The Last Phoenix (29 page)

“How can we make it worse?”

“These same factions,” Gus explained, “are hoping for a negotiated settlement.”

“The PLA will negotiate,” Stans said, “when you surrender.”

“Quite so,” Gus said. “I hope to convince these gentlemen that they are misguided.”

“Also,” Pontowski continued, “Kamigami and Sun have a plan to attack the bridges at Bahau.”

“I’ve seen Victor’s message,” Gus said. He smiled at their surprise. “Nothing of significance happens in Singapore without my knowing. I believe a mortar attack will clear the bridges, and it does solve your problem with your ROE. But it also puts the mortar teams at some risk.” He hesitated. “I assume your aircraft can destroy the bridges.”

“In a heartbeat,” Pontowski promised. “But we need clearance from SEAC to launch.”

“The word of your plan will reach the proper ears.” Gus’s face was impassive. “I assume you haven’t solved your problem with fuel supplies at Alpha and that you want to increase your air base defense posture.”

“That’s correct,” Pontowski said, wondering where he got his information. The answer was obvious. “Can I assume that Kamigami and Sun are operating under your personal direction?”

“You may assume that. Perhaps we can discuss your problems over a light supper?” Without waiting for an answer, Gus smiled at the two girls, who were waiting to escort them inside. “Tell me about this man you call ‘the Rock.’”

It was dark when Stans drove Pontowski back to the embassy. “Nieces, my ass,” the CIA agent said under his breath.

“They are beautiful,” Pontowski said.

“Damn good thing you didn’t take him up on the offer to spend the night. One of them would have been waiting for you in bed. That would have put you in his pocket.”

“I figured that one out on my own,” Pontowski said.

A siren started to wail, and Stans pulled over to the side of the road. Two flashes lit the sky, and two dull booms
rolled over them in quick succession. Then another flash was followed by another boom. A streak of light reached up from the ground and headed into the sky, only to end in a bright flash and falling debris. “A Patriot missile got that one,” Pontowski said. A much louder explosion rolled over them, shaking the car. “That was way too big for a missile.”

“More like a truck bomb,” Stans muttered. He got out of the car and studied the sky. “Damn. Nothin’s gonna move here for a while. We better walk.” Pontowski got out and followed him down a side street. But it was obvious that Stans was not headed for the embassy. They came to another main road, and Stans pointed to a raging inferno two blocks away. “That was SEAC headquarters.” He snorted. “Gus just blew away the pro-PLA faction in SEAC. That leaves the Young Turks in charge.”

“I’ve met some of them,” Pontowski said. “They want to fight, but will the politicians let them?”

Stans gave him a long look. “That’s always a question.”

Central Malaysia

Wednesday, October 6

Tel wanted to warn the lieutenant that they were moving too fast and they had plenty of time. He checked his GPS and confirmed what he already knew. They were in mortar range of the bridge and needed to use the remaining hours of darkness before sunrise to site the mortars and find an LUP, a lying-up point. But the lieutenant pushed ahead, leading the five men past a dark kampong. Tel paused and listened. He had grown up in a very similar kampong and recognized all the signs. It was deserted. He stepped behind a low fence used to corral pigs and relieved himself. A single shot rang out, and loud shouts split the night air. He fell to the ground, and the six mortar shells he was carrying dug into his back.

He slipped out of the shoulder straps, shedding his heavy load, and listened. Sharp commands in Chinese drifted back to him. A shadow moved toward him, and he drew his knife. Then he recognized the corporal whom he was following. “Over here,” he said in a low voice.

The corporal fell down beside him. “The lieutenant walked right into them,” he said.

“How many?” Tel asked. The man held up three fingers. A guard post. Tel made a mental wager that they did not have a radio or telephone. So was the single shot a warning?
In the distance he heard the sharp crack of another rifle shot. Or were they dealing with trigger-happy guards afraid of the night? It was time to find out. He checked his MP5, ensuring that the silencer was tightly screwed on. He motioned the corporal to stay where he was, and slipped into the night, moving exactly as Kamigami had taught him. He circled the guard post and listened to the three soldiers decide what to do with their bag.

He inched closer until he could see. The lieutenant was lying on the ground in a pool of blood, and the other three were sitting on the ground, their hands tied behind their backs. One of the soldiers rummaged through their bergens and passed out various items. From the way the two other men grabbed the food bars, it was obvious they hadn’t eaten in some time. The oldest soldier started to argue with the youngest, a teenager, telling him to report back to their sergeant and ask what to do with their three prisoners and the dead lieutenant. The teenager refused to leave until he had finished eating. A kick finally sent him on his way.

Tel followed him, astounded at how easy it was. He slipped up behind the teenager and slit his throat. He held his face down in the soft earth, muffling any gurgling sounds as his life drained away. Tel moved quickly, returning to the guard post. The two soldiers were standing over their prisoners, sharing a pack of cigarettes. Tel shook his head in disgust at their disregard of basic security. He lifted his MP5 and thumbed the select lever to single-shot, then squeezed off two quick rounds. The incredibly smooth bolt action made a light clattering sound, not much louder than the two pops from the silencer. The soldiers fell to the ground. One rolled over on his side, and Tel was on him in a flash, jabbing his knife in an upward motion under the sternum. The man shuddered once and lay still.

Tel moved fast and cut the men free. One of the sergeants started to say something, but Tel cut him off, issuing orders and taking command. Within minutes they had hidden the three bodies and repacked their equipment. Tel scoured the ground until he found the two spent shells and all other
traces of their presence were erased. Then he led the team back to the abandoned kampong to join up with the corporal he had left behind. One of the sergeants wanted to abort the mission and leave immediately while they could still move under cover of darkness. “Do you need a lieutenant to fire a mortar?” Tel asked, ending the debate. “We’ve got work to do.”

Again he issued orders, sighting the two mortar tubes and camouflaging their position. Then he selected a tree and climbed into its branches with a radio. It was a good choice. He could see the river and both spans of the bridge. He settled in to wait as the first glow of light split the eastern horizon. He checked his watch—exactly twelve hours to go. He fell asleep.

Washington, D.C.

Tuesday, October 5

Shaw was waiting in the wings with Bobbi Jo when the president arrived at the auditorium of Georgetown University. She was exactly five minutes early for the debate, which was scheduled to start at 9:00
P.M.
He studied Turner, looking for any telltale signs that she wasn’t ready. He relaxed and smiled at Bobbi Jo Reynolds, absolutely certain that she also was ready. Turner walked toward him. “Any last words?” she asked.

“Knock ’em dead, Madam President.” He stepped back as she moved past. A searing pain shot through his head, making him sick to his stomach.
Not yet!
he commanded, willing the cancer to obey. Slowly it yielded a notch. He looked across the stage and saw Leland with his man, the honorable David Grau, former boy wonder of the House of Representatives, governor of Leland’s home state, and now candidate for the presidency of the United States. Grau’s stage makeup was perfect, and his salt-and-pepper hair immaculately coiffed to create an older image. But to Shaw he resembled a slicked-down seal.

Leland leaned into the boy wonder, his hands moving, as he gave him last-minute instructions. An image of a football coach sending in his quarterback for the critical play in the closing moments of the last quarter flickered in Shaw’s mind. A well-known political commentator took his place at a podium downstage left and made a brief introduction. “As agreed,” he said, “Governor Grau will make the opening statement, and the debate will run for ninety minutes. There are no other rules or conditions.” On cue, Turner and Grau walked onstage from opposite sides, shook hands, and stood behind their respective podiums. With that the battle was joined.

Grau fixed the audience with a somber look. “This is the thirtieth day of a terrible war,” he began. “A war that has been characterized by poor leadership, missed opportunity, massive intelligence failures, and a total breakdown in diplomacy.”

Shaw felt like cheering.
“Missed opportunities.” I left out that one. But three for four in this business ain’t bad.
He watched Turner’s face as she listened to Grau’s charges.
Give him all the rope he needs.

Finally it was her turn. “The governor is correct,” she began, “when he speaks of intelligence shortfalls. We’re working hard to correct the neglect of the intelligence community of the last ten years. I would like to remind the governor that when he served in the House of Representatives, he voted against every attempt to increase our intelligence posture—”

“Which is a total misrepresentation of the facts,” Grau said.

Turner was condescending. “Please, I didn’t interrupt you while you were speaking.”

Easy, easy,
Shaw thought. The pain was back, and he sat down. But it was different this time. “Water,” he said, half aloud. Bobbi Jo rushed for the water fountain while he fished the small bottle of pills out of his coat pocket. His hands fumbled with the childproof cap. Somehow he managed to get two pills to his mouth. Bobbi Jo was back with
a cup of water. He gulped it down, fully realizing what the pills would do to him. He breathed deeply while the pills worked their magic. The pain faded into the fog. He reached into his pocket and felt the cassette. Shaking, he handed it to Bobbi Jo. He fought for the right words, but all he could manage was “Listen alone.” The pain came roaring back, consuming him in agony. “Hospital,” he whispered.

Bobbi Jo punched at her cell phone while Grau went on the attack. “Failures on the diplomatic front have led to disaster on the Malaysian peninsula. Your win-hold-win strategy will not work, and the American Volunteer Group is little more than a blood offering, sacrificed on the altar of a failed strategy.” An audible gasp escaped from the audience at the blunt severity of his accusation.

Shaw raged to himself.
I didn’t see that one coming!
He struggled with the words, but nothing came out.

“It’s okay,” Bobbi Jo said. “The ambulance is on the way.”

Shaw turned his head to the stage. He could see Maddy talking, but he didn’t hear her words as the fog and pain claimed him.

The doors to the waiting room at Bethesda Naval Hospital swung open as four Secret Service agents led the way for the presidential party. The two doctors standing by the counter had been warned and were nervously waiting as the president rushed in. “How is he?” she asked.

“Stable,” the lead doctor said. “He’s heavily sedated.”

“How bad is it?”

The doctor shook his head. “We took a CAT scan. I don’t know how he hung on this long.”

“How long?”

“Days, maybe a week.”

“Can I see him?”

“Certainly. But I doubt if he’ll recognize you.” He held the door for her and led the way to Shaw’s room. “Other than make him comfortable, there’s not much we can do.”

“I know,” she said. She stood by the bed and gazed at him, her eyes moist. “Please,” she said, wanting to be alone. The
doctor nodded and closed the door. For a moment she didn’t move. Then she held his hand. “Oh, Patrick. I didn’t want it to end like this.” An eyelid moved as if it were trying to blink. “We’ve come a long way. I couldn’t have done this without you.” She felt a little squeeze, and her spirits soared. He was still with her! Of all the people she knew, Patrick Flannery Shaw was the least sentimental and given to self-pity. He was first, last, and always a political animal. That’s all he was. She started to talk, telling him what he wanted to hear.

“You should have been there for the end. I gave him the last word, and he walked right into it. Would you believe I’ve lost the war and there’s nothing but defeat left?” Again she felt a little pressure in her hand. Or was it a nervous reaction? “Oh, Patrick. You’re trying to tell me something. What is it?”

But there was no reaction, and he lay there, barely breathing.

Central Malaysia

Wednesday, October 6

The readout on his watch flicked to 1750. Tel held the radio to his lips. “Radio check.” A quick “One” and “Two” answered. “One, fire.” The dull
whomp
of a mortar shell reached him high in the tree as he trained his binoculars on the two bridges in the distance. He saw a flash and puff of smoke. “Long,” he radioed. “Decrease thirty.” A second
whomp
echoed over him. This time it hit the road.

“Two, fire.” He watched as the third round hit the road, less than ten meters from the second. Now he could see people scattering, running away from the bridges. “One and Two, fire for effect. Right traverse.” The air filled with thunder as the two mortar teams walked round after round down the road, toward the northern approaches to the two bridges. He focused on a truck as it accelerated onto the bridge and rammed its way into the people trying to make their way
across. More rounds slammed onto the approaches. “One, left traverse,” he ordered. Now half the rounds worked their way back to the north while the other half pounded at the bridge. In the distance he heard the A-10s.

The refugees on the bridge flowed off the southern end, leaving it clear. “Cease fire!” Tel commanded as a counterbattery round screamed overhead. “GO!” It was shoot and scoot, and they had to run for their lives. He dropped the line he had tied to the tree and rappelled down, hitting the ground running. Another round passed overhead and hit nearby. They were getting the range. He ran for the abandoned kampong. An A-10 passed overhead on its attack run, barely clearing the treetops.

A second A-10 crossed behind the first, only to disappear in a blinding flash of light. Tel never slowed as he ran.

Camp Alpha

Wednesday, October 6

Maggot was waiting when Bag taxied to a halt outside the shelter. The ground crew swarmed over the jet, inserting safety pins and hooking up a tow bar. In less than two minutes the A-10 was backed into the shelter and the big doors were cranking shut. A boarding ladder was placed against the right side of the cockpit, and the pilot climbed down. Halfway down the ladder he paused and looked at Maggot. He shook his head and dropped to the ground. A crew chief handed him his helmet. “She okay, sir?” he asked, wondering about the status of his jet. Bag gave a little nod in answer and headed toward Maggot. Together they walked into one of the rooms built into the shelter’s sidewall.

“What happened to Lurch?” Maggot asked.

“I don’t know. We turned inbound, he was a mile in trail. I could see the bridge. It was clear. I saw a flash at my deep six, and Skid called me off. I broke right and saw where he went in. Smoking hole in the ground. No chute. All things considered, it seemed like a good idea to abort the mission.”

They fell silent, waiting for the two pilots from the second flight, Skid and Waldo, to join them. Skid was the first to arrive. “I never saw what hit him,” he said.

Maggot tried to focus on what Bag and Skid said while a sergeant from Intelligence debriefed them on the mission. But he couldn’t get past two burning facts—he had lost a pilot and two aircraft under his command. He wanted to rationalize it, telling himself that it went with the territory, which all combat commanders had to deal with. But there was no escape. Finally the sergeant was finished. “Where’s Waldo?” he asked.

“Right here,” Waldo answered. He had walked over from the shelter where his Hog was parked, and his flight suit was streaked with sweat. “A SAM” was all he said, telling them that a surface-to-air missile had destroyed the Warthog and killed the pilot.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Bag shouted. “Lurch was in the weeds. What kinda SAM can do that?”

“I saw a rocket plume,” Waldo told him.

“Maybe one of the newer SA series,” Maggot said. The latest generation of Russian-built SAMs was reported to be good down to thirty feet. “If Russia sold the Chinese any.” He steeled himself for the coming messages. “We need to get an Op Rep out.” An Op Rep was an operations report detailing the results of a mission.

“Are we going back after the bridge?” Waldo asked.

Maggot hesitated. Then he shook his head.