Chapter 23
Wednesday, April 22
Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town
*
It was a non-event. Four men, two South African pilots temporarily assigned to the UN peacekeepers from the South African Defense Forces and two US Air Force sergeants, climbed on board a Puma helicopter, started engines, called for clearance, and took off. Colonel Valery Bouchard was inside a hangar going through a final inspection with the Quick Reaction Force. Equipment was spread out on the floor and NCOs were examining each weapon and radio with infinite care. In one corner, two parachute riggers were packing six FXC Guardian parachutes under the watchful eyes of five men. The parachutes were for them and Bouchard.
General Charles de Royer was sitting quietly in the UN command center at his headquarters, his képi on the table beside him. An NCO grease-penciled the takeoff time on the status board and de Royer left without a word.
Matthew Zachary Pontowski came out of a briefing room in the COIC with Waldo. They headed for personal equipment to pick up their flying gear for a routine training mission. Lydia Kowalski watched them walk past and went back to work, scheduling Thursday’s airlift missions.
Captain Dwight ‘Maggot’ Stuart was in the Intel vault. He stared at the papier-mâché model of Iron Gate. ‘What have I missed?’ he wondered aloud. But no one heard him.
From all outward appearances, it was business as normal. Except the Puma helicopter would not return to Ysterplaat. When it had lifted off, the countdown for Operation Dragon Rouge had begun.
*
It was dark when Pontowski came out of the mess hall after eating dinner. He got into his staff car and drove slowly around the ramp. All four of the helicopters were gone now and half the revetments for the A-10s were empty. They would cycle the six missing Warthogs back in on Thursday and they would fly normal training missions. But when the sun set, only two Warthogs would be left in the revetments. The other ten would be at Desert One with the four Puma helicopters.
A dark-gray Hercules taxied in and was parked between two revetments, hiding the trapeze antenna hanging under the tail. Only a highly skilled observer with powerful binoculars would notice the many antennae and extra pylons hanging under the wings. Standard had assured Pontowski that no one was watching who would note that a Compass Call EC-130H Hercules from the 43rd Electronic Combat Squadron out of Sembach Air Base, Germany, had landed.
*
Thursday, April 23
Mozambique Channel, USS Oklahoma City (SSN-723)
*
The control room was quiet when the skipper stepped through the hatch. ‘Captain’s in the control room,’ the quartermaster of the watch announced. The skipper automatically checked their position on the automated plotting board, which wasn’t really automated. They were in the Mozambique Channel splitting the island of Madagascar and Mozambique and were 150 nautical miles abeam the city of Mozambique. They had been at flank speed for sixty hours at 300 feet, and except for a periodic slowing to turn and check their baffles, it had been a straight run down the eastern coast of Africa.
But the message that had broken them out of their patrol off the Persian Gulf and sent them on the long dash southward had been anything but routine. ‘I have the con,’ the skipper said. This time, the four simple words sent a little shock of adrenaline through his body, making him come alive. He turned to the diving officer. ‘Make your speed twenty knots.’
The watch tensed. It was angles and dangles as they turned to check their baffles, the area of disturbed water in their wake that a pursuer could hide in. ‘Make your depth sixty feet. Speed ten knots.’ Again, they slowed and when the keel was at sixty feet, the periscope was raised. Sonar had cleared the area and the skipper did not expect to see anything. The scene was projected on to a number of screens around the boat, reassuring the crew that the surface and a sky were still up there. At the same time, the antenna for the GPS receiver locked on two satellites and updated the boat’s position. Another antenna was raised and a detailed coded message transmitting a wealth of targeting data in digital form was downlinked to the OK City.
‘Periscope down. Make your depth three hundred feet.’ The OK City dove. Again, the skipper checked their position on the plotting board. ‘Make your speed thirty-five knots.’ A very faint hum filled the boat as the OK City pushed aside tons of water and the hull set up a high-frequency vibration.
The skipper left the control room and went aft into the reactor compartment to check on steam and heat. Not that he was worried — the machinery was meant to be run until it smoked. But the nuke officers did like to see a friendly face from time to time.
*
Thursday, April 23
Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein
*
The major in charge of security came out of Beckmann’s office after going through the morning ABCs. He motioned for MacKay to join him and they walked back to the security compound. ‘Kreiner’s duties,’ the major explained, ‘were very specific. He provided a safety valve for the Generaal.’
‘A valve for what?’ MacKay asked.
‘To relieve the terrible stresses imposed on him. Kreiner recognized the symptoms and knew what to do. The symptoms are present today and you must be prepared to act.’ Among the staff, Hans Beckmann was a well-studied commodity.
‘Act? In what way?’
The major looked at MacKay. ‘Interrogation. Anything you do there will relieve the pressure. It doesn’t matter who or what.’
*
The telephone call from the U.S. Embassy came in at two o’clock that afternoon; the ambassador wanted to speak to Beckmann. Since they were considered to be friends, the call was put through. The ambassador was calling about Elizabeth Gordon. Her network was putting pressure on the State Department ... some nonsense that she was being held against her will. Could Beckmann help with the problem, considering all the favorable coverage Gordon and the network had given the Iron Guard?
Beckmann assured the ambassador he would look into it. They exchanged the customary courtesies before breaking the connection. Beckmann immediately telephoned for his chief of security. ‘Come to my office and bring MacKay,’ he said.
*
MacKay listened without a word as the two Afrikaners discussed the ambassador’s call. ‘Let them go,’ he finally said.
‘He doesn’t know they made the connection to Shivuto,’ the chief of security said in Afrikaans.
Beckmann answered in the same language. ‘We found the video tape with the evidence and erased it. They have nothing else so let them make their charges.’ He looked at MacKay and spoke in English. ‘How can I justify detaining these reporters for a week?’
MacKay thought for a moment. ‘Claim we found drugs in their possession and were conducting an investigation. Produce the evidence and turn them over to the American ambassador as a goodwill gesture, provided they immediately leave the country.’
‘But they will still be ... ah ... very hostile and cause trouble,’ the chief of security said.
Beckmann smiled, satisfied he had a solution. ‘Not if I keep the photographer here,’ he said. ‘To ensure Gordon’s goodwill.’
‘How can we let Gordon go and not release the other one?’ MacKay asked. He regretted giving them the idea. Quit winging it, he warned himself.
‘We have strict laws against selling drugs,’ Beckmann said. ‘A search of her luggage will find a large amount of heroin or cocaine.’ His eyes did not blink. ‘Perhaps a kilo of heroin.’
‘Possession of that amount is very serious,’ the chief of security said.
‘I am aware of our laws,’ Beckmann replied, his voice matter-of-fact. ‘It is my duty to enforce them.’
*
‘What’s the delay?’ Liz Gordon said, pacing back and forth beside the waiting car. Only her bags had been brought out and loaded. Sam, her equipment and luggage were still inside. A major she did not recognize came out of the guest residence and strutted up to her. ‘You ma
y leave, Miss Gordon, but there is a problem with Miss Darnell. Heroin has been found in her suitcase.’
‘Sam!’ Gordon protested. ‘Don’t be stupid. She doesn’t use drugs.’
Another car drove up and a tall, bearded African got out. He walked up to her and handed her the video cassettes the Iron Guard had confiscated from Sam and edited. He spoke in a low voice. ‘My name is MacKay, Miss Gordon. General Beckmann returns these with his compliments. I suggest you leave immediately.’
‘I’m not leaving without Sam,’ she said, taking the cassettes.
‘You can do more to help her in Cape Town than here. I suggest you contact the American Consulate.’
‘You’re an American?’ Gordon asked. MacKay nodded. ‘What are you going to do with her?’
‘For now,’ MacKay said, ‘she is under house arrest pending an investigation.’ He fixed her with a hard look. ‘Good behavior is a factor.’
‘What’s the charge?’ she demanded.
He gave a mental sigh. Liz Gordon wasn’t listening. ‘Possession of an illegal substance.’
‘What’s the fine?’ she spat at him. She was certain this was a setup and a big enough bribe would make it all go away. It was the first principle of doing business in Africa. ‘Can I pay the fine to you so we can leave?’
‘They found over a kilo of heroin. There is no fine for dealing in drugs in the Boerstaat.’
‘Sam is not a pusher.’ Her eyes grew wide and she caught her breath. ‘What’s the penalty for pushing?’
‘Hanging,’ MacKay told her. ‘But I’m sure General Beckmann will take good behavior, your good behavior, into account. I have to go.’ I hope you’re listening, he thought. He walked back to his car, climbed in, and headed for the main gate. He had to meet with the Boys and do some listening himself.
*
It was sunset when MacKay returned from the meeting with two of the Boys and he was still sorting out all he had to do in the next twelve hours. The guard at the gate ran his ID card through the scanner. ‘A message, sir. You’re wanted in the Security Compound.’ MacKay thanked him and drove under the raised barrier. What now? he thought. I’ve got things to do. He could feel his pulse race. Don’t blow your cool, he thought. You’ve got plenty of time. Besides, as Kreiner’s replacement I can go to Slavin’s house anytime I want. He breathed a little easier since everyone was where they had to be. Well, everyone except him.
A sergeant was waiting for him at the entrance to the security compound. ‘Generaal Beckmann is waiting for you in Interrogation,’ he told MacKay.
MacKay hurried down the long hall leading to the basement steps. Beckmann was at the foot of the steps, waiting with two armed guards. MacKay’s reputation had spread and these guards held back, not making any mistakes.
Without a word, Beckmann led him into the examination room. MacKay froze.
‘Why don’t we have dinner before I interrogate her,’ MacKay said, trying to recover and gain time.
Much to his surprise, Beckmann smiled. ‘What an excellent idea. Kreiner would never have thought of that.’
*
Thursday, April 23
Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town
*
The Intel vault was packed with bodies as Maggot went through the mission briefing. The pilots had expected Pontowski to be there but were surprised when de Royer and Bouchard had entered and sat down. As the briefing unfolded, the reason for Bouchard’s presence became obvious. Pontowski slumped in his chair and listened, probing for flaws in the operations. But Maggot had covered every base. It would work. Maggot ended the briefing with the traditional, ‘That’s all I got. Any questions?’
Waldo held his hand up and asked the weatherman if he had done a detailed climatological study of the area. The weatherman gave him a drop dead look and said that he had. But Waldo was like a bulldog and kept worrying the problem. The weatherman shook his head. ‘The weather is forecast to be absolutely clear. There’s nothing to worry about.’
Pontowski nodded to Maggot who called the room to attention. De Royer stood and marched out.
Kowalski wandered over to the papier-mâché model with a few of the A-10 pilots. ‘It’s a mop-up operation,’ she told Pontowski. ‘A piece of cake.’ The Warthog drivers agreed with her.
Waldo was in a corner flipping through a loose-leaf binder with the weatherman. ‘You’re blowing smoke,’ the weatherman told him and slammed the book closed.
‘Give it a rest,’ Maggot said to Waldo. ‘Time to hit the bunk. Tomorrow’s a big day.’
Good advice, Pontowski thought. He left the COIC and returned to his quarters for crew rest. Before he went to sleep he called his son and they talked for a few minutes.
*
The last of the cargo had been loaded on the C-130 and the ramp was raised when the six passengers dressed in tan uniforms got off the bus. The loadmaster gave them a passenger’s briefing while Lydia Kowalski climbed into the left seat on the flight deck. No one seemed to be in a hurry and it was just another routine cargo mission launching in the late evening. The passengers climbed on board and the number three prop started to turn.
Bouchard led the way back to the first cargo pallet and opened a big box, pulling out equipment. The other five men joined him and did the same. They stripped off their uniforms and quickly dressed in BDUs.
*
Thursday, April 23
Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein
*
The ADSO, air defense surveillance officer, was sitting in the command bunker buried at the foot of the rock outcropping that rose 500 feet above the valley floor at the southern end of the Iron Gate. High above him, on the roof of the Eagle’s Nest, the observation bunker on top of the rock pillar, a radar antenna swept the horizon every twelve seconds. But only one return was on the radar screen in front of the ADSO. He rolled the track ball under his right hand and positioned the cursor over the return. A finger flicked and pressed a button. Digital numbers flashed on the radar screen and identified the target. It was a United Nations C-130 on a routine flight from Cape Town to Johannesburg. It was on the airway and had filed a flight plan.
He keyed his intercom and called the tactical commander, explaining the situation. ‘Didn’t the attack on the Azanians start in a similar manner?’
‘I’ll notify the Generaal,’ the tactical commander said.
Beckmann was in a jovial mood when he entered the bunker seven minutes later with MacKay. ‘Well,’ Beckmann said, ‘you interrupted a most pleasant dinner.’ He slapped the tactical commander on the shoulder. The ADSO explained the situation and pointed out the radar return. MacKay studied the radar scope for a few moments and said nothing. ‘What do you make of this?’ Beckmann asked.
‘It’s a routine cargo flight going into Johannesburg,’ MacKay replied.
‘But there was an aircraft in the vicinity when the Azanians were attacked,’ the tactical officer protested.
‘I was the one who questioned the Azanian and discovered what had happened,’ MacKay replied. ‘That aircraft was acting suspiciously and was probably a command ship. This is a C-130 on a routine mission. It will land at Johannesburg, offload its cargo, and return in approximately two hours; same airway, headed for Cape Town.’ His explanation seemed to satisfy everyone. I’ve got to keep Beckmann busy, MacKay thought. Otherwise he’ll want to go to Interrogation. How long can I stall?
He glanced at a clock on the wall and ran the timetable the Boys had given him through his own mental calculator. He played off what he knew about the Iron Guard against what was coming. The pieces all came together in a rush. ‘Generaal, this is an excellent opportunity to exercise the system. I recommend you order an alert, convene your battle staff, and bring the base to a full defense posture.’
‘How long?’ Beckmann asked, thinking of the pleasures he had to postpone.
‘At least until the C-130 returns.’ Then, sotto voce, ‘What’s two hours? This is an opportunity for me to evaluate how your p
eople respond and learn where your problems are. Besides, why take chances?’ In a very low voice he added, ‘The girl isn’t going anywhere. Enjoy the anticipation.’
Beckmann’s eyes were bright. ‘Order the alert,’ he said. MacKay had introduced him to the pleasures of forced anticipation, gratification postponed with the certain knowledge that it was waiting for him in the end. He savored the waiting. And MacKay was right. Why take chances?
*
Friday, April 24
Near Bloemfontein, South Africa
*
It was after two in the morning when the C-130 finally returned from Johannesburg, headed south for Cape Town.
‘Oxygen check,’ Kowalski ordered, her voice muffled and flat. The crew checked in. ‘Depressurize.’ The flight engineer reached up to the overhead panel and turned a wafer switch. A swooshing sound filled the flight deck. ‘Lower the ramp,’ Kowalski said.
‘It’s cold back here,’ the loadmaster said.
‘It won’t last long,’ she said as she slowed the Hercules.
‘One minute,’ the navigator said.
‘Red light is on.’ This from the copilot.
‘Jumpers are on the ramp,’ the loadmaster said. They waited.
The navigator began the countdown. ‘Ready, ready, ready. Green light.’
Bouchard stepped off the ramp and disappeared under the empennage into the night. Five more jumpers followed him.
‘Clear,’ the loadmaster said.
Kowalski firewalled the throttles. ‘Button her up and repressurize,’ she ordered.
The loadmaster climbed on to the flight deck, pounding his hands together. ‘I almost froze.’
‘Let’s go home,’ Kowalski said.
Behind them, six parachutes descended toward Iron Gate, twenty miles away.
*
Friday, April 24
Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein
*
‘Where is MacKay?’ Beckmann asked.
His battle staff looked around the command bunker, searching for the American. A sergeant answered. ‘He is roaming the base, checking on the response to the alert.’
Beckmann stood up. ‘Cancel the alert and return to normal readiness.’ The sound of his hard leather heels echoed over the hushed bunker as he left.
Iron Gate Page 41
