Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  Pontowski retreated to the privacy of Kowalski’s office. He used her secure phone to call Standard at the Consulate and explain the situation. ‘You got to be crazy!’ he shouted. Silence. ‘I’ll be right there,’ he said, breaking the connection.

  Pontowski leaned back in the chair and used the time to gather his thoughts. De Royer was right, they had to react quickly. Lori Williams knocked at the door. ‘Sir, you have visitors, Madame Martine, Captain van der Roos and ...’

  ‘Piet!’ Pontowski interrupted. ‘Show them in.’ Lori held the door open and it all went sour. Elizabeth Gordon was with them. ‘What the hell?’ he growled at Lori.

  ‘You never gave me a chance to finish,’ she said indignantly, closing the door as she left. From the look on Pontowski’s face, she was glad she had turned the Beretta in with his survival vest.

  Elena touched his arm. ‘Matt, she stopped me at the main gate ...’

  Pontowski turned on her, ignoring Gordon and van der Roos. ‘Get her out of here.’

  Elena wouldn’t let it go. ‘You need to listen.’

  But he refused even to acknowledge Liz Gordon’s presence. ‘She’s the enemy. Get her out of here.’

  ‘I can help,’ she said.

  ‘Sure you can.’

  Tears streaked her face and she fumbled in her bag. ‘Damn,’ she muttered. In her frustration, she dumped her bag on the desk. Five video cassettes tumbled out. ‘These are from Iron Gate ... maybe they can help ... I’ve seen things.’

  ‘I doubt that you saw or filmed anything important,’ he told her. ‘They would have confiscated your tapes.’ He opened the door. ‘We’ve got all the imagery we need.’

  ‘They’ve got Sam!’ she cried.

  It was enough to stop him. ‘And you want me to help?’ She nodded an answer. He unloaded on her, letting go of all the anger and frustration bottled up inside. ‘Hey, don’t you remember? I’m an “irresponsible cowboy”. We throw bombs around like “moral Neanderthals”. We’re “bumbling incompetents”. Those are your words, lady, not mine. So why do you need us now?’

  Liz Gordon pushed the video cassettes toward him. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Please help. They’ve threatened to hang her.’

  Van der Roos interrupted. ‘Beckmann will do it. He’s crazy.’

  Pontowski hesitated. An image of Samantha Darnell standing at the Afrikaanse Taal with him and van der Roos flashed in his mind’s eye. The wind was whipping at her hair ... then her voice when she left his room that morning ... ‘You and me, Matt.’ He looked at the cassettes and shook his head. They were a pitiful peace offering, the only thing Liz Gordon had to offer.

  His anger was spent and he relented. ‘I’ll do what I can. You might be able to help.’ He picked up the cassettes, walked to the door, and called for Lori. ‘Please take Madame Martine and Miss Gordon to Intel for a debrief.’ He handed Lori the cassettes.

  Pontowski turned to van der Roos. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said. ‘What brings you back?’

  ‘I saw the Hogs recover ... I want to help.’

  ‘We need every bit of help we can get,’ Pontowski told him. They shook hands.

  Outside, Liz Gordon tried to repair the damage to her face. ‘Thank you,’ she said to Elena.

  ‘I knew he would help. Did you see the look on his face when you said they might hang Sam?’

  *

  Lieutenant Colonel Lee Bradford didn’t know what to do. As the mission crew commander on board the Compass Call EC-130, he had to maintain security at all costs and keep his mission and equipment safe from compromise. Access to their mission statement alone required a confidential clearance and everything they did was classified Secret Noforn. The Noforn meant no foreign dissemination and de Royer certainly fell in that category. Now that same foreigner was asking him for very specific information.

  ‘Just answer the questions,’ Pontowski said. ‘You don’t have to say how you got the information.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Bradford replied. ‘It’s the no foreign dissemination requirement.’

  Pontowski pressed the issue. ‘Then tell me the answers, not the general. I’ll take the heat for any breach of security.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Bradford said. ‘I can’t do that either.’

  Pontowski was running out of time and seriously considered beating the man senseless. ‘Look, I lost two pilots on that raid and we’re going back — with or without your help.’ He turned and started to storm out of the command post.

  Bradford took a deep breath. ‘Colonel Pontowski,’ he said, stopping him, ‘what do you need to know?’

  *

  The command post was packed when Richard Davis Standard arrived. Pontowski turned the meeting over to him and he quickly summarized what the CIA knew about Beckmann and the Iron Guard. Gengha Dung is going to have my balls for breakfast when she hears about this, he kept telling himself. What the hell? he rationalized. I’m not revealing my sources, only information. And they’ve got to rescue the Israeli scientist if we’re going to get at Prime. I’ve got to help them bring it off.

  Now de Royer stood and paced the floor, revealing his intentions in a flat monotone. The men and women in the command post listened in shocked silence. The speed of the operation was dazzling and there was no doubt they were in the presence of a tactical genius. They were in for the ride of their lives. Even Maggot was impressed.

  ‘As you can see,’ de Royer said, ‘the success of the entire operation depends on the opening phase. We will only have a very narrow window to determine whether to continue or abort the mission. The timing of that decision is critical and cannot be made here. It must be made on the spot. Colonel Pontowski, you will be on scene as the airborne commander. You will evaluate and make the decision to continue or abort.’

  ‘What if something happens to me and I can’t make the decision?’ he asked.

  ‘Then it will fall to your deputy, Maggot,’ de Royer answered. ‘If he is not in a position to make it’ — he paused, considering the implications — ‘then the opening phase will have failed and I will abort the mission from here. Once you have made the decision, proceed to Desert One and assume operational control. If you lose contact with me at anytime when you are at Desert One, you will assume overall command of the mission.’ He paused and looked around the room. ‘Are there problems?’

  Maggot scratched his chin and looked at the clock. ‘Today is too soon. We need more time to get our act together.’

  ‘How long will the Iron Guard have been in a state of readiness by six o’clock this evening?’ de Royer asked.

  ‘Twenty-two hours,’ Bradford answered.

  ‘They are at a physical and psychological low point,’ de Royer said. ‘We must exploit it and keep them that way.’

  Maggot shook his head. ‘We can do it from our end. But the helicopter jocks are at Desert One. We haven’t heard from them.’

  Piet van der Roos stood up. ‘They are good boys,’ he said. ‘I know them. They will jump at another chance.’

  ‘Do you have enough time to get them ready?’ Pontowski asked.

  ‘If I lead them, yes.’

  De Royer swept the command post with a slow, impassive stare. ‘H-hour is 17.30 this evening.’ H-hour, the time an operation started. The meeting was over and the command post emptied.

  Pontowski checked his watch: a little over six hours to go. He called Kowalski and van der Roos over to him. ‘Fly Piet to Desert One as soon as you’re loaded.’ He looked at them. ‘Lydia, we’re leaning pretty far forward on this one. If you have any doubts, I can still shut it off.’

  ‘I got lots of doubts, Boss,’ she said. ‘But this is what we get paid for. You get paid to do the worrying. Come on, Piet. Time to earn your combat pay.’

  ‘Combat pay?’ van der Roos asked. ‘What’s that?’

  Pontowski watched them leave. He stood there, thinking. There was one more hole to plug. He cornered Standard and they spoke quietly.

  *

>   Elena Martine came out of the COIC and unlocked the door to her BMW. She slipped in behind the wheel and fumbled with her keys. She looked up in surprise when Richard Standard opened the passenger door and got in. ‘We need to talk,’ he said.

  ‘What about?’ she asked.

  ‘Phone calls.’

  ‘I make many phone calls.’

  ‘Did you ever talk to Piet van der Roos?’ he asked.

  ‘My office did,’ she told him. ‘Every day when there was flying at the air base. We coordinated the flying schedule.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It is part of our agreement with the government,’ she answered.

  That explains all the phone calls van der Roos made to the base, Standard thought. But how did that information get relayed to the Iron Guard? ‘What did you do with the information?’ he asked.

  ‘We passed it on to an office in the Ministry of Defense.’

  ‘Was it always to the same person?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Just to whoever was there.’

  ‘I need the phone number.’

  She wrote the number down and handed it to him. It was the number the Boys had wiretapped and monitored earlier that morning. He had the chain that led from the wing, to van der Roos, to Martine, to the Ministry of Defense, to the Iron Guard. More importantly, he had his rat.

  Martine’s fingers lingered on his wrist for a moment. ‘Richard, why don’t you ever call?’

  ‘I don’t need another heart attack,’ he told her.

  ‘We can be careful,’ she promised.

  *

  Friday, April 24

  Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein

  *

  Beckmann had not slept in over thirty-six hours and the mental fog swirling around him held the promise of rest, but he couldn’t give in to it, not yet. He gulped the two pills and waited. The powerful stimulants hammered at him and he felt his heart quiver as the fog cleared.

  The command bunker came into sharp relief and as he scanned the status boards, an inner voice warned him that he had a serious problem. What was it? The base was recovering as quickly as could be expected. He checked the time: another five hours before the radar would be operational. The same voice told him that was not the problem. Something was out of balance.

  ‘Sir,’ a jubilant technician shouted. ‘We have some telephones!’

  Automatically, Beckmann punched at the buttons to test the line. He heard the ring. ‘Interrogation,’ a guard answered. Why had he called that number? An inner voice told him what to do.

  *

  MacKay stopped playing solitaire when the guard answered the phone. He watched as the guard hung up. Without a word, the guard drew his pistol and aimed at MacKay. He tensed, waiting for the slight contraction of the trigger finger that would launch him into action. ‘Handcuff the kaffir,’ the guard said. Before MacKay could move, the other guard sprayed him with Mace and beat him with a truncheon. MacKay fell to the floor as the first guard filled a syringe.

  Chapter 25

  Friday, April 24

  Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town

  *

  Pontowski was sitting in the command post with de Royer when Kowalski radioed Ground Control for clearance to start engines. They listened to the small loudspeaker above their heads as the start engines, taxi, and takeoff sequence played out. Nothing in Kowalski’s voice indicated it was less than routine.

  From the tower: ‘Lifter One, cleared for takeoff.’

  Kowalski: ‘Rolling.’

  ‘Are they overweight?’ de Royer asked in French.

  The waiting must be getting to him, Pontowski decided. It wasn’t like de Royer to engage in small talk. ‘They’re not overweight,’ he answered in the same language. ‘But they are jammed packed with bodies.’

  ‘What is bothering you?’ de Royer asked.

  I can’t hide anything from him, Pontowski thought. Well, out with it. ‘We had four days to plan the first attack and we failed. We planned this one in less than four hours. And we’re outnumbered, both men and aircraft.’

  ‘You must read more Napoleon,’ de Royer said. Now they were speaking English. ‘We have a window of opportunity to attack because they are exhausted and have degraded communications. That window will not stay open for long.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Pontowski asked.

  ‘Mr Standard supplied the clues. The Iron Guard has little depth and must call on its commandos for support. It is also very centralized ... a weakness we can exploit. It was a shame I didn’t know this sooner.’

  ‘The CIA doesn’t like sharing information,’ Pontowski replied, recalling when he saw the Iron Guard’s order of battle in Mazie’s office. ‘This just doesn’t feel good,’ he muttered.

  ‘It is the uncertainty that disturbs you,’ de Royer said. ‘You must learn to live with it.’

  ‘Why the rush? Is it because Bouchard is trapped?’ De Royer stared straight ahead, not moving. He is one cold-blooded bastard, Pontowski decided.

  ‘That is part of it,’ de Royer finally replied.

  ‘Is it because of Prime?’ When had they switched back to French?

  ‘That is also part of it,’ the general answered as he looked at Pontowski. The American did not understand, so why tell him? Then he relented. ‘Beckmann is an obscenity who must be destroyed.’

  Pontowski pushed his chair back and stood. ‘I’ve got to brief for the mission.’

  ‘Good hunting,’ de Royer said.

  Maggot, Waldo, and Lee Bradford from the EC-130 were waiting for Pontowski in a briefing room. Waldo had already filled out the mission data card for him and all the times were listed. Pontowski checked the sequence off as Maggot ran the coming scenario. All too soon, they were finished and Maggot asked if there were any questions.

  Pontowski looked at Bradford. ‘Can you do all this?’

  ‘In a heart beat,’ Bradford told him.

  Pontowski pushed himself to his feet. ‘Maggot, I think we’re crazy.’

  ‘It certainly helps, Colonel.’

  Outside, another C-130 radioed for engine start.

  *

  Friday, April 24

  Cape Town, South Africa

  *

  A late-afternoon quiet settled over Joe Pendulo’s mansion when he returned from the Ministry of Defense. While his staff slept, Pendulo retreated to his private office and told his two bodyguards to wait outside. He locked the door before settling down behind his computer. He used the modem and was soon talking to his bank in Geneva, Switzerland. His fingers flew over the keyboard, punching in his secret bank account number. He smiled when he saw the deposit that had been made that afternoon.

  The early-morning phone call from the Iron Guard had been most unusual but very profitable. He liked dealing with people who were so prompt in meeting their obligations. And so generous. A strange, muffled sound came from the outer office. It sounded like phuut-phuut. His guards knew better than to disturb him. He would speak to them about it. Then he heard it again. Now he was angry. He was coming out of his chair when the door lock exploded with a much louder phuut.

  The door swung open and he saw the bodies of his two bodyguards lying on the floor in pools of blood. ‘What do you want?’ Pendulo asked, not seeing anyone.

  Two men, both black, stepped into the office. Pendulo’s knees gave out and he sank back into his chair. He knew who they were. ‘Why are you here?’ he blustered. ‘If the Director of National Intelligence wishes to speak to me, he should do it in person, in my office.’

  One of the men pulled out a mini-tape cassette and hit the start button. Pendulo’s voice was clear and distinct as the recording of the morning’s telephone conversation played out. ‘Who gave this to you?’ Pendulo demanded, trying to regain control.

  ‘Some friends,’ the man replied. ‘Very good friends.’

  Pendulo’s eyes jumped from one man to the other. ‘I can make you wealthy,’ he said. ‘Very wealthy.’

  The men s
tared at him, not accepting the bribe. ‘We’re not going to kill you,’ the one with the mini-cassette said. ‘We only need some answers for the President.’

  The other man smiled. ‘You are going to live a very long time,’ he promised. Pendulo lost control and felt a spreading warmth in his crotch. It was the one promise he did not want to hear.

  *

  Friday, April 24

  Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein

  *

  At 16.33 the mobile radar antenna started to rotate. It was anchored in the rubble that had been the Eagle’s Nest and its beam swept the horizon. The team of workers breathed a sigh of relief. They were over an hour ahead of schedule.

  *

  Forty-five miles to the southwest, the EC-130 was entering its first racetrack pattern while Maggot, Pontowski, and Waldo lagged five miles in trail, conserving fuel.

  In the rear of the EC-130, Bradford was hovering behind the radar ECMT, electronic countermeasures technician, waiting for the search radar to come on line. They had monitored a test burst five minutes before when the system first powered up. The spectrum analyzer flashed when the EC-130’s sensitive antennas captured the first energy pulse. They had thoroughly analyzed the radar signature from the previous mission and the microprocessors were ready. The transponder sent a flurry of similar signals down the waveguide to an antenna. But these signals had been delayed and distorted.

  The radar ECMT on board the EC-130 smiled and looked up at Bradford. ‘I’ve captured their radar’s range gate,’ she told him. ‘They’ll never figure out what we’re doing to them.’

  ‘Colonel Bradford,’ one of the communications specialists called over the intercom, ‘they put two Aeros on cockpit alert.’

  ‘That’s not what we want,’ Bradford said. ‘Show ’em a bigger threat.’

  The radar ECMT’s fingers danced on the computer keyboard.

  *

  In the Iron Gate’s command bunker, the radar processor unit interpreted these signals as multiple returns, all going away from the Iron Gate at a high rate of speed. The tactical commander pointed out the problem to Beckmann and called for the technicians. ‘A minor start-up problem,’ he assured Beckmann.