Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  ‘Are you considering military action?’ Elkins asked.

  ‘It’s the only thing those bastards understand. The sooner the better.’

  ‘Are you overreacting?’ the DCI asked.

  The President’s answer was a simple: ‘No.’ He puffed on the cigar. ‘What’s the best way to do it?’

  Now it was Elkins’s turn. ‘Given the current climate in Congress, we don’t want to act unilaterally.’

  ‘We will act alone if we have to,’ the President said.

  ‘The Honorable Ann Nevers,’ Elkins continued, ‘is waiting for the right opportunity to raise the war cry of “neointervention”. If we make a mistake, we’ll give her the next election.’

  ‘Not a pleasant thought,’ the President said.

  Carroll leaned back in his chair. ‘There is a way to avoid direct involvement. The UN set a precedent by taking out the Azanians for what they did at Kimberley. The South Africans did not protest because it solved a problem for them. By doing the same thing to the Iron Guard, the score card is balanced — the Azanians were black, the Iron Guard is white — and another problem is solved for the South Africans.’

  The President thought for a few moments. ‘You said the Iron Guard was much bigger than the UN forces in South Africa.’

  ‘True,’ Carroll replied. ‘But they are organized like a militia and it takes time to get them all together. We beef up the peacekeepers for this one operation and use the element of surprise to get in and get out fast.’

  Elkins nodded. ‘That’s a viable option. I’ll draft a shopping list for Pontowski so he knows exactly what additional forces he can ask for. Now all we have to do is convince the UN Secretary General and the French to do it.’

  ‘Appeal to their best and worst sides,’ the President said. ‘Moral outrage over the Iron Guard’s use of nerve gas and venial economic self-interest in regard to Prime. Personally, I think cold fusion is bullshit.’

  ‘But what if Doctor Slavin has discovered cold fusion?’ the DCI asked.

  The President allowed a tight smile. ‘Then rescue Slavin.’

  ‘We’ve considered it,’ the DCI said. ‘But the Iron Guard’s stronghold, Iron Gate, is one tough nut to crack.’

  ‘Rescues are very tricky and hard to pull off,’ Elkins explained. ‘It’s easy to go in, but hard to get out alive.’

  The President stubbed out his half-smoked cigar. His decision was made and the discussion was over. ‘Make it all happen. Those bastards will not use nerve gas again. I want the world to get that message loud and clear.’

  ‘I’ll get Cyrus Piccard and Mazie Hazelton on it,’ Carroll told him.

  The President nodded his approval. ‘Bill, I need to speak to you in private.’ His voice was soft and gentle. Both Elkins and the DCI suspected the subject was Lou Gehrig’s disease and they quickly left. ‘How much longer?’ the President asked Carroll.

  Carroll shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Any recommendations for your replacement?’

  ‘Cyrus Piccard.’

  ‘He’s too old.’

  Carroll thought for a moment. ‘Mazie.’

  ‘With a name like that?’

  ‘Mazie’s a nickname,’ Carroll answered. ‘Her real name is Mazana.’

  Chapter 22

  Friday, April 17

  UN Headquarters, Constantia, Cape Town

  *

  The letter was on Pontowski’s desk when he came to work. At first, he ignored it in the rush to clear his desk. He was on the schedule to fly with Waldo and was pressed for time. Fortunately, most of the message traffic was from divisions in the Pentagon looking for ways to justify their existence and he fed those messages directly into a shredder. Working for the UN did have its advantages. Finally, he picked up the letter. He wished he hadn’t.

  *

  Dear Colonel Pontowski,

  I am resigning my commission in the SADF and therefore can no longer serve as your aide-de-camp.

  Very respectfully,

  Piet van der Roos

  *

  Well, Piet, Pontowski thought, you always were a man of few words. But why? You’re one of the best helicopter pilots I’ve ever met and an outstanding officer. Why kick it all over now? ‘Oh, no,’ he moaned, answering his own question. Piet was going over to the Iron Guard.

  *

  Friday, April 17

  Near Paarl, South Africa

  *

  The white BMW wheeled into the van der Roos winery and crunched to a halt on the gravel outside the wine tasting cellars. It was a cold day and the cellars were closed. ‘Thanks, Elena,’ Pontowski said. ‘I’d have never found it on my own.’ He grinned at her. ‘Or gotten here so fast.’

  ‘You owe me, Matt Pontowski,’ she murmured. ‘I expect to collect tonight.’

  ‘I don’t go this cheap,’ he told her. She gave him a smile and got out of the car. They walked up to the main house and Pontowski knocked on the door.

  Aly van der Roos, Piet’s sister, opened the door. ‘He’s in the kitchen,’ she told them, and held Elena back. ‘Let them talk alone.’

  Piet was sitting at the table in the big kitchen drinking coffee with his father. Without a word, he poured Pontowski a cup and motioned him to a chair. The elder van der Roos drained his mug, stood and left the room. ‘Why?’ Pontowski asked.

  Piet stared into his cup. ‘You once asked what I would do if you ordered me to fly against Afrikaners. I didn’t know the answer.’

  ‘And now you know?’ Pontowski asked. Piet nodded. There it was. Piet was an honorable man who had made the hardest decision of his life. He wasn’t the first soldier who had to choose sides when his country was coming apart and he wouldn’t be the last. ‘Thanks for being honest,’ Pontowski told him.

  ‘I have watched you lead your men,’ Piet said. ‘Then I flew for you at Kimberley and on the raid against the Azanians.’ He stared into his coffee cup. ‘Then I talked to Maggot.’ A little smile played around his lips. ‘He’s an ancient warrior.’

  ‘He’s all of thirty-two years old.’

  ‘He will follow you into the gates of hell, like Bouchard will follow de Royer. I didn’t understand the general until I saw him at Beaufort West. Mortars, bullets, and death were all around him. He stood there, never flinching, and fought back. Do you know what I did?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I crawled in the dirt with the worms. With the worms. I was ashamed. Why do all of you do this? Why did Sergeant Owens and Perko, two women, and Tango come here to die?’

  It was a fair question but Pontowski didn’t have an answer. ‘Hell, Piet, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s because you’re worth it. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll have to ask you to do the same for me someday.’

  Piet took a sip of coffee. ‘Why did you come here? Today, to my home.’

  Another fair question. But this one he could answer. ‘I was afraid you were going over to the Iron Guard.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘No, Piet, you’re not. Like most Afrikaners, you’re caught up in your past and can only wait for the future to happen. Thanks for the coffee.’ He stood and walked to the door.

  ‘Colonel,’ Piet said. ‘I was afraid you would ask me.’

  ‘Ask what?’

  ‘To follow you into hell.’

  ‘Against your own people?’

  ‘I would have. But I don’t know if I could have lived with myself afterwards.’

  Pontowski smiled at his friend. ‘You don’t have to worry about that now. Good luck, Piet.’ He walked from the kitchen.

  *

  Friday, April 17

  Bantry Bay, Cape Town

  *

  The wind roared off the South Atlantic and rattled the big window overlooking Bantry Bay. Elena lay curled up in a blanket in front of the fire, snug against the cold outside. ‘I like a man who pays his debts promptly,’ she said.

  Pontowski reached down and stroked her hair. ‘I didn’t think it got this cold here.’

&n
bsp; ‘It can get much colder inland, on the Karoo.’ She waited for him to talk. Silence. ‘Are you going to talk about it?’ she asked.

  ‘Talk about what?’

  ‘Piet.’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about. I was worried he was going over to the Iron Guard. He’s not.’

  ‘And that would have been terrible?’

  ‘Yeah, it would have.’ He stood up. ‘Elena, I’ve got to go. I want to call my son.’

  ‘You can call him from here.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll do it from my quarters. Besides, I’ve got a briefcase full of work.’

  *

  Saturday, April 18

  Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein

  *

  The stakeout was drifting in and out of sleep. He jerked awake and looked around, relieved that he was still alone. He checked the time: two-thirty in the morning. He fiddled with the volume control knob, turning it up to be sure no one was prowling around inside the guest residence while he scanned the video monitors. Nothing. Satisfied the two women were asleep, he took off his headset and went to make a fresh pot of coffee.

  Sam was looking out the bathroom window and saw the kitchen light in the next building come on. Gotcha, she thought. While Liz had tried to contact Beckmann and bargain for their release, Sam had scouted the opposition and discovered the stakeout team in the building behind the guest residence. They had been too obvious, standing at the window and talking. Then she had searched the residence until she had found the bugs. The miniature cameras had been easier to locate and she had almost smashed the one in the bathroom. But common sense warned her off. Better to show the bastards a little skin and know where the camera was. She became very good at making steam.

  She moved away from the bathroom window, sacrificing speed for silence. She did not want to wake Liz and explain what she was doing. Silently, she opened the French doors that faced the stakeout’s building. She didn’t have a choice, for only the French doors opened to the north. Then she stepped back into the room and pulled out the collapsible satellite antenna dish from behind the couch. This was the tricky part, opening the umbrella-like antenna in the dark and aiming it in the general direction of the geosynchronous relay satellite in orbit over the equator. She had to get it as close to the door as possible but still stay in the shadows.

  The light in the kitchen was still on. Stay there, you bastard, she thought.

  She covered the transmitter with a blanket to hide the glowing lights and muffle the sound. The tape she had made after Beckmann’s thugs had confiscated all of her video cassettes was already inserted in the machine. The Iron Guard had reasoned that without cassettes, all of Sam’s equipment was worthless. They were right. Fortunately, the goons had overlooked the spare cassettes in the bottom of Liz’s makeup case.

  Sam hit the ON and TRANS button. She waited for a receive single. Come on! Nothing. Reposition the antenna. She inched her way back to the doors, moved the antenna closer, and raised the tilt. She heard a clicking sound as a relay closed. Too loud! But they had an uplink. It took her an eternity to move back to the transmitter. Carefully, she raised the blanket to see if the tape had played. Damn! she moaned to herself. The hold light was on. They were caught in a queue, waiting for a channel to open for a downlink, or the network wasn’t receiving.

  Back to the bathroom window to wait. Damn! The light in the kitchen across the way was out. The stakeout had to be back at his position, probably with a fresh cup of hot coffee to keep him awake and alert. Were the bugs sensitive enough to pick up the transmission sounds when they downlinked? She didn’t know. She needed a cover, anything to distract the bastard. She gave a little sigh and turned on the light.

  Slowly, she started to undress. Do this right, she told herself. Men are so damn’ stupid. Get the bastard twanging at E above high C. But she wasn’t very good at it. She was down to her panties and bra when she turned on the water in the shower. Then she walked out and came back with a portable radio. Music helped. Sam promised herself she would laugh about this someday. But not now.

  She posed in front of the mirror and ruffled her hair. Then she stepped into the shower. She made it last as long as she could before getting out. Drying off was a big production and at last, she discovered the art of exotic dancing — tease with everything but reveal nothing. Who exactly is exploiting who in a situation like this? she thought.

  She reached over and turned out the light. Quickly, she moved to the window. The bathroom light in the stakeout’s building was on. I hope you’re in there beating off or having a heart attack, she raged to herself, and checked on the transmitter. The transmission had gone through! She pulled the antenna back and shut the French doors. Now it was simply a matter of erasing the tape and putting everything back in order. And she had the rest of the night to do it.

  *

  Friday, April 17

  New York, New York

  *

  One of the many assistant news editors at the network was at the console when the satellite signaled a transmission was waiting for them. ‘Liz isn’t scheduled for a broadcast,’ she said to the technician sitting in front of her. With the time difference, it was early the next day in South Africa. ‘It must be a hot one.’

  The technician accepted the transmission, hit the record button, and sent the signal out to various monitors in the building. ‘Hey, it’s Sam. Why is she doing a comm check?’ They watched the short transmission play out.

  The assistant editor picked up the phone and called the news editor. ‘You had better get down here, sir. We got a satellite feed from Liz Gordon and Sam Darnell you need to see.’ The news editor had also seen it on his monitor bank and made a few disparaging comments about assistant editors who didn’t know news when it chased them down the street and bit them in the ass. ‘You are absolutely right,’ the assistant editor said matter-of-factly. ‘This isn’t news. But Sam flashed every distress signal in the book at us.’ She slammed the phone down. ‘Did that bite you in the ass?’ She gave him five minutes to get there or she was giving the tape to CNN. He made it in three.

  *

  Sunday, April 19

  Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town

  *

  Pontowski came awake with a jerk. He was fully conscious and alert, a first for five-thirty in the morning. He didn’t need a caffeine jolt and quickly showered and shaved. Why? he asked himself. What was bothering him? Was his subconscious sending him a warning? He was getting dressed when the phone rang. It was Standard. ‘My office. Now.’ The line went dead.

  ‘Well, I’ll be ...’ Pontowski muttered as he went out the door.

  The elevator at the Broadway Industries Centre was slow in coming and Pontowski trotted up the stairs to the fourth floor. The same signal that had jolted him awake was still pushing him on. The moment he entered Standard’s office and saw Mazie Hazelton, he knew. ‘Is it the Iron Guard this time?’ he asked. She nodded.

  ‘We can’t do it,’ Pontowski said.

  ‘The White House wants the UN to do it,’ Mazie replied.

  ‘Then someone had better tell the White House the UN is going to get its ass kicked.’

  ‘The UN is one hundred percent behind this,’ Mazie told him, ‘and de Royer is probably talking to his superiors right now.’

  ‘De Royer is not going to buy it,’ Pontowski told her. ‘He knows what the Iron Guard has got. It may not be big, but it’s bigger than us.’

  ‘Can you use surprise?’ Standard asked.

  ‘I can’t rely on it,’ Pontowski answered. ‘There’s a leak somewhere in the UN.’

  ‘We’re working that problem,’ Standard said.

  ‘Solve it,’ Pontowski growled. ‘It’s my people who are on the line.’

  ‘What will it take to do the job?’ Mazie asked.

  ‘A complete force package,’ Pontowski told her. ‘Air defense suppression, CAP, EW, you name it.’

  She handed him a list. ‘We can give you this.’ It was the ‘shoppi
ng list’ Elkins had promised the President.

  Pontowski scanned the list of forces the United States was willing to make available to support the operation. He shook his head. ‘It’s not enough.’

  ‘You take your orders from de Royer,’ Mazie reminded him.

  Pontowski exploded, giving full vent to his anger. ‘Get real! We’re a small peacekeeping operation. If you’re serious about this, think carrier task force. Let the webfoots do it.’

  ‘We can’t do that,’ Mazie said. ‘The political situation ...’

  ‘Screw the political situation,’ Pontowski interrupted.

  ‘You know the resources we’re willing to commit,’ Mazie said. ‘We also want you to rescue an Israeli scientist.’

  ‘A Doctor Slavin,’ Standard added. ‘The man working on cold fusion.’

  ‘Fuck me in the heart!’ Pontowski shouted at them. Silence. ‘You don’t want much,’ he muttered.

  ‘Talk to de Royer,’ Mazie told him.

  ‘He’s not going to buy it, Mazie.’

  ‘So you’ve said.’

  Pontowski stormed out of the room, talking to himself. ‘Nothing is impossible for the bastard who doesn’t have to do it himself.’

  Standard took a deep breath. ‘There goes one angry man.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons I’m here,’ Mazie said. ‘He’ll calm down.’

  ‘The other reason you’re here?’

  ‘Getting Slavin out is of prime importance.’

  ‘Pun intended?’ Standard asked.

  ‘Do what it takes,’ she told him.

  ‘The man we need to talk to is here. MacKay.’

  Mazie’s head came up. ‘John Author MacKay?’ A nod answered her. ‘Was he Zenith?’ Another nod. ‘Oh,’ she whispered.

  Standard punched at his intercom and asked for MacKay to come in. She didn’t recognize him when he came through the door. ‘The last time I saw you,’ he said, ‘you were a little butterball. What happened?’

  ‘I got married,’ she told him. She reached up and touched his face. ‘You look better.’

  ‘I take it you know each other?’ Standard said.