‘Why does he do this?’ she asked. ‘Why doesn’t he just ... ?’ Her voice trailed off in despair.
‘Kill us and get it over with?’ MacKay replied. ‘The mutha is crazy. He’s got’a shred his victims first, strip away their dignity, show ’em that he’s in control. The more you frustrate him, the more you got’a suffer.’ MacKay twisted his wrists back and forth, working the flexcuffs around until the slip clamp was against the plastic band. He worked his wrists, rubbing the clamp against the plastic, generating heat and weakening the plastic.
One of the guards came into the room, his face a blank. He grabbed Ziba’s breasts, hard, and mouthed the word, ‘Nigger.’ The rage cocooned inside MacKay broke through and all the bonds that held him in check were gone. He flexed and jerked at the plastic flexcuffs as he came off the floor. The plastic clamp snapped and MacKay was on the guard. He drove a fist into his midriff and spun him around. He threw a choke hold around his neck and lifted the man off the floor, twisting and breaking his neck.
The other guard came through the door, his 9mm automatic drawn, and fired. But his gun jammed. He was vaguely aware that MacKay was coming at him as he tried to clear the weapon. MacKay barreled into him. It was a classic blocking motion learned playing football and MacKay drove the guard back against the wall. He punched his fist into the man’s throat and the automatic clattered to the floor.
MacKay picked the pistol up and turned to Ziba. Her eyes were wide with fright; Beckmann was standing in the doorway, raising his pistol. Without thinking, MacKay whirled and threw his pistol, hitting Beckmann square in the face. He dropped the pistol he was holding and held his hands to his forehead.
MacKay was a blur as he came at Beckmann, his rage still building. Adrenaline coursed through him, driving him on. Beckmann went down. MacKay towered over him for a moment as a growling sound grew in his throat to a howl, ugly and primeval. He picked Beckmann up and threw him toward the stairs, skidding him across the floor. Beckmann started to move but MacKay drove a bare foot into his temple, stunning him. MacKay rolled the Afrikaner on to his back and propped the heel of Beckmann’s left boot on the second step, raising his leg four inches off the floor. MacKay raised his foot high and stomped the top of Beckmann’s knee, shattering it.
Beckmann’s scream echoed up the stairs and down the empty corridors, reaching the courtyard. MacKay grabbed his right leg and dropped the foot on the step, extending that knee. MacKay stood over the prostrate body. Ziba’s hands grabbed his right arm and pulled him back. For a moment they stood over the body of the prostrate Beckmann. Then she released MacKay’s arm.
‘I’m not going to kill you,’ MacKay told Beckmann. Then he stomped again.
*
The mauling the lieutenant had taken from the legionnaires had made him a very cautious man and he made sure the survivors of his platoon were spread out and well concealed. ‘Lieutenant,’ a sergeant whispered. ‘There.’ He pointed to a dark area between two houses. The lieutenant froze. Then he saw it — two figures moving silently in the night. One was carrying a bundle over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. ‘It’s the kaffir,’ the NCO whispered. They all knew who MacKay was.
The lieutenant motioned for the sergeant to follow them.
*
The legionnaire crouched at the back door of the Slavins’ house saw the movement first through his night vision goggles. ‘Colonel Bouchard,’ he whispered, ‘someone is coming this way.’ Bouchard moved next to him and waited. Night vision goggles have a very narrow field of view and flatten depth perception, but the model the legionnaires were wearing gave them excellent detail.
‘It’s okay,’ Bouchard said, recognizing MacKay. He held the door open to let them in.
MacKay dropped his bundle and collapsed to the kitchen floor, gasping for breath. ‘Who is that?’ Bouchard said, motioning at the figure on the floor.
‘Beckmann,’ MacKay said.
*
The platoon was moving toward the Slavins’ house when they heard the sound of the helicopter. The lieutenant waited for it to come into sight, hoping it belonged to the Iron Guard. When he saw it was a Puma, he ordered his men to open fire.
For a moment the Puma hovered, defying the hail of gunfire as bullets cut through the cargo compartment and into the overhead engine bays. One of the door gunners was hit and crumpled to the deck while the other kept raking the night with his 7.62mm machine gun. Piet van der Roos pulled on the collective as the dying helicopter autorotated to earth.
The helicopter burst into flames and for the first time, the lieutenant felt the rush of victory. He shouted for his men to cease fire to conserve ammunition. Nothing happened. He shouted again as the sergeant next to him crumpled to the ground. He was vaguely aware of figures running from the burning helicopter as more rounds cut into the night around him, pounding at his men. They were in another firefight. But with who?
The lieutenant fell to the ground and rolled behind a tree. Muzzle flashes were coming from the house where the kaffirs had gone. It was too much. First the legionnaires, now two kaffirs. He yelled at his men to start an envelopment. It was a tactic they had practiced many times before.
*
The helicopter crew piled through the door and suddenly, it was silent. Van der Roos was the last in, dragging his wounded door gunner. ‘He’ll live,’ a legionnaire said, and quickly bandaged the wounded American.
Bouchard stood back from a window and looked outside, scanning the night with his NVGs. He saw movement. They only had seconds. ‘Where is the Legion?’ he asked.
‘At the airfield,’ van der Roos replied.
Bouchard told MacKay to lead the way and take everyone to the airfield. Four of his legionnaires would go with them to help carry the wounded American, Beckmann, and the children. He looked over at a bearded NCO. ‘You and me, Willi?’
‘This is why we came, Colonel,’ the NCO answered with a heavy German accent. They were the rear guard.
Why are they doing this? van der Roos wondered. Was it to save their comrades? Or was it for a more important reason? All his questions and doubts vanished as he stood there.
‘Go,’ Bouchard ordered.
MacKay ran through the house and led the group out the patio doors. The legionnaires fanned out and cleared a corridor. Bouchard had read the developing situation correctly and they were unopposed.
Bouchard handed Willi an AA-52 light machine gun and grabbed a sack of 40mm grenades. Much to his surprise van der Roos was dragging four ammunition belts of 7.5mm ammo for the AA-52 into the room. ‘You brought them,’ he said, ‘so let’s use them.’
Before Bouchard could order him to follow the others, gunfire cut into the house, driving them to the floor. Willi returned fire with the AA-52 and Bouchard lobbed the 40mm grenades into the night as quickly as he could load them into the grenade launcher mated to his assault rifle. The bark of a MAT-49 echoed from another room. Van der Roos returned with four more belts of ammunition for the AA-52. Suddenly, it was silent. The firepower coming from the house had totally surprised the lieutenant and he had to regroup. ‘Who is in the other room?’ Bouchard demanded.
‘The Zulu,’ van der Roos answered. He wasn’t the only one fighting for his country. Like van der Roos, Ziba had stayed behind.
‘Merde,’ Bouchard growled.
‘They will try another side next time,’ Willi said. He crawled across the floor dragging the AA-52. The twenty-pound weapon could put out a massive amount of firepower and cut cars in half. But it was also a target. Van der Roos grabbed an assault rifle and followed him, still dragging the heavy ammo belts.
The night exploded in a living hell as the platoon opened fire, sending hundreds of rounds into the cement block house. But the Afrikaner penchant for solid construction saved the defenders. If the house had been of wood construction the firefight would have lasted about twenty seconds. Again, the AA-52’s field of fire commanded the fight and forced the lieutenant to move his men. Willi moved with them
and van der Roos stayed behind to hold that side of the house.
By now, the lieutenant was certain he had only four or five legionnaires trapped in the house and he could sense victory — as soon as he could take out the machine gun. A corporal brought up an RPG-7, the Soviet-built rocket-propelled grenade that could penetrate six inches of steel armor. The lieutenant ordered a probing action and sacrificed two men to fix the new location of the AA-52.
The probing action heated up and Willi shouted for more ammo. Van der Roos was in the hall moving toward him when the RPG exploded. The concussion knocked him out. He came to as someone crawled past. It was Ziba, dragging the AA-52 into the kitchen. ‘He’s dead,’ she said. Van der Roos moved like a robot and followed her, dragging an ammunition belt. But this was the last one.
The house was full of smoke and he could smell a fire burning. Through the smoke, he could see Ziba tying a bandage around Bouchard’s chest. One look, and van der Roos knew the Frenchman too was dying. ‘Put it there,’ Bouchard said, pointing to the door. Ziba understood and shoved the muzzle of the machine gun out the door. A hail of gunfire cut across the house, sending concrete chips and dust over them. Ziba loaded the last belt.
*
MacKay moved fast and they were clear of the housing area in seven minutes. He stopped when he saw the airfield. He had gotten them there, now a legionnaire would have to take them through the lines. In the distance, he could hear the firefight going on at the house. The professional soldier in him was in overdrive and he mentally gave Bouchard and the sergeant another three to five minutes at the max. A legionnaire joined him. ‘We had to give Beckmann another shot of morphine,’ the legionnaire said. ‘His knees are killing him.’
‘I hope so,’ MacKay grunted. ‘But keep him alive. That mutha is gonna stand trial.’ He looked around and did a head count. Ziba and van der Roos were missing. ‘I’m going back,’ he growled. He had come too far to lose Ziba now. The legionnaire threw MacKay his MAT-49 and an ammo pouch. MacKay was up and running, retracing his steps.
*
The gunfire raking the house slowed, then died. Bouchard motioned van der Roos to join him. ‘You and the woman … go.’
‘We’re surrounded,’ van der Roos replied.
Bouchard shook his head and pointed to the other side of the house, in the direction of the burning helicopter. ‘Go that way, it will be okay.’ He had not lost his situational awareness and had the measure of his opponents. They were being enveloped, not encircled. Otherwise, the attackers would be caught in their own crossfire. ‘I will count to ten. When I start firing, run.’ The two did as he said and crawled out of the room. Bouchard raised his gloved hand in salute and started to count.
Bouchard was wrong. The Afrikaner lieutenant was fairly certain the ammunition cooking off in the burning Puma would seal that quadrant of the envelopment. But rather than take a chance, he had left a lance corporal and a private behind. They saw Ziba and van der Roos the moment they broke from the house, and opened fire.
The ground kicked up around them and they ran faster. Ziba was still carrying the MAT-49 and she swung it around, firing as she ran. Another burst of gunfire cut into them and van der Roos put on a burst of speed, outdistancing Ziba, running toward the waiting shadows and safety. He heard a scream and looked over his shoulder. Ziba was down. She was on the ground, crawling forward, still dragging the MAT-49 after her. Two more bullets hit her.
Van der Roos skidded to a halt and fell to the ground as he reversed direction. He ran for Ziba. More gunfire and he went down. He rolled on the ground, drawing his automatic. He fired and emptied the clip as he reached Ziba. He grabbed her MAT-49 and fired as he dragged her to her feet.
MacKay came out of the shadows and saw the two Africans stumbling across the open area. He opened fire, trying to give them cover. Again, Ziba fell to the ground.
Ziba looked up at van der Roos. ‘Go,’ she gasped in Zulu.
‘We do this together,’ he said in Afrikaans, reaching for her.
A long burst of gunfire cut into them.
Chapter 27
Saturday, April 25
Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein
*
De Royer paced the bunker as the reports came in. They only confirmed what he could hear outside — silence. Resistance was collapsing and the Iron Guard was surrendering. Only a few isolated pockets were holding out. He removed his helmet and flak vest and donned a blue beret. He issued orders to the colonel and left.
Itzig Slavin stood up when he saw de Royer walk into the hangar. ‘Thank you, sir. My family ...’ The right words eluded Slavin and he could not say more. De Royer shook his hand and looked at the man lying on the ground — Beckmann.
De Royer had done what he came for and by rescuing Slavin, he had taken Prime away from Beckmann. For a moment, he wondered if Slavin had discovered cold nuclear fusion. If not, he decided, perhaps in the future. A feeling of satisfaction swept over him. Now it was time to end it. He turned to the woman. ‘Miss Darnell, there are many things here you need to see before we withdraw.’
Sam was tired and wanted to collapse on the big pile of parachutes in the corner and sleep for a week. ‘How long do I have?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ he told her. ‘You will be escorted. They will take you where it is safe and will bring you back when it is time to leave.’
‘Thank you,’ Sam told him. She grabbed her camera and followed the four legionnaires detailed to take her around the base.
*
Saturday, April 25
Desert One, Lesotho
*
‘Relay the message to Sparky,’ Pontowski told Waldo.
The captain stepped on the transmit button on the floor and made the radio call. ‘Sparky, Desert One. Strangle all jamming. Repeat, strangle jamming.’
‘Why did de Royer order the jamming stopped?’ Standard asked, perplexed by the decision to stop jamming the Iron Guard’s communications.
‘So what’s left of the Iron Guard’s command and control system can surrender,’ Pontowski answered. Where had he learned that? Then he remembered; when he had attended Squadron Officers’ School as a junior captain. What else had he forgotten that de Royer was reteaching him?
‘Sir,’ Waldo said, ‘the last of the Hogs are recovering now.’
‘Turn them and get them back on status,’ Pontowski told him.
‘They’re a bunch of tired jocks,’ Waldo reminded him.
Pontowski knew it was the truth. How much more could he push them? It was time to find out. ‘Let’s go say “howdy” to the troops,’ he told Standard. He grabbed his personal radio as he left.
The two men walked the line, stopping at each revetment to speak to the pilot. Waldo was right, they were exhausted. He had been pushing them since early Friday morning and some of them had flown six sorties in the last twenty-four hours. Six combat sorties, he corrected himself. He knew what that meant and the toll it took on an individual. Thank God I haven’t lost anymore pilots on this phase of the operation, he told himself. Then it hit him hard. He had lost a C-130 crew. How could he forget that so easily? It won’t happen again, he promised himself.
They found Maggot sitting on the ground, his back against a revetment wall. ‘How’s it going?’ Pontowski asked him.
‘I’m really bushed,’ he admitted, not getting up.
As they talked, a vague itch at the back of Pontowski’s mind demanded a scratching. He remembered the last time it had happened. He had ignored it and Tango Leonard and Tanya Perko had died. Not this time. ‘Maggot, I need to put two Hogs in a CAP and the rest on five-minute alert.’
Maggot stood up. As long as Pontowski was asking, he would do it. ‘Sounds fair to me, Boss.’
‘Not you. Who’s in the best shape to fly?’
Maggot thought for a few moments. Technically, by the regulations, they should have all been in crew rest. But combat didn’t work that way. ‘You, Waldo, and Bag,’ he answered.
&nb
sp; Pontowski stood there, thinking. He wanted to fly, to do the mission. But that wasn’t his job anymore. De Royer had tried to tell him that early on, that he was too close to operations. His job was to decide what to do, when it would be done, and who would do it. Pontowski keyed his radio. ‘Waldo, you’re up. Get your gear. I want you and Bag to fly a CAP. You’ve got the lead. Launch ASAP.’
But why did de Royer let me be the airborne mission commander? he wondered. Then it came to him. The critical decision to abort or continue the attack had to be made on the spot by someone who understood air operations, which Pontowski did. In this particular case, that also meant sharing the danger.
Standing in the early-morning dark, cold, tired, and hungry, he finally understood de Royer. ‘I’ll be damned,’ he muttered to himself. The critical decision to withdraw from Iron Gate had to be made by someone who understood ground operations. De Royer was where he had to be to make the right decision at the right time.
De Royer did not have a martyr complex; he did not want his own Dien Bien Phu. He was sharing the risk when he could and leading by example. Pontowski grinned at Maggot. ‘Come on, let’s get something to eat. You get to play mission director.’
‘Ah, no,’ Maggot groaned. Pontowski knew how he felt.
*
Saturday, April 25
Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein
*
Sam was standing outside the command bunker. She hit the record button as two legionnaire sappers rigged the heavy blast door with explosives. What was left of Beckmann’s staff was barricaded inside and refused to surrender. The sappers moved away, stringing wire behind them. An explosion blew the door open and knocked the sappers to the ground. ‘That came from inside,’ a legionnaire told her. Sam recorded it all and breathed easier when the sappers got up and dusted themselves off.
Iron Gate Page 47