Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  The chairman looked up and down the row for objections. There were none and he let Nevers start the questioning. The civilities were over.

  ‘Mr Carroll,’ Nevers began, ‘this committee has been tasked by Congress to examine our participation in the United Nations peacekeeping force in South Africa which is in contravention of the National Security Revitalization Act. How does the administration justify what it has done?’

  ‘Mrs Nevers,’ Carroll answered, ‘the Emergency War Powers Act of 1965 specifically gives the President the authority to commit our forces for up to ninety days. Congress has wisely never taken that authority away. To do so could put our country at risk. Congress still retains its oversight power ...’

  ‘Which is why we are here today,’ Nevers interrupted. ‘The rescue of UN soldiers by the so-called Iron Guard and our current intelligent estimates paint a rather gloomy picture of the situation.’

  ‘There are encouraging developments,’ Carroll said. He motioned at Mazie who picked up his words without a break.

  ‘First,’ she said, ‘we are seeing a realignment of the population into more compatible groupings. Second, the UN safe zones are working and are creating areas of stability. Finally ...’

  Nevers’s time for questions had almost expired and she interrupted. ‘It is becoming increasingly clear that there is no justification for the President to have sent our men and women to South Africa.’

  Carroll nodded at Mazie, who stood and passed out a thin folder labeled ZENITH PRIME and stamped TOP SECRET to each member of the committee. A hushed silence fell over the room when they realized what they were reading. ‘Is this the reason for our involvement?’ Nevers asked, looking over her reading glasses at Carroll. ‘Do you believe this?’

  ‘I personally doubt it,’ he managed to say, ‘but ...’

  Mazie picked it up. ‘We are still investigating and until we are sure, the implications are too great to ignore.’

  Nevers caught the growing hubbub of whispered instructions to aides going around the table. They hurried out of the room to place phone calls to stock brokers and make changes in the investment portfolios of the committee members. Nevers stared at Carroll. He had outmaneuvered her. ‘Mr Chairman,’ she said, ‘I recommend we summon Colonel Pontowski to appear before this committee for a more detailed examination of our involvement. Until then, I suggest we recess to fully digest this revelation.’

  Before Carroll could point out that Pontowski was a general and not a colonel, the chairman agreed to Pontowski’s summons and placed the committee in recess. He hurried from the room, anxious to place a phone call to the banker who managed his blind trust. If Prime was a fact, he didn’t want to be holding any shares of oil stock and the political deals he had cut with the oil companies be damned.

  Mazie gathered up their notes and papers. ‘Mr Carroll,’ she said, not looking at him, ‘that report is misleading. We really don’t know if Prime works or not.’

  ‘I never claimed it worked.’

  ‘Then why the concern over South Africa?’

  ‘Because it is a powder keg being fed by too many weapons and too much hate. I’m not ready to totally discount the possibility of someone throwing nukes around down there. Even chemical weapons are part of the equation now. What’s next? Biological warfare? Mazie, it’s not just South Africa. What happens in the rest of the world, sooner or later, to some degree, affects us. We are not an island. There are times we have to get involved. It’s the one lesson of the twentieth century we must not forget.’

  Mazie placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re a fraud, Mr Carroll. Deep down inside, you’re an idealist.’

  He shook his head. ‘If I do this wrong, Matt will be the scapegoat.’

  ‘You’re willing to put him at risk for an ideal?’

  ‘And a lot of other good people,’ he told her.

  Chapter 16

  Sunday, March 15

  Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

  *

  The dark gray C-141 Starlifter taxied slowly into the blocks, its speed matching the solemnity of the occasion. The pilot cut the engines as the ramp at the rear of the huge cargo plane lowered. With measured pace, the honor guard marched into position, forming a corridor under the tail. The click of drumsticks marked the cadence. Six pallbearers, including two French Army sergeants, marched down the corridor formed by the honor guard and climbed the ramp into the C-141.

  A ‘PRE ... sent arms’ echoed across the ramp as the pallbearers reappeared, carrying the flag-draped coffin down the ramp. The gathered crowd came to attention and the military among them saluted as the standard-bearers lowered their flags in tribute. An unfamiliar silence ruled the noisy air base as the TV cameras registered the moment against a cloud-marked sky.

  Staff Sergeant Patricia Owens had come home.

  A reporter spoke quietly into his microphone. ‘The tall figure following the coffin,’ he said, ‘is General Charles de Royer, the commander of all United Nations forces in South Africa. He is being escorted by Brigadier General Matthew Pontowski, the grandson of the former President, Matthew Zachary Pontowski.’ The cameras zoomed in on de Royer as he approached the waiting dignitaries. He stopped in front of a lone couple, Sergeant Owens’s parents, and ignored the waiting generals. He drew himself to attention and saluted the couple with the open-hand, palm-forward salute of the French Army. He spoke a few words and listened to their reply before moving on.

  The protocol was faultless as the coffin was loaded into a waiting hearse. Then it was over, the dignitaries exited, and the crowd dispersed.

  Another TV reporter maneuvered into position for the wrap up and closing shot with the C-141 capped by a majestic cloudscape in the background. ‘The growing controversy surrounding the UN’s role in South Africa took a back seat today when General de Royer arrived with the remains of Staff Sergeant Patricia Owens, the first American killed in South Africa. We have yet to learn what the general said to Sergeant Owens’s parents, but from the vantage point of this reporter, his words seemed to offer a much needed consolation. But the unanswered question still haunts all who were here today: How many more coffins will we see like this one?’

  Piet van der Roos caught up with Pontowski outside the passenger terminal. ‘This is another side to our general,’ he said, loading their bags into a waiting staff car.

  ‘The general is a showman,’ Pontowski conceded. ‘The United Nations will love him.’

  *

  Monday, March 16

  Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town

  *

  The crew chief marshaling the Warthog into the chocks crossed his wrists above his head signaling Leonard to stop. The crew chief made a slashing motion across his throat to cut engines. Leonard’s hands flew over the switches, shutting the Hog down as the crew chief dropped the boarding ladder. Leonard threw his helmet and the two canvas bags carrying his charts and flight publications to the waiting sergeant.

  ‘They want you in the COIC, big time,’ the crew chief said. ‘It sounds like something big has hit the fan.’

  ‘Can’t go away for an hour without some bastard screwing things up,’ Leonard grumbled.

  Lydia Kowalski was waiting for him when he entered the COIC. ‘The UN command center is on the secure phone,’ she said.

  ‘I’d like to take a piss first,’ he muttered as he headed for the command post, handing his flying gear to a sergeant. He motioned for Lydia to stay with him. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ She shrugged an answer as he picked up the receiver to the STU-III secure phone.

  Leonard listened for a few moments, hung up, and turned to Kowalski. ‘There’s a food riot at Douglas,’ he told her. The fifth safe zone the UN had created was centered on the small town of Douglas, seventy miles west of Kimberley. ‘The command center is talking to de Royer in New York. We’re tasked to airlift in Bouchard’s legionnaires and supplies until a relief convoy can get through.’

  Lori Williams stuck her head round the doo
r. ‘Colonel, Captain Van der Roos is on the phone,’ she announced. ‘He wants to know today’s flying schedule.’

  ‘How many sorties can the C-130s generate today?’ he asked Kowalski.

  She pulled a face and ran the numbers. ‘Twelve in the next twelve hours.’

  Leonard relayed the number and takeoff times to van der Roos and broke the connection. ‘Who’s flying the first C-130?’ he asked Kowalski.

  ‘Brenda Conklin.’

  ‘What the hell?’ he said, making a snap decision. ‘Waldo and me will tag along. It’s a good chance to work out escort tactics. You hold the fort here.’

  *

  Monday, March 16

  Near Douglas, South Africa

  *

  The Great Karoo stretched out below the Hercules as it descended through ten thousand feet. ‘Douglas is on the nose at twenty miles,’ the navigator told the aircraft commander, Brenda Conklin.

  Conklin keyed her intercom. ‘Landing in ten minutes,’ she told her crew. ‘I want hustle on the ground ... we’re moving cargo today.’ She was often described by those who did not know her as ‘glamorous’, but ‘professional’ was more fitting. And when the occasion demanded, ‘tyrant’ was totally appropriate.

  Leonard’s voice crackled over the UHF radio with an urgency that shocked her. ‘Lifter, we’ve got two bogies at your eight o’clock. Come left forty degrees for a visual.’ Conklin flicked the autopilot off and rolled the Hercules on to the new heading.

  ‘Tallyho!’ the copilot shouted. ‘What the hell are they?’

  ‘Lifter, they’re on you! Break!’ Leonard shouted in a rapid staccato. Conklin rolled the big cargo plane into a forty-five degree bank and turned hard into the bandits. A small jet flashed in front of the Hercules as Conklin reversed the turn and dove for the ground.

  Leonard pulled the nose of his Warthog on to the bandits and hit the UHF transmit button to call his wingman. ‘Waldo, jettison now,’ he ordered. The two A-10 pilots reacted simultaneously by punching at the Push To Jett button on the armament control panel and twisting the wafer switch beside it to AIM-9, even though they were not carrying the deadly missile or any bombs.

  The two simple actions took less than a second and their external fuel tanks tumbled away, freeing them from weight and drag that hindered their maneuverability. At the same time, their head-up-displays flashed, giving them the symbology for an air-to-air engagement. They were ready to engage the bandits and do what every fighter pilot dreams of — shooting down an enemy aircraft. But they only had their cannons to do it.

  ‘Waldo,’ Leonard transmitted, ‘come back left. Bandits at your six o’clock.’

  ‘Comin’ back left,’ Waldo answered as he dropped the nose of his Hog and turned hard to the left. ‘Tallyho,’ he called when he saw one bandit a mile in front of him. Leonard reversed course by climbing and turning hard to the right. He rolled out above and behind his wingman in a chase position. He could see the bandit Waldo was chasing but had lost sight of the other one. ‘I got smash on him,’ Waldo shouted when he realized he had a positive overtake speed on the bandit.

  ‘Press,’ Leonard answered, clearing Waldo in for a tail chase while he rolled from side to side, looking for the other bandit. ‘I’m at your six but no joy on the other bandit,’ he told Waldo. There was no answer. Now Leonard jerked his Hog twenty degrees to the right so he could get a better look behind him. He came back forty degrees to the left, took a good look behind him, and rolled inverted to look down. He couldn’t find the other bandit. ‘Still no joy,’ he radioed.

  ‘Ten seconds,’ Waldo answered. He was almost inside the firing parameters for the Warthog’s 30mm Avenger cannon.

  ‘You’re clear,’ Leonard replied, telling Waldo that his six o’clock position was clear.

  ‘He’s pulling away!’ Waldo shouted. ‘He’s going for the deck.’

  A sickening feeling hit Leonard when his brain finally kicked in. They had been lured away from the C-130, leaving it exposed. He buried the nose of his jet and sliced back toward the C-130. ‘Waldo!’ he roared. ‘Come off right! They’re on Lifter.’

  Waldo never questioned the call and immediately reversed course, ignoring the bandit. Like Leonard, he realized they had been suckered, victims of buck fever and the desire for an air-to-air kill. Now they had to find the C-130 before it was gunned out of the sky.

  ‘Everybody,’ Brenda Conklin shouted over the intercom, ‘heads up. We’ve got two bandits out there.’ She spoke to the loadmaster. ‘Perk, strap in. It’s gonna get wild.’

  ‘Strapped in,’ Tanya Perko answered. ‘Cargo secure.’

  Leonard’s voice came over the radio. ‘Lifter, say position.’

  ‘Approaching the big bend in the river to the north of you,’ Conklin answered. ‘Heading oh-two-zero.’

  ‘Jink and head for the deck,’ Leonard said. ‘Suspect multi bandits in the area are looking for you.’

  ‘Out’a two thousand for five hundred,’ Conklin answered as she started the short, random, jerky heading changes called jinking.

  ‘Bandits!’ the copilot shouted. ‘Five, six ... OH MY GOD! Eight bandits on us!’

  Conklin wracked the Hercules up on to its right wing, nosed over, and firewalled the throttles, diving for the deck. A fighter flashed by in an overshoot and pulled up. ‘Hold on!’ Conklin shouted as she came back to the left, loading the plane with two Gs.

  ‘We’re too heavy!’ the flight engineer shouted. ‘We can’t maneuver at this weight.’

  ‘Open the cargo door and lower the ramp,’ Conklin told her copilot. ‘Perk, can you get to the jettison handle? We got to get rid of this cargo.’

  ‘Almost there,’ Perko answered. ‘Ready,’ she said.

  Conklin rolled the Hercules out straight and level. ‘NOW!’ she ordered. Perko pulled the release lever that retracted the locks holding the five cargo pallets in place as Conklin raised the aircraft’s nose a few degrees. The pallets moved a few feet toward the rear ramp and came to a sudden stop. The first pallet in line out had twisted in the side rails and jammed, blocking the load. ‘The end pallet’s jammed!’ Perko shouted over the intercom as she made her way to the rear.

  The loadmaster kicked at the edge of the pallet and it started to move. Encouraged, she kicked harder. But this time her foot caught in the webbing holding the cargo to the pallet. Before she could pull free, the pallet was moving, dragging her with it.

  A bandit skidded into the C-130’s slipstream, its machine gun firing.

  ‘Lifter in sight,’ Leonard shouted over the UHF. Ahead of him, he saw a cargo pallet tumble out the rear of the C-130 as a bandit converted into a firing position. Automatically, Leonard depressed the trigger on his stick to the first detent, activating the Warthog’s video camera. There was nothing else he could do as the small jet closed on the C-130. He watched in disbelief as the bandit collided with the last pallet of cargo to fall free of the Hercules.

  ‘Splash one,’ he transmitted. ‘Oh, no!’ A body was falling with the pallets and a coppery taste flooded his mouth. ‘One’s joining on Lifter,’ he radioed, his words quick and angry as a white-hot killing rage swept through him.

  ‘Waldo, go high. I’m low,’ he transmitted, sealing the contract the two pilots would hold for the next few minutes. Leonard would enter the engagement from below the bandits and Waldo from above. Neither would cross through the C-130’s altitude unless they had the other Warthog in sight.

  Leonard dove for the deck and leveled out at two hundred feet above the ground. Ahead of him, he could see the Hercules’s belly a few hundred feet above him. ‘Lifter, can you take it lower?’ he radioed. Flying low was a way of life for the Warthog drivers and Leonard was going to use the ground as an ally.

  ‘Come on down, you muthas,’ he muttered. ‘What the hell are you?’ By identifying the type of aircraft, he could anticipate their tactics and weapons.

  A flaming wreckage tumbled out of the sky and Waldo answered the question for him.
‘Splash one Czech Aero. They’re guns only, negative markings.’

  Leonard turned hard underneath the C-130 as a bandit cut in front of him and flew right into the funnel. The funnel, or low aspect gunsight, was projected on his HUD and marked the area in space where he could gun a bandit out of the sky. His finger flicked on the trigger and the Avenger gave off a brief buzz, sending a mix of fifty-four depleted uranium and high explosive bullets into the funnel. Only one high explosive slug hit the Aero, but it was enough. The small aircraft broke in two.

  He was vaguely aware of a rattling sound on his left. He turned his head and saw the snout of another bandit pointed at him. The rattling was the sound of bullets striking the titanium tub that surrounded the cockpit. He wrenched his Warthog around, right into the Aero. Above him, the wing tip of the C-130 flashed by as Conklin maneuvered to shake off another bandit. Flaming wreckage missing a wing corkscrewed to the ground. Waldo was having a very good day.

  The Aero and Leonard passed canopy to canopy and he felt a slight jar. He twisted around to see what had happened as he pulled up. The bandit’s tail had struck his left vertical stabilizer, ripping the upper third away. But he had lost sight of the bandit.

  The engagement turned into a close-in knife fight as the two A-10s flew around the C-130, swatting at the Aeros whenever they came too close. ‘Lifter,’ Leonard ordered, ‘head south.’ Now he was thinking of fuel. They got fuel problems too, he thought, so how much longer can they keep the furball going? On cue, the bandits broke off. ‘Ops check,’ Leonard radioed, taking advantage of the break. The bandits would be back.

  ‘Four point one,’ Waldo answered. Leonard automatically translated that into 4100 pounds of fuel left. He was a little better. He checked his nav computer. Ysterplaat was 400 nautical miles away and at ten pounds of fuel per mile, they were pushing flameout on final.

  Waldo was running the same numbers. ‘We can recover at Beaufort West,’ he said. ‘But it’s gonna be tight, especially if we engage again.’