The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

She tensed as the prospect of another six days’ mounting casualties loomed in front of her. She steeled herself and went on to the next subject. “Malaysia?”

  Butler stood up. “The fighting is localized in Kuala Lumpur. Unfortunately, SEAC doesn’t seem to know what to do with itself or how to respond.”

  “Is it a question of supplies?” Turner asked.

  Butler shook his head. “No, ma’am. The MAAG reports they can’t absorb what we’re giving them.”

  “What about the protests over the AVG?”

  Butler humphed in disgust. “All contrived. I talked to General Pontowski less than thirty minutes ago. Four of his A-10s were cleared by SEAC to attack enemy tanks on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur. They used three Maverick antitank missiles, expended four hundred fifty-eight cannon rounds, and dropped six canisters of CBU-58s on troops they caught in the open. The CBU-58 is a canister-type bomb that spreads grenadelike bomblets over a wide area. That’s the terror weapon we’re hearing about.”

  “If you can’t win it in combat,” Shaw snarled, “win it with the media.”

  Turner stood. “I’m meeting with Secretary Serick and my foreign-policy advisers in a few minutes. Mazie, Bernie, please join us. General Wilder, I’ll take this evening’s briefing at the NMCC.” She quickly left with Parrish in tow. The briefing had lasted less than twelve minutes.

  She would endure.

  Camp Alpha

  Sunday, October 3

  Pontowski was tired. He glanced at the master clock on the front wall of the command post. It was 0630 Sunday morning. Less than five hours’ sleep, he thought. In one corner the intelligence officer from the First SOS was writing information on a white board with a Magic Marker. He seemed right at home and spoke excellent English. Almost as an afterthought he wrote GULF WAR: DAY 27. Behind the intelligence officer, Kamigami and Sun were speaking quietly to the young-looking major who would man the console. Kamigami looked up, and Pontowski said, “When you’ve got a moment, Victor.” Kamigami nodded and turned back to his two officers.

  “Coffee,” Pontowski muttered. He wandered out to the small buffet and poured himself a cup. A little TV above the coffeepot was tuned to the BBC channel reporting the chaos in Kuala Lumpur. A reporter was standing in a street lined with burned-out cars and dead bodies. The sound was off, but the camera told the story. “A wonderful thing,” Pontowski murmured, thinking of the speed of modern communications and the series of satellites that relayed information around the world in seconds. It was a driving force that set the pace of modern civilization, including war.

  Kamigami joined him. He looked fresh and rested even though he had returned from an extraction operation less than six hours ago. “When do you sleep?” Pontowski asked.

  “Catnaps,” Kamigami replied. “Every chance I get. It’s a habit I picked up years ago.”

  “I’ve got to learn it,” Pontowski said, more to himself than to Kamigami. “Your troops are settling right in.”

  Kamigami nodded. “This is like their old command post. They like it.”

  The young intelligence officer rushed up. He skidded to a halt and took a deep breath, composing himself. “Colonel Sun said for me to tell you that Kuala Lumpur has fallen to the enemy.”

  Pontowski turned up the volume on the TV. “The last of the Malaysian Army units defending the city have surrendered,” the reporter said, “and we’ve been ordered to the airport for immediate evacuation.”

  “Now it gets interesting,” Pontowski said. He turned off the TV.

  “Sir,” the intel officer said. He showed Pontowski the clipboard he was holding with a small map of Malaysia. “The SA, the Singapore Army, is moving into positions along this line, approximately sixty miles south of Kuala Lumpur.” He drew a line from the west coast to the east coast. “The strategy is to anchor this defensive line on Melaka”—he circled a town on the west coast—“and Mersing.” He pointed to a town on the east coast. “That will force the PLA to move down the center.” He drew a big slashing arrow down the center of the peninsula. “By coming down the middle, it must cross two main rivers and capture the bridges at Bahau and then at Segamat.”

  Pontowski spanned off the distances, not liking what he saw. The bridges at Segamat were fifty miles to the northwest of Camp Alpha and the last obstacle in the PLA’s path. “They’re coming right at us. This is going to get up close and personal.”

  “It would be good to know what’s headed our way,” Kamigami said. “Maybe a little visual reconnaissance?”

  “If we can get below the cloud deck,” Pontowski added.

  “I’m flying into Segamat this morning,” Kamigami said, “to set up forward air control with the SA brigade there. A pilot would be nice to have along. Maybe a little demonstration with a few Hogs?”

  “We can do that,” Pontowski replied. “Let’s talk to Maggot.”

  Segamat, Malaysia

  Sunday, October 3

  Waldo hated helicopters and firmly believed they were a flying perversion, a violation of every known law of physics. Only voodoo, or some other occult art, kept them airborne, and something was certain to go wrong at any given moment. It didn’t help that he was on a French-built helicopter, but as he had served as a forward air controller at one point in his career, he was the logical choice to go with Kamigami to set up FAC procedures with the Singapore army at Segamat. At first he had wondered about the relationship between Kamigami and his young aide. But he quickly realized it was a combination of uncle-nephew and commander-subordinate. “How can he sleep like that?” he asked Tel.

  Tel looked surprised. “General Kamigami? I don’t know, but I wish I could.”

  “Anyone who can sleep on a copter has got a screw loose somewhere,” Waldo mumbled. The sound of the rotors beating the air changed pitch as they settled to the ground. He looked out a window on the port side and saw that four officers were waiting for them. Behind them he could see extensive camouflage netting and sandbagging. There was little doubt that this was a brigade that intended to fight.

  “Have you ever been a FAC before?” Waldo asked.

  Tel shook his head. “I know how to work the radios, and I also speak Malay and Chinese.”

  “That’s a beginning,” Waldo said, mostly to himself. The helicopter bumped to the ground, and Kamigami woke up.

  Maggot rolled his Hog 135 degrees and headed for the break in the clouds below him. He radioed his wingman. “Duke, I’ve got a break over here.”

  “Looks like a sucker hole, white man,” Duke replied.

  “Looking better all the time,” Maggot transmitted. “I can see lots of green below and blue above.”

  “Don’t get them confused,” Duke said. He fell in behind his flight lead, and the two A-10s dropped through the clouds. “Segamat at four o’clock, six miles,” he radioed.

  Maggot rolled to his right and saw the small town surrounded by rice paddies. “Tallyho.” He checked the time. “We’ve got twenty minutes before check-in. Let’s look around.” He turned northward, toward the Taman Negara. The National Park was over a hundred miles away, but if the intelligence briefing from the First SOS was accurate, that was where the threat would come from. “We could use a Joint STARS,” he told Duke. Two clicks on the mike switch answered him, signaling agreement. The Joint STARS was a highly modified Boeing 707 with sophisticated radar that could find, track, and classify any movement on the earth’s surface—vehicles, troops, people, or animals. But there was no way they would see a STARS until the Gulf War was over.

  Besides a chance to explore his area of operations, it gave Maggot a chance to fly the reengined A-10 they had gotten fresh out of depot maintenance. The jet delighted him and performed with a crispness and acceleration he had never experienced from the old TF34-100 engines. The modification gave the old bird a new lease on life. Duke crossed behind him and zoomed, doing a rolling scissors to fall in behind him. Maggot dodged around a cloud and for a few moments let the twelve-year-old in him out as they worked
their way to the north, buzzing villages and the occasional truck or bus. Then reality intruded.

  “Traffic’s getting heavier,” Duke radioed, flying parallel to a main road. “All moving south. Looks like refugees to me.” Maggot answered with two clicks on the mike button. Both men had seen it before, when the AVG was in China. “Clouds are starting to move back in,” Duke warned.

  “Rog,” Maggot answered. He had to decide whether to fly lower, turn around, or punch back to altitude while he could still find a hole in the cloud deck above him. The decision was made for him.

  “Break left!” Duke shouted over the radio. He had seen the distinctive flash of a shoulder-held, surface-to-air missile as it was launched, and for a few brief seconds he was able to track it before he lost sight. “SAM at your left seven, two miles.”

  Maggot reacted automatically, slicing down to his left, streaming chaff and flares out behind to defeat any tracking solution. He had to get a visual on the missile coming his way. He didn’t see it. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He loaded his jet with five G’s as he dove and turned, seeking sanctuary close to the ground. If it had been the old Soviet-built SA-7 Grail from the 1970s, the combination of flares and maneuvering would have defeated it. But he was being tracked by a much newer version, an SA-14 aptly called “the Needle.” Its cooled infrared seeker head easily sorted the flares as it streaked toward the A-10. It closed with an eight-G turn and passed inches over Maggot’s left engine exhaust—a near miss. But its graze fusing worked as advertised, and the warhead detonated, sending 4.4 pounds of high-explosive fragmentation into the Warthog.

  But the Warthog refused to die and kept on flying. Maggot hauled back on the stick, firewalled his good engine while feathering the left, and zoomed, reaching for every bit of altitude he could find. Duke crossed under him, leaving a string of flares to decoy any missile that might be coming his way. Maggot lost sight of Duke when he punched into the cloud deck, still climbing. Just as he broke out on top, a second missile flew up the right intake and exploded. The entire aft section of the A-10 flared, and only the titanium bathtub surrounding the cockpit saved Maggot from the blast. The stick died in his right hand. He grabbed for the ejection handles at his side and rotated them back with a squeezing motion. The rocket pack sent the Aces II seat up the rails with an eleven-G kick. In less than two seconds Maggot separated from the seat and fell free as his parachute streamed out behind. The canopy snapped open with a satisfying clap, and he was drifting to earth. The Aces II had done its magic. Now he was back in the clouds. He pulled out his survival radio and keyed Guard. “Duke, how copy? I’m in the clouds and okay.”

  “I’m below you and taking ground fire. Lots of hostiles down here.” A short pause. “I’m in.”

  Maggot descended out of the clouds as the distinctive sound of a GAU-8 cannon roared directly below him. He looked down between his legs and saw Duke pulling off from a strafing attack. He tugged on his right riser line, trying to drift away. His canopy ripped, and he looked up as the distinctive sound of a bullet whistled past. “Taking ground fire!” he radioed. He sawed at the risers, desperate as more bullets ripped into his parachute. He was falling faster as the trees rushed up to meet him. He crossed his ankles and disappeared into the dense foliage.

  Maggot’s first conscious thought was that he was still alive. He looked down as he swayed back and forth, and calculated he was thirty to forty feet above the ground. He looked up. His parachute was snagged firmly in the branches above him. He heard voices off to his right, on the other side of the massive tree trunk. He managed to catch a branch as the voices grew louder and more distinct. He recognized a few words he had learned in China, and heard the anger. Moving as quietly as possible, he pulled himself onto the top of the thick branch and lay on his stomach. The chest strap of his parachute harness cut into him as he pressed against the branch, willing himself to be invisible. Two soldiers moved into view, and he prayed they wouldn’t see his camouflage parachute still hanging in the trees. He held his breath as one looked up, directly at him. Not knowing what to look for, the soldier saw nothing and moved on, chattering aimlessly about something. Slowly Maggot reached for his survival radio and keyed the silent beacon, sending his location and warning Duke that he couldn’t talk or receive because he was surrounded.

  He released the chest strap of his harness and pressed his cheek against the wood. An insect crawled up his face, but he didn’t move.

  Washington, D.C.

  Saturday, October 2

  It was slightly after 9:00 P.M. when Shaw knocked on the door of the residence. Parrish opened the door and let him in. “You wanted to see me, Mizz President?” She patted the couch next to her and glanced at Parrish. Her chief of staff read her look correctly and excused himself. Shaw dropped his bulk down beside her and leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees.

  “Patrick,” she began, “is something wrong?”

  Whenever he was asked a direct question, Shaw’s natural instinct was to lie. He couldn’t help it, for he was a natural politician. But he would never lie to his president, the young woman he had befriended when she was a junior state senator in California and marginalized by the “old boys” who ran the state. He had mentored her in the realities of power politics, and she had taken him on the wildest ride of his life, straight into the national arena. “Yes, ma’am. It’s the cancer. Six months max.”

  She held his hand, tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

  “It’s been a damn good run. No complaints, Mrs. President.”

  “Will it ever be Maddy again?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am.” How could he explain? She was his guiding star, his reason for living, the daughter he never had, and all that he could never be. He didn’t even try to tell her what was in his heart. Instead, “Bobbi Jo is backstopping me on the campaign.” Maddy nodded. Bobbi Jo Reynolds was the vice chairman of the reelection committee and Shaw’s protégée. She was a heavyset woman with short black hair, thick glasses, and a cherubic look. But underneath lurked the heart of a pit bull and the mind of a Machiavelli. “She can take over if I go lame.” He stared at his hands. “Mrs. President, the war is killin’ us. End it or we get flushed.”

  Again the nod. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

  “I know. It’s the casualties. I’ve seen your face. I know what it’s doing to you.”

  “I’m going to bring the Germans in,” she told him. “Please don’t ask me how.”

  “That was the policy meeting this afternoon?”

  She nodded. “Mazie’s in Germany. Her contact is von Lubeck.”

  “He is the man over there.” Shaw pulled into himself and redrew the power structure of Europe. “I suppose Butler is approaching the Turks?” She looked at him in surprise, stunned that he had divined the strategy. “That’s gonna take some fancy dancin’ with the facts.” He allowed a little chuckle. “Bernie’s the man.”

  “What about Leland?” she asked.

  Shaw grunted. “I’m taking care of it. Give me a few days.”

  Twenty-three

  Segamat

  Sunday, October 3

  Kamigami, Tel, and Waldo were with the battalion’s headquarters company explaining how a FAC worked when Duke’s Mayday came over the UHF radio. Waldo grabbed the mike and acknowledged the call. “Understand Maggot is down. Say coordinates.” While he copied the coordinates, Kamigami explained what was happening and Tel translated into Chinese. “Duke, are you in contact with Chicken Coop?” Waldo asked.

  “Negative,” Duke answered.

  “He’s too low,” Waldo said. “Can we raise ’em on the field telephone?”

  “I can try,” Tel replied. He spoke to the battalion’s communications officer while Waldo plotted the coordinates on a chart. Kamigami hovered like an anxious hawk in the background, eager to escape his tether. “That’s it,” Waldo finally said, tapping Maggot’s position on the chart. “He’s down near a ridgeline c
lose to a place called Kemayan, fifty miles to the northwest.” He keyed the radio. “Duke, say position of hostiles.”

  “Hostiles are concentrated along the main LOC south of a village,” Duke replied. An LOC was a line of communication, in this case the main north-south road running down the center of the peninsula. “The village is Kemayan, I think. Problems. Lots of refugees on the LOC.”

  “Can you keep the hostiles away from Maggot?” Waldo said.

  “Am I cleared in hot?” Duke asked, sounding much too enthusiastic.

  Waldo gritted his teeth. “Stand by one.” He hated saying that, but he had to clear it through Pontowski at Camp Alpha. “I’ve got to coordinate with Chicken Coop,” he explained to his listeners. Tel handed him the phone, telling him Alpha was on the line. “Let me speak to Bossman,” Waldo said. Pontowski was on the phone in seconds, and Waldo quickly explained the situation.

  Pontowski didn’t hesitate. “You’ve got it, Waldo. Duke is the airborne SAR commander for now.” SAR was search and rescue. “He’s cleared to use whatever he’s got but to stay one kilometer away from the LOC. Four Hogs headed your way ASAP.” A short pause. “Scrambling now, they should be on station in twenty minutes. Let me speak to General Kamigami.” Waldo handed Kamigami the receiver, which seemed to disappear in his huge hand. “Victor,” Pontowski said, “can you help us with search and rescue?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Kamigami answered. “Ask Colonel Sun to form up two teams for a ground extraction and send them our way in two helicopters. Bring my gear.”

  “Copy all,” Pontowski replied. Another short pause. “Colonel Sun says they’ll be airborne in two hours.”

  Waldo was listening on an extension and ran the numbers. “Figure another twenty-five minutes’ flying time to here, time on the ground, plus another twenty minutes to on station. Three hours.” He looked at them. “Too long. The Gomers will have their act together by then.”