Audible sighs of relief were heard as men slumped in their chairs, exhausted after the exercise. ‘Over six hours,’ a kommandant grumbled. The alert had lasted until the C-130 had flown past on the return flight to Cape Town, much longer than the two hours promised by MacKay.
*
MacKay was standing under a tree next to the playground in the housing area. His hand-held radio crackled with commands as the base stood down from the alert, the time when security would be the most lax. Lights in the houses started to come on as life returned to normal and men returned home. He keyed the radio. ‘Generaal, how read?’ Beckmann answered that the transmission was loud and clear. ‘It was a shambles out here, Generaal.’
A long pause. ‘Really? Report to me in Interrogation.’
MacKay clenched the radio ... hard. ‘ETA twenty minutes,’ he said.
He waited. Twice, his radio squawked with orders for him to meet Beckmann in Interrogation. He answered with a ‘Roger’, and ignored requests for his location. Beckmann was getting impatient. The major in charge of security was calling for him when the first shadow dropped out of the sky on to the playground.
Bouchard pulled on the risers and flared the chute, breaking his forward momentum. He took three quick steps and the chute collapsed. ‘Over here,’ MacKay said as the second jumper touched down. Bouchard gathered his chute and waddled toward the tree, encumbered by 150 pounds of equipment.
Again, the major called for MacKay to answer his call. MacKay switched the radio off. Now all six parachutists were on the ground. MacKay led them around the edge of the playground and to the Slavins’ house.
Itzig Slavin was waiting at the door of the darkened house and motioned the men inside. Without a word, his wife led them to the dining room and pointed to a very small surveillance microphone. Bouchard placed a small black box over the bug. Now the surveillance technician monitoring the house would only hear the sounds of a sleeping family until the battery went dead. A legionnaire followed Slavin around the house, placing the shielding devices over five more bugs. Then they swept the house with a wand, searching for magnetic abnormalities. They found two more bugs and neutralized them. Now they could talk.
‘Where’s Ziba?’ Slavin asked.
‘Beckmann’s got her,’ MacKay answered, his voice low and hard. He glanced at his watch. ‘I got to go. Bouchard, hold the fort here. Another woman may show up, Samantha Darnell.’
‘I know her,’ Bouchard answered.
MacKay ran into the night. How much longer could he stall?
*
The two guards waiting with Beckmann split apart to cover each other when MacKay entered Interrogation. ‘Now,’ Beckmann said.
‘Generaal, you got problems that won’t wait,’ MacKay said. He was improvising wildly, anything to buy time.
Beckmann was silent for a full ten seconds. ‘Really?’ he replied.
‘Generaal, you pay me to tell you the truth. Sometimes the truth is only a hunch and my gut is telling me that something is going down. I can’t figure out what it is, but there are people here who can. Use them. Now.’
Beckmann considered what MacKay was saying. He prided himself on being a disciplined man — always doing first things first. ‘Who do you suggest?’
‘Talk to your Intel officer,’ MacKay said. Beckmann nodded and called his chief of Intel on the telephone and handed the receiver to MacKay. What now? he thought. A cold feeling swept over him. He had run out of time and would have to take Beckmann out. But the two guards against the wall would get him. And Ziba.
He held the phone, aware of the warmth from Beckmann’s touch. It was a wild hunch, a guess born out of desperation. ‘What’s the current status at Ysterplaat?’ MacKay asked.
Beckmann stared at him. ‘How did you know the base was watched?’
‘It’s rather obvious that someone would be monitoring activity at the base,’ MacKay answered.
*
Friday, April 24
Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town
*
The crew bus stopped in front of the Hercules parked between two revetments. Fifteen men and women climbed off the bus and walked the short distance to the waiting aircraft. They lined up and dutifully presented their security badges to the guard standing at the crew entrance. Only when he was sure of each person’s identity and had checked his or her name off a list, did he permit them to climb on board.
Once inside, they turned right and passed through an aluminum door that sealed the cargo compartment off from the flight deck. After the door was shut and locked, the two pilots, navigator, and flight engineer climbed up the ladder on to the flight deck.
*
Pontowski was doing his walk-around inspection when the Compass Call EC-130H taxied past. He glanced up, noted the time, and continued the preflight. Besides two bags of gas, his Warthog was only carrying two Sidewinder missiles on station one, the extreme right outboard pylon, and an AN/ALQ-131 ECM pod on station eleven, the extreme left outboard pylon. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to use either of them.
He was standing outside the revetment relieving himself on the ground when the EC-130 took off. It would have been a perfect time to take a smoke, if he smoked. Instead, he followed the EC-130’s anti-collision light until it disappeared into the night.
I don’t know any of them, he thought.
Waldo joined him and relieved himself on the ground. He zipped up and checked his watch. ‘Time to do it, Boss.’ Pontowski climbed the boarding ladder to his jet and settled into the hard cold seat. The strapping in and before start engines routine came easy this time. He checked his watch: eleven minutes to engine start.
He waited.
*
Friday, April 24
The Indian Ocean, USS Oklahoma City (SSN-723)
*
‘I have the con,’ the skipper said. He took the mental equivalent of a gulp as the adrenaline hit him. Few men, very few, had the raw power that he was vested with and in the next few minutes, all that he had trained for, spent years of his life working to attain, would reach a climax. But it wasn’t what he had envisioned or wanted. Given a choice, he would have taken his boat into action against a Russian Akula class attack submarine, pitting every ounce of his skill and that of his men against the best any enemy had to offer. But that wasn’t going to happen.
‘Make your depth sixty feet.’ The submarine rose out of the depths of the Indian Ocean, a dark specter of death and destruction. ‘Make your speed six knots.’ The OK City slowed as the last commands from the Command and Control System were fed into the twelve Tomahawk missiles in the Vertical Launch System, VLS, tubes in the bow. ‘Up periscope.’ The head of the Mark 18 search periscope broke the surface and rose twelve feet into the air. The skipper swept the area. Nothing, surface calm. ‘Down periscope.’
‘Make the VLS ready in all respects.’ The low murmur of voices reached him, confirming the system was fully operational and ready. A tension held the control room as the men waited.
Again, ‘Up periscope.’ A last sweep of the surface. ‘Down periscope.’ He checked the chronometer on the bulkhead.
‘Commence firing sequence.’
The OK City nosed through the water, reaching the launch coordinates that had been programmed into the Tomahawks moments before. The loud metallic clanging of the first VLS hatch opening followed by the explosive charge propelling the twenty-foot missile out of the tube, echoed through the boat. More noise as water rushed into the empty tube and the hatch clanged shut. Eleven more times the sequence repeated itself as the OK City salvoed its twelve Tomahawks.
Like all submarines, the OK City was a quiet boat, for noise was the enemy that could lead to their detection and destruction. But the silence that held the boat for a few seconds was different — a hunter at rest, a beast of prey pausing to catch its breath. The skipper looked at his executive officer. ‘You have the con.’
Suddenly, he was tired and an empty feeling drained him of streng
th. He stood there, numb, and wondered how many people he was going to kill in two hours.
*
Friday, April 24
Lesotho, South Africa
*
To the east of Bloemfontein, the terrain starts to rise and with the change in elevation, the semi-arid climate gives way to a temperate plateau regime. When the conditions are right, normally in the fall and spring, a gentle western breeze will push an air mass into the hills of Lesotho. If the air is humid enough and its temperature right, the change in elevation will cool the air mass until its dew point matches the ground temperature. And if the breeze is gentle enough, not more than five miles per hour, an upslope fog will form in the valleys.
But if the wind increases to no more than eight miles an hour, it will push the fog out of valleys and over the hills, forming a band of fog along the entire western slope.
On April 24, at 4.05 in the morning, the conditions were perfect and fog spilled out of the valleys and formed a wall a hundred miles long, thirty miles wide, and eight hundred feet high blanketing all below it in near-zero visibility. But this fog was different. The temperature hovered at exactly zero degrees Celsius, 32 degrees Fahrenheit, and freezing crystals of ice formed, hanging in the air.
Six hundred miles to the southwest, an A-10 rolled down the runway at Ysterplaat Air Base. The second one followed it twenty seconds later.
*
Friday, April 24
Desert One, Lesotho
*
Maggot was standing on the ramp smoking a cigar when the four Puma helicopters lifted into the early-morning dark. Damn, it’s cold, he thought, stubbing out the half-smoked cigar. The weatherman hadn’t said a thing about low temperatures. He walked the short distance to his waiting Hog and patted the three Mark-82 Airs hanging on station three before he climbed the ladder.
From his vantage point, he looked down the line of ten A-10s. Each one was loaded with Mark-82 500-hundred-pound bombs and CBUs. Their job was to go in after the Tomahawks and mop up. At the same time, they had to seal off the housing area while three Pumas landed part of the QRF outside the main gate. The QRF’s job was to lob a few mortars into the main gate, blow up any traffic on the road and act as a decoy before withdrawing. While they created confusion, Bouchard had to secure a landing zone, call in the fourth Puma, and get Slavin and his family on board.
Pontowski was escorting the Compass Call EC-130 and acting as airborne mission commander, controlling the attack. He and Waldo would have to handle any Aeros that might find the EC-130. But if the Tomahawks performed as advertised, the Aeros wouldn’t be a problem.
Surprise is a wonderful thing, Maggot thought as he climbed into the cockpit.
*
Twelve minutes after taking off, the lead Puma hit the fog bank. The pilot immediately transitioned to instrument flying while his copilot navigated using the new GPS the Americans had installed. Ice started to form on the windscreen and the pilot nudged the collective and climbed 100 feet. But his radar warning gear, another gift from the Americans, warned him that he was in the beam of a search radar. He descended back to low level. ‘This is very bad,’ he warned his copilot. He was sweating in the cold.
*
Friday, April 24
Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein
*
‘The status report from Cape Town is eight hours overdue,’ MacKay told Beckmann.
‘That is not unusual,’ he said. ‘It means there is no change from the last report.’
MacKay spoke into the telephone. ‘What was the last reported status for Ysterplaat?’ Again, he listened to the reply. ‘Generaal, all the helicopters were gone, at least half of the A-10 revetments were empty, and a fifth C-130 was reported at the base.’
‘I am aware of that,’ Beckmann said. ‘Our information indicates the Americans are conducting some type of training exercise. Their commander is a fanatic on training.’
MacKay paced the floor, trying not to think about Ziba still sitting on the table in Interrogation. He checked his watch and the timetable he carried in his head. Almost, he thought. Just a little longer. ‘Sir, do you have any other sources you can check?’
Beckmann paused. MacKay is not stupid, he reasoned, and he thinks like an American. ‘I will make a phone call. Wait here.’ He spoke to the two guards and left.
Be cool, MacKay thought, keep stalling. He checked his watch and sat down beside the two Afrikaners. ‘You dudes play poker?’ The two men shook their heads in unison. They were tired of guarding the woman but weren’t going to let up. MacKay dealt himself a hand of solitaire.
He was dealing a second game when the phone call came ordering him to the command bunker. He dropped his cards and ran up the stairs. Outside, he could hear the sound of jet engines starting.
He found Beckmann in the command bunker talking to his chief of Intelligence and Air Operations officer. ‘You were right,’ Beckmann told MacKay. ‘There are strange things going on at the Air Base. A C-130 and two A-10s took off an hour ago.’
‘Not enough to worry about,’ the Intel officer said.
‘But where are the other aircraft?’ the operations officer asked.
‘Americans like to target high-value resources,’ Beckmann said. ‘That’s why I’m scrambling my Aeros so they won’t be caught on the ground.’
‘And they can shoot down any intruders,’ the Air Operations officer added.
A sour taste flooded MacKay’s mouth. He hadn’t considered Beckmann scrambling the Aeros. The carefully constructed timetable the Boys had given him was coming apart because he was improvising. He had to get to Slavin’s house and get a message out.
‘Generaal!’ a voice shouted from behind them. ‘The tactical commander reports many radar targets!’ Beckmann ran over to the radar monitor. MacKay headed for the entrance, hoping he could leave unobserved. A loud clang echoed down the corridors as the heavy blast doors at the entrance were closed and sealed. He was locked inside.
*
Friday, April 24
Cape Town, South Africa
*
Richard Davis Standard was shaving when he heard the knock at the front door. Being a cautious man, he picked up the Glock 9mm automatic he carried around the house and checked the surveillance monitor. He relaxed. It was two of the Boys, the ones he had on stakeout, monitoring a wiretap. He opened the door and the two rushed in.
‘Listen to this,’ one said. She hit the play button on the cassette recorder she was carrying.
Standard listened, wiping off the last of the shaving cream. ‘I’ll be damned,’ he said.
Chapter 24
Friday, April 24
Near Bloemfontein, South Africa
*
The first Tomahawk flew down a fogbound valley, oblivious to the near-zero visibility, and headed straight for a ridge. Since the OK City did not have the data base onboard to program the missile’s guidance computer for contour matching, its Terrain Contour Matching system was in standby. But the GPS was working as designed and it updated the midcourse guidance unit. The missile altered course slightly to the right and climbed, skimming the top of the ridge. A computer signal armed the 1000-pound warhead when the Tomahawk came out of the valley and dropped to 200 feet above the ground.
The Digital Scene Matching camera in the nose cone came on and matched the image it recorded with the target scene stored in its guidance computer. The Tomahawk turned sharply, overflew the main gate leading into the base, flew between the two long ridges that flanked the base to the east and west, and headed straight for the Eagle’s Nest. Four batteries of 20mm Twin Guns situated on the ridge tops were quiet. But the fifth and sixth batteries were still manned, held on status by their very irate commander for responding too slowly to the alert. Both batteries opened fire on the Tomahawk. Possessing infinite courage, the Tomahawk flew through the barrage and lined up on the Eagle’s Nest. The scenes matched perfectly.
The radar antenna on top was facing the Tomahawk ful
l on when the missile exploded, decapitating the Eagle’s Nest and blinding the Iron Guard’s radar warning system.
*
The pilot in the lead Puma helicopter was on the edge of panic. He had never flown so low to the ground on instruments for so long. He glanced out the ice-encrusted windscreen. He was caught in an ice cloud and could feel the weight of the ice build up through his controls. Sweat poured down his face. ‘It’s too much!’
‘Climb!’ his copilot shouted. Slowly, the ice-laden helicopter climbed. This time their radar warning gear was silent. Both men breathed easier when they popped out of the fog bank. Two more Pumas followed them. Then the fourth appeared, barely skimming the top of the ice cloud. The ice on the windscreen peeled away and the tension that had bound the pilot since takeoff eased. Ahead, he saw the edge of the fog bank. It was bright and clear beyond.
‘Dive!’ the copilot shouted. Coming at them head-on was a Czech Aero. The four Pumas dropped into the protective cover of the fog.
It was too much for the pilot and he broke radio silence. ‘Abort, abort, abort,’ he radioed.
*
The blast from the first Tomahawk shattered the bedroom windows of the guest residence. Only the drapes Sam had pulled saved her from glass splinters that shredded the heavy cloth. She rolled out of bed and lay on the floor, panting hard, and pulled on her shoes, thankful she was fully dressed. She grabbed her camera, slapped in a fresh battery, and stuffed an extra battery and two cassettes into her fanny pack. She was buckling the fanny pack on when the room shook with a second explosion.
Sam ran out the door in time to see a Tomahawk fly by, headed for the runway. She shouldered her camera and hit the record button. The Tomahawk flew down the runway as shaped-charge cratering munitions fired out its belly. Then it crash dived into a maintenance hangar and exploded. Sam ran, the camera still on her shoulder. Twice, she stopped to shoot the action as trucks sped past. Her shotgun microphone above the lens caught the sound, adding to the realism of the scene.
Iron Gate Page 42