The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  A uniformed Secret Service agent arrived and escorted Pontowski inside. It still looks the same, he thought, remembering the last time he had been in the building, eight years before. We were putting the AVG together then. The elevator stopped at the third floor, and the doors swooshed open. The highly polished black-and-white marble floor stretched out in front of him. “Just like old times,” he told his escort. They walked down the hall to the national security adviser’s corner office overlooking the White House.

  Mazie was waiting for him. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

  “Why all the secrecy?” he asked.

  She glanced at his escort and didn’t answer. He got the message—the reason for his summons from Patrick Flannery Shaw would have to wait. Mazie gathered up her briefcase and headed out the door with a brisk “Come.” They took another elevator to the basement and went through a series of checkpoints as they walked the tunnel leading to the White House.

  “Okay, what’s going down?” he asked.

  Mazie glanced at the people around them. “Personal problems,” she said in a low voice. When they reached the basement of the West Wing, she turned into the Situation Room.

  Shaw was waiting for them. A relieved look spread across his face. “You need an update before we see the president.” He motioned at the duty officer sitting at a workstation against the sidewall. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he called up a situation map on the big monitor. “King Khalid Military City fell three hours ago,” Shaw said, “and we’re falling back toward Riyadh.”

  Pontowski studied the map for a moment. “It’s bad,” he said. “But it could be worse.”

  “How?” Mazie asked.

  “They haven’t broken out or flanked us. Our line is intact, and given the slowness of their advance, I suspect they’re paying a heavy price.”

  Shaw made a decision. “You need to talk to the president. Now.” Pontowski blinked at the worried tone in his voice. Was Shaw, Washington’s political wizard, losing it under the pressure of war? Shaw turned to the duty officer. “Call for an escort.” Pontowski arched an eyebrow at the tight security. “You haven’t heard,” Shaw said. “The FBI rolled up four terrorist groups in D.C. yesterday. Deep sleepers.”

  “The way a poor man fights a war,” Pontowski said.

  Shaw snorted. “One group had five canisters of sarin nerve gas and detailed maps of the subway system.” He paused. “And of the White House.” Their escort led them to the elevator, and it was obvious neither Shaw nor Mazie was going to talk about the reason for his summons within earshot of another person. They rode the elevator in silence to the second floor. A Secret Service agent checked Mazie’s briefcase and ran a wand over all of them before allowing them to proceed. Pontowski counted five Secret Service agents along with two armed Marines and a Navy lieutenant commander who was sitting in the hall. As expected, the Navy officer had the football, the soft leather briefcase containing the nuclear launch codes, chained to his wrist. There was no doubt that the White House was an armed camp. “Are you ready?” Mazie asked. Pontowski steeled himself, fully expecting to find a devastated president, perhaps on the edge of collapse.

  He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Madeline Turner was pacing the floor in front of the fireplace like a caged tiger. Her chief of staff, Richard Parrish, Vice President Sam Kennett, and the secretary of defense, Robert Merritt, had all taken defensive positions well away from her line of fire. She moved with a quick, feline grace as she turned to Pontowski. Her brown eyes were clear and flashed with determination. “Matt, what brings you here?”

  Before he could answer, Shaw said, “I asked him.”

  She whirled on Shaw, and they stared at each other, some form of unspoken communication between them. A little of the fire seemed to drain from her. She crossed her arms and hugged herself as she turned, focusing on the fireplace. “Did you see how they executed those three prisoners?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “And they had the audacity to show it on TV! Not to mention a car bomber headed directly for Reagan International. And sarin! Right here! They were going to use it on innocent people! I won’t have it! I simply won’t have it!”

  “Madam President,” Kennett said, “a nuclear response is not appropriate at this time.”

  Pontowski was stunned, and he stood there, not sure what to think, much less say. Silence held the room as the president resumed her pacing. Then he saw it. She was venting her anger and frustration—but she was in total control. “Madam President,” Pontowski ventured, testing the waters, “if we start creating parking lots in the Middle East, who knows what the terrorists here will do.”

  “And just what can they do?”

  “Detonate a nuke.” He paused to let it sink in. “The FBI needs time to roll them up. Give it to them.”

  Mazie sensed rather than saw a slight change in the president’s mood and shot Shaw a look. “Mrs. President,” Shaw said, “we all need a short break.” On cue, her advisers stood and filed out, leaving Pontowski and the president alone. Mazie was the last out and closed the door behind her.

  Maddy turned to face him. “Oh, Matt, it was terrible. Thank God our media edited the tape. But I saw it all. The Iraqis actually showed the beheading on TV.”

  Now Pontowski understood. “It was meant to be horrible,” he told her.

  “But why? They were prisoners.”

  “From their point of view it made sense. Remember all the coverage of Iraqi soldiers surrendering in the Gulf War? This was payback and geared to inspire their soldiers.”

  She was incredulous. “Inspire?”

  “That’s the way they think. Also, they wanted to intimidate us.”

  Her back grew rigid. “Well, they thought wrong!”

  “By our standards they’re not rational.”

  “Rational or not, if—”

  He interrupted her. “We hit them with our strength and they hit us where we’re vulnerable. It’s called asymmetrical warfare.”

  She glared at him. “I will respond with force. They must know that.”

  “They fully expect you will. But they’re betting you won’t go nuclear.”

  “Why?”

  “We’d pay too high a price with our allies and world opinion.” He paused. “Are you willing to create a nuclear Armageddon, level three nations, maybe destroy Israel in the process, in retaliation for a few thousand American deaths?”

  She looked at him, and every bit of her humanity was on full display. Of all things, Madeline O’Keith Turner was not prepared to be a wartime president and had never steeled herself for the reality of what it entailed. Despite that, she stood in front of him alone and defiant, not about to collapse, not needing comfort or a refuge.

  Pontowski gave a little humph. “I could use a drink.” She stared at him, not believing he’d said that. “Coffee.” She shook her head, her mood broken, and buzzed the steward. The steward carried in a tray and quickly retreated. Pontowski poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her. She took a sip and sat down while he poured one for himself. “After you’ve heard all the options, set clear objectives for the military, but don’t—”

  She interrupted. “But don’t micromanage operations. I’ve been through that with General Wilding.”

  “You can trust Wilding. Merritt I don’t know about. But you’ve also got to give Wilding the means to win the war. Big emphasis on ‘win’ here. That’s where Congress comes in. I assume you’re talking to them.”

  Her head came up. “Congress starts consideration on a bill funding the war tomorrow.”

  “With Senator Leland leading the opposition,” Pontowski added.

  “He’s so damn partisan,” she said. “Patrick says he’d do anything to see his boy Grau win in November.” She gave a little shudder. “I need to put him in a box.”

  “Show Congress the unedited TV tape of the execution. Take the high ground and turn it into a Pearl Harbor or World Trade Center.”

  “But what if the p
arents or spouses see it? You know there is at least one bastard who will leak it. I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “You’ve got to beat the average congressmen over the head to get them focused,” he told her. “How often do they quit playing politics and do the right thing?”

  “Not often,” she said. “You mentioned options and objectives. Mazie and the ExCom are doing a good job with that.”

  Pontowski gave a little shake of his head. “Mazie will do whatever you ask and is totally reliable. But she’s so rational and loyal that she may not be able to consider the unthinkable, which is exactly what you need to know. You’ve got this big bureaucracy at your beck and call, which has a lot of talent and brains. Make it work for you. Call your advisers in and tell them you want six options, with consequences, about how to conduct the war. Two that are the easiest; two that make the most sense, given the players and means available; and two that are totally out of the box.”

  “What do I do if they detonate a nuclear weapon?”

  “You want six more options. Now. Before it happens.”

  She set down her coffee cup and stood. “Where did you learn all this?”

  “I had a good teacher.”

  “Your grandfather.”

  “Well, he did have a clue.”

  Maddy walked to the door to call in her advisers. “Matt, thank you for coming, but…”

  He gave a little smile. “I know. You’ve got a war to run, and you don’t need me around to complicate things with the media.”

  “It won’t always be this way,” she promised. She reached out and touched his cheek.

  He touched her hand. “Better not.” Then he was gone. The president stared at the open door as her advisers filed in again.

  Outside, Bernie Butler escorted Pontowski back to the Situation Room. “Matt, you were in Israel the last time the Israelis and Arabs went at each other. I’m worried the Israelis might get involved. If you’ve got some time, would you mind taking a more detailed look at the situation?”

  “Can do,” Pontowski said, a little too eagerly. It had been a long time since he’d had access to current intelligence. He gave Butler a sideways look. “What are the Boys telling you?”

  “They don’t like all the signals they’re seeing. But nothing concrete.”

  “I’ll take a look,” Pontowski told him. Butler cleared him into the Situation Room, and the duty officer called up the current intelligence summary for the Middle East. While Pontowski read, Butler waited patiently and soon dozed off. He hadn’t slept in over thirty hours. When Pontowski finished with the Middle East, he glanced at Butler, saw that he was asleep, and decided to go fishing. What the hell? They can only say no. He asked to see the summary for Russia. Since Pontowski had been in before with Shaw and the national security adviser, the duty officer simply gave it to him. There was nothing of interest, although the Russian economy was showing signs of growing stability. “Latin America.” Again the screen scrolled with the latest intelligence summaries. The drug lords were effectively consolidating their political power. “China,” he said. The duty officer pulled up the most current summary for him to read. Something started to scratch at the back of his mind, but nothing came into focus. He rapidly scanned India and Pakistan. But the itch refused to go away. “Southeast Asia,” he said, about ready to give it up. The screen scrolled, and again he read. “What the hell is this?” he said, reading a report about recent disturbances in eastern Malaysia.

  Butler came awake, and Pontowski pointed to the report. Butler’s eyebrows furled into a worry line as he read. “We’re seeing conflicts like this everywhere. At last count forty-four this year alone have reached the level of what we class as ethnic war.” He changed the subject. “So what’s your take on the Middle East? Do you think Israel is coming in?”

  “Not at this time,” Pontowski replied. “But I keep wondering why the UIF aired that tape on TV. It’s almost like they wanted us to see it and overreact.”

  Butler shook his head. “They don’t think like we do.”

  New Mexico Military Institute

  Wednesday, September 8

  Brian Turner rolled over in his bunk, which was built into the overhead above his desk, and looked directly into his best friend’s face. “Sumbitch,” he muttered, turning back over, not wanting any trouble from one of New Mexico Military Institute’s TLAs, or training and leadership advisers.

  “Get your lazy ass moving,” Zack Pontowski said in a low voice.

  “Don’t need ten more D’s for missing a bed check,” Brian mumbled. A D was a demerit, and each one meant he was restricted to post until he walked off a fifty-minute punishment tour. “Go back to bed. Wait for reveille.”

  Zack ripped the blankets away. “It’s on TV,” he said. “Live coverage.” Zack had no trouble dragging him out and depositing him on his feet. “You don’t want to miss this,” he promised.

  “Sumbitch,” Brian growled. “I can remember when you needed a ladder to reach the freakin’ washbasin and couldn’t lift anything heavier than your pecker.”

  “Things change,” Zack said. It was true. He was taller than Brian and outweighed him by ten pounds.

  “Knock it off,” Brian’s roommate said, now also fully awake. “What’s up?”

  “They got live coverage from the Gulf on the TV in JRT,” Zack said. JRT was John Ross Thomas Hall, where the cadet lounge was located. “Let’s go.”

  “Shee-it,” Brian’s roommate said. “I just got off restriction. No way I’m missin’ a bed check.” He rolled over and went back to sleep as Brian hurriedly dressed in the dark.

  The two cadets slipped out of the room and hurried down the stoop to the stairs. Without a word a Secret Service agent trailed after them. They heard him report in with a curt “Merlin’s moving.” “Merlin” was the code word a Department of Defense computer had cranked out for Brian when his mother assumed the presidency of the United States. They slipped through the deep shadows as they made their way to JRT, which was lit up like a Christmas tree. The TLA who had the night duty saw them immediately and waved them inside, where forty or so upperclassmen were clustered around the big TV set.

  A scene straight out of hell was on the screen. Men were running as explosions ripped the ground. A Humvee disappeared in a fireball as the camera captured a T-72 main battle tank firing at point-blank range. A wire-guided antitank missile streaked overhead, missing the tank and slamming into an eight-wheeled armored personnel carrier. “Christ,” the TLA said. “That’s a BTR-60. Those fuckers are mobile.”

  On the TV the voice of a woman reporter could be heard shouting above noise. “A tank has broken through—” The clatter of heavy machine-gun fire cut her off as the camera swung around. The woman was lying in a crumpled heap in a shallow depression behind a burned-out Land Rover. The words press corps could still be seen on the scorched paint. The tank fired again, and the Land Rover disintegrated. Now the cameraman was running, his camera still on. Men were streaming out the back of the disabled BTR-60 as the cannon on the tank lowered, then lifted.

  “The T-72,” the TLA explained, trying to be the cool professional, “lowers the cannon muzzle to eject the spent shell casing, then raises the muzzle to autoload a fresh round.” The cadets watched in horror as the barrel started to come down, directly toward the running cameraman. Another Humvee raced into view, crossing in front of the cameraman. The soldier manning the TOW wire-guided antitank missile mounted on top of the Humvee swung it around and fired. The missile leaped out of the tube and headed for the tank as the cannon’s muzzle dropped. The cadets held their breath as the duel played out. The missile hit the turret just as the cannon fired. The sound of the cannon round passing inches above the cameraman’s head filled the room as the tank exploded.

  “That is one lucky dude,” the TLA said. Again the camera swung, and the woman reporter was up and running, her Kevlar vest in tatters, her helmet gone. She jumped into a ditch as another much heavier, and slower-sounding,
machine gun swept the field, ripping apart the soldiers from the BTR-60. The TLA breathed easier. “That’s an MK-19 grenade machine gun doing the damage,” he explained. “It fires a forty-millimeter, high-explosive, dual-purpose round. We’re talking industrial-strength deterrence here.” Suddenly the scene was silent as the cadets erupted in cheers. The TLA took a deep breath. “I got to tell you, I was in the Gulf in ’91 and never saw action like that.”

  Zack looked at Brian. “We’re gonna miss it,” he said in a low voice.

  The TLA worked his way through the cadets to the TV. “Gentlemen, you are indeed fortunate that I suffer from poor night vision. I’m gonna turn off the TV, and when I’m finished with this laborious and time-consuming task, I hope to hell this room is vacant and that I find you all safe as bugs in a rug in your bunks.”

  It was, and he did.

  Lackland Air Force Base

  Wednesday, September 8

  The two sergeants waiting inside the 341st Training Squadron’s orderly room jumped to their feet when Rockne walked in. “Thanks for coming down, Chief,” Tech Sergeant Paul Travis said. “I believe you know Staff Sergeant Jake Osburn.” The men shook hands all around. “The squadron deployed this morning to backfill for units headed for the Gulf,” Paul told Rockne. “There’s only four of us left, and we can sure use some help around here.”

  “Who are the other two?” Rockne asked.

  “Staff Sergeant Jessica Maul,” Paul replied. “She was a no-show for the deployment. The other is Airman First Class Cindy Cloggins. She’s your admin clerk.”

  “A real bimbo,” Jake muttered.

  Paul gave him a long look. “She’s just young. She’s doing okay and will make a good cop.”