They want you, an inner voice told him. Then it was quiet. A thrill shot through him; he had never been so close to his own death. ‘Have the trucks reached the Aeros?’ he asked.
‘They should be there in another hour,’ the tactical commander told him.
‘We will counterattack when the jamming stops,’ he announced.
*
Friday, April 24
Desert One, Lesotho
*
Pontowski taxied into the fuel pit and kept his engines running for a hot refueling. Waldo and Maggot lined up behind him to wait their turn. When the refueling crew gave him a thumbs up, he taxied out of the pits and into a revetment where Munitions was waiting to up-load. This time, he shut the engines down while ammunition was cranked into the Avenger’s ammo drum and twelve 500-hundred pound bombs were hung under the wings. But these were the old Mark-82 Snakeyes, a weapon he hadn’t seen in years.
As planned, Bag Talbot was waiting to replace him. A fresh pilot replaced Waldo and the two men walked past Maggot who was just pulling into an open revetment. He gave them a thumbs-up signal. They made their way down the unfamiliar ramp, looking for the command and communications van. It was parked on the dirt, well back from the parking area. Standard was waiting inside. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Pontowski asked.
‘Who do you think is going to have to account for all this?’ he replied. ‘Besides, there is no way I’d miss it.’
The controller on duty handed Pontowski the message that he had operational control until de Royer joined him. Waldo sat down at the mission director’s position and Pontowski at the commander’s console. This was where they would fight the battle. Pontowski checked the mission board: two Hogs were on station over the Iron Gate, Kowalski was inbound for her second drop before going on station as a flare ship, the EC-130 had another two hours on station before landing for fuel, and Goat Gross was safe on the ground with only minor wounds. ‘Are we in contact with Blue Force?’ he asked.
‘Affirmative,’ the communications specialist told him. ‘The airfield is secure and they are reporting light sniper fire.’
Frequency hopping radios are wonderful things, Pontowski thought. Maggot checked in on the radio; he was refueled and rearmed. Five Warthogs were sitting on the ramp, armed and ready to launch, fifteen minutes flying time from the Iron Gate.
Piet van der Roos stuck his head inside the door. ‘The Pumas are refueled and ready to go,’ he told Pontowski. ‘We took heavy ground fire on the last sorties but are okay.’
Resistance is stiffening, Pontowski thought. ‘Try to get some rest, Piet. We’ll have more business for you when the next C-130 lands.’
Standard waited until van der Roos had left. ‘Is de Royer going for the whole enchilada?’
‘Yep,’ Pontowski replied. ‘He wants to rescue Slavin and take Beckmann out.’
‘Why Beckmann?’
‘He crossed the line when he used nerve gas and de Royer considers him “an obscenity”.’
‘The general has got that right,’ Standard told him.
*
Friday, April 24
Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein
*
Skid Malone buzzed the airfield and pulled off to the right, challenging anyone to shoot at him. There were no takers and Kowalski’s C-130 flew down the runway as jumpers streamed out the back. Two lines of tracers reached out from the hillside and converged on the C-130. They missed. ‘I’m in,’ Malone’s wingman called. The hill exploded in flashes as he walked a stick of CBUs across the slope. The tracers stopped. Malone sequenced in behind him in case someone made a foolish decision and started shooting again. No one did.
A stick of flame, a Stinger, came out of the housing area and reached toward the C-130. But the range was too great and the missile arced downward. The self-destruct mechanism activated and it flashed in the night. Malone had to call off his wingman. ‘Housing is off limits,’ he radioed.
‘How would you like some light on the situation?’ Kowalski said over the Have Quick radio.
‘Hold above twelve thou,’ Malone said. ‘That will keep you clear of small arms fire.’
‘Any SAM activity?’ she asked. The C-130 could only survive in a very low threat arena and was no match for surface-to-air missiles.
‘Only what you saw.’
‘We’ll stick around,’ she told the Warthog pilots. A string of twelve flares blossomed in the night, casting an eerie glow over the valley. ‘Vehicles are moving through the main gate,’ she told them. The first of the commandos had arrived.
‘That’s not off limits,’ Malone said.
*
De Royer walked into the hangar and dropped his bundled up parachute with all the others. His radioman and weapons bearer did the same and followed him over to the dark form lying on the ground. It was a body bag. De Royer paused and looked down. Another legionnaire was dead. ‘Corporal Rogers,’ he said in French. ‘An American.’ He saluted the body and walked into the bunker serving as a makeshift command post.
The men came to attention and fell silent. He was the last person they had expected to see. ‘General ...’ the colonel in command of Blue Force stammered.
De Royer glanced at the situation map tacked to the wall. ‘I want to see the perimeter.’
‘Certainly,’ the colonel said. He called for a lieutenant to act as a guide. ‘Your orders, sir.’
De Royer paused before leaving. ‘Continue as before,’ he said.
*
Brenda Conklin lowered the flaps and gear and lined up on the grassy area beside the runway. She wired the airspeed at 120 knots and a drogue chute streamed out the back of the C-130. Ahead, she could see flashes near the main gate. She inched the big cargo plane down with the main gear almost touching the grass as the runway flashed by on the left. ‘Green light,’ she barked. The loadmaster released the locks holding the cargo pallets in the side rails. The drogue chute was anchored to the end pallet, not the Hercules, and pulled the four cargo pallets out the back.
Conklin firewalled the throttles and shouted for the gear and flaps to be raised. But it never happened. A hail of small arms fire erupted in front of her, tearing into the cockpit and shredding the wings. Conklin pulled back on the yoke as pain exploded through her body. She was still trying to fly the aircraft when it hit the ground.
Legionnaires ran for the pallets and ripped the webbing away as smoke from the C-130 washed over them. They had nine tons of ammunition.
The cost of delivery: two pilots, a navigator, flight engineer, loadmaster, and a C-130.
*
Beckmann could feel his base come alive as more telephones came on-line and the network of runners expanded. But the report that the main gate had been bombed and two commandos destroyed pushed him to the edge as a shiver of pure rage shot through him. The gate, that massive structure of stone and iron, had been the symbol that gave meaning to his cause, more so than the war cry of ‘Blut und Boden!’ And he needed those commandos.
The report that a C-130 had been shot down sent shouts of triumph through the command bunker, carrying him with it, lifting him. The tactical commander was also shouting. At first the words did not make sense. Then he understood. The jamming had stopped! Beckmann bent his head in prayer, his faith restored. The enemy would be delivered into his hands! The covenant was not broken.
As suddenly as it had begun, the high crashed. His legs gave out and he had to sit down. For a moment, he thought he was going to vomit. He reached for the bottle and gulped two pills. He watched the minute hand of the wall clock move. Three minutes passed and nothing happened. He gulped two more pills. Now he could feel it. He stood up, his face alive with anticipation. ‘It is time,’ he announced. ‘We attack.’
Chapter 26
Saturday, April 25
Desert One, Lesotho
*
The news that de Royer was on the ground with Blue Force inside Iron Gate reached Pontowski at two minutes past midnight.
‘What is he doing there?’ Pontowski muttered, trying to make sense out of it. Then he got busy.
Skid Malone reported in, saying he was returning to base with his wingman, ordnance expended, and that a C-130 had crashed at the airfield. Before Waldo could scramble two Warthogs to replace Skid, the EC-130 called for landing clearance. Pontowski made the decision. ‘Scramble the Hogs,’ he told Waldo. ‘But hold them short of the runway if Sparky is on final. Get Sparky turned and launched ASAP.’
While Waldo made it happen, Pontowski considered his next move. He glanced at the wall clock when the EC-130 landed. How long before it could refuel and get airborne? Bradford had promised they would keep the jamming going as they headed for Desert One, but would lose effectiveness with increasing distance. The sound of the two A-10s taking off filled the communications van.
‘Put two Hogs on cockpit alert,’ he said. Again, Waldo made it happen.
Standard leaned over Pontowski’s shoulder. ‘Ask Malone what he was bombing.’ Pontowski relayed the question. They listened to the answer. ‘Not good,’ Standard said. ‘It sounds like commandos are answering the call.’
*
Saturday, April 25
Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein
*
De Royer walked into the bunker and studied the situation map. ‘Has the jamming stopped?’ he asked.
‘Three minutes ago,’ the colonel told him.
‘It is time. Commence firing.’
The order went out and a barrage of mortar fire erupted as the legionnaires sent round after round arcing over the base. But it was not indiscriminate fire. Most of the rounds were impacting a few hundred yards in front of the legionnaires. The gunners depressed the elevation and rolled the barrage toward the main base as the legionnaires moved forward, running, taking cover where they could, but always moving.
The units of the Iron Guard encircling the airfield were in a state of confusion. For the first time, they were talking on the radios and were saturated by orders and demands for information from Beckmann’s command bunker. At the same time, commando units were arriving and needed directions to move into position. Then Beckmann ordered an attack to retake the airfield. Since the Iron Guard outnumbered the Legion by five-to-one, he was confident it would be a short fight.
But de Royer and the Legion were of a different opinion and the mortar barrage was their opening argument. The legionnaires quickly overran the forward positions facing them and spoiled the pending attack. What happened next was determined at the platoon level, not in de Royer’s bunker. When the legionnaires ran into stiff opposition, some would dig in as a covering force and radio their position to de Royer’s bunker, while the others would work their way past. Where the opposition was light or nonexistent, they pushed ahead.
One squad overran a howitzer battery that had been moved into position to shell the eastern ridgeline held by the Legion. The sergeant in command of the squad promptly obeyed the Legion’s unofficial standing order of the day, Démerdez-vous, an obscene version of ‘Make do’. They turned the gun around and shelled the base until they ran out of shells.
*
Bouchard listened to the gunfire, separating the sounds. ‘The Legion is attacking,’ he told his team. He issued orders and they sorted their kit, getting ready to leave. Bouchard told the Slavins to dress the children in dark clothes.
‘What’s happening?’ Sam asked.
‘The Legion is attacking the Iron Guard,’ he told her.
‘Are they coming for us?’ she asked.
Bouchard shook his head slowly. ‘Perhaps later.’
‘What are they doing?’
Bouchard hadn’t made himself clear. ‘Destroying Beckmann.’ He picked up his radio and turned it on. The jamming had stopped and he contacted de Royer’s bunker on the assigned frequency. He spoke rapidly in the half-French, half-idiomatic jargon the Legion had developed over the years that was a code in itself. He shoved the antenna in, turning the radio off. ‘They will send a helicopter when the jamming starts again. We will wait here. It won’t be long.’
*
Beckmann had never been on the receiving end of a mortar barrage and it unnerved him. He steeled himself as round after round slammed into the roof. The forty feet of dirt and concrete above his head saved him from the mortars but not the information flowing into the bunker. Before, he did not have enough information, but once the jamming stopped, he had too much. He forced himself to concentrate, winnowing the important facts from the chaff. In one terrible moment, it all became crystal clear — the Legion wanted to capture him!
*
Saturday, April 25
Desert One, Lesotho
*
While the EC-130 refueled, Bradford updated Pontowski on the threats his technicians had detected and warned him that heavy reinforcements were reaching the Iron Guard. Bradford glanced at his watch and sprinted across the ramp, climbing on board as the fourth engine spun to life. The Hercules taxied out and took off exactly seventeen minutes after landing.
Pontowski was still inside the communications van and wrote the takeoff time down as Waldo worked the radios. ‘Colonel, Kowalski has to beat feet. It’s getting too hot.’
‘Hold her high and dry with the two Hogs,’ Pontowski told him. While Waldo found a safe area for her to orbit with the A-10s, Pontowski contacted de Royer on the secure radio and explained that without flares to light the ground and illuminate targets, his Warthogs needed direction from the Legion’s forward air controllers. He ended with, ‘What’s your situation?’
De Royer’s reply was not reassuring. ‘The situation on the ground is fluid. We are advancing toward the south but encountering heavy resistance. There is a probing action on our northern perimeter by commando units. An enemy prisoner identified two commandos, the Wynberg and Tugela, and says more are arriving from the north. Can you interdict their arrival?’
Pontowski told Waldo to send Kowalski and the Hogs to the north and seal off the road leading to the main gate. ‘The flare ship and two Hogs will be on station in two minutes,’ he told de Royer.
‘The housing area is isolated and quiet,’ de Royer said. ‘When the jamming resumes, have a Puma extract Bouchard.’ He broke the connection.
Since the Pumas did not have a secure radio, Pontowski sent a runner to get van der Roos. ‘I can’t figure de Royer out,’ Pontowski told Standard while they waited. ‘He should be right here, not at the airfield.’
‘De Royer wants his own Dien Bien Phu,’ Standard said, recalling the defeat of the Foreign Legion at the hands of the Viet Minh in Indochina in 1954.
‘The French got their asses kicked big time there,’ Pontowski said. ‘Why would he want to repeat that?’
Standard shook his head. ‘He’s going to give the Legion one hell of a victory or one hell of a martyr.’
Piet van der Roos burst into the communications van and Pontowski relayed de Royer’s order to extract Bouchard. ‘I’ll do it,’ van der Roos told him.
‘What if you have to return fire?’ Pontowski asked. He was really asking if van der Roos could shoot at other Afrikaners.
‘No problem,’ van der Roos answered. ‘I’ve already made that decision.’
‘Colonel,’ Waldo interrupted. ‘Kowalski reports many vehicles moving on the road toward the Iron Gate. She’s calling for everything we’ve got.’
*
Saturday, April 25
Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein
*
The jamming was back. Strangely, it helped Beckmann in one respect because he reverted to his backup systems of communications which cut down the flow of needless information. But it also delayed his response to the changing situation. De Royer used that delay to get inside Beckmann’s decision cycle. If he had trained his lower-ranking officers to act independently, they would have contained de Royer’s attack and surrounded the legionnaires in short order.
Beckmann had ordered one lieutenant to hold his position at all costs but th
e fast-moving legionnaires barely paused as they overran the lieutenant’s platoon. That was when the lieutenant stopped talking to the command bunker and adopted the legionnaires’ tactics. He ordered his men to scoot and shoot their way to safety and to regroup in the housing area.
Much to the lieutenant’s surprise, it worked.
*
A runner reached Beckmann’s bunker shortly after four in the morning and handed a message to a sergeant. The NCO read the message and forwarded it to Beckmann. The sergeant sat there for a moment, thinking. He had read every message that had come in and had a complete picture of the battle. Outside, the sound of gunfire was coming closer. Without a word, he grabbed his helmet and left.
Beckmann read the message, wadded it up, and threw it to the floor. A flare ship and four A-10s had cut the road leading to Iron Gate and stopped all traffic. The road was littered with burning hulks and the survivors were in desperate need of medical attention.
Part of Beckmann coldly analyzed the situation while his voices raged at him. The Iron Guard was cut off but given time, the commandos would regroup and force their way through. The legionnaires could not hold Iron Gate for long. ‘But long enough to take you prisoner,’ a voice told him. The rational part of his mind calculated he had another four hours at the most. Sometime after sunrise, he reasoned, when the A-10s could roam at will above him and the gunners on the ridgelines butcher his men.
Another voice spoke to him and for the first time, he recognized the speaker. It was Erik, his brother. He listened and then picked up the telephone. But the line to the dispersal site was down. He scribbled a message and handed it to his communications officer. ‘This must go out at all costs. Send a runner and try to establish radio contact. You must not fail.’
Before he left, he gave his last order. ‘Do not surrender.’
*
MacKay’s head hurt. The pain was a tiger, ripping and tearing at him. He fought the beast off and made his eyes focus. He was lying on the floor of the examination room, stripped naked, his hands tied behind his back. Plastic flexcuffs, he thought. Then he saw Ziba. She was also naked. But her hands were shackled in front of her.
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