Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  *

  Tuesday, December 23

  Johannesburg, South Africa

  *

  A bulky, top-heavy armored personnel carrier rumbled down the center of Commissioner Street at first light. MacKay stood back from the window in the eighth-floor apartment where he and Ziba had been staked out for six days watching his office. ‘A Hippo,’ he told her. ‘Now the police show up.’

  She joined him and watched as a squad of police moved behind the armored personnel carrier with military precision, checking the burned-out stores and vehicles for any signs of life or resistance. Occasionally, a policeman probed at a body to check for weapons but they had all been stripped clean. The rioting that had swept through Johannesburg had finally burnt itself out.

  An army truck came down the street and parked in front of the office building across the street from MacKay. ‘Check this out,’ he mumbled as a squad of soldiers got out and went inside the office building. He focused his binoculars on the window of his old office. His stakeout was about to pay a dividend.

  *

  Hans Beckmann stood in front of the train station and studied the destruction around him with a professional interest. He motioned to the army colonel and walked towards the Civic Center, five blocks to the north. Behind him, a small clutch of reporters and photographers followed along in a tight group.

  ‘It was much worse than we had anticipated,’ the colonel told Beckmann. ‘At first, we could do nothing. Then after three days, we were able to go in. Many of the rioters were either sleeping or drunk by then. But there was still much street fighting and it took us forty-eight hours to restore order.’

  An old white woman wandered toward them in a state of shock. She was still clutching a plastic bag with her Christmas shopping. Hans Beckmann spoke quietly to an officer and he hurried back to the reporters to ensure the old woman was photographed. Betacams whirled and cameras clicked before the group moved on, leaving the old woman behind them, still wandering dazedly in a world she no longer understood.

  ‘How many kaffirs were killed?’ Beckmann asked.

  ‘Over two thousand,’ the colonel told him.

  Beckmann fixed the officer with a cold stare. ‘Not enough. Were any whites killed?’

  ‘At last count, less than fifty. That includes the two CIA agents we were watching ... a fire in their office ... a fortuitous accident.’

  ‘I was told there were three agents,’ Beckmann said.

  ‘The third was a black,’ the colonel replied. ‘He was also killed.’

  ‘Take me there,’ Beckmann ordered.

  A staff car was brought up and they climbed in. ‘Take us to Commissioner Street,’ the colonel ordered.

  An army sergeant led them to the fourth-floor office where the bodies had been discovered. ‘We had to bag the bodies and remove them,’ the sergeant said. The office was a charred wreck and little was left that was recognizable. ‘The kaffir was here, next to the door. We think he was killed first. The two whites were over there. Bad work. Assassinated. The fire made identification difficult but we had enough. They were all Americans.’

  ‘Are you sure about the kaffir?’ Beckmann asked.

  ‘His passport had not burned and he had keys to the office.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘John Arthur from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.’

  ‘The photo on the passport, did it match?’ Beckmann asked.

  ‘His face was badly burned,’ the sergeant answered. ‘One other thing, the kaffir was wearing shoes I’ve never seen before. A very light dress shoe with a soft sole, perfect for walking.’

  Or moving without making a sound, Beckmann thought. He had seen enough. ‘Turn the bodies over to the Americans,’ he said, allowing a tight smile. At least one of his counterintelligence operations had been successful. But they will try again, he reasoned. Prime was too tempting a target.

  *

  MacKay focused his binoculars on the men coming out of the building. The frustration that had been building in him gave way to a pure, cold anger when he recognized Hans Beckmann. ‘It was the fuckin’ AWB,’ he told Ziba.

  She touched his arm. ‘It’s time to leave.’

  ‘You got that right.’ MacKay swept the apartment, removing any trace they had been there. Satisfied the apartment was clean, he made a phone call to reestablish contact with his control. He had delayed until the last moment in case the phone line was tapped. He wanted to be long gone if a trace led back to the apartment. But he couldn’t get through to Cape Town and hung up.

  He thought for a moment and considered his next move. He wasn’t on an independent operation and it was time to come in out of the cold. He locked the door behind them and took the back stairs to the parking garage where he had found Jason Robby’s blue BMW. ‘You drive,’ he told Ziba, ‘and talk to anyone who stops us.’ He crawled into the passenger’s seat and felt under the dash, searching for the Uzi that Robby sometimes carried. It wasn’t there.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Ziba asked as she headed for the main road.

  ‘Bloemfontein. That’s where you want to go and it’s on the way to Cape Town.’

  They made good time until they reached the outskirts of Johannesburg where the traffic slowed and finally ground to a halt. Ziba got out to see what was causing the delay. Within moments, she was back. ‘There are soldiers and a roadblock ahead,’ she told him.

  MacKay got out and saw three white men wearing brown shirts walking down the line of cars toward them. They wore distinctive arm bands with a red and black imitation swastika, the symbol of the AWB. One of the brown shirts stopped and spoke to the occupants of a car. Suddenly, he raised his submachine gun and fired into the car, emptying the magazine. He jerked the door open and a black woman fell out and sprawled in the road. The man reloaded and walked toward them.

  ‘Go!’ MacKay growled, jumping back into the car. Ziba jockeyed the BMW back and forth to turn around. But before she could break free, they were surrounded by the three men.

  ‘Identification,’ the shooter said in a bored voice. Ziba fumbled in her purse looking desperately for something that would satisfy the man. She finally handed him her driver’s license. It wasn’t what he wanted and he dropped it. MacKay saw the slight movement of his submachine gun.

  ‘Hey, hold on,’ he said, surprising the men with his American accent. He reached into his pocket and handed them the ID he had taken off the hit man who had killed Robby and Grawley.

  ‘American?’ a soldier asked.

  ‘The last time I checked,’ MacKay snapped.

  The soldier called a sergeant over and handed him the ID card. ‘The next time you see an identification like this one,’ the sergeant said, ‘do not delay the person. He’s Iron Guard.’ He reached into his shirt pocket and extracted his own card. The soldiers huddled around him and examined the two cards. The sergeant handed the ID back to MacKay.

  He nodded and marched off, leaving the three brown shirts standing in the dust. ‘A fuckin’ kaffir in the Iron Guard,’ one of the soldiers muttered.

  Slowly, the shooter saluted. ‘Go in peace, brother,’ he said, giving MacKay a cold look that carried a hatred the American had never encountered.

  Ziba started the engine and pulled out, heading for the roadblock. ‘That ID saved our lives,’ she said.

  MacKay studied the card. ‘He doesn’t even look like me,’ he mumbled.

  Chapter 6

  Friday, December 26

  Brandfort, South Africa

  *

  MacKay drove the BMW slowly through the town, looking for a service station before they ran out of gas. ‘Where the hell are we?’ he grumbled, cutting through the fatigue that enveloped him like a thick fog.

  Ziba reached out and touched his face. ‘Brandfort. We’re almost to Bloemfontein.’

  ‘About time,’ he grumbled. They had been on the road for three days since leaving Johannesburg, dodging roadblocks and marauding gangs of looters. Detours had added over five h
undred miles to the journey and twice he had to steal gas. He had managed to snatch six hours of sleep out of the last seventy-two and was exhausted.

  ‘A hell of a way to spend Christmas,’ he muttered, his words slurred. ‘We need gas and I got’a find a place to crash. I’m bushed ... whacked out.’ He looked at the closed stores and the Christmas decorations. ‘It looks peaceful enough here,’ he said, coasting to a stop in the only open service station in town. A friendly black teenager came out and told them the pumps were closed and they needed permission from the local commando to buy petrol. ‘What the hell is a commando?’ MacKay muttered.

  ‘A commando,’ Ziba answered, ‘is a local militia of Afrikaners. That’s why there has been no trouble here.’

  MacKay worked the problem and fished the hit man’s ID card out of his pocket. The boy glanced at the card and went rigid with fear. ‘Ja baas’ he said, hurrying to the pump. MacKay shook his head, sensing the card was very important and he was missing something. I’ve got to get this to Cape Town, he thought.

  Ziba spoke to the boy, getting directions. ‘There’s a hotel we can stay at ...’ Her words trailed off. MacKay was sound asleep behind the wheel, his mouth open.

  *

  A hand on his mouth woke MacKay with a start. Instinct, honed by years of training, took over and he grabbed the offending wrist and rolled away, ready for action. With a little cry of surprise, Ziba fell into his arms. He released her and watched as she massaged her wrist. ‘You snore,’ was all she said.

  ‘I don’t snore,’ he grumbled, his male ego wounded.

  ‘You do,’ she said. ‘But not loudly.’ She was smiling. ‘You make little honks.’

  MacKay looked around, getting his bearings. He was lying in a bed in a small room, it was dark outside, and his clothes were off. He had a vague memory of someone helping him undress and washing him with a sponge. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘In Brandfort. I found a hotel.’

  He reached out and touched her. ‘Thanks. I was really zonked.’ She responded to his touch and came into his arms, stroking his face. ‘You are a powerful man,’ she murmured. ‘You will make many children.’

  ‘I don’t want to lose you,’ he said.

  *

  MacKay woke at first light and rolled up on an elbow. He looked down at the woman sleeping beside him and smiled. For once, his face was not a horrific mask but soft and smiling. Her skin glowed and was warm to his touch. She turned to him and threw her arms around his neck as she kissed him and slowly stroked his body. She whispered to him in words he did not understand when they made love and then cuddled into his arms afterwards. He fell into a deep sleep.

  The sounds of children at play woke MacKay and he sat up when he realized he was alone. He started to pull on his pants but stopped when he saw traces of dried blood on his penis. An overwhelming sadness swept over him as he finished dressing. It was truth-to-tell time. When he went outside, he found Ziba sitting at a table outside their small hotel drinking tea. He sat down. ‘It’s peaceful here,’ he told her, ‘especially after Jo’burg.’

  ‘There is much you don’t see,’ she told him. ‘There is much poverty here and life is very hard. Many young people want to escape ... like I did ... before they get too old.’

  ‘And how old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-four,’ she answered.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me I was the first?’

  ‘Zulu girls take their virginity very seriously,’ she replied. ‘You wouldn’t have believed me.’

  He knew it was the truth. ‘I love you, woman.’ That also was the truth.

  ‘That makes me very happy,’ she said.

  ‘Ziba, who are you? Who are you working for?’

  She looked away. ‘I was Inkatha. They sent me to school and trained me. But after the elections in 1994, I saw the corruption in Inkatha ... they are no better than the ANC ... so I left and went to work for the Slavins. Charles, the man who introduced us, was Inkatha. He found me and asked me to meet with you. The tsotsi were after him, not you, and I couldn’t let you die like him ... with the necklace.’

  ‘Are you still Inkatha?’ he asked. She looked at him and didn’t answer. Oh Lord, woman, he told himself, how I want you. But I’ve still got a job to do. ‘Stay with the Slavins in Bloemfontein until I can come get you,’ he said.

  ‘They gave me a telephone number to call when I got to Bloemfontein,’ she said. ‘You can call me there.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got to go.’

  *

  Saturday, December 27

  Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri

  *

  The execute order directing the wing to deploy to South Africa came down two days after Christmas and within an hour, the mobility processing line was alive with activity as the 442nd moved out. Pontowski walked through the crowd in the hangar, talking to the men and women who were being manifested on the first cargo aircraft. He was surprised that a number of people with packed bags had shown up who were not on the deployment. ‘Just in case,’ as one master sergeant explained.

  Back in his office, Lori Williams, his new Exec, dropped a new stack of requests on his desk from eighteen people asking to be placed on deployment orders. Her name was on top. ‘The half of the command post not scheduled to go is threatening to mutilate or cripple the half that is,’ she told him. Pontowski shook his head in mock resignation and smiled to himself. He had seen it before; morale and mission were linked hand in hand and when there was a job to do, his people were there.

  Tango Leonard stormed into his office twenty minutes later with a message in his hand. ‘Did you see this?’ he asked. ‘Some dumb dick head ...’

  ‘Whoa, big fella,’ Pontowski interrupted. ‘Dick heads by definition are dumb.’ The easy words calmed the agitated lieutenant colonel and he handed Pontowski the message. ‘What the hell?’ he muttered. The 303rd Fighter Squadron was only deploying with twelve aircraft, not its full complement of twenty. ‘Lori,’ he called, ‘get Langley on the phone.’ He turned to Tango. ‘I’ll sort this out. Meanwhile, decide who’s not going if this holds.’

  The colonel in charge of the deployment at headquarters Air Combat Command was all sympathy when he explained how the number of aircraft and people being deployed were cut back because airlift was not available. ‘It’s simple,’ he told Pontowski. ‘Airlift has been broken since the Gulf War. We wore the transports out and they haven’t been replaced.’

  ‘Colonel,’ Pontowski said, ‘I’ve got a lot of good people here who are willing to do the job. I hope we’re not hanging them out to dry because we can’t generate the support they need.’

  The colonel agreed with him and promised he would work the problem. But he didn’t hold out much hope for a change. ‘We’re doing this one on the cheap,’ he said. ‘Don’t expect too much support.’

  ‘That’s real encouraging,’ Pontowski snapped, hanging up.

  The first of the C-5s scheduled to carry the wing’s heavy equipment and advance party to Africa landed before noon, and again Pontowski roamed the flight line. It was an exercise in logistics, moving people and equipment halfway around the world, and what he saw as normal belied the complexity of the system at work. But it was a system that was strained to the limit. Two hours after landing, the C-5 launched and headed for Puerto Rico.

  *

  Martha Marshall, Pontowski’s nanny, led Little Matt through the hubbub and confusion that ruled the squadron building. They found Pontowski as he came out of the deployment briefing with a folder stuffed with charts, flight plans, and instructions under his arm. He thanked Martha and picked up his son. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he told the little boy. ‘I’ll be gone for awhile. Can you handle that, good buddy?’

  His son nodded gravely, his eyes serious, and threw his arms around Pontowski’s neck, ‘I’ll be okay, Daddy,’ he promised. ‘Don’t worry.’ It was a familiar routine they both found comforting.

  ‘I never worry abo
ut you. But I do miss you.’

  ‘Will you be gone long?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably a couple of months.’

  That satisfied the little boy and he hopped out of his father’s arms, now ready for other things. ‘Good. We can go fishing this summer.’

  ‘You got a deal,’ Pontowski said. He looked up and saw Martha Marshall watching them. Tears were in her eyes.

  ‘I love him, you know,’ she told Pontowski, and frowned at him. ‘You can’t do this again. He needs at least one parent in his life.’ Then she relented. ‘Go. We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Thanks, Martha,’ he said. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘Promises,’ she snorted. ‘You can start by getting married,’ she called to his back.

  Pontowski waited at the door for John Leonard to say goodbye to Sara. He could see them talking quietly in a corner, and like most of the wives who had come to the base, she smiled bravely. My God, Pontowski thought, this is the second time Sara’s said goodbye to her husband when she’s expecting. The first time had been years ago when her first husband, Muddy Waters, had left for the Middle East and she was pregnant with Melissa. Muddy didn’t make it back.

  What gives me the right to demand so much of these people? he wondered.

  *

  Tuesday, December 30

  The South Atlantic

  *

  Pontowski came off the refueling boom of the KC-10 tanker and cycled into the slot on the big tanker’s right wing. Below, a few white puffy clouds marred the blue of the south Atlantic Ocean that stretched endlessly in front of them toward the coast of Africa. He watched as his wingman, Jim ‘Bag’ Talbot, moved into the precontact position. The hookup went smoothly and Bag stayed welded on to the end of the boom. Pontowski shook his head in wonder and decided that Bag’s hangover was not affecting his flying.

  The night before, Bag had led the pack that had totally destroyed the tranquility of Jamestown on St Helena, the island in the South Atlantic where Napoleon had died in exile in 1821. But Pontowski couldn’t really blame them for whooping it up after flying three long days, first to Grenada in the Caribbean, then Recife on the horn of Brazil, and finally into the South Atlantic, reaching St Helena after a five-hour flight.