Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  Beckmann studied the scope. ‘Is it jamming?’ he asked.

  ‘I have never seen anything like this,’ the tactical commander replied.

  ‘But it is all in the southwest quadrant,’ Beckmann said. His fingers beat a rapid tattoo on the table. Suddenly, the scope cleared and four bright returns flashed on the scope for one sweep. But these were to the north. Then the multiple returns were back. This time they were converging on the base at a high rate of speed from all quadrants.

  Beckmann’s voices woke up.

  ‘Generaal!’ the ADSO, Air Defense Surveillance Officer, shouted. ‘We’re tracking multiple targets to the north, inbound.’ Before Beckmann could reach his position, heavy strobes spoked out from the center of the scope. ‘That is brute jamming,’ the ADSO said. ‘But we are burning through.’ He hit the anti-jam Switch. Now the multiple targets were back for a few sweeps only to be replaced by more brute jamming. ‘They are getting closer,’ he told Beckmann. ‘The speed indicates they are A-10s.’

  ‘Scramble all the Aeros,’ Beckmann ordered.

  ‘But, General,’ the tactical commander protested. ‘It would be better only to scramble four.’ Beckmann shot him a hard look, shutting him up.

  *

  It turned into a game of hide and seek as the Aeros searched the evening sky for the intruders. Twice, a flight of two came within fifteen miles of the EC-130 and the three Warthogs, but each time the EC-130 sent out a new flurry of false radar signals drawing the Aeros off. Not once did the EC-130 jam the Iron Guard’s radios. That was for later. For now, they were only listening.

  ‘Sparky, how much longer?’ Pontowski asked the EC-130 over the Have Quick radio.

  ‘The first Aeros are returning to base now,’ Bradford told them. ‘All are low on fuel.’

  Pontowski ran the numbers through his head. It was time. ‘Sparky, scramble the helicopters. Maggot, Waldo, join on me.’ The sun was low on the horizon as the three Warthogs dropped to the deck and turned toward the Iron Gate.

  Ninety miles to the east of the Iron Gate, four Puma helicopters lifted off from Desert One and headed to the west. This time there was no icy fog waiting for them. Behind them, four C-130s taxied slowly out to the runway, their cargo decks jammed with paratroops.

  One hundred nautical miles to the southwest, five A-10s led by Skid Malone jettisoned their empty wing tanks, helping to reduce the drag generated by the ordnance hanging from every station.

  ‘Fence check,’ Pontowski transmitted, reminding Maggot and Waldo to arm their cannons and turn on their ECM pods. They were four minutes out.

  *

  The three Warthogs were on the deck in a loose V formation with a thousand feet separation as they approached the western ridge of the valley. The sun was at their backs as they climbed to crest the ridgeline by 200 feet, rolled 135 degrees and pulled their noses to the ground. They swooped into the valley. Ahead of them was the runway. Two Aeros were on landing roll out and still on the runway. Another two were taxiing in, and the landing pattern was full of Aeros, all low on fuel.

  ‘Tallyho!’ Pontowski shouted.

  The control tower operator saw the Warthogs first and managed to shout a warning over the radio before the jamming started. It was like nothing he had experienced and pierced his eardrums with pain. He ripped off his headset. It was worse for the Aero pilots because the landing pattern was full of Warthogs. In desperation, they broke out of the pattern, turned off their radios and armed their weapons while trying to avoid each other.

  No one had ever told them the Americans were this aggressive.

  An Aero was turning base to final with gear and flaps down when the pilot got confused. He cross-controlled the aircraft, left rudder and right aileron, at low airspeed. The Aero did as he commanded and snap rolled to the right. The Aero stalled and pancaked into the ground inverted.

  ‘Fox Two, Fox Two,’ Maggot radioed over his Have Quick. The frequency hopping radio saved them from their own jamming. He hit the pickle button and a Sidewinder leaped off the left inboard rail and homed in on an Aero turning into him. The cooled infrared seeker head flew up the Aero’s right intake. The warhead malfunctioned and did not explode. But the missile’s kinetic energy tore the engine apart.

  The pilot in the Aero touching down did the only thing he could. He firewalled the throttles, snapped the gear and flaps up, and accelerated straight ahead. He ignored the screeching in his headset and concentrated on flying the aircraft. He flipped the master arm switch up, arming the fire control circuits. He had two Kukri air-to-air missiles and 150 rounds for his 23mm twin-barreled cannon.

  His airspeed was touching 120 knots when he saw a Warthog coming at him head-on. The closure speed was 480 knots or 810 feet a second. The pilot had never been in a situation like this or even thought about it. But Pontowski had done both. Smoke streamed back from the Warthog’s nose as Pontowski literally shot the pilot in the face with a 30mm depleted uranium slug.

  A ground defender ran out of his bunker with a U.S.-built Stinger missile. He shouldered the weapon and tracked a Warthog — Waldo. He mashed the trigger and the missile leaped out of its launcher tube. A mistake. There were too many targets in the area for the seeker/tracker head to sort. Waldo mashed the flare button on his throttle quadrant and three flares popped out behind him. An Aero at Waldo’s six o’clock sucked a flare up its intake. The Stinger’s seeker head stepped over the two flares and looked for a target compatible with its programming. It homed on the Aero that had just swallowed the flare. Now the Stinger had a clear target signature that matched its programming and it functioned as designed.

  Waldo stood his Warthog on its right wing in time to see the Aero tumble into the ramp. He rolled out at seventy-five feet above the ground and walked a burst of cannon fire across the two Aeros racing for the safety of a shelter. The worst nightmare of every fighter pilot is a cockpit fire. The second worst is to be caught on the ground, in the open, during an attack. Nightmare number two killed the two pilots.

  The crew of a 20mm Twin Gun battery on the eastern ridge were inside a bunker eating their first hot meal in twenty-four hours. They were tired, dirty, and mentally exhausted. They had been raked by the munitions from a low-flying Tomahawk and harassed by a captain who lived in mortal fear and admiration of Beckmann, which was not a good mix for leading men in combat. The crew’s first reaction had been to hunker down, but their NCO was made of sterner stuff and had driven them into the gun pits.

  As soon as the auxiliary power units were on line, the gunners traversed their cannons toward the west to acquire the attacking aircraft in their open sights. But they were looking directly into the sun that was just above the ridgeline on the other side of the valley. They were only partially blinded and could see a Warthog, Skid Malone, pull off from a bomb run along the western ridge. They watched in horror as canisters of CBU-58s split open and peppered the ridgeline. Another Warthog was rolling in behind Skid.

  Their NCO was shouting at them over the fixed-wire communications net to traverse their guns to the south. A pair of Warthogs were on them. Both guns traversed, acquired the Warthog, and transitioned to their optical sights. The two gunners were well-trained and easily placed the reticle on the nose of the A-10. Each pushed their joystick down to slave the gun to the computer. The farthest gun reached a firing solution milliseconds first and sent a long burst of HEI into the A-10. The second gun joined in.

  The leading edge of the A-l0’s right wing peeled back and the nose shredded under the pounding. The right rudder simply disappeared as large chunks of the fuselage fell away. The right engine exploded and blew away from the fuselage. But the Warthog was still flying!

  The ammo boxes on both guns were empty and the loaders worked feverishly to reload as the Warthog pickled its load and pulled off target. Nothing the Tomahawks did could rival the damage caused by six Mark-82 AIRs walked with precision across a target. The gun crews never had time to appreciate that fact.

  Goat Gross did
not check for BDA, bomb damage assessment, as he pulled off the target. His Warthog was dying. No one could have been more surprised than Gross when he realized he had control of the Hog. His hands flew around the cockpit as he transitioned to manual reversion. He made a Mayday call and headed for Desert One. If I can make the base, he figured, I can punch out. He pulled the first aid kit out of his survival vest and dumped the contents in his lap. He had to stop the bleeding.

  *

  One of the Russian pilots hired by the Iron Guard found safety at full throttle and fifty feet above the ground. He crossed under Pontowski and turned away, scampering for safety across base housing. For a brief instant, he was on the wing of his fellow countryman. The two were used to communicating without radios and exchanged hand signals. One tapped the side of his helmet, made a fist, held up two fingers, and pointed to the north. His wingman understood and also turned to the north. They split the stone and iron mass of the main gate.

  *

  Piet van der Roos was soaked in sweat as he neared the eastern ridge. He was flying at 140 knots, fifteen feet off the ground. His copilot told him they were coming up on power lines and he pulled up to clear them. Then he slammed the helicopter back down to the deck. ‘Ridge in sight,’ the copilot said. The eastern ridge of the valley loomed in front of him. He made no attempt to climb and flew directly toward the hillside. At the last moment, he turned and paralleled the hill while climbing. He popped over the top and settled to the ground. The sixteen legionnaires in the back piled out and spread along the ridgeline. Van der Roos lifted off just as the second Puma came in with its load of legionnaires. The same scene repeated itself on the western ridge opposite them. The four helicopters headed back to Desert One to refuel and pick up their second load. As scheduled, Sparky stopped communications jamming long enough for van der Roos to make a single transmission.

  Pontowski circled the runway at 100 feet. The sun was down below the ridge now and much of the base was in dark shadow. Maggot came around on the opposite heading, circling above him. Waldo was 500 feet above Maggot. ‘Negative bandits,’ he radioed.

  Bradford’s voice came over the Have Quick radio. ‘The ridgelines are secure.’ The Legion had taken the high ground and the window of opportunity de Royer had planned for was open.

  Pontowski circled one more time checking for movement on the ground. This was the reason de Royer had sent him on the mission — he had to make the decision to continue or abort. He took a deep breath and committed them. ‘Lifter One, you are cleared to drop. Repeat, cleared to drop.’ His voice sounded tinny and hollow over the Have Quick radio.

  An unbelievably cool ‘Lifter One copies “cleared to drop’” answered him.

  The first C-130 flew down the valley at 500 feet and lined up on the runway. Jumpers streamed out the back. The American legionnaire, Corporal Rogers, was the last man out. He went out the jump door in a perfect position; facing backwards, right hand on the emergency chute D-ring, bent at the waist, knees slightly bent, feet together. He reached the end of the twenty-foot static line and felt the familiar tug. He immediately looked up to check the canopy for deployment. He had a streamer! His right hand jerked, pulling the D-ring to the emergency chute. The chute streamed out above his head and was snapping open when he hit the ground in a sitting position.

  The second C-130 crossed the field. Two more were right behind.

  ‘It was a good drop,’ Kowalski told her copilot as they flew past the main gate. ‘Let’s go get the flare ramp.’ The C-130 climbed into the darkening sky and headed for Cape Town. The other three Hercules fell into trail.

  *

  ‘What’s happening!’ Beckmann screamed, filling the command bunker with his frustration. Most of his telephones were still inoperative, the radios unusable because of jamming, and his radar still spoking. He was blind and deaf. He paused, clamping an iron will over his emotions. Then, very calmly, ‘Send runners and set up a relay.’ He fought the urge to go and find out for himself — a commander had to stay in his command post, no matter what. He sat down and waited.

  Slowly, the reports filtered in, whipsawing at his emotions. It was an unmitigated disaster. Three A-10s were circling the base, challenging anyone to shoot at them, paratroopers had landed on the runway and set up a defensive perimeter, and worst of all, the ridges overlooking the base were in enemy hands.

  Nothing on Beckmann’s face hinted at the inner battle going on inside. He gained control by focusing his hate on his adversaries. A face appeared. It was Pontowski, still vivid from the time they had met in Cape Town.

  The major in charge of security was on the edge of panic. ‘Sir, we should abandon the base now, before it is too late. We can withdraw to the south and regroup at Bloemfontein.’

  ‘Really,’ Beckmann said. He drew his pistol and shot the major in the head. The echo died away and a heavy silence hung in the bunker. ‘Get this traitor out of here,’ he told the hushed staff. ‘We have a battle to fight.’ He actually smiled at their stunned faces. ‘Which we are going to win.’ There would be no more talk of abandoning Iron Gate.

  *

  Friday, April 24

  Near Bloemfontein, South Africa

  *

  The two Aeros flew parallel to the highway leading north out of Bloemfontein. When the pilots saw the bridge, they slowed and configured their aircraft for landing. Landing on a highway presented no problems, not after the training they had received in the old Soviet Union landing on sod airstrips in dispersal exercises. They taxied off the main highway on to an asphalt access road and stopped. The engines were shut down and the canopies popped open.

  The two men climbed out and walked over to a large garage. One of the pilots examined the locks on the main door. He muttered a few words in Russian, drew his pistol and shot the locks off. They raised the door. Inside were steel drums with jet fuel, a long hose and a manual pump. It was all very familiar and they went about the process of refueling the jets, taking turns at the pump. While one of them checked the oil and hydraulic fluid, the other found a canister of compressed air and checked the tires. That was all they could do.

  The senior-ranking pilot found the phone in the rear of the garage and called the command bunker at Iron Gate. He was surprised when the tactical commander answered on the first ring. He listened. Yes, the planes were fully operational. Yes, they each had two air-to-air missiles and a full load of ammunition. Yes, they had the modified Aeros. More instructions. He hung up.

  ‘They want us to wait here. A truck is coming.’ The other pilot shrugged and rummaged around until he found the emergency food supplies and a sleeping bag.

  *

  Friday, April 24

  Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein

  *

  Sam was crouched at a window in the Slavins’ dining room with her camera, waiting for more action. But the attack was over. Bouchard motioned for her to move away from the window and handed her a flask of water. ‘What now?’ she asked.

  ‘We wait.’

  Sam tried to relax but her nerves wouldn’t let her. She envied Bouchard who had been sleeping most of the day. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘Rescuing the Slavins,’ he replied. ‘There are problems. The helicopter never arrived.’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  He turned his radio on only to be greeted by a loud screeching sound. It sent Sam’s nerves up an octave. ‘Jamming,’ he said, turning the radio off. ‘We wait.’

  Sam wanted to scream. Waiting wasn’t what she had in mind. She managed a fairly calm: ‘Waiting for what?’

  ‘For someone to come and get us. They know where we are but I don’t know where they are. Otherwise, we would go to them once it’s dark.’

  *

  Friday, April 24

  Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town

  *

  De Royer sat in the command post as the reports filtered in. When Desert One reported that Pontowski had landed and was taxiing into the fue
l pits, he stood up. ‘Please tell Colonel Pontowski that he has operational control.’ He walked out to the flightline where his equipment had been stacked and waited for the inbound C-130s.

  Kowalski’s C-130 was the first to land. The ground crews were waiting and there was no delay as refueling began and the flare dispenser was strapped to the end of the ramp. When the fuel truck pulled away, the waiting paratroopers climbed on board. De Royer was the last in line and took the seat next to the rear right paratroop door. He would be the first man out.

  *

  Friday, April 24

  Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein

  *

  Beckmann’s face was drawn and haggard and a tic played at his right eyelid. He swallowed another two pills. ‘What is the source of the jamming?’ he asked his tactical commander.

  ‘Twice, they have stopped jamming and we have detected a single target here.’ He touched the radar scope where the Compass Call EC-130 was orbiting.

  Part of Beckmann’s genius was to sense an opportunity and act on it. He followed his instincts. ‘Why did they stop the jamming?’

  ‘Probably because it interfered with their own communications,’ the tactical commander replied.

  ‘So they only have one jamming platform. Excellent.’ Beckmann paced the floor, tasting victory. ‘It will have to land to refuel. That will give us a window to attack. How many commandos are responding?’

  ‘Twenty-three,’ the tactical commander answered. ‘They are coming from all over the Boerstaat.’

  Beckmann ran the numbers. A commando averaged approximately fifty men each; that gave him 1150 additional troops to his current 1800 — almost 3000 men. It was enough. Now he had to contain the bridgehead at the airfield and get his men in place. With his degraded communications and the distance some of the commandos had to travel, that would take time. He studied the map of the base on the wall. Red circles had been drawn around the enemy positions. It infuriated him that they had penetrated the Iron Gate — his lair, his keep, his hope for the future. He felt violated.