Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  Pontowski hit the UHF transmit switch on the throttle quadrant. ‘Bag, you copacetic for piddle packs?’ The Warthog did not have a relief tube and the pilots had to use plastic piddle packs to relieve themselves. Pontowski calculated that the dedicated beer drinkers like Bag were putting theirs to full use.

  ‘Six down, three to go,’ came the answer.

  ‘My gawd!’ came over the radio. ‘The boy’s going for a record.’

  ‘You’re welcome to use our facilities,’ a female voice from the tanker said.

  ‘Would if I could,’ Bag answered.

  Pontowski smiled. The light banter told him all was well. He checked his instruments and shook his head. They were plowing through the sky at 360 knots true airspeed. Luckily, they had a tail wind of fifteen knots. It will be head wind on the way back, he thought. Don’t start thinking about that yet, he warned himself. You’re not even there.

  ‘Rodeo flight,’ the same woman’s voice radioed, ‘my copilot tells me we have crossed the Greenwich Meridian. I’d like to be the first to welcome you to your new command.’

  The Prime Meridian, Pontowski thought. What genius in the Pentagon came up with that line of longitude to transfer the 442nd to United Nations command? I suppose it makes sense, he reasoned. We take off as part of the U.S. Air Force and land as a UN contingent commanded by a Frenchman. He flipped through the paper work he had stuffed into the leg pockets of his G suit until he found the name of his new commander — General Charles de Royer.

  Another quick check of his navigation computer — 750 nautical miles before they coasted in at Cape Fria. Then another thousand miles to Cape Town. It was going to be a long, butt-numbing day. He hoped Bag had enough piddle packs.

  At Cape Fria, the flight of twelve A-l0s and two KC-l0s turned to the south and flew down the coast, enjoying the scenery after the long haul over open water. At first, Pontowski couldn’t fathom what was different — his fatigue prevented it. As they neared Cape Town, it came to him. The endless blue skies glowed with a brilliance he had never seen before and far off to the east, the land was marked with a blood-red horizon. The landscape below him was a dazzling panorama of greens and browns cut with mountain escarpments that challenged the sky.

  Neat little towns and farmsteads dotted the countryside and ahead of him, he could see Table Mountain capped by a wispy beard of cloud streaming out to the north. Bag’s voice came over the radio. ‘Say, Boss. Did you know the name of our base, Ysterplaat, means “Iron Plank” in Dutch? Crazy name for a base.’ Bag was silent for a moment. ‘Let’s do the recovery right.’ Pontowski almost laughed. Like all fighter pilots, Bag wanted to make an entrance. ‘The place sort’a demands it,’ Bag explained.

  Pontowski agreed with him. An overhead recovery was the standard landing pattern for fighters returning from a mission. Up to four aircraft approached the runway in an echelon formation at 1200 feet. The lead jet pitched out as they crossed the approach end of the runway and the others followed at five-second intervals, descending to land 2000 feet apart. Not only was it an impressive maneuver, it was the most efficient way to get large numbers of aircraft quickly on the ground. ‘Okay, Hawgs,’ Pontowski transmitted. ‘We’re going to arrive looking good. Echelon right for an overhead recovery.’

  Pontowski flew a shallow dogleg to final and rolled out over Table Bay, three miles short of Ysterplaat Air Base. Table Mountain was off to his right and he had a good view of the waterfront and the town. He was impressed. Ahead of him, he could see the air base, its ramp alive with activity. When his flight of four crossed the approach end of the runway, he made the break, pitching out to the left. It was flawless and Pontowski felt good when he landed and rolled out. His Warthog’s crew chief was waiting when he taxied in and marshaled him into a parking spot. Pontowski smiled as he watched the last formation of Warthogs land and taxi in. Not a bad beginning, he thought.

  A jeeplike vehicle Pontowski did not recognize pulled alongside his jet and a lone figure wearing a South African BDU, battle dress uniform, climbed out. Pontowski scrambled down the ladder and the man greeted him with a salute. ‘Welcome to Cape Town, Colonel Pontowski.’ He spoke English with a heavy but clear Afrikaans accent that made Pontowski think of Holland. ‘I’m Captain Piet van der Roos, your liaison officer.’

  Pontowski returned his salute, taking the man in. He judged van der Roos to be in his early thirties. He was of average height and his skin was burned brown from the sun. Van der Roos’s uniform hung on his lean body, deep creases etched the corners of his hazel eyes, and his dark blond hair was cut short. His canvas holster and web belt showed signs of repeated scrubbings and the bulky grips on his 9mm pistol were worn. The captain obviously spent most of his time in the field and was not a staff officer cloistered in some headquarters. The embroidered pilot wings over his left shirt pocket reassured Pontowski that van der Roos also knew something about flying.

  ‘General de Royer,’ van der Roos said, ‘has ordered you to report to him immediately.’ Pontowski arched an eyebrow at the captain’s use of the word ‘ordered’. Probably a translation problem, he reasoned. Given Pontowski’s position, de Royer probably ‘requested’ they meet immediately. As Pontowski’s superior officer, a request from de Royer would be treated the same as an order. But it was much more polite.

  ‘The General,’ van der Roos said, ‘specifically used the word “ordered”.’ He motioned for Pontowski to join him in the jeep.

  Pontowski stripped off his parachute harness and G suit, jammed his flight cap on his head, and crawled into the jeep. Van der Roos drove out of the air base and headed for Constantia, the palatial suburb on the southern side of Cape Town at the base of Table Mountain. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘General de Royer insists on speaking only French. May I suggest you speak English while I translate.’

  ‘Why?’ Pontowski demanded. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my French.’

  Van der Roos glanced at him. ‘No doubt. But perhaps it will help you understand the general better.’ Then he grinned. ‘What do you Americans say? Trust me on this?’

  They entered a narrow, tree-lined street with large houses, each surrounded by a high wall. Sentries wearing the blue beret of the United Nations guarded a barricade and checked their identification before letting them proceed. ‘The residence and headquarters of General Charles de Royer, commander in chief of all UN forces in South Africa,’ van der Roos announced as they turned into the courtyard of the largest compound.

  Inside the main house, van der Roos led Pontowski through a series of rooms, each one more opulent than the preceding. From the confusion, it was obvious the French peacekeepers were still arriving. ‘Nice way to fight a war,’ Pontowski deadpanned. A wry grin cracked van der Roos’s face but disappeared as they entered de Royer’s outer offices. The general’s aide-de-camp, Colonel Valery Bouchard, directed them to a waiting room to cool their heels. Bouchard was a lean, hard-looking man in his mid-forties with close-cropped black hair. He wore a single black leather glove on his left hand and walked with a slight limp. The left side of his face was a massive burn scar that showed little signs of reconstructive surgery and his left eye stared straight ahead, never moving. ‘Is that a glass eyeball?’ Pontowski asked.

  ‘I believe so,’ van der Roos replied. ‘But who is going to ask him?’ An hour later, Bouchard escorted them in to meet the general.

  De Royer was standing by a set of tall windows overlooking a garden, his back to the door. He stood at least six feet ten inches tall, his hair was totally white, and he wore an immaculately tailored tan uniform. The shock came when he turned around. General Charles de Royer had the face of a thirty-year-old and the coldest blue eyes Pontowski had ever seen. Not a single medal or badge marked the austerity of the general’s uniform. Bouchard made the introductions and then retreated to stand by the door.

  ‘Colonel Pontowski, why did you arrive with only twelve aircraft?’ de Royer demanded in French. ‘I was promised twenty.’

  Pontowski
answered in the same language, not waiting for van der Roos to translate. ‘We only had airlift to support twelve, sir.’

  De Royer fixed Pontowski with a cold stare. ‘Captain van der Roos,’ he said, not taking his eyes off Pontowski, ‘your function is to act as an interpreter in my headquarters. Does the Colonel understand that?’

  ‘Please accept my apologies for speaking French,’ Pontowski said in English. ‘I thought it was adequate.’ Van der Roos translated.

  ‘When will the transport aircraft arrive?’ de Royer asked.

  ‘I was told to expect the C-130s on the sixth of January,’ Pontowski answered after the formality of translating was finished.

  ‘Please tell Colonel Pontowski,’ the general said, his voice rigid and flat, ‘that he now falls under my command and I expect him to respect my position. In the future, he will not wear a flight suit in my headquarters.’ He waited until van der Roos had translated. ‘I also expect Colonel Pontowski to respond as a subordinate officer. Explain it to him in a manner that he will understand. I expect my wing to be ready to commence operations on the seventh of January.’

  He turned and walked back to the window while van der Roos translated. The interview was over and Bouchard held the door open for them to leave. Pontowski spun around and forced a tight control over his anger. He had been stepped on hard and someone at the Pentagon needed to know about it. But who? His orders had been explicit: he took his operational orders from de Royer and his logistical support came through the U.S. Air Force.

  Van der Roos said nothing until they were in his jeep and on the road to the air base. ‘Perhaps you have a sense of the general. Yes?’

  ‘Mais oui,’ Pontowski replied. He bit off the words. He was a good officer and wouldn’t say more.

  But van der Roos didn’t suffer from the same reservations. ‘The general is un trou du cul,’ he said. He had called de Royer an asshole in French. ‘The only other French cuss word I know is merde and it didn’t seem adequate.’

  ‘That works too,’ Pontowski replied, ‘especially since we just stepped in it.’ The two men exchanged glances. They were going to be good friends.

  Chapter 7

  Monday, January 5

  Cape Town, South Africa

  *

  Erik Beckmann walked down Burg Street and entered the foyer of the office building next to the bank. He took the stairs and trotted up to the third floor, careful to avoid being seen. He carefully opened the stairwell door and made sure the hall was deserted before taking the few steps to the corner office. A brassy blonde in a black leotard and tights answered the buzzer and held the door open for him. Inside, two girls, both stylishly dressed, stood up. ‘Is Reggie available?’ he asked. Beckmann was in the best whorehouse in Cape Town.

  The blonde’s lips made a pretty pout and she led him to a back hall. ‘Last door,’ she said, leaving him on his own.

  Beckmann slipped down the hall and opened the door. ‘Reggie,’ he called softly.

  A young man came out of a back room and smiled. ‘Erik, what a surprise. More of the same?’ Beckmann nodded and followed him into a brightly lit room. It was a modern computer and photographic laboratory filled with the latest processing and printing equipment.

  ‘The ID card you made for me was an excellent fake,’ Beckmann said. Reggie smiled at the praise. ‘It was very easy to penetrate Iron Gate,’ Beckmann continued. ‘Unfortunately, you are selling them to others ... the wrong people. I’ve got to stop that.’ The small automatic was in his hand.

  ‘No,’ Reggie whispered, holding up his hand to block the bullet. A loud ‘phuut’ filled the room. Beckmann fired a second time. He walked around the room, methodically destroying the equipment. He fired a single shot into the holographic camera and destroyed its fragile array of lenses. He devoted most of his attention to the computer bank, making sure the programs were erased before disassembling the computers and destroying the circuit boards. Satisfied, he double checked the room to ensure it was clean of any fingerprints.

  Beckmann gave a mental sigh. There was still the problem of the girls. He walked back down the hall.

  *

  Richard Davis Standard sat at an outdoor table at the coffee shop on Burg Street looking like any overweight, balding, middle-aged businessman who suffered from high blood pressure and a nagging family. It was an image Standard had perfected over the years and few would suspect his real role as CIA Station Chief in South Africa. He glanced at the office building across the street, satisfied with the payoff that had put him on Erik Beckmann’s trail, and fumbled with a cigarette. He hated smoking but his best radio was disguised as a cigarette lighter. ‘Did he get by you?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ a woman’s voice answered. ‘He’s still on the third floor. Hold on. Here he comes.’

  ‘Don’t lose him,’ Standard said. There’s always hope, he thought. Maybe this time ‘the Boys’, his team of four very talented women, could stay on Beckmann’s tail. Standard stood, dropped some money on the table, crossed the street, and entered the office building. Like Beckmann, he took the stairs at a brisk pace, hardly feeling the effort, until he reached the third floor. Which office? he wondered as he walked the hall, checking the signs. He stopped in front of the one that announced ‘Golden Escorts’ and listened. Nothing. He knocked and when no one answered, tested the handle. It was locked. He wrapped his left hand around the knob and twisted. The lock snapped and he was in.

  ‘Ah, shit,’ he groaned. The bodies of three women were on the floor. He keyed his radio. ‘Beckmann left his calling card at Golden Escorts.’ He stepped over the bodies and searched the bedrooms. Why? he asked himself. He found the hall and followed it to the lab. He was not surprised to see the other body but he could suddenly taste the coffee he had been drinking. Why blow the guy’s face off? He examined the debris Beckmann had scattered around the room.

  Again, he keyed his radio. ‘Get the Boys up here.’

  *

  Tuesday, January 6

  Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town

  *

  Pontowski was standing on the ramp with de Royer, waiting for the C-130s to arrive. The bevy of officers who made up the general’s staff were clustered behind them in a form of close-order drill that made Pontowski think of an amoeba on parade. Only Colonel Bouchard, de Royer’s aide, stood apart, keeping his own counsel. His fire-scarred face was turned to the west, scanning the sky. ‘There,’ he said, pointing with his gloved hand.

  As one, the amoeba turned its head to the west as the first two C-130 Hercules appeared over Table Bay. The squat, high-winged, four-engined turboprop cargo aircraft came down final at traffic pattern altitude in a tight formation, the distinctive sound of their engines filling the sky.

  In the distance, a mile in trail, Pontowski could see two more dark-gray Hercules approach from over the bay. With an airman’s critical eye, he graded the first formation as they pitched out for an overhead recovery. Perfect, he decided. He chanced a glance at de Royer. There was no reaction from the tall Frenchman. But that was to be expected. De Royer was an army officer and didn’t even wear jump wings. He doesn’t know what he’s seeing, Pontowski decided.

  Lockheed had rolled the first C-130 out of its plant in the mid-1950s and the Hercules quickly became the unsung workhorse of the U.S. Air Force. It did yeoman labor in Vietnam in the 1960s and early 1970s hauling cargo, troops, and wounded. Because of its rugged construction and outstanding maneuverability, a few were modified into gunships, the fearsome ghost of death called Spectre. Later variants were developed for special operations and could airdrop cargo at high-speed and low-level under the most appalling conditions.

  But the Hercules landing at Ysterplaat were normal trash haulers from the 314th Wing out of Little Rock Air Force Base, Arkansas, and these particular aircraft were older than most of the crews flying them.

  The first C-130 touched down on the runway and rolled out to the end as the second one came across the runway thres
hold. The second formation of two were at traffic pattern altitude approaching the break.

  The first C-130 to land taxied clear of the runway and past the waiting officers. The pilot nudged the throttles and varied the pitch of the propellers, playing a tune. Pontowski could have sworn he heard the distinctive beat of the Marseillaise, the French national anthem. Then the escape hatch over the flight deck popped open and a flag was shoved up and unfurled. The Stars and Stripes rippled in the wind as the Hercules taxied past. Then the aircraft stopped and the pilot reversed props, backing the big bird up and turning, pointing the aircraft’s nose directly at Pontowski and de Royer. The pilot tapped the brakes, the nose rose into the air as the cargo plane stopped, and then came down, executing a neat little bow.

  Pontowski chanced a look at de Royer. The general was looking straight ahead, his face as frozen as ever. But for a moment, Pontowski thought he detected a flash of life in his cold blue eyes.

  The second C-130 taxied to a halt and backed into its parking position, this time without the bow. The crews and passengers on board were deplaning and lining up in front as the third and fourth C-130s landed and taxied into their parking slots. A lone figure in a flight suit split off from the group in front of the first C-130 and walked across the ramp. It was a woman. As she neared, Pontowski could read her name tag and make out her rank — Lieutenant Colonel Lydia Kowalski. The star surrounded by a wreath on her pilot wings announced she was a command pilot with years of experience and thousands of hours in the air.

  Kowalski was a big, rawboned woman, almost as tall as Pontowski, and her dark hair was pulled back into a severe bun on the back of her neck. Strands of gray laced her hair, crow’s feet accentuated her dark eyes, and she walked with an easy gait born of a confidence gained from thousands of hours of flying and countless missions. She stopped in front of de Royer and snapped a sharp salute.