The Last Phoenix (43 page)

“Oh, my God,” Pontowski breathed. “How’s the doc?” he shouted.

“He’s pretty bad,” the medic tending Ryan said.

Pontowski chanced a look out the door. Rockne was striding down the taxiway, a SAW at the ready. The big man stopped and looked skyward. Pontowski followed his gaze and heard it—the distinctive sound of a C-130. He ran outside in time to see a Hercules fly down the runway at five hundred feet. Paratroops poured out the jump doors, their chutes snapping open in quick succession, catching the first light of the rising sun. He sank to one knee.

Another sound came to him. Shelter doors were cranking open, and the shrill whine of starting engines filled the air. A Hog taxied out as another C-130 flew past. More parachutes lined the sky, and in the distance he heard the sound of a third Hercules. Pontowski came to his feet and walked
back into the shelter to check on Ryan. He was a bloody mess, but alive and conscious. “That was a pretty gutsy thing, Doc.” Ryan tried to muster a smile, but it wasn’t there. “You made a difference when it counted,” Pontowski told him.

Pontowski slowly walked toward the burning hulk of the A-10. A tower of black smoke rose skyward, a beacon marking Waldo’s funeral pyre. Tears streaked Pontowski’s cheeks. Was it the smoke? He didn’t care. “Damn, Waldo. You did good.” He blinked away the tears, then turned and headed for the command post.

Taman Negara

Wednesday, October 13

The rain misted down through the jungle canopy, filtering the early-morning light into a gentle haze over the makeshift canvas shelter. Tel stood with Colonel Sun beside the shelter as water dripped from their helmets. Under the canvas a medic worked on Kamigami. He tightened the tourniquets on what was left of his legs and tried to bandage the gaping wound in his abdomen. But there was nothing he could do for the burns. Finally he administered a shot of morphine and stepped back. He had done all he could. “He’s in terrible pain,” he said.

“Can you make him comfortable?” Tel asked.

The medic shook his head. “That was the last of the morphine. Nothing else I’ve got will work.”

Kamigami’s lips moved, forming one word. “Tel.”

Tel ducked under the shelter and knelt beside him. “I’m here.”

Kamigami tried to focus his eyes but gave up. His right hand came up and touched the whistle around his neck. The effort exhausted him, and his hand fell to the ground. “Take it,” he whispered, every word an effort. His body shook with pain as Tel gently lifted the chain over his head.

“End it. Now.”

Tel shook his head. “Hold on, you’ll make it.”

“It’s over.”

“I don’t understand. What’s over?”

A long silence. “They killed my family. I killed them.” At last Tel fully understood. Kamigami had not sought this fight, it had come to him, and he had responded in the only way he knew. He was a warrior, a samurai bound by his own code of conduct. Kamigami’s words from an earlier time came back, now clear and full of meaning: “This is what I am.”

Kamigami gathered his strength and fumbled for the sidearm still at his side. He managed to half extract the Beretta before his hand fell away. Tel pulled the weapon free. The grips were worn with use, and he wondered how many men it had killed. “It’s okay,” Kamigami whispered, his words racked with pain.

Tel looked at Sun, not knowing what to do. “There’s no helicopter,” the colonel said. Tel touched the slide on the Beretta, mustering his courage. He chambered a round.

A single shot rang out, carrying through the jungle, only to fade away in the mist.

Washington, D.C.

Tuesday, October 12

General Wilding’s staff car arrived at the entrance to the West Wing at exactly 7:00
P.M.
He jumped out of the backseat and returned the Marine’s salute as he hurried down the steps to the basement. Mazie and Parrish were waiting for him in the corridor outside the Situation Room. “How long has she been waiting?” Wilding asked, concerned that he should have arrived much sooner.

“She’s been here all day,” Parrish said.

“Why didn’t someone tell me? I’d have come…”

Mazie’s gentle look stopped him in midsentence. “There was nothing you could have told her. She was just waiting.”

Wilding took a deep breath and pushed inside. “Madam President,” he began. He stopped. She was alone, sitting in
her chair, and sound asleep. For a moment he didn’t know what to say. He turned to leave.

“General Wilding,” Maddy said, her eyes still closed. “You promised seventy-two hours. You did it in fifty-one.”

“Yes, ma’am. It was a very near thing.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Travis Air Force Base, California

Tuesday, October 19

Air Force One was parked at the western end of the huge ramp, next to a brace of war-weary C-5s. On board, Madeline Turner was in her office, working at her desk as she waited for the arrival of the C-17 Globemaster carrying the last of the AVG. Richard Parrish handed her a schedule of events. “As you requested,” he said, “the base is keeping it low-key. They’ll get off the plane and go through a short reception line. Their families will be right there to meet them. Then you’ll say a few words and, if you want, informally greet them.”

“I want,” Maddy said.

He frowned. Unable to contain himself, he blurted, “Madam President, it’s a missed opportunity. It’s a slow news day, the media can’t get enough.”

She held up a hand, stopping him in midflow. “This is their day, not mine.” She looked up at the knock at the door. Mazie entered, a strange look on her face. She handed Maddy a hard copy of a message received only moments before. “It’s from Bernie,” she said in a low voice. “Zou Rong. He’s been murdered.”

Maddy read the message. “Bizarre.” She handed it to Parrish. “Are they sure the woman did it?” she asked.

Mazie nodded. “She was his mistress. Apparently it happened moments after Jin Chu learned my father had been killed. She cut Zou’s throat and then hanged herself with a silken cord.”

Nancy Bender entered. “It’s time, Mrs. President.” Maddy stood and walked into the lounge, where Maura, Brian, and Sarah were waiting. The president led her family to the front of the aircraft and stood in the entrance. In the distance a huge crowd roared “Maddy! Maddy!” when they saw her, their shouts of approval growing and crescendoing as she waved at them.

“We tried,” Parrish explained. “But they kept coming. There’s a traffic jam outside the main gate three miles back.”

Overhead, a dark gray C-17 entered the pattern and turned final, landing to the east, as the presidential party descended the boarding steps. The general commanding the base saluted and, as he had been briefed, received a nod in acknowledgment. He escorted the party to a line of waiting electric carts, and they drove to the reviewing stand. Maddy climbed the four steps to the platform and turned to watch the C-17 taxi in. A gentle Delta breeze ruffled her hair and her skirt, creating a most charming effect not lost on the TV cameras.

The big cargo plane slowly rolled by an honor guard of fourteen battle-scarred A-10s, each pilot standing by the nose of his aircraft. Maggot stood in front and called his pilots to attention. One by one, they saluted as the C-17 moved past. A crew chief marshaled it to a stop, and the engines spun down. Pontowski was the first off the aircraft, and he worked his way down the reception line, taking salutes and shaking hands. He stood to one side as the AVG deplaned. He smiled when Janice Clark picked up her two children. He hadn’t realized they were so young.

“Dad!” Zack said, running to meet him. He skidded to a halt, not sure what to say. Then he motioned to the crowd where Bloomy and half the staff from the library were waving. “They wanted to be here,” Zack said.

Pontowski waved back. “Bloomy!” he called. She looked
at him, startled. “Whatever turned up about Gramps’s missing year?”

His question surprised her. “You mean 1944 to 1945?”

“Right. That one. Maybe we should find out?” She gave a little nod. “See you at work.”

Rockne was the last off the plane. For a moment he stood in the doorway, holding Boyca’s leather leash in his left hand, scanning the crowd that milled around below him. His eyes crinkled when he saw Paul Travis engulfed by his wife and four children. The sergeant had returned with honor. Rockne descended and made his way down the reception line. Free of that duty, he stood alone. Cindy Cloggins was standing thirty feet away, also alone, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Chief,” she called. “This sucks. Cops don’t report in this way.”

He agreed with her and pointed to a spot on the ramp. “Cloggins, you’re the guide-on.” She took five quick steps to the spot and stood at parade rest. He slapped the leash against his thigh. The sound cracked with authority. “GROUP!” he bellowed, drawing the word out. “FALL IN! On Cloggins.” An electric shock went through the milling airmen, and suddenly they were security cops again. They swiftly formed up in ranks of eight. Not to be left out, the chief of Maintenance called for his men to fall in. An expectant hush fell over the crowd as the AVG formed. “GROUP,” Rockne called, his voice echoing down the ramp. “A-ten-HUT!” As one, they came to attention. Rockne did a left face, toward Pontowski, and snapped a salute. “Sir, the Group is formed.”

Pontowski understood. He returned the salute and took his place beside Rockne. “GROUP,” Pontowski called. “For-ward HARCH!” The AVG moved forward, their ranks ragged at first but slowly straightening. Rockne called the cadence as they marched across the ramp, directly toward the reviewing stand. “Hup, two, three, four.” Then, “Hup, two, three,” and a sharp crack echoed over the AVG as he slapped Boyca’s leash against his thigh on the count of four. Again, “Hup, two, three,” crack. Rockne looked straight ahead as they marched. And Boyca was with him.

“Well,” Maura said to her daughter, never taking her eyes off the marching men.

“Well, what?” Maddy asked.

“Do what you have to do.”

For a moment Maddy hesitated. Then she stepped down from the reviewing stand. The TV cameras recorded her long strides and the wind whipping at her hair as she walked toward the men.

“GROUP,” Pontowski called. “HALT!” He stopped four feet away from his president and saluted. “American Volunteer Group reporting for duty, ma’am.”

He stood there holding his salute. Then she nodded as a little smile played at the corners of her mouth. “What took you so long?” she asked.

South China Sea

Thursday, October 21

The graceful bow of the prahu knifed through the clear emerald green water while Tel stood at the tiller. His eyes squinted against the sea spray, searching for familiar landmarks along the shore. When he saw the grove of casuarina trees backed by the tall palms, he turned toward land. He bumped the boat up onto the sand, half expecting his family to run down to meet him. But he was alone. He jumped out and set the anchor in the sand before retrieving a shoulder bag from the boat. He crossed the beach and walked into the trees, toward his kampong. But he stopped short when he saw it, now overgrown with low vegetation that hid the charred ruins. He sniffed the air, relieved that the odor of death and decay was gone. The jungle did work fast. He skirted his old home, no longer a part of it.

He pushed through the heavy brush that blocked the path leading to the casuarina trees farther down the beach. How many times did he walk this path as a child? He saw the shrine and stopped. Now he could smell the water and hear the gentle waves lapping at the shore. He gazed out to sea
and for a moment didn’t see it. Then he realized that the three offshore oil platforms were gone. Were they also a casualty of war? He hoped so.

Tel knelt in the sand in front of the small shrine he and Kamigami had built to hold the ashes of their families. He closed his eyes and tried to remember their faces. But they were fading from memory and growing indistinct. He reached into his shoulder bag and brought out a small tin box. Gently he placed it in the shrine, next to the nine already there. A little smile played across his mouth. True to life, the box holding Kamigami’s ashes was bigger than the others. He settled back on his knees, his hands resting on his thighs as he watched the light fade from the sky.

The moon was already up and cast a willowy light across the water.

Tel fingered the gold whistle hanging from the chain around his neck. He lifted it over his head and started to lay it in the shrine. But an inner voice that sounded like Kamigami told him, “No, not yet.” He raised it to his lips and gave a long whistle that echoed pure and sure down the beach and across the water, chasing the moonlight.

Slowly he rose to his feet and came to attention. He saluted. Then he turned and walked away, the whistle still in his hand.

I would like to thank those who gave so willingly of their time and shared their insights and knowledge. Master Sergeant Paul Wishart excited my interest and gave me a quick education in military working dogs. But it fell to Major John Probst and his staff—Technical Sergeant Chris Jakubin and Rambo, and Staff Sergeant Uilani Bio and Boyca—at the 341st TRS, Lackland Air Force Base, to fill in the details. They impressed me beyond measure, especially when I donned a bite suit and met Boyca up close and personal.

The role of security police in air base defense was made abundantly clear by Captain Michael Ross, Master Sergeant Grady McGuire, and their staff at Detachment 1, 343rd TRS, Camp Bullis. Technical Sergeant Lisa Johnson was a very knowledgeable and enthusiastic teacher about search-and-clear procedures.

Lieutenant Colonel Herman “Hampster” Brunke gave me a quick refresher course on the A-10 Warthog, proving again that it is an amazing jet that continues to defy age and military planners.

In any story about armed conflict, the issue of morality is always there, often below the surface, but real and demanding. Malham M. Wakin, Brigadier General, United States Air Force (Retired), was kind enough to explain Just War Theory in terms I could understand, and his book,
War,
Morality, and the Military Profession,
is a masterful anthology on the ethical dimensions of war.

I owe a special debt of thanks to my editor, Jennifer Sawyer Fisher. Over the course of working on four books with me, she has proven again and again that she is an editor par excellence.