The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  He turned and walked into the maintenance hangar. Inside, the cavernous bay was alive with activity as men swarmed around the nine Warthogs being prepped for deployment. Like any military facility, the hangar was spotless, but any similarities ended there. The men were all middle-aged or older, and dressed in civilian clothes. A few had been with the original AVG in China and later with him in South Africa on a peacekeeping mission that had been anything but peaceful. Some had come out of retirement, and more than half were Air Reserve technicians on a leave of absence from their regular jobs. He was thankful for the wealth of experience they brought with them.

  Maggot stepped out of the office where Maintenance Control worked, and walked toward him. Much to Pontowski’s envy, he was wearing a flight suit and his face was still etched with the lines from his oxygen mask. He had been up on a test flight earlier. “Our last jet is inbound,” Maggot told him. “It should be on the ground in a few minutes.”

  “What sort of shape is it in?” Pontowski asked.

  “According to Maintenance, it’s right out of the depot. Total rebuild.”

  “So we finally lucked out and got a good one,” Pontowski said. “Let’s go howdy the pilot.” They walked outside to wait. In the distance they saw a follow-me truck leading an A-10 into the parking area. The engines had a different sound, and the plane’s fresh jungle green paint job glistened in the bright sun.

  “It’s one of the reengined birds,” Maggot told him. The Warthog came to a stop, and the ground crew quickly installed wheel chocks and safety pins as the engines spun down. The canopy lifted, and the pilot removed his flight helmet, revealing a full head of dark hair streaked with gray. His potato-shaped face broke into a smile as he scampered down the boarding ladder. The crew chief was surprised that a pudgy, middle-aged man with a body that matched his face could move so quickly. “Son of a bitch,” Maggot said, smiling broadly.

  On the ground, George “Waldo” Walderman spread his arms wide and announced to the world, “I have arrived. You may start the war.”

  Pontowski gave a very audible sigh. “Misfits. We’re nothing but a collection of misfits.”

  “Ain’t it wonderful,” Maggot said.

  Mather Field, Sacramento, California

  Thursday, September 23

  The half-light of sunset played with the rain that danced across the area where nuclear-armed B-52s had once sat cocked and ready for takeoff. But that was over twenty years ago, and the bombers were gone. Now only a blue-and-white Boeing 747 sat behind the fence, its reflection casting long shadows in the standing water. The plane stood there in quiet majesty, the words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA emblazoned on its side proclaiming it was the president’s aircraft, Air Force One.

  Because it was a secure area, the small army of agents detailed to guard the president breathed easier while she was in Sacramento. At first Turner had objected to parking in the area because she hated any appearance of being walled off from the people. But there wasn’t a choice. The high number of casualties suffered during the first nine days of the war had triggered numerous death threats against her life, three from the Sacramento area alone.

  Consequently, security was tighter than ever, surrounding Air Force One like an invisible wall. It wasn’t there until you tried to breach it, and then, as one reporter from the local newspaper found out, it was solid as the Rock of Gibraltar.

  As were so many, the newspaper’s editorial staff was genuinely appalled by the heavy casualties coming out of the Gulf and, not understanding the nature of modern warfare, had severely criticized the president’s conduct of the war. In an editorial that received national attention, they charged she had deliberately started the war for political gain. Then the same editors were furious when Turner declined to be personally interviewed by their star political reporter, Lacy Bangor. They would have attained heights of unknown apoplexy had they known that Shaw also wanted to pull their Washington bureau’s credentials and cast their reporters into an informational limbo. But the president had vetoed that. In retaliation for the interview snub, and not aware of the bullet they had dodged, the editors decided on the lead headline for their Sunday op-ed section: PRESIDENTIAL STRATEGY AND SECURITY—MASSIVE FAILURES. But the editors needed a story to go with it, and over Lacy Bangor’s loud protests they told her to test the security around Air Force One before she was apprehended and arrested. The follow-up story would document how freedom of the press and her civil rights were violated. Needless to say, that was a mistake.

  The president was sitting in the aft lounge aboard Air Force One with her campaign staff when a Secret Service agent told her that the reporter had tried to penetrate the security cordon by driving her car through a checkpoint. Guards had stopped the car before it went thirty feet, and Bangor was spread-eagle on the asphalt. “Is she still there?” Turner asked.

  “In a mud puddle,” the agent replied.

  “Release her,” Turner said. “Have someone from Justice give her paper a call and explain a few facts of life to them.”

  “They’ll probably withdraw their endorsement,” an adviser said.

  “They already have,” another adviser replied. “It’s the numbers.” For a moment no one said a word. Turner’s opponent had made the high casualty rate the number one issue of the campaign and was using it to drive the polls.

  “Her editors,” the first adviser said, “are going to make this an issue no matter what we do.”

  “Then make it a nonissue,” Turner ordered.

  “Maybe they need a distraction,” a third adviser suggested. “Perhaps a visit from the IRS?”

  Turner gave the speaker a steely look. “We don’t play that way. They may, but I don’t.” Then she relented. “You’re right. They do need a distraction. Have Patrick call them instead.” A chuckle worked its way around the lounge as her advisers speculated about what Patrick Shaw would say. Most were willing to bet he’d say something about the president listening the next time he wanted to pull the newspaper’s White House press credentials. They went back to work, firming up her next day’s campaign schedule before they returned to Washington.

  Richard Parrish, her chief of staff, interrupted them. “Madam President, we have a message from the NMCC. Perhaps in your private office?” He followed her forward, through the passenger compartment, where a group of reporters were working.

  “Madam President,” one of them called, “what are you going to do about that reporter?”

  “Lacy Bangor?” Turner replied. “Dry her off and send her home.” She stopped. “I like Lacy. She’s a good reporter, but…” She hesitated and smiled. “You all know the ‘buts’ as well as I do. I’ll talk to her after we find out what happened.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. President,” a reporter said. They all had a new story and considered that a dunk in a mud puddle was worth a private interview.

  The president’s personal assistant held the door to her private office. “Thank you, Nancy. Anything from the family?”

  “I talked to Maura a few minutes ago. All’s quiet on the home front. Sarah’s doing her homework.”

  “I’ll call later this evening,” Maddy said, looking directly at Scovill. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” Parrish followed her in and closed the door.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the colonel answered, “it is. The first two fast sealift ships transiting the Straits of Hormuz struck mines. Both sank. One of the two escort frigates also struck a mine but didn’t sink. The other six sealift ships are still in transit and being diverted to safe waters until we decide how to proceed.”

  The agony was back, unrelenting and constant. “How many?” the president asked. Nothing in her voice betrayed her feelings.

  “So far,” Scovill replied, “fourteen known dead. The undamaged frigate and three minesweepers are recovering survivors. More help is on the way. Apparently most of the crew members on the cargo ships are okay.”

  Turner paced her small office. “What happened? I was told the Navy was going to s
weep the straits before the ships arrived.”

  “They did, ma’am. In fact the minesweepers were in sight when they hit the mines.”

  A red light flashed on the intercom panel on Turner’s desk. Parrish picked up the phone and hit the button connecting him to the aircraft’s communications deck. He listened and handed the phone to the Marine. “Another message from the NMCC,” he said.

  Scovill listened, his face impassive as he jotted down notes. He almost asked his president to sit down but thought better of it. Madeline Turner could take bad news. “Three Libyan ships were blown up by their crews in the Suez Canal. It’s closed. For how long, we don’t know.” He glanced at his notes. “One of the minesweepers picking up survivors in the Straits of Hormuz retrieved what looked like a life-raft canister. Luckily, they recognized it as a mine and knew what to do. It’s a new type of mine we’ve never seen before. Made of ceramic and self-propelled.”

  “So it escapes magnetic detection and moves,” Turner added.

  “Apparently so,” the colonel said.

  “Richard,” Turner said, “we’re returning to Andrews immediately. I know what it will do to the campaign.” She looked at him as he made the phone call. “It may cost me the election.”

  “Not necessarily,” Parrish replied. “We change our strategy to ‘Embattled president wages war on ruthless enemy.’ Or something like that.” He warmed to it, proving why he was a consummate politician. “I’ll get Shaw on the line, and we’ll work it with the committee on the flight back. Should have something by the time we land.”

  “We need to defuse the casualty issue. Perhaps it’s time for a few reporters to receive a deep-background briefing from a highly placed, unidentified source in the administration.”

  “How high?” Parrish asked.

  “The highest,” she answered. She looked at Scovill. “I’d like for you to be there.”

  “My pleasure, Madam President. Anyone in particular you want me to strangle?”

  “Not today,” she answered.

  “I have a few candidates,” Parrish said.

  Over Missouri

  Thursday, September 23

  By definition, reporters are cynics. They are also firm believers in the axiom that everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion. But in their special case they are also permitted their own special truth, and any fact that runs counter to their view of reality is wrong by definition. But what they were hearing now was beyond their special truth and could not be discounted, denied, or damned. It was a view of reality, straight from the top and devoid of the special interpretations they labeled “spin.” All tape recorders were off, no notebooks were out, their pens were still as they listened to the Marine colonel simply repeat all he had told the president during the day. He finished by telling them about the sinking of the two ships and the closing of the Suez Canal. “I’ll tell you this,” Scovill said. “This is the worst job in the Pentagon. I’d much rather be with my unit facing the enemy. The decisions there are simple.”

  The president sat down beside Scovill and touched his hand. “This is the first time I’ve seen you display any emotion. I know it’s been hard for you, and I appreciate it.” She turned to her chief of staff. “Richard.”

  “Most everything you’ve heard so far,” Parrish began, “will be released within twenty-four hours. Of course, certain items will not, like the mine we recovered. We need to keep that a secret so we can exploit it.” Parrish paused and looked at Turner. She nodded, giving him the go-ahead. “We want to show you a report that is very close-hold for reasons that will become obvious. But before we do, I must have your promise that what you see stays here.”

  “Is this more important than the mine?” a reporter asked.

  “In a way, yes,” Parrish replied.

  The reporter stood. “I’m not going to sell my integrity for a peek at some intelligence report. No thank you very much.” He walked out.

  “Anyone else?” Parrish asked. The remaining nine reporters didn’t budge. He passed out a sheet of paper.

  “Oh, my God,” one of the reporters whispered. “Are these our real casualties?”

  “No,” Parrish answered. “Theirs. This came from a UIF message the National Security Agency intercepted less than twenty-four hours ago. The information it contains is not classified, but the fact that we caught it and were able to decode it is highly classified. We want them to keep using this channel, as it’s one of our best sources of intelligence.”

  Now it was Scovill’s turn. “The standard planning factor for the opening phase of a war like this calls for an exchange rate of approximately forty to one in our favor. It doesn’t take fuzzy math to figure out that with a hundred thirty-eight thousand killed alone, the exchange rate is seventy-six to one.”

  “Seventy-six and a half to one,” a reporter who was good with numbers said. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe,” the Marine answered. “The UIF planned and trained for a conventional attack, not appreciating the lethal nature of modern warfare or not giving a damn about their soldiers. They bogged down in the desert because we bled them dry and they outran their supply lines. We plan to keep it that way with the air-interdiction campaign. We’re going to cut them off and bomb them until they have two options: surrender or die.”

  “Why is this close-hold?” another reporter said. “You should be shouting it from the tallest buildings.”

  “Because of the source,” Scovill told him.

  Turner stood up. “There’s another reason.” She started to pace. How could she make them understand? “Those are real people, not just numbers on a sheet of paper. For the most part they want the same thing everyone wants—a home, a safe place to raise their children. They hurt and cry like we do, and they only want to get on with their lives. I doubt that many really wanted to fight this war, but they had no choice. We have no quarrel with them, and we’re not fighting for revenge.”

  “Madam President,” a reporter said, “how can you say that? I saw the unedited tape of our three soldiers being executed.”

  “I saw it, too. I don’t know what motivated them. Considering the way we’ve slaughtered them—and it has been a slaughter, there’s no other word for it—they may still feel the same and will do it again. But we have to look beyond that.” She paused to make her point. “They are not our teachers!” She stood before them, all that she was out there to be seen. “My generals tell me that these numbers are nothing compared to what will happen when we go on the offensive. But this time our casualties will be minimal. Make no mistake, I will give that order if they do not surrender and withdraw.”

  Her voice was firm. “We didn’t want a war, and we didn’t provoke it. But even so, no person should be asked to kill others on such a scale. Yet that is exactly what I’ve ordered our men and women to do. But how can I reconcile such killing with everything we stand for without appealing to hate and prejudice? Hate…the most accessible of all human emotions. Is this what we’re all about? Must we sacrifice our humanity to the gods of war?”

  She turned and looked out a window. “I think that’s Missouri below us. The heartland of America. B-2 bombers from Whiteman Air Force Base are recovering from missions over Iraq. They’ll be rearmed and launched on more missions. I would much rather be sending the world grain grown in Missouri. This is not what I wanted.” She turned and walked from the cabin.

  Without a word, the reporters stood. One by one they handed the sheet of paper they were each holding to Parrish as they filed out. The lone reporter who had walked out of the meeting was waiting for them. “Did I miss much?” he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “Only the best speech Maddy Turner will ever give” came the answer.

  Sixteen

  Palau Tenang

  Friday, September 24

  The rain slugged down, working its way through Tel’s poncho and sending a rivulet of water down his back. He hoped it was the last rainstorm of the southwest monsoon and that th
ey would have a break until December, with the onset of the northeast monsoon. He joined the officers and senior NCOs gathered under the tightly stretched tarp and shrugged off his poncho, glad to be out of the rain.

  “The brigadier and colonel will be here in a few moments,” he announced. He stifled a grin as he listened to the Chinese equivalent of bitching and moaning. If Kamigami was correct, he was hearing exactly what they needed to hear. The First SOS had changed from a highly disciplined, regimented, spit-and-polished outfit to a totally focused collection of aggressive shooters totally committed to battle discipline. But there had been a price—the First was half its former size. Tel made a mental note to ask Kamigami what had happened.

  Kamigami and Colonel Sun emerged out of the rain. They were a strange combination, Kamigami’s seemingly placid bulk dominating the diminutive but very active colonel, whose face was still pale from the helicopter flight from Central Headquarters on the main island. They shucked off their ponchos, and Sun tacked up a chart of Malaysia on the easel. As they had agreed on the flight in, the colonel would do the talking to avoid any confusion. “CHQ offered us an assignment,” Sun explained in Chinese.

  “Offered?” one of the majors asked.

  “That is unusual,” Sun replied. “But it’s an unusual situation.” He pointed to an outlined area in the center of the chart. “Units of the PLA effectively control this region of Malaysia and are holding the local population hostage, forcing them to supply food and shelter for their soldiers. There are also reports of forced prostitution of younger girls. If a kampong resists, they loot and burn it, killing every able-bodied man and boy. CHQ has asked us to insert rescue teams and move the villagers to safe areas.”