The Last Phoenix (14 page)

“It’s quite simple,” Serick answered. “We send a high-ranking and prominent officer to head the MAAG.”

“Who do you suggest?” Turner asked.

Mazie glanced at the president and took her cue. “Matt Pontowski.”

Butler gave a little cough, gaining their attention. “Matt’s not really an administrator. He’s more operationally oriented
and at his best in command of a combat unit. I doubt if he’ll be interested in a MAAG.”

“So what do you suggest?” Mazie replied.

“Sweeten the offer. Say, reactivate the AVG?”

The DCI was shouting. “The American Volunteer Group? Not necessary!”

As one, six heads turned to the president. “I’ll ask him,” she said.

A uniformed Secret Service agent escorted Pontowski down the long corridor to the national security adviser’s office in the Old Executive Office Building. The number of guards was mute testimony to the increase in security. The agent held the door and stepped back, allowing Pontowski to enter. Butler was waiting inside. “I should have known,” Pontowski said.

“My apologies,” Butler said. “I handled it wrong. Mazie will fill you in.” He led the way into Mazie’s office. “I don’t believe you’ve met General Wilding,” Butler said, making the introductions. “And this is Colonel Prouder.” An Air Force colonel stood. “Colonel Prouder is from Checkmate.” Checkmate was a shadowy organization in the Pentagon that hovered in the background, always present when trouble reared its ugly head. Originally Checkmate was formed to integrate intelligence, threat assessments, targeting, and weapons capabilities into effective air campaigns. But in the international chaos following the demise of the Soviet Union, it had grown into much more.

“I didn’t know you were involved with Checkmate,” Pontowski said.

“Since its inception,” Butler replied.

“When you wake up in the morning,” Pontowski asked, “do you know who you work for?”

“He knows,” Mazie said. “Matt, the situation in Malaysia has the potential to escalate into a full-fledged civil war that could threaten the stability of the entire region. Fortunately, our allies in the region are aware of the danger and responding. SEATO has activated SEAC, South East Asia Command, and formed a unified command. But they need help.”

“So why am I here?” Pontowski muttered.

“We want you to head up the MAAG in Singapore,” Mazie explained.

Wilding handed Pontowski the folder he was carrying. “Here’s what we can offer SEAC.” He sat back and folded his hands, waiting for the inevitable reaction. It wasn’t long in coming.

Pontowski scanned the document and shook his head. “They can do better at a war-surplus store.”

“Between the war on terrorism and the Gulf,” Wilding explained, “we’re maxed out.”

“Obviously,” Pontowski shot back. “So where am I to get the means to make a difference?” There was no answer. “This,” Pontowski grumbled, “is turning into the proverbial goat rope. Get honest with me, folks. Earlier you tell me that the Chinese are lusting after Singapore and the Strait. Now you tell me that SEAC can handle it but they just need a little help, which we can’t really provide but are going to do anyway. So what’s it really going to take to do the job?”

Butler said, “That’s why Colonel Prouder is here.”

“We’ve run it through Checkmate’s computers,” Prouder began.

Pontowski interrupted him. “The dreaded threat-and-capability analysis?”

Butler heard the sarcasm in his voice. “It does work,” he said.

“Like in the Gulf?” Pontowski asked.

Prouder folded his hands and looked at General Wilding—an obvious challenge. Wilding did the mental equivalent of biting the bullet and said, “One of the Middle East threat scenarios Checkmate produced bordered on the prophetic.”

“Then why were we blindsided?” Pontowski demanded.

“Because Secretary of Defense Merritt,” Wilding said, “refused to forward it. It stayed in-house.”

Pontowski shook his head in disgust. “Politics.”

“You will notice,” Mazie said, “that Merritt is not here.”

“So what does your threat-and-capability analysis tell you about Malaysia?” Pontowski asked.

“SEAC needs tactical air support,” Prouder replied.

“Why do I feel like a virgin being led down the primrose path?” Pontowski asked.

“This is not a hostage force,” Mazie assured him. “In addition to serving as the head of the MAAG, we want you to reactivate the American Volunteer Group. If you can find the pilots, we can provide twenty A-10s.”

Suddenly Pontowski was more alive than he’d been in over a year. “Where are the Hogs coming from?”

“Don’t ask,” Wilding replied.

Palau Tenang

Monday, September 13

It was the little things that impressed Kamigami as he walked through the compound with Colonel Sun—the way the men talked quietly among themselves, the slight changes in equipment that stressed function over spit and polish, a lean and hungry look, and even the occasional can of Skoal chewing tobacco. “A big change in six days,” he said.

“It was always there,” Colonel Sun replied. “We only had to let it come out.” Sun pulled into himself for a moment, trying to give meaning to what had happened. “It seemed the more we cut our size, the more we…” He paused, searching for the right words.

“The more you became focused,” Kamigami said. “It’s all about battle discipline. What made the difference?”

“The swim,” Sun replied. “When Tel was in training, he told about the time you and he had to swim ashore. Did you know he was afraid of the water and could hardly swim before then?” Kamigami looked at the colonel in surprise. “So,” Sun continued, “I decided it was time we went for a swim. All of us. Four kilometers. Two men drowned, and we think a shark got another. The next day forty-two men resigned. But not the men I expected to quit. In fact, many were the ones I was counting on. I was worried what it
would do to morale, but didn’t have a choice. The change was almost immediate, as if some major obstacle had been removed.”

“It’s often like that,” Kamigami said quietly.

Sun nodded. “After that it was easy. I reorganized into two squadrons—Tiger Red and Dragon Gold. Sixty men each.”

“So that explains the gold berets,” Kamigami murmured. “But are they good?”

Sun nodded. “The best.”

“You sound convinced.”

“I trained them. I’d bet my life on it.”

“You may have to,” Kamigami said. He gave Sun a sideways look. The short, wiry colonel seemed taller than before. “What about the command post?”

“We’re not going to blow it up,” Sun answered. He waited for Kamigami’s reaction as they stood in the morning sun. But Kamigami said nothing. “We’re using it for training.”

Tel emerged from the brush where the temporary command post was located, and joined them. “From Gus,” he said. He handed over a message and waited while Kamigami read it. Acting on a tip, the police had arrested eight Chinese men at Changi Airport before they could board an Air China flight to Hong Kong. All were members of the PLA and suspected of being involved with the nerve-gas attacks in Kuala Lumpur.

“No doubt,” Kamigami said, handing the message back, “the tip was from Gus.”

He turned to Sun. “I’d like to see a training exercise.”

Sun’s wicked grin was back. “My pleasure.” He spun around and walked away without saluting. He beckoned for the two remaining squadron commanders to join him and issued quiet orders. He was back in less than two minutes. “This will be a live-fire hostage exercise.” Kamigami arched an eyebrow in surprise. Live-fire exercises were iffy at best, and to use live ammunition in a confined space was asking for trouble. “Our best team will do the demonstration,” Sun explained. “They’ve done this many times before.” The four men detailed for the exercise joined them. Each was
equipped differently, but all carried a Heckler & Koch MP5 with a silencer and thirty-round clip. Sun knelt and drew a sketch of the command post in the hard dirt as he reviewed the rules of engagement. “This will be a live-fire exercise with dummies. Reliable sources report there may be two terrorists, maybe more, holding a single hostage inside. Your assignment is to extract the hostage unharmed and kill the terrorists. I’ll place the dummies, and you go in five minutes. Any questions?” There were none. Sun nodded and disappeared inside as the men took their places outside the main entrance.

Exactly five minutes later the four men slipped through the main entrance in order: low man, high man, cover, and backup. Kamigami and the two squadron commanders followed at a safe distance. The men moved without making a sound, and the fourth man moved backward, covering their rear, relying on the third man to warn him of any obstacles. At the first door they stacked against the wall, boot touching boot. The leader sent a signal down the line by reaching back and touching the arm of the man behind him. When the backup man was in place and the rear clear, he sent a signal up the line by touching the thigh of the man in front of him. The leader knelt and held a listening probe against the door, listening for the sounds of breathing. Satisfied that the room was empty, he gave a signal and they moved quickly, keying off boot movement. The low man threw open the door and buttonhooked around to the left, while the high man went through at an oblique angle, clearing the room.

Within seconds they were out, and the team flowed down the half-lit corridor, repeating the drill at the second room. At the third door the leader listened and held up a finger, then two, finally three. Three people were in the room. He pointed to the left, the middle, then the right side of the room, signaling where he thought the sounds were coming from. He stowed the listening probe and removed his headset. Again his hands flashed, signing his intentions. He crossed to the other side of the inward-opening door, next to the latch, and readied a concussion grenade commonly
called a flash-bang. The second man reached for the door latch and, on signal, tested it. In one quick, smooth motion he cracked the door open. The leader threw in the flash-bang, and the second man slammed the door shut. A bright light flashed through the cracks around the door, and a loud bang echoed from inside.

The leader threw the door open, and the second man burst through at an angle. The leader followed him at a cross angle. Both fired in short bursts as they entered. There was no deafening clatter of submachine-gun fire but only a popping sound mixed with the clatter of bolt actions and spent cartridges hitting the floor. The stun grenade had blown out the lightbulbs, and they were firing in almost total darkness. Then it was silent, and the third man, who was now crouched beside the door, directed the beam of his flashlight into the room, making sure he was shielded from any return fire a terrorist might send his way. “All clear,” Colonel Sun said from inside.

“What the—” Kamigami muttered. He pushed into the room with two majors close behind. Three dummies were lying on the floor, their upper torsos shattered by gunfire. It was a mute tribute to the accuracy of the two shooters and the horrible efficiency of the MP5 at close range. But instead of a dummy in the chair, Sun was sitting there, a rope looped around his body to make him look like a hostage.

“Good shooting,” Sun said.

Kamigami allowed a rare excursion into profanity. “Damn, Colonel. You could’ve been killed.”

“I told you they were the best,” Sun replied, “and I am willing to bet my life on them.”

The first shooter sank to the floor on one knee, shaking slightly. “I didn’t expect to find a live person in here.” His voice cracked with emotion.

“What did you expect to find?” Sun demanded.

The second shooter blurted an answer. “We expected to find terrorists who we were to service.”

Kamigami’s words were barely audible. “Does that mean kill them?”

The first shooter stood up, still struggling to control his emotions. “Yes, sir. Two bullets in each head.”

“And are there?” Sun shot back.

Kamigami examined the three mannequins. “There are,” he said. “Very good.” It was a rare compliment, and the men knew it. Kamigami paused for a moment. “Outside.” He led the way out of the building, to where Tel was waiting. “Please show Colonel Sun the message,” he said. Tel extracted the message from a shirt pocket and handed it over.

A slight flexing of Sun’s fingers betrayed what he was thinking as he read the message. Then he read it a second time. “Eight ‘terrorists’ in custody. Most interesting.”

“What do you think we should do about it?” Kamigami asked.

“Interview them,” Sun said.

“My thoughts exactly.” Kamigami suppressed a smile. Without doubt, Sun was the commander he needed.

The White House

Monday, September 13

Shaw stood in the doorway of the Green Room as the reporters took their seats for the Monday-morning press conference in the East Room. Normally they reminded him of a flock of magpies, talking and jabbering among themselves. But this time they sat quietly and studied their notes. “They’re loaded for bear,” he told Pontowski. “You just tag along behind the others and stand against the wall. I imagine them id-jits will figure you’re here for a reason, and that may distract them. The president wants you to say a few words when she announces your appointment. Keep it brief. The fewer words the better.” A voice spoke in his earphone telling him the president was ready. “Okay, you’re on,” he told the small group standing behind him.

Vice President Kennett led Serick and Merritt, along with General Wilding, out the door. Pontowski fell in behind and, as Shaw had directed, stood against the wall. In unison, the
three TV cameras panned around to him but immediately swung back to focus on Madeline Turner as she walked down the main hall toward the East Room. As always, she entered alone, holding a slim leather folder in the crook of her left arm. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the press secretary intoned, “the President of the United States.” Everyone stood, and an eerie silence descended over the room.

Turner stepped up to the podium and opened the folder as the reporters shuffled back into their seats. “I want to thank you all for being so patient. I hope we can meet more frequently after this. Before I answer your questions, I do have an announcement. Central Command reports they have halted the enemy’s advance on a line approximately one hundred miles north of the Saudi capital of Riyadh. For now the fighting has all but stopped, and we have suffered only three wounded in the last twenty-four hours. How long this will last, I can’t say. But if I may quote a former president, ‘This aggression will not stand.’”

She lifted her head and looked directly into the cameras. “We have paid a horrendous price, and eighteen hundred and two of our valiant soldiers have given their lives in the cause of peace. We will not forget their sacrifice.” She nodded in the direction of the dean of the press corps.

“Madam President,” he asked, “it appears we are stalemated. Is this turning into a ‘phony war,’ and what happened to our European allies?”

“There is nothing ‘phony’ about this war, and we will go on the offensive. But it’s not going to happen in the next few days. When it does, the issue will not be in doubt. As to our allies, you are all aware that the debate in the United Nations has stagnated. But England is sending three squadrons of fighters and two regiments. They should be in place within a few days.”

Shaw retreated into the Green Room and stood in front of a bank of TVs watching the coverage. He listened carefully as Turner answered question after question, never once losing her way. When one reporter asked if it wasn’t all about oil, she fixed him with a steely look and cut him dead. “Only from their perspective.”

“Well done, Madam President,” Shaw said. He licked his lips in anticipation of what was coming. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Madam President,” the reporter from
Japan News
asked, “how serious are the riots and killings sweeping through Kuala Lumpur?”

“We view it as a very serious problem, but from all reports the authorities are gaining control. SEATO has asked for our help, and we are responding accordingly. To that end I am strengthening the presence of our Military Assistance Advisory Group in the area. Brigadier General Matthew Pontowski has agreed to head the mission.” She turned to Pontowski and gestured for him to come forward. The TV cameras zoomed in as he stepped to the podium. “General Pontowski,” Turner said, “has commanded advisory groups in the past in Asia and South Africa.” She stepped aside for him to speak.

“Thank you, Madam President. I do appreciate your trust in me and hope we can achieve what has been done in the past, namely, to help our allies so they can help themselves.” He stepped back.

In the Green Room, Shaw shook his head in admiration. “And I thought I knew how to spin it.”

“Madam President,” Liz Gordon from CNC-TV called. “Earlier today Senator Leland said our allies are not supporting the war in Saudi Arabia because of your leadership.”

Turner never missed a beat. “I hadn’t heard that. I have talked to Senator Leland, and we have disagreed on the conduct of the war. I can tell you this: I have set the broad objectives and trust our men and women in uniform to achieve them. Our military goal is simple—we will stop this aggression and drive the invaders back. We will hold them accountable in a way that is fair to those they have hurt and, yes, even to their own people. Of course, the good senator is entitled to his opinion, but I do hope he will work with us in a constructive way.”

In the Green Room, Shaw’s eyes narrowed into tight slits. “Leland, you make a damn good case for retroactive abortion.” He exhaled deeply. “Learn from the past or get bit in the ass.”

Jurong Camp, Singapore

Tuesday, September 14

“This way, please,” the colonel said as he escorted Kamigami and Gus across the immaculate grounds of the Armed Forces Training Institute. Colonel Sun and Tel followed at a respectful distance. “We conduct most of our advanced professional military education here,” the colonel explained. He led the way into what looked like an armory. “We’re holding them in isolation.”

“Have they been interrogated?” Gus asked.

“Yes,” came the answer, “but we learned very little.”

“Do you know which one is the leader?” This from Kamigami. The colonel shook his head. “I need to see them together,” Kamigami said. “But bring them in one at a time. The order makes no difference. Keep them bagged.”

The colonel issued the necessary orders. “At this point,” he explained, “we’re not sure if they had anything to do with the riots in Kuala Lumpur.”

“We’ll soon know,” Kamigami said. His voice was so soft and low that it was barely audible. Guards brought in the eight suspected terrorists one at a time. Each one was handcuffed, with a canvas bag over his head. The moment one cleared the door, Kamigami grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him into a chair. “Don’t move,” he ordered in Cantonese. When all eight had been brought in and seated, he walked up to one and grabbed the canvas bag. He gave it a good shake and ripped it off. The man blinked in the bright light as Kamigami loomed over him. “Who is your leader?”