers said. ‘I wonder what that truck was carrying?’
Bouchard shrugged an answer. The two men were silent as they watched the A-10s go about their work. There was little left that was recognizable when Gorilla mopped up. He rolled in, squeezed off a short burst of cannon fire, and pulled off. He kept close in and brought the Warthog around, a study in precision as he repeated the performance, leaving a trail of explosions and fires. All that remained in the valley was a burning desert littered with charred hulks. The small village had disappeared, blown away by the blast of two 500-pound Mark-82 AIRs that had impacted four hundred feet away.
The sharp crack of unexploded ordnance cooking off echoed over them. ‘No one’s going down there for a long time,’ Bouchard said. ‘Head for the LZ.’ He scanned the trucks with his binoculars then stood and walked away, his face a blank mask.
Rogers followed him, holding back. He had been with Bouchard long enough to know when he was angry — very angry.
*
‘Roll up the netting,’ van der Roos told his crew when Bouchard checked in on the radio. ‘It’s time to go.’
‘Captain,’ a guard said, pointing to the far side of the clearing.
Bouchard appeared out of the bush and climbed on board the helicopter without saying a word. ‘What’s the problem?’ van der Roos asked Rogers. ‘I thought it went well.’
‘It did,’ Rogers answered. ‘A walk in the park. A real bad day for the bad guys.’
‘Then why is he so angry?’
‘I guess the colonel didn’t like some of the losing spirit he saw,’ Rogers answered. ‘They were killing the villagers, their own people.’
Van der Roos shook his head. ‘The villagers were probably Vendas. Most of the Azanians are from different tribes and think Vendas are worthless cow dung. Those are their words, not mine.’
‘So it was tribalism,’ Rogers ventured.
‘It’s the African form of racism,’ van der Roos told him.
*
Thursday, April 9
Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein
*
Kreiner’s pig-like eyes darted back and forth between MacKay and the Azanian. Sweat trickled down his back as he considered his next move. He desperately wanted MacKay to be on the receiving end of Beckmann’s wrath. Can I trick the black bastard into it? he thought. He may be an American but he’s still a kaffir, as dumb as all the rest.
‘You brought him here,’ Kreiner said, ‘and you talked to him first. Since you know all the details, it would be more efficient for you to brief the Generaal.’
Much to Kreiner’s relief, MacKay agreed. ‘I can do that. Set it up.’ Kreiner jerked his head yes and made the phone call. What’s the sleazeball up to? MacKay wondered.
‘The Generaal will see you now,’ Kreiner told him.
MacKay motioned to the young Azanian and walked into Beckmann’s office. ‘Goeimôre, Generaal,’ MacKay said. A stray thought came to him: in ancient Egypt, slaves carried bad messages to the pharaohs because the bearer of bad tidings was put to death.
‘Kreiner said you had important news,’ Beckmann said.
MacKay did a quick evaluation of the man. His voice was calm and matter-of-fact and his body language neutral. ‘There is very bad news, Generaal,’ MacKay began. ‘I wish I could change it.’ He plunged ahead. ‘This man was at the Azanian headquarters when it was attacked. My informants found him and turned him over to me. He claims a German mercenary was killed who matches the description of your brother.’
Beckmann stared at MacKay, not saying a word. ‘My brother was there,’ Beckmann finally said. ‘But he has been reported killed many times before.’
MacKay told the Azanian to repeat all that he had told him and Kreiner. The story was a long one, embellished with a hundred reaso
ns why he had run from his post in the radar shack. ‘I went back after the helicopters had left,’ he told Beckmann, ‘and waited for the fire to go out in the main house.’ He described how he had found the corpse of the German tied to a chair and shot many times.
‘Why wasn’t the body burned beyond recognition?’ MacKay asked.
‘It was burned very badly,’ the Azanian answered.
‘But you are sure it was the German,’ MacKay said.
‘Oh, yes,’ the Azanian replied. ‘He had a ring ... I took it off his body ... I gave it to you.’
MacKay handed the ring over to Beckmann who turned it over and over, carefully examining it. ‘It is Erik’s ring. Our father gave one to each of us when we first saw the Voortrekker Monument. It was December 16th, the day of the Covenant and our sixteenth birthday. You see the connection? A kaffir stole mine years ago.’ He slipped the ring on his finger.
Relief flowed through MacKay and he relaxed. His worries about Beckmann were unfounded. The man was filled with remorse and sadness, not vengeance. Beckmann picked up the phone and punched a button. ‘Kreiner, please come in. You will need assistance.’ He continued to look at MacKay. ‘It is a shame,’ he murmured.
‘Please accept my regrets,’ MacKay told him.
The door burst open and Kreiner marched in with two armed guards; one had his pistol drawn and the other carried two pairs of handcuffs. Beckmann waved a hand at MacKay and the Azanian. ‘Hang them,’ he ordered.
MacKay walked briskly over to the guards, not believing they were making so many mistakes. His hands flashed and his body twisted in one continuous motion as he slapped the guard’s pistol away and jammed the rigid fingertips of his right hand into the man’s throat. He came around and kicked the other guard’s hand and his half-drawn pistol. It clattered to the floor as he kicked again, high and hard, breaking his jaw and knocking him to the ground. MacKay scooped up his pistol and fired, killing the first guard. Then he kicked the second guard in the temple.
Kreiner was moving for the door when MacKay swung the pistol at his head and knocked him to the floor. He kicked Kreiner in the stomach, doubling him up in pain. He marched back to Beckmann’s desk and slammed the pistol down, flat and hard.
‘Train your guards better,’ he said, his voice tightly controlled. ‘I meant it when I offered my regrets. But hanging me because I brought you the bad news changes nothing. Or do you only want stupid cowards around you?’
Beckmann calmly picked up the phone as if nothing had happened. ‘Please send in a medic to help Kreiner. And clean up the mess.’ He stood up. ‘Come.’ He pointed to the Azanian. ‘Bring him.’
Beckmann led the way to the security compound next to the headquarters building and spoke quietly to the lieutenant on duty. The execution played out with a speed and precision that stunned MacKay. The Azanian was stripped naked, his wrists handcuffed behind his back, and led into the interior courtyard. His legs gave out when he saw the gallows and two burly guards dragged him up the steps. A wire noose was slipped over his head and the trap door fell open. But the wire was already tight and the Azanian did not fall. Instead, he swung there, twisting in the wind as he strangled.
But nothing could quench Beckmann’s anger. An inner voice demanded revenge for his brother’s death while another chastised him for inaction. The voice that had always urged caution grew weaker and weaker. Finally, he turned to MacKay. ‘Do not disobey me again. Come with me.’ MacKay followed him back to the headquarters building.
*
The crazy mutha has totally lost it, MacKay warned himself for at least the sixth time. He listened while Beckmann talked to his staff as if nothing had happened and they were discussing the normal business that each day brought. But there was nothing normal about what Beckmann was planning.
‘The so-called UN peacekeepers have finally shown their true colors,’ he said, letting emotion flow into his words. ‘Their attack on the Azanians was a warning that we must not ignore. We must send them a message in the only terms they understand.’ He was in full flow, his words carrying his audience. ‘But we must not forget the traitors among us. Too many of our brothers who dare to call themselves Voortrekkers are deserting the Boerstaat and seeking refuge in Cape Town. We must expel the United Nations foreigners from our land and punish these traitors! It is time for action! Action!’
How do I warn them of what’s coming? MacKay thought. The room echoed with shouts of ‘Blut und Boden!’ What have I gotten into?
*
Friday, April 10
UN Headquarters, Constantia, Cape Town
*
De Royer had returned from Paris the day after the attack on the Azanians and promptly disappeared. Pontowski caught a brief glimpse of the general on Thursday morning, but other than that, de Royer was a ghost in his own headquarters. The summons finally came Friday morning when Bouchard asked Pontowski to join the general in the gardens. ‘Does he know the details of the attack?’ Pontowski asked.
‘Both of our after-action reports are on his desk,’ Bouchard said.
Pontowski found the general walking slowly down a path, his head bent. ‘Sir,’ Pontowski said, catching his attention.
De Royer did not look up and continued to pace in silence. Pontowski fell in beside him. ‘I do not understand the actions of your government,’ de Royer said.
‘Most of the time, I can’t figure out what they’re doing either.’
De Royer glanced at him. ‘Why did they refuse your promotion?’
‘Politics,’ Pontowski allowed. ‘I was only frocked, breveted, allowed to wear my new rank until the Senate approved the promotion list. They disapproved my promotion and I was returned to my former rank.’
‘In my country,’ de Royer said, ‘only priests are unfrocked. Generals are shot. I like your system better.’
Pontowski chuckled. The general had actually made a joke. ‘You need someone with higher rank for your vice commander. The Air Force has lots of brigadiers who can do my job.’
‘I was in contact with your Secretary of Defense,’ de Royer said. ‘Doctor Elkins says you will be promoted. I want you to remain as my second in command.’
Pontowski was shocked. ‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate your confidence. But personally, I think Doctor Elkins is blowing a lot of smoke. There is no way the Senate will ever confirm my promotion now.’
De Royer shook his head. ‘You are just like Bouchard. You don’t know your own worth.’
‘General,’ Pontowski said, ‘I want to start flying again.’
‘D’accord,’ de Royer said. ‘There are times when we must be with our men, when we must share their danger. It is the price of leadership.’ The general fell silent and slowly paced the garden, his steps measured and rhythmic. ‘I was almost relieved of my command,’ he said. ‘That is why I was delayed in returning. They don’t understand what we are doing here.’
‘Exactly what are we doing?’ Pontowski asked.
‘At first, I was allowed to do nothing different and there was no larger strategy for keeping the peace. Now, thanks to your President, we are developing a new concept of operations for United Nations peacekeeping operations. But it is a trial and error experience while we learn. The way you used South African helicopters is an example of what can be done.’
‘We proved that we could do it at Kimberley,’ Pontowski told him. ‘Then we decided to integrate them on the raid against the Azanians. But both times we were improvising from the word go and were damn’ lucky.’
‘But you had the resolve to carry it through to a successful conclusion. It worked because the politicians were not involved and you had the freedom to act. Now the politicians must deal with success.’
‘Being successful, or right, is not always the politically astute course in my country,’ Pontowski said.
‘It is the same in my country,’ de Royer replied.
‘One question, sir. What would you have done if we had failed?’
For the firs
t time, de Royer smiled. ‘Recommended you for a court-martial, of course.’
‘But of course,’ Pontowski muttered. ‘So what now?’
De Royer’s head came up. ‘We will continue.’
*
Elena Martine was waiting for them in de Royer’s office. As always, she was elegantly cool and composed, with a hint of sexuality lurking below the surface. ‘Charles,’ she chided when they entered, ‘you have been avoiding me.’ De Royer did not respond and handed his képi to Bouchard. He walked over and stood looking out the window.
‘I have tried to discuss the Azanian affair with Minister Pendulo,’ she told them. ‘But he refuses to discuss it until his investigation is complete.’
‘What has he discovered?’ Pontowski asked.
‘Nothing,’ Elena answered. ‘He has sealed off the area and refused access to my inspectors, the press, everyone. He claims it is an internal matter.’
‘Pendulo knows what happened,’ de Royer told her.
‘How does he know?’ Elena asked, her voice much lower than normal.
‘I told him we bombed the Azanians,’ de Royer said.
‘What was the justification?’ Elena asked angrily.
‘It was in response to Kimberley,’ de Royer replied. ‘Think of it as retroactive self-defense.’
Elena shook her head. ‘Retroactive self-defense? There is no such thing.’
‘An idea whose time has come,’ Pontowski mumbled under his breath.
‘The operation against the Azanians was outside the scope of our operations,’ Elena protested. ‘And I was not consulted.’
De Royer turned and fixed her with his dead-fish stare. ‘Of course not.’ He turned back to the window. The meeting was over and Pontowski escorted her to the parking lot and her BMW.
She hesitated before opening the door. ‘Matt, dinner Saturday night? My place?’ Before he could answer, her fingers brushed lightly against his hand and lingered for a moment. ‘Eight o’clock?’ she murmured.
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