The Last Phoenix (28 page)

Pontowski was confused. “What am I doing?”

“First this missile attack and now our airplane taking off without us.”

Pontowski handed him a phone. “You really need to speak
to the PLA about the missile. As for the KC-10, I ordered it airborne for safety. We can recall it when you’re ready to leave.”

Willard was shouting. “Recall it immediately!”

“Certainly,” Pontowski said. “I take it your investigation is complete.”

“No, it is not!”

“Can I be of any help before you leave?”

Willard took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his face. “Did you order the use of CBU-58s at Kuala Lumpur?”

“Directly order? The answer is no. But I am responsible, as I cleared my pilots to engage. Further, I allow them to use the best tactics to ensure their survival and the weapons best suited for the target. I don’t second-guess them, Mr. Willard.”

“Then you’re also responsible for the attack on the innocent civilians on the bridge at Bahau this morning?”

“If you’re referring to the attack on the ZSU-23 that shot at and hit one of my aircraft, the answer is yes.”

“Have your rules of engagement been approved and published?”

“Approved by whom?”

Willard was not used to being questioned, and he turned a light shade of purple. “The national command authority. Who else would I be talking about?”

“Do you mean by President Turner?”

Willard’s face turned a deeper purple at Pontowski’s intransigence. “I mean by the legal controlling authority of our government!”

“At the risk of forever confusing you, sir, the American Volunteer Group is under the operational command of Southeast Asia Command. Further, I seriously doubt if the ‘legal controlling authority of our government’ has a clue when it comes to the ROE in this theater.”

Janice Clark interrupted him. “General.” She cast a glance at the doorway, where a haggard-looking Doc Ryan was standing with Rockne.

“I couldn’t save them,” Ryan said. He turned and left.

“Your two cops?” Pontowski asked Rockne.

Rockne’s face matched his nickname. “It was a direct hit.” He pulled himself erect, almost at attention. “Sir, when the KC-10 lands, can we hold it long enough to load the body bags? Sergeant Maul can escort them.”

“Absolutely not!” Willard shouted.

Pontowski turned and fixed him with a hard stare. “Mr. Willard, that KC-10 is not taking off without them.”

“We’ll see about that!”

“Please do.”

For a moment the two men stared at each other, locked in a contest of wills. Willard broke and scurried out. “You haven’t heard the last of this!” he shouted, determined to have the last word.

Clark shook her head and muttered an obscenity under her breath. “Why,” she wondered, “do I get the feeling we’re being hung out to dry?”

The White House

Monday, October 4

The muffled beat of the drum coming from Lafayette Park was barely audible in the president’s bedroom. But it was there, pounding at her subconscious with its unrelenting message. Maddy’s eyes snapped open, and she sat up, her heart racing.
What was I dreaming about?
The luminous hands on the clock announced it was just after four in the morning. She breathed deeply, and soon her heart slowed. She hesitated before turning on the light. She knew that simple signal would send out waves like a huge rock splashing into a placid lake, until the White House was awash in activity, fully alert and tuned to her needs.

She reached out and turned on the bedside lamp. Within seconds there was a discreet knock at the door. It was her maid, ready to be of service. “Coffee, please,” Maddy called, starting the day. She padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower. For a few minutes she let the hot water course over her body, savoring the moment. Her maid was there
with a warm robe when she stepped out. She ripped off her shower cap and shook her hair. “I’ll wear the dark blue jumpsuit with the presidential logo for now,” she said. The older woman looked at her in a state of mild shock, and Maddy smiled. “Well, if Winston Churchill could wear his ‘siren suit,’ I can, too.” Another thought came to her. “We start at the normal time today,” she said.

“It’s too late, Madam President,” the woman replied.

Exactly eight minutes later Turner walked into the Situation Room. The three officers on duty had been warned she was headed their way and were ready. She sat in a chair next to the big monitors instead of her normal chair across the table. “A quick update,” she said, picking up a hand controller.
DAY
29 flashed on the center screen, and within seconds she was scrolling through the Spot Update, the current synopsis of the war the NMCC updated every thirty minutes. The UIF was still driving hard to the south, but the air-interdiction campaign was slowing them down.

“The Saudis are fighting like demons,” a duty officer said. It was true. They were in the thick of it, throwing every unit they had into the front line and taking heavy casualties. “By the way, we know how the UIF is moving supplies south.” He called up a map display tracing the UIF’s supply net into Saudi Arabia. “They took their lessons from the North Vietnamese and the Ho Chi Minh Trail,” he explained. “But lacking a jungle for cover, they adapted to the desert. First they dug a series of tunnels under the border.” His pointer circled eight dashed lines that started in Iraq and reached south, across the border, aiming toward King Khalid Military City. “They range from five to twelve miles long. Our analysts estimate it probably took them three years to construct them. Once clear of the border, they leapfrogged ahead and built aboveground tunnels to serve as drive-through storage bunkers.” Another chart showed a spiderweb of truck trails reaching into the desert. “They made no attempt to hide the truck tracks, and we’ve destroyed over two thousand trucks moving south.”

“Where did we think all these trucks were coming from?”

“Because of the tunnels,” the officer answered, “we couldn’t detect them crossing the border. So we assumed they were ours, captured when King Khalid City fell. Then they made sure we saw exactly what we wanted to see. The entire road net is littered with burned-out hulks. What we didn’t see were these aboveground bunkers.”

A high-resolution image showed a truck track in the desert paralleling a ridgeline. “This is fairly typical. All they did was extend the side of the ridge, much like a snow shelter on a railroad track in the mountains. If you look close, you can see how a truck can dart in here from the main track, drive down the tunnel, and come out here, rejoining the main track. We estimate as many as a hundred trucks can hide in this tunnel until any threat has gone away. Then they dash for the next tunnel.”

“Why haven’t we bombed these tunnels?” she asked.

“This is new, very new. The CIA and DIA just put it together. The big lesson here is that low tech still works, if you’re willing to pay the price. The analysts are calling it ‘Saddam’s Spider.’”

“So this desert pipeline—Saddam’s Spider, if you will—is in full flow?”

“Packed with men and supplies,” came the answer. “That’s how they were able to mount and sustain the current offensive.”

Turner’s fingers drummed a tight tattoo on the table as an idea began to form in the back of her mind. She hit the advance button on her hand controller to cycle the screens. The casualty status report was next. The total number of Americans killed in action had reached 2,011. She hit the pause button when the names of the current casualties appeared. “Yes, ma’am,” the duty officer said, “we saw it, too.” The name of Colonel Robert Scovill was at the top of the list.

“What happened?” she asked.

“As best we know, he had just arrived at his battalion headquarters when the enemy broke through. It was a rout. But he formed up a unit of stragglers and led them in a coun
terattack. They held on long enough for reinforcements to arrive and turn it around. It was afterward…a dudded mortar round exploded.”

She fought for her breath. Then, “Please, give me a moment.” The three men quickly left.
I last saw him when? Friday night.
Tears formed in her eyes.
How long ago was that?
Her relentless mind drove her on, offering no refuge.
Fifty-six hours ago. Not even three days. Oh, my God! How much can I ask of them?
Her body shuddered with a wrenching sob. His name flashed at her.
I will remember,
she promised. Then the tears flowed, not just for Robert Neil Scovill but also for all of them. Slowly she regained her composure, as an icy calm descended over her soul.
I will not forget!
She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and hit the intercom button. “Please have my staff join me here.”

“They’re in the hall, Mrs. President.”

Richard Parrish was the first through the door, closely followed by Nancy, her personal assistant. Turner stood while the rest filed in and found seats around the table. Mazie was the last to enter, and she stopped, not sure what she was seeing. “We’re going to end this war,” the president said. She looked around the room. “Not as soon as I would like, but soon enough. And we will not lose the peace. Richard, get with Stephan at State and Mazie and develop an end-game strategy. Also, I will be making an announcement in thirty minutes in the Press Room.”

“Ma’am,” Parrish said, “it’s only five o’clock. No one will be there.”

“Then I’ll be talking to an empty room.” She fixed them with a steady gaze. “And by the way, we’re going to win this election. Please excuse me. I have to call Colonel Scovill’s family.” Her staff quickly left, not sure what to make of what they had just experienced.

The small Press Room was packed when the president walked in. She stood at the podium and looked around the room, bending each one to her will. “Earlier this morning I learned that Colonel Robert Neil Scovill, USMC, was killed in action within hours after joining his unit in Saudi Arabia.
I believe many of you knew Colonel Scovill from the briefings he gave at the Pentagon. He also briefed me numerous times, the last being Friday evening. I had come to rely on Colonel Scovill and trusted his judgment. But he was never happy here and wanted to be with his men. Colonel Scovill was first and last a Marine, and he gave his life fighting for the freedom of others. I can only honor his sacrifice.” She paused and looked at her hands.

“Second, my worthy opponent in this election has repeatedly charged that I am a prisoner of the White House, unable to meet the challenges of this conflict and afraid to make a decision. He is right about one thing: I have given my full attention to this war and as a consequence have been held close to the White House. Personally, I would like to see how he responds to the demands of the moment. Therefore, I’m offering to meet him in a debate to last no longer than ninety minutes, within the next thirty-six hours at a place of his choosing—as long as it’s not too far from here.” A wave of laughter worked its way around the room. “No moderator, no set format, no prearranged questions. He gets to make the first statement, and we go from there. The offer is on the table.”

She turned and left the stage.

Wilding arrived at the Situation Room at exactly seven o’clock to meet with the ExCom and the president. His eyes burned, and he felt a weariness that was dragging him down. “General Wilding,” Turner said, “thank you for coming.” She stood and paced the floor. “Mazie, when can we expect the Germans to launch their offensive?”

“H-hour is 0100 hours local, Thursday morning,” Mazie said. “That’s five
P.M.
Wednesday evening here. The vanguard starts to deploy and move to the border tonight.”

“General Wilding,” Turner said, “I just learned about Saddam’s Spider. I assume you will be targeting it in the very near future.”

“Starting today,” Wilding said.

“Focus initially on the southern end of the Spider,” she said. “I want–”

Wilding stood up. “Madam President, we’ve been through this before.”

She nodded. “Indeed. But hear me out. The moment the Germans launch their offensive, seal off the northern end of the Spider. I do not want any supplies returning north.”

Wilding’s head came up as his fatigue disappeared. “Brilliant. We hit the southern end hard, they push more supplies into the Spider to make up for the losses and keep their offensive going, the Germans attack, and we seal off their logistical effort in the Spider.” His face grew hard as he looked at her, the pieces falling into place. “They’ve dug their own graves.”

“Exactly,” Turner said, returning his gaze.

The lights were on in the Oval Office when Bobbi Jo Reynolds and the election committee sat down to meet with the president. “Thanks for staying so late,” Turner said.

“Thanks for the dinner,” Bobbi Jo replied. The small group went to work, bringing the president up to date on the campaign. “There is bad news, Mrs. President. We’re running out of money. Campaign contributions have slowed to a trickle, and our supporters appear to be in a wait-and-see mode.” A serious matter, but they were all pros and knew how to work around the problem of diminishing finances. They were about finished when the door opened and Patrick Shaw slipped into the room.

He gave them all a big grin. “I just got off the phone. Leland and his boy have agreed to a debate. Tomorrow evening, 6:00
P.M.
, at Georgetown University.” His news was greeted with approval all around, and the committee rapidly finished its work. Finally they were gone, and her day was over. “Well, Mizz President,” Shaw said, “you gotta render that son of a bitch tomorrow.”

“Any suggestions on how to do that?” she asked.

“If we’re lucky, he’ll bang the drum on three issues: leadership, failed intelligence, and diplomacy.” Shaw could hardly contain himself. “You know the answers—but give them the last word every time.”

New Mexico Military Institute

Monday, October 4

Zack and Brian arrived ten minutes early for the afternoon briefing in Dow Hall. Neither teenager’s strong suit was punctuality, and ten minutes early set a new record for them. But it was a wasted effort, as every seat in the room was taken and they had to stand at the back. Just as the Army captain giving the update on the war stepped up to the podium, two football players came through the door and edged in front of them. “What happened to practice?” Brian muttered.

The bigger of the two players, a defensive lineman, stepped on his foot. “Hey, this is where the action is.”

The captain looked around the room. “We’re going to have to find a larger place,” he said. Zack and Brian agreed with him as the two football players squashed them against the back wall. The computer-driven projector clicked on, and the captain quickly summarized the fighting in the Gulf and in Malaysia. “The UIF’s rate of advance toward Riyadh appears to be slowing, but there is still some hard fighting ahead for the coalition forces before it is stopped. The arrival this Friday of two major convoys will certainly improve the logistics situation. However, the situation on the Malay Peninsula is much bleaker. At the rate the PLA is ad
vancing, it appears Singapore will fall within two to three weeks.”

“Hey, Pontowski,” the lineman said, “it looks like your old man is gonna get his ass kicked.”

“Asshole,” Brian muttered.

The captain called up another image on the screen. “Today I’d like to look at the win-hold-win strategy being pursued by the United States. I think it’s fair to say, given the circumstances, it is the only viable option.” He outlined the details of the strategy, focusing on the lack of strategic airlift necessary to make it work. He finished, “Unfortunately, the timing is all wrong, and I seriously doubt that we can win the war in Saudi Arabia in time to redeploy to Malaysia and save the hold. It looks like SEAC and the American Volunteer Group are being hung out to dry.”

The briefing was over, and the room rapidly emptied, but before Zack could escape, the football player stopped him. “Hey, man. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I mean, well, shit, I mean, I wish I was there…with your dad.” His big hand pounded Zack’s left shoulder. “I’d follow your old man anywhere.” Embarrassed by his show of emotion, he spun around and hurried out the door.

“Can you believe that?” Brian said. Zack shook his head, and they walked in silence back to the barracks. “Your dad is something else again,” Brian finally said.

Zack looked at his best friend, his eyes filled with worry. “Do you think that asshole might be right?”

“About your dad getting his ass kicked if Singapore falls?” Zack gave a little nod. “No way my mom would let that happen,” Brian assured him.

Central Malaysia

Tuesday, October 5

The Super Puma flew through the early-morning dark, relying on GPS navigation to keep it on course and clear of high terrain or any obstacles. The bright moonlight also helped
the crew navigate, but they were drenched in sweat as they neared their destination. The terrain flattened out, and instinctively the pilot dropped lower to the ground. He had never flown so long at night, much less over enemy territory. Two minutes out he asked his copilot to recheck the coordinates for the landing zone he had punched into the GPS. The copilot did as ordered and confirmed they were the same as those in Kamigami’s message requesting resupply. When the display read two-tenths of a kilometer to go, the pilot reached for the throttles overhead and inched them back, slowing the big helicopter.

On cue, a small clearing appeared in the moonlight and a light flashed, clearing them to land. The big helicopter settled to earth as the gunner slid open both doors in the cargo compartment. Men ran from the surrounding trees and, in less than two minutes, offloaded a ton of ammunition and supplies. Two wounded men were helped on board as a tall, lanky figure jumped off the Puma.

Tel turned and watched as the helicopter lifted off and disappeared over the treetops, heading back to Camp Alpha. He shouldered his heavy bergen and followed the men into the tree line, where Kamigami was waiting. “Good morning, sir,” Tel said. Kamigami gave him a studied look but said nothing. “Colonel Sun suggested I join you.”

“Suggested?” Kamigami said.

“Well, he did want me to outline a possible operation. There is some urgency.”

“We have to move out,” Kamigami said. In his world of special operations, movement was life, and he assumed, rightfully so, that the helicopter had been detected. Someone would be investigating at first light, and they had to be miles away by then. However, he planned to leave a few interesting “surprises” behind to discourage anyone who might want to follow them into the jungle. Kamigami quickly packed his portion of the supplies that had been offloaded, and then checked on the two claymore mines that had been rigged as booby traps. He personally set the timers that would detonate them in thirty-six hours if some hapless soldier didn’t trigger
them first. He lifted his bergen and picked up an ammunition box. “Go,” he said, his voice barely audible. Two corporals took the point and led the way down a trail. Tel adjusted his night-vision goggles and fell in behind Kamigami.

For the next hour the thirty-six men ghosted through the jungle, moving fast and spread out over a quarter of a mile. No one had to urge them to maintain a killing pace. Finally Kamigami called a halt. He removed his night-vision goggles and rubbed his forehead. “What possible operation?” he asked Tel.

Tel took a long drink from his canteen. “SEAC wants you to take out the bridges at Bahau.”

“Where the tanks are,” Kamigami said. It wasn’t meant to be a question.

“The tanks are still on the northern side,” Tel replied. “They’d like to keep them there.”

“The AVG can drop those spans in a heartbeat.”

“Unfortunately,” Tel told him, “the PLA’s using refugees as human shields to protect the bridges from bombing.”

Kamigami scoffed. “The ROE won’t allow Pontowski to bomb civilians on an LOC, and the PLA figured it out days ago.” He stared at the ground. “The Americans never learn.” He thought for a moment. “For us to go after the bridges is a suicide mission.” A distant explosion echoed over them, and Kamigami checked his watch. “They got there sooner than I expected.” They heard a second explosion. “They’re aggressive—they’ll be after us in a few minutes.”

“Do they have dogs?” Tel asked.

“Not for long. We also booby-trapped the trail.”

“Won’t the dogs sniff out the detonators or trip wires?”

Kamigami shook his head. “Hope not. We used motion-detection detonators.” He passed the word to move out, and the men set a blistering pace, fully aware they were being chased. Ninety minutes later Kamigami motioned for a halt and quickly checked their position with a GPS. “I’ve got an idea about the bridges. But it will take some coordination.” He called for his lieutenant and two sergeants. The three
men joined him, and he outlined his plan. “How long will it take you to move two mortar teams into position?” he asked the lieutenant.

The lieutenant thought out loud. “The max range of the L9 is seven hundred fifty meters.” The L9A1 was a fifty-one-millimeter-caliber mortar, light and accurate, but with limited range. “We’ll have to infiltrate to get in range.” He considered his options. “We go in tonight, hide during the day, attack at sunset so we can E-and-E out at night.” E and E was escape and evasion.

“That will give us plenty of time to coordinate with the AVG,” Tel said.

“Let’s do it,” Kamigami said. He gave them map coordinates for a rendezvous and told the lieutenant to select two other men and a radio operator.

“Can I go?” Tel asked.

The lieutenant gave him a long look. “How many mortar rounds can you carry?”

In the distance they heard the muffled explosion of the last booby trap. “Aggressive bastards,” Kamigami said, paying their pursuers a compliment.

Camp Alpha

Tuesday, October 5

Pontowski’s small staff gathered around him while he read SEAC’s latest air-task order that sent his A-10s into combat. He snorted as he reread it and he paced the command post like a caged animal. He waved the offending message in front of them. “Two missions?” he asked angrily. “Four jets in twenty-four hours?”

“That’s all, boss,” Maggot replied. “I told SEAC we could launch sixteen Hogs on the first go, twelve on a second go, and eight on a third.”

Pontowski let his disgust show. “Why are we even here?”

Colonel Sun coughed politely for attention. “We received a message from General Kamigami earlier this morning.
You might find it of interest.” He handed Pontowski and Maggot copies to read.

“This is more like it,” Maggot said.

“Timing is critical,” Sun told them. He passed out target folders his intelligence officer had put together. “The plan calls for two mortar teams to shell the northern approaches to the bridges at 1750 hours, approximately ten minutes before sunset, tomorrow evening. The teams will walk the barrage toward the bridges and seal off the approach. If it goes as planned, the people and soldiers on the highway bridge will run for cover to the south, leaving the bridge clear. However, given the short range of the mortars, the teams will come under immediate attack and have to withdraw. But there should be a narrow window of opportunity for your Warthogs to attack.”

“And we coordinate the attack,” Maggot said, “so the mortar teams can withdraw under the cover of darkness.”

“Exactly,” Sun replied.

“I’ll get Weapons and Tactics on it,” Maggot said. Weapons and Tactics was the planning section made up of pilots who were experts in weapons employment and tactics. “Four Hogs should do the trick. Two on each span.”

“We can have a Puma in the area if search and rescue is required,” Sun added.

“Will we need SEAC’s blessing?” Maggot asked.

A frown crossed Sun’s face. “Perhaps,” he hedged, “it would be best if only Mr. Deng knew.”

An image of the tall, elderly man in charge of Singapore’s Security and Intelligence division flashed in Pontowski’s mind. “Why Gus?” Pontowski asked. “What’s going on?”

“Shall we say,” Sun said in a low voice, “that there are problems with security within SEAC.”

“Lovely,” Maggot muttered. “Can’t tell the players without a program. Hell of a way to fight a war.”

“Does that explain the lack of tasking on the ATO?” Pontowski wondered. From the look on Sun’s face, he knew he had touched the truth of the matter. “I’m going to Singapore to sort out the ATO. I can talk to Gus then about the bridges.”

“Please,” Sun said, “keep this very close-hold.”

“I understand,” Pontowski said. He looked at the others. “Anything else while I’m down there shaking the bushes?”

Clark studied her notes. “Can you check with SEAC about a dedicated shuttle for fuel?”

“I’ll put the pressure on,” Pontowski promised.

Rockne stood. “I know I’m sounding like a broken record, but we do need the rest of our cops.”

“I’ll check with the MAAG,” Pontowski said. “But I doubt if I’ll have much luck.”

“Well,” Rockne replied, “I could use a truckload of mines and a dozen or so M-60s.” The M-60 was a light machine gun firing a 7.62-millimeter slug. Combined with land mines, it was an excellent weapon for denying terrain.

“Doc, do you need anything?” Pontowski asked.

“Arrangements for air evac would be nice,” Ryan replied.

Pontowski stepped up to the big situation chart on the sidewall. “I don’t like what I’m seeing. They’re driving straight for Singapore, and we’re directly in their path.” He measured the distance from Camp Alpha to the edge of the battle area. “Seventy-five miles away.” He sat down and leaned back in his chair, his chin on his chest. “Start thinking evacuation, folks.”

Rockne closed his eyes and took a deep breath. If that happened, he knew who wouldn’t be leaving. “I really need those mines and M-60s,” he said. “A few antitank weapons would be nice. I suppose tactical nukes are out of the question.”

Nobody thought it was funny.

Singapore

Tuesday, October 5

Pontowski sat in the backseat of the dark blue staff car as it turned out of the embassy’s garage and eased into the late-afternoon traffic. “Have you ever met Mr. Deng?” the driver asked.

“I met Gus in Washington,” Pontowski replied. He decided to get right to it. “Mr. Stans, I take it you’re not an administrative services officer.”

“Call me Tom, sir. Whatever else would I be?”

“CIA? Chief of station?”

Stans gave a little laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“And you’re hoping to be part of this meeting,” Pontowski replied.

“One does hope. But we would appreciate a back brief. Don’t be taken in by Gus’s grandfatherly image. This is his territory, and he’ll cut your throat in a nanosecond if he thinks you’re a problem.”

Pontowski shook his head. “I guess I don’t want to be a problem.”

“That’s encouraging,” Stans said. The traffic was very heavy, and they were late when they turned into the large estate. Two extremely fit young men wearing flak vests and carrying Uzi submachine guns were waiting for them. “I’m glad they know you,” Stans mumbled under his breath.

A third man opened the car door. “Mr. Stans, you’re more than welcome to join Mr. Deng and General Pontowski.” Stans couldn’t believe his good luck and followed Pontowski inside.

Gus was waiting for them on the veranda. “Ah,” he said, standing to greet them. “Mr. Stans, I presume. Your reputation precedes you.” He turned to the two beautiful young women with him. “May I introduce LeeAnn and Cari?” The introductions made, the girls left. Gus came right to the point. “How may I help you?”

“First,” Pontowski said, “the AVG is not getting tasking, and we’re sitting on our thumbs at Alpha while the PLA’s coming straight at us. Use us or we’re going home.”

Gus nodded in acknowledgment. “Ah, yes. The air-task order. That is a problem. Shall we say there are certain factions here who are reluctant to use the AVG for fear of making the situation worse.”