She switched on her computer and read the latest intelligence summary issued by the DEA. It confirmed that the meeting with Chiang and the other two cartels was still in progress. Mazie chewed her lower lip and waddled down to the basement for a private chat with the DEA’s liaison officer. “How reliable is your source?” she asked the man.
“Pretty good,” he replied. “The PUSIO has an informant inside the Yakuza.” Mazie’s lips compressed into a thin line as he filled in the details. She was one of the few Americans who knew about the shadowy Japanese intelligence organization that carried the bulky name Public Security Investigation Office, or PUSIO for short, and hid in the Japanese Ministry of Justice. It was the Japanese equivalent of the CIA and produced excellent intelligence. The PUSIO had recently penetrated the Yakuza, the largest criminal organization in Japan, and had discovered that the Yakuza was considering joining Chiang’s consortium. At that point, PUSIO started cooperating with the DEA in an effort to stem the growing drug trade in Japan. The liaison had just paid a dividend.
Mazie picked up the phone and called Cagliari’s office for an immediate appointment the moment he returned from a meeting with the President. She hurried through the tunnel to the White House and was still puffing from the run when he walked into his office. Cagliari recognized the signs and told her to follow him into his private office. Mazie did not sit down and cut to the heart of the matter. “Chiang is going to execute at least two of the hostages, It could happen any time after tomorrow.”
Cagliari’s face turned to ice. “When did this come in?”
“Less than fifteen minutes ago.”
Cagliari asked the critical question. “Sources?” He stared at his hands and fought down an urge to scratch them as Mazie answered. “I’d feel much better about this if we had a second confirming source,” he said. Mazie only shook her head. Cagliari took a deep breath. “How do you rate the report?”
“It fits the picture,” she said. Then she added, “Sir, the PUSIO gave the DEA another item. The Yakuza are going international. They have plans to flood the market with below-cost, good-quality drugs to undercut their competition. Then once they’ve got the market cornered, to set the prices they want. But the DEA says the cartels won’t roll over and play dead for that. This could get very bloody.”
Cagliari frowned. “I’ll take it upstairs.” He meant down the hall and into the Oval Office.
The Capitol, Washington, D.C.
General Simon Mado was whistling a tuneless melody when he reached Courtland’s offices. The secretary told him he was expected and he pushed through the door into Courtland’s office. “Things are heating up,” he told the senator. “It looks like we’re going in after your daughter.” Courtland pulled a slight grimace but said nothing. “I can’t figure out exactly what’s going down,” Mado explained, “but there are two groups in on this. One is a large unified force in training at Eglin Air Force Base in Florida and the second is a small composite group deployed to Udorn in Thailand. That one looks like a repeat of Dragon Noire.”
Courtland thought for a moment. He supposed he wanted his daughter rescued and paid lip service to the idea. But at the rock bottom of his calculations lay one singular fact—he didn’t really like his daughter and only saw problems with her in the future, especially if he was successful in his quest for the presidency. And more than anything else, he wanted to be President of the United States. The idea planted months ago that a failed rescue attempt would rebound to his advantage had grown and was now bearing fruit. He fixed Mado with a hard look. “What chance of success do you give a rescue attempt now?”
Mado did not respond immediately. Courtland was his ticket to a fourth star and, if he read the signs right, to becoming the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. What a coup that would be. Promoted over at least seventy more senior generals to become the youngest Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. His ambition burned as hot as Courtland’s but every instinct he possessed shouted that the senator would dump him in a moment if his advice proved worthless in military matters. “I’d give the small group deployed in Thailand less than a twenty-five percent chance of pulling off a rescue. As for the large group at Eglin, even less. It has the mass and firepower to wipe Chiang off the face of the earth, but it cannot get into the compound fast enough to rescue the hostages before the guards shoot them.”
The senator could live with that. “Perhaps our best course of action is to see how this plays out,” he said. Then another thought occurred to him. He hit a button on his intercom panel and summoned an aide. In a few moments, Tina Stanley walked into the room. “Tina,” Courtland said, “I’d like you to get in contact with one of your, ah, more reliable journalist friends. Have General Mado provide some deep background on what’s going down, very deep background.” He meant the leak had to be buried deep and not traceable to him.
Udorn, Thailand
The rain sheeted down, drenching the two men, seeping inside every opening in their ponchos, soaking them to the skin. “I wonder why we even wear these damn things,” Mackay muttered. It was his first experience with the full-blown fury of an Asian monsoon and he could hardly credit the force of the rain as it dumped on the airfield at Udorn, Thailand.
Kamigami didn’t answer and hunched against the downpour, maintaining an even pace as they headed for the building where Mallard and Trimler had set up a temporary command post. He had experienced the monsoon years before when he was a seventeen-year-old private, newly enlisted in the Army and on his first tour in South Vietnam. He didn’t recall it being as bad. Since the visibility was the same then as now, he chalked it up to old age. They stomped their way into the building and shed their ponchos.
A very wet E-Squared burst through the door followed by a half-drowned Gillespie. “My God,” E-Squared laughed, “talk about a two-cunted cow pissing on a flat rock!”
“Can you take a C-One-thirty off in this?” Mackay asked.
E-Squared looked out a window and studied the rain. “I can launch between the breaks. Don’t know about shooting an approach and landing in this shit though. It’s pretty heavy.” Gillespie said nothing and followed the three older men into the command post.
Inside, Trimler handed Mackay the yellow copy of a message stamped “Secret” at the top and bottom. It was an execute order by the authority and direction of the secretary of defense. It was the first one that Mackay had seen. “I know we need the weather on our side,” Trimler said, “but this is too much. Colonel Mallard is on the SatCom right now explaining the situation to the NMCC.”
They were joined a few moments later by a worried-looking Mallard. “It’s pretty simple,” he explained. “Recent intelligence indicates that Chiang is going to execute the hostages. They think he’s lost his marbles. They agree that the weather is bad but it will give us the cover we need to move into position.” He looked at them. “Since I’m the mission commander, the ball is in my court. If I think we can hack the weather, we go. Your thoughts, please.”
It was a council of war. Only this time the men who were the cutting edge were making the decision, not some old men safe in their comfortable chairs in a warm and snug office. Trimler’s lips compressed into a hard line and he said nothing.
“We can launch the C-One-thirties,” E-Squared said.
“Can the helicopters hack it?” Mallard asked. He was looking directly at Gillespie. It was an awesome responsibility to lay on a young captain.
Gillespie hesitated. Then: “Yes, sir. We can insert the teams.”
“Colonel Mackay, can the teams move into position in this rain once they are on the ground?” Mallard asked.
The tall black man moved to the window and stared at the driving rain. The reasoning behind the order made sense—it was the cover they needed to gain the element of surprise. But the deluge belting down from the heavy clouds was much worse than he had expected. He didn’t like what that did to their chances of success. During the buildup they had never practiced in the rain for one
simple reason—it hadn’t rained. Now the rain was the critical element. He wanted to shout “How should I know!” But that option was denied him. Now the lives of his men depended on his judgement. His voice betrayed none of his doubts when he said, “I think we can do it.” A slight smile flickered across Kamigami’s lips.
Mallard looked at Trimler, his ground commander. Now he had to commit. “I agree with Colonel Mackay, we should be able to do it. If our intelligence is correct, we don’t have a choice.”
The burden of command now came squarely onto Mallard’s shoulders. The final decision was his to make. “We go” was all he said. He left to relay the decision over the SatCom to the NMCC.
Kamigami joined Mackay by the window as they waited. “It’s a good decision,” the CSM told him.
“We’ve got to tell the teams to get ready,” Mackay allowed. He fell silent, thinking. “Aren’t you worried?” he finally asked.
Kamigami’s answer was a simple “I’m worried.” The sergeant was an inarticulate man and could not tell Mackay about the deadly virus known as doubt and how it affects combat readiness. He had done all he could and now they had to enter the crucible of combat for the final test. “I’ll tell the captains to get their teams ready,” he said.
“It’s getting worse,” Gillespie said to the Beezer and E-Squared. They were standing inside a hanger less than two hundred feet from the helicopter he would fly. The driving rain had obscured the taxipath leading to the runway and his aircraft was fading in and out of the rain.
“Visibility is too damn low,” E-Squared grunted. “Way below minimums.” He judged the forward visibility to be less than three hundred feet and he was having second thoughts.
“What’s this?” the Beezer said, a mock-concern in his voice. “A belated worry over weather minimums? Getting too old to hack it?”
“Air off,” E-Squared shot back. He didn’t feel like taking any flak from his old friend.
“I remember when weather minimums were just an excuse for not flying when you were hung over,” the Beezer said. Then he grinned at Gillespie. “The boy must be getting old.”
“For Christ’s sake,” E-Squared groused, “knock it off.”
But the Beezer was relentless. “Do you suppose it’s because he just got engaged? He wants to make an honest woman out of the poor woman….”
“Hey,” Gillespie interrupted, “that’s great. Congratulations. Who’s the lucky—”
“Lieutenant Colonel Leanne Vokel,” the Beezer told him.
“Our Intel officer?” Gillespie couldn’t believe it. He had always thought they were good-natured rivals.
“Yep,” the Beezer replied. “He did the deed last night. I can just see it now, the oldest pregnant lieutenant colonel in the Air Force. Sure you’re up to fatherhood?”
Gillespie half-listened to the two men banter as he watched Delta Force start to load his helicopter. The rain momentarily slackened and he saw the SAS captain, Peter Woodward, climb on board the second helicopter farther down the ramp. It must be some screw-up, Gillespie thought; Woodward isn’t a player on this. Then he remembered how the SAS captain had always traveled on a backup helicopter during training. It would be an easy matter to sort out.
Before he could say anything, E-Squared said, “It’s almost block time. Got to kick the tires and light the fires.” Then he turned and whispered to Gillespie, “You didn’t see what you thought you saw” before he walked rapidly into the rain, heading for his MC-130.
The Beezer watched him go. “He is one crock of shit,” the gunship pilot grumbled good-naturedly. Gillespie pulled on his poncho to make the dash to his helicopter. The Beezer grabbed him by the arm. “Tell Kamigami what you didn’t see. He’s the only one who needs to know.”
The White House, Washington, D.C.
WAIT:
OPERATION JERICHO
flashed on the big video display screen at the far end of the Situation Room in the basement of the White House. A message was coming in. Pontowski tried to relax into his comfortable chair but his restless mind would not allow him that luxury and too many old memories kept demanding his attention. Fifty years before he had been in a similar position and he knew what he was ordering this new generation of young men to do. Jericho! The name he had given the operation kept pounding at him, not letting him rest.
He remembered the time when he had sat in the cramped cockpit of a Mosquito with Ruffy, waiting for a break in the weather to launch. A fleeting image of his friend flashed across his memory, still sharp and clear. Again he felt the same building tension, the worry that clamped his chest with a viselike grip when he had time to confront his own mortality. It was all back, even the slightly coppery taste in his mouth and the urge for action. Normally, he was a very patient man—another gift of age—but now he itched for movement to break the tension, the same as then.
But he did nothing and, like then, he waited.
Words flashed on the screen.
OPERATION JERICHO
LAUNCH AT 1430 ZULU
LANDING ZONE TIME: 1720 ZULU
With no conscious effort, Pontowski translated the first time, 1430 Zulu, which was Greenwich mean time, into local time in Thailand and Washington, D.C. It was 2130, or nine-thirty in the evening in Thailand, and 0930, nine-thirty in the morning in Washington—exactly twelve hours’ difference. “What’s the weather like?” he asked.
The Army colonel who ran the Situation Room when military operations were under way spoke into the boom mike on his headset and the screen flashed, this time displaying a weather map. The monitor on the left side of the big screen scrolled up and a detailed readout of the weather appeared. “Ceiling less than one hundred feet, forward visibility one sixteenth of a mile,” Leo Cox, his chief of staff, read out. “My God,” he added, awe in his voice, “that’s little more than a football field.”
It all had meaning for Pontowski. He knew what it was like to fly at low level in weather like that. He could remember the constant jolting and twisting as the aircraft banged about, the dryness in your mouth, the sweat, and the chafing of your beard’s stubble under the oxygen mask. Jericho!
“Well, Leo,” he said, pushing himself to his feet, “there’s nothing we can do but wait now.”
“The hardest part,” Cox conceded.
“I’d like to monitor Jericho when it goes down,” Pontowski said.
“The Battle Staff at the NMCC will be fully manned until the helicopters have landed and gone into hiding,” Cox explained. “After that, the Battle Staff will be reduced and a general will monitor the situation until the attack starts. You can bet they’ll all be back then. Where would you prefer to be?”
“I’ll be here,” Pontowski said. “I want Mike Cagliari in the NMCC when it goes down. Have him talking directly to the generals and experts. Have Bobby Burke there, too.” He thought for a moment. “In the meantime, I’d like Mazie Kamigami to monitor things from this end.” Cox raised an eyebrow at this. “She’s got her head screwed on straight and probably knows more of the big picture than anyone else,” Pontowski explained.
“Mr. President, why did you change the name of the operation to Jericho?” Cox asked. He was keeping a daily journal of his tour as the President’s chief of staff and planned to publish his own account. He already had a title, “A Time of Honor.”
“Since we’re blowing some walls down, it seemed appropriate.” And, he mentally added, like I did in World War Two on my own Jericho. Silence came down in the room.
The Army colonel spoke into his boom mike again, paused, and then said, “Sir, you have a message from Dr. Smithson at Bethesda. He says your wife is awake and requests your presence, if possible.”
Pontowski rose to his feet, suddenly feeling tired and very old. Smithson might be an ass but he would only have sent that message if Tosh had taken a turn for the worse. A bitter panic touched his heart when he thought that this might be the last time he would ever speak to his wife. “I’m going to the hospital,”
he said. Cox followed him out of the room. “History won’t let us go,” the President told him, “and keeps repeating itself, reminding us that human condition hasn’t changed. I just wish it would let up on me.” But he knew it wasn’t to be; his past was his fate and now he would have to experience it all again, reliving that day in February of 1944.
1944
RAF Hunsdon, Hertfordshire, England
What will the censor do to this? Zack mused, thinking of the pompous officer who read all the mail leaving RAF Hunsdon. Zack was sitting in the reading room of the officers mess writing a letter to Willi. They had not seen each other since he had flown out of Manston after K for King had been repaired. But not before they had spent one more night together. The room she had found for them over a pub had been much more comfortable than the lighthouse and the negligee she had produced from her bag had been a work of art. He had no idea that clothes could be so provocative. The next day she had seen him and Ruffy off to their new base at Hunsdon with a cheery good-bye. Two days later her first letter arrived and they started an almost daily correspondence. Not even the war had diminished the efficiency of the Royal Mail. Her last four-page letter had sent scorching shivers through the lower regions of his body and he wanted to get an answer in the mail immediately—before she changed her mind. Her last word had been “hurry,” and he wanted to do exactly that.
He wrote:
After reading your last letter, I am surprised that the envelope was not singed. You English have a much maligned reputation when it comes to I’amour and give nothing away to the French. I’m going to keep your letters and see that they are published a hundred years from now. They will give new meaning to the term “the good old days.” But we must protect the innocent—namely me—for now.
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