The Last Phoenix (10 page)

“The following scenes,” Gordon was saying, “document graphic brutality and definitely should not be seen by children or those upset by violence.”

“Which guarantees everyone will watch,” Pontowski muttered.

Maggot couldn’t resist the chance to rag his old commander. “But I thought you really liked her.”

“Yeah, right,” Pontowski said.

Gordon’s voice was louder. “Again, I must warn you not to watch if children are present or if you are upset by violence. The videotape you are about to see was recorded from Baghdad TV earlier this morning. We have superimposed an English translation over the narrator’s voice.”

The scene in the news studio dissolved to one of tanks driving across an open desert, their cannons firing on the move. The excited narrator’s voice speaking in Arabic faded out and was replaced by a matter-of-fact voice speaking English. “This is not the mother of all battles but the mother of all victories. Our forces are sweeping with deadly force through the ranks of the demoralized and worthless American soldiers.”

“Now, that’s impressive,” Maggot said. “T-72s shooting on the move. Never saw that before.” He had killed fourteen tanks in the 1991 Persian Gulf War, and it was common knowledge that the Russian-built T-72 had to stop in order to fire its cannon with any degree of accuracy.

“Publicity,” Pontowski replied. “Stock footage.”

The scene changed to one of soldiers charging fearlessly across the desert and jumping into trenches. “Our brave soldiers quickly overran the cowardly Americans, who could not surrender fast enough.”

“Looks like training trenches to me,” Maggot said.

The scene changed to real footage from the field, and Maggot fell silent. An armored personnel carrier was churning across the desert floor dragging a long rope with a bundle at the far end kicking up a cloud of dust. The APC slammed to a stop, and the camera zoomed in on the bundle as the dust settled. It was an American soldier. An Iraqi soldier ran up, cut the rope, and kicked the lifeless body. But the American was not dead and raised a hand in supplication. The soldier kicked him in the head and motioned at the
APC. The driver gunned the engine and spun the APC around, pivoting the vehicle over the American and grinding him into the gravel before stopping. The camera panned to laughing soldiers dragging two more American soldiers out of the APC. They held one upright and propped him against the side of the APC. A man ran at the prisoner with a fixed bayonet. The American grabbed the bayonet with his bare hands but couldn’t stop the soldier from driving it into his abdomen. The soldier twisted the rifle until the man fell to the ground. The Iraqi leaned on the rifle butt, driving the bayonet completely through the American’s body.

The camera focused on the last soldier, a woman. Rough hands tore away the top of her fatigues, exposing her bra. A knife flashed, and her bra was cut away. Two soldiers grabbed her arms and twisted them out, behind her back, as they forced her to a kneeling position. Another soldier grabbed her hair and pulled her head straight forward as a man advanced holding a ceremonial sword. The scene suddenly went blank as he raised the sword above her neck. The waving flag of the UIF filled the screen. “Thus Americans receive justice,” the translator said, his voice flat and unemotional.

Pontowski’s hand was a blur as he hit the power button to the TV. “Son of a bitch,” he growled.

“Why did they show that?” Maggot asked, his voice shaking.

“In a word,” Pontowski said, “ratings.”

“I mean the Iraqis,” Maggot said.

Pontowski shook his head and reached for the direct line to the Flight Service Center. “Cancel the flight plan for Mentor 4315. I’m refiling for Washington, D.C.”

He was airborne and over St. Louis when the call from Patrick Flannery Shaw was patched through.

Palau Tenang

Wednesday, September 8

Sweat streaked the faces and fatigues of the officers waiting in the hardened bunker that served as the 1st SOS’s command post. A lone fan in the doorway stirred the air and moved it toward the opened emergency escape hatch in the rear wall. Kamigami entered and spoke in Chinese: “Please be seated.” Although it was early in the morning, he estimated the temperature at ninety degrees and rising. “I know this is uncomfortable. Bunkers in the field are. They also make good targets. From now on, everything we do, all our training, is based on the assumption we are in the field on operations. We will train as we plan to fight. Our motto is ‘Mobility is life.’ For you who don’t understand that, remember three words”—he switched to English—“shoot and scoot.”

Kamigami waited while his staff talked among themselves, deciding what “shoot and scoot” meant. He knew how the Chinese mind worked, and it would take some reinforcing on his part. But he accepted that. “Our first exercise is to create a mobile command post in the field and establish contact with Headquarters Central in Singapore. You have four hours, gentlemen. At that time I expect the new command post to be up and operating.” He spun around and walked out. “I’ll be with Tiger Red,” he called over his shoulder.

Tel followed him outside. “What now?”

“We’re leading Tiger Red on the morning run,” Kamigami said.

“Oh, no,” Tel said, mostly to himself.

“Is that a problem?”

“Those guys are charged up after yesterday.”

“That’s the idea.”

Two hours later Kamigami led Tiger Red back into the camp. The men were all bunched together and jogging in lockstep, more than willing to run over Kamigami should he stumble and fall. First, Second, and Fourth Squadrons were
right behind them, threatening to do the same. “How many have dropped out?” Kamigami asked Tel.

“Three,” came the answer. “I think.”

“Find out,” Kamigami ordered. “I want them all off the island by sundown.” He turned to the four squadron commanders. “Dismiss your men for breakfast.”

Colonel Sun Dan was waiting and escorted him into the brush, leading him to their new command post. They trudged along the base of one of the low ridges that radiated out from the center of the island. Sun pushed aside some heavy foliage and motioned Kamigami toward a group of canvas-covered shelters hidden below the crest of the ridge. “We established contact with Headquarters Central an hour ago,” Sun announced, “and received our first message.” Sun checked his watch. “Mr. Deng Shikai is arriving by helicopter in twenty-four minutes.”

“Gus coming back so soon?” Kamigami mused. “I must have pissed someone off.”

“Two of the men who fell out yesterday and who you ordered to leave are from very prominent families. Very well connected politically.”

Kamigami shrugged. “Too bad they couldn’t hack it. Well, let’s go meet the gentleman.” They walked in silence back to the helipad. Kamigami understood too well how the Chinese did business and fully expected to be on the helicopter when it left. He waited patiently until he heard the familiar beat of rotors. Then he snapped to attention as the aircraft came into view and landed.

Gus was off the helicopter before the blades had stopped turning. “We need to talk,” he said.

“Alone?” Kamigami asked.

“It would be better if Colonel Sun and your staff were there.”

So it’s going to be a public humiliation,
Kamigami thought. He led the way into the brush and to the new command post. It started to rain, and they took shelter under the canvas of the largest shelter. Colonel Sun called for the staff to squeeze in around them.

Gus came right to the point. “I have just received word of unusual activity around the Chinese base camp in Malaysia’s National Park.”

Kamigami caught the surprised look on Sun’s face. The colonel obviously had not been told about the Chinese presence in the Taman Negara. Kamigami fingered the gold whistle hanging from his neck as he related what he and Tel had discovered after their kampong was destroyed. His soft voice hardened into granite as he spoke, and Tel recoiled at the rage he sensed was lurking below the surface. He gave a silent prayer of thanks that he would never have to face Kamigami in combat.

Sun didn’t hear the fury in Kamigami’s voice, but he understood the implications for Singapore. “So we have a real threat on our doorstep,” he said when Kamigami finished. “We could have been training for this.” Gus didn’t answer. “I assume you are here for a reason,” Sun said.

“I want you to find out what they’re doing,” Gus said.

Sun stared at him in disbelief. “We’ll need time to prepare.” Like most commanders, Sun was hesitant to commit his men to a new operation on short notice. “Don’t the Americans have satellite coverage?”

“I have asked the Americans, but all their so-called resources are committed to the Middle East. They aren’t willing to reposition a satellite at this time. Time is the one thing we don’t have right now.” His voice was as cold and flat as the look in his eyes. “I take it your men are not ready?”

Before Sun could answer, Kamigami coughed for their attention. “If this is reconnaissance only, I’ll take four teams in. Colonel Sun, you know the men better than I do, so please select the teams, eight men each.” He couldn’t read Sun’s reaction.

The officers and senior NCOs were busily making notes as Kamigami stood over a chart table and recapped what he wanted done in his absence. “Drive everyone hard.” He placed his hands flat on the table and leaned on his arms, his head bowed. “The First is too large. We need to weed out the
weak links. You must be merciless. Better now, in training, than in the real event. In your training stress small-unit mobility with mutual support. When I return, I want to see a live-fire exercise attacking and destroying a hardened target.”

“We’ll need to build the target first,” Sun said.

“I was thinking of your old command bunker,” Kamigami said. He rolled up his chart. “I should be back in two weeks. I want to see progress.”

Sun’s wicked grin was back. “Indeed you will, sir.”

Washington, D.C.

Wednesday, September 8

It was after midnight when the taxi stopped at the intersection of Connecticut Avenue and K Street, two blocks short of the Old Executive Office Building. “Sorry, General,” the driver told Pontowski. “This is as close as I can get.” Like many denizens of the Imperial City, he recognized Pontowski. He flicked on the dome light to calculate the fare. “I voted for your grandfather,” he said. “Best president we ever had. He’d know what to do with those fuckin’ Aye-rabs messin’ with us.”

“I imagine President Turner has a good idea what to do,” Pontowski replied. He handed over the fare and included a two-dollar tip. “We’ve got a lot of friends and allies in the Middle East who are depending on us,” he added.

The driver relented a little. “Yeah, I know. But we only hear from them when they raise oil prices or someone is kickin’ their asses.”

Pontowski got out of the cab and headed for the first security checkpoint, located a good block from Pennsylvania Avenue. Ahead of him, and despite the late hour, the old office building was lit up like a gingerbread monstrosity. Across the street he could see the White House, also fully lit. He stopped at the checkpoint to identify himself. The police officer rec
ognized him but still checked his ID before calling for an escort. “Be careful, General,” the officer warned. “We stopped a car bomber just after dark near the airport…an illegal immigrant who’s lived here since 1980.”

A uniformed Secret Service agent arrived and escorted Pontowski inside.
It still looks the same,
he thought, remembering the last time he had been in the building, eight years before.
We were putting the AVG together then.
The elevator stopped at the third floor, and the doors swooshed open. The highly polished black-and-white marble floor stretched out in front of him. “Just like old times,” he told his escort. They walked down the hall to the national security adviser’s corner office overlooking the White House.

Mazie was waiting for him. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

“Why all the secrecy?” he asked.

She glanced at his escort and didn’t answer. He got the message—the reason for his summons from Patrick Flannery Shaw would have to wait. Mazie gathered up her briefcase and headed out the door with a brisk “Come.” They took another elevator to the basement and went through a series of checkpoints as they walked the tunnel leading to the White House.

“Okay, what’s going down?” he asked.

Mazie glanced at the people around them. “Personal problems,” she said in a low voice. When they reached the basement of the West Wing, she turned into the Situation Room.

Shaw was waiting for them. A relieved look spread across his face. “You need an update before we see the president.” He motioned at the duty officer sitting at a workstation against the sidewall. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he called up a situation map on the big monitor. “King Khalid Military City fell three hours ago,” Shaw said, “and we’re falling back toward Riyadh.”

Pontowski studied the map for a moment. “It’s bad,” he said. “But it could be worse.”

“How?” Mazie asked.

“They haven’t broken out or flanked us. Our line is intact,
and given the slowness of their advance, I suspect they’re paying a heavy price.”

Shaw made a decision. “You need to talk to the president. Now.” Pontowski blinked at the worried tone in his voice. Was Shaw, Washington’s political wizard, losing it under the pressure of war? Shaw turned to the duty officer. “Call for an escort.” Pontowski arched an eyebrow at the tight security. “You haven’t heard,” Shaw said. “The FBI rolled up four terrorist groups in D.C. yesterday. Deep sleepers.”

“The way a poor man fights a war,” Pontowski said.

Shaw snorted. “One group had five canisters of sarin nerve gas and detailed maps of the subway system.” He paused. “And of the White House.” Their escort led them to the elevator, and it was obvious neither Shaw nor Mazie was going to talk about the reason for his summons within earshot of another person. They rode the elevator in silence to the second floor. A Secret Service agent checked Mazie’s briefcase and ran a wand over all of them before allowing them to proceed. Pontowski counted five Secret Service agents along with two armed Marines and a Navy lieutenant commander who was sitting in the hall. As expected, the Navy officer had the football, the soft leather briefcase containing the nuclear launch codes, chained to his wrist. There was no doubt that the White House was an armed camp. “Are you ready?” Mazie asked. Pontowski steeled himself, fully expecting to find a devastated president, perhaps on the edge of collapse.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Madeline Turner was pacing the floor in front of the fireplace like a caged tiger. Her chief of staff, Richard Parrish, Vice President Sam Kennett, and the secretary of defense, Robert Merritt, had all taken defensive positions well away from her line of fire. She moved with a quick, feline grace as she turned to Pontowski. Her brown eyes were clear and flashed with determination. “Matt, what brings you here?”

Before he could answer, Shaw said, “I asked him.”

She whirled on Shaw, and they stared at each other, some form of unspoken communication between them. A little of the fire seemed to drain from her. She crossed her arms and
hugged herself as she turned, focusing on the fireplace. “Did you see how they executed those three prisoners?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “And they had the audacity to show it on TV! Not to mention a car bomber headed directly for Reagan International. And sarin! Right here! They were going to use it on innocent people! I won’t have it! I simply won’t have it!”

“Madam President,” Kennett said, “a nuclear response is not appropriate at this time.”

Pontowski was stunned, and he stood there, not sure what to think, much less say. Silence held the room as the president resumed her pacing. Then he saw it. She was venting her anger and frustration—but she was in total control. “Madam President,” Pontowski ventured, testing the waters, “if we start creating parking lots in the Middle East, who knows what the terrorists here will do.”

“And just what can they do?”

“Detonate a nuke.” He paused to let it sink in. “The FBI needs time to roll them up. Give it to them.”

Mazie sensed rather than saw a slight change in the president’s mood and shot Shaw a look. “Mrs. President,” Shaw said, “we all need a short break.” On cue, her advisers stood and filed out, leaving Pontowski and the president alone. Mazie was the last out and closed the door behind her.

Maddy turned to face him. “Oh, Matt, it was terrible. Thank God our media edited the tape. But I saw it all. The Iraqis actually showed the beheading on TV.”

Now Pontowski understood. “It was meant to be horrible,” he told her.

“But why? They were prisoners.”

“From their point of view it made sense. Remember all the coverage of Iraqi soldiers surrendering in the Gulf War? This was payback and geared to inspire their soldiers.”

She was incredulous. “Inspire?”

“That’s the way they think. Also, they wanted to intimidate us.”

Her back grew rigid. “Well, they thought wrong!”

“By our standards they’re not rational.”

“Rational or not, if—”

He interrupted her. “We hit them with our strength and they hit us where we’re vulnerable. It’s called asymmetrical warfare.”

She glared at him. “I will respond with force. They must know that.”

“They fully expect you will. But they’re betting you won’t go nuclear.”

“Why?”

“We’d pay too high a price with our allies and world opinion.” He paused. “Are you willing to create a nuclear Armageddon, level three nations, maybe destroy Israel in the process, in retaliation for a few thousand American deaths?”

She looked at him, and every bit of her humanity was on full display. Of all things, Madeline O’Keith Turner was not prepared to be a wartime president and had never steeled herself for the reality of what it entailed. Despite that, she stood in front of him alone and defiant, not about to collapse, not needing comfort or a refuge.

Pontowski gave a little humph. “I could use a drink.” She stared at him, not believing he’d said that. “Coffee.” She shook her head, her mood broken, and buzzed the steward. The steward carried in a tray and quickly retreated. Pontowski poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her. She took a sip and sat down while he poured one for himself. “After you’ve heard all the options, set clear objectives for the military, but don’t—”

She interrupted. “But don’t micromanage operations. I’ve been through that with General Wilding.”

“You can trust Wilding. Merritt I don’t know about. But you’ve also got to give Wilding the means to win the war. Big emphasis on ‘win’ here. That’s where Congress comes in. I assume you’re talking to them.”

Her head came up. “Congress starts consideration on a bill funding the war tomorrow.”

“With Senator Leland leading the opposition,” Pontowski added.

“He’s so damn partisan,” she said. “Patrick says he’d do
anything to see his boy Grau win in November.” She gave a little shudder. “I need to put him in a box.”

“Show Congress the unedited TV tape of the execution. Take the high ground and turn it into a Pearl Harbor or World Trade Center.”

“But what if the parents or spouses see it? You know there is at least one bastard who will leak it. I don’t know if I can do that.”

“You’ve got to beat the average congressmen over the head to get them focused,” he told her. “How often do they quit playing politics and do the right thing?”

“Not often,” she said. “You mentioned options and objectives. Mazie and the ExCom are doing a good job with that.”

Pontowski gave a little shake of his head. “Mazie will do whatever you ask and is totally reliable. But she’s so rational and loyal that she may not be able to consider the unthinkable, which is exactly what you need to know. You’ve got this big bureaucracy at your beck and call, which has a lot of talent and brains. Make it work for you. Call your advisers in and tell them you want six options, with consequences, about how to conduct the war. Two that are the easiest; two that make the most sense, given the players and means available; and two that are totally out of the box.”

“What do I do if they detonate a nuclear weapon?”

“You want six more options. Now. Before it happens.”

She set down her coffee cup and stood. “Where did you learn all this?”

“I had a good teacher.”

“Your grandfather.”

“Well, he did have a clue.”

Maddy walked to the door to call in her advisers. “Matt, thank you for coming, but…”

He gave a little smile. “I know. You’ve got a war to run, and you don’t need me around to complicate things with the media.”

“It won’t always be this way,” she promised. She reached out and touched his cheek.

He touched her hand. “Better not.” Then he was gone. The president stared at the open door as her advisers filed in again.

Outside, Bernie Butler escorted Pontowski back to the Situation Room. “Matt, you were in Israel the last time the Israelis and Arabs went at each other. I’m worried the Israelis might get involved. If you’ve got some time, would you mind taking a more detailed look at the situation?”

“Can do,” Pontowski said, a little too eagerly. It had been a long time since he’d had access to current intelligence. He gave Butler a sideways look. “What are the Boys telling you?”

“They don’t like all the signals they’re seeing. But nothing concrete.”

“I’ll take a look,” Pontowski told him. Butler cleared him into the Situation Room, and the duty officer called up the current intelligence summary for the Middle East. While Pontowski read, Butler waited patiently and soon dozed off. He hadn’t slept in over thirty hours. When Pontowski finished with the Middle East, he glanced at Butler, saw that he was asleep, and decided to go fishing.
What the hell? They can only say no.
He asked to see the summary for Russia. Since Pontowski had been in before with Shaw and the national security adviser, the duty officer simply gave it to him. There was nothing of interest, although the Russian economy was showing signs of growing stability. “Latin America.” Again the screen scrolled with the latest intelligence summaries. The drug lords were effectively consolidating their political power. “China,” he said. The duty officer pulled up the most current summary for him to read. Something started to scratch at the back of his mind, but nothing came into focus. He rapidly scanned India and Pakistan. But the itch refused to go away. “Southeast Asia,” he said, about ready to give it up. The screen scrolled, and again he read. “What the hell is this?” he said, reading a report about recent disturbances in eastern Malaysia.

Butler came awake, and Pontowski pointed to the report. Butler’s eyebrows furled into a worry line as he read. “We’re seeing conflicts like this everywhere. At last count forty-four this year alone have reached the level of what we class
as ethnic war.” He changed the subject. “So what’s your take on the Middle East? Do you think Israel is coming in?”

“Not at this time,” Pontowski replied. “But I keep wondering why the UIF aired that tape on TV. It’s almost like they wanted us to see it and overreact.”

Butler shook his head. “They don’t think like we do.”

New Mexico Military Institute

Wednesday, September 8

Brian Turner rolled over in his bunk, which was built into the overhead above his desk, and looked directly into his best friend’s face. “Sumbitch,” he muttered, turning back over, not wanting any trouble from one of New Mexico Military Institute’s TLAs, or training and leadership advisers.

“Get your lazy ass moving,” Zack Pontowski said in a low voice.

“Don’t need ten more D’s for missing a bed check,” Brian mumbled. A D was a demerit, and each one meant he was restricted to post until he walked off a fifty-minute punishment tour. “Go back to bed. Wait for reveille.”

Zack ripped the blankets away. “It’s on TV,” he said. “Live coverage.” Zack had no trouble dragging him out and depositing him on his feet. “You don’t want to miss this,” he promised.