Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  Chapter 12

  Friday, February 13

  Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein

  *

  Hans Beckmann was not a superstitious man and Friday the thirteenth meant nothing to him. After dressing and saying his morning prayers, he had a light breakfast and spent an hour in his office talking to individual members of his staff. They had learned through hard experience to be accurate, brief, and complete. They called it the ABCs of survival because Beckmann had an unerring instinct for finding what had been overlooked or mismanaged. The results were never pretty.

  On this particular morning, it was mostly going well. The Iron Guard had received a shipment of air defense weapons, including the German-made 20mm Twin Gun antiaircraft system, and the last of the aircraft, Czech-built Aeros, had been delivered. Intelligence reported that violence in black townships around Johannesburg was increasing on schedule and the internal migrations Beckmann had predicted were increasing.

  Only two items were of some concern, which the kommandant, the lieutenant colonel in charge of Intelligence, promptly pointed out. The UN had, after some delay, established five safe zones in Northern Cape Province. The kommandant was worried because he had received assurances the safe zones would be delayed indefinitely. Unfortunately, the UN’s C-130s and trucks were moving relief supplies in an increasing volume.

  ‘And the second item?’ Beckmann asked.

  Now the kommandant looked worried. ‘Those five safe zones are an arrow pointed directly at Kimberley. If the UN can establish a safe zone around Kimberley ...’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Beckmann interrupted, ‘I see. The central government will then be able to spread its influence into the Boerstaat using Kimberley as a base. But I think our friends the Azanians will prevent that from happening.’ The kommandant beat a hasty exit, happy to escape.

  Security was next. The major reported they had apprehended a pilot trying to sneak off base just before midnight. He was currently in interrogation. Adjudant Offisier Kreiner was conducting the questioning. Nothing of interest — so far.

  His comptroller, the only civilian on the staff, was last and he also had good news. The Iron Guard had received a large infusion of money from its European supporters to purchase arms and continue its subversion campaign in South Africa. Beckmann paused, calculating how much he would owe them. They were going to be severely disappointed if they expected access to Prime. He expected the Germans would press him very hard on that issue.

  The comptroller recommended they hire more mercenaries to provide the technical expertise the Iron Guard lacked. Having been thanked, he marched out of the office. Beckmann’s staff was having a good day.

  *

  Adjudant Offisier Kreiner was waiting for Beckmann at the bottom of the stairs leading into interrogation. ‘Goeimôre, Generaal,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, Kreiner. Any progress?’

  Kreiner licked his lips. ‘This way, please.’ He held the door for Beckmann. A man was sitting in a chair, stripped to his shorts. His hands were handcuffed behind him and he was drenched in sweat. ‘This is Lieutenant Kobie Wolmeres. He was caught trying to leave base without authorization. He claims he was going to see his girl friend.’

  ‘Is this true, Lieutenant?’ Beckmann asked.

  ‘Ja, ja,’ he mumbled.

  ‘But you know the rules,’ Beckmann said. ‘Why didn’t you bring your friend on base? It is allowed and encouraged.’

  Kreiner spat disgustedly. ‘He says he wanted privacy.’

  Beckmann shook his head. ‘Kreiner, you overreacted. This is nothing more than a youthful escapade. He should have been fined and returned to his quarters with a warning. We are not barbarians.’

  ‘We found this hidden in his shoe.’ Kreiner handed Beckmann a piece of paper. It was a map of the compound where Prime was housed.

  ‘This is very serious,’ Beckmann said. He faced the lieutenant. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you told us all there is,’ he offered. Silence. ‘Please proceed, Kreiner.’ Beckmann moved a straight-back chair into the center of the room and straddled it backwards as Kreiner went to work. A rope was lowered from the ceiling and tied to the handcuffs that shackled the lieutenant’s wrists behind his back. Kreiner jerked on the other end of the rope and lifted him out of the chair, pulling his arms back and dislocating his shoulders. The lieutenant shrieked in pain. ‘Very good, Kreiner, I like that.’ Beckmann’s heart raced and his palms were moist as his thighs strained against the chair. Gratification swept over him and he felt alive. ‘Again, please.’

  Psychologists claim both interrogator and victim are bound together in a strange alchemy of dependency and domination and share the victim’s debasement. Until now, Kreiner had fought against that whirlpool by convincing himself he was superior to his victim. But Kobie Wolmeres was an Afrikaner and that knowledge dragged Kreiner into an abyss of self-disgust where he became even more vicious.

  But Beckmann had descended much lower and violence that degraded any person fed his tortured ego as nothing else could. Through a perverse logic, having absolute power over another human made him feel virtuous. The ordeal continued until the lieutenant passed out. ‘Revive him,’ Beckmann ordered.

  Kreiner lowered the unconscious man to the floor and splashed him with water. ‘We will need a doctor,’ he said. ‘Physical interrogation is out of the question now.’

  A sadness came over Beckmann. ‘I need answers. You know what to do.’ He rose from the chair and walked slowly up the stairs.

  *

  The pilots came to attention when Beckmann walked into the hangar. ‘As you were,’ he called as the colonel in charge of his air wing came forward. The pilots moved back so he could see the latest addition to the Iron Guard’s growing Air Force. ‘Is it ready to fly?’ Beckmann asked pleasantly.

  ‘Of course, Generaal,’ the colonel replied. They walked around the jet aircraft, a Czechoslovakian-made Aero L-39ZA. It was a small plane, only forty feet long with a wingspan of thirty-one feet. Fully loaded with fuel and stores, it grossed out at 12,500 pounds. Originally, the L-39 was designed as a trainer but it was soon modified as a light attack fighter. ‘We would have preferred our old Mirage F-1s,’ the colonel said, ‘or perhaps an Alpha Jet.’

  ‘These are better suited for our needs,’ Beckmann said. ‘The others are too expensive, take too much maintenance, and spare parts are always a problem. I had to make a decision — a few jets or eighteen of these.’

  ‘It is a good airplane,’ the colonel conceded. ‘We have made some modifications and should be able to reach 500 knots for short periods of time. That will surprise the Americans.’ He stroked the mottled green and brown camouflage paint. ‘It is highly maneuverable.’

  Beckmann pulled the colonel aside. ‘How reliable are your pilots?’

  ‘Kobie — Lieutenant Wolmeres — chases pussy too much. But other than that, my Afrikaners are good reliable fellows. The two Russians and the Cuban, I can’t say. I would never have hired them.’

  ‘We have more aircraft than pilots,’ Beckmann told him. ‘That is why I hired them ... to fill the void. As for Lieutenant Wolmeres, he will be immediately transferred.’ The lie came easy, for in a sense Kobie Wolmeres was being permanently reassigned. Beckmann walked over to one of the Russians and spoke to him in English. ‘You flew in Afghanistan?’ The Russian nodded. ‘Did you drop nerve gas on the Afghans?’ Again, the nod. ‘Did you ever attack your own people?’

  A sad look. ‘Da.’

  The colonel hurried over to them. ‘Generaal, a message on the radio. There is an emergency in the compound.’

  *

  Beckmann sped through family housing and skidded to a halt in front of Sergeant Shivuto’s house. A fire truck and a crash wagon were blocking the road in front of him and fire hoses were played out and connected. But there was no fire for them to fight. Beckmann reached into the glove box, pulled out a dosimeter, and attached it to his shirt pocket. The scientist had warned him many times about the possib
ility of being zapped.

  The security at the gate into the compound was as tight as ever and the guards subjected Beckmann to a routine examination. At Beckmann’s orders, no one, himself included, was ever taken for granted. He breathed a mental sigh of relief when he saw the Israeli scientist standing with a small group of his assistants outside the main building.

  The scientist was dancing from foot to foot and laughing. ‘We did it, Hans,’ he shouted when he saw Beckmann. ‘We did it!’

  Beckmann reined in his emotions. There had been false alarms before. ‘What did you do, Itzig?’ he asked with a humor he didn’t feel.

  ‘Ignition!’ came the answer. ‘We achieved ignition without an explosion!’

  Beckmann closed his eyes and took a deep breath. How many times had Slavin explained to him the key was ignition, the point at which the fusion process starts. ‘Are you sure it was ignition?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Slavin was beside himself, giving into his emotions. ‘Before we had to evacuate, we measured gamma rays of exactly 2.22 million electron volts. That was the proof.’

  At last, Beckmann thought, the Jew has finally done it. Itzig Slavin had created cold nuclear fusion, the discovery of the millennia, and it was his. ‘Then why are we standing outside?’ Beckmann asked.

  ‘Oh, that,’ Slavin said. ‘We couldn’t control it and had a meltdown.’

  ‘Is the laboratory destroyed?’

  ‘There’s a big hole in the floor,’ Slavin replied, ‘maybe thirty feet deep, and the apparatus is ruined. But that is nothing. I can rebuild it.’ He tapped his head with his right forefinger.

  ‘Then why are we outside?’ Beckmann repeated.

  Slavin gave him a look normally reserved to high school teachers for their thickest students. ‘It’s radioactive, of course.’

  ‘When can you go back in?’

  ‘Never,’ Slavin answered. ‘We sealed it off to contain the radioactivity when we came up the elevator.’

  Wonderful, Beckmann thought. Now we have to build a new laboratory and we don’t have time to sink a shaft two hundred feet deep. ‘See if one of the old weapons storage bunkers can be used,’ he told Slavin.

  *

  It was late-evening when Beckmann returned to the interrogation room. He found Kreiner sitting at a desk, writing up his report and filling in a death certificate. ‘Did he talk?’ Beckmann asked.

  ‘He babbled like a baby,’ Kreiner said. ‘Drugs make it very difficult to separate hallucinations from the truth. But it can be done.’

  ‘Who was he working for?’

  ‘The French defense attaché.’

  ‘How much money was he paid?’

  ‘He was paid nothing,’ Kreiner answered.

  ‘Impossible. Why else would he betray his people?’

  Kreiner was confused. ‘I don’t know. I asked him that same question ... it’s all on the tapes. He said, “Because you are wrong.” But I think he was hallucinating.’

  ‘He was a traitor,’ Beckmann said with anger. He clenched and released his fist several times, regaining control. Unfortunately, the lieutenant was dead. ‘I have no use for traitors,’ he said as he started up the stairs. He stopped on the first step. ‘And Kreiner,’ he said, holding the rest of the sentence like a guillotine over his head.

  Kreiner felt the return of panic. He’s going to say ‘two’, the sergeant thought. It is no longer an old joke. It is a warning.

  Beckmann stared at him. ‘Perhaps a woman next time?’

  Kreiner breathed easier, knowing what he had to do.

  *

  Thursday, February 26

  Cape Town, South Africa

  *

  Elizabeth Gordon was tired when she returned to the bungalow she and Sam were renting. It had been a fruitless day chasing down leads and reluctant politicians for interviews, and she was thankful that it was going to change. ‘Sam,’ she called. ‘You here?’

  ‘In the bedroom,’ she answered. ‘I’m packing.’

  ‘Why?’ Gordon asked, walking into the bedroom.

  ‘This isn’t working out, Liz, so I’m going home. I’ve booked a flight for tomorrow.’

  Gordon sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s Pontowski, isn’t it? You’ve fallen for him.’

  Sam stopped packing and sank into a chair. ‘I like him,’ she admitted. ‘But you’re part of the problem.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Liz, you did a smear job on him.’

  ‘You seem to forget what he did to me at that press conference,’ she said angrily. ‘He deserved it.’

  Sam shook her head. ‘He was straight with the facts — which you weren’t.’

  ‘What he represents is wrong — violence, killing, promoting the military. Don’t you remember what Nevers said? We’re not going to make true progress in this country until the Pontowskis are controlled. She was right. Anything we do to get rid of him is okay.’

  ‘So he’s not politically correct? Then say that. But you deliberately distorted the facts to advance a private agenda. What kind of integrity is that?’

  Gordon gave her a sad look before answering, ‘It’s done all the time in this business. How else can we hold the bastards accountable?’

  ‘Who’s the “we” and who are “the bastards”?’ Sam asked. ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Please stay,’ Gordon pleaded. Her eyes were moist with tears. For all their disagreements, they were good friends. ‘I can’t do it without you. I know I make mistakes ... get carried away. But there’s a story here and I ... we ... can tell it.’

  ‘The story is drying up,’ Sam told her.

  ‘Only in Cape Town,’ Gordon told her. ‘I told the network I wanted to travel around the country and do a series on what’s really going on here. They bought it. We can start at Bloemfontein. I’ve got a contact there.’

  ‘Beckmann?’ Sam asked. She didn’t expect an answer. ‘You’re doing his P.R. for him.’

  Gordon allowed a tight smile. ‘It took me awhile, but I got his number. He is, without a doubt, the most charismatic man I’ve ever met. He takes you in with his eyes and voice. I never understood why Hitler could sway the Germans like he did until I met Beckmann. He’s a story in himself.’

  ‘At least you’re sounding like a reporter now,’ Sam told her.

  ‘I know what he’s doing,’ Gordon replied. ‘The blacks will always outnumber the whites here. So he’s offering the blacks who live in his Boerstaat a second-class citizenship. He buys them off with security, a fairly decent job, and a promise for the future. But they’re still serfs. Better off than they were before, but still bound to a lord and the land.’

  Gordon had caught Sam’s interest. At heart, Sam was a professional and was willing to pay the price of frustration, disagreement, and even danger that went with the job. ‘I’ll give it one more chance,’ she told Gordon. ‘But this time we play it straight.’

  ‘We’ll tell both sides-of the story,’ Gordon promised. ‘And who knows? You and Pontowski may work something out.’

  ‘Not now,’ Sam said sadly. ‘So when do we leave for Bloemfontein?’

  ‘We need to wrap things up here ... make arrangements. The network wants coverage on the formal state dinner at the President’s mansion a week from Saturday. We can leave after that.’

  *

  Friday, February 27

  UN Headquarters, Constantia, Cape Town

  *

  Pontowski looked up at the polite knock on his office door. Piet van der Roos and Bouchard were standing there. ‘Sir,’ Bouchard said, ‘General de Royer requests you join him on the veranda.’

  Van der Roos mouthed the word ‘sir’ and gave a puzzled look as he handed Pontowski his hat. What’s going down now? Pontowski wondered as Bouchard walked ahead to open the door on to the veranda that overlooked the formal gardens.

  The three men stepped on to the veranda and donned their hats as a gentle breeze washed over them, promising another pleasant summer day. Pontowski was
surprised by the number of people and estimated that most of the headquarters staff was gathered around him. The crowd shuffled back, forming a corridor leading to de Royer who was standing in front of a UN flag flanked by the tricolor of France and the Stars and Stripes. Bouchard motioned Pontowski forward.

  As he approached de Royer, the general came to attention. Instinctively, Pontowski saluted and de Royer returned the salute. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said in his impeccable English, ‘I received a message today from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the United States. He has asked me to act in his place and it is with great pleasure that I introduce to you Brigadier General Matthew Pontowski, my new vice commander.’

  The announcement stunned Pontowski. He had never expected to make general. In fact, he was seriously thinking of resigning his commission at the end of this assignment in order to build a more stable life for his son. Then it hit him; he had made flag rank, an almost impossible accomplishment. Less than two percent of all colonels made brigadier and the enormity of it all bore down on him with a weight that surprised him. Few men and women were ever selected to bear such a responsibility and for the first time in his life, he knew true humility. He stood there speechless as de Royer stepped forward and pinned a star on each shoulder.

  De Royer stepped back and extended his hand. ‘May I be the first to congratulate you on your promotion?’ he said in English. They shook hands.

  ‘May I also congratulate you?’ a familiar voice said. Pontowski turned. Elena Martine was standing there, looking cool and beautiful as always. The ugly bruise on her face had healed and her old confidence had returned, giving her that mix of allure and respectability that fascinated him. She stepped up to him and kissed him on one cheek. Her lips lingered a shade longer than called for and were soft and warm on his skin. The crowd applauded as he made his way through, receiving handshakes and congratulations.

  At the door, Bouchard was waiting. He saluted and handed over the message de Royer had mentioned. Pontowski glanced at it and smiled. ‘I’ve been frocked,’ he said.