The Last Phoenix (36 page)

The man stopped and turned around. “No offense, Colonel Clark. But I was with the AVG and the general in China. We got chased out of there and, damn it, as long as we got Hogs flying, I ain’t gettin’ chased out of here.” He released the two locking levers and pushed the door open. Two men followed him out.

Clark erased the ticks by their names and looked up. “I promise you this,” she told the men, “I will get them out.” She walked over to the phone on the wall and called the command post for the status on the C-130. “Okay, it’s on short final. GO!” A crew chief hit the switch for the main blast doors, and they started to roll back. The men streamed out, running for the trees. She followed them as the doors cranked closed. She was still in the trees when the Hercules touched down and reversed its props. By the time she reached the parking ramp, it had cleared the runway and was rolling fuel bladders out the back. Then she saw it. The pilots had no intention of stopping for passengers.

She dropped her clipboard and ran for the exit leading to the runway. It was a race between her and the big plane, which was now turning toward the runway, free of its cargo. She won and stood in the middle of the exit, blocking the C-130. But the big bird kept coming, its props howling. She drew her Beretta and used a two-handed shooter’s stance as she aimed directly at the pilot sitting in the left seat.

He got the message and stopped. The crew entrance door flopped open, and the lieutenant colonel from the MAAG stood in the doorway. She could barely hear him over the roar of the engines. “NO PROBLEM…DIDN’T UNDERSTAND.”

“Yeah, right,” she grumbled as the rear cargo door raised and the ramp lowered. The waiting men rushed aboard, and she stepped aside, holstering her weapon.

“WE’LL BE BACK,” he shouted, pulling the entrance door up.

Clark threw the pilot a salute as the Hercules taxied past, and much to her surprise, he returned it. She walked across the ramp and picked up her clipboard. She pulled out her pen and changed the numbers: 104 gone, 481 to go. Then she walked briskly back to her minivan.

“Missy Colonel,” a familiar voice said. “Where you want to go?”

“You’re back!” She almost hugged him in relief. “About time.” He opened the door and she climbed in. “Command post” was all she said.

“General at doctor, not at command post.”

“Is he hurt?”

“Broken bone. But he walk back.” The driver pulled a long face. “Rockne…he very mean man. Kill a man who want to eat Boyca.”

Clark shook her head, wondering what the story was behind that. “I imagine he would.”

The driver stopped beside the med station and ran around to open her door. But Clark was already out and running down the ramp. “I go get general some clothes,” he called to her back. Inside, she found Pontowski sitting on an examination table as Doc Ryan taped his left shoulder. His boots were off, and the upper half of his flight suit was cut away and hanging around his waist. He was filthy, encrusted with dried grunge from the rice paddy, and he had a distinct aroma about him.

For a moment she said nothing as relief flooded over her. “Damn, General. You do need a shower.”

Pontowski cocked an eyebrow. Then the grin was back. “The Hilton was having a few problems with their staff.”

“You are one lucky man,” Ryan said. “Not many walk away from a crash. Other than your shoulder and a few cracked ribs, you seem okay. But God only knows what was in that rice paddy you landed in.” He prepared a syringe. “Antibiotics. Just in case.” He glanced at Clark, who turned away. “Drop your trousers and bend over, sir. This will feel a little warm.” He finished and pointed to the back. “Take a shower while we find you some clothes.”

“My driver is bringing them,” she said. She stood outside while Pontowski showered, and talked through the doorway, bringing him up to date. He was toweling off when a dull thud rocked the bunker. A little dust rained down from the ceiling. “What the hell?” she wondered aloud. Two more thuds, this time more distant, shook the walls. She ran for the entrance, where her driver was standing holding Pontowski’s fatigues and a clean pair of boots.

His eyes were wide. “Mortars. Missy Colonel, you go home now?”

“Not yet,” she told him, taking the clothes from him. The wail of warning Klaxons echoed over the bunker as another mortar round slammed into the base. She closed the blast door and dogged it down.

Washington, D.C.

Monday, October 11

Mazie leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She knew she should go home and get some rest, but an inner need held her close to the White House. A gentle snore drifted across from the couch where Bernie Butler was stretched out. Like her, he couldn’t leave. She glanced at the clock—two in the morning. Again she closed her eyes, but her restless mind drove her on. Upstairs, in the residence, the president was sleeping—why couldn’t she? “Damn,” she muttered, sitting upright. It was Operation Anvil. The Gulf
offensive was in its ninth hour, and she needed an update. Maybe then she could go home. She stood and walked out, careful not to disturb the sleeping Butler.

The duty officer in the Situation Room stood when she entered. He knew why she was there, and called up the current status reports coming from the NMCC. “It’s going well,” he told her. Slowly the tension that held her tight gave way. “Casualties are much lighter than expected.” His fingers danced on the keyboard, and the three monitors changed displays. “In the north the Germans are driving hard for Baghdad.”

The door opened, and Bernie Butler entered. He glanced at the monitors and sat down. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. He focused on the center screen. “Lord love a duck. They’re collapsing.” It had taken the United States thirty-six days to halt the UIF’s incursion, build up its forces, and go on the offensive. Now, with the Germans advancing from the north, the UIF was being hammered on the anvil of combat and surrendering en masse. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “It’s all over but the shouting.” Gradually a huge smile spread across his face. “Thirty-six days! Fan…
tas
…tic!” He drew the word out in exultation, savoring the moment. “Should we wake the president?” he asked.

Mazie shook her head. “She needs the rest.” The right screen scrolled, and the news got better. Pontowski was safe at Camp Alpha with only minor injuries. Mazie relaxed in her chair and dozed while Butler considered what he had to do. As the acting DCI he could start the process of reform the CIA needed so desperately. Deep in thought, he missed the message on the left screen that Changi Airport in Singapore had been struck by a tactical missile. He made notes on a legal yellow pad as he outlined the changes he had in store for the agency. He would drag the CIA kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century and break the deadly combination of Cold War and bureaucratic mentality that had led to so many failures. Another thought hit him with the force of a train wreck—he was the man to do the job.

The display on the center screen was overridden with a
flash message and a loud gong for emphasis. Mazie’s eyes snapped open as Butler’s head came up. The missile that had hit Changi was armed with a nerve-gas agent. Another gong echoed in the room: two more airfields in Singapore had been hit with tactical missiles. They waited as the tension surged. A fourth message came in: Camp Alpha was under mortar attack. The hot line from the NMCC rang, and the duty officer picked it up. He listened for a moment, and his face paled. “Every airfield in Singapore,” he announced, gesturing at the three screens, “has been hit with tactical missiles carrying nerve-gas agents.”

Mazie stood up, her knees weak. “We better wake the president.”

Washington, D.C.

Monday, October 11

The Army staff car bringing General Mike Wilding and Secretary of Defense Merritt from the Pentagon made record time and turned into the gate leading to the West Wing at exactly 0403 hours. The men waited impatiently while two guards and a dog inspected the car. Not willing to wait, Wilding jumped out and let a guard run a wand over him. Merritt was right behind him, and they ran for the side entrance. Again they had to endure a search before bolting down the stairs to the Situation Room. The Marine guard recognized them and held the door open.

The president was waiting with Mazie, Butler, Parrish, and the vice president. “Thank you for coming so promptly,” Turner said, fully aware that they were held captive in the NMCC, catching a few hours of sleep when they could. “How bad is it?”

Wilding checked the monitors to see if there had been a change since he had left the Pentagon. Nothing significant was on the screens, and he visibly relaxed. “We have a problem, Madam President. Seven short-range tactical missiles have hit our arrival airfields in Singapore and southern Malaysia and effectively closed them, denying us entry. The Third Marine Division on Okinawa is mobilized and ready to
go. As of thirty minutes ago nine C-17s and three C-5s were on the ground at Kadena Air Base and loading. Another hundred and seventy-eight aircraft inbound for Okinawa are being diverted until we can open the pipeline.”

“They did that with seven missiles?”

“All were armed with nerve gas, Madam President. Apparently it’s a new agent that disperses over a wide area and is very persistent. It may be days before we can get started landing aircraft. Given enough time, we can do it.”

“Time is the one commodity not available,” Turner snapped. Only the low hum of a computer filled the silence.

Butler spoke in a low voice, confident and with authority. “My analysts”—he really meant informants and spies—“tell me the PLA has no more than six CSS-7 missiles left in country. Further, the PLA is stretched to the breaking point.”

“How can you be so sure?” Kennett asked.

“It’s the missiles,” Butler replied. “It’s all or nothing—go for broke.”

Mazie was on the same wavelength. “As long as it’s quick. The world has a very short memory. They know there’s a political price, but they’re willing to pay it.”

“If the geopolitical payoff is right,” Butler added.

“Which it will be if they capture Singapore and the Strait of Malacca,” Turner said. She looked at them. “My God! What are we dealing with here?”

Mazie answered. “Power politics redefined for the twenty-first century, with asymmetric warfare the final determinant.”

“Not on my watch,” Turner said. It was a simple statement of fact with little emotion. “General Wilding, we need a breakthrough force. Make it happen.”

“Yes, ma’am. There is another matter. We’re in direct contact with the command elements of the UIF. They’re begging for a cease-fire.”

“Not without an unconditional surrender,” Turner said, her voice deadly calm.

“They’re aware of that,” Wilding replied. “However, they said it was an unacceptable demand.”

Turner’s face was a perfect reflection of her resolve. “Apparently they do not have a full appreciation of the situation, which needs to be made clear to them. There will be no premature cease-fire.”

“Ma’am,” Wilding said, “if there’s nothing else, I do need to return to the NMCC.”

“Fifty-seven hours,” Turner said, a firm reminder of the promise he had made fifteen hours earlier to reinforce SEAC within seventy-two hours. Merritt rose to leave with him. “Robert, I’m meeting with my election committee at eight this morning. Can you be there?”

Everyone in the room knew it was not a request. “Certainly, Mrs. President.”

The president stopped her general before he could leave. “General Wilding, thirty-six days. Well done.”

“Thank you, Madam President.”

Camp Alpha

Monday, October 11

Pontowski sat on the floor of the base med station and leaned against the wall. He studied his watch and did a mental countdown. At the count of “two,” a dull
whump
echoed through the thick walls. “Two seconds early,” he announced. The constant mortar bombardment was taking its toll, and he could sense the fear and anxiety that filled the bunker like a fog, at times wispy and ephemeral, then dense and oppressive. It was time to do something about it. “Six rounds an hour,” he announced. “Just enough to keep our heads down while conserving ammo.”

“It’s working,” Clark groused. “We’re buttoned down, and no one is moving.”

“Five rounds spaced twelve to thirteen minutes apart,” he said, “followed by a sixth round one minute later. Then the sequence repeats.” He checked the wall clock. “The next round is due in thirty seconds.” On cue, a mortar round exploded. But this time it was farther away. “Next round due
at 1706,” he declared. “Spread the word.” He forced a casual, laid-back nonchalance he didn’t feel. He waited while the tension ratcheted up. Every eye was on the clock as the minute hand touched the six. Nothing. Pontowski grinned, maintaining the image. “Wait for it. The sons of bitches may not be able to tell time.” A dull thud echoed in the distance. He stood up. “Next round at 1717. I’m going to the command post.” He walked to the blast door and threw it open. “Coming?” he said to Clark.

She was right behind him. Outside, Pontowski made himself walk, making light conversation over the distant thunder of artillery. “Sounds like it’s getting closer,” he told her. Ahead of them, a security policeman peeked at them from his defensive fire position outside the command post. “Next mortar round at 1717,” Pontowski told him. He ambled by as the airman spoke into his radio, spreading the word and adding to the Pontowski legend. “How ’bout that?” Pontowski said to himself as Rockne emerged from the heavily sandbagged Base Defense Operations Center.

“Got your message, sir,” Rockne said.

“What message?” Pontowski asked.

“About the mortars. Time to do something about it.”

They walked inside, where Maggot was waiting. He quickly recapped the situation. “We’ve got four Hogs on the ground at Tengah Air Base. They’re safe enough in shelters but can’t move because of nerve gas. Here we got twelve Hogs, nine good to go and three down for maintenance. Maintenance should have two fixed and ready to go in the morning.”

“And the last jet?” Pontowski asked.

Maggot shook his head. “Waldo’s old bird. The one he crunched at Kelly Field and barely got here. Needs an engine change. Which we ain’t got. Gonna cannibalize it for parts.”

“Fuel?”

“Right now,” Maggot replied, “we have enough in the lines and holding tanks for twenty-nine more sorties.” He thought for a moment. “Tengah’s got lots of fuel but no munitions.”

“And lots of nerve gas,” Clark added.

“True,” Maggot replied. “But if Tengah opens up, we get our birds back. If that happens, we can launch out of here, fly a mission, recover and refuel at Tengah, and then fly here to upload. We can top the tanks off or just fly a shorter mission.”

“If the artillery I heard outside is any indication,” Pontowski said, “the action’s coming to us and we’re not going to be flying long sorties.”

“Those fuckin’ mortars aren’t doing much damage,” Maggot grumbled. “Just bounce off the shelters, but they’re keeping us from moving.”

Now it was Rockne’s turn. “We pinpointed their firebase.” He unfolded the 1:50,000-scale chart he was carrying. “Two of my cops found a counterbattery radar the MA left behind. Maintenance got it working and installed it on top of the control tower.” He circled an area to the east of the base, on the far side of the weapons storage area. “As best we can tell, they got two tubes in this area and they ain’t movin’.”

“Movement is life,” Pontowski intoned.

“Exactly,” Rockne said.

“Time to return the favor,” Maggot said.

Waldo sat at the mission director’s console and waited. Like everyone’s in the command post, his eyes were fixed on the master clock. At exactly 1732 hours they heard a dull thump as a mortar round hit on an aircraft shelter. The radios came alive as Maintenance reported no damage. Now they had to wait for the security police. The phone from the BDOC buzzed, and Rockne picked it up. “The counterbattery radar reports no change on the mortars’ location,” he told them.

Waldo’s fingers flew over the communications board. “Thresher One and Two, scramble.” He kicked back from the console and, like the rest, waited.

Like clockwork, the big doors on two shelters rolled back as the pilots, Bull Allison and Goat Gross, brought their A-10s to life. The engines had barely come on line when the crew chiefs pulled the wheel chocks and motioned them for
ward. Bull’s crew chief stepped back and came to attention, throwing him a salute as he cleared the shelter. Goat fell in behind Bull as they fast-taxied for the runway. There was no end-of-runway check, where crew chiefs gave each bird a final inspection and pulled the safety pins from the munitions hanging under the wings. All that had been done before engine start. Instead they turned onto the runway, paused briefly to run up, and rolled down the runway in a formation takeoff.

Immediately the pilots snatched the gear up and at fifty feet did a tactical split, each turning away twenty degrees for five seconds before returning to the runway heading. A mortar round flashed in the open area where they would have been had they not split, ample proof the base was closely watched. “Missed,” Bull radioed. “Arm ’em up.” He reached out and hit the master arm switch. They turned into the setting sun, never climbing above two hundred feet, and headed to the west. Below them, the main road was packed with refugees, still fleeing south. A convoy of military trucks heading north was stalled, unable to push through the desperate people. Farther to the west, people were flooding down the railway tracks.

Well clear of the base, the two Hogs cut a big arc to the north, turning back to the east. The sun was almost to the horizon, and they had only a few minutes of light left. “Split now,” Bull ordered. Goat peeled off to the right and took spacing as Bull headed back for the base. He checked his GPS and followed the bearing pointer to the spot in the jungle east of the base, a no-show target pinpointed by the counterbattery radar. He double-checked his switches and centered up on the target-designation box in his HUD. One last glance at the master arm to ensure that it was in the up position. He jinked and mashed the flare button on the throttle quadrant, sending a stream of flares out behind him. Then he mashed the pickle button on the stick, giving his consent to release when all delivery parameters were met. He climbed to four hundred feet, stabilized for a fraction of a second, and felt the six canisters of CBU-58s rip
ple off. Again he jinked hard as he dropped down to the deck.

“Your six is clear,” Goat radioed. “I’m in.”

“Reversing to the north,” Bull radioed.

“Got you in sight,” Goat replied. “I’m at your nine o’clock.”

Bull’s eyes darted to the left, and he saw Goat inbound to the target, crossing at a ninety-degree angle to his bomb run. Like Bull, he laid a string of flares out to decoy any SAM that might be coming his way. Under the jungle canopy, bright flashes popped like flashbulbs as the last of Bull’s bomblets exploded. Goat’s deadly load separated cleanly, and he pulled off to the north, falling in behind Bull. A dazzling light bloomed behind them—a big secondary. “What the hell was that?” Bull radioed.

“Beats the shit out of me,” Goat replied. “I didn’t see a thing.” The CBU-58 dispersed its bomblets over a wide area and was very effective against soft targets like unarmored vehicles—and people. But they didn’t make for good secondaries. “Must’ve been big.”

“Shooter-cover,” Bull said. “I’m gonna take a look.” He turned back to the target as Goat moved out to the left to cross behind him. Numerous fires and a column of smoke belched skyward, a beacon in the rapidly darkening sky. But there was enough light to see by. “Nothing but dog meat down there,” Bull pronounced, pulling off.

“Roger on the puppy chow,” Goat said.

Janice Clark studied the big situation chart, trying to make sense of it. She tuned out the voices behind her as Maggot and Waldo used the landlines connecting them to the shelters to debrief Bull and Goat. Since the mortar shelling had stopped, there was no doubt as to the effectiveness of the mission. But the dull thunder reaching into the command post spoke for itself. The fighting was coming closer. “Frustrating,” she murmured to herself.

“Indeed it is,” Pontowski said from behind her. “Supposedly we have the best communications system in the world,
and here we sit, thirty miles from the front, without a clue what’s happening.”

She corrected him. “We know it’s coming our way. Damn. I feel like we’re stranded on a rock in the middle of a raging stream that’s rushing past us.” She turned to face him. “We could sure use a lifeline to get us off it.”

“We’ll get out of here,” he assured her. “The shelling’s stopped, runway’s open, and we’re ready to launch sorties at first light.”

“General Pontowski, Colonel Clark,” the controller called from the communications cab. “The tower reports a C-130 is inbound.”

“How many you got ready to go?” Pontowski asked.

“Ninety-eight,” she replied. “That leaves three hundred eighty-three.”

“Let’s go see them off,” he said. They hurried out the door to where her driver was waiting. A light rain was falling as they sped toward the parking ramp. “I’m not going to miss this place at all,” he told her.

“Did we make a difference?”

“We slowed them down a bit.” They rode in silence, each deep in thought. The van skidded to a halt. “Let’s do it,” he said. Together they walked toward the C-130 that was taxiing in. A group of men emerged from the trees, running toward them as fuel bladders rolled out the back of the Hercules. It stopped, and the men charged up the cargo ramp. The lieutenant colonel hopped off the ramp and hurried over.

“I need empty bladders,” he told them.

“What’s going on?” Pontowski asked.