‘Over there,’ he shouted, pointing to a ravine 200 yards away. Legionnaires were guiding other passengers into the ravine and setting up a defensive perimeter.
‘You’re an American!’ Sam shouted at the legionnaire.
‘Yeah. Go!’ He pushed them out of the train as another explosion knocked them to the ground. Then they were up and running.
*
‘Blue Force, say status,’ Bull Menke radioed. There was no answer from the train.
‘Goat,’ Bull said, ‘they got problems. Let’s go look. I’m in.’ He firewalled the throttles and nosed over for a high-speed pass over the train. He jinked hard, confident no gunner could visually track him. For insurance against an infrared or radar-guided threat, he popped a sequence of flares and chaff cartridges into his slipstream. There was no reaction.
‘Two’s in behind you,’ Goat Gross called. ‘You’re clear.’ Goat crossed behind Bull at a ninety-degree angle while Bull pulled up and brought the Warthog’s nose around to bear behind Goat. It was a classic example of close-in mutual support as they checked the train and trolled for the anti-aircraft battery that had gunned Skid out of the sky.
‘They’ve abandoned the train,’ Goat called as he pulled off. ‘I didn’t see any mortar explosions.’
‘I think I got a fix on the gun,’ Bull said. He described the location to his wingman. ‘We need to take that mutha out.’ He was fairly confident they were up against a 20mm twin AAA. And they knew how to kill a 20. ‘Trick-fuck,’ Bull radioed, calling for the tactic they would use. ‘One’s the trick.’
‘Thank you very much,’ Goat replied. He was the fuck.
Bull set up a tight orbit three miles from the suspected AAA site, outside the range of a 20mm gun. He wanted to get the gunner’s attention while Goat used terrain masking to maneuver to the far side. On the first circuit of his orbit, Bull darted inside 12,000 feet, baiting the gunner, then retreating. He waited for the radio call. ‘Goat’s ready,’ his wingman transmitted.
‘Bull’s in,’ the lead replied. He turned into the target on an attack run and jinked hard. When he was well inside two miles, he broke the run off and scampered for safety as a stream of 20mm bullets reached out for him. The ‘trick’ part of the tactic had worked and the gun had revealed its exact location by concentrating on the wrong target. ‘Bull’s off.’
‘Goat’s in. I’ve got the gun. The fuck is on.’ Goat Gross was in the pop and coming down the chute with the target marching down the projected bomb impact line in his HUD. The AAA gun was still shooting at Bull, who was now out of range, when Goat pickled off two Mark-82 AIRs. The 500-pound bombs missed the target by eight feet. But it was like horseshoes; close counted. ‘Scratch one Trip A,’ Goat radioed.
‘Bull’s bingo.’ Bull Menke had reached his minimum fuel and had to return to base.
‘Goat’s bingo plus 200.’ His wingman had 200 more pounds of fuel than Bull.
‘Waldo’s bingo minus one.’ Walderman was cutting into his reserve and had to head back immediately.
‘Lifter copies all,’ Madison told them. ‘Thanks for the help.’
The three Warthogs joined up and headed south while the lone C-130 still orbited south of the Blue Train. Two more A-10s checked in. They were five minutes out and had forty-five minutes of fuel for playtime in the area.
*
Monday, March 9
Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town
*
Waldo was a sad-looking sight as he stood beside the fuel truck and debriefed the sergeant from Intel. His face was flushed and wet with sweat. His flight suit was plastered to his pudgy body, and he was speaking in a squeaky voice. Behind him, a crew rushed to finish refueling so Munitions could upload six Mark-82 Airs, six canisters of CBU-58s, and crank in a new load of 30mm rounds into the cannon’s ammunition drum.
Pontowski frowned and turned to Bull Menke and Goat Gross who were waiting for their jets to be rearmed. ‘Waldo is not an inspiring picture,’ he said. ‘How did he do?’
‘The guy was absolutely cosmic out there,’ Bull admitted. ‘I thought he was a toad-sucking ass-kisser the way he hangs around and volunteers for every little piss ant detail like he needs a life. On the ground he’s pathetic, but up there ... it sure beats all.’
‘Indeed,’ Pontowski replied. ‘This is going to be a max effort to keep two Hogs on station. I want you to get turned and launch on the hour. I’ll get Waldo a wingman.’ The two pilots headed back for their jets while Pontowski drove Waldo to the COIC.
Leonard had reported in, fresh out of crew rest, and was in the command post trying to sort out the developing fiasco 400 nautical miles to the northeast. ‘I can’t get my hands around this sucker,’ Pontowski told him. The problems the two men were confronting, lack of information and distance from the action, were not unique and they were the last in a long line of commanders to deal with the fog of combat.
‘We need to do a number of things,’ Pontowski continued. ‘One, a SAR for Skid.’ A SAR was a search and rescue mission best mounted by a combination of helicopters and fighter escorts controlled by a command aircraft. ‘Two, we got to launch a pair of Hogs every forty-five minutes to keep a CAP over the train.’ A CAP was a combat air patrol dedicated to a single mission. ‘Finally, we need to reestablish contact with Bouchard.’
On cue, Jake Madison’s copilot on board Lifter One called in a status report. The two men listened as the command post controller copied it down. Lifter One had reestablished radio contact with Blue Force. Bouchard reported that a mortar barrage had destroyed the train and driven the legionnaires, passengers and train crew into a shallow ravine. The A-10s had suppressed hostile fire and it was currently quiet. But they had numerous casualties.
Madison’s voice came over the radio. ‘Some asshole on the ground calling himself Minister Pendulo keeps grabbing the radio and ordering me to land and pick him up.’
Pontowski picked up the mike. ‘Disregard Pendulo.’ He looked at Leonard. ‘One problem solved.’ He keyed the mike again. ‘Say status of Skid.’
‘We’ve lost contact,’ Madison answered. ‘He last reported he was being chased by four men but he shook them off. He’s calling for a pickup at first light tomorrow morning.’
‘What the hell?’ Pontowski grumbled. ‘There’s over six hours of daylight left. What is he thinking of?’
‘Skid’s one of our SAR experts,’ Leonard told him. ‘He knows we need time to set up an extraction. Don’t worry, he’s a Hasher. They’ll never catch him.’
‘General,’ the controller said, interrupting them. ‘General de Royer is on the phone. You’re needed at UN headquarters immediately.’
‘Tell him I’m on my way,’ Pontowski said, hanging up. ‘Tango, I’ve got to go put out another fire. Keep turning the Hogs to cover the train and plan a SAR for first light tomorrow morning.’
‘We need a helicopter,’ Leonard said.
‘Talk to Piet, he’s hanging around here someplace,’ Pontowski replied. He grabbed his hat and hurried out to his car. What the hell is a Hasher? he wondered.
*
De Royer was in his command center with Elena, waiting for Pontowski to arrive. He was pacing back and forth in front of the situation map on the wall and for the first time, anger and frustration had broken through his granite exterior. His French was fast and animated, almost impossible for Pontowski to follow. He was waving at the map. ‘The Legion is not rescued!’ he shouted in English.
What’s going on? Pontowski asked himself. This was a side to de Royer he had not seen before. He looked to Elena for help as the general turned and faced the map, his hands clasped behind his back. She motioned for Pontowski to join her. ‘I’ve never seen him so upset,’ she said in a low voice.
‘You’ll have to clue me in,’ Pontowski said.
‘The general thinks we were set up,’ she told him.
‘By who?’
‘The Iron Guard.’
Chapter 15
M
onday, March 9
Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town
*
It took Pontowski an hour to drive back from Constantia after meeting with de Royer and Elena. The heavy traffic did nothing for his disposition and he simmered with frustration, still angry at the time he wasted ricocheting between Constantia and the base.
The traffic grew heavier as he approached the base. Capetonians were streaming out to the base to watch the A-10s take off and recover and had turned the operation into an impromptu air show. Vendors had set up stands beside the road and were selling refreshments, T-shirts, and film. Two military policemen had to clear a path the last hundred feet for him to enter the gate.
Once inside, the chaos changed to the controlled confusion he understood. The roar of engines and the hustle of the ground crews turning the A-10s and uploading munitions broke his anger. This was what he loved; the hurly-burly of operations, people doing what they had been trained to do and doing it well.
Jake Madison’s C-130, Lifter One, taxied in and parked next to a Puma helicopter. The three-bladed, twin-engined helicopter reminded Pontowski of the old HH-3 Jolly Green Giant. But the Puma was much smaller and could only carry sixteen passengers.
Pontowski slipped unnoticed into the COIC. Like the ramp, it was bursting with activity. He checked the scheduling board and glanced at the big clock on the wall. The SAR for Skid was scheduled to launch in twelve hours. Let Tango do it, Pontowski kept telling himself. Don’t interfere. It’s his baby now. Let go.
Van der Roos cornered him in the hall. ‘The first Puma is here,’ he said.
‘I saw it.’
Jake Madison came in with his crew. The pilot’s face was drawn and tired. ‘How did it go?’ Pontowski asked him.
‘It’s a fiasco out there. We’ve lost contact with Skid and Blue Force gets the livin’ bejesus mortared out of them anytime they move. We’ve managed to sterilize the area around the ravine where they’re trapped, but ...’
‘You did good out there,’ Pontowski interrupted. He sent Madison into Intel and searched for Leonard. He found him in the command post.
‘This is turning into a piece of shit,’ Leonard told him. He handed Pontowski a chart.
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘But we’re getting our sierra together,’ Leonard added. ‘It’s gonna be a max effort in the morning when we launch the SAR for Skid. It’s out of the Puma’s range so we set up a refueling site here.’ He pointed to the small town of Hanover on Pontowski’s chart, eighty miles south of the Blue Train.
‘I’m worried about that bomb no one can account for,’ Pontowski said. ‘Someone had to drop it. But who? Some vigilante from the South African Air Force?’
Leonard got up and paced the floor. ‘Don’t count out the ever-present militia from the Iron Guard. One thing’s for sure, Boss. Someone’s out there lying in the weeds and they’re gonna bite our ass.’
*
Tuesday, March 10
The Karoo, South Africa
*
The pilot lay motionless on the ground as the dark on the eastern horizon yielded to the rising sun. Below him he could still hear a gentle snoring. How far did sound travel at night on the Karoo? He didn’t know. He was wrapped in his parachute and warm enough, but soon the heat would start to build and with it, the wind. Could he avoid his pursuers another day? Again, he didn’t know. Now he could hear rustling below; the men were waking up. He felt for his 9mm Beretta.
Slowly, the land took on definition as the horizon turned a bright orange. He loved sunrises, the best part of the day. Especially, when there was going to be a Hash. He could make out movement below him. No Hash today, he thought.
Captain David ‘Skid’ Malone had three great loves in his life; his wife, flying A-10s, and Hashing — not necessarily in that order. The first two, most people understood. But he had long given up trying to explain the joys of being a Hash House Harrier. The Hash was an organization devoted to running, drinking beer, and singing rude drinking songs — the cruder the better. It did have a loose, very loose, international organization with worthy goals, but the knowledgeable described it as ‘a drinking club with a running problem’. But the Hash had one redeeming feature — its ten-kilometer hare and hound races. Skid Malone was in excellent condition and used to being chased across rough terrain.
How did they get so close? he wondered. And where did the dog come from? Below him, less than fifty meters away, he counted six men and a dog. The last time he’d had a good count, there were only three and no dog. Things change, he thought. The dog was straining at its leash, pulling in his direction. Did it have his scent? Malone calculated the probability of the men moving on without seeing him or his chances of sneaking unnoticed out of his hide. He came out with a sum roughly equivalent to the proverbial snowball’s chance in hell. And unless things changed, he was about to be a deceased sinner.
He unwrapped himself from the parachute. How long did he have? He took a long drink out of one of his water bottles, draining it. Slowly, he munched the last of the power bars he always carried in a leg pocket while he checked his remaining water bottle. It was full and the cap screwed on tight. The growing light revealed just how close his pursuers were. Now Malone was certain he would have to run for it. There is going to be one hell of a Hash today after all, he decided.
He emptied his pockets, deciding what to take with him. It wasn’t much. He cut off his pants legs above the knee followed by the sleeves of his flight suit at the shoulders. He wished he had his running shoes, but luckily he was wearing relatively lightweight flying boots. He retied his shoelaces, zipped his survival radio into his chest pocket, laid out the extra clip for the Beretta next to his water bottle, and rolled into position. Slowly, he sighted the Beretta down the hill. He was ready.
Malone didn’t have to wait long. One of the men stroked the dog and looked up, toward his hiding place. He’s a white guy! Malone thought. The men all laughed and looked in his direction. Malone fought his panic and concentrated. Do they have a good fix on me? There’s another white guy. That makes two. Where did they come from?
The men spread out, three on each side of the dog, and started to move — straight toward him. Malone waited as they scrambled up the steep face of the hill. When they were less than fifteen meters away, he squeezed the trigger and emptied the Beretta’s fifteen-round clip into the dog and the white men on each side. He ejected the clip, jammed in the fresh one, grabbed the water bottle, and ran.
*
The two Warthogs came in at 2000 feet and circled the area where Skid had last been seen. Twice, Gorilla Moreno keyed his radio, trying to raise Malone on Guard, the emergency frequency. ‘It doesn’t look good,’ he told his wingman, Bag Talbot. Gorilla transmitted again.
‘Too bad the jets aren’t LARS capable,’ Bag said. Gorilla grunted an obscene answer to himself. If the Warthogs had been equipped with LARS, lightweight recovery system, they could have interrogated Malone’s PRC-103 survival radio with a coded radio transmission. Malone’s radio would have automatically responded with a discrete beacon that allowed the Warthogs to home on his position. The LARS was accurate to within a few feet but budget cuts had delayed the installation of the system.
The pilots set up an expanding square search pattern. They would have to find Malone the old-fashioned way with a visual search. Since they were carrying two external fuel tanks and loitering, gas wasn’t a problem — yet. They both knew the odds of survival and desperately wanted to find their friend. He had been too long on the ground and the chances of finding him alive were plummeting off the scale of probability.
The morning air was clear down to 500 feet, but below that a gusting wind kicked up dust and reduced their visibility. They kept at it, fighting a growing sense of failure and refusing to concede defeat. ‘No joy,’ Gorilla radioed. ‘Let’s split the area. You go south, I’ll go north.’ Bag answered with two clicks on his transmit button.
‘Hold on,’ Gorilla transmit
ted. ‘I got movement on the ground at three o’clock. A mile out.’ Gorilla’s eyeballs were sharper than most and he had seen movement in a brief eddy. He banked sharply to the right and headed for the spot.
Bag followed, slightly in trail and two thousand feet to the left. ‘Dog shit vis down here,’ he radioed. Both pilots shouted ‘Tallyho’ at the same instant. Ahead of them they could see Skid Malone running for all he was worth. Less than 100 yards behind him were four men, strung out in line, running hard. Gorilla dropped to 200 feet and flew over the runners. Malone kept right on running while the four men fell to the ground and scrambled for cover. ‘That’ll give him a little breathing room,’ Gorilla said.
‘I’m in,’ Bag radioed as he rolled in for a strafing run. Malone had opened up enough distance for the Warthog to make a pass. ‘Off dry,’ he told Gorilla. ‘Poor vis. It gets worse closer to the ground.’ He hadn’t fired a round, worried that he might hit Malone.
‘Yeah,’ Gorilla replied, ‘I lost sight of Skid.’
A breathless ‘Skid on Guard’ came over their UHF radios. The downed pilot was up and talking to them on the emergency frequency. He had turned off his survival radio during the night to conserve its batteries and had forgotten to turn it on.
‘Read you loud and clear, good buddy,’ Gorilla answered. ‘We got a helicopter inbound. Should be overhead in twenty minutes. Can you keep on trucking that long?’
‘Can you ... discourage ’em ... that long?’ Malone answered, breathing hard. ‘I’ve been booking ... for over ... an hour. Need some shiggy.’ Shiggy was Hasher talk for any unpleasant terrain, a swamp or jungle. The more unpleasant the better.
Bag understood. ‘You got some rocks and heavy brush at your two o’clock. About a quarter mile away.’ There was no answer as Malone conserved his breath and headed for the shiggy.
As flight lead, Gorilla started talking to Lifter, the C-130 orbiting near the Blue Train. ‘Lifter,’ he transmitted, ‘Sandy has radio contact.’ Sandy was the call sign the Warthogs used when they flew a combat SAR mission as fighter escort. ‘Skid’s in the open, running. We need extraction — now.’
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