The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

“Will do,” Bag replied.

  Maggot checked his compass and pushed ahead, moving as fast as he could. An insect worked its way up the back of his neck and burrowed under his helmet. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he ripped off the helmet and brushed the insect away. He tossed his helmet into the brush. He took a few more steps and stumbled into the clearing. For a moment he stood there, breathing deeply and savoring the rain that was starting to fall. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth. Then he mashed the button on his survival radio that keyed the beacon, still looking skyward and drinking in the rain. In the distance he heard the distinctive beat of a helicopter, and he pulled out his pen flare gun. He cocked it and, holding it at arm’s length, fired it skyward. The beating of the helicopter grew louder, and he sank to his knees, unbelievably tired.

  The screech of an incoming artillery round echoed over the clearing. Automatically, he looked toward the sound. A puff of smoke and flames flashed on top of the ridgeline. Another round echoed over him. “Ah, shit,” he moaned to himself. Now he could see the Super Puma as it moved over the clearing and settled to the earth. He ran for it, and two sets of hands pulled him into the open door. He looked up into Tel’s smiling face. “We’ve got to quit meeting like this,” he said.

  Tel only grinned and strapped him into a jump seat as the pilot lifted off. Tel went forward and stood between the pilots, listening on the radio. He shot Maggot a very worried look as the pilot dropped the helicopter down to treetop level and they raced for safety around the northern end of the karst formation. Through the open door on the other side of the helicopter, Maggot saw two more flashes erupt on top of the ridgeline. Tel pointed out the copilot’s quarter panel, shouting something he couldn’t understand. Then he saw it—the smoldering wreckage of a helicopter on the edge of the ridgeline.

  Twenty-four

  Camp Alpha

  Sunday, October 3

  This is a win? Pontowski thought. He was sitting with Colonel Sun at the back of the small room in the hardened aircraft shelter the AVG used for its operations center as Bag went through the postmission debrief. The pilot’s flight suit was still damp with sweat and his body racked with fatigue, but he kept at it, covering everything that had gone right on the mission and ferreting out what had gone wrong. You did good, Pontowski told himself, giving all the pilots high marks for Maggot’s rescue. Unfortunately, the two Singapore helicopter pilots were not used to the way Americans debriefed a mission, and were very reluctant to join in. But Pontowski had to know what had happened. He waited for the right moment. It came when Bag opened a fresh water bottle and took a long swig.

  “That was a fine piece of flying,” he told the two helicopter pilots. “Very aggressive, with perfect timing. And we honor your fallen comrades.” Tel was sitting behind the two and leaned forward, translating in case they missed his meaning. The two pilots nodded in acknowledgment. “But there is one thing I don’t understand,” Pontowski continued. “Why did General Kamigami insert his team on top of the ridgeline?” The two pilots shook their heads.

  “Perhaps,” Tel ventured, “he wanted to draw attention away from Colonel Stuart by presenting a new threat.”

  The helicopter aircraft commander said, “When we were inbound to pick up Colonel Stuart, I heard the general call for Gold to come in for a pickup. But he waved them off when the artillery barrage started.”

  “So no one was picked up before the helicopter crashed?” Colonel Sun asked.

  “I don’t think so,” the pilot answered. “When we flew past, I didn’t see any movement on the ground.”

  “I can confirm that,” Maggot said from the doorway. Everyone turned toward the pilot. He was freshly showered and in a clean flight suit after being checked by Doc Ryan. “I think an artillery round got them.” He walked over to the helicopter pilots. “Thank you.” He extended his hand in friendship. “You saved my worthless ass.” The two men stood, shaking his hand in turn.

  “Where did the artillery come from?” Colonel Sun asked.

  “I saw three tanks moving down the LOC when I came on station,” Bag answered. “PT-76s.” The PT-76 was a Soviet-built light amphibious tank. “They sport a seventy-five-millimeter cannon, but I couldn’t go after them with all those refugees.”

  “Old but effective,” Pontowski said in a low voice.

  “I believe,” Tel said, “the PLA is equipped with the Type 63, a much improved version of the PT-76 produced in China. It has an eighty-five-millimeter cannon.” He ducked his head, embarrassed for speaking out.

  Before Colonel Sun could reprimand him, Pontowski said, “We need to get that information to the pilots. They’ve got to know what they’re going against.” Damn, he thought. I screwed that one up. A hard silence came down in the room, for they all knew it was his order that had placed the LOC off-limits to the A-10s. “They figured that one out fast enough,” he said, shouldering the responsibility for the pilots’ deaths. “So where are we?”

  Bag was relentless as he summarized. “One Hog shot down, one pilot rescued. One Puma downed, two pilots KIA. Thirty-seven men still on the ground.”

  The burden of command bore down on Pontowski, demanding its price. “Are we out of contact, or have they been captured?” he asked.

  “The team has four radios,” Sun said. “At least one should be operational.”

  “So we can assume they’ve been captured or overrun,” Pontowski said.

  Tel shot Sun a look, begging to speak. Sun nodded. “I don’t think so,” Tel said. “He’ll contact us when he’s ready.”

  “Why the delay?” Pontowski asked.

  “Because vampires are silent,” Tel replied.

  “That’s all I got,” Bag said, ending the debrief.

  The room quickly emptied, leaving Pontowski and Sun alone to answer the unasked question. “Do we go after them?” Pontowski said, coming to the heart of the matter.

  “No,” Sun said. “Without radio contact a full-scale rescue mission is premature.”

  “We can reconnoiter the area,” Pontowski replied.

  “That might draw unwanted attention,” Sun said. “Maybe one flight at first light tomorrow morning. But for now I recommend we wait.” He stood up. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  Pontowski shook his head. “Thank you, Colonel.” Alone, he slumped down in his chair, his chin on his chest. He couldn’t avoid the issue. It was my ROE! Bag would have gone after those tanks in a heartbeat. He sat there, coming to grips with the deadly cost accounting of combat. But he knew the way the balance sheet worked, and there was more to come before it got better. Why would a rational person do this? The answer was obvious—he wasn’t a sane man. An image of Maddy Turner demanded his attention. It’s worse for you, he decided. “Time to go to work,” he muttered. He stood up and walked outside.

  The rain had stopped, and Clark’s driver was waiting for him. “Command post,” Pontowski said. “And take it easy.” The driver grinned at him, banged the van into gear, and hit the accelerator. They raced down the taxi path and careened around a corner onto the main taxiway. The driver slammed on the brakes and pointed to a moving shadow in the trees, barely fifty meters away. “Good eyeballs,” Pontowski whispered. The shadow materialized into a man holding a submachine gun, and the two men bailed out of the van and ran for cover. Pontowski chanced a look back. The man was moving after them, darting from tree to tree. Pontowski put on a burst of speed. Ahead of him he saw the sandbags of a half-completed defensive fire position the security cops had been digging. He dove into it headfirst, with the driver right behind him. Pontowski came up, coughing and spitting dirt. For a moment he pressed his head against the sandbags, still clearing his mouth, as he grabbed his radio. “Chicken Coop,” he transmitted, “Bossman. I’m being chased by an unknown and am pinned down.” Clark answered, asking for his position. “Halfway down the west taxiway,” he replied. But he wasn’t sure. His head bobbed up as he chanced a look. “Fifty yards east of”—it took him a moment to re
member how the hardened aircraft shelters were numbered—“West One-Two.”

  “Help’s on the way,” Clark promised.

  Pontowski drew his nine-millimeter Beretta and chambered a round. He held it at the ready, fully expecting an assault. Seconds passed, seeming like hours. He heard a dog bark once in the distance. A security cop leaped over the sandbags from behind and crashed down on him, his helmet banging into Pontowski’s face. “Oof,” a woman’s voice said. She rolled off him and brought her M-16 up to a firing position. She fired off a short burst. “That got his attention,” she said.

  “Sergeant Maul, I presume,” Pontowski said. She nodded. “Lovely day for a stroll.” It was all he could think of to say.

  “Indeed it is, General.” She squeezed off another burst, bobbed up for a look, and dropped down beside him. “The Chief’s flanking him.”

  “Is there only one?”

  “I hope so,” she said.

  They heard a sharp “Get ’em!” off to their left, answered by the distinctive rattle of a Kalashnikov. Silence. Then, “Out!” They waited. “General,” Rockne called, “stay where you are while we secure the area.”

  Jessica breathed easier and sat against the sandbags, holding her rifle upright between her legs. “Are we having fun yet?” she asked. She handed him her canteen. He took a grateful swallow and passed it back.

  Boyca limped at Rockne’s side as he marched into the command post. He dumped a Kalashnikov-type assault rifle on the table in front of Pontowski and Clark. “It’s a knockoff of the AK-47 made in China,” he told them. “A Type 56 used by PLA Special Forces.”

  “Where’s the prisoner?” Clark asked.

  “I turned him over to the First SOS for interrogation—”

  Clark interrupted him. “Is he still alive?”

  “Alive and well,” Rockne replied. “He can’t talk fast enough, and we know he’s with the PLA Ninety-second Special Regiment. We’ll have all the details before too long. At least we know who we’re up against.”

  “Was he alone?” Pontowski asked.

  “He is now,” Rockne replied. “We flushed out three others who came across the fence with him. But they wanted to do it the hard way. No survivors.”

  Clark nodded. “How’s Boyca?”

  “A bit stiff.” He stroked her head, rubbing between her ears. “She’s not up to all this activity, but she’ll be okay.”

  “You sent her in against an armed intruder?” Pontowski said.

  “Yes, sir. He was preoccupied with you and Sergeant Maul, so he didn’t see me. I managed to get within thirty feet, but there was an open space and Boyca was there, sorta like an old fire horse responding to an alarm. I wanted the guy alive, and it seemed like the right thing to do.” Rockne allowed a tight smile. “You should have seen his face when he saw her coming at him. He fired wild, but Boyca was on him like shit on…” He paused, embarrassed. “He wet his pants.”

  “What will it take to secure the base?” Clark asked.

  “I need the rest of my cops for openers,” Rockne told her.

  “We’ve got an aircraft arriving from the States tomorrow morning,” she said. “They may be on board.” She turned to Pontowski. “Sorry, sir. I hadn’t told you but a GAO investigation team is due in.”

  “Lovely,” Pontowski mumbled. “Just what we need.” Another thought came to him. “I owe your driver big-time.”

  Washington, D.C.

  Sunday, October 3

  Shaw leaned against the doorjamb, watching his dinner companion from Saturday night cook breakfast. She was standing barefoot in his kitchen, wearing only the shirt he had worn the night before. She seemed so young to be a communications analyst at the National Security Agency. But she was old enough to know how to use NSA’s sophisticated equipment to monitor domestic phone calls and get away with it. For a moment he couldn’t remember what he had done with the first cassette tape she had given him that recorded Senator Leland’s conversation with the French ambassador. Then he remembered. He had destroyed the tape after turning down the offer. “You are lovely,” he said, telling her the truth.

  She tossed her hair and gave him a quick smile. “And you’re wonderful,” she lied. He wanted to believe her but knew the truth. She might have shared his bed, but his performance had been strictly platonic. He had gotten a good night’s sleep, though. She concentrated on the omelet.

  “How’s things at NSA these days?” he asked, finally coming to the heart of the matter.

  Again the toss of the hair. “I thought you’d never ask, not after last time. You seemed so uninterested.” She gave him a concerned look. “I was afraid you’d tell the agency about…well, you know.”

  He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his robe. “Using NSA to monitor domestic phone calls can be hazardous to your health.” Without a word she padded out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. She was back in a moment and handed him another cassette before she went back to the omelet. “How much for this one?” he asked, dropping it into a pocket. She shook her head as she studied the omelet in the pan. “Why?” he asked.

  She looked at him, tears in her eyes. “Because Leland’s a bastard.” She flipped the omelet onto a dish and handed it to him.

  He took a bite. “This is good.” She rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck while he tried to balance the plate in one hand behind her. He felt her tears on his cheek. “Now, what’s this, doll?”

  “What’s wrong, Patrick?”

  “Not to worry,” he told her. “I’ll be okay.” She held on to him, and he could feel her heartbeat through the thin shirt.

  “Good morning, Mr. Shaw,” his secretary said. Shaw grunted his usual answer, not surprised to find her at work so early. The war and impending election had made Sunday just another workday for the White House staff, and the West Wing hummed with quiet but purposeful activity. “Your desk is ready.” He stopped to pour himself a cup of coffee, surprising the woman. “I would have gotten that, Mr. Shaw.” He gave her a little nod and carried the mug through to his office. “Well, I never,” she murmured to herself. Shaw was not his normal dictatorial, demanding self. She decided he must be sick.

  Shaw balanced the mug while he inserted the cassette into the recorder he kept in his desk. He hit the play button and listened. The quality of the tape was outstanding, clearer than anything he had ever heard. “Must be the original clip,” he said to himself as he listened to the two very familiar voices of Senator John Leland and Robert Merritt, the secretary of defense.

  Merritt: My investigators say the note they found in the DCI’s chair was not his handwriting.

  Leland: But it was the Web site for a child-pornography ring?

  Merritt: That’s correct.

  Leland: And it was written on paper from his notepad?

  Merritt: True.

  Leland: Then how in the hell did it get there?

  Merritt: We have absolutely no idea. But Security monitored a phone call from a public phone in the Pentagon about that Web site—after the DCI’s suicide. This whole thing stinks. I’m telling you, don’t use it.

  Leland: Damn. A child-pornography ring in Turner’s administration, and I’ve got to sit on it. (A long pause.) That’s why he blew his brains out, wasn’t it? He was about to be outed. She forced him to it, didn’t she?

  Merritt: That won’t wash, Senator. There’s a simpler explanation. We discovered that the DCI was self-medicating for depression and he was under pressure. I’m telling you, don’t go there.

  The tape ended. Shaw hit the eject button and dropped the cassette back into his pocket. “Go there, Senator,” he urged. He settled back into his chair and played with ways to make that happen. The headache that would never completely go away surged back, making him sick to his stomach. He tasted the omelet he had for breakfast as he fought the nausea. He reached for the pills in his desk but stopped short. He knew the side effects. An inner clock told him it was time to step aside. “Not yet,” he whispered.
/>
  The intercom buzzed. “The election committee is meeting with the president in two minutes,” his secretary reminded him.

  A shaky hand punched at the intercom. “Tell Bobbi Jo to start without me. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He gave Bobbi Jo Reynolds high marks for the way she was managing the minute-by-minute details of the campaign, and there was no doubt she was ready to step in. At least he had done that right. He breathed deeply, forcing the headache and nausea to yield. But each attack was worse than the one before. He came to his feet and headed for the Oval Office, five minutes late.

  All the key players on Turner’s campaign committee were there when Shaw slipped into the room. The president nodded at him as he sat down, and then turned her attention back to Bobbi Jo. “Leland and his boy are scoring unanswered points,” Bobbi Jo said, “and it’s costing us in the polls. We’re down by five-point-six, well outside the margin of error. The media is picking up on his claim that you’re a prisoner of the White House, totally overwhelmed by the war.” She consulted her notes. “Leland knows about the diplomatic initiative to split Iran or Syria off. He also knows it didn’t work. He’s going to hit us with that. It’s only a matter of time.” She paused. “We need to be preemptive—the sooner the better. I’m thinking maybe we challenge him to an unscheduled debate. Only this time on short notice, here in the White House. Say, tomorrow night, so they won’t have time to prepare.”

  “Why?” Shaw asked.

  “That turkey,” Bobbi Jo said, refusing to call David Grau by his name, “can’t think on his feet. Without his handlers prepping him, he’ll step all over his itty-bitty schwanz.”

  Shaw let out a loud guffaw, now certain Bobbi Jo was ready. He liked the idea, but it needed a little fine-tuning. “First, they’ll refuse. When they do, simply point out, very publicly, that if he can’t handle a debate on short notice, how in hell can he cope with the crises he’ll encounter every day in the White House? Second, they won’t do it here, not in the White House. Give in on that point, but make it nearby, maybe at Georgetown University. Third, pass the word to the press corps not to jump on any bandwagons after it’s over. When Leland hears that, he’ll interpret it as a sign of weakness. That might make him more amenable to hold the debate. Finally, it’s all in the timing.” He paused, thinking. “Maybe if I can have a word with you afterward, Madam President?”