‘A most unusual entrance,’ he said in French, returning her salute. ‘You are?’
‘Lieutenant Colonel Lydia Kowalski, detachment commander for the 314th Wing.’
De Royer bisected the woman with his dead-fish stare. ‘You,’ de Royer finally said, ‘are now under my command. I do not approve of this type of display and in the future, all landings will be normal.’ He waited for Piet van der Roos to translate, staring over Kowalski’s head at the horizon.
‘Yes, sir,’ Kowalski answered, saluting the general. Again, he returned her salute. She executed a perfect about-face and marched back to her waiting crew.
De Royer fixed Pontowski with the same dead-fish look. ‘Report to my office tomorrow afternoon with your Operations Officer. Colonel Bouchard will arrange the time.’ Without waiting for the formality of a reply, the general turned and walked to his waiting staff car. His amoeba-like staff split and scurried for their cars.
‘A true sack of merde,’ van der Roos said.
‘Mais oui,’ Pontowski agreed as he headed for his office.
*
Wednesday, January 7
UN Headquarters, Constantia, Cape Town
*
Pontowski, Tango Leonard, and Piet van der Roos presented themselves at exactly four o’clock to de Royer’s adjutant, Colonel Valery Bouchard. Again, they had to wait, but this time Bouchard offered them coffee or tea. ‘I apologize for the delay,’ he said in English.
Pontowski sensed an opening and accepted the offer. He spoke in French. ‘Colonel Bouchard, may I ask what your background is? You don’t fit the image of an aide-de-camp.’
Bouchard’s face was impassive as he answered. ‘At one time, I was a company commander in the 2nd Régiment Etranger Parachutiste. General de Royer was my commander. Later, I commanded the regiment.’
Pontowski was impressed. The Second Foreign Parachute Regiment was the most famous of the Foreign Legion’s nine regiments and considered the equivalent of the U.S. Rangers. ‘I didn’t know the General was a legionnaire,’ he said.
The intercom buzzed and Bouchard escorted them into de Royer’s office. ‘It is time,’ the general said, keeping them standing, ‘to discuss your function in my command. The A-10s are of course needed for a show of force. But the C-130s, which arrived yesterday, are essential because only they can carry out the humanitarian part of our mission. That is why I went to the air base for their arrival.’
Pontowski braced himself for a tirade on Kowalski’s arrival. But de Royer did not mention it. ‘It was my understanding that your government was going to send a squadron of twelve C-130s, not four. When may I expect the others?’
‘I don’t know,’ Pontowski replied without waiting for a translation. ‘But I’ll find out.’
De Royer stared at him while van der Roos translated the entire conversation, including Pontowski’s answer. ‘Do that. Have the C-130s ready to start operations tomorrow. Dismissed.’ The four officers turned as one to leave. ‘Colonel Pontowski,’ the general said, ‘remain for a moment.’ He waited until the others had left. ‘As of now, you are assigned to my headquarters as my Air Operations Officer.’
‘May I ask why the change?’ Pontowski replied, hiding the anger that was building inside.
‘As you insist on speaking to me directly, we must give you a reason.’
‘And I must object,’ Pontowski said. ‘My place is with my wing.’
‘Your place is where I say it is. Further, given your new position, you will not fly without my permission. Also, I will require a briefing on air operations every morning.’ He turned to face the window, dismissing Pontowski.
Leonard and van der Roos were waiting for him in Bouchard’s office. ‘I can’t believe this,’ he told them. ‘I’ve been kicked upstairs as his Air Operations Officer.’ A genuine look of surprise crossed the right side of Bouchard’s face, but he said nothing. ‘Tango,’ Pontowski continued, ‘you’ll have to run the wing.’
Leonard sat down. ‘Holy shit ... this sounds like what happened in China when Von Drexler tried to do the same thing.’ The memory of General Mark Von Drexler, the commander of the American Volunteer Group in China, was still painful for both men. Von Drexler had been a brilliant logistician and strategist but had lost his way, seduced by power and freedom of action. The dark inner needs of his egotism had driven him deep into a megalomania that had destroyed him.
‘This is a different situation,’ Pontowski said. ‘De Royer is not Von Drexler. So let’s play it as it goes down — for now. Piet, will you be my aide and translator?’
‘But your French is very good, better that mine.’
‘How true,’ Bouchard muttered in English.
‘But I don’t speak Afrikaans,’ Pontowski explained.
‘It would be my pleasure to teach you,’ van der Roos told him. ‘The first word you must learn is braaivleis. A friend is giving one this afternoon.’
*
The ‘friend’ van der Roos had mentioned was the most beautiful woman Pontowski had ever seen. He held back, taking her in, while van der Roos introduced Leonard and Bouchard. She was tall and well proportioned. Her dark hair was pulled back off her face and gathered on the nape of her neck with a light blue scarf so it tumbled down her back in wavy disarray. Her high cheek bones and full lips gave her face an exotic look that he couldn’t place. She was wearing a man’s white shirt with rolled up sleeves and exposed a generous amount of cleavage that gave no hint of a bra. The bottom buttons on the side of her full denim skirt were undone, showing most of her left leg.
Her dark eyes studied his face as van der Roos introduced him. ‘Elena, this is my new boss, Colonel Matthew Pontowski. Colonel, Madame Elena Martine, the head of the United Nations Observer Mission to South Africa.’
She shook his hand in a very European manner, firm and brisk. ‘Well, Colonel Pontowski, Charles has told me so little about you. Perhaps it is time for us to become acquainted. Do you prefer to be called Matthew or Matt?’
‘Matt is fine, Madame Martine.’
‘Please, I prefer Elena. Madame makes me sound so old and dreadful.’ Her laughter destroyed the last of his defenses. ‘Please, join us and enjoy yourself.’ She moved on, leaving Pontowski in a slight daze.
‘Where did she come from?’ Leonard asked, not expecting an answer. He was seriously reconsidering his marriage vows.
‘Who is Charles?’ Pontowski asked.
‘I believe she was referring to General de Royer,’ Bouchard answered.
‘What does Elena do?’ Pontowski asked.
‘The UN Observer Mission?’ van der Roos replied, ‘It’s a holdover from the elections in 1994. No one is exactly sure what they do now. They have a big staff, a bigger budget, villas like this one for business, and they travel around a lot, looking at things. They spend much money which makes the merchants happy. Come on, I’ll show you around and introduce you to the other guests.’ He led the three men through to the back garden.
Pontowski soon learned that braaivleis was Afrikaans for barbecue and most of the guests were from the UN, the diplomatic corps, or black politicians. The wife of the U.S. Ambassador recognized him and ushered him over to her husband who was locked in an intense conversation with another man. ‘Dear,’ she sang out, ‘look who I found.’
‘Ah, Matt,’ the ambassador said. ‘I was hoping we would meet.’ He turned to the other man and made the introductions. ‘General Beckmann, I’d like you to meet Colonel Matthew Pontowski.’ The two men shook hands.
‘My pleasure, Colonel,’ Beckmann said. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’ He stared at Pontowski, his gaze direct and unblinking.
‘General Beckmann commands the Iron Guard,’ the ambassador said.
‘So I’ve heard,’ Pontowski replied. ‘I was given to understand the Iron Guard is the AWB’s militia.’
‘We are an independent force for stability,’ Beckmann replied, as if that explained everything.
Pontowski sensed a rigi
dity and strength behind the man’s bland exterior. ‘I was hoping to meet some Afrikaners tonight.’
Beckmann looked around. ‘We are in short supply here. We mean nothing to these people.’ Suddenly, he came to attention and jerked his head in a short nod. ‘It has been my pleasure, Colonel.’ He spun around and walked away.
‘Whatever got into Hans?’ the ambassador’s wife asked. ‘Normally, he is such a gentleman.’
Pontowski mouthed the appropriate words and ambled away, still uncomfortable with the brief encounter with Beckmann. Why the hostility? he wondered. Rather than mix, he found a bench on the veranda to sit and take it all in.
Elena joined him for a few moments, ever the perfect hostess. ‘I see you met Hans Beckmann,’ she said.
‘If you could call it that,’ he told her.
‘He said he wanted to meet you,’ she replied. ‘Probably a professional interest.’ She gave him a dazzling smile. ‘I must attend to my other guests.’ He watched her as she moved away. She walked with a long stride and her legs flashed in the torchlight that ringed the garden.
‘Your mouth is open, Colonel,’ a voice said. He turned to see a pretty young woman standing behind him. ‘Samantha Darnell,’ she said, introducing herself. ‘I’m Elizabeth Gordon’s videographer.’
Great, he thought, the press. I don’t need this. He recovered by giving her his best grin. ‘I hope I wasn’t drooling.’
‘You were close,’ she said. Silence. Then, ‘Her mouth is too big.’
He gave a low laugh. ‘Otherwise, she’d be perfect.’ He changed the subject and motioned at the party. ‘This is all very new to us. We only got here a few days ago.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I covered your arrival. That was a flashy landing.’
‘It’s called an overhead recovery. There’s a reason for it.’
‘I’m quite sure there is.’
He caught the condescending tone in her voice. Civilians, he moaned to himself. He gave her his best smile. ‘We normally fly in pairs or fours. When we recover, we’re usually low on fuel, maybe ten or fifteen minutes remaining at the most, and want to get on the ground fast. Besides, there may be more aircraft right behind us, equally low on fuel. An overhead recovery is the fastest way to get a lot of aircraft quickly on the ground.’
Pontowski didn’t tell her the tactical reasons and how an overhead pattern minimized exposure time in the landing pattern. If given half a chance, he’d jump into an enemy landing pattern and shoot down any aircraft flying a normal pattern to land. He saw no need to tell a member of the press that his job was to kill people and that he was good at it.
Sam studied him for a moment. He wasn’t what she expected and she wanted him to be a Neanderthal, a goose-stepping moral cretin easy to dislike. Why had she talked to him in the first place? Was it because he was one of the few Americans at the party? She was honest with herself and admitted she didn’t know.
Piet van der Roos joined them and Pontowski made the introductions. ‘Are you enjoying the party?’ van der Roos asked.
Sam gave him a radiant smile. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said.
I bet you are, Pontowski thought. Probably digging dirt to your heart’s content. ‘Me too,’ he answered. ‘But I was hoping I’d meet more Afrikaners.’
‘My family owns a vineyard and winery outside Paarl,’ van der Roos said. ‘It’s been in the family for over two hundred years. It isn’t far from here. We could go there for lunch. Perhaps this Saturday?’
‘Sounds great,’ Pontowski told him.
‘I’d love to see your home,’ Sam said.
Great, Pontowski thought. Absolutely great.
*
Thursday, January 8
The White House, Washington, D.C.
*
Carroll walked slowly across his office, turned and walked back. Halfway across, his left hand reached out and grabbed the edge of his desk. The National Security Advisor had almost fallen and was exhausted from the slight exercise. He sat down. Damn! he raged to himself. Why do the legs have to be the first to go? He was going to miss running. And he would miss the two Secret Service agents, Wayne and Chuck, who had run countless miles with him.
He buzzed his secretary. ‘Midge, please have Chuck and Wayne come to my office. Whenever’s convenient.’ How much time do I have? he thought. Should I resign? Do I need to spend more time with my family? Too many questions I can’t answer yet.
He leaned back in his chair and fixed his gaze on his latest purchase hanging on the ornate coat stand in the corner. It was a sturdy, plain brown walking cane. It carried a totally different message than Cyrus Piccard’s elegant black ebony, gold-handled cane. Piccard’s created an image of old-worldly grace and charm, an extension of his personality. Carroll’s cane was pure hospital and using it was giving in to Lou Gehrig’s disease. ‘No way,’ he muttered to himself as he went back to work.
South Africa was at the top of his mental agenda and he sat motionless, bound by the disease eating away at his nervous system. His powers of analysis and concentration had always been formidable, but now he was working at a much higher level, as if his brain was compensating for the weakness of his body.
What does the future hold for South Africa? he wondered. Will tribalism, greed, and gross incompetence drive it down the same road as most of Africa?
The key is Beckmann, he thought. He removed the leather-edged green pad that covered his desk. A computer video monitor was set under the desktop at an angle and covered with a glass plate. For the next hour, only his fingers moved on the keyboard as he called up file after file of information from the government’s computer banks. He had access to everything, including the highly classified System 4, the program that tracked all covert intelligence operations being conducted by the United States.
Carroll turned off the computer and called up his mental map of South Africa. He could alter it at will, creating his own holographic image of the country. He overlaid the mix of races and population densities with economic development. Then he superimposed the transportation infrastructure. Finally, he added in the latest intelligence about Hans Beckmann.
He held this new map of South Africa in his mind. An elongated oval occupied the central part of the country, extending from Bloemfontein in the south to Johannesburg and Pretoria in the north. All that remained of the old nation was anchored on Cape Town, the mother city, with most of Cape Province. Natal Province and Durban formed the homeland for the Zulus and the rest of the country was carved up into small tribal enclaves. The image flickered in his mind and took on an ethnic and racial hue. The map was tribal.
When he was finished, he sat motionless. He had done what no computer could do; he had gotten into Beckmann’s mind. You and the AWB are going to create the Boerstaat, he thought. How can so few people cause so much trouble? Most of the whites in South Africa, including the majority of Afrikaners, are neutral, willing to live with a black majority if the conditions are right. But the conditions are ripe for a revolution and it’s the haters who drive a revolution. And Beckmann is one of the great haters, the spark that can ignite the mixture.
Carroll closed his eyes. He knew the truth about South Africa. So what is the next step? he thought. Pure intelligence gathering could only take them so far. Was it time for a covert operation? His intercom buzzed. ‘Adams and Stanford are here,’ said Midge. Carroll told her to send them in.
The two agents stood in front of his desk and shuffled their feet as the National Security Advisor labored to stand up. ‘Bad news,’ Carroll said. ‘No more running.’ The two agents nodded as one. ‘The quacks say that I’ve got ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease.’
Adams and Stanford exchanged glances. They would have to tell their superiors so the Secret Service could adjust its routine and be ready to meet any emergency but other than that, silence went with their job. They wouldn’t even tell their wives. ‘Mr Carroll,’ Adams said, speaking for the two men, ‘if it’s all the same to you, we want to stay on your
detail.’
‘I appreciate that, but isn’t standing post for the President and undercover work what gets you promoted?’ Carroll asked.
‘Like we give a damn,’ Stanford said.
‘Lunch?’ Carroll asked. ‘My treat.’ He walked over to the coat rack and picked up the cane. ‘Another old friend,’ he said, leading the two agents out the door.
‘Say,’ Stanford said, ‘I know this neat little place on Columbia ... if you like great Italian, and got the time.’
‘Sounds good,’ Carroll said. He would make the time.
Chapter 8
Saturday, January 10
UN Headquarters, Constantia, Cape Town
*
Pontowski made his way down the hall, surprised by the activity in de Royer’s headquarters. He had counted on using the peace and quiet of a weekend to settle into his new office and deal with the hundreds of details necessary to start operations. A file bulging with messages and faxes was on his desk, demanding his attention and confirming his impression that de Royer was a hard taskmaster.
He sat down and sorted the file into three stacks: those he would have to take care of, the ones for Leonard, and those to be consigned to the trash can. The last message was from the Military Personnel Center at Randolph Air Force Base near San Antonio, Texas. ‘Damn,’ he growled. It was the results of the colonels selection board and Lieutenant Colonel Lydia Kowalski, the C-130 pilot from Little Rock, had been passed over for promotion to colonel.
Pontowski had never experienced the crushing disappointment of being told he had not been promoted, not considered good enough for higher rank, that others were more qualified and deserving, and that he had better start looking for a job on the outside. He bowed his head and thought. Less than forty percent of all lieutenant colonels were promoted to colonel and while Kowalski was undoubtedly fully qualified, she was not the best qualified. Affirmative action was not a player, not when the decisions a colonel made could result in people being killed. But what were the right words to say? He didn’t know. He called the wing at Ysterplaat and asked for Kowalski to report to his office that morning. He still had to find the words. But at least Tango Leonard had made it.
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