The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  Turner nodded, and Shaw waited patiently until the meeting was over. At last, he was alone with Turner and Parrish, her chief of staff. “The debate’s a good idea,” Shaw told them. “Do it twenty-four hours before you open a second front.”

  “What’s the downside?” Parrish asked.

  “The media might think we deliberately sandbagged them,” Turner answered, looking at Shaw. “That’s why the warning to the press about bandwagons. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Her eyes filled with worry. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Gettin’ by, Mizz President. Gettin’ by.” The headache and nausea were back.

  Virginia

  Sunday, October 3

  The nondescript SUV turned off the Manassas Bypass and crossed the railroad tracks. The onboard navigation and communications system flashed at the driver, telling her that she was cleared to approach the meeting place. She slowed and turned down a country lane, taking her two passengers to a meeting that all would claim until their dying day never took place. Yet, as in the flow of so many events, it was central to everything that would follow, and would elude historians in their quest for the truth. But for the players the judgment of history would have to take a backseat to a more critical need. It wasn’t that Bernie Butler believed that the ends justified the means—he knew what that could lead to—but that secrecy was critical to success.

  As the acting DCI, Butler now had the resources of the CIA at his beck and call, and the Company was very good at arranging clandestine meetings. Fortunately, the Company also knew who had to be sidestepped at all costs. Even more important, the CIA knew who could be brought in, which explained why the chief of Naval Operations was in the vehicle. But he was not a happy man.

  “Look, Bernie,” the admiral protested, “this is not the way I work.”

  Butler groaned inwardly. “Please bear with me, sir. But I think you’ll see why we need to keep the SecDef in the dark.”

  The CNO muttered an obscenity he had learned as a midshipman that related to the sex life of mules. “You can hit Merritt with a spotlight and he’d still be operating in the dark. I’ll never understand why Maddy didn’t fire him months ago.” The driver was cleared in, and she turned into a driveway. She drove directly into an open garage. The two men waited for the door to drop behind them before getting out. “This had better be worth it,” the admiral warned as they walked inside. Two men were waiting for them.

  “I believe you know Herr von Lubeck,” Butler ventured.

  “Son of a bitch,” the admiral breathed. He was one of the four people in the U.S. government who “officially” knew what Herbert von Lubeck really did.

  Von Lubeck was all charm and grace. “Good evening, Admiral. I believe you know my colleague.” He looked at the man standing beside him, who was the CNO’s counterpart in the German Kriegsmarine. The two admirals shook hands, old colleagues and good friends. A dark-suited aide escorted them into a comfortable library, where Mazie was waiting.

  “Okay, Bernie,” the CNO said, “what’s going down?”

  “Why don’t we all sit?” Mazie offered. They found comfortable spots, and Mazie came right to the point. “Germany is prepared to open a second front in the northern sector of Iraq. The plan calls for them to strike out of Turkey, drive south to Baghdad, and split the country down the middle. They have a hundred and twenty tanks with supporting units and the necessary logistical buildup in place, and they’re ready to move.”

  The CNO was stunned but quickly recovered. “But what about the Turks?”

  Now it was Butler’s turn. “We’ve convinced them they’re next if the UIF prevails. They want to get on board and will fall in behind as the second echelon, backing up the German advance and securing the rear.”

  “Brilliant,” the CNO murmured. “Absolutely brilliant. But why is the Navy involved?”

  Von Lubeck answered. “We need the offices of you two gentlemen to arrange safe-passage procedures and recognition codes so your Air Force will not attack our tanks once they invade Iraq. Later on we can rely on the conventional channels to coordinate operations.”

  “The president is concerned about security,” Mazie said. “The slightest leak…I’m quite sure you understand.”

  “Merritt,” the CNO muttered.

  “Let’s just say,” Butler said, “that he’s not totally reliable.”

  The CNO leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “But I do work for the man.”

  Mazie tried to explain. “That’s why I’m here. I do speak for the president in this matter.”

  “And General Wilding?” the CNO asked, concerned about the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  “General Wilding,” Mazie said, “knows you’re here. If there’s a problem, we can meet with the president and the general.”

  “But you’d rather not because of the potential for a leak,” the CNO said. “Personally, I think there’s more of a security problem with the Turks.”

  “We’re aware of that,” Butler said. “That’s why speed is critical. We figure we’ve got seventy-two hours at the outside before the UIF gets wind of it.”

  The CNO stood up. “Then we’d better get working on it. We need to get back to the Pentagon.” The German admiral joined him as they headed for the garage. Once they were safely in a car and headed back for Washington, the CNO let his true feelings show. “Playing games with our own people! A hell of a way to run a war.”

  His old friend understood perfectly. “It happens when politicians believe that what is good for them is best for their country. We have the same problem.”

  “So where’s von Lubeck coming from?” the CNO asked.

  “I’m sure you noticed his attraction to Madam Hazelton.”

  “About as obvious as a bull in rut,” the CNO allowed.

  Twenty-five

  Central Malaysia

  Monday, October 4

  The small group of officers from SEAC headquarters deplaned quickly from the Super Puma and ran for the safety of the sandbagged bunker. They were the “Young Turks,” and, to the man, they were neat, trim, well trained, and graduates of Singapore’s Armed Forces Training Institute. This was also the closest any of them had been to real combat. Pontowski was the last off the helicopter, and he ducked his head to avoid the rotor blades. He knew he had plenty of clearance, but it was a natural reaction. In the far distance he heard sporadic cannon fire.

  Thank God this isn’t China, he thought, recalling his days with the American Volunteer Group in the late 1990s. In the grand scheme of things, he was caught up in a low-level conflict, nothing near the intensity of the war in the Persian Gulf. But that didn’t make it any less deadly for the participants.

  Waldo and Tel were waiting for them in the regiment’s version of an ASOC—air-support operations center—which coordinated requests from Army units in contact with the enemy for close air support. Pontowski stood at the back of the small group with Waldo as Tel explained how the ASOC worked. Although Tel gave the briefing in Chinese, all the Young Turks were fluent in English. It was a nice touch the young officers appreciated. “The kid’s good,” Waldo told Pontowski. “But we need a pilot doing this.” Then, “You’re not gonna leave me here, are ya?” Like any fighter jock, the last thing Waldo wanted to be was an ALO—an air-liaison officer—directing fighters onto targets out of an ASOC.

  “I’m thinking about it,” Pontowski replied.

  Waldo groaned. “Thanks, Boss.” The VHF radio crackled as the flight of two Hogs from Alpha checked in. “Well, this is what they came to see,” Waldo said. Tel answered the radio call and jotted down the A-10’s time on station, ordnance, and playtime. The radio/telephone operator at a nearby table handed him a clipboard with requests for close air support from units in the field. “Time to go to work,” Waldo said. As the ALO, he would select where the A-10s would go.

  Suddenly the radio operator was all activity as a new request came in. His fingers darted over the control pane
l, feeding the incoming call to the loudspeaker above his head. A frantic voice was yelling in Chinese. A stunned silence held the room in a tight grip as Tel ran back to the two Americans. “The PLA has broken through and captured a key railroad and highway bridge over the Sungai Muar.”

  Waldo rushed to the front and quickly plotted the location on a chart. “Thirty-five miles away,” he muttered. “The next major bridge is here.”

  “The MA should have blown that bridge,” one of the Young Turks said.

  “But they didn’t,” Waldo replied. He looked at Pontowski, knowing what they had to do. “It’s on the main LOC, packed with refugees. Any change to the ROE?”

  “Damn,” Pontowski said as the burden of command came back down. It was his rules of engagement that forbade an A-10 to strike within a kilometer of the LOC. “Give me a moment.” He had to make a decision and was rapidly running out of time.

  The two A-10s cut a lazy racetrack pattern in the sky. Below them, broken clouds stretched to the horizon, with the incredibly green landscape of Malaysia peeking through. Bull Allison, the flight lead, scanned his instrument panel looking for telltale signs of trouble. But his Radar Warning Receiver—RWR for short—was quiet. He keyed his radio and called the ASOC at Segamat. “Hey, Waldo. Make a decision. We haven’t got all day.”

  “Stand by one,” Waldo replied.

  A bored-sounding voice came over the radio. “Standing by one.” It was Bull’s wingman, Skid Menke. The tone in his voice asked the main question—why were they turning jet fuel into noise? The Warthogs moved farther west and entered another racetrack pattern.

  Waldo came on the radio. “Tulsa Flight, I have tasking.”

  “Go,” Bull answered, his tone hard and quick.

  “Visually recce the bridge complex at Bahau and report. Threat unknown.”

  “Can we shoot back?” Bull asked.

  Again the standard answer. “Stand by one.” A long pause while the two pilots fumed. “Tulsa Flight, you are cleared to return fire if fired upon.”

  “How ’bout that,” Bull mumbled to himself. “Someone made a decision—finally.” He didn’t suffer from that problem and keyed his radio. “Skid, ingress from the west, fly up the river at low level, cross the bridge, and get the hell out of Dodge. Shooter-cover.” He turned to the north and headed for a break in the clouds as Skid fell in a half mile in trail. Bull rolled 135 degrees as he punched into the clouds and headed for the deck. What looked like a nice break in the clouds turned into a sucker hole, and he was back in the clouds. Immediately Bull was back on instruments as he rolled out and shallowed his dive. Then he broke into the open, fifteen hundred feet above the ground. He kept his rate of descent going and checked his six o’clock for his wingman. Skid dropped out of the clouds inverted, his nose buried, but immediately recovered. “What sort of maneuver was that?” Bull asked.

  “An inverted rectalitis whifferdill,” Skid answered. “Standard procedure when you follow a blind asshole.”

  Bull didn’t answer as he leveled off seventy-five feet above the river and turned to the east. In his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of his wingman in his deep five o’clock, exactly where he should be. He firewalled the throttles. Ahead of him he saw a double span of bridges crossing the river. His RWR gear was quiet as he jinked hard, avoiding any ground fire. He might not have been able to see it, but he knew it was there. He rolled left, then right as he approached the bridge, and overflew it at fifty feet. Both bridges were packed with refugees fleeing southward. He saw the muzzle flash of a ZSU-23-4, an old but still-fearsome antiaircraft artillery weapon, or AAA, at the northern end of the highway bridge. The stick shuddered slightly in his hand as a single round hit his left rudder. Fortunately, the twenty-three-millimeter high-explosive shell did not detonate and only punched a hole through the skin.

  “I’ve got ’em,” Skid radioed, rolling in on the offending AAA.

  “Refugees!” Bull shouted. “Go through dry!” But it was too late. Skid squeezed off a short burst of cannon fire and pulled off to the south. Bull jinked hard to his right in time to see the ZSU-23 disappear in a flash of flames and smoke. He saw bodies falling off the bridge.

  “Looks like a pool party to me,” Skid radioed.

  “Join up and check my ass,” Bull transmitted, wishing Skid had kept his mouth shut. “I took a hit coming off.”

  Skid slipped into a close formation and scanned his flight lead for damage. “You got a hole in your left rudder; otherwise you scan clean.”

  “Controllability check okay,” Bull said. “Ground Hog, Tulsa One.”

  “Go ahead, Tulsa,” Waldo replied.

  “The bridge is packed with bodies. Trip A from northern approach. Engaged and destroyed one ZSU-23. I took a hit and we’re RTB at this time.”

  “Say status of the bridge,” Waldo replied.

  “The bridge is open, and troops are crossing in number with refugees.”

  Pontowski listened as Waldo copied down Bull’s flight rep. “Rog,” Waldo replied, “copied all.” He gave Pontowski a long look. “They may have gotten some refugees.”

  One of the Young Turks coughed for attention. “I find no fault here,” he said. “We know the PLA uses civilians as shields.”

  I hope the GAO thinks like you do, Pontowski thought, contemplating the upcoming visit from the Government Accounting Office.

  “May I suggest,” the same officer said in impeccable English, “that I remain here to train our forward air controllers. I am a pilot and have served as a FAC in the past. That would allow Lieutenant Colonel Walderman to return to his duties with the AVG.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Pontowski said. It was quickly arranged, and he headed for the helicopter for the return flight to Camp Alpha.

  Camp Alpha

  Monday, October 4

  Clark’s driver was waiting for Pontowski’s helicopter when it landed at Alpha. “Missy Colonel say you go to command post now,” the driver said. In his world Janice Clark’s word was law, regardless of Pontowski’s rank. He drove at an alarming rate of speed, jamming on the brakes in front of the command post. Pontowski hurried inside, where his small staff was waiting for him. “Okay, folks,” Pontowski said. “What’s going down?”

  As Maggot was the wing commander, he answered. “Tulsa One took a single hit in the left rudder, minor damage, and recovered without incident. Aircraft Battle Repair says they’ll have it patched in a couple of hours. Second, Kamigami checked in this morning and has requested resupply.”

  “What the hell is he doing out there?” Pontowski asked.

  “We’ll have to ask Colonel Sun,” Maggot replied. “Also, we got problems with POL.” POL was petroleum, oil, and lubricants—the lifeblood of the AVG.

  Janice Clark stood up. “We’re not able to tank in enough JP-8 overland to maintain our flying schedule and keep a combat reserve. The roads are jammed with refugees fleeing south, and snipers have attacked three trucks. I’m working with SEAC but haven’t come up with a solution.” Like a good staff officer, she had a short-term work-around. “The GAO team is coming in on a KC-10. The aircraft has been directed to wait for the team, and we’re going to download a hundred fifty thousand pounds of jet fuel while it’s on the ground.”

  Maggot shrugged. “Makes sense. If it can offload in the air, it can offload on the ground.”

  “Can we get a dedicated tanker until the problem’s solved?” Pontowski asked.

  “I’ll ask again,” Clark replied. “But SEAC’s having the same problem.”

  “Any chance my cops on board that KC-10?” Rockne asked.

  Clark shook her head. “The MAAG is working on it, but the Gulf has priority.” She hesitated for a moment. “General Pontowski, without a full complement of security cops, I cannot guarantee air base defense. In fact, with enemy troops reported less than a hundred miles to the north and our overland supply lines to Singapore coming under attack, we need help.” She was a very worried woman.

 
; The sergeant manning the communications cab handed Clark a note. She glanced at it and announced, “The KC-10 is twenty minutes out, VIPs on board.” She hesitated for a moment. “I’ve dealt with the GAO before. I’ve arranged for quarters while they’re here so they can change and discuss whatever they talk about in private.” She pursed her lips tightly. “The last thing we need right now is them breathing down our necks.”

  Pontowski stood up. “A GAO team is power unto itself,” he told them. “Tell your people to be polite, answer their questions as simply and truthfully as they can, and do not—I repeat, do not—volunteer any information. It tends to confuse them. Janice, why don’t you and I go howdy the folks?” An idea came to him. “Maybe we can assign your driver to them?”

  Clark allowed a thin smile. “You’re really wicked, General.”

  The three men and one woman inching their way down the narrow boarding ladder of the KC-10 were not typical government bureaucrats concerned with doing their job and getting on with their private life. They had a mission and the power of Congress to back them up. Consequently, they expected (and usually received) deferential treatment—which they were not getting. The team chief carefully adjusted his safari jacket while he waited for his companions to join him. He studiously ignored Pontowski and Clark. After conferring briefly with his team, he turned to Pontowski.

  “Jason P. Willard,” the team chief said, presenting Pontowski his identification. He didn’t wait for a reply. “Please have our driver take us to our quarters, where we can shower and change. Later we will need to tour the base and interview certain individuals.” He handed Pontowski a list of names. “Please have them available.”