The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  “Let’s get to work,” Rockne said. Travis nodded and escorted him into the administration section.

  Cindy Cloggins jumped to her feet, not quite as frightened as the last time she had met Rockne. “Good afternoon, Chief.”

  “You remembered,” Rockne said. Cindy Cloggins gave a little nod and relaxed. “I need to speak to Sergeant Maul,” he told her.

  “I haven’t seen her today, Chief,” Cindy replied.

  Rockne stared at her. “The squadron deploys, and she’s still not here?” he said. It wasn’t meant to be a question. “Find her.” He turned and walked into his new office.

  Rockne was on the phone when a young woman knocked on his door. “Chief Rockne,” she said, out of breath. “No excuse, but I’m ready to go now.”

  He read her nametag. “Staff Sergeant Maul—as in shopping mall?”

  Jessica grimaced at the play on her name. “That’s correct, Chief.”

  “Why did you miss the deployment?” he asked.

  “My asshole husband changed his mind and said he wasn’t gonna baby-sit while I was gone. It took me some time to sort it out.”

  “And?”

  “He changed his mind. Which he won’t do again.”

  Rockne liked the determined look on her face. “I imagine he won’t.”

  “Are we going to the Gulf?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  A frown crossed Jessica’s pretty face. “Damn.”

  “As of now,” Rockne told her, “you’re the acting kennel master.”

  Jessica brightened. “I can do that.”

  “My dog’s in my pickup out front. Please put her in the kennel.”

  She smiled broadly. “I know Boyca.”

  Washington, D.C.

  Wednesday, September 8

  President Turner escorted Senator Leland into the Situation Room. “We try to keep these briefings short,” she explained as she sat down. She had invited Leland to the White House to meet with the ExCom in the hope of moderating his opposition before the politics of waging a war divided Congress into the hawks and the doves.

  Patrick Shaw stood and offered his seat to the senator. “Glad you could make it, Senator.” He stood against the wall, thankful that Leland was not at his back. Can’t trust that bastard at all, he thought.

  Turner nodded at Colonel Scovill, the Marine briefer who was standing in front of the computer-driven monitors. His voice was under strict control as he started the briefing. “Madam President, we have the results of last night’s missions over Baghdad. As of now every bridge over the Tigris River in the city is down and all electrical power is off. Only the water system remains untouched.” He allowed a tight smile. “I can reconfirm that all aircraft returned undamaged.”

  “The French,” Leland said, “claim we bombed Saddam Hussein’s palace. Is that true, and if it is, isn’t that a violation of the Geneva Convention?”

  “Yes to the first question and no to the second,” the colonel answered. From the frown on Leland’s face, it wasn’t the answer he wanted.

  “Do you have the details?” Turner asked.

  Scovill managed to keep a straight face as he spoke. “Yes, ma’am, we do. But the language is a bit—” He paused, searching for the right words. “—shall we say risqué.”

  “I’m quite sure we’re all adult,” Turner replied.

  A little grin played on the Marine’s lips. “Yes, ma’am.” He keyed the remote control in his right hand, and the monitor on the left came to life. “This is the unedited target video from the F-117 Stealth fighter that bombed Saddam’s main palace.”

  A greenish image filled the screen, and the pilot’s voice could be heard as he described the bomb run. “There’s the Tigris,” the pilot said. He laid the crosshairs on a bridge spanning the river. “The Jumhuiya Bridge. Follow the main boulevard to the southwest…there’s the government conference center…which points to the palace. All checks with the GPS.” The image was unbelievably sharp as he positioned the crosshairs over the huge doors that led into the main entrance hall. A light flashed at the bottom of the screen. “Bomb gone,” the pilot said in a conversational tone. Nothing betrayed the fact that he was deep over hostile territory.

  “Please note the time-to-go timer in the lower right-hand corner of the screen,” Scovill said. “When it reaches zero, the bomb will impact on the crosshairs.” Silence held the room in thrall as the seconds counted down. The crosshairs on the screen never moved from the big doors as the pilot flew an arc around the palace. When the timer touched four, the pilot said, “Knock-knock, muthafucker.” The bomb flew through the door and into the main hall. The screen mushroomed as the bomb detonated, and then it went blank.

  Shaw let out a loud guffaw as Leland came to his feet. “That’s not funny!” Leland roared. “How can we protect innocent civilians when our pilots have that kind of attitude? I want that pilot court-martialed and made an example of.” He stood there, his jowls quivering as the room echoed with his fury. “Do not misjudge me on this,” he warned. He spun around and stormed out of the room.

  “Must’ve been something the good senator et,” Shaw muttered in his best Texas accent as he sat down in the empty chair.

  Turner shook her head. “Well, I tried. Do we have a problem here?”

  “Only if you court-martial the pilot,” General Wilding replied.

  “How so?” Turner asked.

  “We’ll have sent the wrong message about mission accomplishment,” Wilding said.

  “Court-martial any pilot for hitting his assigned target,” Butler added, “and half the pilots will abort for mechanical problems before they even take off. The other half will be hard-pressed to find their targets, and we’ll be lucky to see ten percent of our bombs on target. Even then not one will press the envelope.”

  “What does that mean?” Turner asked.

  “They won’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  “Isn’t that a form of mutiny?”

  “Call it what you will,” Butler answered, a rare emotion in his voice. “But it is human nature. If we order them into combat, we had damn well better back them up.”

  “Are you suggesting I give him a medal?”

  “It’s worth thinking about,” Butler replied.

  Turner nodded. Then, “I do worry about civilian casualties. Do we have any idea? Leland will make it an issue.”

  The Marine thought for a moment before answering. “The Iraqis claim we’ve killed over five thousand civilians and wounded thousands more. We’re monitoring their hospitals and have noticed a nominal increase in activity, but nothing that supports the casualties they claim. The hospitals are certainly not swamped, and for the most part it’s business as usual. We do expect to see more activity when casualties are brought in from the fighting in Saudi Arabia.”

  “If they can get across the river,” Turner added.

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s correct.”

  The president arched an eyebrow in Shaw’s direction—his cue to leave. “Ah,” he groused, “the dreaded executive session.” He ambled back to his corner office in the West Wing and sifted through the stack of notes and telephone memos on his desk. One note caught his attention, and an hour later he told his secretary that he was going to his favorite restaurant, four blocks away, before it closed for the evening.

  As expected, the young lady was waiting for him in the bar. They chatted for a few moments before the maître d’ escorted them to a table in a far corner of the dining room. “Well, love, anything exciting going on in the wonderful world where you seem to spend most of your days?”

  “You know I can’t talk about that,” she murmured. He nodded, accepting the truth of it. She worked in the bowels of the National Security Agency and specialized in monitoring electronic communications—of which sort, Shaw had no idea. He felt her hand on his knee and reached for it, covering it with his own. Then he withdrew his hand and dropped the cassette tape into his pocket.

  They spent the next
hour in idle chatter as they savored the exquisite meal. “Well, love, I’ve got to return to the dungeon. War to win and all that good stuff.”

  “Patrick,” she asked, “what exactly do you do?”

  He smiled at her. “Whatever needs doin’.” He called for the bill and headed back to the White House. Once in his office, he fished the cassette out of his pocket and examined it. The slickly printed label announced executive escorts for your listening pleasure. He dropped the cassette into a player and leaned back to listen as a woman’s sexy voice announced the discreet pleasures offered by some of Washington’s most beautiful and captivating ladies. His dinner companion’s voice cut in and said, “Recorded today at five twenty-two p.m.”

  A man’s voice with a heavy French accent said, “What exactly do you have in mind?”

  Leland’s voice replied, “You brokering a cease-fire.”

  The French voice answered, “We can do that.”

  His dinner companion’s voice was back. “If you would like to learn more, please give me a call.” The tape ended. Shaw gave a loud sigh and dialed a number. His dinner companion answered on the first ring. “I thought you’d be interested.”

  “How much?” Shaw asked.

  “Five thousand.”

  Now who’s the hooker? Shaw thought. He knew the risks she was taking using the National Security Agency’s super-classified equipment to monitor phone calls in the United States. It was worth twenty years in Leavenworth. But, more important, did he want to take the risk? He decided he didn’t. “Later, doll.”

  “I’ll be here,” she cooed, “if you change your mind.”

  Ten

  The Plains of Pahang, Malaysia

  Thursday, September 9

  The tour bus was within walking distance of Mentakab, a small town on the Jungle Railway, when the engine coughed and sputtered. The driver nursed the bus over to the side of the road and radioed the lead bus, which quickly turned around. After talking to the two drivers, the tour leader called for a replacement bus and tried to make the best of it by reorganizing the sixty-seven people under her care.

  While most of the young couples from Singapore explored what few attractions Mentakab had to offer, she discussed the problem with the older man who seemed to be the nominal leader of the group. She beamed and tossed her hair as they talked, all for the benefit of the man’s son, a very attractive and physically fit young man about her age. She was glad she had brought her thong bikini to wear on the beach. After discussing the situation and delays involved—the replacement bus wouldn’t arrive until midnight—it was decided to split the group. The wives would go on ahead to Kuantan on the eastern coast and check into the luxury hotel they had booked for the weekend.

  The tour guide was surprised at how easily the men reloaded the baggage, throwing heavy suitcases and bags of sports equipment around with ease. She smiled as the young wives said good-bye and boarded the first bus. “Are they honeymooners?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t call them that,” the older man said. “But they haven’t been married long.” The tour guide was the last to board and waved as the bus pulled onto the highway. An odd thought struck her as she looked at the men waving back. They all seemed relieved that their wives had gone on ahead.

  The relief bus arrived after midnight, pulled up behind the disabled bus, and turned off all its lights. Eight men slipped off the disabled bus in total darkness and fanned out to ensure that the area was clear. One by one they checked in on their pocket-size, short-range radios. Their voices were low and barely audible as they reported the area clear. The rest of the men then streamed off the bus, and the baggage doors of both buses were quickly opened. A service light came on. It was quickly extinguished, but not before it illuminated a strange scene. All the men were dressed in dark green jungle fatigues and wearing combat boots. Their faces were streaked with camouflage paint, and they moved with a ghostly silence.

  Heavily laden bergens were passed out and bags ripped open to reveal a variety of small arms and assorted ammunition pouches and bandoliers. Within minutes the men had their night-vision goggles on as they loaded up.

  Kamigami handed Tel a Minimi light machine gun along with three ammo boxes of two hundred rounds and six thirty-round magazines. It was an awesome amount of firepower, and the light weapon could be used as a rifle in an attack. “You know how to use this?” Tel nodded in answer. “Good. I want the radio operator right behind me and you right behind him.” While Tel shouldered his load, Kamigami spoke to the man carrying the patrol radio, a PRC319 set capable of sending and receiving short-burst encrypted messages. Satisfied that he was in contact with his four eight-man teams and that they had all adapted to night vision, he ordered them to move out. Tel fell in behind the radio operator, bent forward under his 180-pound load.

  Two hours later Kamigami called for a quick-reaction drill, and the four teams went into defensive fire positions. Satisfied with their response, he transitioned into an ambush scenario. While less than happy with the way Team Alpha sited its fields of fire, he thought the covering and fallback teams were well situated. Rather than break radio silence, he passed the word to bivouac in place for the night. They would move out at first light. “Too difficult to move in the jungle at night,” he told Tel. “We can make better time in the morning.” He went to sleep.

  The White House

  Thursday, September 9

  Shortly after Kamigami had drifted off to sleep, the ExCom gathered outside the Oval Office for their second meeting with the president that Thursday. Nancy Bender checked her watch. It was exactly 2:00 P.M. “She’s with her campaign advisers, and—” Before she could finish, the door opened and four people trooped out of the Oval Office. There may have been a building crisis, but Madeline Turner was still driving her schedule. Mazie led the four men inside. Turner rested her elbows on her chair, folded her fingers together under her chin, and watched them as they sat down.

  Mazie looked at the men and told the president the bad news. “Seven hundred and seventy-three as of midnight.”

  Turner’s head came up. “Less than seventy-two hours into this and almost eight hundred casualties.”

  General Wilding made it worse. “That’s KIA only.”

  The president did the math. “Ten an hour.” She thought for a moment, trying to balance the personal with the political cost of the war. She wasn’t sure if she could do it. “How much longer will it go on?”

  Wilding didn’t hesitate. “Another seventy-two hours at the earliest before we can stabilize.”

  “Does that mean another eight hundred killed?” she asked.

  “Probably more,” Wilding replied.

  “We have the largest and best military in the world,” Turner said. “Surely there’s something we can do…tactically or strategically.”

  “Not unless we go nuclear,” Wilding replied.

  “Out of the question,” Turner said.

  Now it fell to Wilding to give his president a quick lesson in the realities of warfare. “Amateurs think of war in terms of strategy and tactics,” he told her. “A professional thinks in terms of logistics. It takes a mountain of equipment to support even a small unit in the field.” His voice was a monotone. “When a land power invades a neighboring country, the forces taking the brunt of the attack will experience heavy casualties until they are reinforced and their logistical base is in place.”

  Nothing betrayed the emotion Turner felt, and for all appearances she was the cool politician working toward a decision. “I was under the impression that the modern nature of war had changed all that.”

  Wilding’s voice changed, now more that of the professor lecturing a student. “Ah, yes, future war based on high-tech, precision-guided weapons and information. All politically correct and trendy. But reality is different when you’re facing a determined enemy who is fighting on his terms. For now all we can do is fight a holding action until we build up. Thanks to the Civil Air Reserve Fleet, the necessary troops
are arriving in country, but until their equipment arrives, think of them as heavily armed tourists.”

  Kennett looked sick. “And we lost most of our predeployed equipment when King Khalid City fell.”

  “Which is why it was the UIF’s first objective,” the DCI added.

  Wilding continued. “Fast Sealift Squadron One will sail from Savannah within twenty-four hours. That’s eight ships with enough equipment to field a heavy division.”

  “How long before it arrives?” Turner asked.

  Wilding ran the numbers. “It’s eighty-seven hundred nautical miles and, averaging twenty-five knots, fifteen days. That assumes no breakdowns. Then the units still have to marry up with their equipment and check it out. Figure at least another four or five days before they deploy. So until those ships arrive, it’s all airlift, and we simply don’t have it. The Air Force is at max effort. Air Mobility Command has every airlifter they own in the system. Tactically, every available A-10 is in theater, and they are starting to make a difference. More F-16s and F-15 Strike Eagles are on the way.”

  She held up a hand and stopped him. “Do I need a full situation brief?”

  “I could certainly use it, Mrs. President,” Kennett replied.

  Turner stood and led the way to the Situation Room, where the Marine colonel was waiting. “It’s not a good afternoon, Madam President,” Scovill said. He launched into his briefing, and, as warned, it was not good. “The center of the UIF’s drive across the desert has slowed as it expands its flanks. They’re trying for an end run, and so far we’ve blocked their eastern flank. But they’re expanding to the west, into the desert.”

  A glimmer of hope crossed the president’s face. “Does that mean the fighting has slowed as they maneuver?”

  “No, ma’am, it doesn’t. We’re throwing everything we’ve got at them.”

  Again she had to ask the one question that couldn’t be avoided. “Casualties?”

  The colonel’s reply was merciless. “As of an hour ago, eight hundred and sixty-five KIA, three hundred and ten missing in action. Of the three thousand wounded, slightly over two thousand have been evacuated.”