Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  ‘They sealed themselves in,’ the same legionnaire said.

  ‘Are they still alive?’ she asked.

  The legionnaire shrugged. ‘Probably. Do you want to see the gallows next?’ She nodded, half-afraid of what was coming. Her escort led her into the security compound. The gallows was still standing in the courtyard. ‘Mon Dieu,’ one of the legionnaires whispered.

  ‘Down here,’ another legionnaire shouted, leading her into Interrogation. Nothing in Sam’s experience had prepared her for the next five minutes. Her hands shook as a legionnaire explained what she was recording. Finally, she couldn’t take anymore and ran up the stairs.

  ‘Show the world what the Afrikaners are,’ a legionnaire told her.

  Piet van der Roos is an Afrikaner, Sam thought. He isn’t like this and his family are decent, caring people — like most of the Afrikaners I’ve met. This is the lunatic fringe, the haters at work. ‘This could happen anywhere,’ she told the legionnaire. ‘Anywhere,’ she repeated for emphasis. That was the story she would tell.

  The legionnaire’s radio crackled. ‘The general wants to see you in the weapons storage area,’ he said.

  *

  Sam knew she had the story of the year as she followed de Royer through the underground tunnels. ‘Without Doctor Slavin, we would have never found this,’ the general explained in English. He walked on, his voice never changing inflection. Sam stayed as close as she could so her shotgun mike could record what he was saying. A sergeant opened the heavy armored steel doors to a weapons bay. ‘These are nerve gas canisters.’

  ‘What are you going to do with them?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Rig them with explosive charges, seal the bunkers, and blow them up,’ de Royer said.

  ‘Can I document it?’ she asked.

  ‘Certainly.’

  Sam jammed a fresh battery pack and cassette into her camera.

  *

  Saturday, April 25

  Near Bloemfontein, South Africa

  *

  Lee Bradford was a tired man when he glanced at his watch. It’s morning, he thought. He sat at his console in the rear of the EC-130 and sipped at a cup of coffee, thinking what his crew had done. What a shame, he thought. No one will ever know. But that was the world of ECM. Still, he felt good. ‘Colonel,’ a radio technician said over the intercom, ‘we’re picking up radio traffic on a tactical net. Should we jam it?’

  Bradford came alert. A tactical net was used to scramble fighters. He hit a toggle switch and listened. Two Aeros were being scrambled. ‘Jam it,’ he shouted. ‘Source?’

  ‘The command bunker,’ the radio technician told him.

  ‘Where are the Aeros launching from?’

  The radio technician gave him the coordinates. ‘Colonel, I speak a little Russian,’ the technician said. ‘Before we started jamming, the pilots were talking to each other about wearing gas masks.’

  *

  Saturday, April 25

  Desert One, Lesotho

  *

  Bradford’s voice was on every frequency. ‘Attention all aircraft. Two bandits are approaching from the north. They are configured for NBC. Repeat, they are configured for NBC.’ He gave the launch site coordinates and fell silent.

  Maggot was sitting at the mission director’s position in the communications van and leaned forward, almost yelling into his boom mike. ‘Waldo, copy all?’

  ‘Rog,’ Waldo replied, much calmer. ‘Jettisoning now.’ The two Warthogs jettisoned their bomb loads and turned to the north to search for the intruders. Waldo told Bag to take the lead since he had two Sidewinder missiles and a full load of 30mm rounds. Waldo only had the cannon and 542 rounds in the ammo drum.

  Honor the threat! Pontowski thought. Those Aeros have to be carrying nerve gas. Even with gas masks, how many can survive a chemical attack without MOPP suits? How many wounded and innocent civilians will die? ‘We’ve got five Hogs sitting on the ramp,’ Pontowski said to Maggot. ‘Scramble them into defense CAPs over de Royer.’ He let Maggot work the scramble and four minutes later, the first two A-10s were airborne. He checked the time. It was fifteen minutes flying time to the Iron Gate. Too long.

  ‘Colonel,’ Maggot said, ‘the first shuttle is landing.’ A C-130 was on short final with the wounded. De Royer was pulling out.

  ‘Use all three C-130s and send the Pumas in. They can help.’ Pontowski stepped outside. It was light and the sun was above the horizon.

  ‘Find ’em, Waldo,’ he muttered.

  *

  Saturday, April 25

  Near Bloemfontein, South Africa

  *

  Waldo was a man with a problem. He was flying an aircraft that had been built for killing tanks and close air support of troops in contact with the enemy. It was not an air superiority fighter designed for seeking out other aircraft and shooting them down. Yet, that was exactly what he had to do. And he only had two sets of eyeballs to do it with; his and Bag’s.

  The two pilots split apart and entered separate patterns with Bag slightly further to the north and more to the west. Hopefully, that would put him closer to the intruders and give them maximum visual coverage over a wide area. The patterns they were flying were oriented east to west and resembled long, very narrow figure-eights so they would always be turning to the north. It didn’t work, for what they gained in visual coverage, they lost in mutual support.

  The two Aeros were on the deck and flying down a broad valley when they saw the distinctive planform of a Warthog turning above them. It was Bag turning back to the east. More often than not, aerial combat is a matter of exploiting an opportunity. The Russian in the lead Aero simply reefed around hard to the left, pulled his nose up and fell in behind and below Bag Talbot. He sweetened the shot by closing the distance between them. He even had time to double-check his switches.

  Automatically, Bag did a belly check and rolled to the left to see what was below him and at his six o’clock position. Most fighter pilots never see the other fighter or missile that kills them. Bag did.

  Waldo saw the explosion. ‘Bag!’ he shouted over the radio. There was no answer. Then he saw the Aero. Incredibly, the pilot was doing a victory roll. Another Aero came up and joined on the victor as they headed south. Waldo’s face froze. He firewalled the throttles and made the radio call. ‘Two bandits twenty-four miles north, inbound, eight hundred feet.’ Then, ‘They splashed Bag. I’m engaged.’ Bradford answered him. There was no one to help and Waldo had four minutes to catch the Aeros and kill them.

  Geometry, altitude, and speed were in Waldo’s favor. He was on one leg of a triangle converging on the Aeros which were flying down the other leg. But Waldo’s leg was shorter. He was also above them. Going downhill is one thing the Warthog does very well and Waldo swapped his altitude for speed. The Aeros were cruising at 280 knots, conserving fuel, and Waldo was at 380 and accelerating when they saw him.

  The Aeros turned into Waldo, trying to generate an overshoot. But Waldo wasn’t having it. He turned with them, hard to the left, creating an over G on the Hog. For a fraction of a second, luck was on Waldo’s wing. The lead Aero pilot tightened up his turn and loaded his airframe with five Gs. Other than bleeding off airspeed, it was a normal maneuver. But the gas mask he was wearing slipped under the G force and partially blinded him. Instinctively, he eased off the turn as Waldo fell in behind.

  The three jets were in a tight Lufbery 400 feet above the ground with Waldo sandwiched in the middle. He didn’t care. He kept his turn coming as his airspeed bled off. The lead Aero was in the pipper and Waldo mashed the trigger. The cannon fired six rounds and luck switched sides. A round coming out of the ammo drum on the feed links was not properly seated in the holding tabs. The 30mm round hit the breech cockeyed and exploded.

  Waldo’s first round missed the Aero, the second hit the right wing root, and the last three missed. The depleted uranium slug that hit the Aero’s wing did not explode but the energy from the high muzzle velocity tore the wing off the
fuselage. The Aero twisted to the right, into its missing wing, as it hit the ground.

  The speed of what happened next defied the imagination and took about as long as reading this sentence. But Waldo made it happen. The explosion in the A-l0’s gun bay had ruptured the hydraulic system and its controls were rapidly bleeding away. Waldo rolled out and jerked his throttles full aft. He pulled back on the stick, stalled his Hog, and hesitated for a fraction of a second as the Aero on his tail rapidly closed. When he saw that the Aero was passing on his right, he gave the Hog full right aileron. The Aero was there as the A-10 rolled, crashing into it.

  Luck was absolutely neutral as the laws of physics and the work of Fairchild’s engineers took over. The A-10 was heavier and built like the tanks it was meant to destroy. It survived the midair collision, the Aero didn’t, and Waldo had his fourth kill, one short of becoming an Ace. Now all he had to do was stay alive.

  *

  Saturday, April 25

  Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein

  *

  The legionnaires found MacKay sitting beside the two bodies. He slowly stood as de Royer and one of the sergeants who had parachuted in with Bouchard approached. ‘General, this is the man I told you about,’ the sergeant said.

  MacKay came to attention and saluted. ‘Colonel John MacKay, United States Army.’

  De Royer returned his salute. ‘Are these the South Africans who stayed behind?’

  MacKay’s voice was strained with emotion and his words came in short, rapid bursts. ‘Yes, sir. But I was too late.’ He motioned at two other bodies on the far side of the grassy area. ‘I got them. The others ... stormed the house. They left ... when it got light.’

  De Royer looked around. ‘Was it worth it?’ MacKay asked. The general didn’t answer. They stood there for a moment, not speaking. Then MacKay spun around and walked away.

  ‘We found Colonel Bouchard in the house,’ a sergeant said. De Royer followed the sergeant and stepped over the rubble of what had been a wall and into the kitchen of Slavin’s house. Bouchard was lying face down on the floor in a pool of blood. A MAT-49 submachine gun was next to him and the bodies of two soldiers were crumpled in the doorway. The AA-52 was on its side, empty. De Royer bent over and examined the bag with 40mm grenades. It was empty.

  Bouchard had given a good accounting of himself.

  Gently, de Royer rolled Bouchard over. A voice behind him said, ‘Sergeant Willi Storch is in the other room.’

  ‘Get him,’ was all de Royer said. He adjusted Bouchard’s flak vest. Well, my friend, de Royer thought. How many did you hold off?

  Slowly, he removed Bouchard’s black glove. He touched the ugly burn scars that covered the skeletal outline of what had been a hand. Still, it had functioned, a tribute to Bouchard’s perseverance in recovering from the burns that had almost killed him.

  De Royer stood up and drew himself to attention. He saluted Bouchard, holding the glove in his own left hand.

  *

  Saturday, April 25

  Desert One, Lesotho

  *

  The ramp was packed with four hundred legionnaires, five Warthogs, and two C-130s. Only the Pumas, Kowalski and Waldo were missing. Pontowski stepped out of the comm van and walked past the first aid tent where two French doctors and four nurses were performing medical miracles. Set further back was another tent. This one held fourteen body bags.

  Standard joined him. ‘Is that the last C-130?’ he asked Pontowski, pointing to a C-130 on landing roll out.

  ‘That’s it. De Royer and his command element should be on board.’ They watched as the C-130 taxied clear of the runway and pulled into the parking area.

  Standard shook his head. ‘They are gonna have my ass when they find out the French have been here.’

  Pontowski wanted to ask who the ‘they’ were. Instead, ‘One hell of a forward operating location you got here. You could fight a war from here.’

  ‘That was the idea when we built it,’ Standard told him. He laughed. Knowing Gengha Dung, she would send the Department of Defense an itemized statement for the use of Desert One. ‘Wait until you see the bill.’

  A helicopter flew over and settled to the ground. One more to go, Pontowski thought. The Pumas were extracting the legionnaires who had been holding the ridgelines. They had been the first to go in and were the last to come out. The C-130’s engines were spinning down and a tall figure was marching across the ramp toward him. It was de Royer. Pontowski saluted. ‘Well done, sir.’

  ‘Have all aircraft recovered?’ de Royer asked.

  ‘Two Pumas are inbound and there’s Waldo. He’s still burning off fuel.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he land?’ Standard asked.

  ‘Because I wouldn’t let him,’ Pontowski replied. This was going to take some explaining. ‘He’s lost his hydraulics and is in manual reversion. The book says to eject but he wants to recover the jet. There’s a damn’ good chance he’ll auger in on landing and close the runway. So he’s holding and burning off fuel until everyone else is down.’

  ‘Why don’t you just order him to eject?’ Standard said.

  ‘I suggested it,’ Pontowski said. ‘But it’s his decision.’ De Royer nodded, agreeing with him. Pontowski keyed his personal radio. ‘Maggot, tell Waldo he can land.’

  ‘Roger that,’ Maggot answered.

  A Puma came in and landed as they waited, each lost in his own thoughts. Standard broke the silence. ‘General de Royer, did you destroy the base?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you turn it over to someone?’ Standard asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  This is like pulling teeth, Standard thought. ‘To who, sir?’

  ‘A commando,’ de Royer said. The two men stared at the Frenchman, not believing what they had just heard. A smile played at de Royer’s lips but he suppressed it. ‘I gave it back with instructions to use it properly.’

  ‘But why?’ Standard asked.

  ‘Who else was I to give it to? It is their base. Besides, we have Beckmann.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Standard muttered. ‘How? Who?’

  ‘Your man, MacKay, captured him,’ de Royer replied.

  ‘Where is MacKay?’ Standard asked.

  De Royer shook his head. ‘He walked away.’

  The last Puma approached, hovered, and settled to the ground. Pontowski’s head nodded in relief when he saw Sam get off, still carrying her camera. His eyes followed her as she walked toward them and he felt a pang of regret at the way things had turned out. But that was life. He was surprised when de Royer saluted her. Then he remembered the time on the ramp at Andrews when the general had saluted Sergeant Patricia Owens’s parents in the same way.

  ‘Thank you, General,’ Sam said. She looked at Pontowski. ‘I wanted to be on the last helicopter out.’

  ‘I’m pleased that you got your wish, Miss Darnell,’ Pontowski replied.

  ‘It’s Sam, Colonel.’ Was she laughing at him? She looked around. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  He pointed. ‘For that.’ Waldo was entering downwind.

  *

  ‘Come on, you mutha,’ Waldo muttered as sweat poured down his face. He was tired after flying in manual reversion for almost two hours and talking to himself helped. But he understood why Pontowski wouldn’t let him land.

  What had Pontowski said? ‘Jettison that puppy, Waldo. I got lots of Hogs, only one you.’

  ‘Sorry, Colonel,’ Waldo said to himself. ‘That’s the standard line. I’m giving this one back to you.’ But that was also the standard response. ‘Landing Gear Alternate Extension,’ he muttered, going through the emergency drill to lower the gear. He pulled on the gear handle and dropped it. ‘Two in the green,’ he muttered. The main gear was down and locked but the nose gear was still up. He bounced the aircraft to move things along but that didn’t help.

  He increased airspeed and pulled two Gs, trying to break the nose gear free. ‘What the hell!’ The explosion in the gun bay had jammed th
e nose gear doors and nothing Waldo could do broke it free.

  ‘What now?’ Maybe it was time to eject. ‘No way. I nursed you this far. And I’m flying on fumes anyway.’ It was true. The fuel gauge read empty. He turned final.

  Maggot was standing beside Pontowski as Waldo came across the approach end of the runway. ‘Shit-oh-dear,’ he mumbled. Sam raised her camera and focused on the jet. ‘Why didn’t he punch out?’ Maggot asked. He knew the answer because he would have done exactly what Waldo was doing. But it was different when it was another jock.

  Instinctively, Sam followed the A-10 as it touched down on its main gear. She held her breath.

  Waldo held the nose up as long as he could. Then it dropped. The snout of the Warthog, the muzzle of the Avenger cannon, dug into the concrete, absorbing the forward momentum of the fighter. The forces were transmitted back along the cannon, which had the strength to resist them, and into the fuel bays behind the cockpit. But no airframe could take that kind of punishment. The Warthog’s back broke as it pitch-poled straight ahead, over its nose and on to its back. It skidded down the runway tail first, on top of the canopy, sending a wave of sparks and shredded Plexiglas to each side. Finally, it spun completely around and came to a halt, pointing back up the runway.

  Men were running toward the A-10 as Sam zoomed in on the cockpit. She could see Waldo hanging in his shoulder straps with his head bent forward and the top of his helmet resting against concrete. ‘He’s trapped!’ she shouted.

  ‘The ejection seat!’ Pontowski shouted. ‘It saved him.’ The top of the ACES-II ejection seat was acting like a pillar and holding the pilot’s head off the runway.

  A bright flash mushroomed, enveloping the Warthog and driving the men back. The flames grew into a cloud. Then just as suddenly, the flames were gone. Sam’s camera recorded a dark figure crawling out of the cockpit and running for all he was worth.

  ‘A flash fire,’ Maggot said. There wasn’t enough fuel left to sustain the fire once it ignited.

  ‘There goes the world’s luckiest SOB,’ Pontowski muttered.

  Sam turned her camera on Pontowski and caught the relief in his face. ‘I don’t know about that,’ she said, making a promise she intended to keep.