The Last Phoenix (16 page)

“Shall we get started?” Mazie asked.

The big TV screen built into the wall came to life, and
Colonel Scovill updated the ground situation in Saudi Arabia as a series of maps and graphs scrolled on the screen. The room was absolutely silent. Finally a simple chart flashed on the screen, tabulating casualties. Four soldiers had been wounded in action in the last twenty-four hours but not one killed in the last forty-eight. “Thank God,” Merritt said sotto voce.

“Are there any questions?” Scovill asked. There were none, and he made his escape.

“Stephan,” Mazie said to the secretary of state, “you wanted to discuss the political situation before the president arrived.”

“Indeed,” Serick said. “This is a replay from twenty minutes ago.” He fiddled with his hand controller and cycled to the channel covering the Senate.

Leland was on the floor speaking. “Two thousand of our valiant soldiers have given their all in the first ten days of this bloodbath.”

“Eighteen hundred and two,” Wilding muttered, correcting the misstatement. “And none in the last two days.”

On the screen Leland was looking directly at the camera. “We, as a God-fearing, peaceful nation, cannot, will not, tolerate such a wholesale destruction of the flower of our youth.” A slight movement at the door drew Pontowski’s attention away from the screen. Turner was standing there, her head slightly cocked as she listened to Leland. “We are at a crossroads,” Leland intoned, “and can stop this senseless killing if we listen to our allies and reassess our current policies and strategy accordingly.”

Butler snorted and shook his head. “The man’s an asshole.”

Merritt glared at the intelligence officer as Turner entered the room. “Turn him off,” the president said.

Patrick Shaw was right behind her. “Bad timing, General,” he whispered to Butler as he passed.

“My apologies, Madam President,” Butler said.

“We’ve all been under a strain,” Turner said as she sat down. “While I disagree with the good senator’s implication that we’re responsible, I do agree with his concern over ca
sualties, as do most Americans. Now that we’ve stabilized the situation, we must keep it that way.”

Wilding stood by the screen. “Madam President, we’re entering the second phase of the war—stabilization and buildup. What we do now will determine how and when we go on the offensive. With your permission, we’d like to summarize how we’re creating the logistical base to defeat the UIF. After that we’d like to discuss the emerging threat on the Malay Peninsula.” Turner nodded, and Wilding turned the briefing over to a young Army lieutenant colonel.

Pontowski listened as the lieutenant colonel ran through the logistical details.
The guy’s good,
Pontowski thought.
But Clark is better.

Twelve minutes into the briefing, a military aide entered the room and handed Wilding a note. He glanced at it and stopped the briefing. “I think you need to see this, Madam President.” He called up the Senate channel on the TV. But this time it was a replay of Leland’s closing remarks.

“By all reports,” Leland said, “our government made no attempt to defend King Khalid Military City, and as a consequence we suffered a disaster that can only be compared to Pearl Harbor. This august body must discover what went wrong. Therefore, I’m recommending we approve and appoint a special committee to commence an immediate investigation into this disaster.” He turned and looked into the camera. “I don’t know where this investigation will take us, but I can promise the families who lost their loved ones that their sacrifice will not have been in vain. We will hold those responsible accountable.”

Turner stood. “For some reason it totally escapes the good senator that those responsible happen to command the UIF. Please excuse me while I stomp out this brushfire.” Everyone stood as she left with the vice president. Shaw ambled out after them.

“I believe we’re finished here,” Mazie said.

Pontowski stayed behind as the room emptied. Finally he was alone with Butler. “I still haven’t got a clue as to what I can and cannot do with the AVG.”

“We’ll get something to you,” Butler said. “Please be patient. We’re playing this by ear.”

Pontowski arched an eyebrow. “That’s becoming more obvious by the moment.” He changed the subject, afraid he would say what he really felt. “I need to make a phone call.”

“You can use a phone outside.” Butler led him to a phone in the now-deserted battle cab and punched in his personal access code. He handed Pontowski the phone and turned away, surprised to see Patrick Shaw sitting in one of the commander’s chairs overlooking the main floor.

Pontowski waited while his call was put through. Then, “Maggot, Pontowski here. You got a job yet?” He listened to the reply. “I don’t think headquarters Air Force Reserve Command is ready for you. We’re reactivating the AVG. How’d you like to be the wing commander?” He held the phone away from his ear.

A loud “Shit hot!” echoed from the earpiece.

Pontowski grinned at Butler. “I think he wants it.” He spoke into the phone. “Get your body to Kelly Field ASAP, like Friday. Meet you there.” He broke the connection and dropped the phone into its cradle. “I’m going to be at Kelly Field if you need me.” He headed for the door.

Butler started to follow, but Shaw waved him to a stop. “We need to talk.” He heaved his bulk to an upright position. “Can you find out what the hell Leland is up to?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Butler said in a low voice so Pontowski wouldn’t hear.

New Mexico Military Institute

Wednesday, September 22

Brian Turner stuck his head into Zack’s room. “Going to the briefing?”

Zack looked up from his computer and glanced at the clock. It was 3:51 in the afternoon. “Yeah. Let’s go.” He grabbed his hat and joined his friend. They walked quickly down the stoop to the stairs, hit the box running, and hurried out the Sally Port. “According to the news, not much is happening,” Zack said. They skirted around the drill team that was practicing close-order drill, and headed for Dow Hall for the daily update on the war. The briefing, given by an active-duty Army captain in the senior ROTC unit, lasted about twenty minutes and was held in a classroom. As they were late, they had to squeeze into the rear and stand against the back wall. The captain was standing at the podium next to the big-screen TV.

“In Saudi Arabia it’s 0200 hours Thursday morning,” the captain said, “and day eighteen of the war. The opening stage, attack and stabilization, has ended. As we’ve discussed before, we’re now in interdiction and buildup, and, as you know, this phase of the war lays the foundation for what comes next—attack!” A loud cheer erupted from the cadets. The captain grinned and calmed them down. “You’ve all
seen the videos from the air war, smart bombs, things going boom in the night. What you haven’t seen is the logistical buildup, which is about as exciting as counting trucks driving by. So today I want to look at political considerations the military has to deal with—specifically, the growing protest movement in the States.” He hit the play button on the videocassette player, and the TV came on. The scene was a big student demonstration at the University of California–Berkeley campus. The camera panned over the crowd and then zoomed in on a girl. On cue, she stripped off her clothes as friends wrapped an antiwar banner around her.

“Hey, nice tits!” an upper classman shouted as the camera zoomed out. The scene changed to one of a cameraman running through the crowd following two nude girls who were carrying a banner. The cameraman stumbled and fell. Three sets of bare legs ran over him.

“Raise the camera!” a cadet shouted from the back.

An excited reporter in the crowd described the scene as a modern bacchanalia. “It’s make love, not war all over again!” the reporter shouted. “At my last count at least twenty young women have shed their clothes in the quest for peace.”

“Do it here! Do it here!” four cadets chanted in the back of the room.

Brian laughed. “Skip and go naked for peace! What a great idea.”

“Let’s hear it for the demonstrators!” another voice called, obviously pleased with the coverage.

The four cadets picked up the chant. “Here, here, do it here!”

The TV screen went dark. “Knock it off!” the captain shouted, quieting the cadets. “The goal of the protesters is not to end the war but to gain political power. It’s a sophisticated process, and the first step is to gain the attention of the media. Once that is accomplished, they’ll make common cause with the doves in Washington, D.C. Then they’ll attack the military, blaming us for the war. The big lesson here is that democracies cannot fight long wars.”

The briefing was over, and Zack and Brian made their way back to Hagerman Barracks entering through the sally port. As they turned left and climbed the steps to their rooms, they stopped and leaned over the rail, watching the cadets below march back and forth, walking off the demerits they had accumulated. “Okay,” Brian said, “what’s bugging you?”

“I’m worried about my dad going to Malaysia.”

“Ain’t no war there,” Brian said. “He’ll be bored to death.”

Washington, D.C.

Thursday, September 23

The five trays were ready when the ExCom gathered at 5:30
A.M.
in the national security adviser’s office in the Old Executive Office Building across from the White House. Each tray was a special creation, tailored to the needs of each member of the committee, and while it was a small touch, it got things off to a smooth start. The DCI let the heavy Colombian blend he preferred, with its massive caffeine jolt, work its magic. “How’s the election campaign going?” he asked conversationally.

Kennett savored his milder brew before answering. “Going as well as can be expected. Good TV coverage and enthusiastic crowds. The ‘Support Our Troops’ theme has worked well in spite of the antiwar protesters. She’ll wind up at Sacramento tonight and return to Andrews tomorrow.”

“Is there anything we need to alert the president to?” Mazie asked. She sipped at her Lady Grey tea.

“I don’t think so,” Wilding replied. He had been up two hours, and his coffee was untouched. “Other than an occasional exchange of artillery fire, it’s quiet at the front. The air-interdiction campaign is going well, and nothing is moving during the day.” He allowed a little grunt of satisfaction. “And they’re not getting any sleep at night. Over two hundred sorties last night, four aircraft reported battle damage, nothing serious, but the British lost a Tornado on landing.
The crew was unhurt. The first two fast sealift ships are scheduled to arrive tomorrow.” He looked satisfied. “The pipeline is open.” He paused for a moment. “Two more died from wounds received in combat and three more from motor-vehicle accidents. All at night, driving under blackout conditions. That brings noncombat deaths to nine.”

“Can we do anything about that?” Mazie asked.

“We’re working on it,” Wilding replied.

“NSA intercepted an interesting message between Baghdad and Damascus,” the DCI said. “It was a summary of the total casualties the UIF has experienced so far. Much higher than we calculated. We might want to get it to the president.”

Mazie agreed. “Anything else?”

Butler swallowed the last of the doughnut he was munching, and washed it down with a gulp of hot chocolate. “A problem with the AVG. Pontowski tells me it’s coming together much faster than expected. He needs guidance on what weapons they can employ so they can build a training program and set up the ROE.” The ROE were the rules of engagement, normally a collection of very good ideas designed to keep fighter jocks alive. That is, until politicians got involved. Then they became a political statement that had nothing to do with engagement. Pontowski wanted to short-circuit that process by creating his own.

“That’s a problem,” Kennett said. “We’ve got to hold the AVG at arm’s length, or Leland will crucify us in the press. The president needs distance on this one, like our involvement in Afghanistan in the 1980s. We were there, but we weren’t there.”

“So exactly what is Pontowski doing there with the AVG?” the DCI asked.

“Meeting the functions of a Military Assistance Advisory Group,” Kennett replied. “In other words, he’s there to help SEATO help itself.”

“Leland’s going to love that one,” Mazie said.

Kelly Field, San Antonio

Thursday, September 23

“Okay, how does this work?” Pontowski muttered to himself. He stared at the computer screen for a few moments. “Hey,” he called. “Does someone have a clue how to access an encrypted e-mail?”

One of the young pilots walking by his open office door nodded and ambled in. “Treat it as a secure phone call,” he said.

Pontowski grumbled as he unlocked the safe where he stored classified documents. He found the key and inserted it in the base of the STU-V, the secure phone sitting on his desk. He turned the key, and the LED screen blinked a message at him to press the aux message button. He did, and the scrambled e-mail message on the computer screen metamorphosed into plain text. But now the normal text was scrambled, and he grumped in frustration. He wasn’t going to have it both ways. The message was from Lieutenant Colonel Janice Clark.

“Very good,” he said to himself. Not only had Clark quickly identified what she considered the major problem, she had proposed a solution and a person to contact for help. “Maggot’s going to like working with her,” he said. “And I’ve got to stop talking to myself.” Pontowski hit the print key to print the message. The printer whirred, but the message it spit out was gibberish. “Technology is a wonderful
thing,” he groused. He rooted around in his desk drawer and found the telephone directory for Lackland Air Force Base, which was next door to Kelly Field. He called the Thirty-seventh and left a message for Chief Master Sergeant Rockne to call him.

Then he kicked back in his chair and thought for a moment. Two questions loomed large in his mind. First, what were his marching orders? Lacking an answer, he couldn’t set up a coherent training program for his pilots, much less create the ROE he wanted. Second, when could they deploy? His gut instincts told him the sooner the better, but how close were they? The answer would come in two parts: one from Maintenance, the other from Operations. It was the excuse he needed to escape the confines of his office, with its never-ending flow of paperwork. He grabbed his flight cap and headed for the hangar next to his building. Outside, ten A-10 Warthogs were lined up on the ramp, ready for the morning’s training missions. If the schedule held, eight would be turned for the afternoon’s flights and two would join the other nine in the hangar being prepared for the long flight across the Pacific to Malaysia.

Pontowski ran the numbers through his head: 19 aircraft, 29 pilots, and 310 maintenance troops. It still amazed him how quickly it had all come together. That was the wonder of modern communications and Air Force organization. The downside was that the aircraft had been scrounged from around the system, and most needed major maintenance. On the plus side they were swamped with pilots who wanted to sign on. Maggot had posted a message on the Air Force’s personnel Web page advertising for pilots with A-10 experience who wanted to travel to foreign lands, meet strange and exotic people, and drop bombs on them. The ad was deemed politically incorrect by the powers that be and pulled within three hours. But the damage had been done, and the word had gone out that the American Volunteer Group was back in business and under the command of one Brigadier General Matt Pontowski. The phone had started ringing immediately, and the pilots couldn’t get to Kelly Field fast
enough. But it had been a balancing act, blending experience with youth. Fortunately, Maggot knew most of the pilots personally or by reputation, and he culled the wheat from the chaff. But he still wanted a few more.

Pontowski jammed his flight cap on his head, careful to dent it in the back in the approved fighter-pilot style. He watched as four pilots walked out to the aircraft, carrying their helmet bags and gear. He wished he were going with them, and for a moment he was back in the cockpit. Over the course of his career he had flown numerous aircraft and seen combat in two, the F-15E Strike Eagle and the A-10 Warthog. The Strike Eagle had been a beauty, sleek and graceful, and performed like a demon straight from the environs of hell as he visited death and destruction on those who would do harm to innocent people.

But the A-10 was still his favorite, slow and ungainly-looking with its blunt nose and big thirty-millimeter cannon that could destroy tanks with deadly efficiency. How many times had he challenged death in that bird? Suddenly, standing there in the bright Texas sun on a lovely September day, it didn’t matter. He had done it.

Pontowski was not an introspective man, given to self-examination or doubts. His wife, Shoshana, had told him it was the major flaw in his personality. But she forgave him for it and had given him a wonderful son before she had been killed. Was that the price extracted for his survival? He hoped it didn’t work that way. For some reason he had never remarried. But he didn’t think about it. Later on, other women had moved through his life, challenging and changing him, sometimes loving him. Some had used him and, in the case of Liz Gordon of CNC-TV, hated him with a pure and unrefined passion. And then there was Maddy Turner. He forced her image away, not knowing what the future held for them.

He watched as the pilots finished their walk-around and climbed up the boarding ladders. How many times had he done that? A sharp dagger of regret cut through him. He would never do it again—not with his bad leg and at his age.
Be honest,
he told himself,
flying a jet is a young man’s game.
Now it was his job to lead them, not from the cockpit like Maggot Stuart but from a different place in time and space. His decisions would determine who would live and who would die.
What gives me the right?
Shoshana’s voice was there.
Because you did it and risked all, because you care and know the price
.

He watched the four A-10s taxi out. Another thought came to him. It was also the challenge, the testing, the adrenaline flows. For reasons he would never understand, he was most alive, most sure of himself, when he was flying and fighting.
And ego,
he thought.
What part does that play in this strange brew?
He forced that thought away, too, not ready to deal with it. He waited until the four jets took off at twenty-second intervals. His eyes followed the lead aircraft as it turned out of the pattern, giving the following jets cut off in order to join up. “Please, Lord,” he prayed, “forgive me, for this is what I am.”

He turned and walked into the maintenance hangar. Inside, the cavernous bay was alive with activity as men swarmed around the nine Warthogs being prepped for deployment. Like any military facility, the hangar was spotless, but any similarities ended there. The men were all middle-aged or older, and dressed in civilian clothes. A few had been with the original AVG in China and later with him in South Africa on a peacekeeping mission that had been anything but peaceful. Some had come out of retirement, and more than half were Air Reserve technicians on a leave of absence from their regular jobs. He was thankful for the wealth of experience they brought with them.