Pontowski watched her drive away. Is Bouchard right about her? he wondered. Is she using sex to control me? Maybe it was time to find out. ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ he muttered to himself. Then, ‘Duty is a terrible burden.’
He laughed and headed for his car. He was going to go fly.
*
Friday, April 10
Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town
*
Lydia Kowalski cornered Pontowski the moment she saw him in the COIC. ‘Have you seen this?’ she said, handing him a message. ‘Those dick heads have disapproved your request for more C-130s and Warthogs. We only get replacements.’
He read the message and handed it back. ‘Are you surprised? We’ve been unwanted step-children from the word go. We’ve got to do this one on the cheap.’ He changed the subject. ‘How are the helicopter jocks working out?’
‘Great,’ she told him. ‘They’re a fine bunch of guys.’
‘Most people are,’ he said. ‘Especially after you get to know them. Even de Royer.’ She gave him a look of pure disbelief. ‘He’s cleared me to fly again.’
‘All right!’
‘But I’m not current,’ Pontowski said. ‘Schedule me with an instructor pilot.’
‘Waldo’s free.’
‘Waldo?’ he asked.
‘Waldo. He’s a great IP.’
*
Pontowski scrambled up the boarding ladder and over the canopy rail of the waiting A-10. He settled into the cockpit and savored the moment as he pressed his back against the hard seat cushion. This is where I belong, he thought. Not in some office pushing paper.
He went through the routine, strapping himself into the A-10 before he donned his helmet and gloves. He hesitated. His hands should have been flying around the cockpit automatically, setting switches and punching in numbers, as he brought the Hog to life. He glanced over at Waldo. His head was bent over as he went through his routine. Get out the checklist, Pontowski thought.
‘Damn,’ he muttered. It wasn’t right. He had never referred to a checklist before. It was part of him, committed to memory and as much of his flying skills as the unconscious use of the rudders. He had been out of the cockpit too long. ‘Waldo!’ he shouted, getting the captain’s attention. Pontowski made a slashing motion across his throat and motioned for them to get out.
‘What’s the matter?’ Waldo asked when he reached Pontowski’s Warthog. ‘I was ready to go do it.’
‘But I wasn’t,’ Pontowski admitted. ‘You need to run me through some cockpit training before I kill myself. We’re going to be here for a while.’ They pushed a maintenance stand up against the cockpit for Waldo to stand on while he drilled his commander.
Kowalski and Maggot were waiting when Pontowski walked in from the flight line with Waldo. ‘Boss, what happened?’ Maggot asked.
‘I got a lesson in humility,’ Pontowski answered. ‘I was too eager to fly and had gotten rusty.’
‘It happens to all of us,’ Kowalski said.
Chapter 21
Sunday, April 12
Bantry Bay, Cape Town
*
The morning came hard for Pontowski, as it always did, and he fought off the shadows of sleep as he tried to focus. Sunday morning, he thought. Elena’s. She murmured and turned into him, shedding the blanket. Her naked body glowed in the half-light as she stretched, arching her back, pressing her stomach against his. Then she collapsed against him, murmuring as a leg twisted around his. She went back to sleep. He sucked in his breath as he felt the stirrings of a fresh erection.
Hesitantly, he stroked her back. He wanted to look at her and caress every part of her body. She was breathtaking, perfectly proportioned and smooth. Her breasts pressed against his chest and he could feel her heart beat. The memory of last night was still warm and fresh; the way she had whispered and loved him with tenderness and then wild abandon, always holding him.
He had not been so alive since ... since Shoshana, he told himself. He reached down and pulled the blanket up.
She rolled over and up on an elbow. She looked at him dreamily, her hair hanging down, caressing him. ‘Matt,’ she murmured. Then she collapsed against him and cuddled her face against his chest. He slept.
The phone jarred him awake and he was vaguely aware of Elena reaching over him to answer it. She handed him the phone. It was Waldo Walderman, the ever-present duty officer. ‘Colonel, we got a problem and need you in the COIC.’
‘Be right there,’ Pontowski told him. He hung up. ‘I’ve got to go to work,’ he told her.
Elena leaned against him. ‘I had plans for today,’ she said. ‘You and me, alone.’ She nuzzled his ear. ‘Can’t it wait?’
‘I wish it could,’ he said, rolling out of bed. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched him get dressed. Then she walked with him to the door, still naked.
‘Come back if you can,’ she murmured.
‘I will,’ he promised. Outside he ran for his car.
*
Sunday, April 12
Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town
*
People were streaming into the COIC when Pontowski arrived. ‘What’s going down?’ he asked Waldo.
The UN command center called twenty minutes ago,’ Waldo told him. ‘They’ve lost all contact with the safe zone at Van Wyksvlei. So I called you and Colonel Kowalski. She ordered a recall and a loadout.’ He pointed toward the command post. ‘She’s in there.’
‘Good work,’ Pontowski told him.
Waldo watched as Pontowski went through the door into the command post. ‘Talk about a well-laid look,’ Waldo muttered to himself. He had heard the rumors about Martine, and Pontowski had left her telephone number in case he needed to be contacted. Well, rank did have its privileges.
Pontowski sat beside Kowalski at the commander’s console and watched the big board, marking time as aircraft and crews came on status. Bouchard’s wrong about Elena, he thought. She’s not using sex to influence me.
The last A-10 radioed in as manned and ready to launch. ‘We’re ready to go,’ she told him. ‘What now?’
He reached for the hot line to de Royer’s command center. ‘Time to find out,’ he said. In short order, he had his marching orders from de Royer and hung up. ‘They’ve also lost contact with a convoy,’ he told Kowalski. ‘The general wants us to do a road recce and fly a QRF team into Van Wyksvlei. The team should be here in twenty minutes. Launch one C-130 and two Hogs for a CAP.’
*
Sunday, April 12
Near Van Wyksvlei, South Africa
*
Maggot flew a lazy eight pattern along the road leading north to the safe zone at Van Wyksvlei. His wingman, Bag Talbot, was on the opposite side and always crossed behind him on the crossover, clearing Maggot’s six o’clock position. Three miles ahead, Maggot saw six white trucks strung out along the deserted road. ‘Convoy in sight,’ he transmitted over the UHF radio. Brenda Conklin acknowledged the call from her C-130, five miles in trail. Her copilot relayed the information to Groundhog, the command post in the COIC.
Maggot flew a tight orbit overhead the convoy at 2000 feet before dropping to a lower altitude. ‘Negative movement,’ he told his wingman. ‘Checking it out.’ Maggot nosed his Warthog over and dropped to 500 feet. ‘I don’t see any damage,’ he radioed, ‘no signs of life.’ There was a long pause as Maggot slowed and descended to 100 feet above the trucks. ‘Oh, shit!’ he roared over the radio as he ballooned his jet, trading every bit of airspeed and power he had for altitude.
‘Bag, standoff,’ Maggot said, his words fast and clipped over the radio.
‘What’s the matter?’ Bag asked. ‘I didn’t see any reaction from the ground.’
‘They’re all dead,’ Maggot said. ‘Most are still in the trucks. I saw two bodies on the shoulder.’
Bag made the connection. ‘NBC?’ NBC was nuclear, biological and chemical warfare.
‘Like in China,’ Maggot answered. Both p
ilots had seen mustard gas used on civilians when they had been in China.
‘Do you have any symptoms?’ Bag asked him.
‘Negative,’ Maggot answered, his breathing slowing.
Conklin interrupted them. ‘Say all again.’
Maggot quickly repeated what he had seen. ‘Tell Groundhog we are negative NBC gear and proceeding to Van Wyksvlei.’ The two A-10s climbed to 10,000 feet and headed north.
Conklin came back over the radio. ‘Groundhog says to stand clear at Van Wyksvlei,’ she told them.
‘I don’t need any convincing,’ Maggot grumbled. ‘Airpatch in sight.’ Ahead of him, he could see the small town of Van Wyksvlei and the airstrip to the west. The two Warthogs circled high above the runway. ‘I can’t see too much from up here,’ Maggot told Conklin.
‘We’ll check it out with binocs,’ Conklin told them. ‘We’re at eight thou, ingressing from the south.’ Conklin overflew the runway at 8000 feet and set up a tight orbit. ‘Negative movement on the ground,’ she reported. ‘The field scans clean for damage. RTB.’ Return to base.
‘Roger on the RTB,’ Maggot said. ‘Call for decontamination on landing. I’ll see if I can find a cloud to fly through on the way back.’
*
Sunday, April 12
Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town
*
Elena was standing next to Pontowski in the control tower gasping for breath after the long run up the steps. She had been at the UN command center with de Royer when the wing had called reporting a suspected chemical attack. She had hurried to the base while de Royer called the UN Secretary General. ‘Are you sure it was gas?’ she finally managed.
‘We won’t know for sure until we get an NBC team on the scene,’ Pontowski told her. ‘Have you ever seen a decontamination?’ She shook her head, still short of breath. ‘Maggot’s going to need one when he lands. He’s probably okay since he hasn’t reported any symptoms. But a hundred feet above the convoy got him right into the envelope. He flew through a few clouds on his way back but we can’t take a chance.’
He pointed to an area on the far side of the base. ‘They’ll test for chemicals before and after scrubbing Maggot’s Hog down. Then he can get out.’ He handed her a pair of binoculars.
They watched as four dark-suited figures surrounded Maggot’s A-10 and scrubbed the jet down with long-handled brushes. Then the aircraft was hosed down. The decon crew,’ Pontowski told her, ‘are wearing MOPP suits. MOPP stands for Mission Operative Protection Posture.’ It took over twenty minutes before Maggot’s canopy opened and he crawled out.
The tower controller caught their attention. ‘General de Royer is on the secure line in the command post,’ he told them. Pontowski thanked him and headed down the stairs with Elena right behind.
The conversation with de Royer was very short and to the point. ‘A group of voortrekkers are being attacked near Beaufort West,’ the general told him. ‘They are in a laager and can’t hold out much longer. Pendulo doesn’t trust his own generals to respond and has asked for our help. I’m sending in four Pumas and the Quick Reaction Force.’
Pontowski recalled the time he had passed by Trektown, the voortrekker camp, when he and Sam Darnell were returning from the van der Roos winery in Paarl. It seemed like a century had passed since then. ‘You’ll need A-10s for close air support,’ he said.
‘D’accord,’ de Royer replied. He broke the connection.
This is turning into Black Sunday, Pontowski thought. How much more can go wrong? He found out when Maggot came into the command post. ‘Was it chemical?’ Pontowski asked.
‘Fuckin’ A right it was,’ Maggot answered. ‘The decon team found traces of Sarin.’
‘It’s a whole new ball game,’ Pontowski said grimly.
‘What’s Sarin?’ Elena asked.
‘A nerve gas developed by the Germans in World War II,’ Pontowski told her.
*
Sunday, April 12
Near Beaufort West, South Africa
*
The A-10 overflew the smoking wreckage on the ground and pulled up. ‘Looks quiet,’ Skid Malone radioed.
The second A-10 crossed at a thirty-degree angle, much slower and lower. ‘Somebody is moving down there,’ Gorilla Moreno transmitted. ‘They didn’t use nerve gas here.’
Skid radioed for the Pumas to come in as the two Warthogs set up a CAP over the circle of destroyed vehicles. ‘Lots of smoke and fires,’ Skid said. ‘Not much left down there.’
‘Only hot fingernails, hemorrhoids and eyeballs,’ Gorilla told him. It was a try at black humor, anything to gloss over what they were seeing on the ground.
The first two Puma helicopters descended into the area and landed on the nearby highway. Sixteen legionnaires jumped out of each Puma and set up a defensive perimeter. A third helicopter circled the smoldering wreckage before landing. Twelve more legionnaires quickly jumped out. Then a tall figure emerged out of the passenger compartment. It was de Royer. He was dressed in the same BDUs as the legionnaires but instead of wearing a blue helmet, he wore a blue beret.
Piet van der Roos climbed out of the cockpit. ‘The area is not secure,’ van der Roos told de Royer. The general gave him a cold look and walked towards what had been a defensive laager of vehicles thrown up by the voortrekkers. ‘I cannot believe this,’ van der Roos kept repeating as he followed the general. Over a hundred Afrikaners, men, women, and children, had been butchered. A lone woman, the survivor Gorilla had seen, was on her knees beside a dead child, rocking back and forth.
De Royer poked through the wreckage, his eyes drawn into narrow slits. ‘It was a massacre,’ he told van der Roos.
The shrill incoming shriek of mortar rounds drove van der Roos to the ground. But de Royer only stood there, a tall target in the afternoon sun. Calmly, he keyed his hand-held radio and directed Skid on to the mortars. Gunfire kicked up the ground around him as he called in Gorilla.
From flat on the ground, van der Roos watched fascinated as the general orchestrated the attack and directed his legionnaires to sweep the area. Shamed, van der Roos stood up as bullets whistled around him. Slowly, the gunfire died away. A lone Warthog flew over and waggled its wings. De Royer threw the departing aircraft a sharp salute and continued to walk through the burnt-out vehicles. He nudged a doll aside with his toe.
‘The attack on the voortrekkers was the bait to draw us here for an ambush,’ he told van der Roos. ‘They miscalculated.’ They walked back to the highway where the legionnaires had stacked captured assault rifles, two heavy machine guns and a mortar tube. De Royer spoke into his radio. ‘You may join us now, Mr Pendulo.’
A fourth Puma hovered into view and landed. The side door slid back and the South African Minister of Defense appeared. He looked around as Elena Martine climbed down and extended a hand to help him out. They walked over to the pile of captured arms. ‘Is this all?’ he asked.
De Royer speared him with a drop-dead look. ‘We are still searching,’ he said. Two legionnaires appeared carrying the body of a Caucasian and dumped it next to the arms. ‘We found him with six Africans,’ one legionnaire said.
‘A mercenary,’ Pendulo announced.
De Royer examined the body. ‘Search him.’ He walked over to the weapons and knelt down on one knee. ‘All are German or Italian,’ he said.
Van der Roos bent over and carefully examined them. ‘They are all new,’ he said. Then, more forcefully, ‘Who would do such a thing?’
‘We shall find out,’ de Royer told him.
‘We must leave, we must leave,’ Pendulo whined in the background. Panic was caught in his voice. ‘I should have never come here.’
De Royer ignored him. ‘Show me the other bodies,’ he ordered.
‘Where was our army?’ van der Roos asked. ‘Why did my country let this happen?’
‘Ask him,’ de Royer said, jerking his head in the direction of Pendulo.
*
Monday, April 13
UN Headquarters, Constantia, Cape Town
*
The TV screen flickered with a life of its own, mesmerizing the small audience in de Royer’s office. Pontowski stood beside the TV set, explaining the action. ‘According to Maggot, this is exactly the way Van Wyksvlei looked when he overflew it yesterday.’
But this time, the scene on the TV was from the flight deck of a C-130 and not from the cockpit of a Warthog. The crew were wearing MOPP suits which gave them an alien appearance. The photographer had plugged the video camera’s audio into the intercom and the voices sounded hollow and strained. Lydia Kowalski’s voice sounded the truest as she landed the Hercules.
The minicam video camera continued to record the action as the C-130 rolled out, turned on to the narrow taxi way and stopped. Two NBC specialists got off with their detection kits and automatic sensors. They moved quickly out in front of the aircraft and ran their tests. Satisfied that it was safe, they gave the crew the all clear by removing their head gear and masks.
‘All clear,’ Kowalski told her crew. ‘But stay suited up and keep your masks handy.’
The minicam took on a weird angle as the photographer stripped off his gas mask. ‘That’s better,’ a voice said.
‘Here’s where it gets grisly,’ Pontowski warned the viewers. He turned up the audio so they could hear the comments coming from the other members of the team who moved with the photographer.
‘My God! Look at that!’ a voice said. The minicam swung on to a scene of four bodies contorted in an agony that ended in death.
‘That’s a mother trying to protect her baby,’ another voice said. The sound of retching came from behind the photographer. More scenes played out for the audience as the photographer moved into a building. A man had held a towel over his face in an attempt to save himself.
‘Here are the survivors,’ Pontowski said. The scene shifted to a small room where two legionnaires had packed in a dozen children, black and white, and sealed off the room. Pontowski shut the video tape off. ‘We counted over four hundred casualties. Thirty-one of them were white relief workers and missionaries. We lost eight UN personnel. We estimate that over one hundred mortar rounds with nerve gas hit the airfield. Fortunately, the wind was away from the town or it would have been a disaster.’
Iron Gate Page 37
