The Last Phoenix (19 page)

“Why isn’t the crash wagon following him?” Rockne asked.

Pontowski took his eyes off the jet and looked back up the runway. The crash wagon was not moving. Two firefighters were off the truck and ripping open a side panel. “Hell of a time to stall,” Pontowski growled. A loud screeching sound jerked his attention back to Waldo’s Hog. Without hydraulics Waldo had five applications of the emergency brakes. When he tapped the brakes, the big jet started to slide off to the left. He tapped harder to straighten it out, but that only made matters worse. The Warthog jerked around and skidded sidewise down the runway. The right wingtip dug in, and the left wing lifted high into the air. For a brief moment Pontowski was certain it was going to do a cartwheel. Then the wing lowered back down as the big jet came to a halt on the runway. Waldo’s head was slumped forward.

Rockne gunned the engine and raced for the Warthog. “When we get there,” he said, “you drive. Give me enough time to get the fire extinguisher out of the back and then go tow the crash wagon here. A tow strap is behind my seat.”

“Got it,” Pontowski said as the pickup slammed to a stop. Rockne was out in a blur of motion, and before Pontowski could slip behind the steering wheel, he had jerked the fire extinguisher from the back and was running for the Warthog. Waldo’s head was still down and not moving. Pontowski spun the wheel and headed for the crash truck. He glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see Rockne hit the button to open the canopy.

Pontowski pulled up in front of the crash truck and jumped out. He threw the tow strap at a fireman. “Hook it up,” he called. He jumped back in and waited. Within seconds the driver gave him a thumbs-up, and he gunned the engine. The transmission whined in protest. “Go!” he yelled.
Slowly, they started to move. Then they were picking up speed, reaching fifteen miles an hour. Ahead of him he could see Rockne pulling Waldo out of the cockpit as the back of the aircraft was enveloped in smoke. An ambulance drove up, and two med techs headed for the aircraft, but the heavy smoke drove them back. “Oh, no,” Pontowski moaned as he stopped on the upwind side of the Warthog. The crash truck slammed into the rear of the pickup, its brakes not working. A silver-suited fireman jumped out of the crash truck and headed into the smoke as three others unlimbered a hose. Rockne and the rescue man stumbled out of the smoke, half carrying, half dragging Waldo.

The med techs were on Waldo and Rockne in a flash and loaded them both into the ambulance. It sped away as the fireman hosed down the back of the Warthog with fire retardant. It was over.

Pontowski walked around the aircraft with one of the firemen. “That was quick thinking, sir,” the fireman said. “Towing us like that.”

“I’ve never seen one of those stall before,” Pontowski said.

“Budget cuts,” the fireman said. “Maintenance sucks.” He examined the pickup. “Well, that’s one way to stop. But I don’t think you’ll be driving this anywhere soon.”

Pontowski agreed. “No kidding.” He looked around for a ride and saw Maggot with the chief of Maintenance, a Reserve colonel, examining the A-10. “How bad is it?” he called.

“I’ve seen worse,” the colonel replied. “We’ll know better when we get it in a hangar.”

“So we deploy without it,” Maggot said. “While you were out having fun and games on the runway here, we got orders to deploy.” He automatically answered the next questions. “Advance team tomorrow, the Hogs on Sunday. Personnel to follow on Monday.”

“So we go to war with nineteen jets,” Pontowski grumbled.

“Maybe not,” the colonel said.

Pontowski and Maggot walked through the main hangar where one group of technicians tore into the damaged Warthog while others swarmed over four other A-10s being prepped for the long flight to Malaysia. “This is organized chaos,” Pontowski said.

“We’ve seen it before,” Maggot replied. “These guys are all professionals and know what to do.” They went into the Maintenance offices, but it was just as hectic. “Let’s check the ramp,” Maggot suggested. They walked outside and stood by the cargo pallets and mobility bins that were rapidly accumulating. “The support we’ve been getting is fantastic,” Maggot said.

“That’s an understatement if I ever heard one,” Pontowski allowed. The buildup for their deployment wasn’t pretty or by the book, but it was effective. He made a mental note to make sure the generals in the Pentagon knew what the men and women of Lackland had done. They stood there, comparing notes as the sun set. “It always hits the fan on Fridays,” Pontowski observed.

“An immutable law of nature,” Maggot replied. A minivan drew up by the operations building, and three men got out. “I think that’s Waldo.” He snorted. “I’ll be damned, that’s the Rock.”

“You know Rockne?”

“From Whiteman. A great cop.”

“He’s the guy who pulled Waldo out,” Pontowski said. “Let’s go talk to them. Who’s the other guy?” Maggot didn’t answer and only shook his head. They followed the three men into the building.

Inside, Maggot stared at Waldo. “Cheated death again, Walderman?”

Waldo grinned. “Hey, you got your jet back.” He turned serious. “I want to go.”

“Are you okay?” Pontowski asked. He knew how physically and mentally punishing even a minor crash could be.

“Other than a stiff neck, I’m fine. The doc here can verify.”

The major introduced himself. “Bob Ryan. I’m a flight surgeon. Lieutenant Colonel Walderman is fine.”

“It’s up to Colonel Stuart,” Pontowski said, deferring the decision to Maggot.

It was an easy decision. “We got work to do,” Maggot said. “Can’t stand around here all day and yak.” He gave Walderman a little shove and followed him out the door.

Pontowski turned to Rockne. “Chief, I can’t thank you enough. I’ll make sure your boss hears about it. But like the colonel said, we’ve got work to do.”

Rockne didn’t hesitate. “I want to go.”

Pontowski was confused and it showed. “But you said—”

“I said ‘shit,’ sir, because I wanted to go to the Gulf. But what the hell, if this is the only action available, I’ll take it.”

“Can you get clear by Monday?”

“If I can’t, then it’s time to retire.”

“I don’t suppose,” Pontowski said, going for broke, “that you could also get a security team together?”

Rockne’s face was impassive. “I’ll shake the tree until someone falls out. Excuse me, sir. But I’ve got some heads to crack, arms to twist.” He spun around and was gone. Only the flight surgeon remained.

“Doctor,” Pontowski said, “thanks for the help, but you didn’t need to make a special trip.”

“You need a flight surgeon,” Ryan said. “I want to go.”

Pontowski thought for a moment. His eyes narrowed into a squint. “Weren’t you at Okinawa during the blockade?”
*

Ryan never hesitated. “Yes, sir, I was. I’m that Ryan.” The look on Pontowski’s face told him he wasn’t going. But he had to try. “I was an asshole and screwed up big-time. After it was over, General Martini told me everyone benefits this earth; some do it by living, others only by dying and freeing up space. I still had time to make a choice.”

“I can hear Mafia saying that,” Pontowski murmured. “Sorry, I’m not convinced.”

Ryan knew he was begging, but he didn’t care. “Martini told me something else. He said the Air Force is not about making money or getting your name in lights. It’s about accomplishment, and we do it by placing service, sacrifice, and obligation over the individual. I didn’t understand that then. I do now.” He pulled himself to attention. “Sir, I’m asking for another chance.”

Pontowski sat down behind his desk. “You said the right words. You’ve got your chance.”

Ryan snapped a sharp salute. “You won’t regret it,” he promised.

I hope not,
Pontowski thought.
But beggars can’t be choosers.

Camp Alpha, Malaysia

Saturday, September 25

The dark green minivan pulled to a halt on the taxiway, still under the jungle canopy and well short of the wide highway that also functioned as a runway. The driver parked under the camouflage netting that covered an entrance to a hardened aircraft shelter, and Lieutenant Colonel Janice Clark got out. She motioned for the driver, who also served as her interpreter, to join her. “Let’s talk to the guard,” she told him. Together they approached the guard post, a sandbagged observation bunker at the edge of the tree line. The guard, a very nervous teenage Malay, fingered his M-16 as they approached. “Do you need food or water?” Clark called. The driver translated.

The boy held up his canteen, top down, cap off. “Damn,” Clark growled. “Why don’t they take better care of their people?” She sent the interpreter back to the minivan for water and a meal packet. She chafed at the delay, but there was little she could do about it—yet. The guard grinned at her. “Just a kid,” she said to herself. “Ask him if there’s been any activity,” she told her driver. Again she waited as the two carried on an interminable discussion in Malay.

“He say nothing happening here, Missy Colonel,” her driver said. She suppressed the urge to strangle him. For
some reason he couldn’t get her name and rank right. But rather than fight it, she went with the flow. “He’s been here two days and wants to go back to barracks.”

“Soon,” she called. “Also tell him four helicopters are arriving in a few minutes and don’t shoot at them.” Clark keyed her handheld radio and radioed her command post. She quickly explained the situation to the duty officer and told him to check all the guards. She ended, “We’ve got to get the Malaysian Army organized.” She signed off when she heard the helicopters. “I hope
they’ve
got a clue,” she said in a loud voice, her frustration showing.

“Singapore Army much better, Missy Colonel,” her driver replied.

The urge to strangle him grew stronger. She walked to the edge of the trees but didn’t step into the open. A French-built AeroSpatiale 332 Super Puma with its twin Turbomeca engines crossed overhead and landed in the high grass next to the runway-cum-highway. The subdued Singapore roundel on the side of the fuselage was barely visible against a fresh jungle green camouflage paint job. The four-blade rotor spun down as twenty men jumped out the side doors and moved quickly into the tree line. The last man off was huge and moved with an agility and speed that belied his bulk. He headed straight for her. “Colonel Clark?” he asked. She nodded. “Victor Kamigami, First Special Operations Service.” A second helicopter landed, and more men streamed off as a third came into view.

Just then a shot rang out, and Clark jumped back into the trees. When she looked back, all the men had disappeared and the helicopters taken off. “Get down,” Kamigami ordered.

“It’s okay,” Clark told him. “He hasn’t hit anyone—yet.” An explanation was in order. “We’ve got a sniper who takes an occasional potshot. The MA can’t seem to find him.”

“MA?” Kamigami asked.

“Malaysian Army. They gave up, and we worked a deal with him: he misses us and we leave him alone.”

Kamigami gave her a look she couldn’t read. He spoke
into the whisper mike pinned to his shoulder and issued orders. It was a strange mixture of Chinese and English that made absolutely no sense to her. “We’ll take care of it,” he said. “Tell your people we’re here and to stand down while we…uh, renegotiate with your sniper.”

Clark relayed his message to her command post. “Tell the MA we’ve got friendlies on base and to hold their fire.”

“Hell,” the duty officer replied, “they don’t shoot at anything unless they think they can eat it.”

“Problems?” Kamigami asked.

“You wouldn’t believe,” Clark said. “Is it okay for us to move around?” He nodded, and they walked toward the minivan. “Are you familiar with Alpha?” she asked.

“Only what I’ve seen on paper.” Kamigami sat in the backseat as they drove down a taxiway and onto the base proper. He studied the camouflage netting overhead, the reinforced-concrete aircraft bunkers, and the way the buildings were sited to blend in with the terrain and trees. His initial impression after flying over was confirmed—the base was next to impossible to see from the air and impervious to satellite reconnaissance. Only the straight stretch of highway that served as its runway provided any clue as to its location. The more he saw as they toured the base, the more he was impressed. Alpha was a masterpiece. “Very nice,” he allowed. “Israelis?”

“They built it two years ago,” she explained. “Under contract to SEATO. Unfortunately, it’s been neglected since then. We had to chase squatters and pig farmers out of the shelters. Luckily, the MA has managed to keep the locals from stealing—” A burst of submachine-gun fire cut her off. “What the…?”

“Ours,” Kamigami assured her. “Pull up over there.” He pointed to a revetted entrance to a low concrete building.

“That’s the base medical station,” she told him. “It’s locked up—I hope.” Another burst of submachine-gun fire echoed over them. This time much farther away.

Kamigami got out of the minivan as Sun and Tel emerged from the shadows of the entrance. Kamigami introduced
them to Clark, and without being asked, Sun briefed them on the situation. More gunfire. Sun stopped and pressed a hand to his ear, covering the earpiece linking him to his radio. “We’re bringing them in now,” he said.

“Them?” Clark asked. Sun nodded as a team of four shooters emerged from the nearby trees. They were carrying a body. Another team was right behind them, but this time they had two very live, and very frightened, prisoners. She listened as Tel interrogated the prisoners in Malay while Kamigami and Sun held back in the revetted entrance. Tel waved an arm in the direction of Kamigami’s dark shadow, and the two men fell to the ground, wailing loudly. Two more teams of shooters drove up in a truck they had commandeered. They unloaded three more bodies and piled their equipment on the ground. Clark circled the four bodies, struck by how young they were. “They’re just boys,” she said.

Sun spoke into his radio as Tel joined her. Tel pointed at one of the men kneeling on the ground. “He says there were six.”

“Then all are accounted for,” Sun said.

“Ma’am,” Tel said, “may we speak in private for a moment?” He played the gentleman and motioned her around the corner of the building.

Clark glanced back over her shoulder as Kamigami stepped out of the shadows. A lightning bolt shot out of her subconscious and jolted every fiber of her being. “You’re going to kill them!”

Tel gently touched her elbow, urging her around the corner and out of sight. “Only one,” he told her, refusing to lie. “The other one will be released.”

“Why?” she asked.

“So he can tell his comrades he met the vampire. They won’t be back.” He tried to make her understand. “It’s much better this way. We won’t have to kill so many.”

“I will
not
be a part of this,” Clark told him, her anger in full play. She spun around and marched back to Kamigami, determined to do something. But the two prisoners were
gone, and only the four bodies remained. “What exactly do you think you’re doing here?” she demanded.

“Doing here?” Kamigami asked. “I thought you’d been briefed.” It was obvious she hadn’t. “We’re here to relocate as many villagers as we can. Before they get butchered.”

Clark stormed back to her van.

The White House

Saturday, September 25

“I hope this won’t take too long,” Richard Parrish said as he escorted them into the study. “The president will be here shortly. It may be Saturday, but she has a full schedule. I don’t know how she does it, balancing an election campaign with running a war. It would drive a normal person over the edge.”

“President Turner is far from being a normal person,” Secretary of State Serick conceded.

“We only need fifteen minutes,” Mazie told him as they sat down.

Parrish held the door when the president entered. Mazie and Serick stood. “It looks like a quiet day in the Gulf,” Turner said. “Nothing is moving.” She sat down in her rocker and motioned for them to sit. “But you’re not here to tell me what I already know.”

“No, ma’am,” Serick began. He shot Mazie a cautious glance. He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Hazelton has a most intriguing idea that we might want to pursue.”

The president’s lips crinkled, the beginnings of a smile, at his formality. Then it was gone. “Not the unthinkable I hope?”

Serick breathed deeply. “Not unthinkable, but a new vector, one that we haven’t considered.”

“But one sensitive enough that no one else should know?” Turner asked.

“At this point,” Serick said, “that might be the wisest course.”

“Stephan,” Turner said, now smiling at her two most trusted advisers, “would you please be more direct and less diplomatic?”

Mazie decided to do just that. “Madam President, we want to open a second front in the Gulf.”

“I’m quite sure General Wilding can give me a dozen reasons why that’s impossible,” Turner said. “And they all start with the word ‘logistics.’ With the Suez Canal closed, our supply lines are simply too long.”

“But the Mediterranean is still open to us,” Mazie said.

Turner saw it immediately. “Are you suggesting perhaps Israel?”

“Not Israel,” Serick replied. “Turkey.” The president sat upright.

“All our intelligence,” Mazie said, “indicates that the UIF is strained to the limit as it regroups in Saudi Arabia—in the south. If we were to open a second front through Turkey, in the north, we could catch Iraq in a giant pincer. Baghdad is approximately three hundred miles south of the Turkish border, and we could split Iraq right down the middle.”

“It has the added advantage,” Serick said, “of driving a wedge between Syria and Iran, placing each in a much more isolated position.”

“I need to see a map,” Turner said. Serick opened his briefcase and unfolded one. He spread it across her desk, and the three gathered around it. Turner’s eyes narrowed as Mazie measured the distances.

“The Iraqis,” Mazie explained, “believe that the mountains are a natural barrier between them and Turkey. But the mountains didn’t stop Alexander in 331
B.C
. when he came down the eastern bank of the Tigris. He fought and defeated the Persians here, near Mosul.” Mazie tapped the city in the northwest corner of Iraq. “After that it was open country to Babylon.”

“Which was not far from modern Baghdad,” Serick added. “Approximately two hundred miles of wide-open country. Good terrain for armor.”

Turner considered it. She shook her head. “The Iraqis
would see our buildup in Turkey and be ready. They’d stop us in the mountain passes, before we broke out into open country.”

“So what if it wasn’t us?” Mazie said. “But one of our allies who trains in Turkey.”

“And that ally is?” Turner asked.

“Germany,” Mazie replied. “They do extensive tank training near Urfa in southern Turkey. They have a training program modeled after our National Training Center in the Mojave Desert.”

“The Turks would never allow it,” Turner said.

“Unless they thought they were next,” Mazie replied.

“But they’re not,” Turner objected. “We know that.”

“But do the Turks?” Mazie asked. “What if they were convinced otherwise?”

Turner thought for a moment. She reached for the phone and hit a button. “Patrick, would you step in here for a moment?” She didn’t wait for an answer and buzzed her chief of staff’s office. “Richard, please clear my schedule for the next hour.” Again she didn’t wait for an answer. “Convince Patrick,” she told them.

Patrick Shaw’s sarcasm was in full flow as he poked at the map on Turner’s desk. “What do you people use for brains around here? Alexander the Great, my ass. The next person who wants to play strategy around here is gonna get a lobotomy. Sans anesthetic.” He shambled to the door, a shaggy bear at bay. “Totally unthinkable. If you wanna split the UIF, make Syria or Iran an offer they can’t refuse.” He paused. “Anything else, Mizz President?” She told him no and he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Turner carefully folded the map and handed it to Serick. “Thank you for listening, Madam President,” Serick said. Mazie stood to leave.

The president turned sideways in her chair as her fingers beat a little tattoo on her desk. They both recognized the signs. “He may be right, Stephan. Approach Syria and Iran with a deal. Make it a good one.”

“We can use Jordan as an intermediary,” Serick told her.

A long pause. Then, “Can you bring Germany and Turkey in?”

Mazie stared at her, and Serick sucked in his breath, both totally surprised. The president had never disregarded Shaw’s advice before. “Patrick,” Turner said, “has a crude saying: ‘Learn from the past or get bit in the ass.’ I don’t think the Iraqis have learned a damn thing.” She stood. “And we’re going to teach them.”

“I have a contact in Bonn,” Mazie said. “Herbert von Lubeck.”

Serick was impressed. “You’ll have to go to him.”

“I can go today,” Mazie told them. “That leaves the Turks.” She thought for a moment. “I believe Bernie can help. At one time, the Boys were very active in Turkey.”

“Get him moving,” Turner ordered. “We need to make something happen. The sooner the better.”

Shaw stood at the window in his corner office, looking at the bright day outside. But he didn’t see a thing. His fingers played with the laboratory report he was holding. “Do it, Maddy,” he said under his breath. “You know how.” He paced the floor, talking to himself. “Leland, you miserable bastard.” More mumbling. “Fuckin’ investigation…makin’ common cause with the Frogs…I’m gonna shred your ass.” He wadded the report he was holding, and threw it into the wastebasket to be shredded.