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  Kowalski was the first through the door and was talking to Brenda Conklin when Leonard came in. ‘Get the Boss in here quick,’ she said. ‘Lifter One is in big trouble.’

  ‘I’m here,’ Pontowski said. Kowalski quickly described the situation. Pontowski’s orders came quick and furious. ‘Tango, get two Hogs overhead Van Wyksvlei ASAP. No, hold on. I want surprise on our side and we don’t want to make the situation worse than it is. Tell them to hold at least ten miles away. But if anyone starts shooting at the C-130, they’re cleared in hot. Lydia, the Hogs don’t have a radio that can reach us here. Get a C-130 with a SatCom there soonest to act as an airborne radio relay. Stay with the Hogs and don’t go near the airstrip.’

  ‘What’s the ROE?’ Leonard asked.

  ‘Until I can talk to Pendulo and he tells me otherwise, they’re cleared to strafe anybody or anything that shoots at the C-130 or them.’

  ‘Got it,’ Leonard replied as he ran out of the room.

  ‘Boss,’ Lydia said, ‘let me take the C-130.’

  ‘Do it,’ Pontowski told her. ‘You can coordinate the show up there. Go.’

  Pontowski sat down and thought. He had to pull it all together, but how? ‘Get me General de Royer on the secure line,’ he told the controller, ‘and place a call to Madame Martine at the UN Observer Mission.’ Within seconds, he was explaining the situation to de Royer. Much to his amazement, de Royer told him to handle the problem and that his aide, Colonel Bouchard, would be over there shortly. He broke the connection.

  Martine was next and he asked her to contact the Ministry of Defense and get Pendulo on the line. ‘Matt,’ she replied, ‘he’s out of town. I’ll try to find him.’

  ‘I need somebody to make a decision,’ Pontowski told her.

  ‘Don’t do anything until I get back to you,’ she said.

  Now he ran the numbers through his head: forty-five minutes’ flying time to Van Wyksvlei, two hour loiter time in the area, forty minutes back. That meant a pair of Hogs had to be launching every two hours to maintain a constant cover over Van Wyksvlei. How long was the C-130 good for? In the vicinity of eight to ten hours, if he remembered correctly. He rushed out of the command post to set things going.

  Sam was standing outside. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ve got problems. I’m sorry, but I haven’t got time right now.’

  ‘Is it okay if I hang around?’

  He paused. It was going to get messy. Did he want it all recorded for the public to see? But on the other hand ...

  ‘Sam, when the C-130 landed at Van Wyksvlei, it was surrounded by a hostile crowd. The crew is trapped inside the aircraft but no one’s been hurt and there’s been no shooting ... so far. We’re trying to sort it out before anyone gets hurt. You’re welcome to stay but you’ll have to keep out of the command post, Intel, or the briefing rooms. Waldo here will take care of you.’ He turned her over to the A-10 pilot and went looking for Leonard. Outside, he could hear two Warthog starting engines. Soon they were joined by the sound of a C-130. Good show, he thought.

  Pontowski was with Leonard in the command post firming up the launch schedule when Bouchard came in. He was wearing the dark-green battle dress of the French Army and said nothing as he hovered in the background like a grim specter. Elena joined them twenty minutes later. ‘I can’t find Pendulo,’ she told them.

  ‘So how do we get our people out of this mess?’ Pontowski asked.

  ‘The government must respond,’ she said. ‘Not us.’

  ‘Then they had better get involved or we’re going to lose the crew, the UN ground team, and one Hercules.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Matt. But we must wait.’

  ‘The ground team are my men,’ Bouchard said. ‘La Légion etrangère does not sacrifice its own.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were legionnaires,’ Leonard said.

  ‘But of course,’ Bouchard replied. ‘As is General de Royer.’

  Kowalski’s voice came over the SatCom. ‘The Hogs are on station,’ she told them, ‘and we’re all up and talking on the UHF. Vehicles are blocking the runway, but other than that, situation is unchanged. The bastards are holding back, afraid of the props.’

  How long before they start shooting? Pontowski thought. That will end the standoff in short order. ‘Lydia,’ he asked, ‘how long can they keep two engines idling?’

  ‘A long time,’ she answered. ‘They got lots of gas. I’ll work it out and get back to you.’

  ‘Colonel Pontowski,’ Bouchard said, catching his attention, ‘perhaps this might be a good time to discuss joint training?’ Why now? Pontowski thought, trying to read the meaning behind his words. But there was no clue in the Frenchman’s misshapen and grotesque face. ‘Let’s talk in Tango’s office,’ Pontowski said, leading the way.

  The moment the door closed, Bouchard came right to the point. ‘I have a Quick Reaction Force of a hundred men under my command. They are fully trained and can work with the C-130s.’

  ‘Are they legionnaires from the 2nd REP?’ Pontowski asked. Bouchard confirmed his guess and it all fell into place. De Royer had brought in the Foreign Legion’s 2nd Régiment Etranger Parachutiste with the peacekeepers. Now he was going to use it. ‘What do you have in mind for our first joint training exercise?’ Pontowski asked.

  An hour later, he was back in Intel, searching for more answers. ‘What’s the threat?’ he kept asking. When Intel didn’t have the answers, he asked if they had any contacts with the CIA. Again, the answer was negative. Another idea came to him and he went in search of Sam. He found her drinking coffee alone.

  ‘Sam, do you know who the CIA station chief is?’

  Chapter 11

  Saturday, January 31

  Cape Town, South Africa

  *

  It was just after midnight when Pontowski parked his car in front of the Broadway Industries Centre. The guard at the building’s entrance was expecting him and sent him up to the U.S. Consulate on the fourth floor where Richard Davis Standard was waiting. ‘What can I do for you, Colonel?’ he asked.

  At first, Pontowski thought Standard was overweight and sloppy. But something about the man caused him to reconsider. He was reminded of the sense of strength and sureness he had once seen in a tiger in a zoo. The animal had lain in its cage, looking overfed and lazy, until a teenager had set off a fire-cracker. The animal had reared and paced back and forth, its muscles rippling under a baggy skin.

  ‘Couldn’t this have waited until Monday?’ Standard asked.

  ‘Monday will be too late,’ Pontowski replied, and quickly described the situation on the ground at Van Wyksvlei.

  ‘I’m the business and economic attaché,’ Standard told him. ‘I don’t see what I can do to help.’

  ‘I think you can.’

  ‘Who gave you my name?’

  ‘A reporter,’ Pontowski answered.

  ‘Your reporter has some strange misconceptions about what I do.’ Pontowski didn’t answer. ‘Of course,’ Standard continued, ‘I do talk to different people and hear things. It is possible that you are up against the Azanian Liberation Army. So far they’ve been mostly a pain in the butt. But lately, there have been reports that OPEC is supplying them with money, arms, and mercenaries to train their army.’

  ‘So far,’ Pontowski said, ‘no shots have been fired and the C-130 crew hasn’t seen any weapons.’

  Standard paced the floor. ‘Van Wyksvlei is outside the Azanians’ normal area of operations. My best guess is that it’s a local political squabble with the Azanians trying to grab the food and supplies.’

  Pontowski knew that was all he was going to get. But knowing the threat, he could plot his tactics. ‘Thanks for the help. Sorry I had to disturb you so late.’

  Standard escorted him to the door. ‘Colonel, the next time you want to talk to me, call this number.’ He gave Pontowski a business card for Techtronics International.

  *

  Sam had collapsed on to a couch
in the COIC, her body aching with fatigue. It amazed her how Pontowski, Leonard, and Kowalski, now that she had returned from the first mission, kept on top of the operation. Not once did they take a break, constantly talking to people, conferring with each other, sorting out the aftermath of the first mission while planning for the next. She stretched and let herself slip into sleep, vaguely wondering where they found the stamina to keep going.

  Pontowski tapped her shoulder, waking her. She looked up at his touch and flushed, embarrassed that he saw her when she felt so vulnerable. He handed her a mug of steaming coffee. ‘We’re getting ready to launch the rescue mission,’ he told her. ‘I thought you might be interested.’

  She sipped at the coffee and stood up. ‘Thanks.’

  Sam walked out to the ramp and waited while two banks of portable floodlights were wheeled into position. She moved around and recorded the action, using the lights to create an eerie effect. A group of forty paratroopers materialized out of the dark and climbed the ramp of the waiting C-130.

  She recognized the last man to board, Colonel Valery Bouchard. He resembled a gargoyle from hell, burdened down with 150 pounds of equipment. The parachute gave him a humpback and a rucksack bounced underneath his chestpack emergency chute. A MAT-49 submachine gun was strapped to his right side.

  It was a strange, surrealistic scene as the engines whined and taxi lights cut through the dark and reflected off the floodlights, sending slivers of light knifing into the night. She maneuvered for position as the C-130 taxied out, followed by four A-10s.

  She walked into the COIC and saw Pontowski standing by the door leading into the command post. ‘What happens now?’ she asked.

  ‘We wait,’ he replied. She had heard that before, but this time she knew what went with it.

  *

  Saturday, January 31

  Van Wyksvlei, Northern Cape Province

  *

  Erik Beckmann crawled out of his sleeping bag, stood up and stretched. The first light of dawn was cracking the eastern horizon and he could make out the C-130 sitting on the parking apron. But the scene had changed since he went to sleep. He grabbed his binoculars and scanned the area. Only one prop on the C-130 was turning and the man sitting in the escape hatch on top of the flight deck was using a spotlight constantly to sweep the area.

  He climbed into the van and kicked the two Azanians awake. ‘How long has only one engine been running?’ he demanded.

  ‘Since midnight,’ came the answer.

  ‘And the spotlight?’

  ‘About the same time.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he shouted.

  ‘You were sleeping and it didn’t seem important.’

  A new sound drove him outside. He reached the edge of the ridge in time to see a single A-10 fly down the runway, barely clearing the trucks parked to prevent the C-130 from taking off. It pulled up to 500 feet and turned hard for another run in. He twisted around and saw a second A-10 as it dropped over the one-story buildings on the far side of the airstrip. It buzzed the ramp at twenty-five feet, crossed the runway at ninety degrees, and came directly at him. For a gut-wrenching second, he was immobilized with fear. He dropped to the ground as the big fighter pulled up and turned over his head. The sound was deafening and he covered his ears.

  The first A-10 was now crossing the ramp while the second turned in for another run. A C-130 came out of the south and headed for the field. Beckmann came to his feet, his knees still weak, and was thankful that he was not on the field. Then it came to him — they hadn’t fired a single shot or dropped a bomb. Beckmann ran to the van, yelling. ‘Order your men to open fire!’

  ‘But you said ...’

  ‘We are under attack! Fire!’ He ran back to the ridgeline in time to see jumpers streaming out of the back of the C-130. When they reached the end of their twenty-foot static lines, their parachute canopies snapped open. They swung once before landing on the area between the parking ramp and the runway, less than two hundred yards from the C-130.

  Erik Beckmann’s jaw hardened into stone. Their agent at Cape Town had promised them at least forty-eight hours of non-interference. An A-10 swept down over the ramp and pulled up as its wingman followed 2000 feet in trail. He listened for the sound of gunfire. Nothing. Then another pair of A-10s crossed at a ninety-degree angle. It was a well-orchestrated ballet meant to intimidate the Azanians and it was working.

  The parked C-130 was immediately surrounded by a ring of paratroopers as another group ran for the runway. Beckmann watched in disgust as the soldiers pushed the trucks off the runway. The Azanians had not even bothered to remove the wheels. The C-130 that had dropped the paratroopers landed and taxied in as two A-10s flew over. Now the ring of soldiers was fanning out, running for the buildings. He listened for sounds of gunfire. The only sound he heard was another A-10 orbiting the field.

  He ran to the van. ‘Why aren’t your men attacking!’

  ‘They are,’ one of the men answered. Beckmann grabbed him and dragged him out of the van, away from his radio. ‘What do’you hear?’ He pushed him to the edge of the ridge. ‘What do you see?’ The only sign of activity on the ramp was a fuel truck moving toward the C-130s. ‘They broke and ran,’ he gritted, overlooking his own initial reaction to the A-10s. He pulled out his 9mm automatic pistol and jammed it behind the Azanian’s left ear. At least there would be one casualty.

  ‘Ja baas, asseblief baas’ Yes, sir, please, sir, the Azanian begged in the only words of Afrikaans he knew.

  Slowly, Beckmann lowered his pistol and walked to the van. He ripped the door open and fired, emptying the clip at the man still inside.

  *

  Colonel Valery Bouchard stood under the wing of a C-130 and spoke into his radio. Quickly, each of his squads checked in. He dropped the handset into its holder and walked over to the small group clustered around the crew entrance to Madison’s C-130. ‘The area is secure,’ he told them. ‘They all ran away.’ He turned to his three compatriots from the Foreign Legion. ‘The cargo was ransacked but some of it is still here.’ He pointed to the buildings.

  An A-10 flew by and wagged its wings. ‘We’re in contact with Groundhog at Ysterplaat,’ Brenda Conklin called from the flight deck. ‘They want to know our intentions.’

  The senior member of the UN ground team scratched his beard. ‘We are here, the cargo is here, the area is secure. Let’s do what we came to do. We are ready for the next delivery.’

  Brenda relayed the message and listened to the reply. ‘Groundhog says to standby,’ she called.

  *

  Saturday, January 31

  Ysterplaat Air Base, Cape Town

  *

  The news that the crew and the C-130 were safe had swept the COIC like wildfire and the hall had reverberated to calls of ‘Yes!’ and ‘Right on!’ and a less appropriate ‘Shit hot!’ Sam smiled, and packed up her gear. She was tired and wanted a hot bath. But before she could leave, Elena Martine and the Minister of Defense, Joe Pendulo, rushed into the building and demanded to see Pontowski. Things are getting interesting, Sam decided as they disappeared into the command post.

  Pendulo dusted off a chair in the command post and sat down. He crossed his legs and fixed Pontowski with a strange look. ‘You have embarrassed my government,’ he said.

  ‘Now how did I manage to do that?’ he asked.

  Pendulo did not miss the sarcasm. ‘My government is responsible for ensuring the safety of all its citizens.’

  ‘No one in your government responded,’ Pontowski told him.

  Pendulo ignored him. ‘You also acted without my approval. Technically, you committed an act of war against my country.’

  ‘I must protest, Mr Minister,’ Elena said. ‘No act of war ...’

  ‘I don’t mind repeating myself,’ Pendulo interrupted. ‘An act of war was committed.’

  ‘No shots were fired,’ a cold, flat voice said from behind them. It was de Royer. He was standing in the doorway, his head almost t
ouching the lintel. Where did he come from? Pontowski thought. And I didn’t know he spoke English.

  ‘The airdrop was a training mission and no one was injured,’ the general said as he dismembered Pendulo with a visual scalpel. De Royer’s English was flat with no traces of an accent.

  Pendulo looked puzzled. ‘A training mission?’

  ‘Training is a routine part of our operations,’ de Royer said. The two men stared at each other. It was a contest of wills that Pendulo had to win.

  ‘Return all your people here,’ he ordered. ‘We will inspect your aircraft and equipment to verify that no ammunition was fired. In the meantime, you will fly my Inspector General to Van Wyksvlei to verify that no one was injured. We will discuss the matter of UN safe zones later.’ He strutted out of the command post with Elena right behind him.

  ‘Order everyone out of Van Wyksvlei,’ de Royer said.

  ‘I think,’ Pontowski said, ‘that the jaws of defeat just had victory for lunch.’

  *

  It was late Saturday night when the last of Pendulo’s inspectors left the base. Sam had tried to record them at work, but they had ordered her to turn off her camera. ‘Why are they so touchy?’ she asked Pontowski.

  ‘Because they haven’t got a clue what they’re doing,’ he answered.

  ‘Did they find anything?’

  He shook his head. ‘We showed them that the ammo drums on the Hogs were full and none of them wanted to get within ten feet of Bouchard. The inspectors Pendulo sent to Van Wyksvlei didn’t know the UN had pulled out. They wouldn’t get off the airplane, much less go into town.’ He walked outside and looked across the ramp. ‘Damn,’ he muttered. ‘All that for nothing.’

  It was a moment she wanted to capture and she regretted not having her camera. In the half light, Pontowski looked much older, aged by fatigue and responsibility. He had slept three or four hours in the last sixty and she knew he was exhausted and bitterly disappointed. The UN had been on the verge of accomplishing something good, but it had been taken away from them by the politicians. Yet, she was just as certain he would try again. ‘Good night,’ he told her, before turning and heading for his quarters.