The Last Phoenix (25 page)

“I’m below you and taking ground fire. Lots of hostiles down here.” A short pause. “I’m in.”

Maggot descended out of the clouds as the distinctive sound of a GAU-8 cannon roared directly below him. He looked down between his legs and saw Duke pulling off from a strafing attack. He tugged on his right riser line, trying to drift away. His canopy ripped, and he looked up as the distinctive sound of a bullet whistled past. “Taking ground fire!” he radioed. He sawed at the risers, desperate as more bullets ripped into his parachute. He was falling faster as the trees rushed up to meet him. He crossed his ankles and disappeared into the dense foliage.

Maggot’s first conscious thought was that he was still alive. He looked down as he swayed back and forth, and calculated he was thirty to forty feet above the ground. He looked up. His parachute was snagged firmly in the branches above him. He heard voices off to his right, on the other side of the massive tree trunk. He managed to catch a branch as the voices grew louder and more distinct. He recognized a few words he had learned in China, and heard the anger. Moving as quietly as possible, he pulled himself onto the top of the thick branch and lay on his stomach. The chest strap of his parachute harness cut into him as he pressed against the branch, willing himself to be invisible. Two soldiers moved into view, and he prayed they wouldn’t see his camouflage parachute still hanging in the trees. He held his breath as one looked up, directly at him. Not knowing what to look for, the soldier saw nothing and moved on, chattering aimlessly about something. Slowly Maggot reached for his survival radio and keyed the silent beacon, sending his location and warning Duke that he couldn’t talk or receive because he was surrounded.

He released the chest strap of his harness and pressed his cheek against the wood. An insect crawled up his face, but he didn’t move.

Washington, D.C.

Saturday, October 2

It was slightly after 9:00
P.M.
when Shaw knocked on the door of the residence. Parrish opened the door and let him in. “You wanted to see me, Mizz President?” She patted the couch next to her and glanced at Parrish. Her chief of staff read her look correctly and excused himself. Shaw dropped his bulk down beside her and leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees.

“Patrick,” she began, “is something wrong?”

Whenever he was asked a direct question, Shaw’s natural instinct was to lie. He couldn’t help it, for he was a natural politician. But he would never lie to his president, the young woman he had befriended when she was a junior state senator in California and marginalized by the “old boys” who ran the state. He had mentored her in the realities of power politics, and she had taken him on the wildest ride of his life, straight into the national arena. “Yes, ma’am. It’s the cancer. Six months max.”

She held his hand, tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

“It’s been a damn good run. No complaints, Mrs. President.”

“Will it ever be Maddy again?” she asked.

“No, ma’am.” How could he explain? She was his guiding star, his reason for living, the daughter he never had, and all that he could never be. He didn’t even try to tell her what was in his heart. Instead, “Bobbi Jo is backstopping me on the campaign.” Maddy nodded. Bobbi Jo Reynolds was the vice chairman of the reelection committee and Shaw’s protégée. She was a heavyset woman with short black hair, thick glasses, and a cherubic look. But underneath lurked the heart of a pit bull and the mind of a Machiavelli. “She can take over if I go lame.” He stared at his hands. “Mrs. President, the war is killin’ us. End it or we get flushed.”

Again the nod. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“I know. It’s the casualties. I’ve seen your face. I know what it’s doing to you.”

“I’m going to bring the Germans in,” she told him. “Please don’t ask me how.”

“That was the policy meeting this afternoon?”

She nodded. “Mazie’s in Germany. Her contact is von Lubeck.”

“He is the man over there.” Shaw pulled into himself and redrew the power structure of Europe. “I suppose Butler is approaching the Turks?” She looked at him in surprise, stunned that he had divined the strategy. “That’s gonna take some fancy dancin’ with the facts.” He allowed a little chuckle. “Bernie’s the man.”

“What about Leland?” she asked.

Shaw grunted. “I’m taking care of it. Give me a few days.”

Segamat

Sunday, October 3

Kamigami, Tel, and Waldo were with the battalion’s headquarters company explaining how a FAC worked when Duke’s Mayday came over the UHF radio. Waldo grabbed the mike and acknowledged the call. “Understand Maggot is down. Say coordinates.” While he copied the coordinates, Kamigami explained what was happening and Tel translated into Chinese. “Duke, are you in contact with Chicken Coop?” Waldo asked.

“Negative,” Duke answered.

“He’s too low,” Waldo said. “Can we raise ’em on the field telephone?”

“I can try,” Tel replied. He spoke to the battalion’s communications officer while Waldo plotted the coordinates on a chart. Kamigami hovered like an anxious hawk in the background, eager to escape his tether. “That’s it,” Waldo finally said, tapping Maggot’s position on the chart. “He’s down near a ridgeline close to a place called Kemayan, fifty miles to the northwest.” He keyed the radio. “Duke, say position of hostiles.”

“Hostiles are concentrated along the main LOC south of a village,” Duke replied. An LOC was a line of communication, in this case the main north-south road running down
the center of the peninsula. “The village is Kemayan, I think. Problems. Lots of refugees on the LOC.”

“Can you keep the hostiles away from Maggot?” Waldo said.

“Am I cleared in hot?” Duke asked, sounding much too enthusiastic.

Waldo gritted his teeth. “Stand by one.” He hated saying that, but he had to clear it through Pontowski at Camp Alpha. “I’ve got to coordinate with Chicken Coop,” he explained to his listeners. Tel handed him the phone, telling him Alpha was on the line. “Let me speak to Bossman,” Waldo said. Pontowski was on the phone in seconds, and Waldo quickly explained the situation.

Pontowski didn’t hesitate. “You’ve got it, Waldo. Duke is the airborne SAR commander for now.” SAR was search and rescue. “He’s cleared to use whatever he’s got but to stay one kilometer away from the LOC. Four Hogs headed your way ASAP.” A short pause. “Scrambling now, they should be on station in twenty minutes. Let me speak to General Kamigami.” Waldo handed Kamigami the receiver, which seemed to disappear in his huge hand. “Victor,” Pontowski said, “can you help us with search and rescue?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Kamigami answered. “Ask Colonel Sun to form up two teams for a ground extraction and send them our way in two helicopters. Bring my gear.”

“Copy all,” Pontowski replied. Another short pause. “Colonel Sun says they’ll be airborne in two hours.”

Waldo was listening on an extension and ran the numbers. “Figure another twenty-five minutes’ flying time to here, time on the ground, plus another twenty minutes to on station. Three hours.” He looked at them. “Too long. The Gomers will have their act together by then.”

Kamigami mashed the transmit switch on the phone. “Ask Colonel Sun to be airborne as soon as possible. One hour or less.” Although he never raised his voice, the command imperative was loud, clear, and overpowering. There was no doubt that Sun would make the deadline.

Central Malaysia

Sunday, October 3

Below him, the angry voices were growing louder and coming from all sides.
Shit-fuck-hate!
Maggot thought. The soldiers had bracketed his position and were slowly closing in. It was only a matter of minutes before they shook his tree and he fell out. A lone soldier emerged from the brush swinging a machete. He hacked viciously at the trunk of Maggot’s tree. He looked around, took another hard swing at the tree, and disappeared into the foliage.
They’re not taking prisoners today.
More angry shouts. It was an easy decision. He reached for his survival radio and toggled it to transmit. “Chief,” he radioed, speaking as quietly as he could. “They’ve got me. Strafe my position. I’m in a large tree about forty feet up.”

“Can do. Any other options?”

“Not unless the fuckin’ Marines are around.” This wasn’t the way he wanted to die, but he preferred it to what was waiting for him. His voice grew stronger. “Hose the bastards.”

“I’m in. Do you have me in sight?”

“Negative. Press.” Maggot heard the Warthog, and in his mind’s eye he could see it fly a curvilinear approach, 200 to 300 feet off the deck before it popped for the final run in. He pressed his body against the branch, willing himself to become part of the tree. Below, the soldiers heard the approaching jet and shouted warnings as they scrambled for cover. He couldn’t help himself and had to look. He raised his head in time to see Duke in the pop, climbing to 800 feet. The Hog rolled 135 degrees as its nose came to the ground and pointed directly at him! He had never been on the receiving end of a GAU-8 cannon. “A bit to the left,” Maggot radioed. His voice was amazingly calm. At exactly 2,250 feet slant range, Duke mashed the trigger, and smoke rolled back from the nose of the Hog as the Gatling gun sent a train of death toward him, traveling faster than the speed of sound. The ground below him erupted in a man-made hell as
the mix of depleted uranium and high-explosive slugs carved a path in the jungle. Then Maggot heard the growl of the cannon as his tree swayed dangerously back and forth. He held on for dear life as the jet passed over him, its sound wave finally reaching him.

I’ll be damned!
he thought.
I’m still alive.
He raised his head. Below him, the jungle had been shredded, and shouts blended with cries of anguish echoed back and forth. In the distance he heard the Warthog reposition for a second run. He keyed his radio. “Duke, do it again. This time to fifty meters to the right.”

“Sure about the fifty meters?”

“Make it sixty.” Again Maggot pressed his body against the thick branch, his arms over his helmet. He didn’t look as his world exploded. Four shells hit the tree next to his, and it came apart, sending a shower of splinters into the underside of the branch Maggot was on. “Oh, shit!” he shouted as his perch collapsed from under him. He started to fall, but his parachute was still snagged in the foliage above his head. He swung out, dangling in his harness, still forty feet above the ground. Slowly he raised his helmet’s visor. “Whoa,” he breathed. The GAU-8 had carved two open alleys in the jungle, leveling everything in its path. But flying splinters had caused the real damage, shredding whatever they hit. A coppery taste flooded his mouth when he saw the body. A long, narrow splinter had pinned the soldier with the machete to a tree. A shower of slivers had turned him into mincemeat.

No wonder they hate us,
he thought. The coppery taste was back and he fought the urge to retch. He swung back and forth, clear for anyone to see.
Can’t stay here.
He reached for the pocket on the left side of his survival vest and pulled out a lowering device, a long thin strap with a clip and a ratchet. He snapped the ratchet onto the chest strap of his harness and the clip onto one of the parachute risers above his head. He snugged up the strap before pressing the coke clips that released the risers from his harness. He fell about two feet before the strap pulled him up short. He quickly fed the loose end through the ratchet and low
ered himself to the ground. He looked around, getting his bearings and listening. But there was only silence.

Segamat

Sunday, October 3

The two team leaders listened as Kamigami explained the drill in his strange mix of English and Chinese. The plan was simple in the extreme. The Warthogs would suppress all ground fire while the lead helicopter, call sign Gold, would ingress to extract the downed pilot. The goal was to spend as little time as possible in the target area and hit with overwhelming force. The second helicopter, call sign Red, would be held in reserve. But the situation was fluid, and they had to be flexible. “I’ll be on the lead helicopter with shooters from Dragon Gold,” Kamigami said. “Tel, I want you on the second helicopter with the Tiger Red team to coordinate on the radios.” He turned to Waldo. “Any changes?”

“The SAR commander’s call sign is Air Boss,” Waldo replied. “But Duke only has about twenty minutes left on station before he’s bingo fuel and has to RTB. Bag will replace him as Air Boss.”

“Not good,” Kamigami said. “That’s about when we’ll be arriving.”

“Bag’s done this before and can hack it,” Waldo promised. “We’ve also got four Hogs holding to the south, play time sixty minutes. Four more will be on station before they RTB for fuel.”

“I hope so,” Kamigami said. “Okay, any questions?” There were none. “Let’s do it.” He jogged to the waiting helicopters, holding his helmet in one hand, his MP5 in the other.

Central Malaysia

Sunday, October 3

Kamigami braced himself between the pilots’ seats as the big helicopter barely cleared the treetops. The copilot pointed at his watch and held up five fingers, closed his fist, then held up five fingers. They were ten minutes out. Kamigami clutched the mike in his left hand. “Air Boss, how copy Gold on this frequency?”

“Read you five-by,” Duke replied. “Maggot is up and talking on Guard. He reports no activity in his area and is unhurt. As you ingress, there’s a karst ridgeline running north to south. To the east of the ridgeline you’ll see what looks like two cleared paths in the jungle. Maggot is between the paths near the middle. Hostiles have fallen back on the LOC and are using refugees as human shields. Bag’s on station and is now Air Boss. I’m bingo minus three and got to go.” Duke was three hundred pounds into his recovery fuel and cutting it close.

Bag’s voice came on the radio. “I’ve got it, Duke. Okay, everyone, listen up. The hostiles are fanning out from the LOC in a sweep toward Maggot.”

“How far are they from Maggot?” Kamigami asked.

“Less than a kilometer,” Bag answered.

Kamigami ran the numbers in his head. They would be arriving in the area about the same time as the hostiles. If they were able to shoot down a Warthog, a helicopter would be twice as easy—unless there was something between them. “Have Maggot move toward that ridgeline to the west. If he can get on the far side, we can use it for terrain masking.”

“Copy all,” Bag transmitted.

Maggot listened for a moment and then keyed the transmit button on his survival radio. “They’re coming my way,” he whispered. The radio’s earpiece kept falling out of his ear, and he had to hold it in place to hear.

“Beat feet west,” Bag told him. “Try to get on the far side of the ridgeline. Help is on the way.”

Maggot clicked the transmit button twice in acknowledgment and switched the radio to the silent mode. He checked his compass and pushed into the jungle, fully understanding what he had to do. But it was hard going, and the rain was starting to fall. Branches tore at his flight suit, and he stumbled twice. But the shouting wasn’t as loud, and he was pulling away from his pursuers. The foliage thinned out as the terrain started to slope upward.
I might do this,
he told himself. He pushed through a patch of ferns and stopped. “Ah, shit,” he moaned, looking directly at a jagged cliff of limestone rising fifty feet above his head. His spirits crashed around his ankles as the shouts grew louder. Again he checked his compass as he heard someone crash through the jungle. He turned south and moved along the base of the cliff. A woman stumbled out of the brush less than five feet in front of him. For a moment they stared at each other. Then she held a finger to her lips and pointed behind her. Then she pointed to the north, in the direction he had come from, and made a waving motion, trying to make him understand. Maggot stood there, not sure what to do. Frustrated, she pushed him, urging him to retrace his steps. He nodded and headed back to the north as the shouts grew louder. The woman watched him go and then turned to the south.

“Maggot’s gone silent,” Bag radioed. He glanced at the big multifunctional display screen on the right side of his instrument panel and punched at the buttons on the edge, calling up a map display with an SAR function overlay that displayed the location of Maggot’s homing beacon. “I’m still picking up his beacon. It looks like he’s moving back to the north. I’m going down to take a look.” He dropped his Hog to fifty feet above the trees and firewalled the throttles. He crossed the lanes that Duke’s cannon had carved in the jungle, jinking hard to avoid any ground fire, and turned toward the ridgeline. He rolled back and forth, finally pulling up to clear the ridgeline.

“Not good,” he transmitted. “It looks like the Gomers
have reached the base of the ridgeline. But Maggot is still moving.”

Another voice came on frequency. “Air Boss, Basher’s fifteen minutes before RTB for bingo.” Basher was the call sign for the flight of four fully armed Hogs holding in a nearby orbit. “Use it or lose it,” the flight lead added.

“Copy all,” Bag answered. He knew that another flight of four should be inbound to replace Basher, but he hadn’t heard from them. It was time to make things happen. But what?

“Is the crest of the ridgeline clear?” Kamigami asked.

“Affirmative,” Bag answered.

“We’re in,” Kamigami radioed. “Gold’s approaching the ridgeline from the west and landing on the backside. Red will stand ready to extract Maggot if he can reach a safe area.”

Bag circled to the north and turned south to fly down the western side of the karst formation, keeping the ridgeline between him and the bad guys. Kamigami’s helicopter crossed under him and hovered over the edge of the ridgeline, as far back from the eastern side as it could get. Kamigami was the first man out, closely followed by twenty men. The helicopter seemed to fall away and was never exposed to ground fire. Again Bag flew along the ridge. But this time he climbed high enough to see over to the east. He caught a glimpse of the main road, which was still crowded with refugees, but he couldn’t see any movement in the jungle or along the base of the ridgeline. A puff of smoke erupted from the edge of the tree line, and Bag slammed his Hog down, putting the ridge between him and the threat. He never saw the Strela missile that passed harmlessly behind him. But he knew it was there.

“Fucking lovely,” he muttered under his breath. He checked the display screen. Maggot was still moving to the north. He may have been preoccupied, but the black boxes were still doing their magic.